The traffic was easing. Sokolov neared the outskirts of Bangkok.
After several rings, Netto answered in a sleepy voice.
“Yes, boss?”
“Pavel, I have a little problem here. I need your advice.”
“Go ahead, I’m listening.” Netto stifled a yawn.
Sokolov assumed that Netto had just woken up in his room, surrounded by all sorts of geeky clutter. Netto was the ultimate spiky-haired nerd who probably even slept at his desktop, keyboard in hand. He was the go-to guy for anything that existed in the hi-tech world, or was yet to come into existence.
“Do you know anything about the Dark Web?” Sokolov asked.
A long pause ensued at the other end.
“Pavel? Did you hear me?”
Finally, Netto spoke, sobered.
“My God. Eugene, I beg you, whatever you’re up to, just stay away from it.”
“The Dark Web. What is it?”
“I’m not sure you’d want to know. There are things you wish you could forget. It’s one of those.”
“It’s vital that I know it first. Tell me.”
Netto sighed.
“Give me a second to figure out where to start.”
“You don’t have a second. Three men have died before my eyes in a second.”
“All right! Jesus, that’s terrible. Okay, listen. Visualize the entire Internet. A few hundred million domains. From massive sites like YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, stuff like file-sharing, video downloads, down to blogs, and what not. Tens of billions of pages crawled by Google. Terabytes, Petabytes, Exabytes of data.”
“Exabytes? It’s hard to grasp. But I do get the fact I can have anything within a click.”
“Right. Now try to comprehend that this size of the Internet which you can access every day is just the tip of the iceberg. This insanely colossal wealth of information created by mankind makes up only a minuscule fraction of what is actually stored online. Imagine that there is a hidden Internet which is five hundred times bigger.”
“Hidden?”
“The Dark Web. Deep Internet.”
Sokolov hit the brakes a fraction of a second before the Toyota hit the car bumper ahead of it.
“Unbelievable. Five hundred times bigger?”
“If your regular Internet is a vast ocean surface, then Deep Internet is the underwater habitat.”
“You’re not kidding, are you? What’s it like down there?”
Netto’s reply filled Sokolov with dread.
“Wonderland. It’s like stepping through the Looking-Glass. An alternative world. Total freedom, total anonymity.”
Kinkladze’s words echoed. Anonymity is in high demand.
“In other words, a cloak for illegal activities,” Sokolov said.
“Yes and no. More often than not, anonymity is a cloak from illegal activities. The Dark Web is a place where the NSA won’t track your every move. The mega-corporations won’t spy on you. Tyrannical governments won’t intercept your chat messages and forum conversations. Remember, the Dark Web contains a copy of the conventional, public Internet which you can still browse. Also, it has all the content which is otherwise paywall-protected. Subscription services, music, movies—all available instantly. That’s the freedom part. And a lot of the information there is just raw data, hosted on private servers, not arranged in website form. But yeah, due to its incognito nature, there are certain areas ...” Netto hesitated. “Some of the stuff on Dark Web is just ... sick.”
Sokolov made it to the highway. A final stretch of the road separated him from Don Muang.
“Any examples?” he asked.
“Gene, honestly, you shouldn’t stir up a hornet’s nest. It’s pure evil. I’m nauseous even thinking about it. Child pornography. Pedophile scumbags and all sorts of perverts flock there like it’s their promised land, knowing they’ll never risk punishment. Not just child porn; bestiality, incest and so much other vomit-inducing depravity, the amount is staggering. But that’s not all. You can buy any drugs at marketplaces like Silk Road. Heroin, cocaine, meth, LSD, you just add any quantity to cart and check out like it’s goddamned Amazon or something. In fact, you can buy anything, no matter how illegal. Prostitution rings function openly—again, offering even underage hookers.”
“You’re right, Pavel, I’m sick to my stomach.”
“Whatever you want to find, and more than you bargain for. It’s all there. Some things you later wish you could unsee. But you get the full range of crazy stuff. Hackers like me who discuss computer virus creation with their peers. Underground betting syndicates that fix results in English football. Illegal fighting circuits where contestants battle to the death. Assassins for hire. Terrorist organizations and the intelligence agencies hunting them. Financial empires and cryptocurrency traders.”
“Hang on, do you mean this Dark Web of yours has its own banking system?”
“Of course. Have you heard of Bitcoin? It originated from the Dark Web as one of its many payment methods for unregistered transactions. The Dark Web is a great venue for untraceable financing.”
“Wonderland,” Sokolov muttered.
“Like I said. Mind-boggling, terrifying, containing the world’s entire knowledge and the answers to all of life’s questions. The truth behind every conspiracy. The classified information that sometimes gets leaked to the media has been known in the Dark Web for years. ”
“How do I access it?”
“It can be daunting for a complete noob, but you’re more or less computer-literate.”
“What a compliment.”
“First, you need to download a special browser. One that supports incognito web surfing through anonymous connections.”
“I already have it.”
“Excellent. You’re making great strides. Next, you need to type in a particular web address. Your gateway to the Dark Web. A secret key to a secret door.”
“Which address is that?”
“I’m getting to it, wait. The public Internet uses such domains as dot-com, dot-org, dot-net, and so on. Deep Internet, on the other hand, is accessed through dot-anon. The Dark Web links won’t work unless you have the anonymizer extension, and the web addresses are cryptic, consisting of random characters. I’ll text you the link. Your portal to the other side. Hang in there, Gene. Ring me up if you need any more help.”
The call ended.
Sokolov struggled to concentrate on the road. His mind reeled as the phone conversation with Netto sank in. What he’d just learned gave sense to the bizarre tablet, its software built entirely around the anonymous browser, Sokolov now realized. The device had no other purpose than surfing the Deep Internet, hence the limited design and functionality. But he’d come no closer to understanding Kinkladze’s use for it.
Child porn? Underage prostitutes?
Sokolov cringed.
The phone buzzed with an incoming text message.
8CmSgi2.anon
Typing as he drove precariously, he copied the link into the address field of the Dark Web browser.
His finger hovered over the Enter button. A single press away from taking the plunge, he felt anxious. Did he really want to know what lurked behind the Looking-Glass?
He glanced at the casino chip retrieved from Alex Grib’s body, and noticed the letter B marking it. Bitcoin? Whether he liked it or not, he had been sucked neck-deep into that whole mess. Perhaps he needed to go deeper to push himself off the bottom and break out. Find the reason for killing Kinkladze.
He hit the red button. Enter.
A basic text page loaded. It was titled the Hidden Wiki. A catalog of the Dark Web’s main resources, arranged by category. Some of the links caught Sokolov’s eye.
Boys and Girls
Contract Killers
Black Market
Wallet Laundry
Guns and Ammo
Drug Store
PaedoParadise
Fake ID
Sokolov almost missed the exit off the hi
ghway. He followed the turn to Don Muang. As he approached the checkpoint, the armed guards let him through without inspection, seeing Kinkladze’s embassy car. Once he parked the Toyota, Sokolov stayed inside, unable to take his eyes off the tablet’s screen.
Designed with complete privacy in mind, the tablet’s settings omitted browsing history and website cache. Sokolov had no way of finding Kinkladze’s mailbox unless he knew the appropriate anonymous link.
But he could find something else. He tapped on the address marked HiddenSearch.
A plain search box came up. He entered his own name.
Eugene Sokolov.
Search.
Pages upon pages of hits.
With bated breath, he opened a link.
Billionaire Bloodbout Fighting Tournament
Venue: Billionaire Island Hotel and Casino
Billionaire Bloodbout. Sokolov had never heard of such a contest before. He hadn’t the slightest clue about Billionaire Island, either. Yet he found his name listed among the participants.
17
Sokolov headed for General Udomkul’s office. Inside the handbag, he carried the tablet, casino chip, false passport and two bundles of cash.
He pictured the fate suffered by Alex Grib. Illicit bouts offered a quick buck for the less capable martial artists who knew no other trade. Especially so in Thailand, where the overall number of Muay Thai kickboxers measured in tens of thousands. Only a portion made it to the top with the skill level required for professional prize fighting. Thousands of others fell prey to a criminal industry from a young age. They ended up in matches that were absolutely brutal. Violence reigned supreme, fueling crowd instincts and underhand gambling. The fighters were expendable. The flow of new amateurs never ebbed. They came from Thailand’s poorest rural areas, having no other means to survive. It was the rock-bottom level of illegal fighting. The ruthlessness differed little as one ascended. All that changed was the greater ability of fighters who competed for higher stakes. It came as no surprise to Sokolov that a disgraced outcast like Alex would be drawn to the shadier side of combat sports. His pedigree should have propelled him straight to the elite level of underground bouts, the razor edge where fortunes awaited on one side and death on the other. A high-risk tournament must have taken place at a nearby island, and Alex had entered it under Sokolov’s name. That much seemed clear to him, and the rest didn’t matter. Several hours later, his plane would touch down back in Moscow.
A helmeted guard ushered him into the general’s office.
Greeting him, General Udomkul gestured at a lone metal chair across his desk. The general’s workspace displayed typical paraphernalia: pens, papers, plastic models of jet fighters, a corded phone, a framed photo of His Majesty, the King of Thailand.
“Please, take a seat, Major Sokolov.”
Sokolov did.
“Thank you for your hospitality, General. I’m afraid it’s time for me and my crew to leave. I trust everything is ready for our departure.”
“Where’s Mr. David?” the general asked bluntly.
“Mr. David will not be joining us at this moment. Regrettably.”
General Udomkul scrutinized the bag.
“I’m so sorry. No problem. Mr. David and I had an arrangement that I’m sure you’ll respect.”
“Of course I will, if you remind me of the details.”
“For every person leaving the airbase, a small fee must be paid.” He scribbled a note and showed it to Sokolov.
$10,000.
“I’m sure there’s a mistake.”
Spittle flew from the general’s mouth. “No mistake! Do you accuse me of lying?”
“By no means, General.”
“You can call Mr. David and ask him.” A yellow-toothed grin broke on the general’s wrinkled, pockmarked face. He knew full well that Kinkladze was out of the equation.
Sokolov realized that he and his crew had become helpless, completely at the mercy of Udomkul. For certain, Kinkladze had agreed on a far more modest fee with the corrupt general. The twenty grand would have paid for a party of four: the three-man EMERCOM team and their passenger. Opportunistically, the general had now doubled his toll charges.
Sokolov had no way out. Udomkul effectively held the three of them hostage. One by one, he produced the ten-thousand-dollar bundles from the handbag and placed them on the general’s desk.
Udomkul opened a drawer and put the cash away.
“Very good. But it’s not enough.”
“It’s enough to secure safe passage for my pilots, Zubov and Mischenko.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go back to Bangkok and bring you the money later.”
“Oh, no. I can’t allow you to return to Bangkok. It’s very dangerous. The government is about to declare martial law. You should wait for Mr. David to come here and honor our agreement.” General Udomkul picked up the phone receiver from its cradle. “I’m calling the Russian embassy.”
Sokolov depressed the switchhook. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve got something else.”
He produced the casino chip, holding the letter B in front of Udomkul’s face.
The general’s dark eyes glistened. His mouth creased. He set the receiver back in its cradle.
“Ah! Now we’re talking.”
“Do you know where it’s from?”
Udomkul nodded soberly.
“Billionaire Casino. A private resort in the Andaman Sea.”
“How much is the token worth?”
“A few thousand dollars.”
“Here’s the deal. You keep the token. I walk out, board my plane and fly away.”
“Impossible. It’s a sign of association with an exclusive club. Invitation-only, for men and women of immense power. An extremely lethal group of people. If my possession of such a token became known to them, they’d finish me.”
General Udomkul pushed a button on the desktop phone base. A red light blinked.
“Your friends may go at once. But you, on the other hand … you’re nothing but a headache. I don’t tolerate headaches. I get rid of them.”
A trio of Thai soldiers stormed into the room, wielding Tavor TAR-21 assault rifles.
“You’ll be taken to Billionaire Island. I’ll let them deal with you. This way, I’ll have nothing to worry about. And that’s how you’ll pay your fee.”
The general cackled, his breath foul.
Holding Sokolov at gunpoint, the soldiers blindfolded and handcuffed him.
18
The soldiers led him away, prodding with their guns. Sweat rolled down his face underneath the grimy, oily rag which covered his eyes. He walked across the tarmac to a growing whine of helicopter engines. The pitch of the engine noise was unmistakable. He would recognize the sound of a Russian-made Mil Mi-17 under any circumstances.
The soldiers shoved him inside.
Disoriented inside the helicopter, Sokolov lost track of time. An hour must have passed. More than an hour. The Mi-17 was flying over sea.
Descent. At any moment, he expected the soldiers to open a hatch and drop him into the Gulf of Thailand. He would either crash against the water surface or drown.
Just as Alex had fallen to his death.
The realization scalded him. He started praying. He didn’t care whether he was about die. He only thought about his friends. He prayed that Udomkul had kept his promise and let them go.
The helicopter landed. Sokolov shuffled his feet as he was pushed forward. Gruff voices swore at him in Thai. The soldiers threw him into the back of a truck. The rough road poked him with every bump. Finally, the truck stopped at a pier.
An excruciating motorboat journey followed. He felt the spray of water on his skin. With every passing second, he anticipated getting tossed overboard. A half hour later everything ended.
The boat moored at a different pier.
The soldiers handed him over to a group of guards waiting on the other side. He didn’t know how many had surrounded
him. They conversed in English as they hustled him down a path.
“Who the hell is that?”
“Someone named Eugene Sokolov.”
Laughter erupted.
“What, another one?”
PART II
1
California
Tears rolled down the delicately chiseled face of Stacie Rose, Australian fashion model and designer, twenty-two years young. A mournful black blazer traced the lines of her slender body as she gracefully walked through the Serbian Cemetery in Colma, CA. Passing dense rows of tombstones, she located the one that bore the name of Marie Jordan. Her waist-length strawberry-blond hair cascading, she laid a bouquet of white roses and lilies. Her handwritten message in the accompanying card read: In Loving Memory of My Dear Aunt. You will be Missed. From Stacie.
She clutched the golden pendant hanging from her neck—Aunt Marie’s gift for her tenth birthday. Like a breaking dam, sobs raked her uncontrollably. Trembling, she buried her face in her hands to mute her weeping.
A hand brushed against her shoulder.
Startled, she flinched and turned sharply.
Behind her was a rotund elderly man with thin white hair, wearing a black cassock with a massive golden crucifix. The Orthodox priest stood a head shorter than her perfect runway-modeling height. His plump face featured a gray goatee and a pair of brooding black eyes which studied her intently.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man said in a heavy Russian accent. “But Marie, God’s servant, is in a better place now. Thankfully, she had returned to the fold of the only true Church, the Russian Church, before the Lord claimed her soul.”
Regaining composure, Stacie produced a handkerchief from her tiny purse and dabbed away the streaking tears from her cheeks.
The town of Colma was a necropolis, a cluster of different graveyards located on the San Francisco Peninsula against the backdrop of distant Santa Cruz foothills and jutting palm trees. Although nominally Serbian, the Orthodox cemetery in Colma acted as the final resting place for Eastern Christians of all denominations. Russian graves were the most common.
“I’m looking for Father Philemon,” she said.
Temple of Spies Page 5