by Chris Thomas
9
Finally, the doorbell rang. Joe opened it to find an outstretched fist in his face, at about mouth level. He jolted back slightly in fear that he was about to be mugged on his doorstep. Then he saw that the fist was in fact grasping a bright orange carrier bag, clinking with the unmistakable chime of ale bottles.
‘Evening, fuckface,’ said the voice behind the bag, as Billy barged past Joe into the hallway.
‘Nice to see you too,’ replied Joe, as Billy started loading bottles into the fridge. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I was watching one of those baking competition programmes that have become so inexplicably popular recently. Normally I don’t watch that shit, but I was just flicking through the channels and there was this proper fucking tasty bird on one of the teams. I think they were paramedics or something,’ said Billy, as he poured himself one of the beers.
‘Even so, that doesn’t really sound like your kind of thing.’
‘It’s not. But they had these judges who took the competition so seriously that I found myself compelled to watch it just to see what kind of bullshit they’d come up with next. I mean, if I ever found myself spouting some of the crap they were coming out with, especially the blokes, I would seriously question my masculinity. “The fondant filling in these truffles is far too sweet for my liking”, “Are you trying to upset me? I can clearly see a join between the two halves of my chocolate spheres”, “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not enough hundreds and thousands on my fairy cakes”. Fucking get a life, they’re just cakes. Although one thing I did learn is that apparently macaroons and macarons are two different things. Who knew?’
‘Or cared? Fascinating stuff. I’ll make sure I won’t look out for it next week,’ replied Joe, disinterested.
‘So I see that you’ve been making yourself very much at home in the deep web then?’ asked Billy, as the two made their way into the newly converted garage. ‘I told you that once you’d tried it you’d want more.’
Joe pulled the black leather office chair away from the computer desk. He moved the mouse backwards and forwards across the desktop, and the large monitor of his all-in-one PC turned itself on to the log-on screen.
‘Grab one of the bar stools from down the end.’
‘Thanks a lot. I’m the guest and you give me the uncomfortable chair,’ replied Billy, placing his beer down.
Joe was too busy quickly clicking through all the icons and links he had saved to answer. Eventually, he arrived at the message board he’d looked at earlier on his phone.
‘So what is it you wanted me to see?’ asked Billy.
‘It’s on here,’ said Joe, speaking as he stared directly at the screen, clicking through various links. ‘Well it was. Where the fuck’s it gone?’
‘Where’s what gone?’
‘There was a thread on here. It said hardly anything, just a web address and a price. Barely an hour before you got here.’
Billy slouched on the uncomfortable stool, trying to work out a way to prop his head up with one arm and hold his beer in the other.
‘So what? A thread goes up and then gets taken down, it must happen all the time.’
‘No, this looked different,’ replied Joe, still hunting around the various forums trying to find it. ‘It just said that access was one bitcoin and loads of people saying ‘DONE’.’
‘You know that one bitcoin is the best part of six hundred quid, right?’ asked Billy.
Joe turned and looked at him. ‘Seven actually. Well, six hundred and sixty-seven to be precise. That’s why it looks good. Also, if it only stayed for a short time … Come on, don’t you want to see what it is?’
Billy was taken aback by the slightly sinister grin on Joe’s face and was starting to wonder whether it had been a good idea to introduce him to the browser.
‘Ah, hang on!’ said Joe, excitedly. ‘I took a screen dump of the address on my phone.’
‘You installed OrBot on your phone? And the Pidgin messenger? Bloody hell, I didn’t realise you would take it all this seriously.’
‘Right. You read this address out and I’ll type it in,’ said Joe, handing Billy the phone. He started typing as Billy read out the seemingly random list of letters and numbers. ‘OK, let’s see where this takes us,’ he said, as he hit the Enter key. As soon as he pressed it, the screen went black.
The two looked at each other. After five seconds or so, a small box appeared in the centre of the screen with the words Wallet ID above.
‘Is that it?’ asked Joe. ‘What are we supposed to do here?’
‘It’s asking for your wallet ID so it can connect to your bitcoin exchange for you to authorise the transfer,’ replied Billy.
‘I don’t have a wallet ID.’
‘You need to sign up with a bitcoin exchange or wallet provider. Then you get your wallet and you can purchase the coins through them, which are then applied to it. But it’s not a quick process, some can take over twenty-four hours to verify.’
‘Bollocks. Have you got one?’ asked Joe.
Billy held his hands up and spun nervously on his stool. ‘Yes I have, but there’s no fucking way I’m putting my details in there. We don’t even know what the hell it is.’
Joe was starting to look disappointed. ‘Come on, I’ll transfer the real money to your account to cover the bitcoin. Right now. I’ll do it now on PayPal. Plus a bit.’
‘No way.’
‘Don’t be a pussy. I thought you said these bitcoins are anonymous? You put your wallet ID in and do the transfer and I’ll transfer you eight hundred pounds this instant.’
Billy nearly choked on his mouthful of beer, spitting half of it over the desk in the process. ‘Fuck me, you really are getting into this, aren’t you? You do realise that there could be anything, anything, on the other side of this?’
But Joe wasn’t paying attention. He had already opened up a new browser window, logged on to his bank account, and started inputting a new transfer for £800.00.
‘Just give me your account number and sort code. You know you want to. What is it the kids say? YOLO!’
‘It just sounds weird when you say it though. Fine. Here you go,’ he said, resigning himself to losing at least one of his hard-earned bitcoins as he handed over his debit card. ‘But, we only go on and view this thing from your computer, your house. Anything bad comes of this, I don’t want any part of it.’
‘Whatever,’ replied Joe, hitting confirm on the transfer screen. ‘There, funds transferred.’ He closed the banking window and went back to the black screen.
‘I can’t believe you paid that much money to me just like that, as though you’re lending me a fiver. Ellie will absolutely do her nut if she finds out what you’re doing,’ said Billy.
‘Who are you, my mum all of a sudden? Anyway, she won’t find out, it’s my personal account,’ replied Joe, standing up out of the chair and motioning for Billy to move.
‘Ooo, do I get the comfortable chair now? I am honoured,’ said Billy, as he placed his beer down on the desk and moved out of his stool.
Joe stood behind the chair. His heart was now beating quite fast and he began to bite the skin on his thumb, a nervous little tick that always showed he was worried.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Billy. ‘We don’t have to do this.’
‘Just put the wallet ID in,’ replied Joe, impatiently.
‘Alright, calm down,’ said Billy, as he pulled a small piece of paper out of his real-world wallet. He started typing, a mixture of small letters, capital letters, numbers, symbols. Joe wouldn’t be able to memorise it even if he tried. ‘Shit, wait a second.’ Billy stopped abruptly and started rifling around in the desk drawer.
‘What?’
‘Well I heard somewhere that it’s a good idea to cover the webcam,’ he replied, tearing a small piece of paper from a notepad and sticking it over the small lens in the centre of the top edge of the screen with a piece of tape. ‘It’s just a precaution, but apparen
tly there’s a small risk that people at the other end somewhere in the world can hack into the webcam software and view you on their screen. Then that’s your anonymity down the shitter.’
Joe chewed harder, to the point where he started to draw blood from the side of his thumb. Billy typed in the last of his wallet I.D. and hit the enter key. The display changed to a very basic white screen, with two entry fields, one titled Quantity and one titled Key. Billy typed 1 in the first box and then proceeded to copy another long string of letters and numbers from the same slip of paper into the second box.
‘Here we go, seven hundred quid into the unknown,’ he whispered, as he hit the ‘confirm’ button.
Joe took a deep breath and stared at the screen.
Awaiting authorisation.
One minute passed, then another. Billy drummed his fingers on the desktop and Joe paced around the pool table, rolling balls around it with his hands.
‘Why does it take so long?’ asked Joe. ‘I thought you had the bitcoins in your wallet?’
‘I have, but bitcoins don’t work like regular currencies,’ replied Billy, folding his arms and swivelling the chair to face Joe. ‘They don’t exist in the real sense of a ‘coin’. They’re more just a record of a transaction. A starting address, a destination address, and a quantity. I don’t really understand the ins and outs of it.’
‘But what’s the delay for?’
‘From what I gather, every time you put a transaction in, it adds it to a public ledger. There’s then a bunch of nerdy computer types who check all the transactions at their own computers and authorise them. They’re called miners. It’s all a bit beyond me. Anyway, I’m going for a shit whilst this is doing its thing.’ Billy got up and walked out of the garage, to the bathroom.
After opening another bottle of ale from the fridge, Joe sat down and stared at the screen. The long wait had allowed his heart rate to return to normal, and he was now becoming slightly bored. It also wasn’t helping that Billy had left the door open and the silence in the garage was being broken by a loud cacophony of exaggerated straining noises, splashes, and paper rustling.
Just then, the page changed back to the black screen with a message: Thank you. The Brotherhood looks forward to your attendance at our next event. 2 bitcoins to view. Friday 24th July 21:00pm GMT. http://tRaTd84uhg0f023785h.onion
‘Billy!’ he shouted out of the doorway. ‘Get your fat arse back in here.’
‘That was quick, I’ve not finished yet,’ he shouted back, grabbing handfuls of toilet paper.
Joe stared at the screen, trying to assimilate all the information, or rather the lack of it. For over six hundred pounds he had expected a little more. He hit the Print Screen button on the keyboard and copied the screenshot into an email. Billy came back in and stared at the screen.
‘Is that it? Two bitcoins to view. View what and who the fuck are the Brotherhood?’ he asked, somewhat despairing at the notion that he had just paid a bitcoin simply for the privilege of spending another two. ‘Look, I’m not spending any more of my money on this. That’s nearly one and a half grand. Save your money, or put it on Croatia to beat Spain. At four to one against, you’d be five grand up if they win. You’re on your own now, buddy.’
Taking another photo on his phone just in case, Joe turned to Billy. ‘See you on Friday then, my shout. Make sure you bring some ales, but don’t tell anyone else about this. I’d better sort myself out one of those wallets then.’
10
Pete Harris pulled the chair away from his desk, dropped a copy of the Daily Mail on his keyboard, and looked around the office. It had been nearly two years since he last even set foot in this building, let alone this office. The force had kept him on the payroll in a ‘consultancy role’ during his sabbatical, but it amounted to little more than a couple of telephone calls every other month to keep the Inland Revenue happy, and left him unfamiliar with the new day-to-day workings of the unit.
His colleague, Grace Brooks, approached with two white polystyrene cups, steam rising from the coffee, which would be too hot to drink for at least ten minutes.
She handed one to him. ‘Feel a bit strange being back after so long?’ she said, putting her hand on his arm; in a caring, friendly manner, nothing more.
‘A little,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure it’ll be just like riding a bike. Thanks for the coffee.’
He sat down at the desk and turned on the bank of three twenty-four inch monitors that spread across his desk. As the PC whirred into its start-up routine, he carefully placed the cup down on the coaster. World’s Best Dad adorned the top in a childish scribble, with two small stick figures underneath. He stared at it. It had been with him ever since his transfer to the unit and frequently provided him a brief mental respite from some of the tough, soul-destroying content that he was forced to endure in the line of duty.
It made him realise that he was a father first and foremost, and he found that this mindset helped him switch off when he left work and easily switch back to just being ‘Dad’ when he arrived home.
During his time in the C.I.D., his skill and patience in monitoring website activity, coupled with a sneaky skill in hacking that he had developed during his time at university, had won him many cases. Very soon, he had come to the attention of the Metropolitan Police Force’s Cyber Crime Unit. He was offered a transfer and, with a young child plus another on the way, it was an offer he hadn’t been able to turn down. This new work came naturally to him; there was just something about the way people worked and acted online that he understood.
The internet had changed since he first sat at a yellowing grey IBM personal computer in his university’s ‘IT suite’, navigating the infant super highway on an apparently cutting-edge Netscape browser. The current web was unrecognisable from its early incarnation; it had grown organically and exploded into the single most important facet of everyday life. And he had grown with it. But as with everything ingrained in everyday consciousness, the web was abused, and it was now his job to stop people from doing just that.
He felt strong hands on each shoulder, which began to give a deep muscle massage.
‘Down a bit,’ he said. ‘That’s it, just there.’
Without looking, he knew that it was Detective Chief Inspector Robert Smith, the man who had essentially head-hunted him into his current position and had been a huge source of support during the last few months.
‘Pete,’ he said, in his cigarette-hardened voice. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s good to be back, sir,’ replied Pete. ‘I just want to get back into the swing of things as quickly as I can.’
‘Excellent. How’s Olivia doing?’
‘Coping. Now she’s started school, things are a lot easier. She still has her moments, but she’s getting there slowly.’
‘Good. Anything you need, you let me know. In the meantime, take a bit to get reacquainted with everything. There are a few new procedural protocols in place since you were here last, but I’ll have Grace go over them with you. Anyway, as I said, good to have you back. I’m going for a fag.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
As the chief inspector walked out of the office, Pete turned to look at the computer screens, moving his mouse around the desktop to refresh his memory as to where everything was.
‘Right, let’s see what’s been going on whilst we’ve been away,’ he whispered to himself.
‘Started talking to ourself now, have we?’ said Grace, as she pulled a chair up to his desk and sat down. ‘This is the new program we’ve had installed. It pulls cases that are being investigated across all forces throughout the whole country. Everything that gets flagged as potentially having some sort of cyber element to it will appear in this. That way we can cross-reference much easier with anything that we’re working on here.’
‘Cool,’ he replied. ‘Anything interesting going on?’
‘The usual mix of World of Warcraft players having their virtual battle-axes stole
n, old age pensioners sending money to the widows of Nigerian politicians, and teenage girls reporting their boyfriends for posting those nude pictures that he took whilst she was pissed up on cherry Lambrini. Mixed in, of course with one or two more serious issues.’
‘What’s that one,’ said Pete, abruptly, almost cutting her off. He tapped the end of his retractable pencil on the glass of the screen, on a case file titled ‘Karen Parker – MISPER’. ‘Isn’t she…?’ he asked.
‘Correct,’ interrupted Grace, before he had time to finish. ‘The local force down in Cornwall noticed from her tag movements that she appeared to have, how shall we say, not moved. For quite a while.’
‘Not moved? What, dead?’ said Pete, as he continued scanning over the case file.
‘Well that’s what they thought at first. And when they went round to her house, the fact that she didn’t answer the doorbell seemed to confirm it, so they smashed her front door in. When they went in, after being accosted by some very hungry cats, they found the house empty.’
‘So she was nowhere to be seen, but the tag locator was still showing her as being there,’ he pondered, whilst chewing the end of the pencil.
‘Indeed. They found it stuffed underneath one of the sofa cushions.’
‘She’d removed it?’ he said, as if sharply snapping back out of a daze. ‘How?’
‘We don’t know. She was as thick as shit, if not thicker. She was also a complete lard-arse. But it’s definitely hers; the serial number matches, they’ve pulled the history from the memory and it matches exactly. It was the one she was wearing, prints, DNA, the lot.’
‘And no-one’s seen her since?’
‘Nope, not since she last went to the local convenience store where she purchased two tonne of cat food, cigarettes, three cakes, and a load of magazines,’ replied Grace.
‘Are we aware of anyone in the local area having knowledge as to who she actually is?’