Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [84]
“That’s it. There are simple ones and complex ones. I’ve been building more complex ones every week. It’s really intriguing work.”
“And you aren’t doing this for the Mafia?”
Vladimir laughed heartily. “Those people? Of course not. It’s out of Europe, I think.”
“Where?”
“I’m not certain. They’re very secretive. I’d say France, but maybe Belgium. My contact writes English like a Frenchman sometimes.”
“Or Quebec, or North Africa. Don’t they speak French there too?”
“Sure, but they don’t have any money. But he could be anywhere. I’d have to spend a day tracing back one of his messages and even then it might not work. I don’t care, anyway. His money is good.” She sipped her vodka. “What?” A dark expression had crossed her face.
“You’re … you’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”
Vladimir stared at her for a long moment, the anger starting to well up. He pushed it down savagely, then in a steady voice said, “I’ve told you what I’m doing. I’m not lying, Ivana.”
“Good. Then we are safe and I can breathe again.” It seemed to her in that moment that the life for them she dreamed of would actually happen. She’d have a baby and everything would be perfect.
40
JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, NYC
THURSDAY, AUGUST 31
3:37 P.M.
Brian Manfield rolled one of the dice in the palm of his hand. Four. He went to the fourth taxi in the queue and asked the driver if he spoke English. The Pakistani nodded his head. “Say a few words if you would, mate,” Manfield asked. “Just to be sure.”
“Yes, I speak good English.” The accent was thick, but Manfield understood him.
“Right then. Load my luggage.” The other drivers ahead had exited their vehicles and were agitated, vigorously complaining that he hadn’t taken the first taxi, but Manfield ignored them. The driver shot back a quick answer that satisfied no one as he moved to open the trunk. Manfield waited on the curb, discreetly scanning the area as the driver placed the luggage into the trunk, then climbed into the taxi as soon as the Pakistani did. He gave the name of the modest hotel where he’d be staying as the car pulled away from the curb and drove out of JFK International Airport.
They drove through Queens and Brooklyn in silence, then crossed the Manhattan Bridge onto the island. The going was slow after that, but before five o’clock Manfield was checked into his hotel. He showered, changed into running shoes, tan chinos, a polo shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker. The day had been crisp enough, he thought, that he wouldn’t draw any attention, especially at night, with the jacket.
Outside he took in the city, realizing how much it reminded him of portions of London. He entered the subway, exiting at Inwood, where he walked four blocks. The address turned out to be a small store. The aging sign outside belonged to the former owner and read SWENSON’S SPORTING GOODS. A bell over the door sounded as Manfield entered.
The dark-skinned man in his midthirties behind the counter looked up. “We are just closing, sir.” He was slender, with a well-trimmed beard. On the surface the accent was British, but Manfield recognized it at once as Egyptian.
“I won’t be long,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps you have a package for me?”
The man took another look at his customer. “I don’t understand.”
“Omar said you were holding something for me.” Manfield always felt silly with these games, but at least once in the past they had saved his life.
The man blinked, then replied steadily, “You mean my cousin Muhammad.”
“Perhaps you are right, though I now recall his name was Abdul.”
“Allah Akbar,” the clerk said quietly. “Just a moment.” He retreated behind a curtained doorway while Manfield moved closer to the front door, where he could watch equally the rear of the store and the street. A moment later the man returned with a package wrapped in heavy brown paper, tied with twine. “Here.”
Manfield hefted the package and nodded. “Thank you.” He turned and went out the doorway without another word. Two blocks away he entered the McDonald’s he’d spotted earlier and pressed his way through