Zero Day: A Novel Read online

  “I haven’t missed the fact that you’re here in my hotel room,” he said, finally understanding that though Cynthia was still with him, she was now only a memory, albeit a lovely one no one could ever take from him. She’d been perhaps the most practical person he’d ever known, and he knew that she’d approve of where he found himself now.

  Daryl sat on a nearby armchair, sipped her drink, and said, “I thought maybe you figured there was a cord connecting me to you, or something.”

  “It’s the ‘or something.’” He drank again, his mind back on their immediate problem. “I was thinking about what you said before, about backtracking to find out the identity of Superphreak. I bet that’s how they found Sue Tabor. I traced the e-mail address she used, and it was registered in her name with the law firm address. There’s so much on the Internet now if you know where and how to look.”

  “Of course. With that, they could have found a photo, even located some bio information on her.”

  Jeff nodded. “‘The Internet: Friend or Foe?’” he intoned. “Sounds like a bad evening-news segment.”

  Daryl gave a small smile. “So you really think that whoever is in back of this avalanche of viruses killed her? There are dozens of people working on this.”

  “Sure, but her they knew. And all they need to do is just slow things down. There isn’t a lot of time left, remember? They wouldn’t know how important she was to our effort, but if they’re of that mind-set, where’s the harm in killing her? What do they have to lose? And she was the one asking about Superphreak. No one else was.”

  Daryl shivered. “It gives me the willies, if you’re right. This means they have assassins available to kill people.”

  “If I’m right, it looks like they do. But we can’t know that for sure.”

  Daryl took another pull on the bottle. “Okay, killing her might make some sense, but why kill her boss? He was just a lawyer, for God’s sake! You start down that path, where does it end?”

  Jeff shrugged. “Because they were together.”

  “You mean he got caught at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “Probably.” Jeff thought back to his meetings with Joshua Greene. The man didn’t deserve his fate. “Consider what we’ve discovered up to now. We have dozens of variants, most encrypted and buried within operating systems protected by rootkits. So far nearly all of them are triggered by the date September 11. And look at all the targets, including the ones we know and the possible ones. We’re talking Wall Street, banks, the Fed, Social Security, to name a few. How about the power grid? You know how sensitive it is to tweaking, and it can be down for weeks, months even. You mentioned a nuclear power plant crashing. And there has to be a whole lot more I haven’t even thought of. Not to mention that response systems require using the Internet, and systems that route the Internet might be killed off.”

  Despite himself, Jeff found his anger rising. “For me the deciding point was when you said that the variants were targeting IP addresses for the United States and Europe. Given that, plus the number of people who must be involved, this attack is every bit as real as flying planes into buildings. The potential loss of life and economic meltdown is tremendous. It’s what they were after on 9/11. They didn’t pick the World Trade Center by accident. They knew how much disruption it would cause. It’s as if they’re after what makes Western civilization what it is.”

  Daryl nodded. “We’ve become so dependent on computers the Western economy would grind to a standstill if what we think is true. When computers only replaced what we did by hand, it wasn’t so bad. You can always go back to doing it manually. Those hospitals I saw were forced to return to old procedures. They don’t have enough staff to handle all the paperwork, and no one working there now remembers how it was done. They had to reinvent the system and made a lot of mistakes in the process.”

  “But in too many cases, computers are doing things we can’t do by hand,” Jeff pointed out. “You’ve got computers instructing other computers. We can’t replace that with a human being. And once we rebuild, we’ll still be stuck with an Internet system, and a host of computers, we can’t trust.”

  Jeff finished his beer and opened another, but with a shake of her head Daryl refused another bourbon. “If you transfer what’s happened to Fischerman, Platt and Cohen to any number of similarly sized businesses,” Jeff said, “not just us but the world will go into a depression unlike any we’ve ever previously experienced. I can’t imagine the level of unemployment and the resulting social implications.”

  “It could be the zero day to end all zero days,” Daryl agreed. “This time, we don’t really know how extensive this’ll be, until zero day.”

  “And it’s been going on for months, at least. Have you ever heard about an operation of this scope before?” She shook her head again. “Let’s face it, we aren’t even in the position of the little Dutch boy putting his finger in the dike. We can do all we can for the next ten days and a cyber Apocalypse will happen regardless. There are so many variants, with such a high level of sophistication, we’ll never solve this, not in time.” Jeff’s face hardened as he made his decision. “We’ve got to get to the source so we can start on the countermeasures.”

  “Koskov?” Daryl said, her eyes opening in disbelief. “But we aren’t secret agents. I wouldn’t know how to go about it. I’ve sent my request. That’s all I can do.”

  The two stared at each other while a feeling of sadness bordering on despair slowly crept over each of them. Wordlessly, Daryl reached out to Jeff. He took her in his arms and held her tightly. This had been a long time in coming. He kissed her lightly on the forehead for the first time. His lips moved down her cheek. Then their lips met. He felt her stir and they kissed more deeply; it was as if a wall between them had suddenly vanished, as if they were one. She gripped him fiercely and the tenderness turned to passion. He ran his hands along her body, and then she murmured, “Get the light, Jeff. I’m really very shy.”

  52

  PARIS, FRANCE

  5ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT

  GRAPHISME COURAGEUX

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2

  8:44 A.M.

  Two hundred and seven hours to go, Fajer al Dawar thought. After so long, so many frustrations, and so many disappointments, not much time was left until all the work would be realized. “Allahu Akbar,” he muttered.

  In these long months since he and Labib had launched their cyber jihad, Fajer had found himself increasingly torn asunder. The part of him that he thought of as Arab relished his role as warrior for Allah. The destruction of the West was the holy goal of all Arabs, he believed. The Prophet had decreed that Islam would, by force of arms, be the one true religion of the world. America and the West were the only significant obstacles to accomplishing that. And they were weak. Like an infant dependent on its mother’s breast, the West now fed on computers and the Internet. Take them away and they’d be helpless.

  Fajer would show them that Arabs were strong, that there was no God but Allah. For all his personal wealth and power, he was secretly certain that Westerners despised him. The women he bought pretended enthusiasm, but he knew they looked at him with contempt because he was an Arab and a Muslim, just as did the men with whom he did business. Without his money the West would condemn him to the most menial of places. Soon, very soon, he would set all that right.

  * * *

  George Carlton stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport and punched in Fajer’s number. Answer, you bastard, answer!

  “Oui?”

  “I’ve arrived. Where do we meet?”

  “How was your trip, George?”

  “Fine, just fine,” Carlton grunted. “Where do we meet?”

  “You know the Notre Dame Cathedral?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take a taxi to the left bank of the river, immediately opposite the cathedral. You will see a small park just east of the famous Chat Noir cabaret. I will be seated there awaiting you. Say in one hour?
And do not be so agitated. There is no reason. You have wasted a trip to a most beautiful city. Perhaps after you have had some rest, I can show you the sights.”

  Carlton clicked off the phone.

  * * *

  It seemed to Fajer that fall would come early to Paris this year. He sat on a bench at the small park and smoked a Habana cigar as he waited for the American. The triangular park touched the street beside the Seine. On the other two sides the expanse of grass and trees touched three-story apartment buildings, with two narrow alleys running away at an angle. Notre Dame loomed just across the river. Fajer wondered idly how it would look remade as a mosque.

  Carlton had been useful over the years, but never so much as in these last few months. Until two weeks ago, Fajer and Labib had known with certainty that no one in the U.S. government who mattered had detected their jihad. The information had allowed Labib to launch ever more sophisticated malware into the electronic maze of the Internet. He’d been willing to risk creating a far larger pool of hackers than he’d originally contemplated; today ten times as many viruses and variants were in the ether as they’d intended, all thanks to George Carlton.

  Fajer had not been surprised at the ease with which the American had been seduced and bought. His experience in business was that all Westerners were for sale. It was merely a question of finding the price or that lever unique to the individual. It wasn’t all that difficult. With government officials, it was even easier.

  All and all, Fajer was pleased with Carlton, but this sudden meeting was troubling. Two weeks before the American had passed on information that told him US-CERT was targeting their viruses. Fajer had been agitated at the news, but Labib had assured him it made no difference at this point. Still, it was disturbing.

  Two Frenchwomen walked by Fajer on their way to work and he eyed them appreciatively. He had to admit the women of Paris had a certain grace and fashion sense he’d never seen elsewhere. It was as if the women in London and New York aped their French sisters.

  Fajer wondered for a moment what it would be like in Paris on September 12. Though the bulk of the attack was against the United States, many of the viruses also targeted European computers, and of course the entire structure of the Internet would be under attack. Would he notice anything from this same bench? Would there be chaos in the streets? Or would the damage be confined to office buildings and financial institutions? He’d planned to be home in Riyadh for the event but now reconsidered. Why deny himself the pleasure of witnessing disaster firsthand?

  A taxi pulled to a stop fifty feet away, and he saw Carlton climb out. Paying the driver, Carlton looked about, squinting in the morning sun, spotted Fajer, then walked toward him. The man was still wearing the suit he’d flown in and had not shaved. He looked angry.

  Fajer stood as Carlton approached. “Good morning,” he said, extending his hand.

  Carlton ignored it and dropped to the bench. Fajer joined him.

  “Did you have a good flight?”

  “No,” Carlton almost shouted. “Tell me what’s going on, Fajer! What have you got me into?”

  Americans, Fajer thought with disgust, always in a rush. “I’ve already told you. You supply information from time to time and are well paid for it.”

  “What about this Superphreak you’re concerned with? What’s that?”

  Fajer examined his cigar for a moment. “It is part of the financial operation I told you about last summer.”

  “How?” Carlton glared at the Arab.

  “Are you telling me the name is now of interest to your government?”

  “I’m telling you nothing. I’m demanding answers.”

  “I already told you. It’s distasteful, but I’m compelled to fulfill a family—”

  “Cut the bullshit. This is an operation, isn’t it?”

  “Operation? I don’t know how you are using the word.”

  “As in a ‘mission,’” Carlton said, nearly as if talking to a child. “You’re involved with people planting viruses on the Internet, viruses meant to cause harm, not collect financial information. It’s some kind of attack, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me what you know.” Fajer had not expected this, not now, not when he and his brother were so close. He could not imagine what had roused this man’s suspicion.

  “No, Fajer, you’re going to tell me,” Carlton demanded. “I told you once but I don’t think you were listening. I may be a little bent but I’m no traitor. I’m getting reports about the planting of a massive number of viruses in computers all over America. They’ve all got the name Superphreak in them, and that’s the same name you’re suddenly interested in. I insist you tell me what’s really going on.”

  Fajer drew a discreet, calming breath. “It’s as I told you. The man who created these things apparently uses that name. I have only just learned about it and thought it a more effective means for you to detect this financial business I told you about.”

  Carlton looked about them out of habit. “I’m no fool, Fajer. You’re destroying me.” Carlton realized he was sweating and fought the urge to run his bare hand across his forehead.

  Clearly the American knew more than he was letting on. The Arab dropped his cigar to the ground and stepped on it with his shoe. “Come with me. There are too many eyes for this to take place here.” He stood and began walking through the small park into one of the two narrow alleys. Carlton reluctantly followed, hesitating before entering the confined space. “What else is it you know?” Fajer demanded.

  Carlton glared at the man. “These viruses. They’ve got the name Superphreak, all right. What you didn’t tell me was they’re triggered to go on September 11. Does the date sound familiar to you?”

  “My God!” Fajer said, feigning shock. “The idiots! My friend, I know nothing about this. I think it’s someone’s idea of a bad joke. The people doing this are Arabs, I’ve made no secret of that. One of the computer experts writing the code surely picked that date for its symbolic value, but these are not terrorists, I assure you. They are simply thieves. You can relax. Everything is fine.”

  For the first time since his meeting with Daryl and Jeff, Carlton felt doubt. Could Fajer be right? Was that all this was? Some Arab hacker filled with a bit of zealousness had picked 9/11 just to make a point?

  “I told you,” Fajer continued smoothly, “that the code is being planted in thousands of computers and will be triggered to execute at the same time. As I understand it, a virus that is not functioning is harder to detect, so they want them all to launch on the same day. Some zealot picked that date for its irony. You know how young men can be. I’m sorry it has caused you this needless worry.”

  Carlton struggled to remember what he’d been told and what he’d read. “These viruses—they destroy financial records, they don’t steal them.”

  Fajer pursed his lips. “They’ve sent out a great many. I suppose some might have interacted with certain computers in a destructive way or more might have been destructive in application, but I assure you that is not their purpose. They are not meant to destroy the computers.”

  Now it came back to him. How could he have forgotten? He’d been a fool for ever trusting this slick Arab son of a bitch. “What about airports?” Carlton demanded. “And dams? These Superphreak viruses are interfering with them, and that has nothing to do with finances. How do you talk your way out of that?”

  Fajer sighed. “I don’t, my friend, I don’t. You should have just taken the money.” With that he drew the shafra from the small of his back and plunged it deeply into Carlton’s stomach as if punching him, then pulled it across his midsection with savage force. He watched the American drop to the ground with scarcely a sound, move his mouth like a fish out of water. Carlton’s eyes slowly rolled up as he struggled to breathe, lying in a growing pool of red.

  “You should have taken the money and kept your mouth shut. No one would have known. And there is nothing you could have done to stop this.” Fajer wiped the knife on Carlton’s
clothes, then put it away.

  Fajer’s cell phone rang. “Oui?” The Arab listened, then gave rapid instructions in English. By the time he’d finished, George Carlton was dead.

  53

  MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

  HOTEL LUXOR

  EAST THIRTIETH STREET

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2

  9:05 A.M.

  The sun had already been up for some time when Jeff awoke. In the bathroom, he washed his face quietly.

  Returning to the bedroom, he sat at the desk chair, where he could see Daryl clearly. In this time of exhibitionist tattoos and body piercing, with the supposed equality of the sexes, it seemed to Jeff that many women were just mimicking drunken sailors on shore leave in their expressions of independence. One of the consequences, he believed, was that men of his generation, and those of the one coming up, seemed no longer to respect women or hold them in the esteem they once had.

  He’d always admired Daryl’s fine mind and hard work as a professional. He’d been aware of the chemistry between them from the first moment they’d met. But since Cynthia’s death he’d been hollow, unable to react to any woman in an emotional way. Sure, he’d had relationships, but his heart wasn’t in any of them. He’d thought that part of him had died with her. Now he realized that it had not. His attraction to Daryl had been so gradual, so natural, awareness of it seemed to have snuck up on him like the first breath of spring after a particularly harsh winter.

  Daryl lay now with her head on a pillow, her face turned toward the morning light entering through the blinds. She looked as calm and innocent as a five-year-old child taking a nap. Her elegant, lean body was stretched out, only partially covered by a white sheet. Her right breast rested against the bed; the other was half-covered by the sheet in a provocative manner, as if a photographer had posed her. Under the cover was the rise of her hip, then the delicate line of her legs. It was a breathtaking sight.