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.”
“Grandpa! I like the sound of that.” His eyes grew warm. “Have you decided on a name if it’s a boy?”
57
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
METROPOL HOTEL
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
6:33 P.M.
Jeff had been surprised at how much the Metropol Hotel resembled the office building for Fischerman, Platt & Cohen. As he examined the art deco motif, he decided they’d been built around the same time and had been influenced by the same architectural style. The coincidence was eerie. Yet the building could not have been better located. It was across the street from the Bolshoi Theater and just a short walk from the Kremlin, not that they’d have time to take in the sights.
In their room they showered and changed, discussing plans as they could.
“I’m for just going to the address tonight,” Daryl said. “If it’s a business, or someone else is living in the apartment, we might as well find out. Then we can start fresh in the morning.”
“I agree.” Winging it like this held a certain excitement, but he couldn’t help second-guessing his decisions. Events were sweeping them along. It was reassuring to have Daryl’s steady presence. He didn’t think this was something he could do alone. “We don’t have much time. Ready when you are.”
Jeff had dressed in gray running shoes, dark wool slacks, a long-sleeved wool shirt, and a lined black leather jacket he’d bought in Manhattan. A pair of gloves was tucked into the jacket’s pockets, along with a black watch cap. Daryl came out of the bathroom and laughed. The only difference in their attire was that her leather jacket was a dark brown, and instead of a watch cap, she had a scarf folded into her jacket pocket.
Downstairs the couple asked for a taxi with a driver who spoke English. It was apparently not an unusual request, as the doorman merely gestured and one of the waiting cars pulled from the line and drove to the entrance.
As they slid into the backseat, Daryl asked the driver, “Do you know this address?” She handed him a slip of paper. The man glanced at the paper, nodded, and drove off.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” Jeff said, watching the trees and buildings whip by outside the car.
“It is surreal,” Daryl agreed. “Let’s think about what’s going to happen if we meet Superphreak. Any thoughts on how to handle the approach?”
Jeff shook his head. “We’ll just have to play it by ear. Some things you just can’t plan ahead for.”
58
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
6:56 P.M.
Manfield instructed Vakha to stop one block short of his destination. He paused before getting out. Having the taxi waiting for him when he finished was inviting. The last thing he wanted was to come out of the building with someone in hot pursuit and nothing to do but flee on foot. Russia might no longer technically be a police state, but it remained a heavily policed one.
But keeping Vakha here meant exposing him to information he’d rather the man didn’t have. Still …
“Wait,” Manfield said. “I will likely be ten minutes or so. Do nothing to attract interest, but watch where I enter and move closer when the ten minutes are up. Allah be with you.”
“And with you,” the driver said.
Vakha Dukhavakha had been born in Moscow of Chechen parents. His father had served in the Great Patriotic War and been swept up in the army purges that followed victory. Released at Stalin’s death, he’d remained in Moscow for the remainder of his life, a bitter, angry man.
An only son, Vakha inherited from his father an absolute hatred of the godless Communists. Vakha had watched the collapse of the Soviet Union with emotions bordering on ecstasy. In the years since, he had, from time to time, been of service to the so-called Chechen Mafia in the city. This Englishman masking his true Chechen self was intriguing, obviously up to something. Vakha had instinctively offered him his assistance. Brothers could do no less for one another.
He eased the car forward.
* * *
Manfield found the apartment building without difficulty. Not trusting the elevator, he decided to take the stairs to the third floor, passing the open door of the concierge without being observed.
The stairway was ripe with the smell of boiled cabbage, potatoes, and onions. It brought back a wave of childhood memories, when he’d lived happily in Moscow with his mother. The steps creaked loudly and he dismissed any thought of approaching the door silently. The target would be accustomed to the sounds of foot traffic outside. What would attract his attention would be the sudden absence of sound, especially in an unexpected way in the hallway.
As he reached the third floor, Manfield hesitated only a moment before walking directly to Vladimir Koskov’s door, while placing hi
s hand on his gun.
* * *
Vakha watched as another car stopped outside the same building the Englishman had entered. A slender woman got out, followed by an older, heavyset man. Russians. She removed the wiper blades, put them into the car, then locked it up. Both of them went into the building without hesitation.
The moment they disappeared, a taxi turned the corner behind him, drove down the street past him, then stopped at the same place. Another couple got out of the car, foreign and handsome. They gave the driver money, faced the building as if uncertain about what to do, then went inside.
Curious. The Russian couple might very well live there or be visiting. But the foreign couple was too much of a coincidence for Vakha.
The moment the couple was out of sight, the taxi drove off. Vakha engaged the gears and slowly moved his taxi even closer to the building.
* * *
Vladimir Koskov thought the old apartment looked naked, even with the various moving boxes stacked here and there. The place was still crowded, but without his primary computer and monitor, it was as if the major part of the apartment had already been moved. It was like an enormous chasm.
How many years had he worked here? For how long had this cramped space been the center of his world? More than he could recall offhand. He couldn’t remember ever seeing this little room so empty.
Vladimir was organizing what was left for the next move since Ivana had promised he’d be up and running in the new apartment that night. The rest of this would come over the next day, and he could get completely set up then.
He had prepared a sketch of the small bedroom that would be his new office, drawing where everything would be placed. He had to admit that having more room was going to be nice.
Zero Day Page 26
