Zero Day: A Novel (36 page)

Manfield was moving steadily down the hallway when he heard the group get off the elevator, laughing loudly at some joke. He turned to see them clearly.

There were five men, out to celebrate from appearances. Two were holding bottles of vodka by the neck as if wringing a chicken. Others had unopened bottles tucked into the pockets of their jackets. Three of the men wore old army field coats. Veterans.

Manfield hesitated, then decided to stall until they had entered an apartment. He knelt as if to tie a shoelace.

*   *   *

Ivana took the cell phone from her ear and turned it off. “Neighbors are with my mother. She already knew. She thought I was dead, too, so I’m glad I called. I must go.”

“We have to go too,” Daryl said.

Ivana opened the door, then reached for the light switch. Outside, a group of men she’d seen before in the building were approaching, laughing boisterously. She stepped into the hallway, then to the side so Daryl and Jeff could leave the apartment.

At that moment Ivana spotted Manfield behind the men, moving slowly toward her, his piercing blue eyes glued to her. She started to speak, but nothing came out. Daryl and Jeff moved into the hallway, which was suddenly crowded as the drunken men reached the doorway. One eyed Ivana and Daryl appreciatively. One said something in Russian.

Jeff followed Ivana’s gaze and spotted Manfield. “Run!” he shouted. He turned to his right, pulling Daryl with him, but came up against one of the revelers, who took offense. Pushing Jeff hard against the wall, he spoke in an angry, guttural voice, smelling heavily of vodka, his eyes bloodshot and watery.

Ivana was petrified. She could not take her eyes away from the man who had murdered her husband and her father. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her and her unborn child.

Manfield was still moving slowly toward her, waiting for the group of men to move and give him a clear shot. Then he heard the American call out and saw the pushing match with one of the Russians. He didn’t want to shoot, didn’t want a massacre, since that would only heighten the militia’s attention, but there was no choice. He raised the pistol and aimed at Ivana.

A second Russian had joined in and shoved Jeff hard too. The external drive clattered to the hallway floor. Daryl was trying desperately to separate the men, explaining in English that it was all a misunderstanding, that they had to stop this and leave them alone.

The moment Manfield fired, the men moved as a group and bumped into Ivana, who went down. The sound of the pistol in the hallway was deafening. The men turned toward the sound and spotted the weapon. Ivana was on the floor, masked from Manfield by a forest of legs.

Those holding Jeff turned their drunken attention to the shooter. Amazingly, Daryl thought, not one of them ran or even moved as if to run. Instead, angry and growling, as a single body they advanced on the man with the gun, shouting accusations in Russian. She turned to Jeff, who crumbled to the floor.

“The drive,” he gasped. “Get the—”

Instead, Daryl tried to pull him up and away from the group, away from danger.

On the floor, Ivana held her hand to her head, feeling a sharp pain, trying to stop the flow of blood that was streaming from her temple. She staggered to her feet, her free hand finding the external drive. She grabbed it as she stood up, swaying, her vision a misty pink.

The men rushed Manfield. For an instant he considered running. Instead, he shot the first man in the chest. The group didn’t hesitate, their liquored minds not grasping the significance of what was occurring. He shot another. This whole thing was senseless. Why didn’t the men run away? Or fall down to beg for mercy?

But the second bullet had the effect Manfield was after. The other three came to their senses, stopped, reached for the two staggering men who were shot, one collapsing to the floor. The others scrambled to get away from Manfield, pulling the second wounded man with them, shouting obscenities at him. In all the tumult they blocked the assassin’s view of his targets though, so Manfield moved forward and to the side of them.

The Russian woman, he realized, had been hit, but not fatally. She was on her feet, one hand to her bleeding head, swaying to stay upright, looking like a drunk who’d just been in a bar fight. The two Americans were moving quickly away from him down the hallway, their backs turned. Manfield pointed the pistol to kill them when one of the now fallen Russian men tried to rise up. From the floor a powerful hand seized his arm. He’d put the men completely out of his thoughts in his single-minded desire to kill and had moved too close to them. One of those he’d shot, half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, had hold of his arm and was twisting it down and out of its socket in a practiced move, forcing Manfield to bend nearly to the floor. He screamed in pain as the Makarov dropped from his hand. He let out a cry, the words springing from his childhood, coming out in Chechen. “Help me!”

The other man he’d shot grabbed for the gun, aimed at the assassin, then emptied the clip into his body. As Manfield crumbled to the floor with a look of disbelief, the one who’d grabbed his arm spit on him, then said in Russian, “Chechen scum!”

*   *   *

Outside, in his idling taxi, Vakha saw none of this. Instead, he spotted the young Russian woman stagger out of the building, holding one hand to her head, blood streaming down her clothes. She managed to get into her car and drive off quickly just as the American couple exited the building. They paused, looked for the car, spotted his taxi, and ran toward him.

“Do you speak English?” the woman said.

“A bit,” Vakha answered, watching the building for the Englishman out of the corner of his eye.

“Take us to the Metropol Hotel. Hurry!” The couple scrambled into the rear seat.

Vakha hesitated, still waiting, but no one else emerged from the building. Then he heard the wail of militia cars and engaged the clutch. By the time the police arrived, he was well clear of the area and had decided he’d done enough for the Cause for one night. If the Englishman was still alive, he was on his own.

62

MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

METROPOL HOTEL

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

9:06 A.M.

Jeff climbed from the shower, his skin dripping with hot water, and angled his body so he could see the wound without its bandage. It was an angry red, but had stopped bleeding. Since it hadn’t been stitched, there’d be an ugly scar, but they’d not risked a doctor. Instead, when they’d arrived back at the hotel Sunday night, Daryl had retrieved their key from the desk and taken him directly to the room.

Leaving him alone, she’d gone to the hotel shop, where she bought cotton, bandages, and tape. Back in the room she used an airplane-size bottle of vodka from the minibar in the room to sanitize the wound, then bandaged it. “It doesn’t look serious,” she’d said, “but I’m no expert. It’s up to you.”

“No doctor. We can’t risk it.”

“Here,” she said, handing him two pills. “Take these. They’ll help with the pain and let you sleep.”

Jeff hadn’t asked what they were. He’d taken them with gratitude, cleaned up in the bathroom, then stretched on the bed. Eighteen hours later he awoke. Daryl ordered room service for him, gave him two more pills, and he’d promptly slept all night again. Only now, after he dried himself and left the bathroom, was he beginning to feel normal. He’d had no idea how exhausted he’d been.

He opened the curtains to reveal brilliant morning light. He couldn’t say that Moscow had much of a view, but he could make out the onion-shaped domes of the Kremlin. He lifted the note Daryl had left for him. It said not to worry, that she expected to be back with good news. He’d had no idea what she meant, but tamped down the initial flutter of worry he felt and relaxed, knowing he could trust her. He ordered breakfast, then turned the television to International CNN. He wasn’t expecting to come across any mention of the shoot-out in the apartment-building hallway, but wasn’t sure he was relieved or frustrated when he didn’t. He lay on the bed to wait for Daryl, for breakfast. Room service woke him. He’d dozed off. He was just finishing breakfast when he heard the key in the door and looked up to see Daryl enter carrying packages, her face aglow with excitement.

“I see Rip van Winkle has decided to join me. Good for you. Ready for some news?”

“We’re about to be arrested and thrown into a gulag.”

“Cynic,” she joked. “No, I think that was the one bullet we did manage to dodge.” She laid the packages on the unmade bed and took a chair opposite him. “I know where Ivana Koskov is.”

“How’d you manage that?” They’d discussed the problem briefly Sunday night. Thanks to shootings at both locations, neither of them could return to the apartments to try to learn where Ivana was. She had the drive. But before they could come up with a solution, Jeff had nodded off, the pain and fear caused by his wound finally catching up with him.

“I called colleagues at NSA,” Daryl said, her face shining with excitement. “As luck had it, one of the attachés here actually works for the NSA. My contact spoke with him yesterday and he sent one of their Russian-speaking operatives out to make inquiries. I don’t know how he did it, but he reached Ivana’s mother. Ivana is in Milan, Italy, staying with a friend. I have the address and a telephone number. We’re booked out of here in about four hours.”

“Amazing!” Jeff looked at his companion with continued admiration. “I never would have thought it possible.”

“I’ve also got some pain pills here if you need them, along with Band-Aids, which should be all you need now. And”—she rose to go to the bed, where she removed something with a flourish, then brandished it like a toreador’s cape—“I found this in your size.” It was a leather coat. “I had to trash the other one. You look very sharp in leather, I might add.”

Jeff was amazed at her efficiency. “You’re just full of surprises. Any word from your team?”

Daryl’s face, which had been alive with pleasure, fell. “Nothing good, no. I spoke to them a few hours ago. Microsoft and Symantec finally got fully on board, but it’s probably too late.”

“What about DHS?”

“I’d almost forgotten. Are you ready for this? George Carlton was murdered in Paris.”

“Murdered?” Jeff said, shocked. “How?”

“Stabbed to death. In broad daylight. DHS is stumped over it. He was there on a spur-of-the-moment thing, supposedly to meet with a counterpart, but she knew nothing about a meeting. They don’t really know why he was in Paris.”

Jeff wrinkled his brow in thought. “Do you think it’s connected to what’s been happening to us?”

Daryl shrugged. “It does seem odd. Not at all something that would happen to George.”

“Dead! It’s hard to grasp.” Jeff despised the man, but he’d never thought of killing him. Disgraced, held to account, yes, those he could imagine—but dead?

Daryl broke into his thoughts. “We should get going. It’s a direct flight and we’ll be in Milan later today. With luck we should see Ivana tonight and get the external drive.”

“If she took it with her.”

63

MILAN, ITALY

TICINESE-NAVIGLI DISTRICT

VIA CHIESA ROSSA

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

6:43 P.M.

The Lufthansa flight from Moscow to Milan was just under four hours. From the moment he’d stepped on the German plane, Jeff had felt as if he were already out of Russia.

He’d slept so much since being shot he couldn’t nod off during the afternoon flight. Daryl spent her time on her laptop working on Superphreak, but Jeff was too mentally spent to give it any thought.

If someone had told him a month ago that he’d be on the run from assassins with a beautiful new lover, that he’d be shot at and wounded, that the fate of the Western world lay with him, he’d have told them they were crazy. But here he was and he had to admit there was something to be said for it. He recalled that the young Winston Churchill, upon being sent to South Africa to cover the Boer War for a newspaper, had written after his first combat experience, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.”

Well, he’d been winged, if that was the word for it, but he understood what Churchill had meant. It
was
exhilarating and he’d never felt more alive. He’d had no idea that “saving the world” could be so exciting. On the other hand, he knew, had he been seriously injured, he’d feel very differently.

Daryl folded her laptop, then slipped it into its case. “You’re staring at the back of the seat in front of you,” she said. “You do know there’s no television screen there, don’t you?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“My life has been pretty exciting these last few days.”

She laughed. “That’s excitement I could do without. Or don’t you think so?”

Jeff grunted. “I wouldn’t change a thing, actually.” He looked at her with open affection, and she returned it. “Learn anything?”

“Superphreak?” The warm expression faded from her face. “Not much. The viruses we’ve got are nothing special. The rootkits and encryption’s a bitch, though. I don’t know why I wasted my time on it. Do you think there’ll be enough on this external drive to be any help?”

“It’s a long shot,” Jeff said, taking her hand. “But what else is there?”

*   *   *

Deciding to skip registering at a hotel, Daryl and Jeff took a taxi directly from Milan’s Malpensa Airport to the address they had for Ivana in the central part of the city. It was nearly an hour before they stepped out with their luggage and paid the driver.

The street was wider than was typical for an Italian city, though still cobblestoned. A row of graceful trees flanked the sides, bordered by narrow sidewalks. The buildings were of a rough brownstone and, from the weathering Jeff could see, were at least two hundred years old. “Is this it?” he asked, every door looking the same to him.

“Yes. Number 346.” Daryl stepped up and knocked on the aged wooden door.

After a long pause, they heard footsteps approaching. The door opened six inches and the plain face of a woman in her middle years showed itself. Daryl spoke in Italian, but before she finished, the women interrupted, saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Italian.”