From his wheelchair, Vladimir said, “It will fill up fast. My stuff will take up an entire bedroom.”
“Everything is to European standards,” the building manager said. “High-speed cable in every room. It’s all very modern.” He was a short, unshaven man, the kind of “new” Russian who’d secretly become rich in the last decade.
Down a hallway they heard laughter. “It seems a bit noisy,” Ivana said.
The man shrugged. “Not so much. We do have a few lighthearted types, but it is not an issue. They are reasonable. You will find this as quiet as any such building in Moscow.”
“When is it available?” Vladimir asked. If he wanted silence, they would have to move to a dacha in the country.
“Now, of course. Today. I will need your decision and the deposit if you decide to take it, before you leave. I have others scheduled to see the apartment later.”
“Perhaps we could have a moment to talk in private?” Ivana said.
“Of course. I’ll return in ten minutes.”
Ivana walked about the open space, stepping briefly into each room. “What do you think?” she asked her husband, who was sitting in the middle of the living room in his wheelchair.
“It will do. It’s expensive, though.”
“You said you wanted more room. You said you have the money. I can keep looking, but this is the first suitable place I’ve found in six months.”
Vladimir said nothing as he fumbled a cigarette out of a package and lit it. “I’d like to take it. I don’t think I can stand our place any longer. I feel like I’m suffocating there.”
Ivana thought of the rent, more than she made in an entire month. She couldn’t possibly make the payment on her own. “Can we afford it? Really?” She still wasn’t certain her husband was telling her the truth.
“Yes,” Vladimir said irritably. “I wouldn’t say take it otherwise. Why don’t you listen to me?”
“And what if State Security comes crashing in some night? What then?” Her grandfather had vanished in that very way. It had been the worst night of her life, one that came back to her again and again in her nightmares. She’d watched her grandmother wither away and die the following year.
“That won’t happen. I’m not working for the Mafia. How many times must I tell you? I’m not breaking laws.”
“You have. You used to brag to me about it.”
“That was a long time ago. It was stupid of me to do that, and I don’t think there were laws about it then anyway.”
“But you were glad to do it. I remember how you told all your computer friends. Then I learned hackers used what you learned and ruined computers or stole records. It was terrible. It’s like you are a burglar or something. I want an honest life, Vlad. After all I’ve done, haven’t I earned one?”
Vladimir lit a cigarette. “Yes, you have. Believe me, I’ve told you everything.” Ten minutes later he counted out one thousand euros into the sweaty hands of the manager.
49
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
FISCHERMAN, PLATT & COHEN
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
8:33 P.M.
Jeff and Daryl said little on the shuttle back to New York City. Daryl had taken a window seat and stared morosely into the early-evening sky. Jeff withdrew into his own thoughts, trying to make sense of the murders.
Torture suggested someone wanted information. What could an IT manager know that would be of interest to anyone? Or the managing partner of a law firm? It made no sense, unless it was a psychopath. Difficult as it was to believe such people existed, he knew they did.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the murders were connected to Superphreak in some way. No one killed anyone over a virus, but this was no ordinary virus. The idea struck him as ridiculous, yet plausible at the same time, causing him to feel even more disoriented.
As soon as the plane landed, Jeff called the IT Center directly at Fischerman, Platt & Cohen. He’d tried several times before boarding with no luck. This time Harold answered. He was clearly distraught and could scarcely speak, but managed to convey that he was still working his way through backups.
“I’m going to the law firm,” Jeff said to Daryl as they walked toward ground transportation. “Want to come?”
“If you think I can help.”
“I do. And I’d like you to come.” He could use the emotional support, he realized.
Traffic as they entered the city was heavy as it made the transition into the weekend. The feel of Manhattan was different as night descended, it seemed to Jeff. Or perhaps that was due to the murders. Suddenly, his world seemed darker than it had been since 9/11. With a certainty that startled him, he grasped the connection. What had begun that terrible day in 2001 was continuing; events that had cost him so much then were now poised to engulf his world again.
He placed a hand on Daryl’s shoulder, which seemed thinner and more vulnerable than ever. “We need to be careful,” he warned her, seated with him in the back of a cab.
She turned to face him.
“There may very well be a connection between Superphreak and the murders.”
Daryl looked at him as if he’d just slapped her. The car bobbed as it hit a dip, then droned as it crossed a bridge with a metal surface. Jeff held her gaze. “I don’t believe this is simply about hackers. It’s clear to me it’s something much bigger.” Her eyes grew round as she took in what he was saying.
A few moments later they arrived at the offices of Fischerman, Platt & Cohen, taking the elevator to the IT Center. Perhaps three associates were at their desks. Otherwise the office was darkened and empty. Compared to when he’d first arrived, it seemed all but abandoned to Jeff.
They knocked, then entered. Harold was there, his young face set with determination. He looked up from his computer screen with watery eyes. “Any luck?” Jeff asked. He’d expressed his condolences by telephone earlier when he’d asked Harold to stay over that day.
“Yeah. I think I’ve located it.” Harold looked tired, but determined to do all he could to help. He’d had a crush on Sue. She’d been smart, knew computers, and treated him like an equal. Her death left him feeling empty.
“Good. Show me, then let us get to work.” When he introduced Daryl, Harold waved at her without interest. “How are you doing?” Jeff asked as Harold typed, even though he knew Sue’s young assistant had been devastated by her murder.
“I’m glad you gave me something to do. Sue always ran the show here and gave me instructions. I was lost.” He looked at Jeff. “I guess I should be looking for a job or something.”
“Probably. How’s the firm taking the losses?”
“Pretty bad. Things weren’t looking so great, now this. Some people…” Harold’s voice trailed off and he stopped typing. Jeff placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Some people aren’t so nice, you know?” Harold continued, his voice wavering. “They said, ‘Good,’ when we got word, as if Sue and Mr. Greene had it coming for messing up. I just hate them!” Harold finished typing while choking back tears.
“Go home, Harold,” Jeff said, squeezing his shoulder. “Get some rest. Thank you for your help. I know how much Sue valued you and what you did. Try and remember the good, okay? It will help a little.”
The young man nodded, looked at Daryl in farewell, then gathered his knapsack and left.
“What are we doing?” Daryl asked, as Jeff sat at the monitor.
“I’m trying to find out what got Sue killed.”
Harold had left the computer open in one of the chat rooms Sue had visited. But Jeff found that he couldn’t really concentrate. Always in the past he’d been able to put from his mind any concerns he had. In fact, he’d buried himself in work after Cynthia’s death primarily to block the pain.
But he found he was still stunned at the murder of Sue Tabor and Joshua Greene. He’d liked Sue. She’d been attractive, bright, and dedicated. He’d even come to like Greene, though it was now more apparent why he’d dropped by the IT
Center so often. Still, he’d never pressed Jeff unreasonably for results as his clients often did. He’d seemed to understand the enormous job with which Jeff had been tasked. He was horrified at the thought of both of them tortured and murdered. Neither of them had deserved what was done to them.
The extent of the evil he and Daryl were confronting threatened to overwhelm him. Memories, both real and imagined, of Cynthia and the awful death she’d suffered crowded his mind. But when he turned toward Daryl, the sight of her quietly working at Harold’s computer, her attention totally focused on the screen in front of her, had an unexpected calming effect on him. She’s right, Jeff thought, and she’s exactly the person I want by my side. Turning back to his own screen, he gave it his full attention.
* * *
His time on Sue’s computer was both tedious and unproductive. If Jeff had thought anything would jump out at him, he’d been mistaken. Shortly before midnight, Jeff and Daryl left the law offices. Daryl suggested they eat but Jeff shook his head. “No. I’m not hungry. I’ll join you if you want, though.”
“I’m not really hungry, either,” Daryl said.
Both of them were resisting feeling defeated, in over their head. “Let’s walk,” Jeff said. Instead of taking a cab, the couple strolled to the Hotel Luxor, which Jeff had picked because it was only a few blocks from where he’d be working. The night was pleasantly cool after the closed space of the IT Center. Servers had this habit of warming every space they occupied, and their constant electrical workings charged air in ways that were unnatural. It was good to be outside again, and Jeff wondered for a moment if he wasn’t throwing his life away working in closed rooms.
At the hotel he held the door for Daryl, then collected his key from the night clerk, who’d been reading the paper. The pair rode the elevator to his room.
Across the street Manfield spotted them at once. It had been a long seven hours to wait. He hated stakeouts but they were, he knew, essential to success. The street had been quiet for more than an hour before he’d noticed this particular man. As Manfield watched the man enter the hotel, he was nearly certain he was the one. The man had done all right for himself, Manfield allowed, as he waited for them to take the elevator. The blonde with him was quite a dish.
When the couple vanished through the closing doors, Manfield rushed across the street, ran toward the elevator, stopped, then muttered to himself. Spotting the night clerk, he behaved as if he’d just had an idea. “Listen,” he said, as he approached the counter, “wasn’t that Jeff Aiken I just saw? We were supposed to meet for drinks, but I was late. He’d mentioned he was staying here, so I tried to catch him.”
The clerk was elderly, with a thick thatch of white hair and pale blue eyes. He’d been a doorman here before his legs gave out. “I couldn’t say, sir. Would you like me to check if your Mr. Aiken is a guest?”
“Would you?” Manfield said with a warm smile. “That would be great.”
The clerk checked the computer. “Yes, he’s a guest.”
“Wonderful! What room and I’ll just pop up?”
“Oh, I can’t give you the room number, sir.”
“But I already told you,” Manfield protested. “We’re old friends and I just missed him for drinks. He’s expecting me.” It had worked in the past and there was no harm trying.
“I’ll be glad to call him if you like. You can speak and make whatever arrangements you want.”
Mansfield turned pensive. “Well, I’d hate to awaken him at this hour if I was wrong. He can be quite a bear.”
“Perhaps you’d like to leave a message then?”
“No, no. I’ll just give him a ring first thing. Perhaps he’ll have time for breakfast. You’ve been most helpful.”
As Manfield left, the clerk stared after him, wondering what that had been all about. Certainly not what the man with the English accent claimed. He considered calling the guest and informing him, but the man was right about one thing. People hated being awakened at this hour. Instead, he turned back to his racing form.
50
UNITED FLIGHT 914
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
12:47 A.M.
George Carlton stretched out in his first-class seat and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. It had been a hectic day since his disturbing meeting with Jeff Aiken and Daryl Haugen. First he’d attempted his emergency phone number to Fajer al Dawar. The Saudi had insisted on his accepting it, and Carlton had repeatedly refused before relenting. He’d distrusted having the number at all, feared any direct connection, but had finally settled on memorizing it. Until now, he’d never used the number.
That afternoon he’d paid cash for a prepaid cell phone, then bought long-distance minutes. He’d called Fajer and had after several attempts been forced to leave the cell phone’s number and a message that the man call him at once. Then he’d stayed away from his office, pacing in a shopping-mall parking lot, waiting on the return call.
Their conversation had taken place late that afternoon and had done nothing to resolve Carlton’s concerns—though candidly, he had to admit his reluctance to speak frankly over an open line probably made that impossible. But there just had to be a plausible explanation other than the one he’d concluded. Finally, he’d insisted on a face-to-face meeting, telling the Saudi it was most urgent.
Fajer had replied, “I’m only too glad to meet with you. But you must understand, I am in Paris now on business. I cannot possibly get to the United States for another month at the earliest. I assure you there is no need for concern.”
“Then I’ll come to you,” Carlton had answered. “I’ll call this number when I touch down tomorrow. Be certain you answer it.”
A hectic few hours followed as Carlton instructed his assistant to contact the travel office and arrange his priority departure. The young man had been surprised at the request since from what he could see his boss never did anything on impulse. “What do I say is the reason?” he’d asked.
Carlton had given this only cursory thought. “I must meet with my European counterpart at once. Set up a meeting first thing Monday morning, but I’m leaving tonight. I don’t want to meet suffering from jet lag.”
He’d then spent half an hour poring over reports, searching for some justification for this abrupt trip. He finally located one that might make the case. In any event, he didn’t abuse travel privileges. His boss might not like it, but Carlton figured he could sell it if it came to that.
On the airplane sleep wouldn’t come. He’d had two double Scotches since takeoff but they’d had no effect. Only now, as Carlton turned his head and stared into nothingness, did he realize he’d neglected to tell his wife he was leaving the country.
51
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
HOTEL LUXOR
EAST THIRTIETH STREET
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
12:59 A.M.
There had been a moment when Jeff and Daryl left the law firm, as they’d walked those few blocks to the Hotel Luxor, when Daryl knew she should have taken a taxi to her own hotel. She’d waited for him to say something, to thank her for her help, to arrange to meet the next day, but instead he’d walked to his hotel talking the entire time about what he’d just learned. She’d meant to say good-night, but for the first time since they’d met, she sensed, on some emotional level, he needed her to stay.
“Now we know Sue was ‘Dragon Lady,’” Jeff said as they stepped onto the street relieved at last to have some concrete information. “I traced her back two weeks to her first posting with it. She’d put up more than a dozen since the first, listing an e-mail address for Superphreak to contact her at.”
“What came of it?” Daryl asked.
“Nothing, from what I can see. There were a lot of crackpot replies but only a handful read as if the writer had had dealings with this Superphreak guy.”
“What did they say?” she asked, hoping this was good news.
“He’s supposed to be some kind of hacker legen
d. A few years ago he found two vulnerabilities in Windows Vista shortly after it was released. He posted the details before Microsoft learned of them, so it was months before they released the patches.”
“That’s not protocol. He was supposed to advise Microsoft.”
Jeff snorted. “Sure, but by publishing earlier he gained credibility with the cracker community as someone who doesn’t go totally by the rules. Since then, though, he’s become pretty reclusive.”
Despite herself, Daryl found herself intrigued by the hacker’s obvious brilliance. Why can’t people like that use their brains for the common good? she thought. “What do the hackers say about him?”
“He’s Russian, so we had that right. And he’s a genius in writing certain viruses.”
Daryl grimaced. “That’s no surprise.”
“Lately his specialty has been rootkits.” Since Jeff had first confirmed Sue had made indirect contact with Superphreak, he’d had an idea and decided now was the time to approach Daryl with it. “You know, it’s occurred to me that if we could talk to him and convince him, by hook or by crook, to give us all the rootkits and variants he’s written, we’d be weeks, even months, ahead of this. The vendors could do a rush job on signatures and patches.”
“Then I’ve got good news for you. We’ve got a name.” Daryl was grinning.
“How?”
“My team has been hard at work tracing the usage of the word Superphreak. We didn’t have much luck in an open search but got lucky in the NSA’s archives of closed hacker forums and chat rooms. We found a key post from several years ago when a hacker was chatting with Superphreak and called him Vlad. Then we searched for a Vlad and came up with over a dozen, but only one of them with a post related to the same technical data discussed in Superphreak chats. His last name was in the e-mail address in the forum posting: [email protected]. There was only one hacker forum posting using this account, but our search found it, which is why they say that everything you ever did is somewhere on the Net. After that it was simple.”
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