DARKNET CORPORATION (2 page)

“Sir, we have established registers on various landlines, mobiles
and IP addresses in the offices of IRM, and
Bicep’s
hotel room. These
will generate email alerts; on file close for each voice conversation; on
receipt of each email or text received or sent. Each of the emails will provide
summary metadata and contain links to the relevant content”

Bill jumped in “Hold on, IRM?”

“International Risk Management.
It’s a private security company that
the target works for.
Office in
Shash
Darak
Road.
Only a block east from ISAF
headquarters,” he added, as if it might be relevant.

“And the hotel?”
Bill queried.

“Hotel Ariana, room 210, corner of
Bibi
Mahru
and
Sulh
roads in
Shash
Darak
.
Not far from his workplace”
obviously efficient, Jenkins had the information on the tip of his tongue.

Jenkins looked up to check that Bill was ready to continue. “At
oh-six-hundred and eighteen hundred, Zulu, a summary will be posted to the
Bicep
directory of Internet traffic, by port number, for the previous 12 hour period
such as browser history; chat conversations, posts to message boards and social
networking platforms.”

Pausing to check that Bill was taking it all in, he continued, “Using
links in the emails will take you to your MI6 login panel for authentication of
your credentials, before being entered into the ‘Dinner-Jacket’ portal to
access the file and the full directory of files for the
Bicep
target.
You will not have access to any other ‘Dinner-Jacket’ content, and will commit
an offense if you attempt to gain access beyond your authorised permissions,
Sir.”

Finally he turned to Bill and appeared to be waiting for acknowledgement
that he had been understood. Bill nodded.

Jenkins continued “If you need registers on the subject’s contacts, there
is a button on each intercept file that will initiate that for you. If you
identify any new landlines or mobile devices that need to be registered, call
the number on this sheet which will route to me, or one of my colleagues in
Technical Services, 24-7,” he said as he handed over another sheet of paper
with support contact numbers, website and email addresses.

“If you have any support needs there is a standardised help facility in
the portal or you can call in. Do you have any questions?” he chipped in.

Bill asked, almost incredulous, thinking about his own communications
activities “do the voice recordings include Internet-based voice-over-
ip
?”

Jenkins answered “yes, on all ports.” He paused then said “…unless we
find an unknown platform we have not yet enabled.” There was an
embarrassed
silence as the idea that there could be any
possible deficiency in their capabilities dissipated. Then he added “emails
will show intercepted metadata, date timestamp, source register,
etc.
If any
content is encrypted or scrambled or in a language you are not familiar with,
there is a follow up service request panel in the
Bicep
directory where
you can request those services for any particular item. A similar email to the
intercept alerts will be generated once the decrypt or translation service is
complete.”

Joe turned to look directly at Bill, “OK? Bill.”

Bill smiled and nodded, somewhat flabbergasted by the depth and speed of
the electronic intelligence capabilities the Company could bring to bear when
they wanted to.

He dismissed Jenkins who clicked his heels and walked out.

In a conspiratorial tone Joe Martín said “If all there was to this was to
read all the intercepts to find Abu
Ukasha
, we would
just get Jenkins to do it for us,” nodding in the direction Jenkins had just
left. “But we won’t get the coordinates to Abu
Ukasha’s
hideout in an email.” He leaned back and implored “If only we could!”

He leaned forward again and continued “It’s going to take HUMINT and your
kind of smarts and experience to work out what’s going on here and tease it
out. No doubt anything Wood let’s out in the intercepts will be a bonus and
maybe give you a lead on him.”

Joe paused to compose himself and began again in a much more
business-like tone. “Jenkins will be your case officer, or at least your support,
handler, liaison, whatever.”

Bill raised his eyebrows and pouted “Really?”

“Yeah, I know he’s a prick, but he gets bitch slapped regularly to
keep him human, and I rely on him. He’ll connect you to whatever resources you
need. If you have any bother with him let me know.” Bill knew that the claimed
violence was metaphorical but also that the station chief was in a position to
give Jenkins grief in so many ways that physical violence might be preferable.

“We need
sitreps
, through Jenkins, whenever you
think there’s something to say, but don’t leave it more than a couple of days
without an update.” Joe turned away and Bill knew the interview was over.

Chapter Three

Bill parked the car out of sight behind a building on the opposite side
of the street to the IRM office. Working his way along the back alley he came
to the building he had negotiated access to, with a room on the first floor
facing the street.

He had started his ‘Dinner-Jacket’ expense sheet and this was one of the
first items, “Compensation for commandeering OP on IRM office.” Everything in
Afghanistan worked on bribes, kickbacks and sundry corruption and the occupiers
of the building appeared wholly disinterested in Bill’s purpose, once the money
was counted out.

The MI6 agent used the key he had paid exorbitantly for, climbed the
stairs and entered the front room.

Crossing to the window he took in the view; the distance across the
street and adjusted the net curtains to allow a foot-wide clear gap. He looked
around and pulled a heavy wooden table across the floor to be opposite the gap
in the curtains positioned two metres back. He lifted a rug from the floor and
placed it on the table and lifted a wicker chair from a corner onto the top of
the carpeted table. He climbed up and took a seat, judging the view to be
adequate to see the entrance to IRM and his sniper-like position sufficiently
in the gloom of the room to remain unseen.

He pulled out his phone, navigated to a recorder and said quietly into it
“on station, IRM O-P.” He knew from experience that his voice notes would be
date-time stamped and was the most efficient way to keep his notes.

After about 2 hours of boring non-activity that allowed Bill to review
the briefing and explore several scenarios in his head, Wood suddenly appeared,
coming out of the IRM Office and climbing into an off-white four-wheel-drive.
He went West on
Shash
Darak
Road.

Bill jumped down and raced out to get to his car as soon as he could.
Luckily
Shash
Darak
was a
long straight road and Bill didn’t have any difficulty spotting Wood ahead of
him. Almost immediately he had spotted him, the four-wheel-drive turned right.
As Bill got to the corner he was able to see the back of the car turn into a
kind of marketplace cum retail precinct that connected between this road and
the main
Sulh
Road at the other end.

Bill surmised that this was a route Wood took to get to his Hotel, which
was only about half a block away. But as Bill got to the entry to the little
marketplace he saw that the four-wheel-drive had stopped and Wood was still
sitting in the driver seat. Bill aborted turning into the precinct and pulled
forward to park behind a row of garbage bins used by the shopkeepers, where he
could still see Wood.

Recording notes into his phone about Wood’s movements, Bill kept the
phone ready in his hand assuming that there was going to be some kind of meet.

After a few minutes with no one approaching the car and Wood remaining in
the driver’s seat, Bill reached into the glove box and pulled out a sniper
scope and looked over at the four-wheel-drive. Adjusting the focus and then
twisting another ring controlling light filters to improve the contrast he
found he could penetrate the four-wheel-drive’s window tinting and see that
Wood had a laptop propped up on the dashboard!

The top right corner of the screen was visible over Wood’s right
shoulder. “Sneaky bastard” thought Bill, “what is he up to.” Bill impetuously
opened the car door and stood on the sill lifting the sniper scope to his eye.
He could make out an Internet browser window but was not quite able to see the
address panel to see what website he was on. Bill stretched himself up and up
and then stood on the seat. Just as he did so Wood shifted his weight in his seat
and changed position. Got it!

What he saw made him grimace. A string of characters and numbers; a
mixture of uppercase and lowercase with a strange suffix. “What is that?”
thought Bill. There was no way he could memorise the character string.

He stepped down and got back in the car. After a moment he looked over
and then used the scope to see if Wood showed any sign of having seen him
conspicuously spying on him, but Wood seemed engrossed in his laptop. Finally
Wood looked up; folded down the laptop screen and started up the engine again,
driving through to the other end of the retail precinct and turning right
towards the Ariana Hotel.

Bill reversed up and turned into the precinct and followed, slowing down
at the place where Wood had parked, he looked left and right. On his left, not
five metres away was an Internet cafe offering Wi-Fi, with two customers
sitting at tables keying furiously into laptops. “So much for Uncle Sam’s
technical prowess,” he thought and he drove on to confirm that Wood had returned
to his hotel.

-|-

Bill checked into the hotel and engaged the
assistant manager at the reception in conversation. He paid with a credit card
with a fake identity provided by MI6, euphemistically called a ‘corporate card’,
for such mundane requirements and he fleetingly thought of the mounting
“Dinner-Jacket” expense claim.

The credit card debit incorporated a
substantial cash-out withdrawal which was pocketed by the assistant manager to
ensure hotel security maintained a continuous watch on the guest in room 210
and immediately reported to Bill, any meetings, visitors or him leaving the
hotel. Hotel security maintaining a continual presence on a hotel floor in
Kabul was not unknown. A security officer sitting in a chair at the end of the
corridor reading a paper was unlikely to raise suspicions.

Just as Bill completed the transaction with
the assistant manager George Wood appeared around the corner walking into the
lobby. He looked directly at Bill without a flicker of recognition, which
wasn’t really surprising given Bill’s beard and scruffy appearance and walked
past him into the restaurant. Bill looked directly at the assistant manager who
immediately clicked his fingers for the security man on the front door of the
hotel to come over to be given instructions. Once the watch was set up, Bill
decided room service was a good idea and ordered food.

Once ensconced in the somewhat dingy room on
the first floor, he called Jenkins, by mobile. He was wary of lack of privacy of
any kind of communication device since his briefing by Jenkins.

Bill reported Wood’s apparent use of the
Internet café and the curious website that he was browsing.

“Shit!” rasped Jenkins. Bill was surprised
at the expletive and thought that Jenkins was probably a lot less anal and
officious when not performing in front of his station chief. “…Darknet,” he
continued.

“Darknet?”
Bill
asked, thinking it sounded ominous.

“It’s a volunteer network of geeks who relay
Internet traffic around anonymously to avoid it being traced,” he explained.
After a short pause he said, “I’ll get ‘
comms
’ to
give you a briefing next time you are in the office so you know what to look
for.” Jenkins paused for another moment obviously thinking and assessing the
implications. Then he said, “Is
Bicep
settled for the night?”

“More or less.
We will
know if and when he moves. I have the concierge on lookout for me. It’s worth a
week’s pay to him,” Bill explained.

“Is he using the four-wheel-drive we used to
identify him?”

“Yes. It’s parked in the hotel carpark,”
confirmed Bill.

“Good! I’ll have a tracker planted on it and
the control unit delivered to you.”

Bill had already said what his room number
was but he was wary of unknown ‘visitors’. “How will I know it’s one of your
team and not some of IRM’s heavies?” he queried.

“The challenge will be the first part of the
operation codename and the response is the second. OK?”

“Got it.”
Bill
confirmed.

Just after he finished the conversation
there came a soft knock on the door.

Bill flinched and reached for the Glock 19
in his hip hanger, placing his forefinger lightly on the trigger safety.
Looking through the spyhole he realised it was the room service he had ordered
and his tension relaxed. After a little difficulty making it understood that he
wanted the tray placed on the floor, the tip pushed under the door communicated
much more effectively, and the waiter left the tray and walked away. Bill
waited a little longer and then opened the door and picked up his evening meal,
replacing the latch chain as he closed it again.

As he ate, his thoughts turned to his past
experience of ‘
Bone’
. They had been on several clandestine operations
together. He was in the
noddy
unit; the
nuclear-biological-chemical warfare specialists who sometimes wore
carbon-impregnated, all-in-one, protective suits, hence
noddy
-suits.
He had appeared pretty familiar with the spooks they worked with. Indeed, quite
a few spooks over the various operations now that he thought about it.

Bill wondered whether he had the full
picture. The Company were
want
to use ‘need to know’
processes. He had seen too many people burned and terminated as ignorant pawns
in CIA operations, both spooks and civilians, to take anything as presented.
Was Wood already known to the CIA from the ‘old days’? Was his involvement part
of some bigger operation with the Company? There were always operations within
operations and overlaps across overlaps. Was Bill some sort of fall-guy or
stooge in some end-game he was unaware of?

After his meal, Bill picked up the phone
again and dialled a local number from his addressbook.

“As-
salaam'alaykum
,
Gorbat
.
Keef
Haluk
?” Bill said smiling at the person he had called.

“
Wa
'
alaykum
salaam,
asseyyid
Bill.
Al
hamdu
lillah
.
”
responded the other end.

After the pleasantries Bill said, “Gorbat. I
have some work for you. Can you start right away?”

“Of course,
asseyyid
Bill,” replied Gorbat, in perfect English.

“OK. Meet me at the café on
Sulh
Road at
Bibi
Mahru
, opposite the Ariana Hotel after
Shurooq
tomorrow morning.” Then as an afterthought, “come armed and prepared for a long
day,” he cautioned.

Gorbat Khan had been assigned as his
interpreter when Bill arrived in Afghanistan several years ago, but only
briefly. Bill had quickly realised that Gorbat was much more valuable to him as
confidential informant because of his excellent language skills, intelligence
and education and his broad experience travelling throughout Afghanistan.
Working as an interpreter for the ‘Zionist crusaders’ would create a
significant threat from the Taliban as well as isolate him from locals whose
intelligence Bill needed. In any case, in Bill’s view, wasting Gorbat as a
simple interpreter would be a gross underuse of his talents.

Since then Bill had regularly used Gorbat as
an ‘irregular’ watcher, informant, and
agent provocateur
. He had
demonstrated an ability to learn quickly and adapt to situations with an
uncanny sense and appreciation for the complex tribal allegiances and cultural
history of the people Bill needed to engage with over various assignments.

Bill had personally passed on the tricks of
his craft, and trained Gorbat for particular tasks along the way until he found
himself relying on him when he returned to Afghanistan in his non-military role
with MI6.

Now blending in with the locals in watching
Wood and giving Bill a roster that he could sustain was an ideal task for
Gorbat. More expense for the spooks, he thought, smiling.

Startled awake by a triple knock on the door,
Bill realised he had drifted off to sleep. He looked at his watch. It was 2
a.m. He picked up the Glock 19 and peered through the eyehole in the door. A
bareheaded westerner looked back that Bill did not recognise.

“Dinner,” breathed Bill quietly.

“Jacket,”
came
the
reply. Bill slipped the latch and opened the door, carefully keeping the door
between himself and the visitor and holding his pistol level pointing at the
man. The man came in and introduced himself as ‘Hans Grosz, Technical Services’
and swung the briefcase he was holding onto the bed.

“I’ve brought you the control unit for the
tracking device…Jenkins explained?” he said.

“Sure,” replied Bill, putting the Glock back
into a polymer holster hanging from his hip with a strap around his leg and
followed Hans over to the bed. Hans opened the lid of the control unit and it
turned on. It was like a ruggedised laptop, only smaller, with a shaped handle
on top and bottom that clipped together. Bill thought it looked a bit like a
toasted sandwich maker. It had a keyboard and an integrated trackball mouse on
the base unit, which he thought was a bit 90’s.

“The transponder is a passive GPS device.
That means it is only switches on when it registers that the control unit is
on.

Bill looked at the display and saw that a
blue blip with a white “C” in it, close to the centre of the screen pulsed
every few seconds and that a faint map overlay showed the local area that he
recognised. A red blip started pulsing. It had a “1” marked within it.