Zero Day: A Novel Read online

  “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.”

  Manfield hefted the package and nodded. “Thank you.” He turned and went out the doorway without another word. Two blocks away he entered the McDonald’s he’d spotted earlier and pressed his way through the crowd to the men’s room. He waited nearly five minutes until the handicapped stall was free, then entered and secured the door. Inside, he spread several layers of paper across the seat, then sat and carefully opened the package. Inside was a cell phone, which he unwrapped and placed into his left front jacket pocket. The small envelope he slipped into the inside pocket of the jacket.

  Next he opened the dark plastic, rectangular box. Inside was a Boker ceramic lock-blade knife with a titanium handle and a drop-forged, two-inch blade. It was small enough to pass as a simple pocketknife any man might carry. He snapped the blade open with just his right hand, closed it, then snapped it open again. Perfect. Closing it, he slipped the knife into his right front pants pocket.

  Also in the box was a .380 Astra Constable, the Spanish version of the better known Walther PPK. Made without alloys, the weapon was surprisingly heavy for its small size, a characteristic Manfield approved of as it meant less recoil. He removed the pistol, checked it for balance, confirmed it was empty, then dry-snapped the hammer three times to test the trigger pull in double action. Smooth and light. Someone who knew his business had reworked the trigger.

  Beside the pistol was a six-inch-long silencer, the size of a roll of half-dollar coins. He placed it into his left front jacket pocket beside the cell phone. Two empty metal magazines were also in the box along with the supply of Remington 102-grain Golden Saber hollow-point ammunition he’d requested. It had the best spread characteristics of all .380 ammunition and was the most lethal.

  Manfield slipped bullets into each clip, filling them to capacity. Placing one in his right jacket pocket, he inserted the other into the butt of the pistol. He worked the slide once, releasing it to feed a bullet into the chamber with a sharp snap. He lowered the hammer, then removed the magazine and replaced the bullet now in the weapon, then placed the magazine back into the gun. Confirming that the safety was off so the weapon was ready for immediate use, he inserted the pistol inside his pants at the small of his back.

  Next he rewrapped the box, tied the package with string, then unlocked the door, delivering the stall to a ten-year-old boy dancing on his feet.

  Manfield smiled. “All yours.” He buried the package in the wastebasket so it didn’t show, then left the McDonald’s, glancing at his watch as he did: 6:13. He walked steadily back to the subway, confident he still had plenty of time.

  41

  MANHATTAN, NYC

  FISCHERMAN, PLATT & COHEN

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 31

  9:08 P.M.

  When Sue Tabor was sixteen years old, she’d lost her virginity to a summer boyfriend in a small park not far from Chinatown in San Francisco. She’d been visiting her grandmother and had decided this would be her best opportunity. She knew no one there, so no one would talk about her back home in Roseville. Leaving soon for college, she refused to be the only virgin freshman there.

  In college, Sue had learned discretion and the advantages of sustained relationships over one-night stands. When she’d moved into her career, she’d discovered the value of sleeping up. She couldn’t care less what her coworkers thought. She liked to screw, she’d once told a girlfriend, so why not screw someone who could do her some good? In her world of computers, attractive women were rare so she’d had little c
ompetition. And she had no complaints.

  Joshua Greene was a case in point. Though nearly thirty years her senior, he’d proven a surprisingly robust and satisfying lover. Separated from his wife of twenty-five years, a separation for which Sue refused to hold herself responsible, he’d turned to his young IT manager with a fierce ardor. The more she’d insisted on sex at the office, the more passionate he’d become.

  Sue had learned early on that sex with a young woman, especially one with exotic looks, was quite enough for most middle-aged men. But if she threw in a few things their wives had long ago stopped doing and added a bit of excitement, they were hers, much harder to get rid of than to keep.

  She’d been about to land her next substantial pay raise when this Superphreak bug had struck, ending all prospects. Greene had promised to find her a good job elsewhere regardless of the outcome, but she knew word about what had happened would spread and there would be some hesitation in hiring her. Managers would wonder if she couldn’t have done something to prevent the contamination or at least fix it sooner.

  The most intriguing part of the last two and a half weeks had been Jeff Aiken. She’d never pressed enough to move beyond their professional relationship, but couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like had she done so. For a man so knowledgeable with computers, he was surprisingly fit and handsome. She’d seen a flicker of interest, but he’d taken it no further.

  Not that there’d been an opportunity. Greene had spotted her interest from the first and dropped by several times a day. She didn’t want to risk that job recommendation in the event this turned into a disaster. People were going to ask why Fischerman, Platt & Cohen had gone out of business, and her name was bound to come up.

  Anyway, there was plenty of time. She had Jeff’s card. And lots of other fish were in the sea.

  It had been a difficult day. She’d made copies of the partially cleansed copies she’d twice tried to boot and had Jeff step her through what he knew about Superphreak, explaining to her the methodology he was following. She’d spent the last three days reworking the copy of the last daily backup, searching for signs of the virus. But she’d decided it was largely a waste of time. She just didn’t know enough. She’d only tried because there’d been no other productive work for her.

  Sue had checked her e-mail and found her Superphreak posting had generated more than one hundred messages, but none that helped her and none from Superphreak himself. The man was apparently Russian, as Jeff had surmised, and was a sort of geek god when it came to viruses. She’d asked questions of some of those who’d e-mailed her, but in the end it turned out no one really knew all that much about Superphreak except that he appeared in certain chat rooms from time to time.

  She spent days in those rooms but he’d not reappeared. She’d posted a few more messages for him to contact her, with no positive results. “Dante” had been equally elusive, and Sue feared that her first message had driven the men underground.

  Harold left the office at six thirty while Sue was returning to the backup. Two hours later Greene entered the IT Center, coming up behind her, then cupping her breasts with each hand. “Guess who?”

  “I don’t have to guess,” she’d said. “No one handles me like you do. What’s up?”

  “‘Handles’? Is that what you call it?”

  “What else? They aren’t doorknobs.”

  “Sorry,” he said in a little-boy voice.

  Men can be such children, she thought. “Now, don’t get that way. I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Sue stood up and put her arms around him. They kissed. “Like I said, what’s up?”

  “Me, for one. You about done here?”

  “I think we’re about ‘done’ permanently.”

  “That bad?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. Jeff’s pretty discouraged. Looks like we got hit twice by the mother of all viruses.”

  “Shit!” He looked as if all the steam in him had vanished.

  “You can say that again. I’m almost finished for the day.”

  “Me too. How about the Hemingway in an hour?”

  Sue nodded. “Pick up some Chinese, will you? I’m starving.”

  “Sure.” Greene gave her that hound-dog look of need.

  She patted his arm. “Later. And don’t start without me.”

  Twenty minutes later she was ready to leave. She decided to polish her résumé the next day and would tell Harold to do the same thing. Maybe Jeff would come up with a miracle, but she wasn’t banking on it. As she left the offices, several associates were hard at work. These cases had recently been started; all of the files had been in their laptops when the firm had been struck. They shot her unpleasant looks as she passed by. She guessed a few of them had sent out their résumés already.

  Outside, Sue breathed in the night air as she glanced at her watch. Greene would be waiting. She stepped off sprightly, walking three quick blocks before stopping just outside the hotel to remove the keycard and to take a mint from her purse. As Sue placed the candy into her mouth, she felt a sharp pain against her right ribs.

  “Don’t make a sound or I’ll cut you.” The voice was British. “Over here.”

  In the alleyway, she braced herself. “Take my purse. I don’t have much—”

  “Shut up. Let’s go to your room. Act like we know each other if the clerk’s at the desk.”

  “What do you wan—?” The knife went deeper into her, enough to cause a wave of nausea to sweep through her.

  “I said, shut up. Don’t speak again. And remember … we’re friends.”

  * * *

  Manfield’s information had included her driver’s license photograph. He’d waited nearly three hours for Sue to exit the office building. He’d followed the woman, assuming she was on her way home. In the event he was mistaken, he had her address. When she’d stopped almost in front of the hotel and removed a plastic keycard, he’d realized she wasn’t going home just yet. Since she lived in the city, he concluded she was meeting a lover. He couldn’t risk her spending the night, so he’d had no choice but take her. He wanted this job over with.

  42

  MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

  HOTEL LUXOR

  EAST THIRTIETH STREET

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 31

  9:31 P.M.

  Jeff ate as he watched cable news. No mention of the Superphreak virus, but it was bound to get into the media eventually. He wasn’t convinced that would be bad. Getting the public involved sometimes had a way of speeding up patches.

  He opened ICQ, saw Daryl was online, and typed:

  JA33: Is thr any pln t leak t media?

  There was a short pause.

  D007:

  Hello t u 2. I hdnt gvn it any thot. Wht do u thnk?

  JA33:

  We arent mkng nuff headwa. I cnt see any hrm. Wht do u thnk?

  D007:

  Less I go off reservtn it wn’t b my cll. Th secrity vndrs knw abt it alrdy. At sum point I’d think 1 f thm wud issue prss rls.

  JA33:

  I ws jst thnkng we cld gt mre rsorcs t bear if th pblc ws invlvd, + it wld pt heat on t vndrs. r thy coprtng yt?

  D007:

  Its stll prtty lw n t totem ple so fr. I kp tryng. Rtkts mean mny vrss arnt detectd.

  JA33:

  Any nw dvlpmnts I shld knw abt?

  D007:

  More BIOS wipes, prmrly Dell and HP. Thy trnd th mchns to anchr wghts.

  JA33:

  How about chat rms?

  D007:

  Sphreak name sumtim bt no help. I dnt hv nuf staff t d t as mch as Id lke.

  JA33:

  Hv u pstd ny mssgs t sphreak?

  D007:

  We tlkd bot tht n dcdd gainst t. t wld alrt hm. He’d chng hs pttrn. No one knws mch abut t gy. We fond sm psts fr spreak frm otsde.

  JA33:

  Wh?

  D007:

  Smn usng t nme dragon lady. Mean nythng t u?

  Dragon Lady? Someone Chinese?

 
JA33:

  could b lmst anbdy bt ths isnt cmmn knwldg yt. th IT mngr at t frm is prt Chinese bt sh ddnt sy nythng t m abot pstng. Wht do u thnk?

  D007:

  Id sy sphreak hs bn tippd off alrdy. If sh hsnt tld u anythng it cus sh ddnt lrn anytng.

  Jeff made a mental note to talk to Sue about it in the morning.

  D007:

  NYC tomrro. Will call to meet w u if ok.

  JA33:

  Snds good. Anytng els?

  D007:

  I think wer scrwd.

  43

  MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

  MIDTOWN

  HEMINGWAY HOTEL

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 31

  10:19 P.M.

  The Hemingway Hotel had undergone a complete restoration in the 1970s, a time of considerable labor strife in the Big Apple. As a result, much of the work had been shoddy. The hotel had been sold twice since then, and it was a chore to keep the place looking good. The latest owners were contemplating whether another remodeling would be better than repairing as necessary. While they dithered, certain necessary improvements had never taken place, such as the installation of security cameras.

  There was no clerk, no one at all at the front desk, as they walked stiffly through the lobby to the elevator bank. Sue punched number 4, unable to think of anything else to do or anything at all to say. In the elevator she began to sweat profusely, droplets running from her armpits. Stepping off the elevator, Manfield and Sue Tabor moved down the hallway toward room 416. At the doorway they stopped and he whispered into her ear, “Open it right now, Sue.” She’d never been more frightened in her life. That he knew her name, that this wasn’t a random act, terrified her. The pain of the knife was dulled by a thick layer of fear.

  Sue slipped the keycard into the slot, then pulled it up sharply. When the light switched green, the man turned the handle. In they went, in a quick rush. Greene had removed his jacket, shirt, and undershirt, and he was standing by the bed wearing only his trousers, looking toward the television set. “What the…?” he stammered.