Zero Days, page 30
It was austere but grand, in an old Soviet style. A bit like his train to Kiev. Ornate ceilings with chandeliers above spartan corridors. Thick carpets, and walls hung with old paintings and fading photographs of past performances. Everybody dressed as if they were heading to Sunday service at the local church, smart in a conservative sort of way.
Drayton and Vika climbed several sets of stairs and then ordered two glasses of wine from a dour barman in a corner café with windows overlooking the entrance, from which they watched Efren Bell arrive, alone as he’d been told, climbing out of the back of a chauffeur-driven OmniX.
The auditorium was steep-sided and horseshoe shaped, Vika and Drayton’s box at the top of several tiers, with a bird’s eye view of the theatre below.
‘Second tier, third box along, on the far side,’ Vika said, handing Drayton a pair of opera glasses, which he trained on the wall of boxes opposite them, where Bell was taking a seat, looking at his cell phone, then putting it in his pocket as the lights went down and an orchestra began to play from a deep pit in front of the stage.
Drayton lost track as soon as the opera started. A colourful and crowded party scene unfolded with lots of extravagant posturing, the actors prancing around the stage and singing at each other, one with a growl-like sub-woofer of a voice; others so screechingly high that he thought the opera glasses might shatter. He guessed that was the point, or rather the skill, because the really extreme notes were greeted with spontaneous applause. The first act ended with the big, slightly hunched man from the poster, the one with a name like pasta, alone on stage and collapsing in despair.
‘He’s been cursed,’ Vika said, as the curtain fell and the lights came on for the first break.
‘I know how he feels,’ Drayton replied, standing and making to leave the box.
‘Good luck,’ Vika said. ‘You have around ten minutes.’
Vika stayed in their box, watching Bell through her opera glasses, watching to see Drayton enter his box as arranged to offer Bell the deal. She looked towards the ceiling of the theatre, looking for the telltale bulbous node of surveillance cameras. She couldn’t immediately see any, but knew they were there and knew where Bret would now have them focussed, for the next part of their performance.
Vika watched as Bell made a call, or possibly received one. He looked at his watch, played again with his phone, looked at the curtains behind him, then at the theatre in front. A bell rang, the opera would soon be starting again. Where the fuck was Drayton? A second bell rang. Then there was movement behind Bell. The curtains parted and he turned and stretched out his hand in greeting.
But it wasn’t Drayton. Instead it was Dmitry who entered the box, shook the outstretched hand and sat down beside Bell just as the lights went down for the start of the opera’s second act.
*****
Drayton got no further than the corridor just outside his box. They grabbed him from behind, two men, big men, built like fridge-freezers. They hooked his arms and pinned them to his sides. He tried to pull free, but their grip was too tight, tried to hold his ground, but they lifted him until his toes were sliding across the floor.
Efren Bell’s black OmniX was waiting for them outside a fire exit. Drayton was pushed into the back seat, fridge-freezers either side of him. Ken Tsang, sitting up front, demanded Drayton’s cell phone, which he put in a small black pouch, the sort designed to block signals, to prevent tracking.
The OmniX moved quickly along a wide thoroughfare, weaving through light traffic. It swung around a square at speed, banking sharply past a squat temple, its cupolas wrapped in scaffolding, before ducking into a narrow alleyway.
A fading metal door opened onto a steep staircase to a basement corridor lit with garish blue and red bulbs. Drayton could hear thumping music, heavy base, getting louder as they walked. He was pushed into a small room, the door locked behind him.
The windowless room was pitch-black, and Drayton swore as he hit his knee hard against something blunt and metallic. He ran his fingers along a cold wall, feeling his way to a light switch. A ceiling light flickered and faded, but it was sufficient for him to see that he was in a small office or store room, its walls lined with metal cabinets and empty shelving. A desk and chair stood at one end. Boxes against one wall, drinking water mostly, from which he took a bottle. Others were full of flyers with a picture of two naked women wrapped around a pole. It had been taken through a fish tank with baby sharks, and at the top was the name, ‘Day Zero Gentlemen’s Club’.
That had to be where they’d brought him.
Drayton wasn’t sure how long he waited in the room. He took some more water, slept for a while on the floor, read and reread the flier, slept some more. Thinking. Schoenberg’s performance had gone pretty smoothly for the first three acts, but had veered badly off script, Dmitry not liking the role he’d been assigned, wanting to write his own ending, and Drayton suspected it wasn’t a happy one.
He woke abruptly from a nightmare, where he was being lowered into the tank of sharks, the naked women on stage looking on and cheering. There were voices outside his room. A key in the door. The two men who’d grabbed him from the opera told him to get up and follow them, further down the corridor, to the room with the music. It was the main part of the club, lights pulsating to the beat, a low glass ceiling above perhaps a dozen tables. Most of the tables were littered with glasses and taken by groups of men, their eyes as glazed as the ceiling above them. A group of pouting, near-naked women with gravity-defying silicon enhancements and stilt-like high-heels, gyrated around poles on a small stage at the front.
Drayton was led to an enclave just beyond the bar and close to the fish tank, which was much bigger than it appeared in the flyer. The baby sharks seemed to be taking a good deal more interest in the pole dancers than the drunken punters at the tables.
‘Sit down Drayton,’ said Dmitry. ‘Did you think seriously that I was going to pay to get back my own code book?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ Drayton said. ‘That and the key to unlock your cryptocurrency exchange. The Chinese can’t be happy about that. I thought we could do a package deal.’
Dmitry laughed, a cynical threatening laugh that suggested to Drayton that negotiations were not about to begin.
‘You’re in my city now, Drayton. You know I could have had you killed at the opera or maybe at your hotel. I could do it right now, at this table.’
He took a gun from inside his jacket and lay it at his side. He flicked back his hair, which had flopped over small eyes drilling into Drayton.
‘At the end of the day, the code book is an irritation. So is the bank. They won’t damage my business. What I have to offer is too valuable to too many people. Mostly it just pisses me off. You piss me off. And I don’t like being pissed off. It hurts me. And it’s very bad for you.’
Dmitry paused for effect. Then he said, ‘And it’s also very bad for Vika.’
He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Tapping on the screen a few times before turning it towards Drayton to show a grainy video image. It was Vika, tied to a chair and gagged. She was in what looked like a cave with white-washed walls, broken by the fuzzy gold outlines of faces and a cross. Dmitry said something to the phone in Russian and a man stepped forward and slapped Vika around the face, knocking her over. The picture followed her to the ground, where she was wriggling and kicking like an angry wild animal trying to free itself from its shackles.
‘So the deal I am offering you Drayton is very simple,’ Dmitry said. ‘The code book and the cryptocurrency key and you and Vika live. If not, Vika’s body will be dragged out of the Dnieper River a few hours from now. What’s left of it, that is.’
He placed the gun under a drinks menu as a server came in with an expensive bottle of whisky and ice.
‘This city has a tragic history Drayton, past and present. The hills around the Dnieper River are riddled with caves and tunnels, a thousand years old. It’s where monks hid from Mongol invaders, where they lived and were buried. Those were brutal times, with very imaginative means of torture and death. They put a lot of thought into how to make their enemies suffer.’
He turned the phone back towards Drayton. Vika back seated, blood trailing down her face.
‘My employees can be very imaginative too,’ the Russian said.
He poured the whisky, pushing a glass to Drayton.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘Branding using red-hot irons was used as a means of torture long before they marked the butts of cows.’
He spoke into the phone again. Then the screen was filled with by a man holding three lengths of metal – branding irons – their ends glowing bright red, a different shape on each. One was a the symbol for Bitcoin, another was @, as used in email addresses. A third was the head of a snarling dog.
‘Vika has always liked the digital world, so it would be rather appropriate don’t you think. Perhaps to complement her tattoos.’
Vika was still writhing and kicking, defiant as ever, but now firmly pinned to her chair. The man with the branding irons took a step towards her, a crucifix on the wall behind her glowed under the light from the branding irons. Another step closer and a series of fading icons came to life, bands of gold illuminated around the heads of stern-looking saints.
Dmitry propped the phone against the whisky bottle and turned to Drayton.
‘So, the code book and the key.’
Drayton was silent for a moment, staring at Dmitry’s screen, the look of utter panic on Vika’s face. Then he said, ‘I need my phone. If you want the keys, I need access to my phone.’
Dmitry looked at Ken Tsang. The money man had joined them at the table, but looked like he’d rather be elsewhere. Dmitry nodded and Tsang removed the pouch containing the phone from his inside pocket. Drayton powered up his phone, moving his finger quickly around the screen, scrolling and tapping.
Then he said, ‘You’ve got it.’
Dmitry looked at his phone, a new message contained two links. He clicked on the first, which opened a document on which was written a single word, ‘FireOfGlory2010’. He clicked on the second, a file which demanded a password to open it.
‘So where’s the fucking code book and key?’
‘Inside the file,’ Drayton said.
‘The file’s locked. What’s the password?’
‘Well here’s the thing, I’ve forgotten it.’
Dmitry’s face started to redden. He was sweating. He took a sip of whisky, a long sip, his hand shaking slightly. Then he reached for the gun under the menu, thrusting the barrel into Drayton’s ribs. With his other hand he grabbed Drayton by the hair and pushed his head hard against the table.
‘So, Drayton the cyber guy forgets passwords?’
‘It’s easy to do,’ Drayton said, talking to the table, struggling to get the words out.
Dmitry eased his grip slightly.
‘You see the password was complicated.’ Drayton said. ‘And in Russian. Not one of my languages. But you’ve got the clue, ‘FireOfGlory2010’. Just like the clues in Berlin.’
‘Fire of Glory, the eternal flame?’ said Ken, who until then had been sitting without talking, Ken the fidgety money man watching Dmitry the attack dog.
‘Well, maybe we should see what Vika thinks about that,’ Dmitry said, picking up his phone again, trying to reach the cave, but failing to get a connection.
He left the table, Ken Tsang following him.
Drayton, left with the two fridge-freezers, called after them, ‘If you’re trying to crack the password, take care. You only get two attempts. Get it wrong twice and it will delete the file. You know how it goes.’
Dmitry returned ten minutes later, sitting opposite Drayton. Ken Tsang sat beside the American. ‘You get it?’ asked Drayton.
Dmitry grabbed for Drayton’s hair again ramming the barrel of his gun hard into his neck. Then he abruptly sat back, looking over Drayton’s shoulder to where the fish tank appeared to be boiling. The bubbles that usually rose in a steady stream as they aeriated the water had turned into a torrent. Gushing to the surface. The sharks were in a frenzy, darting back and forth, round and round. Then the water burst over the top of the tank, one shark leapt out and slid down the bar. The girls at the poles screamed and bolted from the stage. Another shark landed, snapping and wriggling on the table in front of Dmitry. He lifted his gun and shot it once, then twice. It jumped and then continued to wriggle, though in three loosely connected pieces. Ken was wriggling too, since one bullet had passed clean through the shark and hit him in the chest, his white T-shirt rapidly turning red. The dwindling group of drunks in front of the stage looked around in dazed bemusement, not sure if this was part of a show.
Drayton looked at the ceiling, spotting the bulbous glass eye of a surveillance camera, and began to wonder.
But his attention was soon back in front of him, where Ken had his head slumped on the table, his face next to the shark’s, a dazed grimace on both. Then the music was turned up so loud it was painful. The lights began to flicker. Everybody began to shout, but it was impossible to hear above the music that was now just a distorted blast. The fire sprinklers came on next, a fine haze engulfing the club. Then the power went out. There was silence at first, and then a rising chorus of shouting and screaming.
Drayton felt a hand gripping his arm. The barrel of the gun in his ribs again.
‘Move,’ said Dmitry.
*****
Drayton was again squeezed in the back of the OmniX, between the fridge-freezers. But Efren Bell’s all-singing all-dancing car refused to do either, and the driver appeared to shrink under Dmitry’s angry gaze, as he tried desperately to start it. After what seemed to Drayton like an age it sprung to life, and they left the alleyway onto deserted city streets, bathed by the first light of dawn, and took a broad highway beside the river.
Every traffic light was red. ‘Come on! Come on!’ Dmitry snapped. ‘Ignore the fucking lights.’ But it wasn’t only the traffic signals that were against them. No matter how hard the driver pressed on the pedals, the car moved lethargically along the highway. The driver muttered nervously about a problem with the accelerator, while Dmitry pounded the dashboard with his fists. ‘Fucking car!’
The Motherland statue eventually appeared through the gloom ahead of them.
Dmitry marched Drayton at gunpoint through a dark tunnel lined with Soviet-era engravings of heroic soldiers and workers, looks of grim determination etched on their larger-than-life faces. Drayton looked at Dmitry, who for the first time seemed uneasy or maybe uncertain. Though Drayton knew that made him no less dangerous. He jumped as pigeons flew from behind one of the engraved soldiers, their flapping wings amplified in the enclosed space of the tunnel. He saw Dmitry raise his gun, and wondered for a moment if he was going to shoot the pigeons too.
The eternal flame, the Bowl of Fire of Glory, sat at the top of a bank just beyond the end of the tunnel. The Motherland statue loomed over them from another nearby hill. They climbed the bank to the bowl. It was early, but two gardeners were already there. One, an older man with heavy coat and broad hat drawn low over his face, was watering the lawn, using a very old watering can. The other was younger and broader, and was sitting on the rim of the bowl surrounding the flame, pulling out weeds from a little ornamental garden. He was wearing a hard hat with a light on the front.
Dmitry read the Cyrillic inscription surrounding the bowl. ‘Вечная слава героям!’ Eternal Glory to the Heroes!
‘There are just three words, Drayton. Three fucking words.’
He opened his phone. Three words. He’d try them all.
‘Go easy Dmitry. The words might be combined. FireOfGlory2010. I might have run the second and the first words together. Maybe the zeros are spaces. Or maybe I added them up. You know, two plus one equals the third word. And you get only two chances, just two chances.’
Dmitry moved towards Drayton, pulling the gun from his pocket. But then he looked around. The sound of footsteps on gravel, approaching on a walkway the other side of the flame.
It was Cullen. ‘This had better be good, Dmitry.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You said it was urgent,’ Cullen said. ‘That you had the code book, that you wanted to do a deal for the zero day. So I’m here Dmitry. Not happy, because this isn’t the way we do business. Never was and never will be. I don’t like to get summoned. So talk to me.’
‘What summons? I said fucking nothing.’
‘So why the fuck did you message me, telling me to come, right now.’
‘I didn’t fucking message you.’
Then Cullen saw Drayton. ‘What the fuck’s he doing here? You said you’d got rid of him.’
They stood looking at each other. Then at Drayton. But before Dmitry could answer, they all looked back down the slope where, gasping and wheezing, Igor Strykov was climbing towards the flame.
Muttley paused for breath close to the top and shouted. ‘Dawn is bad Dmitry. I don’t do dawn. And you know what, I don’t do ultimatums either. So what the fuck is this about?’
‘What ultimatums? What the fuck do you mean?’ Dmitry said.
‘You seem to forget Dmitry that you wouldn’t be in business if not for us,’ Strykov said. ‘And we can terminate you pretty fucking quickly. You’re forgetting where your loyalties lie. So where’s the fucking code book? The zero day?’
Then he saw Drayton.
And then Cullen.
They stood looking at each other, until Cullen broke the silence. ‘So go ahead Dmitry, do a deal with the GRU, the Keystone Cops of the cyber world. The zero day won’t be secret for long, because Russian military intelligence leaves a digital trail like an elephant through the fucking savannah.’
Strykov laughed, the wheezy Muttley laugh. ‘And what does that make the NSA, Ric? Security like your old mum’s ancient desktop, leaking like a fucking sieve. Half the bugs on the dark web have been stolen from Fort Meade by half-baked hackers with junior diplomas in computer science.’
