Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [111]
“Oh, yes, sir! Very nice hotel. You will like. Very pretty womens stay there in bar.” The driver had not shaved in three days. He was middle-aged, with a dark complexion. “I can give you name of special one. Very nice. College girl, looking to meet handsome English gentleman.”
“No, thank you.”
They drove for a few minutes, then the driver said, “Nice boys and young men too.”
“No, thank you. I’ll keep the offer in mind.”
“Here,” the driver said, never taking his eyes off the road. “Take my card. You call me for anything, anytime, okay? I make your stay very good indeed. Very special.”
Manfield glanced at the card as he moved to put it into his pocket, intending to toss it as soon as he checked in. Stopping, he read the name on the card. Vakha Dukhavakha. A Chechen. “How are you, my brother?” Manfield asked in Chechen.
With astonishment the man met Manfield’s eyes for the first time in the rearview mirror. “I am good, Allah be praised,” he answered in the same language.
“Praise be to Allah, my brother.”
The car sped along the wide Moscow street toward the city center. Finally, Vakha said in Chechen, “You look the perfect English gentleman.”
“We are all two faces in this world, my brother.”
“Yes,” Vakha agreed, his voice sounding sad. “If I can help you, only say the word.”
Manfield thought. He’d taken the first taxi. Then the driver turned out to be a Chechen brother. The odds of that were not so long. Many of the taxi drivers in Moscow were Chechen. Should he be suspicious? At times Allah handed you a gift. A few minutes later the taxi pulled up before the Golden Ring Hotel.
“I must check in,” Manfield said. “Wait for me.” He handed the man some of the rubles he’d acquired at the airport.
“I will wait. Keep your money, my brother,” the driver said, waving the rubles off. “I will be there.” He indicated a spot just down the street.
As Manfield checked in, he said to the clerk in English, “I’m expecting a package.”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment.” The young man returned with a wrapped box the size of a laptop. “Here you are, sir. It arrived earlier today.”
In his room Manfield washed, then changed into casual clothes. He opened the package and removed the pistol. This time it was a Russian Makarov .380, the Soviet equivalent of the German PPK. Included was an extra magazine, already full. He checked the automatic and found a bullet in the chamber and the magazine filled. In the package was a folding knife with a single four-inch locking blade. This one was Swiss and a bit larger than he was accustomed to, but of high quality.
A message on a slip of paper was written in Russian. “No photo available. The name is Vladimir Koskov, late twenties, in a wheelchair. Destroy all computers.” Finally there was the fully charged cell phone, which he turned on. He placed the items into his pockets, memorized the address, then tore up and flushed the message.
Thirty minutes after arriving, Manfield left the hotel, spotted the taxi, and entered the backseat. He gave the driver an address. “Drive carefully. I wish to attract no attention.”
“I understand.”
56
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
6:21 P.M.
Ivana Koskov was satisfied with the bedroom. She’d been able to buy a new IKEA bedroom set and was thrilled. They finally had enough room for her things and a bed big enough for the two of them. Vladimir had suggested twin beds, but she was determined to continue sleeping with him. In the corner of the room was an unoccupied place where she mentally placed a baby crib.
Their old living room furniture was to be delivered the next day, so that room was still empty. She’d carefully written their new address on tape that she’d placed on every piece of furniture and on the boxes containing their