Zero Day: A Novel (34 page)

“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 his 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.

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.