Zero Day

32

Ivana Koskov listened intently to her earphones, then said into the microphone, “The port terminals must have a significantly increased capacity on the Pacific Coast in order for us to…”

Listening to her steady voice was Boris Velichkovsky, the managing director for resource development and logistics for Yukos Oil and Gas Company, the largest oil company in Russia. He’d once served as deputy Soviet ambassador to the United Nations and preferred this method of translation in business meetings, where the various translators sat in another room, separated by a one-way mirror. One was assigned to each foreign speaker in attendance and was responsible for both translating from Russian into the foreign language, and from the foreign language back into Russian.

Ivana was highly proficient in English and Italian and was working hard on her French. Next would be Spanish, of which she had only a rudimentary understanding. She’d been hired for this job shortly after the former Yukos CEO, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, had been sentenced to nine years in prison for tax evasion. It was widely understood that his true crime had been to build the enormously wealthy Yukos from the corpse of the old Soviet Union, then fail to cut in the Russian president and his minions. Now he was paying the price.

Ivana had never met Khodorkovsky. Few in the company ever spoke of him. It was as if he’d never existed. But that was Russia, she’d told her husband. Czars, Party chairmen, presidents, it was all the same. The powerful all seemed to vanish in the night, to disappear as totally as if they’d never existed at all. Ivana’s mother had told her of working in the old Ministry of Propaganda, cutting photographs of the vanished from archived newspapers.

Now the Texan was speaking. She seamlessly switched into Russian, glancing at her watch. It would soon be five. She couldn’t see this meeting lasting much longer. Velichkovsky would want to start the eating and drinking soon enough. Only after everyone had been lubricated with bottles of vodka would the real haggling and deal making take place. This was, as Velichkovsky had once told her with a lecherous grin, just so much foreplay.

This had also been the same time he’d suggested a significant promotion would be hers if she’d just join him on a foreign trip and see to his every need. His last traveling mistress had done well for herself, he’d pointed out. Ivana had been firm in her rejection and expected to be punished, but he’d just laughed, patted her good-naturedly on the back, and called her his хорошая девочка, his “good girl.”

The years of marriage to Vladimir had been demanding, far more demanding than her young heart had ever imagined. In many ways her father had been right in his advice, and she’d come to understand he’d spoken out of love for her rather than a dislike of Vladimir. She’d labored at one menial job after another, usually two or three at a time, to support them. Finally, she’d taken a job cleaning the offices of Interport, Inc., one of the new American companies that had set up business in Moscow.

The company, concerned with security, had supervised all the cleaning and maintenance staff with one of their own, a good-natured third-generation Russian Jew from New York, named Annie. “Actually it’s Anastasya,” she’d said when they first met, “but only my grandmother calls me that.”

Over the following months, the two women had grown quite close. Annie came to respect Ivana and her self-sacrifice enormously. “You can’t keep cleaning rooms,” she told her. “You’ll turn into one of those stooping old women.” When she’d learned that Ivana spoke fluent Italian and Spanish and had studied English in school, she’d immediately switched to English and, when talking to her, drilled Ivana repeatedly whenever she mispronounced a word. Within six months she announced, “You’re good enough to interpret if you want. I could recommend you.”

“Oh, no. I make too many mistakes.” The thought of the better pay as an interpreter excited her, but she was self-conscious of her remaining errors when speaking English.

“Don’t be silly. You should hear the cow they’re using now.”

The new job had lasted less than a year before the American company closed its doors, deciding the cost of doing business in Russia was more than it wanted to pay. By then, Ivana’s English was nearly colloquial, and she’d been recommended for the job at Yukos.

Ivana considered herself lucky. Her petite, firm body still reflected the years of ballet training she’d put in before giving it up for Vladimir. If her smile was reluctant, it could be dazzling in effect. Though a pessimist by nature, she viewed herself as a realist. Russians had never had a break. It was their fate. To expect anything different was stupidity. The best they could hope for was a small niche of comfort and a measure of uncertain security.

Though the cramped apartment and the often noisy building was beginning to wear on her, Vladimir gave her the most concern. She marveled at how he’d managed to crawl out of his hole of despair and find a new life for himself with computers. These past months he’d started making significant money, and she was sure they’d be moving as soon as she could find a suitable apartment.

But the more success Vladimir enjoyed, the greater his ego had grown. At times she considered it to be out of control. He could be unbearable in his arrogance. Then there were his employers. She knew he’d worked for a time with the Russian Mafia, but she was certain he’d stopped. Yet when he’d been offered a job by more than one legitimate company, he’d refused them all. When she’d suggested her speaking to Boris Velichkovsky on his behalf, he’d become enraged and accused her of sleeping with her boss. She’d stood her ground and forced him to apologize for the remark, threatening to leave him until he did.

But she could tolerate his arrogance. She saw it as a form of compensation for his disability, and she could continue to stand it, if only they had a child. For all the negatives of life, even in the so-called New Russia, what was the point, she’d told her mother, of living if you didn’t have a family?

33

Fajer al Dawar checked his appearance in the mirror at his suite in the Paris Ritz hotel. Forty-five years old, of average height and build, he took great pride in his jet-black hair. His unusually fair skin was also a source of satisfaction to him, but he never spoke about it to his swarthy brothers. He ran a comb through his hair, patted a lock into place, then laid the counts down as he once again admired his figure in the new Armani suit.

As CEO of the Franco-Arabe Chimique Compagnie, Fajer made trips to Paris two or three times a year. At home he was a Muslim traditionalist, with two wives, though in the West he only spoke of his first. When he’d married, his father, from whom he’d inherited his enormous fortune, had taken him aside to talk. “An Arab of means should have the four wives the Prophet has promised, but no more. The first should be a woman you can hang on your arm in the West, but who also accepts her place. With the other three, you are free to choose as you wish, for no one will see them but your family. My advice is to marry once every ten years. That way you always have a young wife for your bed and to bring you children. Because they are so far apart, you will not have the jealousy problems others who are less careful in their planning face every day, to their regret.”

Fajer believed his father, though he also despised him. The first son of the second wife, Fajer had seen the philosophy of wife-taking in action, and though, from his experience, it didn’t work quite as well as his father had indicated, it was one of Allah’s gifts to man. In all, his father had fifteen children, six of them sons. Fajer’s mother had existed in the shadow of the first wife and taught Fajer from the first that she and he were but second-class family members. She had filled him with an anger he’d learned to conceal, but was the source of his ambition.

While in Riyadh, Fajer was publicly a strict Muslim, but those demands dropped away, though not without some ambivalence, the moment his private jet left Arab airspace. He enjoyed his Irish whiskey and the freer lifestyle of France, and he enjoyed enormously the statuesque blondes, available by the score at what was to him little cost.

As he rode the elevator down to the hotel lobby, Fajer considered once again his mixed feelings. He honestly did not know if he could survive without these periodic trips that served as a release from the orchestrated, oppressive life in Riyadh. As he’d come to recognize them for the safety valve they were in his life, he looked to his uncles who had never gone to the West. Each of them seemed to him a bit odd, even mentally ill. Could it be true that to submit to Allah, as Fajer had been taught, was ultimately not possible? Not, at least, and keep your sanity? Perhaps this was a symptom of the West’s current subjugation of the Muslim world, something that would change when the new Muslim age began. But such was not his lot, and for that he was grateful, if torn. The pressure would build in the weeks leading up to these trips, but knowing he would soon step into his Lear made it bearable. Now he was here and he hadn’t felt this lighthearted, this free, since his last trip.

To assuage his guilt, Fajer told himself these excursions were necessary. He had to present himself as he did to conduct business in the West. He had to act Western, had to fit in with foreign businessmen. If he took pleasure from the experience, he should not condemn himself for it.

In the lobby bar of the Paris Ritz, Fajer found his brother Labib al Dawar waiting, engaged in polite conversation with a British businessman Fajer had met once. “Join us,” the florid-faced Brit said as he approached.

“Thank you, but Labib and I have an engagement.” Fajer smiled at his younger brother, who looked as if he needed to be rescued. The businessman accepted the inevitable and excused himself.

“What was that about?” Fajer asked.

“Money. What else? They think we Arabs carry gold bars around in our pockets,” his brother said.

They stepped into the late-night air. It was much cooler now than it had been during the day. Fajer thought for a moment that no city on earth was more beautiful than Paris at night. Darkness masked its few shortcomings as a metropolis, and the city was lit as if for a Hollywood production. The driver opened the door and the two men stepped into the black Mercedes. The heavy car pulled away from the hotel, hesitated, then merged with traffic. A moment later it descended into the same tunnel where Princess Diana had died.

Labib was the second son of their father’s fourth wife. In Saudi families the sons of different mothers didn’t usually bond, but their mothers were cousins who had often visited one another during their childhood. Labib had always looked up to his older brother; when asked to join him in this venture, he’d been thrilled to be included.

While Fajer handled the company’s affairs in the Kingdom, as Saudi Arabia was known, Labib had established the corporate presence in Paris. He’d lived here now for six years and had grown quite comfortable among the French. His wife loved Paris, and their son was thriving in school.

Though Fajer looked very much like their father, Labib, at age thirty-seven, closely resembled his mother. An inch shorter than his brother, he was slender, with a nearly effeminate grace. He’d lost his fourth finger on his left hand in a camel-riding accident with Fajer when they were children, but otherwise was a perfect Arab specimen. He’d earned a degree in computer science at Harvard and had originally worked with his brother as IT manager for the company in Riyadh.

Close as they were, the brothers were different in many ways. Fajer tended to the ostentatious when in the West, and his sexual appetite was nearly insatiable. Labib preferred to live a quiet life, with one woman, and avoided all overt displays of wealth. But they shared much in common. Both hated their father, despised the corrupt Saudi ruling family, and believed the future of the Arab world lay in a return to the old ways and a restoration of the caliphate as the world’s dominant power. Both of them wanted nothing so much as the destruction of America to make that possible.

“And how are things, little brother?” Fajer asked in Arabic. The driver was Polish, so they could speak frankly.

“I believe we will get the contract.”

“Not that. The other.”

Labib glanced at the driver a moment. “It has gone as planned so far. I see no problems.”

“There are always problems, or, at the least, there is the unexpected.”

“Fresh code is going out every day. We’ve confirmed replication. It’s really only a question of how far it spreads before activation, and that we can’t discover in advance without tipping our hand.”

Fajer smiled. “I can hardly wait until the day comes. I will be home in the Kingdom. I suggest you return as well. We will be safe there. Nothing else?”

“No.” Labib stared out the window.

Fajer could sense his uncertainty. “Tell me. Is it the Russian?”

The idea had been spawned high in a remote valley in the Hejaz Mountains near the western coast of Saudi Arabia. There Fajer had long maintained a traditional tribal settlement of about eighty people. Several times a year, especially during the torturous summer, Fajer flew by helicopter to this remote region and lived in a tent, as had his forebears. Here he renewed his ties to the earth and to the traditional ways of his tribe.

These included slaughtering a goat or sheep. He’d learned to cut the throat in the prescribed way, to drain the blood as specified, then to skin the animal before turning it over to the women. He found he took great pleasure in killing.

One of the elderly men, a fighter from the old days, had spoken to him one night about the blade and how a sword or knife were the only true weapons for any desert Arab. Firearms were used of necessity, but a true Arab warrior fought with the blade, close to his enemy where he could see the life drain from the body of the slain.

Fajer had been deeply moved. Later, the old man had given him a knife, a shafra, of old construction. “It has taken the blood of many infidels,” the nearly toothless man had said as he pressed it into Fajer’s hand. “You must use it in jihad.”

The handle of the shafra was of white pearl, the seven-inch steel blade turned down in Arab fashion. It was meant to be worn in a sheath in the small of the back as a reserve or secret weapon. The next morning, Fajer had donned the knife. Now he was never without it.

He was so moved by his many experiences at this desert encampment that he had selected a future wife from among the people. Though she was not yet ten years of age, when the time was right, he would wed his third wife in a traditional tribal ceremony, planning to leave their children among her people, wanting them to be raised free of the temptations and contamination to which he’d been exposed as a child.

Eight years earlier, Fajer had taken Labib to the settlement for the first time. Beside a dying fire, within the comfort of his people, staring into an ebony sky with stars sparkling like tiny diamonds, Fajer first shared his vision of the future.

“We have turned away from the Prophet, the Merciful. Our punishment has been to see our people seduced by the West. The greatest curse ever given us has been oil. Because of it the West has conquered and divided us. Otherwise they would have left us at peace.”

“I understand. We are but two men. What can we do?” Labib had asked.

It was the first moment it had occurred to Fajer that his brother was with him. He had felt alone until this moment. “The Prophet was but one when he began. With two, we can level mountains. Tell me of this education you have from the American university. I know very little about Americans.”

The brothers had talked far into that night and several nights to follow. During the days they had hunted wild game and flown their falcons. “This,” Fajer said more than once, “is the life we Arabs were meant to live.”

But the men had done nothing but complain until the attack on the World Trade Center. Fajer had called his brother and told him to turn the television to CNN International. They were talking by telephone as they watched the two towers fall.

“Allahu Akbar! Allah is greater!” Fajer had exclaimed. “Allah be praised!”

They had been convinced that this was the beginning of something great and watched the news each day with anticipation. But as the Americans had driven the Taliban out of power in Afghanistan, then invaded Iraq, as they had harassed the followers of Osama bin Laden around the world, Fajer had lapsed into a deep depression. The West was winning again. The previous summer the two brothers had met in the Hejaz Mountains, where Fajer had expressed his loss of faith.

“Osama cannot do it alone. The American forces are too strong. We are weak, and getting weaker. It has all been for nothing.”

Labib then spoke to his brother about thoughts that he had long kept to himself. “It is true that the West is corrupt and evil. But it is also true America and its allies have an enormous industrial base capable of overwhelming us in battle. Their one great ability is to build weapons, and their single greatest strength is their absolute willingness to use those weapons against anyone they consider to be an enemy.

“In the last half century they have expanded their industrial base far beyond what it once was. They have pursued their policy of creating one world under their polytheistic, hedonistic rule. To accomplish that, they have connected their means of production worldwide, but nowhere is that connection more firm than within the United States. Banks, manufacturing, national defense, government—everything is linked through computers, and the computers are connected through the Internet.” Labib explained how this worked, then told his older brother his idea.

Fajer had slowly become excited, then ecstatic. “Can it truly be done? This is not just idle talk?”

“It can be done. What we cannot know in advance is how devastating it will be. But if we plan it carefully, I believe we can cause enormous harm that will shake Western beliefs. I think we can do enough damage so that the antiwar sentiment in America will grow sufficiently to change their course of action. We can put them on the defensive, cause them to withdraw from the lands of the Prophet, the Merciful. It will be the beginning of the great Muslim Restoration.”

“Then we must do it, little brother. We must do it!”

And so they had, keeping their effort almost to themselves as they did not trust others.

“It is not the Russian, not directly,” Labib said finally. “There is something else.”

“Yes?”

“We monitor certain sites for signs that we have been discovered. It is passive monitoring so we give nothing away.”

“Very wise. You have found something?”

“Yes. A message was posted asking for information by anyone about a hacker known as Superphreak.”

Fajer had not heard the name previously. “Yes?”

“That is our Russian.”

Fajer’s eyes lit for an instant. “How could anyone know that name?”

“It must be in the code.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When hackers create new code, they often use bits and pieces of old code that have worked in the past. They see no reason to reinvent it. I think our Russian took old code that had his cyber name in it, without knowing it, probably.”

“I thought he was ordered to leave no trail,” Fajer said.

“He was.”

“He’s been very careless.”

“Yes,” Labib agreed, “careless. But it is too late to stop it. The act is already in motion. What is done, is done. Even if we were to agree to stop or delay it, we cannot. If it is beyond our power, it is beyond anyone else’s too.”

Fajer considered that a moment. “I suppose. Tell me all you learn as you learn it.”

“Of course.”

34

As Jeff waited for his laptop to boot, he thought back on his work for Fischerman, Platt & Cohen. He’d been at it now almost two weeks, and from his point of view he had nothing to give them. He’d learned a great deal about the two viruses that infected their system, but his attempts to find and boot a clean image had been a failure. He knew more since the last effort, but he could give neither Sue nor Greene any assurance that he could rid the contaminated backup files of either virus, or if he did, that a third, or fourth, wasn’t still lurking somewhere in the data.

He was conflicted about what to do next. On the one hand, the firm needed him to be successful, and the information he was learning and passing along to Daryl might be vital in helping other companies under similar attack. It might even prove useful in thwarting further ones.

But that wasn’t what Greene was paying Jeff to do. He’d spoken earlier with the harried lawyer, and the man had presented a pretty unpleasant picture of what was taking place within the firm. Work wasn’t getting done, clients were jumping ship, a few of the newest hires had already resigned, and no new work of any kind was being signed. Worst of all, the cash flow had all but stopped. Unless Jeff could present a realistic prospect of recovery, he felt he had no business collecting any more of his fee. If he stopped, however, the firm would go under because no one else could do a better job.

And this had another component, one he’d rather not admit to. Memories he’d long suppressed were crowding his consciousness, breaking down the barriers he’d erected around him. In many ways the work at the New York law firm was similar to what he’d done at the old CIA. He’d worn his failure to avert the 9/11 disaster, and save Cynthia’s life, like an invisible yoke around his neck, and now that same sense of failure was weighing down on him again, threatening to derail the pathetically small sense of emotional security he’d won for himself since that horrific day.

I can’t go through that again, he thought, I can’t fail this time too. Maybe I can’t save the company that hired me, but the help I’m giving Daryl might accomplish something I wasn’t able to do before. This is much more than just another job, he suddenly realized. Buoyed by the understanding he was given something rare in life, a second chance, Jeff turned to his work with renewed energy.

Once the computer was running, Jeff sat at the desk in his room and launched a search for hacker chat rooms, recognizing several from his search earlier that week and even some from back to his CIA days, when trolling hacker chat rooms had been his late-night “hobby.” He scrolled through the various chat rooms, searching for the words superphreak and kinky, or any other reference to Rick James. Nothing.

Then, shortly before eleven o’clock, he entered the h@xx0rd chat room. He’d glanced at the chat room a time or two before and knew that foreign hackers liked it, but hadn’t previously seen anything that interested him. This time, though, as he scanned down the page, scrolling as needed, he was pulled up short. He read:

Jeff felt the hair on his neck bristle.

After that Godder disappeared, as did Dante. Jeff considered posting a message but decided against it. Better to watch and learn. He opened his ICQ and saw Daryl was online. He typed:

There was a long pause before she answered.

Then she wrote:

35

Fajer al Dawar lit yet another cigarette, then moved to the balcony of the Ritz suite. From his coat pocket he removed a prepaid cell phone. He had committed the number to memory. As he listened to the ringing, he thought back to the moment he had found jihad.

The man called Yousef al-Halim leaned over to exit through the doorway of the house in the center of Old Town in Peshawar. The city was not only the capital but the largest in the North-West Frontier Province in Pakistan. Strategically located at the foothills of the Khyber Pass, the city played a major role in the historical route of invasion into the Indian subcontinent. With the American presence in nearby Afghanistan and its ostensible support by the Musharraf government in Pakistan, Peshawar was an important military post. From here, periodic searches for Osama bin Laden and his supporters were launched.

Yousef had spent a week in Karachi before moving north, then a restless month in Rawalpindi, which was much larger than Peshawar, more nervous every minute thanks to the heavier and more aggressive military presence there. Here in Peshawar he’d obtained his new identity papers, then finally made contact, only to be told to wait.

Outside, Yousef dipped his hand into the water trough and scrubbed his face vigorously. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he glanced up at a brilliant blue sky. This close to the Tora Bora mountains, you could all but feel the sky pressing down. The air was still pleasant, but had a cold bite that had not been there when he’d first arrived.

It was late October. Winter would soon be coming, and with it the snow that would lock the mountain passes in their white vise. He had to move soon or he’d be forced to turn back.

Yousef’s stay in Peshawar had not been totally unpleasant, not at all. The city had been conquered and occupied over the millennia by Moguls, Persians, Hindus, and Arabs, to name but a few. Each had left behind a bit of its culture and tradition. The people were of such diverse lineage they considered themselves to be a separate tribe from the rest of Pakistan. With the various cultures had come a certain laxity toward the teachings of the Prophet, though. Bars operated freely, and a local brewery produced a quality beer. Brothels were discreetly located but commonplace, though the quality of the women was not to his standards.

Since the Russian war in Afghanistan the city had been all but overrun with Afghan refugees, with the United Nations and nongovernmental organizations running the camps and providing services. Many of the Afghans had returned home, but thousands had stayed on, their homes long since destroyed. The Taliban who still waged war against the American-backed government in Kabul recruited among them, and Yousef had seen small bands of young, bearded men making their way quietly toward the nearby mountains almost weekly.

Yousef had taken to saying his prayers as the Prophet had decreed and spent most of each day in one of three traditional tea shops. There, amid the samovars and colorful china teapots, with the hookahs making the air thick with the heavy smoke of tobacco and occasionally hashish, he passed his time in thought, observation, or reading. He had come to believe that he had been reborn as a Muslim in this place and was more committed to jihad than ever.

Every ten days he changed rooms so as not to attract attention, but slowly his tea shops dwindled to just these three, which he rotated daily. He was surprised at the vitality of life here in Peshawar. Technically they were all Muslim, but the difference in culture from his native land was striking. The streets had a vitality that was lacking in Saudi Arabia. For that he blamed oil. The resultant wealth drained the people of their natural course, causing them to turn away from the practices of their fathers.

Yousef noticed one of the young, lean men with suspicious eyes enter, move quietly through the crowded, smoky room, then take a lone chair in the back corner. He’d seen his type before. Fresh down from the mountains, they delivered a message, ordered supplies, or led recruits to a mountain camp. Such men had something of the predator. The vigorous life in the mountains and the strict diet left them slender and hard.

At midafternoon Yousef found himself waiting, as he did every afternoon at this time. Within a few moments he heard the call of the muezzin from atop the nearby minaret. “Hayya la-s-saleah. Hayya la-s-saleah,” the voice sang to all who would hear: Hasten to prayer. Yousef set down his cup of tea, took up his rolled prayer rug, and went into the street, where he joined the other good Muslims. He spread his rug and knelt.

When prayer was concluded, he returned to the tea shop, rolling his prayer rug. The lean man he’d seen earlier approached and in a quiet voice of command said, “Follow me.” Yousef looked after the man a moment, then tossed a few coins on the wooden table and followed. He was led to the poorest quarter of Peshawar, then up an alley and into a small house. The man led him through the first room, through the second, then across a small courtyard. There he paused before a doorway and gestured for Yousef to enter. When he did, he found his effects from his room. “Wait,” the man said, then turned on his heel and left.

That night Yousef was brought bread, dates, and hot, sweet tea by an aged woman dressed in black. Almost before he’d finished the meager meal he was overcome with fatigue. He lay on a goatskin and slept as if he were dead.

Before dawn the next morning the young man returned. “Bring just the rucksack. Leave the rest,” he ordered.

Yousef quickly finished his morning tea. “Where are we going?” he asked, when he really meant, Am I being moved again? Or is this it?

“To the mountains. No more questions.”

Outside were four young men. The air was bracing. Yousef fell in behind the young men and was led off with the others. By midday they were out of the city and well into the countryside. They walked in silence, with the leader, who told Yousef his name was Omar, calling a short break every two hours. Two of the others were, like Yousef, from Saudi Arabia. A third was Egyptian, while the fourth was from Syria. Omar instructed them to tell the others nothing more about themselves and to use a name other than their own.

Omar rarely spoke. When he did, he selected his words carefully. His eyes were a startling light blue and his teeth were bright and even. That first night the men rested at a farmer’s house and were served by his wife and young daughters. They slept on one side of the small house while the family slept on the other. They were up before dawn; after a quick breakfast of sweet tea and flat bread, they were on their way again. That night, then the next two, they slept at campsites. The nights were frigid. The men huddled together for warmth.

The farther from Peshawar they traveled, the more traffic fell off. By the third day, they no longer saw military vehicles. By the fourth they were well into the foothills of the mountains, climbing higher with each step. Yousef’s feet were covered with blisters, but he said nothing. The young Syrian was bleeding through his tattered canvas shoes. No one complained.

That night, their fifth, Omar led them to a camp well off the trail they’d been following. Here they were welcomed, their feet were treated, and they were given a full meal. “We will rest here a few days,” Omar told them. “Remain to yourselves.”

“A few days” turned into ten. Each day was colder than the previous. On the fourth, heavy clouds filled the sky, threatening rain or early snow. About thirty were in the camp, herdsmen with only a few women to prepare meals and clean. One of the locals told Yousef their winter settlement was down in the valley and they would leave for it at the first sign of snow. He was the only one who spoke to any of them.

On the tenth night, after the evening meal, Omar gathered the five and introduced them to a stern newcomer named Muhammad. “We will divide into two groups tomorrow. You four,” Muhammad said, gesturing at the others, “will go with me. Yousef will remain with Omar.”

Omar and Yousef left with the others at first light, but soon split away. They went to the right, while the others took the left fork of the trail. “Go with Allah,” Omar told the men as he took the hand of each. Yousef said and did the same. That day the trail wound ever upward, snaking back and forth, often running along rocky walls rather than out in the open. It was exhausting, and for the first time Yousef was concerned that he was not physically up to his pilgrimage. But he could not stop now, would not, and pressed on no matter how tired he became.

He and Omar slept in five camps in as many nights. These were military encampments now, hidden in caves or tucked away in narrow ravines. The lean, ragged men carried with them AK-47s and watched the sky closely for aircraft.

“But we don’t always see them,” Omar explained when he asked what they were doing. “Often the American planes are so high they are invisible, like evil spirits, and their bombs are among us without warning.”

Yousef licked his dry lips. “Does it happen often?”

“Often enough. If you are here for long, you will see.”

With each camp the living conditions declined. It was colder, the men dirtier. But everywhere Yousef was moved by the extent of the commitment he saw, the willingness of fellow Muslims to fight the infidel.

They were so high in the stark mountains he lost his appetite and from time to time experienced nausea. Omar pressed him to eat the rice and goat meat that constituted their basic meal, but he could not. When Yousef believed he could go no farther, Omar took him aside. “You’ve done well. This is difficult even for me and I spend most of my time in these mountains. Just one more day. We will cross over the pass in the morning, then descend all day. Before nightfall, God willing, we will have reached our destination. So rest, my brother, you have earned it.”

Yousef was too tired to take it in. He lay on his side, his nearby meal untouched, and was at once in a deep sleep. The next morning they left while it was still dark. They had come so far, they were in the clouds, and the cloying mist turned his clothes wet and heavy, drawing the heat from his body. But the pass was less than two hours away, and as they descended, the clouds seemed to disperse and the sky overhead was that azure he’d become accustomed to in Peshawar.

They joined three others, young men who laughed uneasily and scanned the sky incessantly. Before noon the trail led them downward. With each passing hour, Yousef felt better. When they stopped for a midday meal and heated tea, he ate with vigor. Omar smiled.

It was nearly dark when they finally entered a narrow canyon. The three fighters who had come with them smiled warmly at seeing old comrades, exchanging embraces and news. Omar led Yousef to a fire set at the mouth of a nondescript cave, one like thousands they’d passed on his journey. Here, about the fire, were several women, the first Yousef had seen in two weeks, and two men, both a bit plump from lack of exercise and too much food. Omar squatted and spoke to one, gesturing toward Yousef. The man nodded and gave instructions.

When Omar returned, he said, “You will eat and rest tonight. Tomorrow you will bathe and prepare yourself.”

Yousef nodded. At last.

Following afternoon prayer the next day, Yousef was finally escorted deep within the largest cave he had seen since entering Tora Bora. He’d been bathed, then dressed entirely in clean clothes provided to him. His hair and beard had been barbered.

Outside he’d heard a generator running, and inside he spotted cables laid along the floor. Omar had explained that all of the fuel had to be carried in so the generator was only run an hour or so a day as needed.

Some two hundred feet into the cave, after several turns, they were stopped by two armed guards. Omar explained that he would leave now but would see Yousef outside afterward. A few minutes later, Yousef was led into the presence of Osama bin Laden.

The room was located at the far reaches of the cave and had been made larger over time. It was lit by bare bulbs, with a number of unlit lamps for when the power was off. There was a desk, carpets, and pillows. The room was heavy with the smell of incense and kerosene.

Bin Laden was reclining on pillows, his lanky body stretched out like that of a snake warming itself in the sun. Unlike the others outside, his clothes were immaculately clean. His beard was whiter than in photographs, and his eyes were deeply sunk within his skull. He looked tired but otherwise quite fit.

Bin Laden extended his hand and Yousef kissed it. “Sit,” bin Laden said, gesturing at a pillow.

Behind him Yousef sensed rather than saw the presence of the guards. “Fajer al Dawar, your history is not unlike my own,” bin Laden said. “Why have you come so far and at such risk to see me?”

“I wish to serve Allah. I wish to destroy the Americans, to rid our people of their corrupt king, to free us of the yoke of oil. I seek the restored caliphate, to see us once again the people Allah wishes us to be!”

“So. We have even more in common. Will you have tea?”

The men were served hot tea and spoke for nearly two hours. Most of the time bin Laden did the talking, explaining his long-range plan to continue striking at the economic foundations of the West. “Their great weakness is a love of money,” he said. “Because of that we will bring them to their knees.”

For Fajer it was as if he were visiting the Prophet Himself. He had never been more deeply moved by any experience. The time passed as if it had been but minutes. Before he realized it, he was again kissing bin Laden’s hand and bidding him Allah’s blessing.

Back outside it was already dark. In the distance he heard thunder. Omar approached. “The Americans. They are trying to hit the last camp at which we stayed.”

“Did they succeed?”

“We will know tomorrow. We leave at dawn. How was your meeting?”

Fajer, now once again Yousef, clutched the names and e-mail addresses he’d been given in his hand. He needed to find a safe place for them. “Good, Allah be praised. I am truly ready now for jihad.”

Away from the fire, Fajer raised his eyes to the stars overhead. How long would it take to establish the caliphate? A decade? Five decades?

Fajer did not know but believed that he had this day taken an enormous first step to achieve it. The time of the West was coming to an end, and with it a Muslim rebirth such as had not been seen since the days of the Prophet.

The very thought brought tears to his eyes.

36

Daryl’s team-leader meeting was well under way. Her coffee was cold and her bear claw lay all but untouched in its napkin. Almost nothing she’d heard from the start sat right with her.

“You’re telling me the scope of this thing is growing daily?” she said to Michelle.

“Hourly, boss.” Michelle Gritter’s team was working on determining the extent of the virus. “And the more we learn about Superphreak, the more variants we locate, the more we understand how much we underestimated it. It’s been out there for months.”

“Tom,” Daryl said, turning to look at the man whose team was charged with developing a solution, “what have you come up with? No more depressing news,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I need some answers.”

“The closest thing to good news I’ve got is that nearly all the Superphreak variants are tied to September eleventh as the trigger,” Tom said, sounding anxious. “The ones that aren’t, at least so far, are event triggered, but not until after September eleventh.”

“So we’re relatively secure for two more weeks?”

Tom hesitated. “Except for computers with the wrong date in the internal clock like you had at that law firm, the New York hospitals, and the Ford plant. I read that the Skunk River Nuclear plant emergency shutdown was caused by a computer glitch. A blogger who says he’s an employee there claims it was caused by a date-related virus.”

Tom glanced at his notes, then cleared his throat before continuing, “There’s some indication that the virus itself is causing these date changes. A couple of the samples we’ve obtained trip over their own cloaking mechanisms and alter the system’s clock.

“And, of course, we’re not secure from those viruses triggered by non-date-related events. Our concern is that we’re missing something. We’re depending on the date and the cyber handle of Superphreak to identify these viruses. We have no way of knowing if these are just a part of an overall effort. We’re assuming they identify everything this group is doing, but we don’t know that. We could very well be concentrating on something that turns out to be the tip of an enormous iceberg.”

Daryl’s mind raced. “Oscar, does CSCIA think this is a cyber-attack being launched by a group?”

Oscar Lee, responsible for coordinating CISU/DHS’s effort with the various cyber-security vendors, was usually great at his job, but like the other team leaders, this time he was coming up short. “Boss, I can’t really say they’re on board with this thing. It’s like I told you, Superphreak’s not showing up in their honeypots. They think we’re overreacting. Besides, they’re dealing with fresh waves of variants of old viruses. It’s overwhelming them. They’ve got a nasty virus that’s blocking automatic update systems in computers, and they’re giving it priority.”

Daryl realized she’d heard this before but it hadn’t really registered. “You’re saying this virus is avoiding honeypots?”

“It looks that way.”

Daryl gritted her teeth. “Okay. I’ll call the director again and see if I can’t get DHS more active. At our last meeting, Oscar, I had you put people on chat rooms. Anything there?”

“Some, not enough. I was planning to e-mail you a status report after lunch.”

“I’ll look for it.”

Tom cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Daryl said impatiently.

“Boss, I think I have an explanation for Oscar’s problem with the vendors’ honeypots.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ve taken several of the Superphreak viruses apart. Pretty crude in some places, really slick in others. Anyway, they’re set up to avoid the IPs of the security vendors, including IPs of many of their stealth honeypots.”

The table sat in stunned silence for a long moment.

Daryl leaned forward. “You’re telling me this virus actively avoids the honeypots?”

“It sure does. Like I said, slick.”

A sound like a moan came from around the table. It was going to be hell getting anyone really interested in this. Daryl closed her eyes for a long moment. This is so very, very bad, she thought.

37

European headquarters for the Franco-Arabe Chimique Compagnie occupied the upper floors of an enormous glass tower in La Défense, a contemporary business district on the outskirts of Paris composed of a cluster of towers more than thirty stories high. Considered ultramodern architectural gems by many and eyesores by others, they could be seen from central Paris on clear days. Sculptures and fountains abounded in the plazas, and entryways were decorated in colorful mosaics. There, in a corner office with a southern exposure, Labib al Dawar spent most of each workday.

But increasingly he left early and drove to the discreet offices of Graphisme Courageux across town. With just eight employees, it was located in a converted residence that legend said had been built for the mistress of King Louis XVI’s finance minister. Labib believed he could not have found a better location for this particular office, situated three short blocks from the busy rue Mouffetard. His young employees mixed freely with the many students of the Latin Quarter, and by design nothing about the company drew attention. Six of the employees actually performed graphics work. Only Labib and Michel Dufour, from their single office facing the alley and separated from the front staff by a locked door, were engaged in the work of Allah.

Grandson of a pied-noir and an Algerian woman, Dufour had thrown himself into the jihad with total commitment. His assignment had been to recruit and coordinate the various worldwide hacker networks they were employing. It was important that the viruses they distributed not be traced to this office, or to Paris for that matter. Dufour pulled together the three components for each virus package they unleashed. These he first placed into Labib’s computer, for the Arab had given himself the honor of actually assembling each virus before passing them back to Dufour for distribution. Never before in his life had Labib found such satisfaction in his work.

When he was not in contact with his hundred-odd hackers, Dufour was transferring payments and monitoring various Web sites and chat rooms for signs the cyber jihad had been detected. It was he who’d spotted the posting by Dragon Lady searching for Superphreak.

“Bonjour,” Dufour said, as Labib entered the office from the rear. So separated were the two functions of the office that Labib was certain the other employees had never seen him. As an increased security measure, his strict rule was that he and Dufour speak only French. Besides, the man’s Arabic was so heavily accented Labib could hardly understand him.

“How many today?” Labib asked, as he sat at his workstation.

“You have two new noirs.” They never used hacker language in the office, even though Labib was certain they could not be overheard. Noir, or “black,” meant a rootkit. Rouge, or “red,” was the trigger, while blanc, “white,” stood for the portion that wreaked the destruction. A boîtier, or “package,” referred to the entire device, as Labib had come to consider the malware he had had Dufour unleash.

“Excellent.” The Russian did superior work. Not like a lot of the crap the others often tried to pawn off on them.

“And there are fifteen new rouges that look okay. You should see the ones I refused.”

When his brother Fajer had expressed displeasure with the Russian, Labib had been both defensive and guilty. He knew that Dufour had made it clear to the man that they only wanted clean code, and he’d not delivered it. But Labib had been careless as well and not checked the product as carefully as he should have, Dufour only stumbling across Superphreak in a code the previous week. Until then he’d thought the code was free of such clues.

At the time it had seemed a crushing reversal, but Dufour had persuaded him it likely meant nothing. “It will probably not be detected, and if it is, how will it get to anyone? Certainly not in time to stop le déluge,” as he called the looming attack.

Labib had agreed, and as they’d employed an ever growing number of crackers from whom they acquired bits of malware, other security problems had come up, which lessened the impact of this first one. Still, he’d instructed that the Russian not provide any code other than his noirs. In fact, Labib regretted that they had ever released any virus without the cloaking rootkits, but he’d not known they existed until Vladimir had asked if they were interested.

The problem only emphasized their dependence and vulnerability. For their long-term goals they must find a way to do all of this alone. Only then would they be truly secure.

For the next three hours Labib cobbled together a dozen boîtiers using the two new noirs while mixing in the fresh triggers and destruction codes they’d received. He’d long since given up making certain every virus they released did what it was intended to do. Dufour had persuaded him that certain wreckage would come from the sheer numbers of the viruses.

Labib also cursed the amount of time this had all taken. He and his brother had intended to unleash the cyber-attack in conjunction with a physical attack by Al Qaeda. On three separate occasions Fajer had sought to make contact with bin Laden, but to no avail. When he’d finally succeeded in meeting with him in his own personal hajj, he’d come away with the names and means of contact for a wide range of operatives. But as they’d sought to coordinate with those in the highest levels of Al Qaeda’s operations, one by one the men had been killed by the Americans. Finally, with great reluctance, Fajer had instructed Labib to go ahead.

“If we wait any longer, the Americans will have taken over both Iran and Syria. We cannot delay. Allah is with us,” he’d said with passion.

And so Labib had placed into motion his carefully laid plans. As he and Dufour had begun to implement them, he’d been forced to reconsider his objectives. But he remained satisfied that he could wreak havoc on America in his own way. He would cost them billions, destroy systems it would take years to reconstruct, shake faith in the nation, cause disarray in its military, and force a reexamination of its activism in the Middle East. The cyber-attack would be no less devastating to Europe.

Labib attached a blanc to a rootkit with satisfaction. He was certain that within weeks the United States would be withdrawing from Afghanistan and would abandon its plans for Iran and Syria.

“Try this one,” Dufour said, handing Labib a disk. “The hacker claims it will destroy Nasdaq’s records.” Then he reached back to his desk. “And here’s the information your brother wanted.”

“What information?”

“On someone with the handle Dragon Lady.”

38

Sue Tabor gave a deep, throaty laugh as she sat up and reached for his groin.

“Not again,” Joshua Greene moaned. “I’m only flesh and blood.”

“Hush,” Sue said. “I’ve got some ancient Chinese sex techniques I want to show you.”

Greene laughed. “You’re about as Chinese as I am English.”

“Hey! You don’t know. Maybe Mom passed along a few things I’ve been holding back.”

“Right. Let go of that. I mean it. I want to talk.”

“That’s not what you wanted a few minutes ago.”

“I need to recharge. For God’s sake, Sue, I’m not some young stud. Let it alone. Tell me what’s going on with my records.”

“Spoilsport.” Sue sat back onto the pillows, her breasts rising like tiny mounds. “If we’re going to talk, look up here and not at my tits.” She reached onto the nightstand and lit a cigarette.

“Right.” Greene pulled the sheet up to cover his growing stomach. He was always self-conscious in the nude, but especially so with Sue, whose body he considered to be perfect.

“It’s been three weeks. We’ve lost a third of our accounts. I’m getting resignations. We’ll be closing our doors at this rate. Can you give me any hope?”

She looked at him, then solemnly announced, “I’m pretty sure I can get you up again.”

Greene laughed. “Not that, though I’d be grateful. But we’re screwed if you or this Aiken guy don’t come up with something very soon.”

“Yeah. I know.” She sat back and turned serious. “I’ve tried three boots so far and all were failures. We were struck by viruses with very sophisticated cloaking devices, making them very difficult to remove. The good news is we still have the backups.”

“It may be too late,” Greene said, “given the speed with which the firm is falling apart.”

“Josh, I’m really sorry.” Sue leaned closer and placed her hand on his chest. “I can’t help but blame myself. You’ve been great not to make my life miserable over this.”

Greene shrugged. “Aiken says it wasn’t your fault. No security system could have stopped the virus. I’ve not been able to sell that to the partners, but I believe it.” He seemed to hesitate.

“There’s something else?” Sue asked. She’d always been impressed with Greene’s ability to be involved with her while keeping the business aspect of their relationship clear. In her experience that was quite rare.

“It’s not important. Really.” Greene smiled weakly, clearly wanting to avoid saying more.

“What’s not important?”

Greene sighed. “I’ve been ordered to fire you.”

Sue looked into his eyes for a moment. “I see. You thought you’d get your blow job first, then tell me? You bastard!” Flipping over, she stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, then flung the sheet off her.

“No, no, it’s not like that. Well, maybe a little, I guess. It’s just … the partners insist I do something. I told them it won’t improve a thing to get rid of you, but they don’t see it that way.”

“So I’m out of a job?” she said, standing beside the bed with her hands braced on her hips.

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Oh, I get it. First I fix the problem, then you can me! Is that the plan?” She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s about it.” He reached for a breast. She bumped his hand away with her arm. “What difference does it make? I don’t have to do it now, and anyway, it doesn’t look like any of us are going to have a job before long.”

Sue breathed out. “I guess not.” She’d seen this coming, now that she thought about it. What else could the firm do? With the failed third attempt to reboot, she’d understood her job was on a short leash.

“And I’ll let you resign, give you a good reference. You can trust me.”

Sue lay back across the bed. “You know what I think?”

“No.”

“No more hotel rooms. I like it better in the office.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Then how about the garage? On the hood of your BMW?”

“No, no, no. I told you, I’ve rented this room for the entire month.”

“Yeah,” she said in mock seriousness, “who’s the boss here?”

“You are.”

“Then get down, boy. My turn. And get your car washed for next time.”

39

Ivana Koskov removed the shchi from the table, then set in place the kuyrdak her mother had brought by her office late that afternoon. She emptied the bottle of water into Vladimir’s glass, then opened a fresh one before joining him, their heads nearly touching as they ate the rabbit stew. The food brought back pleasant childhood memories, and she wondered again if she shouldn’t make more of an effort to learn to cook her mother’s dishes.

As he ate, Vladimir smoked a cigarette, taking puffs between bites. A smoker herself, Ivana thought nothing of it. On the wall near his computers was a poster of Rick James with the bulbous Afro and bulging biceps. In the background their stereo had started a random selection of James’s songs, including his hit “Super Freak.”

Ivana had long ago grown tired of Rick James, and especially of “Super Freak.” For Vladimir it was either feast or famine. He’d go months without his music, then in a frenzy it would be all she’d hear for days. He usually used his headset so it wasn’t so bad. Still, she wished his taste would move on.

When they were finished, she cleared the table, wiped it clean, then set out two saucers and cups for coffee. “Vodka?” she asked. Vladimir merely nodded, then wheeled his chair backward and spun it into the bathroom to empty the bladder sack that was tied to the side of his leg.

“I think we’ll have that new apartment in a few months,” Ivana said. “I talked to the manager today and he all but promised.”

Vladimir grunted. She heard the water run as he washed his hands. Thank God he was a clean man. Living in clutter was bad enough; if it had been dirty as well …

Vladimir returned to his place at the table, then downed a shot, followed by the hot coffee as a chaser. He leaned back, emptied his lungs, then picked up his cigarette. “Maybe I should give Boris a little something to move us up. I’m more than ready to get out of here.” Lately, he complained endlessly about their cramped quarters.

“I don’t think anything less than one hundred euros would help.”

“That’s okay.”

“Then I’ll try it.” Ivana was pleased to see his commitment. “I must say the splendor of our first place has worn off.”

They laughed. “Maybe you could keep this as a storage room for your extra equipment,” she suggested, and they laughed again.

“It’s better suited for that than an apartment,” he said with a grin.

Ivana smoked quietly, punched out her cigarette. “Do you want to tell me how much you’ve got? I don’t want to start a fight, but it’s hard to plan not knowing.” His elusiveness and his obsession with his work ate at her. This was the first time she’d been able to broach the subject without his responding with anger.

“I’ve only saved it up as a surprise. It’s just over twenty thousand.”

“Euros? Not dollars?”

“Euros.”

“You have been doing well.” She picked up his package of cigarettes and lit another. After inhaling, she released the smoke. “This work you’re doing … how long will it last?”

“I don’t know. Not much longer, I think. They seem to be on a deadline but I don’t know what it is.”

“What is it you’re doing?” For months now Ivana had been certain he was working for the Russian Mafia again. She had feared for their safety, and his surly manner of late hadn’t helped a bit.

“It would bore you.”

“Tell me anyway.” Vladimir hesitated, then explained about the rootkits, growing excited as he did. “They hide things in computers?” she asked when he stopped.

“That’s it. There are simple ones and complex ones. I’ve been building more complex ones every week. It’s really intriguing work.”

“And you aren’t doing this for the Mafia?”

Vladimir laughed heartily. “Those people? Of course not. It’s out of Europe, I think.”

“Where?”

“I’m not certain. They’re very secretive. I’d say France, but maybe Belgium. My contact writes English like a Frenchman sometimes.”

“Or Quebec, or North Africa. Don’t they speak French there too?”

“Sure, but they don’t have any money. But he could be anywhere. I’d have to spend a day tracing back one of his messages and even then it might not work. I don’t care, anyway. His money is good.” She sipped her vodka. “What?” A dark expression had crossed her face.

“You’re … you’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”

Vladimir stared at her for a long moment, the anger starting to well up. He pushed it down savagely, then in a steady voice said, “I’ve told you what I’m doing. I’m not lying, Ivana.”

“Good. Then we are safe and I can breathe again.” It seemed to her in that moment that the life for them she dreamed of would actually happen. She’d have a baby and everything would be perfect.

40

Brian Manfield rolled one of the dice in the palm of his hand. Four. He went to the fourth taxi in the queue and asked the driver if he spoke English. The Pakistani nodded his head. “Say a few words if you would, mate,” Manfield asked. “Just to be sure.”

“Yes, I speak good English.” The accent was thick, but Manfield understood him.

“Right then. Load my luggage.” The other drivers ahead had exited their vehicles and were agitated, vigorously complaining that he hadn’t taken the first taxi, but Manfield ignored them. The driver shot back a quick answer that satisfied no one as he moved to open the trunk. Manfield waited on the curb, discreetly scanning the area as the driver placed the luggage into the trunk, then climbed into the taxi as soon as the Pakistani did. He gave the name of the modest hotel where he’d be staying as the car pulled away from the curb and drove out of JFK International Airport.

They drove through Queens and Brooklyn in silence, then crossed the Manhattan Bridge onto the island. The going was slow after that, but before five o’clock Manfield was checked into his hotel. He showered, changed into running shoes, tan chinos, a polo shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker. The day had been crisp enough, he thought, that he wouldn’t draw any attention, especially at night, with the jacket.

Outside he took in the city, realizing how much it reminded him of portions of London. He entered the subway, exiting at Inwood, where he walked four blocks. The address turned out to be a small store. The aging sign outside belonged to the former owner and read SWENSON’S SPORTING GOODS. A bell over the door sounded as Manfield entered.

The dark-skinned man in his midthirties behind the counter looked up. “We are just closing, sir.” He was slender, with a well-trimmed beard. On the surface the accent was British, but Manfield recognized it at once as Egyptian.

“I won’t be long,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps you have a package for me?”

The man took another look at his customer. “I don’t understand.”

“Omar said you were holding something for me.” Manfield always felt silly with these games, but at least once in the past they had saved his life.

The man blinked, then replied steadily, “You mean my cousin Muhammad.”

“Perhaps you are right, though I now recall his name was Abdul.”

“Allah Akbar,” the clerk said quietly. “Just a moment.” He retreated behind a curtained doorway while Manfield moved closer to the front door, where he could watch equally the rear of the store and the street. A moment later the man returned with a package wrapped in heavy brown paper, tied with twine. “Here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

41

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else? They aren’t doorknobs.”

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

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

“Me, for one. You about done here?”

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

“That bad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

42

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

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

There was a short pause.

Dragon Lady? Someone Chinese?

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

43

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

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

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

Manfield pushed Sue into Greene so hard the pair fell back against the bed. Drawing his pistol, Manfield said, “Quiet now. If I have to make any noise, I’ll kill you both. Tell me what I want to know and nobody gets hurt.” Gesturing with the gun, he motioned for them to sit. They sat on the edge of the bed.

“If you want money,” Greene said, attempting to take charge of the situation, “I’ve got—”

“Shut up!”

“—plenty right there on the desk…” Greene stopped and stared at the barrel of the gun, the energy draining out of him.

Manfield moved slowly to the desk and glanced down. With his free hand, he pocketed the cash without counting it.

“Who are you?” he said to the man.

“Joshua Greene.”

“What are you to her?”

“Why … we’re…”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“He’s my boss,” Sue said, understanding what the Brit wanted to know.

“Ahh. I get the picture.” Better and better. “Sue, lie on the bed, facedown. Pile the pillows over your head. And don’t move. You”—Manfield indicated Greene—“come over here.” Greene hesitated, looking at Sue for an anguished moment. “Now.”

Sue lay across the bed, rolled uneasily onto her stomach, then crawled up the bed, inching her way slowly. She pulled the pillows to her, then piled them over her head, feeling very young. How does he know my name? she thought. What does it mean? From a distant childhood memory she found a prayer and began to say it to herself.

Greene rose, then crossed to Manfield.

“Over there,” Manfield said, indicating the floor in the corner. Greene walked slowly, like a man condemned, as if each step was one of the last he’d ever take.

When Greene’s back was turned, Manfield put the automatic away and brought out the knife, snapping it open one-handed. “I have a few questions. I’m sure you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

On the bed Sue made a small sound, perhaps a sob, muffled by the pillows.