Trojan Horse

17

Ahmed eased the Volkswagen Jetta down the street as Karim examined the passing houses carefully, searching for the address in the darkness. Ahmed was concerned that their actions go smoothly, especially at this hour. If they were forced to drive too often up and down this deserted street, someone would surely call the police.

“There,” Karim said. “That’s it.”

Ahmed drove to the side and came to a stop. “Don’t take long,” he cautioned. “I’ll drive once around the block. Be here when I return.”

Karim eased out of the car, tossed his cigarette into the gutter, closed the door quietly behind him, and set off across the yard to the side of the house where Ali lived. Ahmed put the car back in gear and drove away as slowly as he dared, and made a succession of right turns down equally deserted streets before returning to the same spot.

No one.

He sat with the engine idling, wondering if he should make another circuit. He lit a cigarette to buy time. Hamid had drummed it into his head repeatedly that operations and agents were undone by just such stupid incidents. It was situations like this that drew the attention of the authorities. As he pondered what to do, knowing he had to make a decision at once, two figures emerged from the shadows.

Karim slipped into the front seat. “Salam,” Ali said, taking a place in the rear, placing a small overnight bag next to him. A wave of cold air swept in with them.

“Salam,” Ahmed answered. He then drove off with a sense of relief, turning the heater up slightly. Karim opened a fresh packet of cigarettes, turning to hand one to Ali.

Since meeting Karim, it had been a busy six hours. They’d left his apartment and walked to the car lockup around the corner where the gray Volkswagen Jetta was kept for such occasions. Every few months, the vehicle was replaced. One of Karim’s responsibilities was to see to that and keep the car serviced and gassed. Once a week, he ran the engine for half an hour and checked the tire pressure.

The car had started at once and Ahmed had been pleased to see a full tank of petrol. He drove cautiously out of Prague, initially confused as usual by the heavy traffic, the lights, and complicated cross streets. Once on the E50, however, the traffic thinned, the drivers became more predictable. Thereafter the trip went smoothly.

On the way to Mannheim, Karim briefed Ahmed on his recent activities. He maintained a ring of agents in northern Germany. He supervised recruitment from various sympathetic mosques, arranging training and for providing the cash so essential to such networks.

His personal life certainly lacked excitement, and that, Ahmed reminded himself, was good. Boring was safe. It was important they remain in the shadows. Karim worked as a waiter in a restaurant that specialized in, of all things, American food for American tourists. He had no girlfriend, not wanting to risk a relationship with anyone, but he confided that once a week he went to a brothel where he spent time with the same Ukrainian whore.

“I would not marry her, of course,” he said, “but for a whore she is very sweet, and most agreeable.”

The two agents could not have looked more different. Karim was a slender man, quick and alert, whereas Ali was large, over six feet tall, and heavy. His network, with identical duties, extended throughout southern Germany. In fact, their primary function was to create and maintain their networks until the day when Hamid set an operation in motion.

Ali had worked a time at the Daimler AG factory, building diesel engines. But his necessary trips proved too frequent to continue a job with such steady hours. Now he was working as a handyman for several rich Jews. He found that amusing.

Though they passed close to the Swiss border, Ahmed stayed within the EU to avoid passport controls as long as possible. The longer they were out of the Swiss security computer system, the better. He didn’t drive often. He enjoyed the sensation of the car, the calming drone of the engine, the muted whine of the tires on the smooth surface. They were moving across space in this comfortable cocoon. From time to time, he took, in the enormity of the road system, considered the opulence that made it possible, and wondered how much would remain in the promised caliphate. He wondered if he’d live to see it. He certainly hoped so. He hadn’t joined Iranian intelligence to die for a cause. He was content to leave that to others.

Toward dawn it began to rain. Ahmed turned on the windshield wipers, which slapped back and forth in a steady rhythm. The road was soon slick with water and he eased the car into the right line to merge with the slower traffic. At the first major truck stop he pulled in for breakfast. They took a booth in a corner and spoke sparingly in quiet voices.

Two hours later, the trio cleared immigration and customs at the Swiss border. Only then, in the security of the moving car, did Ahmed tell Karim and Ali their mission. They listened intently, taking it in with professionalism. Unlike most of his agents these were not wide-eyed fanatics. They’d been trained for the long term, to stay in place for years. For each of them, this would be his first aggressive action in Europe, though they’d both dispatched operatives on assignment previously.

Ahmed slowed as he pulled into Geneva. They’d just missed the morning rush-hour traffic, which was a matter of luck and which Ahmed took it as a positive sign. He drove cautiously through the city streets. He’d never before been in Geneva and found himself at once disoriented. He pulled to the side of the road and removed a portable GPS device from his jacket. He input the address he’d been given and was soon on his way.

He left Geneva proper and entered the small town of Meyrin, though the two blended together as one. The first blush of spring was emerging from winter and the trees were filling with bright leaves. The building was located just off the Avenue de Vaudagne, near the commercial district in Les Vernes. The street’s buildings had two stories and a number of them had taken up the ground-floor space with a narrow garage. The street was not the best, ideally suited for their purposes.

Spotting the address, Ahmed nosed onto the sidewalk up to the closed garage to be less conspicuous than stopping on the narrow street. He turned off the engine. “Remain here,” he ordered as he climbed out, blood returning to his cramped legs at his first steps. He approached the building and realized it was abandoned. Perhaps a third of those on the street seemed to be. There were signs in French that he could not read but the message was clear: no trespassing, stay out.

He took the place in. The trees to either side were unkempt, overgrown, nearly concealing the structure. He couldn’t tell what it had been from the outside. He peered through a dirty window and saw abandoned machines of some kind, looking archaic, like something out of the last century. He thought of leather. Perhaps a shoe repair shop. He moved to his right and found the narrow stone walkway up the right side of the building.

He went to the rear and stopped at a heavy metal door. It was as described. Glancing about the yard he spotted the flat stone like something out of a Christian cemetery. He wondered for a moment what it had once been, how it came to be here. With some effort, he managed to lift it out of the soil, then flip it over. Within the damp soft soil was a small container. He withdrew the key from it, then unlocked the door. The hinges needed oil, he noted, as he pushed it open. The door creaked so loudly Ahmed wondered if anyone nearby could hear.

Inside, he spent only a few minutes examining the room with its adjoining bathroom. This had been a storage room with an office space in the corner at one time. While there was no equipment here there were discarded bits and pieces of machinery scattered about, the large ones left leaning against the walls.

He located the canvas bag in a cabinet above the toilet, and checked its contents. Then he took time to urinate. Locking the heavy door behind him and using the key again, he entered the garage from the rear. Inside, he found the white Volkswagen Crafter van.

He went back to the Jetta. “All is well.” He handed the bag to Ali, then started the car. He backed it onto the street and parked. Now he opened the garage door, Ali and Karim helping him with it. The van’s tank was also full and it started at once. He pulled the van out and parked on the street. Then he pulled the Jetta into the garage, locking the door behind them.

Back outside, the men climbed into the van. “Someone likes VWs,” Ali said and the men chuckled. Karim passed cigarettes around and they lit up in minor triumph. Though Ahmed had been assured all would be in readiness, he was relieved that it was so.

He drove the short distance to Route de Meyrin, taking a few moments to get used to the feel of the top-heavy vehicle. It handled well but differently from the smaller and more agile Jetta.

In less than ten minutes, the street took him almost directly to his destination. Traffic was moderate for a busy city and they attracted no attention. He soon found a parking lot near the street and across from UNOG that did not require a sticker. It was almost nine o’clock. He parked and killed the engine. Once certain no one paid them any attention, he reached into his jacket, removed several photographs, and passed them out.

“When will he be here?” Karim asked, studying the photo of the man carefully.

“I have no idea. We must be vigilant,” Ahmed said.

“How long will we wait?” Ali asked.

“As long as necessary. We will take turns so as not to attract attention.” He stretched behind him and pulled the canvas bag onto his lap. He reached inside, feeling the various objects, then extracted and handed over two cell phones. “Use these for communication sparingly, my brothers. We cannot know who is listening.”

The men turned the phones on. They were HTC Heros, which used the Android operating system. They were generic, not tied to any specific network and had been jail-broken, meaning Ahmed could acquire any apps he required from anywhere. They were fully charged and immediately acquired a cell tower.

“This must go smoothly,” Ahmed cautioned. “We are to attract no attention of any kind. No littering. This is Switzerland and they take that very seriously. Our orders are explicit about what we must do. You understand?”

The men nodded. Ahmed withdrew two small American revolvers from the bag, Smith & Wessons with short barrels. These were standard weapons, no silencers, no special alterations, nothing that would identify them as part of a foreign operation. “Put these out of sight. Allow yourself to be arrested as a common criminal if necessary. In no event make any hostile move to a Swiss policeman. You understand?”

The men nodded again.

“Allah is with us,” Karim said as he pocketed his weapon.

Ahmed smiled, slipping a heavy automatic from the bag into his waistband. “Let us hope so.”

At almost the same moment in Prague, Saliha opened the door to Ahmed’s apartment and found it empty. She closed the door behind her, then placed the bag she’d brought back for him on the table. The small room was stale, smelling of cigarettes. It felt abandoned. She opened the window to let in air, then took the room in again, carefully.

Could he have moved without telling her? It didn’t seem likely but if he were to end it with her that was how she expected it would be. She crossed the room and examined his closet. A small athletic bag he kept there was gone and so was a jacket. But most of his things were untouched.

Another of his trips. She looked around but found no message from him for her. That was no surprise. He liked his secrets and she was, after all, only a woman.

So… no money. Not now at least. He’d not thought to leave it out for her. Well, he’d pay her when he returned.

Saliha sighed, took one last look about the room, then closed the window and locked the door as she left. At the entryway, the gross gypsy, dressed in a ratty soiled undershirt, eyed her in such a way that she shivered.

18

Though used by the DOD, mIRC was not exclusive to it though it had modified the code to require both public and private key codes between parties, something that was usually optional. The system allowed secure communication between computers anywhere. All messages, or video for that matter, were encrypted en route, and then unscrambled by the receiving computer.

Daryl received the incoming message on her laptop. Jeff crowded over to her. It was, as expected, Frank Renkin, who often used video in contacting them. The picture was sharp, and revealed how tired the man was. It was very early morning there and he looked as if he’d worked all night.

“I see you found your man all right,” Frank said with a grin after greeting them.

Daryl smiled. “Thanks for your help.”

“Any progress?” Frank asked.

She nodded. “I’d say so. But we still have lots of unanswered questions. How about your team?”

“As I messaged you earlier, we found the self-deleting concealment software, the same as you. Very sneaky and a nasty sign if crackers are going to start using something that sophisticated. My big news is it appears the purpose of the malware is to copy any document the infected computer has and is able to alter it. Does that sound familiar to you?”

Jeff filled him in on what they’d come up with, explaining in some detail how the Trojan made it possible to modify a document in the middle of an e-mail transmission.

“The what?”

“That was our reaction. You send an attachment,” Jeff said, “even check it before it leaves your computer, but an altered document arrives at the other end.”

Daryl answered. “They must copy the file to their system, study and modify it, then send back the altered version. They have their version already in place to make the switch when the e-mail is sent. In the process they manage, in effect, to suspend the application of the digital signature. It goes on the altered document.”

Frank thought about that a moment. “They must have had someone watching the development of this report for a while since I take it this Iranian draft report was a work in progress.”

“The replacement is automated,” Daryl said. “If a change is made in the document before it is e-mailed they’d be alerted and react accordingly. They might miss something changed at the last second but most of the time they’ll accomplish what they want. And if it’s important enough to them, then by watching any one computer continuously they can always do a substitution. But there’s nothing to prevent them from actually altering the document within the infected computer at any time if that’s what they want.”

“You can see what this means, right?”

“It’s bad, that’s for sure,” Daryl said.

“It means,” Frank said, “that we can’t know if a digital communication is an original so we can’t trust anything we read that we’ve received by e-mail, even if there’s proof it originated with someone you trust. Nothing, and that includes attachments. We can no longer take anything at face value. And then there’s stored data. A document you read one day might read differently later. If the Trojan is in your computer you have no idea what’s been changed, none. It spreads doubt and suspicion throughout all Internet communication. Can you depend on what you see? Are you being lied to? Or is it a Trojan?” He sighed. “So, who do you think is doing it?”

“Based on the sophistication of this thing,” Daryl said, “we think China is the likely author.”

Frank nodded. “That’s where we’ve gone. It targeted UNOG and the British Foreign Office. We think it’s the big boys in cyber spying, though we’ve found no direct trail as yet.”

“Why would the Chinese care about a United Nations report on the Iranian nuclear program?” Daryl asked.

“My guess,” Frank said, “since we’re talking about Iran here, is that oil is the connection. China already has a well-developed nuclear weapons capability at a time when the mullahs are creating their own. Iran has lots of oil and China needs it.”

Jeff and Daryl often encountered Chinese penetrations when working for government agencies or government contractors. On occasion, they were able to trace the “call home” feature of the virus to a server located in China; far more often they did not.

Chinese cyber penetrations were noted for the extensive reconnaissance that preceded the actual penetration. Before making the effort they gathered as much information about the computer system and the people using it as they could. They determined what data would be available and which additional networks they could infect when access was accomplished. Once inside, they moved with incredible caution so as not to alert the IT team.

To this end valuable data was most often moved to e-mail servers, since they handle large volumes of data. There, the stolen files were renamed to avoid suspicion, then were compressed and encrypted before being exported. In one case such an attack had utilized eight computers at U.S. universities as drop boxes before transmitting the stolen data from them. They then distributed it to more than ten countries before it was finally funneled back to the highly secretive PLA Cyber Warfare Center.

A Pentagon report said that the Chinese military was making “steady progress” acquiring online-warfare techniques, believing that its computer skills could help compensate for its underdeveloped military. It was usually not possible to make that final connection to China but the sophistication of the cyber-attacks and the nature of the data stolen left only one possible conclusion in many cases. One such Chinese attack on the computers at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, for example, had successfully obtained nuclear development data. DOD weapons programs were routinely extended. In one penetration, between ten and twenty terabytes of classified and highly sensitive data was downloaded. Considering that the entire Library of Congress consisted of twelve terabytes, the loss was enormous.

For all that, the most disturbing penetration was the Chinese systematic mapping of the American electrical grid. They’d dropped software all over it and no one knew what it was meant to do, or when it would be called on to do it. No sooner was it located and removed or neutralized than fresh code took its place, often not discovered for months. In the event of a national emergency, the justified fear was that some computer tech in China would send a command and the entire United States power supply would cascade into darkness. It might take weeks, even months, to rebuild and there was no knowing what might happen while most of the U.S. national defenses were blacked out.

“So you’re suggesting,” Daryl said, “that Iran is giving China low-cost oil in exchange for nuclear weapons assistance. And this cyber operation is meant to advance Iran’s agenda?”

“It’s a theory at least, though one beyond our purview. Let’s see if we can link this thing back to the Reds. My report will pack more punch if we’ve actually made the connection.” He paused, then asked, “Do you have any idea how many computers are already infected there and in London?”

“No,” Jeff answered. “You should contact Graham Yates for that information, as well as whoever runs the show here. Go as high up as you can. The guy we talked to, Nikos Stefanidou, was noncommittal. We were just shown to the computer, which, by the way, they’d not even bothered to secure.”

Daryl spoke. “If they can alter an OW file, they can change data also. Think about it. A tweak here, an alteration there, in the middle of a voluminous report someone relies on. We were just lucky this one was discovered. Who knows how much other data they’ve modified already? Or where? And what modifications have been made to the software that runs our critical infrastructure by inserting a backdoor? If that happens we have…”

“Disaster,” Frank said, looking very weary. “You have disaster.”

19

Jeff yawned, glanced at his watch, and decided to call it quits. He was getting nowhere. He disconnected his laptop. Daryl was sitting across the room working independently on her laptop.

“Let’s call it a day,” Jeff said. “I think we wrap this up tomorrow. I haven’t found any more clues.” When she didn’t look up he said, “What are you doing?”

“Oil. Remember? Have you ever noticed how many reports on the Internet don’t have a date? It’s like they are written for a magazine or something with a date on the cover, and it never occurs to anyone that the article will exist forever on the Internet. Anyway, this report’s kind of old but it’s authoritative.”

“About what?”

She looked up. “China and oil, remember? Okay, here goes. This caught me by surprise — China is the second largest importer of oil in the world, after only you-know-who. Its economy grows at nearly 10 percent and its appetite for oil is all but insatiable, growing at 8 percent a year. You see, they decided to go with cars instead of sticking with mass transit.”

“Big mistake,” Jeff said. “Cars are a dead end.”

“Maybe, but you need an enormous infrastructure to support a thriving car industry and it is a quick way to provide jobs while giving the industrial base a huge boost. Plus, factories that produce cars can easily be converted to military needs.” She gave him a cockeyed smile. “Remember that crack about cars when you go shopping for one next month. I’ve seen you trolling the Web sites. Anyway, within twenty years they’ll have more cars than the U.S. and that same year they’ll be importing just as much oil as we do. So here’s the deal. They don’t have it. Want to guess where they get it from?”

“The Middle East?”

“No surprise, huh? And who is their biggest supplier?”

“Iran. Right?”

“You guessed, but yes, that’s right. They signed a deal saying if Iran would give them lots of oil, China would block any American effort to get the United Nations Security Council to do anything significant about its nuclear program. They’ve been doing a lot of deals with each other ever since.”

He slipped his computer into his bag. “That explains a lot.”

“Oh yeah, these two countries are very cozy indeed. Anyway, China gets most of its oil from Iran. And they don’t just need oil — they need cheap oil because they sell the least expensive gasoline in the world. I think that’s to keep everybody happy driving all those new cars.”

“Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

Daryl closed her laptop and picked up her jacket. As she walked out with Jeff, she said, “China’s also been helping with pipelines throughout the Middle East, selling weapons and dual purpose technology. They aren’t just banking on Iran. The consequences for Saudi Arabia are a change in reality for them — and us. It got all its intermediate range ballistic missiles from China and I’ll bet you didn’t even know that Saudi Arabia had missiles, did you?”

“I guess not.” Jeff nodded to the guards as they exited the building. As instructed, one promptly sent a text to Henri Wille to let him know they’d left.

It was a lovely night outside and Jeff paused to take in the invigorating air coming down from the Alps. The sky was clear and Lake Geneva twinkled with reflecting stars. “Look at that,” he said, stopping a moment to take it in.

“Wow, very nice.” She took his arm and cuddled. “Let’s hang out here a few days before leaving for Italy, okay?”

“Sure, after we’ve written the detection program for Whitehall and UNOG. They’ll need to repave after this.”

As they took the long broad pathway leading to the road, Daryl continued. “The analysis is that if — when — Iran gets the bomb, Saudi Arabia will be compelled to call in its chits from Pakistan. Apparently they financed Pakistan’s nuclear program with that understanding. That was pretty clever. Saudi Arabia can say it doesn’t have a nuclear program but when the time comes to get bombs and the technology to support them, they just get it all from Pakistan. At the same time, China will sell Saudi Arabia ICBMs, the big boys. They will make the Middle East entirely nuclear. The very idea has everyone on edge.”

“Then they should do something about the Iranian nuclear program instead of just talking about it.”

They left the park surrounding the palace and stepped onto the sidewalk on the Avenue de la Paix. Their hotel was five minutes away.

Jeff glanced at a man talking on his cell phone, obviously waiting for a ride. Daryl cracked a joke and they laughed.

Just down the street a white Volkswagen Crafter crept slowly toward them.

It had been a very long wait. Morning had become midday then afternoon. There’d been a short rain around three o’clock. The men used empty water bottles in the rear of the van to relieve themselves. At one point Ahmed had taken a chance and sent Karim off for food and something to drink. Allah had been with them, according to Ali, and nothing had taken place during his absence. While he was gone Ahmed had moved the car’s location in the parking area, knowing an occupied vehicle would inevitably attract notice. Still, he decided not to risk it again as that itself might draw attention.

During the rain he’d rebriefed the men, reminding them that the guns were only to be used against the target — no one else — and then only as a last resort. His orders had been quite specific. Iranian agents would have to operate in Switzerland in the future and it was important they not be seen as a threat against the local police and citizenry.

Ahmed wished this were all taking place in Prague, a city he knew intimately. He understood what he had to do, where he was to go, and how to get there, but if anything went awry he would be forced to improvise. In the crowded streets of a busy unfamiliar city, he would almost certainly be caught.

He did not fear prison. Prison would be acceptable, if necessary. In time, his people would find a way to get him out. They always did. No, what he feared most of all was failure. He’d rather be killed today than face that.

Ahmed Hossein al-Rashid, as he appeared on his passport, was born Ebrahim Abadi, though that was a name he used only in Iran. He was the son of a wealthy Iranian family whose money predated the fall of the Shah. As a consequence, his father had become a zealous supporter of the Ayatollah during the revolution once the outcome was apparent. Ahmed had joined the Iranian army just after completing his schooling. There he’d excelled. He’d been trained in special operations and counterintelligence. He’d been rapidly promoted to captain and assigned to the Iranian intelligence service known as VEVAK, where his training had been expanded to include torture. VEVAK’s mandate was far-reaching, both domestically and internationally, and of all such Iranian operations it was the best funded and most professionally run.

Ahmed had done well since his assignment to Prague and recently had been promoted to major. His career choice often caused him to wonder if he’d ever return home, marry, and have a son. His father had asked him about that the last time they’d met and he’d promised that there was plenty of time for children, though he knew that was a lie.

Ahmed was ambitious and believed in a greater Iran. If he was not inwardly the zealot the mullahs wanted, he masked it carefully with a proper showing of devotion. At heart he was secular. He wondered if Hamid knew; he suspected he did. From what Ahmed had seen, most of the senior operatives in Europe were men like himself. The zealots were assigned the active roles in the missions.

The fact that he’d been ordered into the field along with Ali and Karim, his two best operatives, told him the value placed on this mission. It was an honor to be selected and he did not doubt that success would be rewarded, just as failure would be punished.

His first foreign posting had been to Prague. What he heard from Iran since coming to Europe troubled him. The mullahs were as corrupt as the Shah, and there was vicious, even deadly, infighting within the regime. There was no doubt the regime had lost the confidence of the people; that was obvious to anyone who cared to know. Another revolution was always a possibility. The mullahs, he believed, had squandered their chance.

Though he maintained a low profile and scrupulously preserved his cover as a student, about once a month Ahmed traveled to meet with his senior operatives, to dispense cash, to deliver instructions orally, and to learn how each network was progressing. He also served as a conduit for information he acquired through the Internet and forwarded to Iran by mule. For that he’d recruited Saliha. The trips kept him alert. His biggest challenge had been to be in constant readiness for when an operation came to him.

Ahmed glanced out the open window as he lit another cigarette. He was tired of waiting but he’d waited before. He’d learned through experience not to become impatient. Few operations actually came off and when they did they rarely developed as planned. That was the nature of his calling.

The men took turns waiting near the main entrance that ran through the park to the building. From there they could clearly see the exit. Throughout the day Ahmed had received periodic text messages informing him that the target was still at work inside. Then he was alerted that work had stopped. Perhaps he was taking a meal, or he might just be finished for the day. It was dark, and the building had long since emptied of employees.

Ahmed called Karim, who was standing watch, as if waiting to be picked up for a ride. “Soon, my brother. Pay attention.”

The city was quieter, clearly less lively than Prague. He leaned forward, watching closely. “Be ready, Ali. Any moment, I think.”

And there he was, walking with a woman along the broad pathway toward the street. Karim called him. “I see him. Do you? What about the woman?”

“Take them both. No more calls.”

Ahmed started the van, slowly exited the lot, then eased onto the street. Traffic was light. As he approached he saw the couple pass Karim, who then casually put away his phone, turned, and followed.

“Get ready,” Ahmed said. Ali grunted as he positioned himself. Just as he reached the laughing couple, Ahmed brought the van to an abrupt stop. “Now!”

Ali flung the passenger door open and leaped out. Ahmed pressed a button and the van’s side door popped opened. He forced himself to look away from the action, down the street and into the rearview mirror to see if they were attracting attention.

Daryl screamed when she was grabbed from behind. She was swept forward, strong arms holding her tight in their grip. A large man ran at them and went straight to Jeff as Daryl was all but carried to the open door of the white van. She couldn’t get her arms free but threw her foot against the passenger doorjamb and spun them off so the man holding her could not force her into the vehicle. She screamed again for help.

The man behind her grunted as he struggled, making no progress. Then another man was helping him and a moment later had her legs forced into the van and the two of them were holding her down, pinned to floor. Once she was under control, one of them left. Daryl struggled against the other man but he had both her arms pinned behind her, nearly to her neck. The pain was excruciating and she feared he’d pushed her arms out of their sockets.

On the street the large man had bowled over Jeff, catching him completely by surprise. His carrier slid from his shoulder and the laptop skidded to the side. The men rolled on the sidewalk as Jeff fought. The large slowly man gained the advantage but he could not manage to get the American to his feet. That was when another man came over and pressed a gun to Jeff’s head.

“Come, or I kill you, then kill the woman. We have her already.” His voice was calm, too calm for what he was saying, with only the trace of an accent. “Stop, I said. Or you die right now!”

Jeff ceased struggling and a moment later was inside the van. The door slammed shut, then the man with the gun climbed behind the wheel, and drove off.

“Jeff!” Daryl said before someone clamped his hand over her mouth. She bit him. He cursed, then struck her hard. Jeff kicked the man, then kicked him again as he struggled to pull Jeff back.

The mustached man in front shouted something in a foreign language and a gun was pressed against Jeff’s face. He could see Daryl, her eyes suddenly wide in fear.

The driver said, “Stop it or we kill you and dump your bodies. No more fighting. That is finished.” Then he snapped an order in the other language and the couple were quickly bound with clothesline and gagged.

Ahmed pulled onto Route de Meyrin, melding with the evening traffic. He watched the mirror closely but they’d attracted no notice that he could see. He reassured himself that as problematic as the snatch had been, it had taken less than one minute. In the dark, it was not likely that it had been noticed, or at least not sufficiently to summon the police in time to do anything.

But he had to get rid of the van at once. Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go. Within a few minutes he easily found the empty shop again. He pulled up to the garage, nosing the van nearly against the doors. He stepped outside, quietly closed the door to the van.

Nothing.

There were no sounds beyond the ordinary, nothing to see that wasn’t there earlier. He moved to the street itself and as casually as he could looked in both directions while he lit a cigarette. His hand was shaking slightly. Back at the van he rapped on the side door. This was the dangerous part. They had to get the couple into the back room without attracting attention.

Ahmed pulled out his gun, using his body to shield it from the street. “Cooperate and you’ll be free in a few hours,” he said evenly. “All we want is to talk to you. Struggle, we’ll kill you and leave you here. You understand?”

Jeff nodded. Daryl glared at Ahmed fiercely. I’d better be careful of her, he thought as he moved aside to let Ali and Karim pull them out. They then pushed and led the couple across the front of the store, along the pathway to the rear where Ahmed joined then. He put his gun away, then unlocked and opened the heavy metal door.

“Inside,” he said as the men shoved the couple in.

Once the door was closed Ahmed spoke to Karim. “Get the bag out of the van and bring it here. Then drive to the commercial district I pointed out earlier. You know where it is?”

“I do.”

“Good. Leave the van with the keys in the ignition. Perhaps we will get lucky and someone will steal it. Leave the driver window open to make it easy. Drive carefully but not suspiciously. Then take your time returning on foot. Make certain you are not followed.”

“I won’t be.”

“Good. Give me your gun.”

“What?”

“Your gun. You are not a gangster. You have no need of it now.”

Karim handed it over and went out to the Crafter. Ahmed heard it start, then move off. He turned his attention to the couple, thinking for a moment how best to do this.

20

Yvette Chappuis had just made the turn onto the Avenue de la Paix when she saw it.

She slowed her car, gradually pulling to a stop, and watched in horror as two men struggled with a young couple, finally forcing them into a white van. She was certain she’d seen a gun. As the van pulled away she lifted her cell phone and made a call.

A sergeant at the Police Gendarmerie Cornavin, just down the street near the corner of Rue de Lausanne at Route de Meyrin, was soon speaking with her. The report of an abduction was always to be taken seriously — this was, after all, Switzerland — but one within a stone’s throw of his station and immediately in front of UNOG was priority. He took the vehicle description, handed the slip of paper to dispatch, and within two minutes of Yvette spotting the abduction an alert had gone out.

The sergeant then asked the citizen to describe what she’d seen in more detail, concluding the call by telling her an officer was on the way to take a statement.

Her call and the sergeant’s quick response was the last bit of luck the Geneva police would have for some time. No cruising police car observed the right van, though fourteen were pulled over in the next hour. None contained abductors or victims.

It wasn’t until shortly after midnight, many hours after the report, that a cruising Meyrin Commune police patrol car spotted the white Volkswagen Crafter van in the commerce center parking lot. The driver window was down and the keys were in the ignition. It had all the appearance of an abandoned vehicle.

The shift commander, Ulrich Spyri, went to examine the van himself. He stopped his car some twenty feet from it, then climbed out, stretching after so many hours in his office. He instructed the waiting patrol officer to search the extended area around the vehicle. It was dark, the sky overcast, the air chilly, clinging this hour to the winter so recently gone.

For centuries, Meyrin had been little more than a sleepy village. Then, almost overnight, with the construction of the nearby international airport it had ballooned to a population of twenty thousand. The commune police force saw to the routine duties of law enforcement: conducting patrols, maintaining order, enforcing traffic laws. And tonight they were assisting the canton police in locating a vehicle much like this one, reportedly used in an abduction.

Spyri walked slowly about the vehicle, playing his flashlight across the panels of white, examining each of the wheels carefully, bending down to look under it. Nothing.

Next, he carefully opened the left door and examined the driving compartment. Again nothing. He spotted the button for the side door and pressed it, heard the door unlatch and partially open. He went around the vehicle, leaned in, and took a long minute to examine the interior, moving his light from point to point. He spotted two liter bottles of a yellowish liquid, likely urine, and the discards from a meal for more than one man. He climbed in, held the flashlight low, then ran it slowly back and forth across the soiled carpet. “There,” he said under his breath. He reached out and lifted something up with his fingertips.

Blond hair. This was the van.

At his car, Spyri called in, alerting the canton police and dispatching a forensic team. Afterward, he stood beside his car and looked slowly about. They could be far away by now. They might have made the switch here, then driven off and were well into France or Italy by this time. Or they were not that far from here at all, hoping the police net would be extended and overlook them.

Whichever it was, or if it was something else, he was certain his men had no chance beyond blind luck in finding the couple. No chance at all.

The van was soon traced to the name of Franco Rivaz, reportedly a resident of Geneva, but no one by that name lived at the address given. Then word came from UNOG security. They were missing an American couple, computer experts. They’d left the building shortly before the abduction and never reached their hotel. A laptop had been recovered from the sidewalk near the street in front of the exit. The British Foreign office had been alerted.

The Geneva Gendarmerie remained on the case, joined by the canton police as well as by a detail from the UNOG Police de la Sécurité Internationale. One of those was Henri Wille, who’d learned of the abduction by telephone and had assigned himself to the team sent to locate them.

“They were a nice couple,” Henri said, shortly after meeting Spyri for the first time.

“We’re doing our best,” Spyri said. “Maybe we’ll find them.”

By now every officer in the region was on the lookout for the young couple or anything of a suspicious nature that might lead to them. But without more information, without an address, or even a part of the city in which to focus, there was little hope they would be found.

Henri drew a deep breath. “Sometimes miracles happened.”

Just then Spyri’s cell phone rang.

21

Frank Renkin drew a sharp breath at hearing the news. When he could speak, he said, “Are we certain it was them?”

“Regretfully, yes,” Yates said. “There is no doubt.”

“Any luck?”

“The local police located the van that was used but have absolutely no idea where they were taken. I hold myself responsible for this. I never imagined that something like this could happen.”

“Who would do this? Is it a street crime of some type?”

“In Geneva? In front of UNOG? Hardly. No, I’m afraid we must conclude that it is a result of whatever it is they were investigating. It’s very troubling.”

“How would anyone know who they were? Or that they were at UNOG? Or for that matter, what they were working on? This information has all been tightly held.”

“Yes, it is another reason why I’m so deeply distressed. It suggests we have a leak of some kind. I can’t think of any other scenario that fits. Mr. Aiken was kidnapped within one day of arriving in Geneva. All he did was sleep at his hotel and work at UNOG. Yet someone knew who he was, presumably what he was up to, and was able to snatch him. And Dr. Haugen, who was with him.”

“That all seems a bit of a stretch,” Frank said. “This could be completely unrelated.”

“I believe we must assume my analysis is correct until we learn more. I don’t see any other alternative. It seems to me that whenever we deal with the UN it leaks like a bloody sieve. I hardly know where to start.”

Frank thought a moment, then said, “Maybe our leak isn’t someone, but something.”

There was a pause. “You’re suggesting that our system is penetrated beyond this most recent incident?”

“Not yours, but perhaps UNOG’s.”

Yates seemed to moan. “I hope that isn’t true. I’ll request their IT people get on it.”

“They’ll be in ass-covering mode.” Frank wondered if the Brits used that expression.

“Yes, they most certainly will,” Yates answered, and Frank could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll have to see how much pressure Her Majesty’s government can bring to bear. I’ll inform you of any developments as soon as I learn of them. I know you were friends with them both.”

They worked on the latest version of Project Elephant, publicly known as Stuxnet, Frank wanted to say. Elephant was the most secret project Frank had ever participated in. He and his counterpart in the Israeli Mossad had established the framework for the work and over the years it had gone well. No more than twenty software engineers knew everything and they served primarily as coordinators. Each aspect of Elephant had been parceled out to trusted individuals to write a specific portion of code. The control center was responsible for bringing it all together and arranging its release.

The first version was known in-house as Trunk. Once it was identified it had been given the name Stuxnet by the cyber security world and in the media. Version two of Elephant was known as Ear. It was publicly called Dugu. Now the third variant, Tusk, was out. When identified, Frank suspected it would be known as Stuxnet3, though it might receive an entirely different public name.

Somewhere in Israel, a team of bright boys and girls was projecting Project Elephant into the future, keeping it well ahead of the response curve. More versions were under development, a seemingly endless stream from what Frank could tell. No one knew with certainty where it would all end. For now, Project Elephant was carefully controlled and target specific. But the same system could be used by those less cautious. When that happened, the digital equivalent of an atomic bomb would be unleashed with devastating consequences.

Jeff and Daryl were the brightest. They’d asked no questions though he had no doubt they knew what they were working on. But what they knew paled when compared to how much they could conjecture based on what they’d seen. You have no idea how important getting them back is, Frank thought. But he could say none of this.

Frank disconnected with a sinking heart. “Were,” Yates had said. They were dead already in the Brit’s mind.

Frank gritted his teeth. After a moment he left his office and went in search of Agnes Edinfield. He discovered her in a meeting. What else? Frank thought. Meetings were first and foremost the Company’s cottage industry.

Thirty minutes later, a tired-looking Edinfield emerged from the room, clutching a sheath of papers. She spotted Frank. “The Iranians are causing trouble all over the place,” she said to him. “More evidence they’re funneling weapons and money to Hezbollah. What’s up?”

Frank moved to the side of the hallway out of earshot and said, “Jeff Aiken and Daryl Haugen have been kidnapped in Geneva.”

Edinfield processed the information with a slight frown, then said, “They were still working on the OW bug?”

“Right. They’d traced it to a computer at UNOG. Daryl flew to Geneva and they’ve been working there. I had a video conference with them about it. They told me that they were nearly finished.”

“What did they learn?”

“We believe the signs point to China. The British Foreign Office reports a penetration. The virus uses a bug in OfficeWorks that lets it get into a system when a user opens an infected document. We got lucky because a glitch in the virus caused OfficeWorks to crash, which alerted the Foreign Office IT staff.”

“How about our end?”

“I’m still a day or two away from issuing an in-house alert. We want to really nail this thing first. We’ve reported the OfficeWorks flaw and notified US-CERT, of course.” This was the operational arm of the National Cyber Security Division. Its primary objective was to create a strategic framework to prevent cyber-attacks against the U.S. computer infrastructure. The actual solution to the flaw would come from the company that made OfficeWorks.

Still, countless millions of computers would remain unprotected until the patch fixing the flaw was rolled out, something that could take a week or more. And then many IT staffs would delay applying it until they’d tested it, meaning that it could be a month or two before the door this cyber-attack used was even partially closed.

“Has this thing infected our networks?” Edinfield asked.

“We don’t know yet. About Jeff and Daryl…”

Edinfield looked embarrassed for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. That should have been my first question. Have they been located?”

“No. A search is under way.”

“What was it? Some kind of street crime?”

“They were abducted by three men just after leaving the UNOG building. It appears to have been planned.”

Edinfield paused before continuing. “You’re suggesting it has something to do with their work at UNOG.”

“We can’t dismiss the possibility. We’ve reached a time when experts like Daryl and Jeff are no longer immune to physical violence.”

She seemed to recall something just then. “They weren’t working for us, were they?”

“No. The British Foreign office hired them.”

“Could there be a connection back to us?”

Oh yes, Frank thought. “They were working on this thing that potentially involves China, Iran, and the UN report on Iran’s nuclear program. It’s not my area of expertise, but my understanding is that the major powers will take military action if that report says they are about to detonate a nuclear device.”

Frank paused to gather his thoughts, then continued. “As I say, it’s not my area but let’s accept that Iran is about to do just that — that is, detonate an atomic bomb, with all that means to the world. Let’s say they only need just a little bit of time. If they can sabotage this report, delay UNOG issuing it or prevent the UN from speaking with a clear voice, then they’ll buy valuable time.”

“That sounds very speculative.”

“Not so much, actually. The existence of this Trojan and the changes in the UNOG report suggests there’s something to it. Now the team uncovering and tracing the virus has been abducted, right under the noses of the United Nations.”

Edinfield nodded. “I get your point. One interpretation is that Iran is about ready to explode a nuclear bomb. That’s consistent with the reports I’ve been reading.”

Frank cleared his throat. “There is a bit more you should know. Some months ago, their company — meaning Daryl and Jeff — performed work for Frontline Integrated Systems on Project Tusk. They spent about three months locating zero day vulnerabilities in Android’s wireless services, WiFi, and Bluetooth. This was contract work for the Company. It was segregated so they don’t know what project they were working on but they’ve been around. They know it was for us.”

“How important is the work they did?”

Frank hesitated, then decided to tell her. “Crucial.” He instinctively lowered his voice. “I can’t say the name, Agnes, not without clearance, but think about it. I will say the project directly relates to what we were just talking about.”

“Relax, Frank. I’ve not been briefed but I’ve heard rumors about Stuxnet3; even heard the word Tusk related to it. I get the picture. This is really bad. Really bad. Do you think that is why they were abducted?”

“I have no idea but we have to recognize the possibility.”

“I agree. We need to get them back and safe. I’ll do what I can, Frank. Thank you.”

22

Once Karim left to return the van, Ahmed told Ali to go into the abandoned shop and work area facing the street. “Find a dark place. Be certain you are not observed,” he said. “Any patrolling officer knows this building is unoccupied and if you are seen he will be immediately suspicious. But if a patrol car stops or you see officers on foot, I want to be warned.” Ali nodded, then went into the front room. He was a good man and Ahmed was confident he’d be careful.

He looked back at the prisoners. They appeared calm, sitting on the concrete floor, near the far wall, too frightened to speak from what Ahmed could see. Now he considered exactly what he would do if Ali burst into this backroom with word the police were outside. He’d been taught to plan ahead. Focus on the task at hand but always know what to do next.

Shooting their way clear would be futile and was against orders. He smiled. No, he’d cut the prisoners loose and pretend they were old friends having a visit. The police would not believe it, of course, and the Americans would give a different version but a lawyer could make something of it in court. At the least, it would be better than finding them tied.

With this in mind he took a few minutes to improve their appearance, adjusting clothing, straightening hair. The man said nothing but the woman told him to, as she put it, “Go to hell and keep your hands to yourself!”

Next, Ahmed set the room in order. Afterward he cleaned himself up in the bathroom, then made the room even more presentable. As he worked, Jeff and Daryl exchanged looks of concern and confusion. It seemed an odd time for housekeeping but anything that delayed the next step Jeff considered a positive.

Ahmed took a seat and waited. After a bit there was a gentle rap at the door. He rose and admitted Karim into the room. “Any trouble?”

Karim shook his head. His jacket was wet, and water dripped from his nose. “It’s been raining. It just stopped. I don’t think anyone saw me walking. And I took a long way.”

“Good. Watch the prisoners but say nothing.”

Karim nodded in reply as he crossed his arms and assumed a position by the door.

Based on the messages he’d received, Ahmed knew the man was a computer expert of some kind. He didn’t look like it, not at all, but Ahmed accepted what he’d been told. He was fit, almost like an athlete. He appeared nothing like the computer types Ahmed knew in Prague.

Ahmed had no idea why Hamid cared about the man but he’d been instructed to find out what he was doing in UNOG. In part icular, he wanted to know of any progress he’d made. He’d been given no instructions about what to do with him in time but since his orders had been to kill him if abduction wasn’t possible he didn’t doubt what that would be. They’d not been told to wear masks. Once drained of information, once Hamid was satisfied, the outcome was inevitable.

His instructions had made no mention of a woman. It didn’t matter. He’d taken her because he couldn’t leave a witness behind. He assumed initially that she was someone the man had met in UNOG, perhaps an employee there, but her passport said she was an American and her address was the same as the man’s. A wife? A girlfriend? Perhaps a colleague as well.

Ahmed decided on a direct approach. They didn’t appear to be trained agents and this was the simplest way to find out if they were. He’d not laid a hand on either of them except for what was necessary to take them from the street and to bind them. There was time for violence later.

“Mr. Aiken, what work do you do?” he asked quietly.

“Why don’t you go to hell?” Daryl snapped.

Ahmed smiled. Now there’s a fierce one, he thought, wondering for an instant how he could use that to his advantage. “I was speaking to the gentleman.”

“I know who you were talking to. Turn us loose. Now!”

Ahmed smiled. This was absurd. Is that what American women were like? Ordering men about? Demanding they perform? It explained a great deal if that was the case. “You must be silent or I will be forced to gag you again. It is not pleasant. Movies make it look as if it is nothing but we know otherwise, don’t we?” The idea was to form a bond with them, as strange as that seemed. Given time — though Ahmed doubted they had enough — the captives would become friends, or at least very friendly.

“Don’t tell me what I know and don’t know! You people are criminals and the police are going to catch you, so you might as well turn us loose and get out of here. You haven’t much time. The police are searching for us everywhere right now!” Daryl glared at Ahmed.

“It’s all right,” Jeff said. “There’s no reason not to answer his questions. We have nothing to hide.” Tusk, he thought. I hope they don’t know about our work on Tusk.

Daryl gave Jeff a withering look but said nothing. While she’d had Ahmed’s attention Jeff had searched the floor behind him for something, anything, and came up with what felt like part of a drill bit, or at least a fragment of hard metal. With it he’d begun methodically working on the knots binding his wrists. Now he stopped as the mustached man was looking directly at him. “I’m a computer security technician,” Jeff said. It occurred to him that it might be possible to keep Daryl out of this.

“What are you doing for the United Nations?”

“A computer virus was sent by someone at UNOG to an office in Britain.” Jeff could think of no reason to mention the UK Foreign Office until necessary. “I was locating it and fixing the problems it created.”

Ahmed wrinkled his forward. “Surely, UNOG has people who can do that.”

“It’s a very sophisticated virus and it’s new. I’m a specialist. It took some effort to discover it and determine its properties,” Jeff said.

“Still, it makes no sense to spend so much money. And why would Britain use Americans? They also have people for such work,” Ahmed said. This had to be CIA. He could think of no other answer. Abducting this man, the priority given the assignment, now made sense.

Daryl sighed as if Ahmed were stupid. “It had the potential of causing a great deal of harm. You understand that, don’t you?”

“You do this work as well?” He already suspected as much about the woman.

“Go to hell,” Daryl said.

Ahmed stopped for a moment. This was remarkable. He’d never encountered a woman like this before. He wondered if she were mentally deranged in some way. Either that or she failed to understand what was taking place.

“You found this virus, then?” he said to Jeff. “And fixed the problems?”

“We found it,” Jeff said. “We were nearly finished here and planning to leave soon.”

Jeff eyed Ahmed. He had no idea how rough this was going to get. These were clearly men capable of greater violence than they’d already demonstrated. He just wondered what it would take to convince the mustached man and didn’t like where that thought took him.

Ahmed nodded. “I see.” He drew a packet from his pocket and lit a cigarette, realizing as he did that he’d made the woman even angrier. Perhaps if I blow smoke in her face she’ll cooperate, he thought.

He stood smoking, wondering what else to ask. The man’s answers were straightforward enough. Finally, he told Karim to watch carefully while he went outside.

In the backyard, rain dripped from the overarching trees. Ahmed pulled an unused cell phone from his pocket and turned it on. When ready, he punched in the number. After several seconds a voice came on, sounding very much like Hamid, but you could never be certain.

“We have him and a woman who I think is a colleague working with him,” Ahmed said in English. The American eavesdropping computers were programmed to focus on Farsi, he’d been taught.

“Problems?”

“No. All is well so far.” He told him what he’d learned.

“So they found it and a fix is under way?”

“That is what he says. I think it is likely the truth.”

“That is unfortunate. We just didn’t move fast enough. All right, so be it. Use whatever means you require to confirm the information. They may be misleading you. Just make certain they are not lying.”

“All right.”

“If there is a change in the story, let me know.”

“What am I to do when finished?”

“It isn’t decided but they will not be released, obviously. He is valuable so take care of him. Do the same with the woman. For now it may be enough to keep them away, especially if they’ve lied to you. There is something more. I am sending you a photograph, a name, and a home address.” He told Ahmed what he wanted done. “For the couple, move to the next stage. Learn what they know of the virus they were working on and who else knows about it. Be certain.”

When the call was finished, Ahmed took the phone apart and removed the SIM card. The phone itself he broke up and scattered into the shrubbery in the rear of the lot. As for the card, he glanced about, then went to the patch of dirt where the key had been concealed under the flat stone. He broke the card with a rock, then pushed it deep into the soft, moist soil and smoothed the surface.

Unlike some he knew, Ahmed had never enjoyed torture. It was occasionally necessary and his instructor had carefully taught him how to use it to best effect. He looked heavenward into the cloudy sky. He heard the sound of a jet landing not far away, the slight sound of distant traffic. There was the lightest sprinkling of rain against his face. For a moment, he thought of home, of his sister whose wedding he had missed. He sighed and flipped his cigarette to the damp ground.

Inside, Jeff rubbed the metal against the cord steadily, careful to give nothing away. What he feared most was dropping it, certain the sound would be noticed. Whatever he had — he thought it a broken drill bit — it cut into his fingers. He pushed the pain out of his mind, telling himself not much longer. He could feel the wet of his blood.

The problem was what to do once his hands were free. His feet were still tied. He’d tried to communicate what was happening to Daryl and thought he’d succeeded but she was now ignoring him. That’s what she’d do if she understood, but also if she had no idea what his facial expressions had meant.

The heavy door creaked open and in stepped their interrogator. Jeff stopped. This one with the mustache was much cleverer than the other two, and far more observant. He watched Ahmed speak to the man guarding them, then nod toward Daryl. The big man went to the woman, grabbed her by her shoulders, jerked her from the wall, sitting her upright.

Ahmed looked on, then squatted in front of Jeff. “Mr. Aiken, I must determine if you have told me the truth. It is necessary. I do not wish to harm you or the woman but…” He shrugged.

“I have told you the truth,” Jeff said quickly, trying desperately to stop what he knew was coming. “If there is anything else you want to know, just ask. Neither of us has any reason to lie to you. Just don’t… don’t hurt her. Ask me. Please.”

Ahmed stared at Jeff for a moment. A man of considerable courage, he thought, though he has yet to be tested. “I understand,” he said.

Ahmed rose, went to the bag, and removed an unused heavy plastic shopping bag. He carefully unfolded it, then went to Daryl and stood behind her. She craned her neck to look back at him. Jeff started to shout, then was dumbstruck as in a single practiced motion Ahmed slipped the bag over Daryl’s head, cinching it tightly around her neck.

Daryl shrieked. It was the most frightening sound Jeff ever heard. The bag muffled the sound only slightly. Ahmed stood behind Daryl, holding her head in the vise of his two hands while the other man held her strongly by her shoulders.

“What else have you to add?” Ahmed asked Jeff.

“Stop it!” Jeff shouted. “Stop it! I’ve told you everything!” His hands were all but free. “You’re killing her.”

Daryl was no longer making a sound. Instead, she sucked air hard now, the heavy plastic moving back and forth in front of her mouth.

“No, Mr. Aiken. You are killing her with your lies.”

“What do you want?” Jeff shouted. “Just tell me. I’ll say it. Tell me what you want to hear!”

“The truth. That is all. Are you really finished with your work? Truly?”

Daryl was slapping her legs against the concrete floor. The men held her fiercely. The plastic before her mouth was going back and forth more rapidly. Jeff worked the bit furiously, the pain now so sharp he could no longer ignore it.

Just at that moment Ali hurried into the room. “Police outside,” he said.

“Did they see you?” Ahmed asked.

“No.”

“Let’s look. Karim, watch them.” Then mercifully, he pulled the bag from Daryl’s head. “You two be quiet or we kill you at once. There will be no rescue.” Ahmed and Ali went into the next room.

The man released Daryl and she toppled to her side, taking deep breaths, her face bathed in sweat. Jeff looked at the man who was eyeing him steadily as if he knew something.

Ali led Ahmed down a short hallway, then to his watching spot and pointed. It was a good location, deep in the shadows. A patrol car was stopped across the street, the engine still running. The lone officer inside was looking at his lap, as if writing something. The men watched patiently, unmoving. Finally, the car eased slowly away.

“Stay here,” Ahmed said. He turned to go back into the rear room just as he heard noise come from down the hallway, on the other side of the door.

The moment the mustached man had left the room, Jeff freed his hands. He’d given Daryl an affirmative look. She was still breathing deeply and he feared she was too distracted to help. Instead she said, “You there. I’m thirsty. Give me some water.”

Karim shook his head as if he spoke no English.

“Water,” she said slowly. She licked her lips. “Thirsty.”

The man nodded in comprehension, then looked about. Spotting the carry bag he reached inside and came out with an unopened plastic bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap, then went to Daryl, leaned down, straightened her to a sitting position, then placed the bottle to her lips.

With his hands, Jeff pushed himself erect as Daryl butted the man with her head. Jeff dove at Karim and knocked him over. The man fell hard. Jeff sat on the floor, grabbed at the cord holding his ankles together, and was able with some effort to sweep it off his feet, taking his shoes with it. On his feet he lunged at Karim before he had a chance to get up and struck him hard across the jaw. Just as he turned to Daryl, the door to the other room opened.

“Run, Jeff. Run. Now!” Daryl said. “Get help!”

Jeff hesitated, looked at her in desperation, then turned to the heavy door and pushed it open. Ali was on him in a flash but Jeff had the door open and was outside. Ali came after him, dragging his arm, and shouting in a foreign language. Jeff turned and punched him in the face as hard as he could, striking him directly on his nose. The man cried out and released him.

Jeff turned to his right and fled in his thin socks down the narrow pathway into the street. Quickly orienting himself he spotted a busy street not far away and began running toward it, expecting the sound of a gunshot any second but none came. When he looked back, the street was empty.

For a crazy second, Jeff thought to return to rescue Daryl. But he didn’t have a prayer of success against three armed men. So he turned and ran for all he was worth down the middle of Avenue de Vaudagne to the Route de Meyrin, praying he could find help in time at this time of night.

His socks were quickly worn away, then the skin of his feet. He sprinted. Running harder than he’d ever run in his life, praying this was the right choice.