Zero Day: A Novel (25 page)

For the next three hours Labib cobbled together a dozen
boîtiers
using the two new
noirs
while mixing in the fresh triggers and destruction codes they’d received. He’d long since given up making certain every virus they released did what it was intended to do. Dufour had persuaded him that certain wreckage would come from the sheer numbers of the viruses.

Labib also cursed the amount of time this had all taken. He and his brother had intended to unleash the cyber-attack in conjunction with a physical attack by Al Qaeda. On three separate occasions Fajer had sought to make contact with bin Laden, but to no avail. When he’d finally succeeded in meeting with him in his own personal hajj, he’d come away with the names and means of contact for a wide range of operatives. But as they’d sought to coordinate with those in the highest levels of Al Qaeda’s operations, one by one the men had been killed by the Americans. Finally, with great reluctance, Fajer had instructed Labib to go ahead.

“If we wait any longer, the Americans will have taken over both Iran and Syria. We cannot delay. Allah is with us,” he’d said with passion.

And so Labib had placed into motion his carefully laid plans. As he and Dufour had begun to implement them, he’d been forced to reconsider his objectives. But he remained satisfied that he could wreak havoc on America in his own way. He would cost them billions, destroy systems it would take years to reconstruct, shake faith in the nation, cause disarray in its military, and force a reexamination of its activism in the Middle East. The cyber-attack would be no less devastating to Europe.

Labib attached a
blanc
to a rootkit with satisfaction. He was certain that within weeks the United States would be withdrawing from Afghanistan and would abandon its plans for Iran and Syria.

“Try this one,” Dufour said, handing Labib a disk. “The hacker claims it will destroy Nasdaq’s records.” Then he reached back to his desk. “And here’s the information your brother wanted.”

“What information?”

“On someone with the handle Dragon Lady.”

38

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

MIDTOWN

HEMINGWAY HOTEL

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30

6:57 P.M.

Sue Tabor gave a deep, throaty laugh as she sat up and reached for his groin.

“Not again,” Joshua Greene moaned. “I’m only flesh and blood.”

“Hush,” Sue said. “I’ve got some ancient Chinese sex techniques I want to show you.”

Greene laughed. “You’re about as Chinese as I am English.”

“Hey! You don’t know. Maybe Mom passed along a few things I’ve been holding back.”

“Right. Let go of that. I mean it. I want to talk.”

“That’s not what you wanted a few minutes ago.”

“I need to recharge. For God’s sake, Sue, I’m not some young stud. Let it alone. Tell me what’s going on with my records.”

“Spoilsport.” Sue sat back onto the pillows, her breasts rising like tiny mounds. “If we’re going to talk, look up here and not at my tits.” She reached onto the nightstand and lit a cigarette.

“Right.” Greene pulled the sheet up to cover his growing stomach. He was always self-conscious in the nude, but especially so with Sue, whose body he considered to be perfect.

“It’s been three weeks. We’ve lost a third of our accounts. I’m getting resignations. We’ll be closing our doors at this rate. Can you give me any hope?”

She looked at him, then solemnly announced, “I’m pretty sure I can get you up again.”

Greene laughed. “Not that, though I’d be grateful. But we’re screwed if you or this Aiken guy don’t come up with something very soon.”

“Yeah. I know.” She sat back and turned serious. “I’ve tried three boots so far and all were failures. We were struck by viruses with very sophisticated cloaking devices, making them very difficult to remove. The good news is we still have the backups.”

“It may be too late,” Greene said, “given the speed with which the firm is falling apart.”

“Josh, I’m really sorry.” Sue leaned closer and placed her hand on his chest. “I can’t help but blame myself. You’ve been great not to make my life miserable over this.”

Greene shrugged. “Aiken says it wasn’t your fault. No security system could have stopped the virus. I’ve not been able to sell that to the partners, but I believe it.” He seemed to hesitate.

“There’s something else?” Sue asked. She’d always been impressed with Greene’s ability to be involved with her while keeping the business aspect of their relationship clear. In her experience that was quite rare.

“It’s not important. Really.” Greene smiled weakly, clearly wanting to avoid saying more.

“What’s not important?”

Greene sighed. “I’ve been ordered to fire you.”

Sue looked into his eyes for a moment. “I see. You thought you’d get your blow job first,
then
tell me? You bastard!” Flipping over, she stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, then flung the sheet off her.

“No, no, it’s not like that. Well, maybe a little, I guess. It’s just … the partners insist I do something. I told them it won’t improve a thing to get rid of you, but they don’t see it that way.”

“So I’m out of a job?” she said, standing beside the bed with her hands braced on her hips.

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Oh, I get it.
First
I fix the problem, then you can me! Is that the plan?” She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s about it.” He reached for a breast. She bumped his hand away with her arm. “What difference does it make? I don’t have to do it now, and anyway, it doesn’t look like any of us are going to have a job before long.”

Sue breathed out. “I guess not.” She’d seen this coming, now that she thought about it. What else could the firm do? With the failed third attempt to reboot, she’d understood her job was on a short leash.

“And I’ll let you resign, give you a good reference. You can trust me.”

Sue lay back across the bed. “You know what I think?”

“No.”

“No more hotel rooms. I like it better in the office.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Then how about the garage? On the hood of your BMW?”

“No, no, no. I told you, I’ve rented this room for the entire month.”

“Yeah,” she said in mock seriousness, “who’s the boss here?”

“You are.”

“Then get down, boy. My turn. And get your car washed for next time.”

39

MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30

7:02 P.M.

Ivana Koskov removed the
shchi
from the table, then set in place the
kuyrdak
her mother had brought by her office late that afternoon. She emptied the bottle of water into Vladimir’s glass, then opened a fresh one before joining him, their heads nearly touching as they ate the rabbit stew. The food brought back pleasant childhood memories, and she wondered again if she shouldn’t make more of an effort to learn to cook her mother’s dishes.

As he ate, Vladimir smoked a cigarette, taking puffs between bites. A smoker herself, Ivana thought nothing of it. On the wall near his computers was a poster of Rick James with the bulbous Afro and bulging biceps. In the background their stereo had started a random selection of James’s songs, including his hit “Super Freak.”

Ivana had long ago grown tired of Rick James, and especially of “Super Freak.” For Vladimir it was either feast or famine. He’d go months without his music, then in a frenzy it would be all she’d hear for days. He usually used his headset so it wasn’t so bad. Still, she wished his taste would move on.

When they were finished, she cleared the table, wiped it clean, then set out two saucers and cups for coffee. “Vodka?” she asked. Vladimir merely nodded, then wheeled his chair backward and spun it into the bathroom to empty the bladder sack that was tied to the side of his leg.

“I think we’ll have that new apartment in a few months,” Ivana said. “I talked to the manager today and he all but promised.”

Vladimir grunted. She heard the water run as he washed his hands. Thank God he was a clean man. Living in clutter was bad enough; if it had been dirty as well …

Vladimir returned to his place at the table, then downed a shot, followed by the hot coffee as a chaser. He leaned back, emptied his lungs, then picked up his cigarette. “Maybe I should give Boris a little something to move us up. I’m more than ready to get out of here.” Lately, he complained endlessly about their cramped quarters.

“I don’t think anything less than one hundred euros would help.”

“That’s okay.”

“Then I’ll try it.” Ivana was pleased to see his commitment. “I must say the splendor of our first place has worn off.”

They laughed. “Maybe you could keep this as a storage room for your extra equipment,” she suggested, and they laughed again.

“It’s better suited for that than an apartment,” he said with a grin.

Ivana smoked quietly, punched out her cigarette. “Do you want to tell me how much you’ve got? I don’t want to start a fight, but it’s hard to plan not knowing.” His elusiveness and his obsession with his work ate at her. This was the first time she’d been able to broach the subject without his responding with anger.

“I’ve only saved it up as a surprise. It’s just over twenty thousand.”

“Euros? Not dollars?”

“Euros.”

“You
have
been doing well.” She picked up his package of cigarettes and lit another. After inhaling, she released the smoke. “This work you’re doing … how long will it last?”

“I don’t know. Not much longer, I think. They seem to be on a deadline but I don’t know what it is.”

“What
is
it you’re doing?” For months now Ivana had been certain he was working for the Russian Mafia again. She had feared for their safety, and his surly manner of late hadn’t helped a bit.

“It would bore you.”

“Tell me anyway.” Vladimir hesitated, then explained about the rootkits, growing excited as he did. “They hide things in computers?” she asked when he stopped.

“That’s it. There are simple ones and complex ones. I’ve been building more complex ones every week. It’s really intriguing work.”

“And you aren’t doing this for the Mafia?”

Vladimir laughed heartily. “Those people? Of course not. It’s out of Europe, I think.”

“Where?”

“I’m not certain. They’re very secretive. I’d say France, but maybe Belgium. My contact writes English like a Frenchman sometimes.”

“Or Quebec, or North Africa. Don’t they speak French there too?”

“Sure, but they don’t have any money. But he could be anywhere. I’d have to spend a day tracing back one of his messages and even then it might not work. I don’t care, anyway. His money is good.” She sipped her vodka. “What?” A dark expression had crossed her face.

“You’re … you’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”

Vladimir stared at her for a long moment, the anger starting to well up. He pushed it down savagely, then in a steady voice said, “I’ve told you what I’m doing. I’m not lying, Ivana.”

“Good. Then we are safe and I can breathe again.” It seemed to her in that moment that the life for them she dreamed of would actually happen. She’d have a baby and everything would be perfect.

40

JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, NYC

THURSDAY, AUGUST 31

3:37 P.M.

Brian Manfield rolled one of the dice in the palm of his hand. Four. He went to the fourth taxi in the queue and asked the driver if he spoke English. The Pakistani nodded his head. “Say a few words if you would, mate,” Manfield asked. “Just to be sure.”

“Yes, I speak good English.” The accent was thick, but Manfield understood him.

“Right then. Load my luggage.” The other drivers ahead had exited their vehicles and were agitated, vigorously complaining that he hadn’t taken the first taxi, but Manfield ignored them. The driver shot back a quick answer that satisfied no one as he moved to open the trunk. Manfield waited on the curb, discreetly scanning the area as the driver placed the luggage into the trunk, then climbed into the taxi as soon as the Pakistani did. He gave the name of the modest hotel where he’d be staying as the car pulled away from the curb and drove out of JFK International Airport.

They drove through Queens and Brooklyn in silence, then crossed the Manhattan Bridge onto the island. The going was slow after that, but before five o’clock Manfield was checked into his hotel. He showered, changed into running shoes, tan chinos, a polo shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker. The day had been crisp enough, he thought, that he wouldn’t draw any attention, especially at night, with the jacket.

Outside he took in the city, realizing how much it reminded him of portions of London. He entered the subway, exiting at Inwood, where he walked four blocks. The address turned out to be a small store. The aging sign outside belonged to the former owner and read
SWENSON’S SPORTING GOODS
. A bell over the door sounded as Manfield entered.

The dark-skinned man in his midthirties behind the counter looked up. “We are just closing, sir.” He was slender, with a well-trimmed beard. On the surface the accent was British, but Manfield recognized it at once as Egyptian.

“I won’t be long,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps you have a package for me?”

The man took another look at his customer. “I don’t understand.”

“Omar said you were holding something for me.” Manfield always felt silly with these games, but at least once in the past they had saved his life.

The man blinked, then replied steadily, “You mean my cousin Muhammad.”

“Perhaps you are right, though I now recall his name was Abdul.”

“Allah Akbar,”
the clerk said quietly. “Just a moment.” He retreated behind a curtained doorway while Manfield moved closer to the front door, where he could watch equally the rear of the store and the street. A moment later the man returned with a package wrapped in heavy brown paper, tied with twine. “Here.”