Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [122]
If someone had told him a month ago that he’d be on the run from assassins with a beautiful new lover, that he’d be shot at and wounded, that the fate of the Western world lay with him, he’d have told them they were crazy. But here he was and he had to admit there was something to be said for it. He recalled that the young Winston Churchill, upon being sent to South Africa to cover the Boer War for a newspaper, had written after his first combat experience, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.”
Well, he’d been winged, if that was the word for it, but he understood what Churchill had meant. It was exhilarating and he’d never felt more alive. He’d had no idea that “saving the world” could be so exciting. On the other hand, he knew, had he been seriously injured, he’d feel very differently.
Daryl folded her laptop, then slipped it into its case. “You’re staring at the back of the seat in front of you,” she said. “You do know there’s no television screen there, don’t you?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“My life has been pretty exciting these last few days.”
She laughed. “That’s excitement I could do without. Or don’t you think so?”
Jeff grunted. “I wouldn’t change a thing, actually.” He looked at her with open affection, and she returned it. “Learn anything?”
“Superphreak?” The warm expression faded from her face. “Not much. The viruses we’ve got are nothing special. The rootkits and encryption’s a bitch, though. I don’t know why I wasted my time on it. Do you think there’ll be enough on this external drive to be any help?”
“It’s a long shot,” Jeff said, taking her hand. “But what else is there?”
* * *
Deciding to skip registering at a hotel, Daryl and Jeff took a taxi directly from Milan’s Malpensa Airport to the address they had for Ivana in the central part of the city. It was nearly an hour before they stepped out with their luggage and paid the driver.
The street was wider than was typical for an Italian city, though still cobblestoned. A row of graceful trees flanked the sides, bordered by narrow sidewalks. The buildings were of a rough brownstone and, from the weathering Jeff could see, were at least two hundred years old. “Is this it?” he asked, every door looking the same to him.
“Yes. Number 346.” Daryl stepped up and knocked on the aged wooden door.
After a long pause, they heard footsteps approaching. The door opened six inches and the plain face of a woman in her middle years showed itself. Daryl spoke in Italian, but before she finished, the women interrupted, saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Italian.”
“English?” Daryl said.
“Yes.” The woman looked them over. “My guess is you’re the American couple from Moscow, come to see Ivana. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Daryl said, her face reflecting her surprise. “How did you know?”
The woman shrugged. “Ivana’s mother called after she spoke with the man from the embassy. She was afraid she’d made a mistake and wanted to alert her daughter. And, of course, Ivana told me about you. Let me see the wound, please,” she said to Jeff, who stood surrounded by their luggage.
Jeff didn’t understand what she meant at first, then he pushed his jacket and shirt off his shoulder and exposed the bandages to the woman.
“That’s good enough for me. Come on in. I just put on a pot of coffee. My name’s Annie, by the way. What are yours?”
* * *
Annie led them through the entryway, telling them to put their things down near the front door, then showed them into a sitting room. “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
They sat side by side on matching chairs and glanced about the ornate room. It had high ceilings and rough-plastered walls that gave a sense of strength and restfulness. The ceiling was decorated with a lavish painting now long faded. The furniture was of dark woods, mostly carved, and brightened with colorful fabrics. On the floor was a Persian rug.
“Very nice,” Daryl said, and Jeff nodded his agreement.
Annie returned a few minutes later with coffee and cookies on a tray, which she placed