Zero Day: A Novel (33 page)

“A source within the White House,” the article said, “confirms that the president has already directed that a national security assessment report be submitted to him as quickly as it can be prepared. The source would neither confirm nor deny that the many incidents are related nor comment on another report that they are part of a coordinated effort directed against computers worldwide.”

That, at least, is something,
Jeff thought as he closed the computer, put it away, then leaned back in his seat.
They still haven’t put it together but are starting to.
When someone finally did, Jeff couldn’t help but wonder how much damage the reaction itself would cause.

He listened to the engines for several minutes, then glanced over at Daryl again.
This is crazy,
he thought for the hundredth time since hearing the shots.
We’re not secret agents.

Earlier, once they’d been satisfied no one was chasing them, Jeff had grabbed a taxi and had them dropped off at Central Park. He’d found a large open field, and from there, convinced he could see anyone approaching, trusting the outdoors rather than a closed space, he and Daryl had discussed what to do.

“Do you think we should go to the cops?” she asked, even though, when she’d suggested this earlier, in Jeff’s hotel room, they’d dismissed the suggestion. But bullets fired from an assassin’s gun now gave weight to what then had seemed a far-fetched scenario.

“No. They wouldn’t believe us. We might be detained as witnesses or even suspects, and there’s no time to lose right now. If we don’t put a stop to this, no one will. There’s simply too much at stake to take such a chance.”

Sue’s face was tight with anxiety. They stood in silence for a long minute.

“Do you think the cop is dead?” Daryl finally asked. “What happened to the other man? The one who was chasing us.”

Jeff shook his head. “I don’t know about the cop. He went down. The other guy ran to the corner, but it didn’t look like he chased us past that.”

“Who do you think he is?”

“The same guy who killed Sue and Joshua Greene.”

Daryl nodded. “Me too. But why us?”

“Sue and Greene were tortured. Sue must have told him who was helping her.”

“Maybe we should get a gun. I mean, if it’s up to us to defend ourselves.”

“In Manhattan? And, trust me, I’d be more a threat to us with a gun than anyone else. I’ve never so much as shot one.” He scanned the park and saw no one approaching them.

“You should warn Harold—that’s his name, right?”

“Good thinking.” Jeff called the IT Center and reached Harold, who’d had no trouble accepting the need to disappear. He’d told Jeff he was already considering it and had just the place.

Daryl sat on the grass. Thirty feet away, a young couple were helping their child learn to walk, clapping with pleasure every time he managed three or four steps. Jeff started working his BlackBerry with his thumbs. “I’ve got us on a flight to Moscow, leaving from Newark tonight. You got your passport?”

Daryl looked at him with excitement. “Never leave home without it. Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“Our problem isn’t that someone’s trying to kill us. Our problem, Daryl, is that in nine days Muslim terrorists are going to unleash an enormous, sophisticated attack on the Internet and the United States. And we’re the only ones in a position to do something about it. If you’ve got a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”

Much had happened since Jeff had first set foot in that Manhattan law office. In some ways it was a lifetime. He’d gone from a significant, if relatively mundane, job to realizing that his life was on the line, though he was still just a small part of the solution to a much bigger and more important problem. But there was more. He finally understood where he’d gone wrong in the weeks and days leading up to 9/11. He’d been too passive, too trusting. He’d looked to others for solutions.

Now he understood he should have raised holy hell. When Carlton had ignored him, he should have gone up the chain and kept going up until someone listened. If that had not been possible, he should have gone public, no matter what the risk to his career.

He’d known he was right and he’d known what needed to be done. If nothing else, a public disclosure of what he’d found might very well have frightened the terrorists off, caused them to delay their attack. Who knew what would have happened then?

That was the true source of his anger, he realized. Some part of him had always known he’d sold himself short and, in so doing, had doomed more than three thousand people, including the woman he’d loved.

That was all changed. No more would he sit back and play the guilt-ridden victim.

And there was Daryl. She was risking everything without a second thought. His feelings had come on him slowly, but what he’d thought no longer possible was now a reality. He had to do this, for both their sakes. And for the sake of the three thousand he’d already failed.

“Let me make some calls.” Daryl pulled out her cell phone and began with her office. Satisfied that they were now safe, Jeff led her to a sidewalk vendor as she talked. Buying black coffee and doughnuts, he laughed at the absurdity of it all and the sudden realization that getting shot at in real life was nothing like being one of the shooters in the video games he played. This was for keeps.

By noon Daryl tucked away her phone. “I’ve got my team on it. I’ve told them I’m going to be traveling this week, trying to run down Superphreak. They think I’m joking. I’ve got some odd news too.” Jeff raised his eyebrows. “I couldn’t reach George Carlton. I wanted an update on where DHS is on this. They told me he left the country yesterday in a rush, something about an appointment in Paris.”

Jeff wrinkled his brow. “What do you think?”

She shrugged. “I left a voice mail for his assistant, telling him I’d be out of touch for a few days, asking them to please take some action on Superphreak, not that it will do any good. The guy had taken the weekend off, which tells me everything I need to know about how urgent they think this is.”

Exasperated, Jeff said, “What about the vendors?”

“No real change. We told them again it was avoiding their honeypots, and a few said that they would look at generating some signatures for the samples we have, but that’s way too little way too late.”

Jeff sighed. “I checked the temperature in Moscow. It’s colder than here. We should do a little shopping while we can. And get some cash. Credit cards don’t work everywhere.”

They’d made it to Newark with time to spare. At an airport hot spot, Jeff booked them into the Moscow Metropol Hotel for three nights. “Gotta love the Internet,” he said as put away his laptop.

Waiting to board, Daryl said, “How are we going to find Superphreak?”

“You’ve got an address. We’ll give it to a taxi driver.”

“Okay. Let’s say it’s that easy. We find him, then just ask him to turn over the viruses he’s created? That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“We can always pay him.”

Daryl brightened. “Money’s good. That might work.” Then with a sinking heart she added, “If he’s not a fanatic or something.”

“That’s possible. But he’s a Russian and I’ll bet he’s a gun for hire.”

“Unless he’s Chechnyan.”

Jeff frowned. “Yes, there’s always that.”

55

MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

MOSCOW SHEREMETYEVO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

4:43 P.M.

Brian Manfield marveled at how he could use his British passport to enter Russia. For a moment he recalled how he had infiltrated Russian lines in Grozny, first as a dirty-faced waif, worming his way close enough to use his knife, then later dressed as a Russian soldier on guard duty. Now he stepped off an airplane and handed the authorities a piece of paper, and they stamped it and all but gave him the keys to the city. Amazing.

Somewhere, he knew, was a file under the name Borz Mansur, presumably with a grainy photograph of him as a gawky teenager. But no one in Russia had any reason to connect him with the distinguished British representative of SAS, London.

The trip had been exhausting. He’d taken Czech Airlines from Newark to Prague, then flown from the Czech Republic directly to Moscow. With luck this Russian business would be quickly over and he could go home.

Outside he took out his die, then put it away and got in the first taxi in line. He wanted to do nothing to attract the attention of authorities here in Moscow. Airport security watched for anything out of the ordinary. He stuck with English in speaking to the driver: “The Golden Ring Hotel. You know it?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Very nice hotel. You will like. Very pretty womens stay there in bar.” The driver had not shaved in three days. He was middle-aged, with a dark complexion. “I can give you name of special one. Very nice. College girl, looking to meet handsome English gentleman.”

“No, thank you.”

They drove for a few minutes, then the driver said, “Nice boys and young men too.”

“No, thank you. I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

“Here,” the driver said, never taking his eyes off the road. “Take my card. You call me for anything, anytime, okay? I make your stay very good indeed. Very special.”

Manfield glanced at the card as he moved to put it into his pocket, intending to toss it as soon as he checked in. Stopping, he read the name on the card. Vakha Dukhavakha. A Chechen. “How are you, my brother?” Manfield asked in Chechen.

With astonishment the man met Manfield’s eyes for the first time in the rearview mirror. “I am good, Allah be praised,” he answered in the same language.

“Praise be to Allah, my brother.”

The car sped along the wide Moscow street toward the city center. Finally, Vakha said in Chechen, “You look the perfect English gentleman.”

“We are all two faces in this world, my brother.”

“Yes,” Vakha agreed, his voice sounding sad. “If I can help you, only say the word.”

Manfield thought. He’d taken the first taxi. Then the driver turned out to be a Chechen brother. The odds of that were not so long. Many of the taxi drivers in Moscow were Chechen. Should he be suspicious? At times Allah handed you a gift. A few minutes later the taxi pulled up before the Golden Ring Hotel.

“I must check in,” Manfield said. “Wait for me.” He handed the man some of the rubles he’d acquired at the airport.

“I will wait. Keep your money, my brother,” the driver said, waving the rubles off. “I will be there.” He indicated a spot just down the street.

As Manfield checked in, he said to the clerk in English, “I’m expecting a package.”

“Yes, sir. Just a moment.” The young man returned with a wrapped box the size of a laptop. “Here you are, sir. It arrived earlier today.”

In his room Manfield washed, then changed into casual clothes. He opened the package and removed the pistol. This time it was a Russian Makarov .380, the Soviet equivalent of the German PPK. Included was an extra magazine, already full. He checked the automatic and found a bullet in the chamber and the magazine filled. In the package was a folding knife with a single four-inch locking blade. This one was Swiss and a bit larger than he was accustomed to, but of high quality.

A message on a slip of paper was written in Russian. “No photo available. The name is Vladimir Koskov, late twenties, in a wheelchair. Destroy all computers.” Finally there was the fully charged cell phone, which he turned on. He placed the items into his pockets, memorized the address, then tore up and flushed the message.

Thirty minutes after arriving, Manfield left the hotel, spotted the taxi, and entered the backseat. He gave the driver an address. “Drive carefully. I wish to attract no attention.”

“I understand.”

56

MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

6:21 P.M.

Ivana Koskov was satisfied with the bedroom. She’d been able to buy a new IKEA bedroom set and was thrilled. They finally had enough room for her things and a bed big enough for the two of them. Vladimir had suggested twin beds, but she was determined to continue sleeping with him. In the corner of the room was an unoccupied place where she mentally placed a baby crib.

Their old living room furniture was to be delivered the next day, so that room was still empty. She’d carefully written their new address on tape that she’d placed on every piece of furniture and on the boxes containing their odds and ends so there’d be no mistakes. She trusted her father, but had no idea whom he’d bring to work with him the next day. Her father was staring out the window. “You can just see the river from here,” he said.

Ivana went into the small, second bedroom. She had bought a proper workstation for Vladimir and earlier, with a cousin and her father, had moved his main computer. Vladimir would be moving in this night, and tomorrow she and her father would finish moving in the rest of his computer equipment.

Once he was set up here, there was no rush to move anything else from their old place. She had the week. Her best friend from work, visiting family in St. Petersburg, had lent her an aging Lada to help with the move. Ivana’s plan was to be completely installed in the new apartment by the end of the next weekend. She was thrilled at the idea.

Even Vladimir was coming around. Having his own room in which to work was too inviting. Ivana was certain that the change in environment, the more open space, and a baby on the way would bring back the young man she’d always loved with such devotion.

“You’ve done well,” her father said.

Ivana smiled. “Thank you. I found it, but Vlad is paying.”

The man grunted. There’d been no vodka that day, and for that she was grateful. Tonight would be different, though. “Let’s get your man then. We’ll finish up his things tomorrow while you are at work.”

“Thank you … Grandpa.”

“
Ded?
What are you talking about?”

Ivana touched her stomach. “It was confirmed Friday. Don’t tell Vlad. He doesn’t know yet.”