by G D Harper
‘I appreciate that, Alex, but I don’t want anyone else involved, at least not yet.’
‘OK, if that’s how you want it. In that case, we can’t pay you any expenses and there’s no fee unless we like what you bring back and agree to run with the story. Your choice.’
‘It’s the way I want to do it, Alex.’
‘Come into the office before you go. Let’s run through a few things we’d be looking for. And I’ll give you some gear to take out with you. A simple broadcast-quality camera, for example, in case you can do an interview or something while you’re out there. And a digital sound recorder. No point in going all the way out there and not being prepared.’
It was overwhelming, but I suppose she was only being practical. If this story was as big as it promised to be, I’d be stupid to miss any opportunities. I said yes, and that I’d call back once I talked to Dmitry.
I had to pinch myself. I would be getting on a plane to Moscow, armed with a TV station’s audio and video recording devices, and I hardly knew what to expect. Where were these places Dmitry was going to take me to? Who were the people we were going to see? I was headed for secret meetings with a Russian dissident. Three months ago, I would never have believed it.
chapter nine
I was woken by the phone ringing in the bedroom of the Hilton Leningradsyaka. I blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings and reached out a hand to pick it up.
‘Good morning, Meester Jones, this is Dasha on reception. Your eight o’clock wake-up call.’
A spike of adrenaline eliminated the three-hour time difference. I was about to meet my Russian informer. It had taken three days to get my visa. So far, all my expectations about Moscow had been confirmed: the long snaking queue to get through immigration; the haranguing by dodgy taxi drivers the minute I entered the airport terminal; the sense of relief when I saw a driver, courtesy of News Today, holding a card with my name. Last night, as I headed into the city, there was already deep snow in the birch forests lining the long straight road from the airport, making me wonder what the depths of winter would be like.
I had had my first glimpse of the outer suburbs as the evening light was failing. Tower block after tower block of grim-looking apartments – the dream and then the betrayal of the Communist utopia. Then into the city centre, the old buildings painted in pastel blues and yellows, the wealth of the inhabitants increasing with every kilometre. The city roads got wider and wider, first four lanes, then six, finally eight. Billboards lined the route like a jostling crowd, every one of them a paean to conspicuous consumption, imploring me to buy the fastest cars, the latest mobile phone, the most expensive perfume. A brief respite as we circled the Kremlin, the rust-red walls of the former fortress giving me goosebumps as it brought back memories of my Cold War childhood. Finally, we arrived at the hotel, my breath sucked out of me by freezing air as I stepped out of the car. A gruff ‘Proshchay!’ from the driver and he was off.
That was last night. Now I looked around, trying to get my bearings in the dawn light. The Hilton had been converted from one of Stalin’s ‘Seven Sisters’ skyscrapers built in the 1930s, the others dotted randomly around the city, looking like Gothic spaceships dropped in from another planet. I wandered over to the window and looked down to the streets below, the traffic on the arterial roads spreading out in all directions from the hotel. I stared for a few seconds, trying to work out the way I had come in, watching the traffic edge through the massive intersection. It was strangely calming, like watching fish in an aquarium. I smiled to myself as I thought how it wouldn’t be the same for the poor souls below, stuck in a traffic jam that seemed to go on forever until it faded into the distance through a diesel haze.
I showered and dressed, grabbed my rucksack and headed down to the restaurant. Dmitry had said he’d join me at nine. He arrived five minutes early, giving me the most perfunctory greeting, and we ordered breakfast. He was shorter than I had imagined, with a huge beer belly and a haircut that would have been fashionable on a Soviet engineer in the 1970s. He looked around the room with a mixture of irritation and suspicion.
‘Lot of people,’ he said to me. ‘But should be okay. Did you choose the table?’
‘No, the waitress did,’ I replied. I presumed I had failed the first test of spy school.
‘Let’s move somewhere else. Just to be on safe side.’
We switched tables, much to the bemusement of our waitress, and Dmitry started talking, his voice deep and clipped. His breath reeked of tobacco and there was a faint undertone of last night’s drinking.
‘I tell you my story. I grew up member of Nashi, the Russian youth movement. Full of idealistic, patriotic young people. We’d go to summer camp and sit around the campfire every night, talking about how we were going to do good and rid Mother Russia of the evils within.’
‘Bit like a political version of our boy scouts?’ I ventured, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Yes, at the beginning.’ Dmitry spoke every word in a deep monotone. ‘We did work in orphanages and old people’s homes, helped restore churches and war memorials. Until political crisis and everything changed. We were told to break up fascist demonstrations, use violence if necessary. To prevent enemies of the state from overthrowing the constitution, they told us. Then enemies of the state became anyone who criticised what the state was doing.’ Dmitry stared down at his hands. ‘I joined as an idealist and ended up becoming part of a paramilitary force, a weapon of Kremlin, intimidating, bullying and harassing anyone our leaders told us to.’
‘Scary.’ I felt I should say something more, but didn’t want to interrupt his flow.
‘Scary?’ He looked at me, his face a mixture of condescension and contempt. ‘More than scary. I quit. Got on with my life. I was IT guy, so set up a digital advertising agency. Sexy new business, helping Western companies sell to our young Russians. But I never forgot how our country’s rulers betrayed the Nashi ideals.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, then shrugged. ‘I sold my business a few years ago, to the highest bidder. Made a lot of money, many Western advertising agencies wanted a piece of Russian pie, buying Russian company is the best way to get started. Now for three years, I run my blog, Storozhevaya Sobaka, making the West aware of how Russia is going to use technology to finally win the Cold War. But nobody listens.’
‘I listen. I’ve been following you since you started.’
‘Yes, I know. And I also look at your Richard Foxe blog. And when you run the story about Pavel Mikin, I say, here is the man who can be my voice to West.’
The restaurant was emptying now, the business clientele heading off for their meetings. Two burly men in ill-fitting suits came and sat down at the table next to us, despite almost two-thirds of the tables being free. I shot Dmitry a glance and gestured to the lobby. He nodded, I gulped down a last mouthful of scrambled egg, picked up my coffee and left.
We sat down at a corner table. I looked over at the restaurant. The two men were tucking into their breakfasts, oblivious to us moving away. I felt ridiculous at my paranoia.
‘So, what do you want to tell me?’ I asked.
‘I know the power of technology from my digital advertising days. With power comes responsibility to use it right. But what we are doing in Russia is evil. We come up with fake news, use troll factories and botnets to spread it across the media. We game the algorithms to make sure fake stories get to the people who will be influenced by them.’ Dmitry muttered a few words in Russian under his breath. ‘Every story is one more nudge to make people think the way we want them to think. We do tactical stuff as well, running DDOSAs during elections. I told you about them when we talked. Distributed Denial of Service Attacks, when you suddenly find yourself locked out of the internet. Used to bring down the opposition’s internet campaigns at crucial times during elections. Now Russia has set up political parties in the West, making sure they have unlimited money
. And unlimited access to their opponents’ secrets.’
‘There’s only circumstantial evidence. Everything is being denied. But if you can show me Russia is doing all this, that it is making Act Now! even stronger, then it helps me build my case.’
Dmitry smiled. ‘That is why I invite you here. What I show you today will be enough to make people take notice, start to ask questions. That is, my friend, if you do your job right.’
I took a sip of my coffee. I wasn’t sure if that was a dig or not, so I decided to ignore it.
‘What do you want to show me?’
‘This time in Moscow, I show you two things. How Russian government finds out political secrets that will help Act Now! – and how they run propaganda campaign in your media.’
Now it was my turn to keep emotions in check. I didn’t want to look too eager. Dmitry brought out a lever arch file and placed it on the table. ‘This is the file I told you about.’
I picked it up, holding it at arm’s length like it was going to bite. ‘What is it?’
‘It is printout of code for pages of a website. A website that exactly mimics the official site of Act Now!’s main opposition. It is the same in every detail, except for a few pages that contain links to Trojan viruses. If they want access to someone’s computer, that person gets an email that looks like it is from someone they know, with a message containing a link to a page on the political website that they might be interested in.’
‘I know about these,’ I replied. ‘Except the email is fake, and when they go to the page and click on the article, it puts a virus into their computer which allows the Russian IT specialists to take control, look into any file they want to. And once the virus is in the computer, it embeds itself in any email attachment the infected computer sends out so they can take over all the recipients’ computers too. Then after twenty-four hours, the virus self-destructs, wipes itself clean, leaving no trace. The hackers have had that time to look for any incriminating or sensitive files and the people targeted will never know.’ I tried to sound like an expert on what Nigel had told me just a few days ago.
Dmitry looked impressed. ‘It is good to see I am not dealing with an amateur.’
I sneaked a quick look at the file, like a poker player checking the final card he’d been dealt.
‘Looks very technical. But the contents could easily be fabricated. How do you know someone didn’t just type this up and give it to you?’
‘Because one of the programmers, he took a big personal risk to give it to me. And he knows a back-door code – a username and password – that would let your IT experts into the site to see it is a real site, that this file is no fake. I send you the code when you are back in UK. And my guy, he then closes the door behind you, so no one will know you’ve been inside. Do you have on your team IT guy and someone who reads Russian?’
I wasn’t sure how big an operation Dmitry thought I had behind me. I had Nigel, and presumed he was up to this. Someone who understood Russian would be easy to find in London. I said yes with my fingers crossed. If all else failed, I could let News Today in on it and lose my exclusivity. But I couldn’t miss the opportunity.
‘Good. You get things set up to go in around three in the morning Moscow time when you are ready. They can have half an hour before they have to log out and my guy covers their traces. Should give enough time for screenshots and checking. Let me know the time when you get back to London.’
‘Can I talk to your guy? I need to know he’s genuine. If we’re going to have people believe us, I need proof this is not something he’s made up.’
Dmitry pulled the folder from me. ‘You think I bring you to Moscow to play fucking games? When you see this website, you will see that only Russian government could do something this big. This not a little hacker in a bedroom. This is serious. I thought you a serious man. Maybe I was wrong.’ His eyes had lost the rheumy glaze they had when he arrived. Now they were cold and hard.
‘No, I believe you. I want to make sure others do too.’ My voice croaked from the stress. I took a sip of water. ‘I trust you, Dmitry.’
He relaxed his grip on the folder and put it down on the table between us with a sarcastic smile.
‘“Doveryai, no proverai.” “Trust, but verify.” Old Russian proverb Reagan used with Gorbachev. Don’t worry, my friend. By the end of your visit, you will have all the proof you need. For that, we go for a little journey. Have you ever been to a troll factory?’
‘N-no, not recently, no.’
‘Then I take you to one on outskirts of Moscow. Two hours from here, maybe longer if traffic is bad. I show you the outside of building, explain how it works. Then we meet someone who works inside the troll factory. They tell you their story, but they are not as idealistic as me. They want vzytka, a little money for their help. That is Russian way.’
I hesitated over whether to bring up my suspicions again. ‘How much are they talking about? I need to know a little bit more before I agree.’
‘Fifty thousand roubles. Guy we meet, he worked in troll factory. He needs a new job, and he needs money. He says he tells you story for money. Me, I think he is crazy. But if he wants to do this, then he does this. I show you outside of the factory, see what you think. Then if you want to meet, I call him. He lives nearby.’
Fifty thousand roubles was around six hundred pounds, I calculated. The trip had already cost me two grand. This could be a shake-down, but it would be worth the gamble.
‘What does a troll factory look like?’
‘Troll factory is where trolls work, setting up false email accounts, flooding the fake news with likes, upvotes and shares. And Sergey, the one you meet, he knows Russian trolls in England, the ones who write the news. You can make visit to them when you go home.’
‘There are Russian troll factories in Britain? Wouldn’t we have noticed?’
‘Not a big building like I show you. You think Russian geeks can write posts that sound like English English? They find some native English speakers in your country, looking for some money, give them story idea. Then they write the post in – what do they call it? – millennial vernacular.’ Dmitry smiled again, as if to congratulate himself on his English. ‘Then, when the news is dropped into filter bubble, it sounds like everyone else in the bubble. There are lots of people working at fake news for Russia in your country. Sergey knows only their emails and usernames. But some not too smart, use work emails or emails with their own website address. So easy to find them and ask them their story.’
‘This is what I came for. Shall we go? How do we get there?’
‘My car is outside.’
If I thought the traffic was terrible coming from the airport the night before, the trip out to the troll factory was even worse. Dmitry’s black Range Rover was like a tank, ploughing through a seemingly interminable traffic jam. It should have made the journey less of an ordeal, but once out of the hotel, Dmitry lit his first cigarette, opening the driver window a centimetre as his concession to my comfort. He chain-smoked all the way to our destination. By the time we arrived I was nauseous, my head spinning with the smoke. I stepped out of the car into the fresh air, resisting the urge to retch after my two-hour ordeal.
We stood across from a dreary-looking factory.
‘Used to make carpets,’ Dmitry explained. ‘Now inside it is full of desks and computers. Two hundred people work there, maybe more. All young people. We wait so you can see.’
Dmitry went back to his car and got inside. I walked round to the passenger door and opened it to talk to him. ‘I’ll stay outside if you don’t mind. The cigarette smoke’s making me feel a bit sick.’
Dmitry shrugged, the thought that he might be considerate and abstain for a little while apparently not occurring to him. I stood out on the street, hands in pockets and collar turned up to keep out the cold. After ten minutes, I knocked on the window. Dmitry lo
wered it, letting some of the blue fug escape.
‘What exactly are we waiting for?’ I asked.
‘That,’ he said, pointing up the road. ‘People coming to work. They will need to show security pass to get through the turnstile, have their bags checked before they go inside. Too big security for a normal factory.’
I watched as two spotty youths with pudding-bowl haircuts walked down the street and up to the factory. I surreptitiously videoed their arrival and captured five other geeky-looking guys leaving. I slipped my camera back in my rucksack and waited for more to happen. After five minutes, my feet were going numb with the cold. I’d had enough.
‘This isn’t achieving much, Dmitry. If all we’re going to do is stand here watching people going in and out of a factory gate, I don’t think that proves anything about what is going on in there. Let’s go and meet the guy who wants to talk to me. Oh, and would you mind not smoking till we get there? I really am feeling unwell.’
Dmitry ignored my tetchiness as he took out his phone and made a call.
‘Okay, it is ten minutes away,’ he said once he hung up. ‘You have money?’
I nodded. I’d taken the extra I needed from the hotel ATM before we’d left. I could see now why Dmitry drove a four-wheel drive car. The potholes on the road were the size of craters. The vehicle lurched from side to side, competing with the cigarette smoke to see what would make me throw up first.
After closer to twenty minutes than ten, we pulled up outside a grim, grey tower block, like the ones I’d seen on my drive in from the airport. Graffiti everywhere, rubbish blowing about in the street.
‘We go here,’ said Dmitry, fishing in the back of his car for a yellow crook lock. He secured the steering wheel and got out of the car. ‘Rough neighbourhood,’ he said, somewhat unnecessarily.