Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [115]
“Vlad!” she cried out. “Vlad!” Rushing to the chair, Ivana took her husband’s head into her arms.
Across the room, Manfield had freed the second tower and thrown it to the floor. He was attacking it with the screwdriver when Ivana rushed into the room. He drew his gun, glanced at the sobbing woman holding the dead man, then turned his attention to the tower. He fired into it, once, twice, three times, the shots sounding like enormous explosions in such a small area. He turned to the woman, and a burly older man appeared in the doorway.
Manfield knew he was out of time. He’d done what damage he could and had killed the target. He bolted for the doorway, pointed the pistol at the man, then, when he did not move, shot him once, pushed his body aside, and climbed over him as he scrambled out the door.
In the hallway Manfield turned to his right to run from the building when the elevator doors opened. For an instant, he saw the same couple he’d tried to kill in New York. He couldn’t imagine how they’d managed to make it to this very place in Moscow so quickly, or why they were here. It was like seeing an apparition, and it momentarily stunned him.
Manfield had no time but he had a bullet to spare, so as he reached the stairs, he aimed the gun at the couple and snapped off a shot. He sprinted down the stairs and a moment later was in the street.
Vakha pulled the car to a stop and Manfield jumped into the rear seat. “Away from here, brother! Quickly!”
Vakha pressed the accelerator and sped off.
59
PARIS, FRANCE
18ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
7:12 P.M.
Fajer and Labib were approaching the final week of jihad, and Fajer could hardly contain his excitement. Soon he would be rewarded for his time and money, and America brought to its knees.
Apparently content with the condition of her hair, the lovely Hungarian he’d been watching stood, the subdued light striking her body to perfection. Fajer was certain she’d studied the pose—and was glad she had. She moved slowly toward him, then his cell phone rang.
“This is Greta,” the voice said. “I have news.”
Greta, oddly, was the name of an English- and Russian-speaking Chechen assassin Osama bin Laden had given Fajer. The man had come highly recommended, and though he’d missed one of his targets in New York, he’d killed the most important one. He would be calling from Russia. The assassin spoke in English, the only language they had in common. Fajer wondered for a moment if the whore spoke English and decided she did.
“Go ahead.”
“The man is no longer a problem. He had three computers. Two are destroyed. But he was moving, and the third was gone. I believe it is at his new apartment. Is it important?”
Fajer thought about that for a moment. The woman sat on the side of the bed, smiling. He took her head with his free hand and lowered her face to his groin. She understood at once. He almost hissed as she took him in.
“I prefer you disable it as well. Can you reach it?”
“I can try. If I can manage it without great risk, I will.”
“That will do.”
“There’s something else.”
Fajer listened carefully, forcing himself to concentrate as the woman skillfully performed her service.
“Interesting,” he said when Greta was finished. “In that case, finish them or destroy the computer. Both, if you can, but one or the other for certain.”
Fajer dropped the cell phone to the floor and cursed his own weakness as the whore moved her head up and down, up and down.
60
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
7:14 P.M.
“Are you all right?” Daryl asked, pushing open Jeff’s jacket as she leaned toward him. She sounded frightened even as she struggled to stay calm.
Jeff held his hand against his shoulder. The bullet had creased the flesh and it was starting to bleed. It stung like hell, and of course, the new jacket was ruined.
“It just hurts. You’re certain it was him?”
“Absolutely,” she said breathlessly. “He wasn’t shooting at me, so I had a better look.”
The shock of being shot suddenly