Trojan Horse (33 page)

Frank, he’d decided. The Company could do this fastest. As his fingers raced over the keyboard his entire demeanor changed. He no longer had that haunted, desperate look. Watching him, Saliha could now understand how he’d been able to track Ahmed from Geneva to this apartment. And she believed he’d find him now.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

CIA HEADQUARTERS

CYBERTERRORISM–COMPUTER FORENSICS DEPARTMENT

7:56 A.M. EST

I
mmediately after receiving Jeff’s mIRC message with a name and address of the kidnapper, Frank Renkin opened the Company’s Distant Horizon Cyber Watch [E], or DHCW Europe, database. Another version designated [A] was employed for Asia. Near Horizon was used in North America. He entered the name Ahmed Hossein al-Rashid. Almost at once a page opened with the same address: Taboritska 5, Prague 3, Czech Republic. It was the right man. Then he carefully read just who exactly Jeff had run up against.

The first tier on the man was the Known File. It had a photo and physical description. It gave his age as thirty-five, said he was a registered student, had legal status, and was Iranian. There were no established bank accounts. No wife. No job. The Known File listed only what was regarded as fact. Not much and that in and of itself raised an alert to those in the business.

Frank now moved to the Projected File. This was not speculation or rumor. The information here was the result of careful analysis and in his experience was rarely wrong, as far as it went. He leaned closer to the screen as he absorbed what he was reading. There was a 93 percent chance this Ahmed was an Iranian operative, probably of VEVAK; a 67 percent likelihood he was an organizer.

Jeff had found a big one. The name was a cover but an effective one as there was no information on his true identity. No other intelligence agency would confirm having information on him. He’d been in Frank’s system for just over one year and was not under physical surveillance,

With a smile, Frank noted his own department had an ongoing operation against the man. He opened that file.
Now this is interesting,
he thought. Cyberterrorism identified one computer he routinely used. He was known as well to have two cell phones.

The man’s phone calls were not being recorded, at least not by the CIA, nor was his computer messaging being read, but the traffic of each was monitored. It was continuously assessed to determine if his threat level should be increased. Given the evaluation of his digital traffic there was no doubt this man was an Iranian intelligence agent and at least a midlevel supervisor. His activities were limited to Central Europe and he’d not been connected to any terrorist event. He was scarcely on the Company’s radar.

This was as far as Frank had gone when he received Jeff’s second message.

Urgent, urgent, urgent Frank. Not a second to waste. Find the physical location of the cell phone with this number in Prague. 243 750 191 Daryl is likely there. Please! Hurry!

Frank grimaced and returned to the cell phones. The number matched one of those Ahmed used. He checked their status and read that the Company had inserted a bit of malware into both cell phones that allowed them to track his location as long as he was within range of a cell tower. This was, if Frank’s memory served, made possible by a zero day vulnerability in the Android system Jeff had identified. Ironic.

So their locations were continuously monitored and when he checked they were moving in unison as he’d expected. Frank typed a response.

Target phone is in motion. Now on Krasova Street. Will advise of address when it stops. Be careful. Call police.

PRAGUE-WEST, CZECH REPUBLIC

ROZTOKY

VLTAVA MUNICIPAL AIRPORT

8:01 A.M. CET

W
u Ying eased back on the stick and slowed the engine, maneuvering the SportCruiser into a slow glide at an easy fifty kilometers per hour, just above stall. There was a slight wind from his left and he watched his approach carefully. Li, awake now, sat next to him unconcerned, facing straight ahead as the countryside passed beneath them.

Wu had selected a small airstrip for his landing. Private planes sat in two lines outside modest-size hangers and the terminal itself wasn’t much larger than a house. Though protocol didn’t require it, he’d contacted the airport by cell phone and been told no landings were expected. Takeoffs were under way but were few and well spaced. He was just instructed to watch for them. This was standard for such airstrips.

Wu lowered the flaps and slowed the plane even more. The runway came toward him and then they were over it. As the craft eased down, it encountered the ground effect and seemed to hover until after a long moment it dropped through, then touched in a near perfect landing. Once the plane had slowed to the speed of a walk Wu gunned the engine and made his way to the parked airplanes. He pulled his into line and killed the engine.

He and Li opened their doors and stepped out. Wu was grateful to stretch in fresh air after the long flight. A small truck came up and Wu gave instructions to have the plane refueled and serviced. He handed the man more cash than necessary to see it was done immediately. With cash there’d be no record. He had no idea how soon he’d need the plane.

The men walked into the terminal and went to the counter. “Taxi?” he asked.

“I will call,” the young woman said. “It should only be a short wait. There is a canteen you can use.”

Down the hall was a room with various food dispensers. Wu and Li bought hot tea and croissants. They sat in silence as they ate and waited.

“Krasova Street,” Jeff read out loud. “Take me there,” he said. “It will be faster. You know the city.” And he could be certain she didn’t warn her boyfriend.

Saliha punched out her cigarette. “All right, if you insist. It’s not far. I’ll take you to the street but then I go, all right? I will promise not to call him. You will have to trust me. That is our deal.”

Jeff nodded, then said, “That’s what I said. Let’s go.”

A dark fog passed across Daryl’s eyes and for a moment she drifted away. She willed herself back, then fought against the man, trying to twist out from under him. He held her even more forcefully, blood all but streaming on her.

Finally, knowing she had only seconds she turned with all her power and almost managed to squirm out from under him though his hands never left her throat. She’d been working her wrists continuously all this time, never giving it a thought, instinctively seeking to free her hands. As she lay nearly on her side, the binds suddenly broke. With the last of her strength she moved her arm free, maneuvered the knife, then struck blindly at Karim, her stab feeling more like a blow. She had no idea how deadly the knife was so she pulled it back and stabbed again, then again, then again.

Karim released her and screamed, clutching his side. With his other hand he struck her across the face and Daryl blacked out.

Saliha knew where Krasova Street was but had never been to it. The man urged her along and they moved at a near run. He kept slightly back but beside her. She considered if she should even go through with this. Out of the apartment, in the open, she reconsidered the situation. She didn’t know this man. He claimed his wife had been kidnapped by Ahmed yet he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

True, she had her suspicions about Ahmed but she was surprised she’d been so quick to believe the worst about him. Maybe it was true, after all he’d been very rough and threatening with her, but for all she knew this man was even worse. Because his story had the force of conviction didn’t mean he was telling her the truth. Men rarely did.

Then a thought crossed her mind: What if he was a CIA agent? What if the Americans were after Ahmed and had concocted this story to get to him when they’d not found him at his apartment?

As quickly as the thought came it vanished. The CIA would have enough agents to do the job; they wouldn’t send just one man. She’d looked. No one was following them. The Americans would have known Ahmed was not home and would already have his phone number. They had the resources. No, she decided, he wasn’t an American agent.

She looked back quickly at him over her left shoulder. Maybe he was an Israeli, a Jew. She shuddered at the thought.

“This is it,” she said at the corner. “Krasova.”

It was a narrow street. Foot traffic only. “Here,” Jeff said, taking her arm. He moved them to a doorway where he could open his laptop.

Saliha glanced about, confirming the man had no operatives with him. She needed to get away. She had a plane to catch. She looked at the pedestrians on the busier street they’d been on, examining each carefully.

There was a text message from Frank.

Krasova 702/34

Jeff pasted the address in Google Maps. “Just down this street, I think.” He closed the laptop. “This way.”

“Tell me,” Saliha said, not moving, “are you a Jew?”

“What?”

“A Jew. Are you a Jew?”

Jeff laughed. “No, I’m a fallen Catholic.”

“Ah. Like me. Only I’m a fallen Muslim.”

As they turned the corner Saliha saw an opening and without giving it any more thought suddenly bolted away, running into the traffic, making her way quickly to the taxi stand across and down the street. She was gambling that the man was really looking for Ahmed. He wouldn’t risk chasing her with so many people around and risk attracting the police.

Just as she reached the taxi stand she glanced back and couldn’t see him. She looked farther along the street and there he was moving quickly, staring intently at every building as if searching for an address. She stepped into the taxi and gave the driver her address.

Saliha hesitated, then pulled out her cell phone. If something happened to Ahmed she’d never get the rest of her money. She pressed the speed-dial number.

Daryl slowly came awake as if climbing out of a dark and very deep well. It was utterly quiet in the apartment. She had no idea how much time had passed. She looked at the angle of the sun and decided it had only been a short while. She moved her hands to her face and with some effort, worked the tape, then pushed the gag from her mouth. She lay there breathing the rich air, grateful to be alive.

When she finally moved she realized she was wet with something sticky. Then it came back to her. Blood. Still on the floor she turned her head. Across the linoleum kitchen floor was a long, broad crimson streak. At the end lay Karim, unmoving. Slowly, cautiously, Daryl rose to her feet. The cut across her right palm hurt like hell.

The knife was gone. She glanced about the kitchen searching for a weapon in the event Karim was able to attack her again. There was a heavy old-fashioned cast-iron coffee grinder resting on the counter. She took it and approached the man. When she reached him she stopped, listened closely, watching him. No sound at all came from him. And his body never moved. He was dead.

Maybe.

Daryl went behind him, then tentatively reached forward with her left hand and poked him to see if he’d react. He didn’t. Now she poked him even harder. Nothing. She took him by his shoulder and with some effort rolled him onto his back.

She shot upright. Karim’s eyes were open and glazed over. She’d never seen anything like it.

Daryl backed away, bumped into the fallen wooden chair, straightened it, then sat, holding the coffee grinder on her lap like a purse. She’d never seen a dead man before, not like this, not out of a casket and in a funeral home. Then the horror of what had just happened struck her.

She’d
killed
him.

Daryl sat, contemplating the thought, waiting for the reality to engulf her, for the sense of regret, of guilt, then realized she felt none. The man deserved it. It was him or her and she’d been lucky enough to make it him.

Finally, her numbed mind started to function normally.
Get out,
she thought.
You’ve got to get out of here. The other one will be back at any time.
She stood up and moved toward the door. Just as she reached for the doorknob, she saw it turn and an instant later the door opened.

Wu instructed the driver to drop them two blocks from the address he’d been given. His father’s information had been complete, the result of the considerable research skills of the Cyber Warfare Center. He had a description, several photographs, this address, and more. With luck he’d find the laptops at the man’s apartment; with more luck he’d simply surrender it. If not, he had Li.

Taboritska 5. 1001/27. Here it was.

The street entrance was locked. Though Wu didn’t intend to waste time he was not especially in a hurry. He could afford to wait. Just then a gross man waddled down the stairs and caught his eye. Wu gestured for him to open the door.

The concierge held the door open a few inches. He spoke in English as he didn’t know Japanese or Korean or Chinese, whatever it was these two smiling men were. “What do you want?”