Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [90]
Jeff raised his voice. “We don’t know what would have happened. He could have told someone, at least! He could have done more! At the very least, he could have tried!”
Daryl looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to them, then turned back to the conversation. “We all could have done more, except maybe you. But we have to focus on the here and now. You’ve seen this virus firsthand, in far greater detail than I have. Between the two of us maybe we can get him at least to lean on the vendors. They’re the ones with the resources to counter this.” Determined to get Jeff to see her point, Daryl refused to back off. She was desperate and willing to do just about anything to get him to join her in what she saw as their last hope.
“Excuse me.” Jeff rose and made his way to the nearby public men’s room. Inside, he scrubbed his face with cold water, fighting back the tears. Pulling out a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, he rubbed his face nearly raw. He stood quietly and drew several deep breaths, releasing them slowly. Who am I really mad at? he thought. Carlton? Or myself? The answer still wasn’t clear to him. After nearly ten minutes, he returned to the table.
“There’s this,” Daryl said, as if he’d never left. “My team has determined that the Superphreak virus propagation avoids IP addresses owned by software security vendors. Think about that, and the effort that’s gone into creating it. It’s also one of the reasons why the vendors aren’t giving this priority.”
Jeff’s voice was steady as he said, “I agree, someone’s put a lot of thought into this.”
“There’s more.” She was speaking so quietly he almost couldn’t hear her over the background buzz of conversation and traffic. “It only targets U.S. and European computers.”
Jeff was stunned. “The rest of the world is excluded?”
“Yes.” Daryl bit her lower lip and seemed to struggle for self-control.
“My God,” Jeff whispered, almost to himself. “They’re after the West then, not just the technology. It really is an attack.” There was nothing left to discuss. “You win. I’ll go.”
“Good.” She pushed the remainder of her food away. “We’re on the noon shuttle flight and are meeting him at three.”
45
PARIS, FRANCE
5ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT
GRAPHISME COURAGEUX
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
12:05 P.M.
Gaullist protesters marching in opposition to Arab immigration had all but closed the routes into central Paris. Labib had decided it was pointless to try to drive to his office. He’d called to tell his secretary he wouldn’t be in. Most of the staff, she told him, had done the same thing.
Labib dressed casually, left his car parked outside his house, then took a taxi as far as he could into central Paris. Once he reached the closed streets, he began walking, staying off the main arteries, clogged with demonstrators. It was a beautiful late-summer day. The morning air was invigorating, though he knew the city would by afternoon be sitting in a stifling heat.
Weaving his way down side streets and alleys, he reached the back entrance to Graphisme Courageux nearly two hours after leaving his house, where he found Michel Dufour hard at work.
Dufour nodded as Labib entered. “The front staff never arrived.”
“The French. I’ll never understand them. Where are we?”
“Just a moment. Let me finish this.” Dufour continued typing as Labib dug a bottle of water out of the small refrigerator they kept in the office. He sat at his desk and waited. Finally Dufour stopped, turned toward him, and said, “Do you want an overview of the attack?”
Labib nodded.
“I’ve kept a rough count and believe we have dispatched more than two thousand variations of our core boîtier. I’m launching something like five to ten a day and will keep sending them out through the tenth. A significant number are self-replicating, and that increases the numbers considerably.”
This was even better than Labib had dared to hope.
“In addition,” Dufour continued,