‘You can do the set-up here, if you want to make sure it’s working okay,’ says the young man. ‘I tested the battery; it’s in good nick. Whoever owned it, they barely used it.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ says Martin. He hands over the five hundred dollars and asks for a receipt.
‘A receipt? Really?’
‘Actually, no, forget about it.’ He puts his wallet away. ‘Tell me—Yevgeny, isn’t it?’
‘That’s me. Call me Yev, if you like.’
‘As well as fixing computers, are you any good at using one?’ ‘Of course. Why?’
‘I’m looking for someone who’s good with the internet. Researching things, finding things out.’
Martin sees the casualness drop away, the back stiffen, the intelligence cutting in like an over-clocked processor. ‘You don’t know how to use Google?’
‘I do, and I can handle social media, bulletin boards, that sort of stuff, but beyond that I’m useless.’
‘Beyond that is the badlands. The deep web. The dark web.’
‘Deep? Dark? What’s the difference?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not taking you there.’
‘I’ll pay cash.’ The moment he says it, Martin knows he’s said the wrong thing.
Yev straightens. He’s tall and spindly, slightly ridiculous in his fancy dress, but his face is serious. ‘Maybe you should set it up at home,’ he says, indicating the laptop with a flick of his head.
‘I’m a journalist. An investigative journalist.’
But the assertion only makes matters worse; the expression on the young geek’s face turns from caution to hostility. ‘Is that meant to impress me?’
‘No, but—’
Yev doesn’t let him finish. ‘No. I am not hacking celebrities. I am not stealing photos, I am not accessing voicemail, I am not supplying locations. See you later, Mr Investigative Journalist.’
Martin is taken aback. ‘I’m not that sort of reporter,’ he retorts, but he knows he’s lost the argument. He powers down the computer, waiting for it to finish before leaving.
‘So what sort of journalist are you?’ asks Yev.
‘The right sort.’
‘Prove it.’
Martin pulls out one of his business cards. ‘My name’s Martin Scarsden. I’ve spent the last twenty years working for the Sydney Morning Herald.’
The change is near instantaneous, the hostility fading from the young man’s face. ‘Martin Scarsden? You’re Martin Scarsden? You’re shitting me.’
‘Google me if you don’t believe it. You don’t need the dark web for that.’
‘Man, I love your stuff. The Middle East—I read all your stuff. My best friend is a Leb. Wait’ll I tell him. He’ll be stoked. Martin fucking Scarsden. Why didn’t you say? Creeping in here all incognito, going the bargain-basement deal. Doesn’t the Herald give you a laptop?’
‘I’m kind of part-time right now.’
‘I know. Writing books. True crime. Not as interesting as the Middle East, but not too shabby.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Shit, I could’ve given you something really sick, if I’d known. You want free internet?’
Martin is still feeling a little wrong-footed by the change in attitude. ‘Tempting. But perhaps not right now.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘You’ll help?’
‘Sure. Provided it’s not illegal. Or immoral.’
‘Definitely not immoral. Not sure about the legality.’
‘What is it?’
Martin wonders where to start. ‘Well, first off, tell me about the deep web and the dark web. What’s the difference?’
Yev smiles and shakes his head, as if astounded at how such an accomplished journalist could remain so ignorant. ‘Most of the internet isn’t readily accessible. Only about four or five per cent is open to the general public. More than ninety percent is corporate or government material, but the sites don’t show up in web searches and are protected by usernames and passwords. Everything from your webmail, to the cloud, to your bank account.’
‘Right,’ says Martin. ‘So with the Herald, I can log on from anywhere and file stories, check my pay slips, that sort of thing.’
‘Exactly. So not publicly accessible, but totally legal. That’s the deep web. But sitting within the deep web is the dark web, sites created for illegal activity and only accessible to those in the know, often using encryption and accessed through VPNs.’
‘Like drug sites, paedophile rings?’
‘That’s it. All sorts of bad shit.’
‘That’s not what I’m interested in,’ says Martin.
‘So what then?’ Yev is smiling, eyes a-twinkle. ‘Is this an investigative journalist thing? Robert Redford and that other dude?’
Martin laughs. ‘Something like that. We’ll see.’ And he looks around, conspiratorially, as if confirming they’re in private, half of him hating the manipulation, half of him loving the play-acting. ‘This is a major investigation. It’s absolutely vital you don’t talk about this to anyone, not even your Lebanese mate. Understand?’
Yev nods, a fish on a hook.
‘It’s for your own protection as much as anything, including legal protection. You okay with that?’
‘Oh, shit, man. Can’t I tell him I met you, at least?’
Martin pretends to ponder the question in all seriousness. ‘All right. But just tell him I bought a laptop. Okay?’
‘Yeah. Cool. My lips are data-locked and my tongue is encrypted.’
Martin blinks, wonders momentarily if he’s doing the right thing. ‘Okay. First question. How difficult is it to wipe a hard drive clean, so clean none of the data can be retrieved, even by police forensics?’
‘Dead easy. The software comes standard on Macs, is easy to download for Windows. You overwrite the disc, up to seven times if you’re feeling paranoid, with random data. After that, recovery is practically impossible.’
‘Practically?’
‘Can’t be done by software alone. Rumour has it the spooks and the military have specialist technology that can pick up digital ghosting. But that would be in clean rooms, using classified technology, shaving discs. Massively expensive, massively time-consuming. Even then, it probably wouldn’t work if the data wipe has been done thoroughly enough.’
Martin thinks on that, pondering how much he should be taking the geek into his confidence. He decides to keep the information general. ‘Here’s the scenario. A computer hard drive inside the Sydney Morning Herald has been wiped clean. Overwritten.’
‘Right. On a stand-alone computer, or a corporate drive?’
‘Stand-alone.’
‘Anyone with passwords could have done it. As I say, dead easy.’
‘Is there any way to find out who did it?’
‘Maybe. There’s
