Trojan Horse

by Mark Russinovich

  She knocked at the apartment and waited. When there was no answer she let herself in. The room was dark, exactly as she’d seen it the last time she’d been here the previous day. If Ahmed was back, and his messages said he was, then he’d not come here yet. So where was he? At one of his secret meetings, she decided, as she sat down to wait, not bothering to turn on a light. She removed a fresh packet from her purse, opened it, tapped out a fresh cigarette, and lit it. She drew the first smoke into her lungs with great pleasure, held it momentarily, then forced it through her nostrils. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.

  Ahmed looked at Karim and said, “Watch the woman. Be careful with her. We’ve made mistakes and they are not happy. You understand?”

  Karim nodded.

  Ahmed considered telling him that Ali was dead but decided not to mention it, not yet. He couldn’t be certain what the man might do to the woman in revenge.

  He picked up her bag, which contained her computer. Hamid thought there was valuable information in it, not that Ahmed could understand the technical aspects. In the hands of experts the laptop was potentially a gold mine of data, more important than what she told them even. Maybe dumping her body was going to be the easiest solution after all.

  He nodded to Karim as he let himself out. No mistakes, he said to himself as he stepped outside. There must be no more mistakes.

  Saliha finished another cigarette as she waited. She realized that she was now feeling the full weight of adulthood and of her greater responsibilities. All that had gone before now had been an extended childhood. Her sister had called earlier that day with bad news. Their older brother had lost his job on the Istanbul docks. It was time to grow up, really grow up, and stop playing the adult, behaving as if her life was hers alone to live.

  Saliha placed her face in her hands and sighed. How she missed her grandmother. How she missed the sweet innocence of her youth, the false security of their home. How she longed for life to be easier—but that was not to be, she knew. She was fortunate to have choices. Her English was very good, she’d been told; her looks would hold for some years yet; she was bright and she was not lazy. Given the opportunity she could be a productive employee anywhere in Europe.

  She heard steps on the stairs outside and wondered if it was Ahmed. Would she have to sleep with him again to get her money? What if she did? This was the end of it for them. She stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray and instinctively straightened her hair.

  And if it happened, it would be a way of telling him good-bye.

  36

  PRAGUE 3, CZECH REPUBLIC

  JEZKOVA 564

  10:36 P.M. CET

  Slipping out of the hotel in Geneva had proved surprisingly simple once Jeff was ready. The guard in the hallway outside his door was nowhere in sight. Likely he’d just stepped away for a moment. Jeff had grabbed his gear and walked quietly to the backstairs and descended all the way to the parking garage. Again he found no guard. In fairness, he realized they were not holding him prisoner but looking to protect him from harm. Their focus wasn’t on him.

  He’d walked up the car ramp to the street, turned to his left away from the entrance, and a few minutes later climbed into a taxi parked at a stand. He’d made the flight only because an increase in the security level had backed up passenger boarding and all flights were delayed.

  He’d not had to change planes in Frankfurt, taking the time to consider his actions as sleep was out of the question. Once in flight, an air of calm spread through the cabin. Jeff closed his eyes with fatigue. He could hear the muted tinkle and clatter of the cart as the attendants moved down the aisle, taking orders and serving drinks.

  He couldn’t shake the thought that this was all a waste of time. Police professionals and intelligence agencies were searching for Daryl; why did he think he could succeed where they failed? She could be anywhere right now—anywhere. The evidence on which he was acting was flimsy at best. He had absolutely no real proof Daryl was in Prague.

  He ordered a double bourbon, surprising himself. He typically drank very little and then only wine. The liquid stung as he sipped it, the taste if not pleasant not unpleasant, either. When he finished, he felt a hot glow in his gut that slowly spread throughout his body as the tension eased from him.

  Yes, Daryl could be anywhere. She could very well be dead. But the trail led to Prague. And even if the police and intelligence agencies were looking for her they were also occupied with a thousand other tasks. No one was more motivated to find her than Jeff because no one else loved her as he did.

  The plane landed without incident. As soon as he could, Jeff booted his laptop to connect but found nothing from Frank. He put his computer away, made a mental note to buy a new cell phone, then filed out of the airplane and made his way to an Avis rental counter. Thirty minutes later, he had keys. But before going outside to claim his car he located a hot spot. And there was the message he’d hoped for.

  The car is registered to Václav Morávek. The address is Jezkova 564, Prague 3. That is an unspecified commercial site. The name on the vehicle is a dead end and likely fake. Call the local police, Jeff, and let them handle it. You write software, remember?

  Frank

  Nothing from Bridget. He kept himself from sending her a reminder. She already knew how urgent this was.

  Jeff drove out of the airport. He cautiously followed the GPS instructions, which still managed to confuse him repeatedly once he reached the crowded city center. There the old streets were short, extending only a city block. Though it was late the city had the sense of just coming alive and pedestrians crossed streets with casual care. More than once his eye was drawn to a young couple walking arm in arm, lost in their own world.

  It was nearly midnight when he spotted the address. Afraid to slow, he drove by, went around the corner, promptly found himself lost, shut off the GPS system and its nagging voice, and finally made his way back to Jezkova Street. This time he slowed a bit as he went past but still could not make out what was at the address. It was an old building, with several large wooden doors, but that was all.

  He drove in circles in the nearby area as he considered his next move. Frank might well have been right. Jeff had already withheld important information from the police in Geneva to protect a source, seriously handicapping official efforts. Then he’d taken off before he’d identified the photographs for them. He suddenly realized that by his actions he made it impossible for them to know who to look for or where to go in their search.

  What would the local police do if he went to them? Once they contacted Geneva they’d probably detain him.

  No, he’d made his decision. Now he had to play out his hand. If this was a dead end then he’d tell the police what he knew—if he was able.

  A car pulled away from the curb, giving him a parking spot that he backed into. On the sidewalk, Jeff took a moment to orient himself. He walked back the way he’d been driving and after a few minutes located Jezkova Street. Though it was not crowded there were a number of pedestrians and he blended in while strolling by the address. He still was unable to make out what it was. There were no offices, from what he could see. It looked to him as if residences were on the second and third floors, which was the case throughout the street. His heart raced and for a moment he wondered if Daryl was being held there.

  At the corner was a tiny shop where sundry items were sold: cigars, cigarettes, mints, magazines, toilet articles. He bought a magazine, thinking it might be useful as a prop, then a bottle of water and two candy bars since he had no idea when he’d eat next.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the young woman behind the counter, “but can you tell me what business that is down the street?” He hoped she knew more than the few English phrases her job required.

  She raised her head. Her hair was dark and short. She wore stylish glasses. He formed the impression she was a student. “What business?”

  “Let me show you.” He smiled and went toward the door. She
moved from behind her counter without hesitation and walked outside with him. He pointed to number 564 just down the street. “There, with the old wooden doors.”

  “Ahh,” she said then smiled. “It is a lockup.”

  “Lockup? I don’t know the phrase.”

  “You know, for cars.”

  “Like a garage, you mean.”

  “Like that. Few apartments here have parking so you must pay for a place. You understand?”

  “Yes, I do. Thank you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Would the owners live close to their lockup?”

  She nodded. “If they can.” She shrugged. “I can’t say.”

  After thanking her Jeff walked back to his car. What to do? He started the engine, pulled away from the curb and through the rearview mirror saw another car dart into the spot. He made several turns then drove down Jezkova Street again. The young woman was closing up for the night. He drove as slowly as he dared.

  How often, he wondered, could he risk driving down this street? Maybe he should park nearby and watch the location from on foot. He couldn’t see anywhere convenient for that, though. He kept driving, taking his time. He feared he’d attract police attention if he kept this up.

  Jeff glanced at his watch. He’d risk an hour. If he couldn’t find a parking spot from where he could watch the location for the night he’d park somewhere and risk a vigil on foot.

  As he drove he wondered how he might contact the Geneva police and forward to them the photograph of the men he’d recognized. But he could not figure out a way to do that and keep Bridget out of it. What had he done by rushing off to Prague? Shouldn’t he have at least waited to view the photographs for the police, pointed out the two he knew then flown to Prague?

  The thought tantalized him but he sensed that time was an issue, that taking those few hours might prove fatal to Daryl. Well, he thought, it made no difference now. The fat was in the fire. He’d made his choice and would have to live with the consequences.

  Finally, on his fifth or sixth time down the street—Jeff no longer could keep track—a parking spot magically appeared. He rushed to it, pulled the car in, then killed the engine. By turning just slightly to his right he could make out the lockup, as the girl had called it, from the corner of his right eye and not seem to be watching it.

  He cleared his mind of all unpleasant thoughts. After a bit he ate one of the candy bars and drank some water. The street and city slowly become quiet and without realizing it he lay his head across the back of the seat and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  37

  PRAGUE 3, CZECH REPUBLIC

  TABORITSKA 5

  11:17 P.M. CET

  Saliha sat smoking as Ahmed worked his new computer. He’d had a laptop he’d brought with him that he’d removed from a carrier and sat on the desk beside his old one. Nothing had gone as she expected since he’d arrived and been surprised to see her waiting—pleasantly surprised. They’d all but leaped into bed and now she was disgusted with herself. Why was she always so ready for him? She’d never been like that before.

  Worse, he still hadn’t paid her for the trip even though he examined the personal items she’d brought back for him with approval.

  Saliha rose and went into the bathroom where she turned on the water, then prepared to take a shower. Ahmed no longer thought of her, not after, and was instead engrossed in his new computer. In that way he was like every man she’d ever slept with. They wanted a woman for one thing and that was all. She stepped into the hot water and considered what to do next. Or rather, how to tell Ahmed she was finished with these trips and still get paid. She’d wait until after getting the money she decided, then tell him. She’d never seen him lose his temper. Tonight might be the first time.

  With the shower running in the background Ahmed stared at the computer screen without comprehension, his mind far away. His conversation with Hamid had disturbed him deeply. This whole operation he realized had been a botch from the first. He wondered now how many problem areas existed about which he knew nothing. The police could be searching for him this very minute. He had no way of knowing. He should have thought more carefully of the possibilities. That was what he’d been taught.

  He’d simply driven to Geneva and kidnapped the couple. Those had been his instructions but it was assumed he’d consider every eventuality and take the necessary steps. Up to that point it had appeared a straightforward operation. What he’d not done was plan for likely scenarios and devised a plan for each. He’d had good men, access to others. It should not have been a problem.

  It occurred to him that like his men he’d been in the field for too long, that his life in Prague was too easy. The edge he’d once possessed had been dulled by soft Western living and now he was paying the price.

  Still, Hamid understood operational problems. He was a field agent himself, one of the best and knew how events could easily spin out of control. Ahmed’s instructions had been vague and that always meant that the outcome was unpredictable as was the path in getting there. Hamid might truly be angry, even questioning Ahmed’s ability, but he was a reasonable man aware of local difficulties. Ahmed had been under extreme time constraints. Hamid knew that.

  Ahmed closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to release the pressure. He was being too hard on himself. Except for the escape, which had not been his fault, he’d done pretty well. He’d improvised, adjusted to changing circumstances and completed the mission. Mostly.

  No, Hamid was not likely all that unhappy except possibly for Ali’s loss. Good agents were hard to replace. The council’s opinion was another matter altogether. These were men Ahmed did not know, faceless administrators who moved pins on maps, made decisions in meetings with an excess of enthusiasm, men who in their deepest soul cared not one whit about Ahmed or any of his agents.

  He shook his head against the gathering despair he was feeling and told himself it was the result of his exhausted state. He needed to sleep then deal with the woman. But first there was this other matter. Hamid had told him it would make all right so he drew on his final reserves.

  He turned to his own computer and checked his e-mail account again but found nothing. He lit a cigarette as he listened to the shower, his mind conjuring up an image of Saliha.

  He’d been enormously relieved to find Saliha waiting for him. He’d feared she’d broken off or was playing some kind of woman’s game and would make him search for her. Given the urgency of the mission he had to send her on he had been very concerned as he had no back up for her. But there she’d been.

  After sex, though, she’d turned petulant. He didn’t understand women. They were always like that after. He tried checking messages again. Nothing.

  He’d have thought himself too exhausted for sex but the moment he laid eyes on Saliha he’d been ready. He realized it was the adrenaline of the mission, the closeness of failure, even of death. He’d rushed through the preliminaries, or perhaps it was her who had rushed. Now his fatigue had returned and he was so sleepy he could hardly keep his eyes open.

  He checked messages. Again nothing. This was nonsense. How urgent could the message be?

  He glanced at the woman’s laptop. He would get the password from her first thing then skim the machine for data before turning it over to his computer expert. Unfortunately the man wasn’t in Prague.

  Ahmed closed his eyes as he sat, nodding off almost at once. The water stopped. He jerked awake. He checked his messages and there it was. At last, he thought. There was a coded message, the first time one had come with the attachment. He pulled over a sheet of paper and pencil and worked the code used in such situations.

  Keep the computers safe. We want them.

  Ahmed glanced at the woman’s computer. So someone else understood how important it might be. But he had only the one. What would Hamid think when he learned?

  Ahmed was getting a headache. He again pinched the bridge of his nose. The pressure wouldn’t go away. He
inserted the small thumb drive and transferred the attached file directly into it. Once it was loaded he closed the computer off then removed the drive.

  Saliha was humming as she patted her damp hair. He could just make out the sight of her through the partially open door and though he felt no bodily urge for her at the moment the vision was fulfilling just to see.

  He had to sleep. There was no getting away from it. He’d send Saliha on her way then lay down for a few hours. After that he’d return to the woman. That was the way it had to be. He’d muffle her and do what had to be done at Karim’s apartment. He had no alternative.

  Saliha stepped out of the bathroom and began to dress. She saw him holding the thumb drive. “What’s that?”

  “I need you to make another trip.”

  “I just got back.”

  “I know, but this is urgent.”

  She snapped her bra into place. “You haven’t paid me yet for the last trip.”

  “I have your money.”

  “I’m sure you do but I don’t have it and we aren’t talking about another trip until I’ve been paid.”

  “This is important.”

  “It’s always important, Ahmed. My money?” She held out her hand suddenly aware that she was dressed only in her bra and panties. For an instant she wondered if he’d toss it at her like she heard some men did to their whores.

  Ahmed pulled out his wallet and counted bills. He handed them to her then said, “Okay now?”

  Saliha counted the money, then shook her head. “My miscellaneous expenses. You didn’t pay me for them last time either, remember?”