Zero Day: A Novel (23 page)

Once the computer was running, Jeff sat at the desk in his room and launched a search for hacker chat rooms, recognizing several from his search earlier that week and even some from back to his CIA days, when trolling hacker chat rooms had been his late-night “hobby.” He scrolled through the various chat rooms, searching for the words
superphreak
and
kinky,
or any other reference to Rick James. Nothing.

Then, shortly before eleven o’clock, he entered the h@xx0rd chat room. He’d glanced at the chat room a time or two before and knew that foreign hackers liked it, but hadn’t previously seen anything that interested him. This time, though, as he scanned down the page, scrolling as needed, he was pulled up short. He read:

Jeff felt the hair on his neck bristle.

After that Godder disappeared, as did Dante. Jeff considered posting a message but decided against it. Better to watch and learn. He opened his ICQ and saw Daryl was online. He typed:

JA33: Y arn’t u n bed?

There was a long pause before she answered.

D007: Wt a sec.

Then she wrote:

35

PARIS, FRANCE

18ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT

SUNDAY, AUGUST 27

6:06 P.M.

Fajer al Dawar lit yet another cigarette, then moved to the balcony of the Ritz suite. From his coat pocket he removed a prepaid cell phone. He had committed the number to memory. As he listened to the ringing, he thought back to the moment he had found jihad.

*   *   *

The man called Yousef al-Halim leaned over to exit through the doorway of the house in the center of Old Town in Peshawar. The city was not only the capital but the largest in the North-West Frontier Province in Pakistan. Strategically located at the foothills of the Khyber Pass, the city played a major role in the historical route of invasion into the Indian subcontinent. With the American presence in nearby Afghanistan and its ostensible support by the Musharraf government in Pakistan, Peshawar was an important military post. From here, periodic searches for Osama bin Laden and his supporters were launched.

Yousef had spent a week in Karachi before moving north, then a restless month in Rawalpindi, which was much larger than Peshawar, more nervous every minute thanks to the heavier and more aggressive military presence there. Here in Peshawar he’d obtained his new identity papers, then finally made contact, only to be told to wait.

Outside, Yousef dipped his hand into the water trough and scrubbed his face vigorously. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he glanced up at a brilliant blue sky. This close to the Tora Bora mountains, you could all but feel the sky pressing down. The air was still pleasant, but had a cold bite that had not been there when he’d first arrived.

It was late October. Winter would soon be coming, and with it the snow that would lock the mountain passes in their white vise. He had to move soon or he’d be forced to turn back.

Yousef’s stay in Peshawar had not been totally unpleasant, not at all. The city had been conquered and occupied over the millennia by Moguls, Persians, Hindus, and Arabs, to name but a few. Each had left behind a bit of its culture and tradition. The people were of such diverse lineage they considered themselves to be a separate tribe from the rest of Pakistan. With the various cultures had come a certain laxity toward the teachings of the Prophet, though. Bars operated freely, and a local brewery produced a quality beer. Brothels were discreetly located but commonplace, though the quality of the women was not to his standards.

Since the Russian war in Afghanistan the city had been all but overrun with Afghan refugees, with the United Nations and nongovernmental organizations running the camps and providing services. Many of the Afghans had returned home, but thousands had stayed on, their homes long since destroyed. The Taliban who still waged war against the American-backed government in Kabul recruited among them, and Yousef had seen small bands of young, bearded men making their way quietly toward the nearby mountains almost weekly.

Yousef had taken to saying his prayers as the Prophet had decreed and spent most of each day in one of three traditional tea shops. There, amid the samovars and colorful china teapots, with the hookahs making the air thick with the heavy smoke of tobacco and occasionally hashish, he passed his time in thought, observation, or reading. He had come to believe that he had been reborn as a Muslim in this place and was more committed to jihad than ever.

Every ten days he changed rooms so as not to attract attention, but slowly his tea shops dwindled to just these three, which he rotated daily. He was surprised at the vitality of life here in Peshawar. Technically they were all Muslim, but the difference in culture from his native land was striking. The streets had a vitality that was lacking in Saudi Arabia. For that he blamed oil. The resultant wealth drained the people of their natural course, causing them to turn away from the practices of their fathers.

Yousef noticed one of the young, lean men with suspicious eyes enter, move quietly through the crowded, smoky room, then take a lone chair in the back corner. He’d seen his type before. Fresh down from the mountains, they delivered a message, ordered supplies, or led recruits to a mountain camp. Such men had something of the predator. The vigorous life in the mountains and the strict diet left them slender and hard.

At midafternoon Yousef found himself waiting, as he did every afternoon at this time. Within a few moments he heard the call of the muezzin from atop the nearby minaret.
“Hayya la-s-saleah. Hayya la-s-saleah,”
the voice sang to all who would hear: Hasten to prayer. Yousef set down his cup of tea, took up his rolled prayer rug, and went into the street, where he joined the other good Muslims. He spread his rug and knelt.

When prayer was concluded, he returned to the tea shop, rolling his prayer rug. The lean man he’d seen earlier approached and in a quiet voice of command said, “Follow me.” Yousef looked after the man a moment, then tossed a few coins on the wooden table and followed. He was led to the poorest quarter of Peshawar, then up an alley and into a small house. The man led him through the first room, through the second, then across a small courtyard. There he paused before a doorway and gestured for Yousef to enter. When he did, he found his effects from his room. “Wait,” the man said, then turned on his heel and left.

That night Yousef was brought bread, dates, and hot, sweet tea by an aged woman dressed in black. Almost before he’d finished the meager meal he was overcome with fatigue. He lay on a goatskin and slept as if he were dead.

Before dawn the next morning the young man returned. “Bring just the rucksack. Leave the rest,” he ordered.

Yousef quickly finished his morning tea. “Where are we going?” he asked, when he really meant, Am I being moved again? Or is this it?

“To the mountains. No more questions.”

Outside were four young men. The air was bracing. Yousef fell in behind the young men and was led off with the others. By midday they were out of the city and well into the countryside. They walked in silence, with the leader, who told Yousef his name was Omar, calling a short break every two hours. Two of the others were, like Yousef, from Saudi Arabia. A third was Egyptian, while the fourth was from Syria. Omar instructed them to tell the others nothing more about themselves and to use a name other than their own.

Omar rarely spoke. When he did, he selected his words carefully. His eyes were a startling light blue and his teeth were bright and even. That first night the men rested at a farmer’s house and were served by his wife and young daughters. They slept on one side of the small house while the family slept on the other. They were up before dawn; after a quick breakfast of sweet tea and flat bread, they were on their way again. That night, then the next two, they slept at campsites. The nights were frigid. The men huddled together for warmth.

The farther from Peshawar they traveled, the more traffic fell off. By the third day, they no longer saw military vehicles. By the fourth they were well into the foothills of the mountains, climbing higher with each step. Yousef’s feet were covered with blisters, but he said nothing. The young Syrian was bleeding through his tattered canvas shoes. No one complained.

That night, their fifth, Omar led them to a camp well off the trail they’d been following. Here they were welcomed, their feet were treated, and they were given a full meal. “We will rest here a few days,” Omar told them. “Remain to yourselves.”

“A few days” turned into ten. Each day was colder than the previous. On the fourth, heavy clouds filled the sky, threatening rain or early snow. About thirty were in the camp, herdsmen with only a few women to prepare meals and clean. One of the locals told Yousef their winter settlement was down in the valley and they would leave for it at the first sign of snow. He was the only one who spoke to any of them.

On the tenth night, after the evening meal, Omar gathered the five and introduced them to a stern newcomer named Muhammad. “We will divide into two groups tomorrow. You four,” Muhammad said, gesturing at the others, “will go with me. Yousef will remain with Omar.”

Omar and Yousef left with the others at first light, but soon split away. They went to the right, while the others took the left fork of the trail. “Go with Allah,” Omar told the men as he took the hand of each. Yousef said and did the same. That day the trail wound ever upward, snaking back and forth, often running along rocky walls rather than out in the open. It was exhausting, and for the first time Yousef was concerned that he was not physically up to his pilgrimage. But he could not stop now, would not, and pressed on no matter how tired he became.

He and Omar slept in five camps in as many nights. These were military encampments now, hidden in caves or tucked away in narrow ravines. The lean, ragged men carried with them AK-47s and watched the sky closely for aircraft.

“But we don’t always see them,” Omar explained when he asked what they were doing. “Often the American planes are so high they are invisible, like evil spirits, and their bombs are among us without warning.”

Yousef licked his dry lips. “Does it happen often?”

“Often enough. If you are here for long, you will see.”

With each camp the living conditions declined. It was colder, the men dirtier. But everywhere Yousef was moved by the extent of the commitment he saw, the willingness of fellow Muslims to fight the infidel.