Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [110]
That was the true source of his anger, he realized. Some part of him had always known he’d sold himself short and, in so doing, had doomed more than three thousand people, including the woman he’d loved.
That was all changed. No more would he sit back and play the guilt-ridden victim.
And there was Daryl. She was risking everything without a second thought. His feelings had come on him slowly, but what he’d thought no longer possible was now a reality. He had to do this, for both their sakes. And for the sake of the three thousand he’d already failed.
“Let me make some calls.” Daryl pulled out her cell phone and began with her office. Satisfied that they were now safe, Jeff led her to a sidewalk vendor as she talked. Buying black coffee and doughnuts, he laughed at the absurdity of it all and the sudden realization that getting shot at in real life was nothing like being one of the shooters in the video games he played. This was for keeps.
By noon Daryl tucked away her phone. “I’ve got my team on it. I’ve told them I’m going to be traveling this week, trying to run down Superphreak. They think I’m joking. I’ve got some odd news too.” Jeff raised his eyebrows. “I couldn’t reach George Carlton. I wanted an update on where DHS is on this. They told me he left the country yesterday in a rush, something about an appointment in Paris.”
Jeff wrinkled his brow. “What do you think?”
She shrugged. “I left a voice mail for his assistant, telling him I’d be out of touch for a few days, asking them to please take some action on Superphreak, not that it will do any good. The guy had taken the weekend off, which tells me everything I need to know about how urgent they think this is.”
Exasperated, Jeff said, “What about the vendors?”
“No real change. We told them again it was avoiding their honeypots, and a few said that they would look at generating some signatures for the samples we have, but that’s way too little way too late.”
Jeff sighed. “I checked the temperature in Moscow. It’s colder than here. We should do a little shopping while we can. And get some cash. Credit cards don’t work everywhere.”
They’d made it to Newark with time to spare. At an airport hot spot, Jeff booked them into the Moscow Metropol Hotel for three nights. “Gotta love the Internet,” he said as put away his laptop.
Waiting to board, Daryl said, “How are we going to find Superphreak?”
“You’ve got an address. We’ll give it to a taxi driver.”
“Okay. Let’s say it’s that easy. We find him, then just ask him to turn over the viruses he’s created? That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”
“We can always pay him.”
Daryl brightened. “Money’s good. That might work.” Then with a sinking heart she added, “If he’s not a fanatic or something.”
“That’s possible. But he’s a Russian and I’ll bet he’s a gun for hire.”
“Unless he’s Chechnyan.”
Jeff frowned. “Yes, there’s always that.”
55
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
MOSCOW SHEREMETYEVO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
4:43 P.M.
Brian Manfield marveled at how he could use his British passport to enter Russia. For a moment he recalled how he had infiltrated Russian lines in Grozny, first as a dirty-faced waif, worming his way close enough to use his knife, then later dressed as a Russian soldier on guard duty. Now he stepped off an airplane and handed the authorities a piece of paper, and they stamped it and all but gave him the keys to the city. Amazing.
Somewhere, he knew, was a file under the name Borz Mansur, presumably with a grainy photograph of him as a gawky teenager. But no one in Russia had any reason to connect him with the distinguished British representative of SAS, London.
The trip had been exhausting. He’d taken Czech Airlines from Newark to Prague, then flown from the Czech Republic directly to Moscow. With luck this Russian business would be quickly over and he could go home.
Outside he took out