Zero Day

by Mark Russinovich

  He lifted his head. Someone had been walking outside and stopped. He heard a knock at the door. Many times, most in fact, Vladimir didn’t answer the door. But this was moving day; it might be Ivana’s cousin, or even her father, without a key. Vladimir wheeled his chair to the door, leaned well forward to reach the handle, and turned it.

  * * *

  “We’ll take the stairs,” Ivana said to her father. “The elevator is too unpredictable.”

  Sasha grunted his agreement and led the way up the stairs, his daughter immediately behind him.

  * * *

  Jeff paused at the open door just inside the entrance, assuming this was the concierge, or whatever it was the Russians called the downstairs occupant. He reasoned whoever it was likely served as some sort of spy for the police, especially for matters out of the ordinary or involving foreigners.

  Beside him, Daryl shook her head and pointed to the elevator. She tugged his sleeve and headed toward the doors. At the elevator, she punched the button; the doors crept open, as if they had been waiting for them. They stepped in and pushed the button for the third floor.

  “No need to bother anyone,” she said to Jeff quietly. “Besides, the concierge might call ahead, and we wouldn’t want that.”

  “You’re right. There’s a lot to this secret-agent stuff. I wonder if there’s a book I can access online?”

  Daryl rolled her eyes.

  * * *

  Once the handle turned and the door opened even a crack, Manfield kicked it as hard as he could. The door struck the footrests of the wheelchair and bounced back at him, nearly slamming shut. Manfield threw his body against the door, pushing it and the wheelchair back until the door was open all the way.

  State Security! Vladimir thought, frozen in place. He sat wide-eyed then reached for the wheels of his chair as if meaning to move. Before he could speak, Manfield pressed the muzzle of the gun against the young man’s chest and fired once.

  Vladimir let out a sound as if he’d been punched hard in the chest. His mouth opened to cry out but no sound came.

  There’d been no silencer, which had distressed Manfield, so this was the best he could do. Pressing the barrel of the gun against the body had muffled the sound of the single shot, but not the way a silencer would have.

  With his foot Manfield closed the door behind him, shoving the dying man and his chair aside, and made his way to the computers, noting at once the large open space in the middle. One of them had been moved. He spotted the boxes and realized that the man had been moving.

  The way this had played out, Manfield didn’t have much time. The Russian neighbors might mind their own business and ignore the muffled shot, but someone could just as well call the police militia. He had to work quickly.

  Manfield seized the first computer tower and yanked at it, struggling to free it from its cables, trying to decide how best to disable it permanently since he couldn’t easily get at the hard drive. He looked about the room and found a heavy screwdriver. Setting the tower down, he braced it with his foot and pried the side loose. Inside were various printed boards. He jerked one out, then another. These he set on the floor and snapped into the case pieces. Taking the heavy screwdriver, he stabbed at anything inside that looked substantive.

  He stood and stilled his breathing. He heard nothing. Satisfied, he turned to the next tower.

  * * *

  Sasha recognized a gunshot. “Stop!” he said, freezing in his tracks on the last step before the landing of the third floor.

  “What was that?” Ivana asked.

  “A gunshot.”

  “My God! Vlad! They’ve come for him!”

  Her father stepped back and reached for his daughter. He was unarmed; neither of them could do anything about what was happening in the apartment. His concern was for her safety.

  Ivana tore from his grasp and bolted up the last step onto the landing. “Ivana! No!” her father cried. “Stop!”

  Instead, the young woman ran to the door and pushed it fully open. A man across the room was struggling with the computer, but what drew her eyes was Vladimir’s lifeless body, slumped to the side in his wheelchair, a large patch of blood spreading across his chest, running down toward the floor.

  “Vlad!” she cried out. “Vlad!” Rushing to the chair, Ivana took her husband’s head into her arms.

  Across the room, Manfield had freed the second tower and thrown it to the floor. He was attacking it with the screwdriver when Ivana rushed into the room. He drew his gun, glanced at the sobbing woman holding the dead man, then turned his attention to the tower. He fired into it, once, twice, three times, the shots sounding like enormous explosions in such a small area. He turned to the woman, and a burly older man appeared in the doorway.

  Manfield knew he was out of time. He’d done what damage he could and had killed the target. He bolted for the doorway, pointed the pistol at the man, then, when he did not move, shot him once, pushed his body aside, and climbed over him as he scrambled out the door.

  In the hallway Manfield turned to his right to run from the building when the elevator doors opened. For an instant, he saw the same couple he’d tried to kill in New York. He couldn’t imagine how they’d managed to make it to this very place in Moscow so quickly, or why they were here. It was like seeing an apparition, and it momentarily stunned him.

  Manfield had no time but he had a bullet to spare, so as he reached the stairs, he aimed the gun at the couple and snapped off a shot. He sprinted down the stairs and a moment later was in the street.

  Vakha pulled the car to a stop and Manfield jumped into the rear seat. “Away from here, brother! Quickly!”

  Vakha pressed the accelerator and sped off.

  59

  PARIS, FRANCE

  18ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  7:12 P.M.

  Fajer and Labib were approaching the final week of jihad, and Fajer could hardly contain his excitement. Soon he would be rewarded for his time and money, and America brought to its knees.

  Apparently content with the condition of her hair, the lovely Hungarian he’d been watching stood, the subdued light striking her body to perfection. Fajer was certain she’d studied the pose—and was glad she had. She moved slowly toward him, then his cell phone rang.

  “This is Greta,” the voice said. “I have news.”

  Greta, oddly, was the name of an English- and Russian-speaking Chechen assassin Osama bin Laden had given Fajer. The man had come highly recommended, and though he’d missed one of his targets in New York, he’d killed the most important one. He would be calling from Russia. The assassin spoke in English, the only language they had in common. Fajer wondered for a moment if the whore spoke English and decided she did.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The man is no longer a problem. He had three computers. Two are destroyed. But he was moving, and the third was gone. I believe it is at his new apartment. Is it important?”

  Fajer thought about that for a moment. The woman sat on the side of the bed, smiling. He took her head with his free hand and lowered her face to his groin. She understood at once. He almost hissed as she took him in.

  “I prefer you disable it as well. Can you reach it?”

  “I can try. If I can manage it without great risk, I will.”

  “That will do.”

  “There’s something else.”

  Fajer listened carefully, forcing himself to concentrate as the woman skillfully performed her service.

  “Interesting,” he said when Greta was finished. “In that case, finish them or destroy the computer. Both, if you can, but one or the other for certain.”

  Fajer dropped the cell phone to the floor and cursed his own weakness as the whore moved her head up and down, up and down.

  60

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  7:14 P.M.

  “Are you all
right?” Daryl asked, pushing open Jeff’s jacket as she leaned toward him. She sounded frightened even as she struggled to stay calm.

  Jeff held his hand against his shoulder. The bullet had creased the flesh and it was starting to bleed. It stung like hell, and of course, the new jacket was ruined.

  “It just hurts. You’re certain it was him?”

  “Absolutely,” she said breathlessly. “He wasn’t shooting at me, so I had a better look.”

  The shock of being shot suddenly washed over Jeff, and he collapsed to the floor.

  “He’s gone, he’s gone,” Daryl murmured, as she helped Jeff to his feet. Almost embarrassed by his near faint, Jeff shook his head hard and gave his complete attention to Daryl, who was still looking at him with great concern. “He ran down the stairs, after he shot you. And that man over there too, I think,” she said, indicating Sasha, lying splayed in the hallway.

  Sasha was still breathing, but his life was draining out. At the doorway appeared a hysterical young woman, standing as if torn between two terrible choices. Jeff was holding his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. No one spoke.

  Finally, the woman threw herself across the man lying in the hallway and sobbed uncontrollably, muttering words of endearment in Russian. Jeff looked into the apartment and saw a man in a wheelchair, dead. Could he be Superphreak? he thought. Or was Superphreak the dead man in the hallway?

  “Vladimir Koskov?” he said.

  The young woman looked up from the now dead man, as if seeing them for the first time. She said something to them in Russian, something dreadful, as if she’d uttered a curse.

  Daryl answered. “We don’t speak Russian. We came to see Vladimir Koskov. We mean neither him nor you any harm. What happened here?”

  The young woman switched to English. “You are not State Security?”

  “No. We’re Americans. We’re looking for Mr. Koskov.”

  Ivana, tears running down her face, looked into the apartment. “He is dead.” She looked at Jeff. “The man shot you? Why?”

  “He tried to kill us in New York City yesterday,” Jeff said. “And now here. We don’t know why.”

  The woman looked around and gathered herself. “We must leave, unless you wish to be arrested. The militia will be here any moment and they will arrest all of us. It is their way. Hurry!” She rushed toward the stairs, Jeff and Daryl following.

  In the lobby, a small group had gathered. Spotting Ivana, they asked questions all at once. She rushed through them, telling Jeff and Daryl to hurry, then ran into the street. She opened the door to her car, ignoring the continued questions, and told the couple to get in. In the distance they could hear the clarion sound of a police car. They jumped in and Ivana pulled away from the curb.

  * * *

  Vakha saw the three pile into the car and asked, “What do I do?”

  “Follow them,” Manfield said. He could not believe his good fortune. The only witness to the shooting and the couple he was to kill all in the same car. Allah was truly on his side. “And don’t lose them. This is important.”

  The woman drove the Lada like a maniac, weaving down narrow streets, then breaking out of the residential blocks onto Tverskoy, heading toward the Kremlin.

  * * *

  “Who are you?” Ivana demanded.

  “My name is Daryl Haugen. This is Jeff Aiken. We’re Americans.”

  Jeff moaned beside her. The pain was suddenly much more intense. His face was pale and sweat now beaded his brow.

  “You already told me that,” Ivana snapped. “You are American agents?”

  “No,” Jeff said, grunting in pain. “I’m a private computer consultant.”

  Daryl hesitated. “It’s complicated. I do work for a government agency, but Jeff and I are in the same line of work. I’m not an agent like you mean.” Daryl began dabbing at Jeff’s forehead with her scarf.

  The car made a sudden turn to the right, shooting passed the Bolshoi Theatre. “What’s going on?” Ivana shouted. “Tell me or get out of the car!”

  “We think Koskov—”

  “My husband.”

  “I’m sorry,” Daryl murmured, cutting her eyes toward Jeff. He nodded his agreement that Daryl should continue talking to the young woman. “But we think your husband created special viruses and sold them to very bad people. And they’ve killed him because of it. Now the same man is trying to kill us.”

  “Viruses?” Ivana slowed down, but was still going faster than the rest of the traffic, as she wove back and forth between cars. Horns honked, drivers raised their fists, some cars were forced to swerve away. “I warned him about that,” she said quietly. “He was always so secretive about his work. What kind of bad people?”

  “Terrorists. Muslim terrorists.” Jeff could scarcely believe his own words. This was all so unreal. He lifted his hand and looked at the blood for an instant.

  “What would they want with viruses?” Ivana asked.

  “These are very sophisticated ones,” Jeff said. “And very special. They destroy computers.”

  “Vlad wasn’t like that,” Ivana insisted. “He used to be, but not anymore. He told me he’s been building viruses for a European security company to test against their software. They kept asking for more sophisticated ones, so he said he built some very tough viruses, with encryption and cloaking characteristics. He said they were very pleased.”

  “They lied to him,” Daryl interjected. “They’re using the rootkits he designed to launch an attack against America and Europe. It’s going to hurt, even kill, a lot of people if we don’t stop it.”

  “Vlad is dead. So is my father. I can’t help you.” Ivana’s face was set as she made another sharp turn, the tires squealing as the car leaned violently to the side.

  The sudden movement made Jeff’s shoulder throb. “Easy,” he cautioned.

  “What do I care? My husband and father are murdered. What do I care?”

  “We’ve lost people we cared about too,” Jeff said. “Other people are dead and more are going to die if we don’t stop this. Your husband was used. His work has been put to a very, very bad purpose. You can’t leave it like this. You just can’t.” As he spoke, Ivana placed her hand on her stomach. Could she be pregnant? Jeff wondered. Maybe that was the way to get through to her.

  “Think of the future,” Jeff said. “Did your husband keep records?”

  Ivana was now crying, her face streaked with tears. “He kept all his work in an external drive.”

  “The police will be at the apartment by now,” Daryl pointed out.

  “Not there,” Ivana said, shaking her head. “We were moving. The drive is at our new apartment.” Ivana swerved the car left, then right, her jaw clenched shut.

  Jeff thought. “As long as you have it, you’re in danger. That’s why they killed your husband; it’s why they’ll keep trying to kill you and anyone else around it. Give it to us. They’ll know we have it, and you’ll be safe. Please,” he added, his voice hoarse with desperation, “the lives of thousands depend on you.”

  Ivana started to tell them to go to hell, then placed her hand over her stomach again. She paused to think. “There is an expression that should be Russian. Perhaps you know it. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ So I help you.”

  61

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  7:37 P.M.

  “Excellent,” Manfield said as the car they were following came to a stop. The taxi driver had been skilled in keeping up.

  Vakha eased his car to a halt, then sat idling as they watched Ivana exit the Lada, followed by Daryl and Jeff. With Ivana leading the way the three entered one of the newer apartment buildings that had sprung up about Moscow in the last decade.

  “The same as before,” Manfield said. “Ease up to the front. I won’t be long. Thank you, my brother.”

  Vakha grunted, then watched the assassin exit his taxi. Once
again he wondered what he was up to. A Chechen who looked and behaved like the perfect English gentleman. There was a story in that, but Vakha was sure he would never learn it.

  The man paused at the Lada, looked inside momentarily, then entered the apartment building. Vakha engaged the clutch and crept slowly toward the front entrance.

  * * *

  With every passing moment Ivana’s despair gripped her more tightly. In a few short minutes she had lost her father and husband, the two most important men in her life. She’d seen how the gunman had looked at her, had noted the muzzle of the weapon paused for an instant on her heart before swinging to her father. She’d nearly died. She wished she had.

  The doors to the elevator opened on the ninth floor. “This way,” she said to the Americans. At her new apartment she fumbled with her keys before opening the door, turning on lights as she entered.

  Not even an hour ago Ivana had stood here with her father filled with dreams and hope. Now it was all gone. At least she’d told him about the baby, she could be grateful for that. She tried to take some solace from his having died knowing that.

  “It’s in there,” she said, indicating the small bedroom that was to have been Vlad’s office. “It’s in a box, I think.”

  Jeff squeezed Daryl’s shoulder and went to find the external drive. He needed to do something about his arm soon. Blood was dripping on the floor.

  Daryl looked about the stark apartment. It was growing dark outside and the city lights sparkled through the large living room window. “I’m so very sorry for all that’s happened.”

  “This was to be our new home. We’d worked so hard to afford it. Now…”

  “I understand.” Daryl did. She looked at the young women warmly. “Thank you for helping us. You are doing a great service to the world.”

  “The world?” Ivana said bitterly. “What do I care for that? My world is all but dead.”

  One-handed, Jeff dug an external drive from the bottom of one of the boxes. He looked for another, then carried it into the living room.