Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  The Washington correspondent on Capitol Hill stood in the shadow of Congress – the American flags on top at half-mast. ‘...what I’ve been hearing throughout today from various White House sources is that the President thinks the Downing Street attack warrants, quote, strong consideration for fast-tracking the new Freedom and Privacy Act, which is now being touted by Republicans on the Hill as the Patriot Act for the post-Novak era.’

  Novak snorted at the use of the phrase.

  The alarm on Stella’s phone went off. Still face-down on the pillow, she patted around the bed hoping to find the phone without having to lift her head.

  Seeing her struggle, Novak nudged it towards her.

  She groaned. ‘I have to go soon.’

  As she sat up, Novak tipped his laptop screen from her view.

  ‘Is that safe?’ she said. ‘Being online?’

  Novak said, ‘Kurt put a Tails operating system on the memory stick. It bounces my internet connection here from one server to another, all over the world. Nothing gets in, and nothing gets out. It would take weeks to unravel the connections. Imagine an unspooled ball of wool the size of Nebraska.’

  Stella didn’t say anything for a moment. Novak knew the question that was coming before he’d even finished the analogy.

  Stella said, ‘Is Nebraska–’

  ‘It’s big,’ Novak said bluntly. ‘It’s really big.’

  A beep came from the laptop.

  When Novak raised the laptop screen, Stella saw Rosenblatt’s email. After meeting Novak’s eyes she quickly looked away.

  A notification window had popped up at the bottom right of the screen.

  “You have one new OTR message.”

  OTR (off-the-record) was an encryption program that allowed secure communication online. For journalists who needed to contact high-value sources without NSA tracking, it was essential. It was like instant messenger, except it kept no record of messages, and as soon as one message appeared the previous one deleted itself. And not in the still-leaving-a-trace-behind sense. The OTR server had no facility for recording data. If you didn’t read it with your own eyes, it was gone forever.

  Elated, Novak said, ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Who?’ Stella asked.

  He signed in to OTR as fast as he could then clicked on the waiting message. ‘Him.’

  Stella said, ‘OK, I still have no new information since my last question.’

  He showed her the message waiting for him:

  Artur.K: Trust no one.

  ‘In OTR you can set security questions. Mine to Artur was what do you always end your emails with?’ Novak beamed. ‘He’s alive!’

  Stella put on her glasses and checked her watch. ‘Shit. My flight is in ninety minutes.’ She ran to the bathroom whilst straightening her hair. She shouted, ‘What’s he saying?’

  Artur.K: You have to help me.

  Novak typed out a reply. ‘He says he needs help,’ he shouted back.

  Tom.Novak: It’s OK, Artur. I got your video. Where are you? Are you safe?

  Stella threw cold water on her face while barking instructions. ‘Tell him you want to meet. But don’t call it an interview. It’ll freak him out.’

  ‘Thanks, Stella,’ Novak mumbled. ‘I’ve only been doing this fifteen years.’

  Artur.K: I’m fine.

  Novak sighed in relief.

  Tom.Novak: thank god.

  Artur.K: But Artur is in trouble.

  Novak’s stomach lurched. ‘Fuck...’

  Stella had the tap running and couldn’t hear him.

  Tom.Novak: Where’s Artur? Who are you?

  Artur.K: Please help me.

  Novak called back to her, ‘Stella.’

  She could tell the weak way he said her name that something was wrong. She stood in the bathroom doorway, drying her face with a towel. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s not Artur.’

  ‘What?’ Stella marched to the laptop, grabbing the screen and pulling it towards her. ‘How can it not be him?’

  Novak took the laptop back.

  Tom.Novak: Who are you?

  Artur.K: My name is Wally Bartczuk. I am Artur best friend.

  Tom.Novak: How did you sign in here and know his security question?

  Artur.K: He give me passkey and security answer before. In case something happen.

  Tom.Novak: What was he doing at the airport?

  Artur.K: I am night watchman at Szymany military airport. I tell Artur about recent arrivals. American crew. Passengers get taken to Stare Kiejkuty.

  Tom.Novak: The CIA black site?

  Stella warned him, ‘Tom. You know you can’t use that if he confirms.’

  Novak said, ‘I’m not looking for confirmation, Stella. I just need to know what he knows.’

  Artur.K: That is what they say here. The Polish Biuro help the Americans. They tell us what to do. To delete flight logs keep no records say nothing. They pay me 500 zlotys every time plane comes in. Last Sunday night I tell Artur another plane is coming. He want to film for his youtube. His channel truth army. The plane land and I do not see him again. Police come to his house arrest his mother and give wanted for Artur. But he not home. His mother tell me Artur come home but ran off before police catch him. I have not seen or heard him since Sunday night.

  ‘Jesus,’ Novak said. He looked at Stella, sensing they now had a real story. ‘He’s still on the run. We could still find him.’

  Tom.Novak: Do you have any idea where he might be Wally? Where he might go? Maybe a friend’s house? Or a relative.

  Artur.K: Artur do not have other friends.

  Stella was running around frantically for the rest of her things. ‘Ask him how he knew to contact you.’

  Tom.Novak: How did you know to contact me?

  Artur.K: The Biuro take me in for questioning. Ask me who is Tom Novak. They ask me many times. I must know Tom Novak. Where is he? I tell them I do not know because it is truth! They say Artur email you Sunday night. When they let me go I find your name in Artur OTR contacts.

  Stella said, ‘If he doesn’t know where Artur is or where he might go then he’s useless to us.’

  Novak was taken aback at Stella’s ruthlessness. Her old London politics were still alive and well. That system of ditching anything and everyone who can’t help your story.

  ‘I can’t just wish him good luck, then sign off,’ Novak said.

  ‘You’re going to have to,’ Stella replied, balancing on one foot at a time as she put on her shoes.

  Artur.K: I am scared.

  Tom.Novak: It’s going to be ok Wally. Don’t tell anyone about this.

  Artur.K: I do not have family. Parents gone. Artur is my only friend.

  Novak exhaled sadly. He tried to think of something comforting to write.

  Tom.Novak: I’m going to find Artur. don’t worry

  Artur.K: How much trouble am I in?

  Tom.Novak: Keep your head down. Talk to no one. You haven’t done anything wrong.

  Stella stood in the door, holding her carry-on luggage aloft. ‘I have to go,’ she said in apology.

  ‘Hang on,’ Novak said, raising a forefinger.

  Tom.Novak: I’ll talk to you again soon. Use Artur’s log in so I know it’s you.

  Artur.K: I will. Thank you my friend.

  When Wally signed out Novak shut his laptop. The exchange had clearly got to him. On top of everything else, he now had another stranger in Poland on his conscience.

  Stella said, ‘I need to go.’ She turned her palms to the ceiling. ‘You’re going to have to decide whose team you’re on, Novak.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said.

  She gave him a quick hug – one armed, in half-profile. As she opened the door she recoiled from the pouring rain.

  Outside the bar across the street a fistfight had spilled out onto the road, halting the oncoming traffic. She looked back at Novak as she raised her coat collar, speaking above the car horns. ‘Jungleland.’

  Nov
ak smiled.

  ‘Best sax solo ever,’ she called out. And with that, she was gone, tiptoeing over puddles before realising the entire parking lot was one long unavoidable puddle.

  Once she was in a cab Novak closed the door. He looked around the empty room. A faint trail of Stella’s perfume drifted past him.

  He sat on the end of the bed, turning things over in his head. He had never felt like such a fraud. He’d been up to his neck on stories in the past. Namely the NSA papers, but that was all on him. Only Novak had dealt with the source, no one else. Now he had Stella, Artur, Wally, Chang, Diane and Henry all relying on him – to protect them, to build their careers, to write a story, or just to help them stay alive.

  It was all too much. He hadn’t asked for any of this, and he resented the hell out it.

  He pulled up his email from Rosenblatt. He could taste the money, imagine the opportunities, feel the freedom. The offer was right there. He couldn’t work out what was stopping him.

  Whenever anyone asked Rosenblatt why he called his media company Bastion, he told them it was because he thought of himself as a man who maintained principles of freedom and liberty from big government. But there was also a part of him that liked the idea of having a news site named after a way of being able to better attack your enemies. As far as he was concerned he was at war with the mainstream media. That was why he wanted Novak. Deep down, he knew Rosenblatt didn’t want him. Rosenblatt just didn’t want Diane to have Novak.

  Then Novak got to thinking how right Stella was: all the shit he threw at NSA. News cycle after news cycle, he hammered them. The worst they ever did was subpoena him nine months later. Now some kid from Poland sends him a video, and suddenly he’s hiding out in cheap motels. It didn’t make sense. And if he moved to Bastion he would never find out why.

  He might have felt like a fraud, but the part of him that made him want to be a reporter in the first place also wouldn’t let go of something: he had to know the truth.

  He started hammering out a reply.

  ‘Thank you for your offer, Nate. But The Republic is where I belong.

  ‘PS. Don’t bother getting anyone else to write that piece on “The End of The Republic”. We’re just getting started.’

  Once he hit send, a notification in the bottom of the screen flash up.

  “‘Abbie’s death wasn’t an accident. Yours won’t be either.’ – From Rebecca Fox.”

  As soon as he saw Rebecca’s name he put his hands to his head. Officer Sharp had scared the shit out of him so badly in New York he forgot he was about to reply to Rebecca’s last message.

  He reached out as quickly as he could for the mousepad, clicking the window. She had used his PGP key to send an encrypted email.

  In OTR her username was already illuminated on his friends list. She was online and waiting. Pacing her living room floor, in fact, glancing at the screen every other moment.

  Tom.Novak: I’m sorry. I was about to reply earlier but got sidetracked.

  He figured sidetracked explained it as well as ‘hiding out in a fleabag motel in Jersey on the advice of a rogue CIA agent.’

  Tom.Novak: Do you really have evidence Abbie Bishop was murdered?

  RGWood: Official government records. STRAP Three Clearance, Top Secret.

  Tom.Novak: I assume I don’t need to point out that giving me such information is a violation of the U.K. Official Secrets Act, and you could be jailed for disclosing even the documents’ existence.

  RGWood: Yes.

  Novak puffed out his cheeks. Good, he thought. He didn’t have time for hand-holding.

  RGWood: Downing Street isn’t what everyone thinks.

  Tom.Novak: What do you mean?

  RGWood: There’s been collusion at very senior levels. I can’t say any more until you’ve seen the documents.

  Tom.Novak: Can you suggest a safe way for me or one of my colleagues to view these documents?

  What he needed was to meet face to face: registering all the micro-expressions and language patterns. A journalist gets very good over the years at identifying liars. Meeting face to face you could ask similar questions in repetitive ways. Truth tellers are able to talk around truthful facts, because it’s easy. Liars have to remember rote stories that are hard to deviate from. This was why police interrogators ask suspects dozens and dozens of times the exact same question. ‘So what happened that night? I want to hear it again...’ If they use the exact same wording, they’re probably lying.

  RGWood: OK. When can you meet?

  Tom.Novak: I’m in the States for at least the next 24 hours. Or my colleague Stella is in London for a few days if you’d want to meet her?

  There was a pause of around five seconds that felt like five minutes. Novak didn’t notice he’d tensely clasped his hands together. He was also holding his breath.

  RGWood: Set it up.

  Tom.Novak: BRB...

  Without thinking he grabbed the new phone Kurt had given him and dialled Stella, who was running through Newark Airport’s Terminal B towards the closing British Airways gate.

  She managed to answer whilst running. ‘Yeah?’

  As Novak recounted the email and how he wanted Stella to contact Rebecca, a British Airways flight attendant beckoned her that they were closing the gate.

  Stella made frantic apologising and just-two-more-seconds gestures to the attendant. ‘OK, follow it up, but Novak I have to get on this plane and my boarding pass is on my phone, which is currently pressed against my ear!’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Novak said. ‘I just need your PGP key. Can you text it to me before you take off?’

  Stella turned away from the attendant, covering the receiver and lowering her voice. ‘If they let me on the bloody flight, then yes!’

  ‘Great. I’ll get back on OTR. I’ll call you after the meet tomorrow.’

  A sense of unease came over Stella. Something about how his phone reception had been drifting in and out. ‘Novak. Where are you calling me from?’

  Novak froze at the other end as he realised his error. ‘The new cell Kurt gave me.’

  ‘Hang up now,’ Stella demanded, but before he could she said, ‘I’m hanging up.’ She clicked off, saying, ‘Shit!’ to herself. She apologised to the attendant, then took off her shoes. Carrying both in one hand, she ran as fast as she could down the tunnel to the plane. She’d be the last passenger to board.

  Novak quickly stripped off the back of the mobile and tore out the battery. He threw the phone down on the bed then yelled, ‘Fuck!’ It was hard to change the habit of a lifetime. He regularly made upwards of fifty phone calls a day. Like most modern journalists, the only time he wasn’t on a phone was when he slept or was at a funeral.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he reasoned with himself. ‘You didn’t give away any locations.’ He paused. ‘But they could be watching her phone, so you gotta get out of here. Act quick. Don’t panic. Just go.’

  He returned to the laptop, his quivering fingers making typos on almost every word, making him double back with vicious stabs of the delete button.

  Tom.Novak: Rebecca ive got to go. Emergency. OTR later, ok.

  He didn’t even wait for a reply. He shut the laptop and flung it into a bag along with everything else.

  He dashed to reception to check out, explaining to the manager, ‘Sorry. Change of plan.’

  The manager – big, black, gold rings on several fingers, wearing a Brooklyn Nets basketball jersey, reading a dog-eared Elmore Leonard novel – raised his eyebrows like he expected backchat. He had a strong South Jersey accent – his Rs much harder than North Jerseyites. ‘Ahmma still charge you the whole night. We don’t got an hourly rate here.’

  ‘No problem,’ Novak said, putting down a hundred-dollar bill for a room that cost thirty-nine.

  The manager slammed his book down and inspected the note carefully.

  Novak said, ‘I was thinking if you kept the change you could forget me if anyone came asking.’

  The manager pouted w
ith a slow nod as he picked up the hundred. Copying a phrase he read a few pages back from his Leonard novel, he said ‘I can dig that.’

  Novak kept his head down as he pounded the streets. He needed a new motel at least two miles away that took cash and didn’t need ID.

  NSA Headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland – Monday, 9.10pm

  On the seventh floor – Domestic Data Analysis – of NSA’s black-glass headquarters, a junior analyst, no more than two weeks into his job, had been given a list of eighteen phone numbers to have on real-time scan throughout the night. He wasn’t told any names and wasn’t shown any warrants. The persons listed had committed no crime, had made no threats to do so, yet this twenty-year-old analyst would record any and all activity on those phones: every conversation, text message, even when the phones were switched on or off, and the exact location of each phone pinpointed to within ten feet.

  At the NSA’s new $1.5 billion Utah Data Centre, one of its supercomputers tagged one of the analyst’s numbers, lighting it up on his screen.

  He fumbled with his phone before dialling his superior. ‘Mr Muller. I’ve got one, sir.’ He paused, pulling up the connected phones’ locations. ‘She’s got a call received at Newark Airport...coming from New Jersey...’ He zoomed in tighter on the map. ‘Near the Mayfair Motel.’

  Muller asked, ‘Who’s calling her? Do we have it?’

  ‘Unknown number, sir. We don’t have it.’

  ‘I want that phone’s location pinged every ten seconds. You hear me? And get me audio on that call.’

  ‘Um...’ the analyst wasn’t sure how to say it. ‘Can I do that, sir? It’s just...um. My clearance here says metadata only. I don’t have authorisation.’

  ‘Listen, son. I’m your authorisation. Now get me the damn audio.’

  The analyst noticed the flashing dot on the Mayfair Motel had disappeared. ‘Wait, sir. I’ve lost the signal...’ Knowing he could refresh a signal even on a phone that was switched off, he gave it a shot. ‘Trying to ping it now...’ He got nothing. ‘No, sorry, sir. It’s gone.’

  Muller clicked off to listen to playback of the phone call. It couldn’t have been clearer than if Stella and Novak had sat in a recording booth with mikes hooked up. When it was through, he called a number for CIA, Langley.