The Florentine Deception (35 page)

I dropped the burrito onto the plate.

“Like I said, I knew you would appreciate the brilliance of our plan. It did take a while for our researchers to prepare the payload to work on most major brands of American and Israeli computers—all of them require slightly different parameters, as you'd expect. But that work was completed over the past few years in anticipation of a viable distribution mechanism. Which, thanks to you, we now have. All that remains is verifying that the two pieces of the puzzle work together on a few test computers, and then we will share our creation with your hundreds of millions of countrymen.”

“The firmware instructions can't be modified,” I stammered uncertainly, “only older computers are susceptible to that kind of attack. That won't—”

“Incorrect,” Khalimmy interrupted. “You are wrong. With the proper digital certificates, the majority of firmware chips can be easily re-flashed. And I assure you, Alex, I have those certificates.” Khalimmy walked over to the greasy, dented refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water.

This was bad. Every computer in the world had a special microchip soldered onto its motherboard that held the firmware instructions required to drive the computer. Trash the firmware, and the computer would go into the digital equivalent of a coma. Permanently. Unlike a deleted file, which could be restored from a backup in a matter of hours or days, a computer with corrupted firmware could only be repaired by physically unsoldering the damaged microchip from the computer's circuit board and soldering in a replacement. Practically, this meant the destruction of hundreds of million computers. How long would it take to manufacture that many replacements? Months? Years? I shuddered.

“Yes,” said Khalimmy appraisingly. “Now you appreciate the magnitude of the attack.”

I looked up at him; his gaunt, stubbled face showing only weary determination.

“Assuming all proceeds well with our second test, Sami will launch the attack this afternoon. By ten a.m. Pacific Time on Wednesday morning, most of your nation's hundreds of millions of computers will have connected to Microsoft's website to check for their daily update, and in the process, all will become infected with our payload. And at ten a.m., Allah willing, your country will take the first step toward its proper place on the ash-heap of history. The Russians, they will take all the blame.”

Then, without hesitating, he slammed his fist against the table and yelled, “Eat your fucking food.” He considered. “Or don't. It doesn't really matter.”

My stomach lurched. “I don't see what good it does. You're going to kill me anyway.”

“You should be so lucky,” he sneered. “That would be the easy way out. The thugs at VEVAK have demanded to
interrogate
you.”

I stared at him, confused.

“The Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and National Security,” he said. “I'm sure they'll be considerate when questioning and disposing of you.”

He paused, then yelled, “Sami!”

Khalimmy removed the gun from his pocket and pointed it at me. Sami lumbered in and bound my wrists under the cover of Khalimmy's aimed weapon, then shuffled me back to the makeshift cell and slammed the door. I heard the distinctive click of the steel padlock they'd bolted to the door and its jamb, receding footsteps, and then silence.

I wasn't going to die. I also wasn't going to let any of this happen.

Latching my bound feet behind the cot's steel leg, I tugged my torso upright, and with a bit of effort lurched onto my feet and hobbled over to the dresser. I rotated my body, leaned forward and extended my bound hands back and under the drawer's lip, then shuffled forward on my feet, dragging the drawer outward a good eight inches. Bucking the pain in my shoulders, I raised my arms behind my back until they just cleared the lip of the drawer, inserted them, and groped amid the drawer's mess for the lighter.

After what seemed like an eternity of fumbling, I found it. I snatched it and shuffled forward until my hands cleared the edge of the drawer. I gripped the Zippo lighter firmly in my right hand and flicked the flint wheel with my thumb. Nothing happened. I flicked it again, and then again. Finally, the propellant caught. My heart leapt as soft bluish hues danced upon the walls and ceiling behind me. The plastic cuffs sliced deeper into the raw layers of skin around of my wrists as I struggled, blindly, to orient the lighter's flame beneath the plastic. If I could position the flame below the tough plastic bands for just ten seconds, I was sure I could melt the plastic enough to snap it. Dissatisfied with the flame's position, I swiveled the lighter again, disregarding the growing heat beginning to singe the skin above my left thumb. The smell of burning hair wafted sickeningly up to my nose, but still I held the lighter steady for two, three, and then four seconds.

The pain became too intense. My hands shot open reflexively and the lighter dropped to the linoleum with a soft thud.

But the flame had not extinguished with the fall. The cool blue cone continued to dance from the nozzle. Thank God Khalimmy had expensive taste in lighters.

Using the cot, I eased my body onto the linoleum and wriggled backward toward the lighter until my fingers could feel its heat. I grabbed and righted the lighter on the floor and then, using the warmth to guide my movements, squirmed to position the cuffs over the now-vertical blue flame. The pain was agonizing but I held my hands steady, encouraged by the wonderful, acrid smell of melting plastic that had joined odors of singed hair and skin. Then, using every ounce of strength my shoulders could muster, I strained until the cuffs severed with a pop. Once my arms were free, I similarly disposed of the ankle cuffs, stood up, and pocketed the screwdriver from the drawer.

Khalimmy had bolted the door from the outside with a steel plate and padlock, and the windows were similarly unassailable—any attack on either would take too long and be way too noisy. I could wait until he returned and stab him with the screwdriver, but with Sami in earshot, the situation would likely quickly deteriorate. I could also electrify the doorknob using the ceiling bulb's socket—assuming I didn't electrocute myself first. But I'd need a long length of wire and a lot of luck—my only electrical training came from reruns of
MacGyver
. Neither option gave me much confidence. I quietly slid open the closet door in search of other alternatives.

Other than a few open boxes crammed with books, the floor of the closet was empty. I shifted my gaze up to the closet's top shelf and almost shrieked—there, set into the ceiling above the shelf, was a trapdoor to the house's attic.

Chapter 58

Taking care not to make any noise, I stacked two boxes on the floor directly beneath the hatch, then using the shelf to balance myself, stepped up onto the unsteady mound. The hatch resisted my first gentle shove, probably welded to its frame by years of disuse. I reoriented my weight and thrust my palm upward. Following an instant of resistance, the layers of paint along its edges cracked and the hatch popped up into the darkness.

I paused to listen for signs that I'd been discovered, but heard nothing but the faint sound of a radio, so I lifted and shoved the hatch to the side, grabbed the hatch's wood frame and heaved myself up through the aperture and into the stifling crawlspace. Now perched on the frame, I probed the scratchy fiberglass insulation in search of wood beams that would support my weight. When I had found two that felt sturdy, I shifted both feet onto them and then reseated the hatch on its frame. The attic descended into midnight blackness.

My heart sank. I'd hoped for an attic window, a vent, some potential means of escape, but based on the total absence of light, I was out of luck.

I'd need to find another way out.

I flicked the Zippo's blue flame to life, and moving slowly so as not to cause the beams to creak, worked my way to the center of the stuffy cavity. Pink fiberglass insulation covered the entire thirty-by-thirty-foot attic surface, and a triangular roof rose above me to a height of six or seven feet at the center, tapering to just a foot or two at the edges. Over in the far left corner, several dust-covered apple crates sat upon a makeshift platform of plywood. In addition to the hatch I'd just passed through, two others poked up through the pink wadding, offering potential escape routes. I worked my way over to the crates.

The first was filled with useless odds and ends—a sixties-era swan-neck lamp, several dusty hardcover books, a heavy iron pot, cheap ceramic plates, and a collection of dull kitchen knives. I grabbed the largest and least dull of the lot and put it to the side, then began rummaging through the second box. It contained more garbage: a stack of old paperbacks, a handful of sports trophies, and an autographed baseball. The knife would have to do. Below, snatches of conversation mixed with the jabbering of an AM radio talk show; based on the noises, I was near the main living area—perhaps above the kitchen pantry or a laundry room.

I grabbed the heavier of the two boxes, and using the noise of the radio to cover any groaning of the beams, deposited it squarely on top of the hatch above my improvised cell. Then I traversed the rafters to the second trapdoor and put my ear to it. Based on my limited familiarity with the house's layout, I was guessing this one led to the second bedroom. I heard no voices from below—only the muffled prattling of the radio. I listened again, longer this time, until I was certain neither of them were nearby, and then applied just a hair of upward pressure on the hatch. As with the other hatch, this one resisted, welded to its frame by disuse. Masked by the radio, I tugged at each corner until one finally yielded, then shifted the cover a hair and put my ear to the gap.

Khalimmy and his subordinate were no more than a dozen steps from the second bedroom's closet, so I could hear their goings-on below. I extinguished the flame and lay down on one of the beams to listen.

Over the next hour, the two conversed in a largely incomprehensible mixture of Farsi and English, but from their tone and a few comprehensible words, it was clear that Sami had completed the second validation—well ahead of schedule.

“I celebrate with smoke,” said Sami in broken English.

“Be my guest,” replied Khalimmy, “you deserve it.” The back door creaked open then closed with a thump. Khalimmy, based on the noises below, had remained in the kitchen.

Now that they had tied up their loose ends, I had an hour and a half, maybe two, before they'd come to feed me and discover I was missing, but with Khalimmy still just a few steps away and probably armed, I had no choice but to wait.

My predictions were off by an hour. Khalimmy unlocked the door to my cell just thirty minutes later.

“
Bokon
,” he screamed, “the bastard is gone. Sami,
inja bya
, get the gun.”

Sami mumbled something in return.

“Yes! In the attic. Get the flashlight.
Ajale kon! Bokon!
”

The old hardwood floors groaned chaotically beneath their pounding feet. I lifted the hatch and set it to the side, then waited, knife in hand. A sliver of light slipped through the door and illuminated a cramped three-by-four-foot closet precariously heaped with junk. No way I'd be able to lower myself without knocking over half of it and risking discovery.

The first hatch creaked, then slammed down under the weight of the crate. “Fool,
shoma ra cheh mishavad
?” yelled Khalimmy. “
Bokon
. He has blocked it. Get the ladder from the garage! Go!”

More groaning of floorboards. A door wrenched open and then slammed shut.

It was an opening—as good as any I'd ever get. I placed the knife between my teeth and lowered my legs through the hatch, braced both forearms on the frame and began easing my torso through.

Then the doorbell rang.

“
Bokon
. What the fuck now?” Khalimmy snarled. The bell rang again.

“One second,” he yelled. I heard a door open, whispering, and more creaking of floorboards—someone, Sami by the sound of it, positioned himself just outside my closet door and cocked a gun. Still dangling half in and half out of the attic, I willed my arm and stomach muscles perfectly still against the increasing burn.

“I'll be right there,” yelled Khalimmy.

Another door opened. More mumbling, this time faint, deep.

“I'm sorry, I'm not interested. Thank you.” The front door slammed shut.

“They're gone,” said Khalimmy, “just get the fucking ladd—”

The crash came suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. An instant later, the door slammed shut and I heard a spat of air. Khalimmy moaned.

Sami cursed under his breath and I could hear him shifting, perhaps orienting his body for an assault. Then, a second later, I heard the clicking of keys on a keyboard.

“Is there anyone else here?” asked a deep Russian voice.

Khalimmy didn't reply. I heard a dull impact and then another moan. The deep voice said something in Russian, then said, “But don't kill him.”

The door creaked just barely, and instantly another volley of gunshots—these unsilenced—slammed into it, sending vibrations through the wooden trapdoor frame and into my arms. The Russian howled in pain and collapsed heavily to the floor. A new burst of clicks assaulted the keyboard as Sami murmured.

The floorboards in the main area creaked, the clicking paused a beat, and two more rounds pounded through the door; then the staccato of taps resumed. Two seconds, then five seconds passed, the frenetic clicking of keys now joined by the nearby barking of dogs.

The tapping stopped, replaced by the unmistakable ejection of an ammunition clip and the click of another shoved home. Sami's faint prayers mingled with louder, agitated Russian voices and squeaking floorboards.

Abruptly, the bedroom door crashed open. Three, four, five muffled rounds thumped into flesh and bone. A body hit the floor hard.