Daemon

Chapter 1:// Execution

What the hell just happened? That was all Joseph Pavlos kept thinking as he clenched a gloved hand against his throat. It didn’t stop the blood from pulsing between his fingers. Already a shockingly wide pool had formed in the dirt next to his face. He was on the ground somehow. Although he couldn’t see the gash, the pain told him the wound was deep. He rolled onto his back and stared up at a stretch of spotless blue sky.

His usually methodical mind sped frantically through the possibilities—like someone groping for an exit in a smoke-filled building. He had to do something. Anything. But what? The phrase What the hell just happened? kept echoing in his head uselessly, while blood kept spurting between his fingers. Adrenaline surged through his system, his heart beat faster. He tried to call out. No good. Blood squirted several inches into the air and sprinkled his face. Carotid artery…

He was pressing on his neck so hard he was almost strangling himself. And he’d been feeling so good just moments before this. He remembered that much at least. His last debts repaid. At long last.

He was getting calmer now. Which was strange. He kept trying to remember what he’d been doing. What brought him here to this place. It seemed so unimportant now. His hand began to relax its hold. He could see plainly that there was no emergency. Because there was no logical scenario in which he would emerge from this alive. And after all, it was his unequaled talent for logic that had brought Pavlos so far in life. Had brought him halfway around the world. This was it. He’d already done everything he would ever do. His peripheral vision began to constrict, and he felt like an observer. He was calm now.

And it was in that cold, detached state that he realized: Matthew Sobol had died. That’s what the news said. And then it all made sense to him. Sobol’s game finally made sense. It was beautiful really.

Clever man…

Chapter 2:// Rogue Process

Thousand Oaks, California, had an overzealous, sanitary charm. They didn’t build homes here. They manufactured them—a hundred identical Mediterranean villas at a stroke. Gated subdivisions named in every combination of “Bridge,” “Haven,” “Glen,” and “Lake” covered the hillsides.

Upscale retail chains had embassies in the city center, and the service people drove in each day from vassal communities. Where the medieval city of Lyon had its Lane of Tanners, Southern California had its Vale of the Baristas and its Canyon of Firefighters and Rescue Personnel.

For average working folks, America was becoming a puzzle. Who was buying all these two-hundred-dollar copper saucepans, anyway? And how was everyone paying for these BMWs? Were people shrewd or just stupefyingly irresponsible?

Pete Sebeck thought television held some clues. Channel surfing late at night, unable to sleep, Sebeck considered the commercials aimed at him. Was he their demographic? Had they correctly deduced him? And what did that say about him? The History Channel seemed to think he was either a Korean War veteran looking for a truly capable brush mower, or that he was desperately in need of a career change. He had a nasty suspicion they were right about one of them.

The 101 freeway cut Thousand Oaks in two, but there really was no wrong side of the freeway. It had been named the safest small city in America, and as Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck watched the tidy boulevards roll past his passenger window, he recalled why he and Laura moved here thirteen years ago—back when it was affordable; Ventura County was a great place to raise children. If you fucked up raising kids here, then God himself could not have helped you.

“Migraine, Pete?”

Sebeck turned to Nathan Mantz, who was looking at him with concern from the driver’s seat. Sebeck barely shook his head. Mantz knew better than to pursue it.

Sebeck thought about the radio call from Burkow. It would certainly rattle a few country club gates. Sebeck and Mantz cruised through town with the strobes flashing but no siren. No need to alarm anyone. From his unmarked Crown Victoria, Sebeck watched the unsuspecting citizenry—the tax base on power walks. They’d have something to talk about tonight at Pilates class.

The Crown Vic descended into the undeveloped canyons just beyond the last subdivision wall. The scene wasn’t difficult to find. An ambulance, three patrol units, and a few unmarked cars on the sandy shoulder of Potrero Road marked the location. Two deputy sheriffs stood near a closed steel gate flanked by chain-link fence stretching out in either direction.

Mantz rolled the cruiser into the driveway before the gate. Sebeck stepped from the car and turned to the nearest officer. “Coroner?”

“En route, Sergeant.”

“Where’s Detective Burkow?”

The deputy thumbed in the direction of a hole cut in the side of the chain-link fence.

Sebeck waited for Mantz, who was radioing in. Sebeck looked back at the deputy. “Let’s get this gate open.”

“Can’t, Sergeant. It’s got one of those remote-control locks built into it. There’s nothing to cut.”

Sebeck nodded as Mantz caught up to him.

“The property is owned by a local company—CyberStorm Entertainment. We got through to their people. They’re sending someone down.”

Sebeck moved through the hole in the fence, followed by Mantz. They marched along a dirt road winding among the chaparral on the canyon bottom. Soon they came to a crowd of EMTs and deputy sheriffs standing well back from a photographer. They were all shiny with sweat in the midday sun. The paramedics had a gurney, but no one was in a hurry. They turned as Sebeck and Mantz crunched across the dirt toward them. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” A glance. “Ladies.”

They mumbled greetings and parted to let Sebeck and Mantz pass.

Detective Martin Burkow, a corpulent man in his fifties with ill-fitting pants, stood on a mound of sandy soil at the edge of the road. Next to him the police photographer leaned forward to get an overhead shot of a body lying in the road. A pool of brownish, dried blood stretched out beneath it and traced dark rivulets downhill.

Sebeck gazed over the scene. A motocross motorcycle lay twenty yards down the road, on the side of a nearby hill. He could see where it had bounded into the left wall of the canyon and then rolled back across the dirt road.

Above the road, between him and the body, a taut steel cable stretched at neck level. The cable traversed the road at a forty-five-degree angle, closer on the left side, farther away on the right. Anything racing through here would grind down the cable like a saw blade. The cable was bloodstained for a good ten-foot length. The body lay ten yards beyond that. A motorcycle helmet five yards farther still.

Sebeck’s eyes followed the thin steel cable rightward to a steel pole rising from the chaparral. Then leftward through the bushes. A freshly cut groove crossed the dirt roadway directly beneath the cable.

“Martin, what do we have?”

Detective Burkow coughed the consumptive cough of a lifelong smoker. “Hi, Pete. Thanks for coming down. Caucasian male, approximately thirty years old. A local walking his dog found the body about an hour ago. It was reported as a 10-54, but I thought I’d call you guys. This is looking more like a 187.”

Sebeck and Mantz looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. Homicide. Rare in Thousand Oaks. The only killings down here were made in real estate.

The photographer nodded to Burkow and made his way back along the edge of the road. Burkow motioned for them to move forward. “Stick to the left, in the ruts. All the footprints are on the other side.” He stepped down off the mound.

Sebeck and Mantz ducked under the cable and stood over the body. Sebeck was relieved to see the head still attached. The nearby helmet was empty. The dead man wore an expensive-looking motocross jumpsuit with logo patches. The yellow nylon was torn at chest level. It looked like he hit the cable with his torso, and it rode up to his throat. The man’s larynx was slashed, and flies buzzed over the gaping wound. His skin was alabaster white, and his lusterless, dry eyes stared at Sebeck’s shoes.

Sebeck pulled on rubber surgical gloves and leaned forward. He felt for a wallet or ID in the pockets. There didn’t appear to be any. He looked ahead at the dirt bike, then back at the police photographer. “Carey, try to read the plates on the bike. Maybe we can ID this guy.”

The photographer peered down the canyon, then affixed a 200mm lens to his camera and focused on the motorcycle.

Sebeck stood up, and his eyes once again traversed the cable behind them. He peered through the bushes where it disappeared. “Anybody know where this ends?”

The deputies and EMTs shook their heads.

“Nathan, let’s follow this thing. Stay clear of it. And look for tracks.” He turned back to Burkow. “Marty, what are all these footprints on the road?”

“The locals walk it all the time. I’ve already interviewed a few.”

“Get me a cast of every unique print in this area.” Sebeck waved his arms downward.

“That’s gonna be a lot of prints.”

“Tell forensics they don’t have to cast the dog tracks.”

Mantz grinned. “I don’t know, I hear Pekinese are pretty smart.”

Sebeck shot him a dark look and pointed at the bushes. The cable led through a gap in the hillside that opened up back onto Potrero Road. He and Mantz fanned out on either side and moved through the bushes while studying the sandy ground.

“Keep an eye out for rattlesnakes, Pete.” Mantz jumped over a ditch of eroded soil.

The cable was easy to follow, and the groove in the soil beneath it shadowed it all the way. After sixty feet they were back at the chain-link fence on Potrero Road, staring at the back of a No Trespassing sign. The cable ran through the fence and into the back of a steel box two feet square sitting atop a thick pipe driven into the ground. The groove in the soil ended six feet away from the fence on their side. They had found no new footprints.

“Let’s head to the other side.”

In a few minutes they were back on Potrero Road at the gate. They walked a hundred yards down the shoulder and reached the front of the steel box. It had a sturdy lock in its face and was fashioned of welded steel. It had a few indentations where passing teens had taken potshots at it with rifles, but none had penetrated.

“Built to last.” Sebeck peered around to a square hole in back where the cable entered. “Winch housing?”

Mantz nodded. “At first I thought it might be kids playing an evil prank. But this is a serious piece of engineering. What use could this thing serve?”

They turned as a Range Rover and a pickup truck pulled to the shoulder of the road near the gate. A couple of guys in khakis got out of the Rover. They spoke briefly with the deputies there, who pointed down to Sebeck and Mantz. The khakis climbed back into the Rover. Both vehicles rolled down the shoulder and stopped in front of the detectives, sending a choking cloud of dust over them.

The khakis got out again. The one on the passenger side came forward with his hand extended. He looked like money—business casual with creases. “Detectives. Gordon Pietro, senior legal counsel for CyberStorm Entertainment.” They shook hands. Pietro pushed business cards on both of them. “This is our VP of public relations, Ron Massey.”

Sebeck nodded. Massey had longer hair than Pietro and a pierced eyebrow with a gold ring. He was in his late twenties and looked like money, too. A pang of jealousy shot through Sebeck. The fact that he could effortlessly beat the shit out of this kid sprang unbidden into his mind. He pushed it back down. “This is Detective Mantz. I’m Detective Sergeant Sebeck, East Ventura County Major Crimes Unit.”

Pietro stopped short. “Major Crimes Unit? We were told there was an accidental death on the property.”

“The responding officers called us in. We’re investigating this as a potential homicide.” Sebeck leaned around Pietro and looked at the pickup truck parked behind the Rover. The pickup had a logo on the side door, illegible at this angle. “Who’s in the truck?”

“Oh—a worker from the management firm. They maintain the property. He has a remote for the front gate.”

“Let’s get him out here. I want to talk to him.”

Pietro walked back, motioning to the guy in the truck.

Sebeck turned to Massey. “What’s this property used for?”

“CyberStorm purchased the land as an investment. It’s also used by the company for campouts, team-building exercises, things like that.”

Sebeck took out a pad and pen. “So you’re the PR guy? What’s CyberStorm Entertainment do, Ron?”

“We’re a leading computer game developer. Ever hear of Over the Rhine?”

“No.”

Burkow shouted from down near the gate. “Pete. I got a name from the DMV. The bike’s registered to a Joseph Pavlos. Lives up in those McMansions on the hilltop.”

Massey put a hand to his chin. “Oh man.”

“You know the victim?”

“Yeah. He’s one of our senior developers. What happened?”

Sebeck gestured with his pen. “He hit this cable with his neck. Do you know if he rode down here regularly?”

“I don’t, but his development team might.”

Pietro returned with a Mexican man in his forties dressed in a green jumpsuit. The guy looked like he’d had a tough life—and that he expected it to get a lot tougher any second.

“Ron? Pav was the one killed?”

Massey nodded and produced a cell phone. “Damn this canyon. Can’t get a signal.”

Pietro produced his phone for a bar-count contest. “What service do you use? I have two bars.”

Sebeck butted in. “You are?”

Pietro turned back to him. “This is Haime.”

“What’s your full name, Haime?”

“Haime Alvarez Jimenez, señor.”

“Can I see some identification, Mr. Jimenez?”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a fatality. Can I have that ID, please?”

Haime looked at Pietro and Massey, then dug into his pocket for his wallet. He found his driver’s license and held it out to Sebeck. Its leading edge quivered noticeably.

A slight smile creased Sebeck’s face. “Haime, did you kill this guy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then relax.” He took the ID and examined it.

Haime pointed at the steel box. “I close a ticket on this winch today. I just turn a key. Like it says on the work order.”

“Where’s the work order?”

“On the Pocket PC in my truck.”

“Do you have the key to this winch housing?”

Haime nodded and produced a bar-code-labeled key chain with three keys.

“You activated this winch today? What time?”

“About nine, nine-thirty. I can tell you exactly from the work order.”

Sebeck motioned for the keys, then used them to unlock the housing. He flipped it open with the tip of his pen. Inside, there was an electric winch with another keyhole in its face.

“What’s the third key for?”

“Manual override for the front gate.”

“So you turned the key. The winch activated and pulled the cable…” Sebeck leaned over, “…out of the ground.”

“No, señor. No cable. Just the winch motor.”

The others rolled their eyes in unison.

“Haime, if you were sent by your company to do this, then you don’t have much to worry about. What’s the purpose of this winch, anyway?”

Haime shrugged. “I not run it before.”

“Can you get me that work order?”

“Yes, sir.” Haime scurried toward his truck.

Pietro was looking down the length of the cable. “What exactly happened, Detective Sebeck?”

“Someone built this winch and the housing, then buried a steel cable in the soil. Running the winch stretched the cable across the dirt road at neck level.”

The two CyberStorm representatives looked confused.

Pietro put a hand to his chin. “Are you sure that it’s not a…like a chain across the road?”

“Why bury it? Why do it at all when you have a steel gate at the entrance?”

Pietro was at a loss.

Haime returned and pushed his Pocket PC into Sebeck’s face. He shadowed the screen with his callused hand and pointed to the work order displayed there. “See, it says ‘Run the antenna-lifting winch until it stop.’”

Sebeck took the handheld computer and with Mantz studied the data fields on-screen. “Nathan, we’re going to need a search warrant for the property management firm. Put their office under surveillance until we get a team over there. Also, get me a case number, and get me Burkow’s notes. I’m taking over the investigation. Everything goes through me from this point forward.” He looked up at Haime. “Haime, we’re going to want to chat with you at the sheriff’s station.”

“Señor, I didn’t do anything.”

“I know, Haime. That’s why you want to cooperate while we arrange a search warrant for your employer.”

Pietro interposed himself. “Detective Sebeck—”

“Counselor, this cable assembly was maintained by your property management firm—which would indicate they had prior knowledge of it. Would you prefer to make CyberStorm the responsible party, or does CyberStorm want to cooperate with my investigation?”

Pietro pursed his lips, then turned to Haime. “Haime, don’t worry. Go with them. Do everything they say. Tell them everything you know.”

“I don’t know anything, Señor Pietro.”

“I know that, Haime. But I think it best that you do what Detective Sebeck says.”

“I am a U.S. citizen. Am I under arrest?”

Sebeck looked to Mantz. Mantz stepped in. “No, Haime. We’re just gonna talk. You can leave the pickup truck here. We’ll take care of that.” Mantz motioned for Haime to move toward the patrol cars and started escorting him away.

Pietro nodded to Massey. “Detective Sebeck, we’ll contact your office for a copy of the police report. You know where to reach me.” Both men climbed back into the Range Rover and sped off, perhaps to find a better wireless signal.

Sebeck looked along the length of cable. Would someone really have built this just to kill a person? He could think of easier ways to kill someone.

He clamped back a smile. This wasn’t a murder-suicide or a botched drug deal. It might actually be a premeditated killing. Was it wrong to hope so? Accident or murder, the victim was dead. Nothing would change that. So what was wrong with hoping it was murder?

Pondering this, Sebeck turned and walked back to the front gate.

Chapter 3:// Block Box

Sebeck, Mantz, and three county deputies crowded around a Post-it-note-slathered computer monitor in the cubicle of a nondescript company, in a generic office park in Thousand Oaks. Tractor-trailers hissed by on the freeway just beyond the thin stucco walls, but the officers were intent, leaning over the shoulders of Deputy Aaron Larson, the County Sheriff’s only computer fraud specialist.

Larson was in his late twenties with an air of military orderliness—buzz-cut hair, athletic build, and a square jaw. He had a boyish enthusiasm for ferreting out larceny. At such times he’d smile and shake his head in slow-motion disbelief over what people thought they could get away with.

Larson’s computer screen scrolled rows of text. “This log lists IP addresses making connections to their server. Notice that we’ve got a number of connections at around the time our target work ticket was created.”

He alt-tabbed over to a custom property management program. “I spoke with the secretary, and she said they’re able to accept work tickets from clients through a secure Web page.”

Sebeck nodded. “So the request didn’t necessarily come from this office.”

“Right.” Larson flipped back to the custom application. “The Requestor field, here, claims the ticket was submitted by this Chopra Singh person at CyberStorm Entertainment. But wait—that’s not where the connection actually originated.”

Larson minimized all the windows except the Web log. He highlighted a single line. “This was the connection that created the work order. When I do a Whois lookup on the IP address…” He switched screens. “Voilà.”

A Whois lookup page displayed the domain as owned by Alcyone Insurance Corporation of Woodland Hills, California.

Sebeck read the small type. “Then the work order originated from this company in Woodland Hills.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You think the address was spoofed?”

“The only way to find out is to get a warrant for their Web logs.”

Another deputy entered the cramped office. “Sergeant, there’s a news van outside.”

Sebeck waved him off and kept his gaze on Larson. “So no one in this management firm created the work order that killed Pavlos?”

“Seems unlikely.”

Sebeck eyed the screen. “Is this sort of Internet work order system typical for a hole-in-the-wall company like this?”

Larson shook his head slowly and smiled. “No, it’s not. This is pretty slick. The office manager said their parent company developed it for them. You’ll never guess who the parent company is.“

“CyberStorm Entertainment.”

Larson touched his finger to his nose. “Very good, Sergeant.”

Just then the radios crackled to life again. Sebeck turned to listen.

“Units in vicinity of Westlake. 10-54 at 3000 Westlake Boulevard reported. Be advised, 10-29h. 11-98 with building security.”

Sebeck exchanged looks with the other officers. Another dead body had been found. “What the hell…”

The address tugged at Sebeck’s memory. He pulled Gordon Pietro’s business card out of his pocket. At least his memory hadn’t failed him; the new body had been found at CyberStorm Entertainment.

As far as Sebeck could tell, entertainment companies came in two flavors: shady operations skirting tax, drug, and racketeering laws, and phenomenally successful corporate empires wielding immense influence worldwide. There was very little middle ground, and the transformation from one to the other seemed to happen in the wee hours. With signage rights on a ten-story office building, CyberStorm had evidently made that transformation.

The latest body had been found in a security vestibule—a tiny room controlling access to what the employees called a server farm. The small entry chamber reminded Sebeck of an air lock. The server farm was filled with rack-mounted servers—their LEDs flickering away in the semidarkness of emergency lights. Through the glass Sebeck could make out several employees moving about. They were still monitoring the machines.

It was hard to see them clearly because the vestibule windows were fogged with a yellowish film—residue from burning human fat. The victim had been electrocuted in dramatic fashion.

Sebeck stood in the dim glow of emergency lights alongside the building’s chief operating engineer, CyberStorm’s network services director, county paramedics, a city power company foreman, and the president and CEO of CyberStorm, Ken Kevault.

Kevault was in his late thirties, tall and lean with spiky hair. His black, short-sleeve silk shirt revealed death skull tattoos on his forearms, and he had the sort of deep tan and wrinkles one gets after years of surfing. He looked more like an aging rock star than a corporate executive. He hadn’t said a word since they arrived.

Sebeck turned to the power and light foreman. “The primary power’s been cut?”

The building engineer responded instead. “Yes, sir.”

Sebeck turned to him. “Then those computers are running on backup power?”

“Right.”

“Let’s get that room evacuated.”

“There’s another exit like this one, but it could be just as dangerous. I told the techs to stay put for now.”

Sebeck nodded. “Who can tell me what happened?”

The engineer and network services director looked to each other. The engineer already had the floor. “About a half hour ago, one of the CyberStorm guys was electrocuted going through the inner security door. I don’t know how it’s possible, but the techs said he was standing there with smoke coming off his shoulders for about thirty seconds before he keeled over. And there he is.“

Kevault let out a hiss of disgust and shook his head ruefully.

Sebeck ignored him. “The CyberStorm guys? So you’re not a CyberStorm employee?”

The engineer shook his head. “No, I work for the building owner.”

“And who owns the building?”

Eyes shifted from person to person for a moment or two until Kevault spoke up. “It’s part of a real estate investment trust, with a majority share held by CyberStorm.”

Sebeck turned back to the engineer. “So you are a CyberStorm employee.”

Kevault interposed again. “No, the trust is not the same legal entity as CyberStorm, and the trust outsources the engineering, security, and other building functions.”

Sebeck could already imagine lawyers pointing fingers at each other for the next decade. “Forget that. Has anyone entered or left the scene since the incident?”

All the men shook their heads.

“Are there electrical blueprints for this entryway? Any recent unpermitted modifications I should know about?”

An edge crept into the lead engineer’s voice. “We don’t do unpermitted construction here. All this equipment was signed off on by the city and fire inspectors two years ago, and we have the occupancy permit to prove it.”

The guy looked to be about fifty. A broad-shouldered Latino with a marine corps tattoo on his forearm. Sebeck figured this guy wasn’t going to take any shit. He watched as the engineer moved to a flat-paneled workstation on a nearby desk and spun the panel to face them all. In a moment, the engineer brought up a 3-D map of their location. The map was a series of clean vector lines in primary colors.

The engineer tapped keys, highlighting a colored layer to emphasize each word. “Plumbing, HVAC, Fire/Safety, Electrical.”

The image zoomed in. It was like a video game with transparent walls. They were now looking at a computer image of the vestibule, and Sebeck could see the yellow electrical lines running down through the door frame to the combination magstripe/keypad in the door’s strike plate.

No wonder the engineer had an attitude. He had every damned screw modeled in 3-D.

“There’s no power source in that wall sufficient to electrocute a man like that, and even if there was, the breakers should have tripped. There’s a short somewhere. Probably to a trunk line. Maybe it electrified the door frame.”

The power company guy leaned in. “What’s going into the server farm? Three-phase 480?”

“Yeah, but it’s coming up through the floor. There’s a trunk line running through a vertical penetration. The decking was reinforced to hold the weight of the racks, and there’s a fiber backbone—“

“Gentlemen.” Sebeck stepped between them. “I need all nonemergency personnel evacuated from CyberStorm’s office space. Nathan, I want an outer perimeter established at all stairwell and elevator entrances. We set up command and control in this area just outside the vestibule. I want interviews from everyone evacuated.”

The network director turned to Sebeck. “We have five floors in this building. Is it really necessary to evacuate them all?”

“Two of your coworkers are dead today from unrelated ‘accidents.’ I find that an implausible coincidence.”

The network director’s face contorted. “Two?”

“That’s correct. I’ll let your illustrious leader fill you in.”

The CyberStorm folks turned to the company president. Kevault was gnawing on his fingernails in irritation or concentration—it was hard to tell which. He finally spoke without looking at anybody. “Lamont, switch over to the mirror site. Then evacuate the office.”

Sebeck leveled a gaze. “You’ll evacuate the building now. If you have any illusions about who’s in charge here, I can give you a time-out in the county lockup.”

Kevault was about to speak but thought better of it. He just marched off down the hall. His people followed.

Sebeck nodded to Mantz, who pursued Kevault like a Rottweiler going after a toddler.

Sebeck grabbed the network services director, who was also leaving. “Not you. You’re staying here.”

Sebeck had seen his share of fatal accidents in fourteen years with the department, and he knew that workplace fatalities drew paperwork like blowflies to a corpse. OSHA inspectors, insurance investigators, reporters, lawyers, and building management—all were waiting in the wings. But for now, Sebeck posted deputies to keep nongovernmental and nonessential personnel out of his crime scene.

The main power was off, and they established radio communications to monitor a lockout on the DWP power vault.

After running a few tests with a voltmeter, the engineer and power company foreman determined that the door frames were not electrified. They instructed the data center employees to open the second exit and let the police and firemen in. They then evacuated the techs. The crime scene was now free of civilians.

Sebeck was surprised at how warm and stuffy the room had become. The AC hadn’t been off all that long. He glanced around at the dozens of rack-mounted computers clicking away. That was a lot of BTUs. That’s probably why they had an entry vestibule—to keep the cold air in. He turned to the engineer. “What are these machines for, anyway?”

“People playing games with each other over the Internet. My grandson plays.”

Sebeck had heard of this sort of thing. He had no idea it involved so much hardware. It looked expensive.

They moved to the inner security door. The victim lay just beyond the glass, and they got their first good look at him. As a patrolman, Sebeck had seen the carnage of a hundred car wrecks, but the network director lost it and excused himself. As Sebeck suspected, the engineer wasn’t much affected.

“That poor son of a bitch.”

A Vietnam vet, Sebeck thought.

It was hard to reconcile the human resources photo with the remains that lay before them. The victim’s face was distorted in agony—or at least the involuntary muscle spasms of electrocution. His eyeballs hung out over the cheeks. His hair had mostly burned off his head. His whole face was blistered, but Sebeck already knew who it was: a lead programmer named Chopra Singh—the name on the spoofed Potrero Canyon work order.

There was no longer any doubt that these were murders. He just had to find the evidence.

Sebeck had the power company foreman test the door with a voltmeter again just to be sure and then moved aside for nearby firemen, who pushed into the vestibule. The stench of burnt flesh and hair hit them, sending groans and gasps through the team. “Carey, get some video.”

The photographer moved in, and bright light filled the space. Afterward, the paramedics confirmed the obvious—the victim was deceased. The vestibule was too small for both the body and the investigators, so they scanned the scene from the narrow doorway. Unlike most murder scenes, Sebeck thought, the victim’s body wouldn’t contain much evidence, so he didn’t start there. Instead, he had it covered with a plastic tarp and brought back the power company foreman. “I need to find out what electrified this door, and I need to find out fast.”

“There’s no danger, Sergeant. The power’s off in the whole building.”

“I’m not worried about just this building.”

The foreman paused for a moment to digest that and then nodded gravely.

Soon Sebeck and the foreman crowded into the open doorway just above the now covered body. It was far from ideal, but Sebeck felt time was of the essence. The doorjamb looked normal, but after unscrewing the strike plate, the foreman got a crowbar into the aluminum frame and pried off the cover with a resounding crack. What it concealed looked strange even to Sebeck.

A small wire ran up the inside of the door frame from the floor and into the back of the keypad and magstripe reader. But another, much thicker wire ran down from the ceiling and was bolted with copper leads to the frame itself.

Sebeck looked to the power company foreman. “I don’t remember that on the engineer’s blueprint.”

The foreman moved in alongside. “That’s 480 cable. You could power an industrial grinder with that.”

Sebeck pointed up at the ceiling.

Fiberglass ladders were brought in along with head-mounted lights. Soon they pushed up through the drop ceiling and into the plenum. Their lights revealed fire coating sprayed over the steel beams and metal decking of the floor above. HVAC ducts and bundles of cables traversed the space.

It was here that they found the black box. At least that’s what it looked like—a black metal housing into which the 480-volt line fed before running back out the far side. A thin, gray cable also led into the black box.

Sebeck focused his light beam, tracing the various lines from their vanishing points in the darkness. “All right, that’s as far as we go.”

It took the bomb squad two hours to clear the scene. When they finally gave the all-clear, more ladders were brought in and more ceiling tiles removed until Sebeck, Mantz, Deputy Aaron Larson, and the county’s lead bomb technician, Deputy Bill Greer, were able to convene a precarious meeting with their heads poking through the drop ceiling around the now opened black box.

Greer was a serene forty-year-old who might as well have been teaching a cooking class as he flipped up his blast helmet visor and pointed to the metal cover in his hand. “Fairly standard project enclosure.” He gestured to the open base, still bolted to the HVAC duct. The 480-volt wire led through a cluster of circuit boards and smaller wires. “This is basically a switch, Sergeant. Whoever set this up could electrify the door frame through this box.”

Larson pointed to a network port in the side of the black box, then traced his finger to a smaller circuit board attached to it. “Check this out: it’s a Web server on a chip. It’s got a tiny TCP/IP stack. They’re used for controlling devices like doors and lights from an IP network. I checked. They’ve got them all over the building.” Larson slid his hand along a CAT-5 cable extending from the board into the darkness. “This box is linked to their network, and their network is connected to the Internet. It’s conceivable that someone with the right passwords could have activated this switch from anywhere in the world.”

“Could the switch be set to activate when a certain person swiped their access card at the security door?”

“Probably. I just don’t know enough about these cards yet.”

“How long has the switch been here?”

Greer looked at the back of the enclosure. “It was covered in dust when we got to it.”

“So that vestibule door has probably been used thousands of times without incident—then suddenly today it kills someone. We need to find out if Singh has ever been in this data center.”

Larson jotted serial numbers down from the circuit board. “We can review their access logs. And there are security cameras.”

Sebeck was shaking his head. It was too complex. They were all just guessing now. He stared at the switch for a moment more. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time to call in the FBI. No offense, Aaron, but we just don’t have the capabilities to deal with this.”

By early evening, Sebeck stood near the building entrance flanked by Mantz and a uniformed deputy. A frenetic pack of reporters surrounded them, microphones pushed forward into a multicolored mass of foam rubber. Camera lenses glinted in the rear while reporters shouted questions.

Sebeck motioned for silence until all he heard was the nearby generators on the satellite trucks. “This is what we know right now. At approximately eleven thirty this morning, the body of Joseph Pavlos, an employee of CyberStorm Entertainment, was discovered in a canyon off Potrero Road in Thousand Oaks. At approximately two P.M., a second CyberStorm employee was electrocuted in what we now know to be a deliberate act. We are withholding the identity of the second victim pending notification of next of kin. We also believe Mr. Pavlos’s death was a homicide and have requested assistance from the FBI.”

Shouted questions erupted again. Sebeck motioned for silence. “It appears these employees were specifically targeted, and we have no reason to believe that the general public is in any danger. I caution CyberStorm employees to be particularly vigilant and to report suspicious objects or packages to the police. I’ll take questions now.”

The parking lot erupted in shouting.

Sebeck pointed to an Asian woman. He’d have to admit that he chose her first because she was drop-dead gorgeous.

“Sergeant, you said you’re bringing in the FBI. That means there’s more to the case than the two murders?”

“The FBI has the resources and jurisdiction required to properly investigate this case.”

Another reporter spoke up. “Can you describe precisely how the victims were killed?”

“We can’t divulge precise methods at this time.”

“Can you give us a rough idea?”

Sebeck hesitated. “At least one of the victims appears to have been murdered through the Internet.”

A buzz went through the press corps. That was their sound bite.

“That’s all we’re prepared to say right now.”

Chapter 4:// God of Mischief

From his vantage point at a coffeehouse, Brian Gragg gazed across the street at the darkened windows of a French provincial mansion. The lush River Oaks section of Houston’s Inner Loop had more than a few of these aging beauties, restored and pressed into service as quaint professional buildings. They sheltered doctors’ offices, architectural firms, law firms—and branch offices of East Coast stockbrokers. It was this last species of suburban tenant that attracted Gragg. They were the weakest link in a valuable chain.

One of the brokers there had installed a wireless access point in his office but failed to change the default password and SSID. Better yet, the broker couldn’t be bothered to shut his machine off at night.

Gragg glanced down at his own laptop and adjusted a small Wi-Fi antenna to point more directly at the office windows. The broker’s computer screen was displayed as a window on Gragg’s laptop. Gragg had compromised the workstation days ago, first obtaining a network IP address from the router, and then gaining access to the broker’s machine through the most basic of NetBIOS assaults. The ports on the workstation were wide open, and over the course of several evening visits to the café, Gragg had escalated his privileges. He now owned their local network. Clearing the router’s log would erase any evidence that he had been there.

But all that was child’s play compared to how he would use this exploit. In the past year, Gragg had evolved beyond simple credit card scams. He no longer prowled bars passing out portable magstripe readers to waiters and busboys and paying a bounty for each credit card number. Gragg now stole identities. His buddy, Heider, had schooled him on the intricacies of spear-phishing. It opened up a whole new world.

Gragg was using the broker’s workstation to conduct an e-mail campaign to the firm’s clientele. He had cribbed the phony marketing blather and graphics from the brokerage’s own Web site, but what the e-mail said was irrelevant. Gragg’s goal was that the phish merely view the message. That was all it took.

Gragg’s e-mail contained a poisoned JPEG of the brokerage logo. JPEGs were compressed image files. When the user viewed the e-mail, the operating system ran a decompression algorithm to render the graphic on-screen; it was this decompression algorithm that executed Gragg’s malicious script and let him slip inside the user’s system—granting him full access. There was a patch available for the decompression flaw, but older, rich folks typically had no clue about security patches.

Gragg’s script also installed a keylogger, which gave him account and password information for virtually everything the user did from then on, sending it to yet another compromised workstation offshore where Gragg could pick it up at leisure.

What sort of idiot hung the keys to his business out on the street—and more than that, broadcast a declaration from his router telling the world where the keys were? These people shouldn’t be left home alone, much less put in charge of people’s investments.

Gragg cleaned up the router’s connection log. More than likely the scam wouldn’t be detected for months, and even then, the company probably wouldn’t tell their clients. They’d just close the barn door long after the Trojan horses were gone.

So far, Gragg had a cache of nearly two thousand high-net-worth identities to sell on the global market, and the Brazilians and Filipinos were snapping up everything he offered.

Gragg knew he had a survival advantage in this new world. College was no longer the gateway to success. Apparently, people thought nothing of hanging their personal fortunes on technology they didn’t understand. This would be their undoing.

Gragg finished his mocha latte and glanced around the coffeehouse. Teens and kids in their early twenties. They had no idea he was raking in more than their corporate executive fathers. He looked like any other punk with long sideburns, a goatee, a winter cap, and a laptop. He was the kid you didn’t notice because you were sick of looking at him.

Gragg shut down his laptop and pulled a bootable flash drive from one USB port. He took a pair of needle-nose pliers and crushed the tiny drive like a walnut, tossing the pieces into a nearby trash can. The evidence was now destroyed. His laptop hard drive contained nothing but evangelical tracts. In the event of trouble, he would look like Jesus’s number one fan.

Just then his cell phone played the Twilight Zone theme song. Gragg tapped the wireless headphone in his ear. “Jason. Where you at, man?”

“Corporate restaurant #121. I’m just about done. What’s your ETA?”

Gragg glanced at his watch. A Tag Heuer. “About thirty minutes.”

“Don’t be late. Hey, I logged sixteen more open APs uptown at lunch.”

“Put ’em on the map.”

“Already done.”

“I’m on my way. Meet me out back.”

Gragg glanced around at people getting into their leased cars to drive back to bank-owned homes. They were cattle. He viewed these oblivious drones with contempt.

Gragg headed “uptown” to Houston’s West Loop—a cluster of skyscrapers just west of the city center that served as a sort of second skyline for people who felt the first one was too far away. Gragg’s partner, Jason Heider, worked as a bartender in a corporate chain restaurant in the Galleria—close by the indoor ice rink.

Heider was thirtyish but looked older. Back during the tech boom, he’d been some sort of vice president at a dot-com. Gragg met Heider in an IRC chat room dedicated to advanced cracking topics—authoring buffer overruns, algorithms for brute force password cracking, software vulnerability detection, that sort of thing. Heider knew what he was talking about, and before long they were dividing the work required to eavesdrop on Wi-Fi in airports and coffeehouses, stealing corporate logons where possible. They both shared a keen interest in technology and information—the tools of personal power. Heider had taught Gragg a lot in the last year. But nothing lately.

Also there was Heider’s recklessness. Heider had recently lost his license from a DUI and almost sunk them both by having his laptop in the car at the time. Gragg was starting to watch him more carefully and disliked leaving him alone on a Saturday night for fear his indiscretions would get them both arrested. Fortunately, Gragg had never confided his real name to Heider.

Gragg reached the mall parking lot and circled around the bland tiers of stucco. He parked near the west entrance and waited. Heider eventually straggled out to the parking lot with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. It was a cold autumn night, and Heider’s breath smoked whether he was exhaling smoke or not. He wore a surplus M-65 jacket that had seen better days. The guy looked particularly pathetic as he trudged toward Gragg’s car. Gragg thought it would be a mercy to run him down. Heider was a shadow of himself—as he often admitted. He took a last puff of his cigarette, tossed it, and got into the car.

“Hey, Chico. Where’s the rave?”

Gragg gave him a once-over. “You carrying?”

“No, man. Well, just some crank.”

“Jase, dump that shit out now, or you can walk the fuck home for all I care. I’ve got a gig tonight, and I don’t need a canine unit giving the cops probable cause.”

“Christ, would you relax?”

“I don’t relax. I stay focused. Friends don’t let friends do drugs—especially when those friends can turn state’s evidence.”

“All right, man. Enough. I get the fucking idea.” Heider turned the dome light switch off, then opened the car door and tossed a small ziplock bag onto the asphalt.

Gragg started the car and pulled away. “Your brain is your only valuable tool, Jase. If you keep trashing it, you’ll be worthless to me.”

“Oh, fuck off. If I had a stroke and sniffed glue, I’d wind up with your IQ. I mean, you spend all day watching hentai and playing video games. How smart can you be?”

Video games was an oversimplification; Gragg played massively multi-player online games, or MMOGs, and as he stared coolly at his partner, it occurred to him that the games’ complex societies contained far more social stimulation than anything that existed in Heider’s world. All the more reason for what was to come.

Gragg turned up the stereo to an Oakenfold mix and drowned out Heider’s voice.

He drove out to the Katy Freeway and headed west, exiting onto State Highway 6 North about ten miles out of Houston. Highway 6 was a bleak four-lane stretch of concrete running through marshy ground and wide prairie fields bordered by walls of trees—remnants of an agrarian past. Now the only growth was in strip malls, subdivisions, and office parks, sprouting like bunches of grapes off the vine of highway and separated by long stretches of nothing useful.

Gragg glowered at the road. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.

Heider just watched him. “What’s with you tonight?”

“The fucking Filipinos. They posted a message telling me to meet them.”

“What for?”

“To pick up a new encryption key.”

“In person?”

“They’re trying to keep the Feds off their tail.”

“Fuck that. Sell the data to the Brazilians, man.”

“The Filipinos owe me for five hundred identities already. If I don’t pick up the code, I don’t get paid.”

“What a pain in the ass. Last time we do business with them.”

Gragg flipped open his cell phone and started keying a text message while driving. He spoke to Heider without looking at him. “We’ve got less than forty minutes to showtime. The Filipinos can wait.”

In a deserted cul-de-sac of an under-construction subdivision, half a dozen cars sat in the darkness. Knots of teenagers drank and smoked on their car hoods, laughing, arguing, or staring at the distant glow of the freeway. The pounding bass beat of rap music thudded into the cold night air from several car stereos all tuned to the same satellite radio channel. It reverberated in their chests as they threw rocks, shattering the newly installed windows of half-built homes. One kid zipped from car to car on a motorized scooter.

They were a racially mixed group, mostly white, but with Asian, black, and Hispanic kids here and there. Their cars displayed their social class; a Mustang GT convertible with eighteen-inch chrome rims; late-model SUVs with vanity plates; Mom’s BMW. Economic class, not race, was the glue that bound them.

A cell phone somewhere began a faint MIDI of Eine kleine Nachtmusik, and every girl in the group groped for her phone. The alpha girl—a thin, sexy blonde with low-cut denims and a midriff top despite the cold—clucked her tongue at the others. “Y’all stole my ring.” She read the text message. “Austin! Guys, turn down the music!”

Stereos were quickly muted.

Alpha girl used her best cheerleader voice to project the coordinates: “29.98075, and -95.687274. Everybody got that?” She repeated the coordinates while several others keyed them into GPS receivers.

An athletically built African American kid and his buddies stared at the console of his Lexus SUV. He keyed in the coordinates, and a graphical map appeared on the GPS’s LCD. “Tennet Field. It’s closed down. My dad used to have his plane there. Let’s roll!”

A dozen kids paused to text-message the coordinates to still other friends. The smart mob was forming and would be en route in minutes.

Gragg strode the tarmac in the pale moonlight, heading toward the dark silhouette of Hangar Two.

The radio crackled in his head. He wore a bone-conduction headset. It was capable of projecting sound directly into his skull, regardless of the noise in his surrounding environment. It was a useful tool for managing a for-profit rave. The radio crackled again. “Unit 19 to Unit 3, do you copy?”

Gragg touched his receiver. “Unit 3. Talk to me.”

“The Other White Meat headed south on Farmington. Range two-point-three miles.”

Unit 3 was a lookout placed on the east perimeter with night vision goggles. Gragg saw headlights turning into the main airport entrance. “Unit 20, Zone One is a blackout area.”

“10-4, Unit 3.”

The headlights soon went out.

Signature control was a never-ending battle for a prairie rave. Lines of car headlights were the enemy.

Gragg followed the thick generator cables running from the machine shop, past the parking lot, and up to the main hangar doors, where a subsonic bass beat rumbled, threatening to detach his retinas. A long roll of black Duvateen hung down at the entrance, blocking the light and some of the noise within.

A line of a hundred or so teens hooted and hollered at the entrance, while a dozen heavyset thugs in SECURITY windbreakers flanked the opening. The bouncers collected twenty dollars from everybody at the door and then slipped an RFID-equipped neck badge around each teen’s neck. Once tagged like cows, the patrons then proceeded through the metal detectors and into the main hangar. Each guard was equipped with a Taser and pepper spray to quickly subdue and remove those inclined to disrupt the party. Dozens more patrolled the party inside.

Gragg ran a tight operation, and for this reason he was always in demand by rave promoters. Tonight’s promoter, a young Albanian drug dealer named Cheko, stalked the tarmac nervously. But then again, he did everything nervously.

Gragg sniffed the night air, then walked past the bouncers into the head-pounding madness that was the rave. He pushed through the crowd of youths. Although he was several years older than most of them, Gragg was of slimmer build and shorter stature. His lip piercing and arm tats gave him a menacing blue-collar appearance—but if anyone looked closely, the tattoos depicted entwined CAT-5 cable.

Gragg looked up at the DJ tower, flickering in the strobing laser light. Mix Master Jamal was laying a trance groove. The topless go-go dancers on ten-foot pedestals danced rhythmically. Gragg smirked. The strippers weren’t so much for the teen guys as the teen girls. Suburban girls acted scandalized, but they’d tell friends who’d have to see it for themselves. Where else would girls from good families see nude dancers? In the seedy strip club on the state highway? Hardly.

Gragg came inside specifically to find one of these girls from a good family. He moved through the crowd to the back of the hangar, where the real money was made—at the “pharmacy,” where Cheko’s people sold ecstasy, meth, DMT, ketamine, and a dozen other recreation-grade pharmaceuticals, in addition to soft drinks and bottled water.

Gragg could usually spot his quarry easily—the sexy girl with a guy she didn’t look particularly intimate with. A first date, or perhaps just dancing together. He avoided girls with a group of female friends and girls who weren’t having fun.

He soon found his target; the girl was gorgeous, perhaps seventeen, thin-waisted, but with a good rack shadowing her exposed midsection. Strands of glo-stick circled her belly and neck. It reminded Gragg of Mardi Gras, and that was a good sign. He motioned to a couple of security guards and moved toward her.

He timed it so he and the guards converged on the dancing couple. Gragg tapped the guy on the shoulder—which sent him twirling around defensively. Gragg held up two neck badges clearly marked ALL AREA ACCESS. Smiling, he looped one around the guy’s neck.

Few symbols have more power over the Western teenage mind than the All Area Access badge. The guy glanced at the uniformed security guards and evidently felt reassured.

Gragg, meanwhile, draped the badge over the laughing girl’s neck. Her cleavage glistened with sweat. Gragg leaned over and yelled into the guy’s ear. “Your girl is fabulous, man! She should be dancing on the top floor—not down here!” With that, Gragg slid a couple of pills into the guy’s hand and nodded his head toward the girl. He motioned for them both to follow and led them through the crowd as the burly security guards made a path.

They soon reached the base of a steel staircase leading up to the DJ tower. It was roped off and flanked by a couple of bouncers. Gragg leaned in close to one of the bouncers. “Tell me when she’s taken the hit!”

The bouncer knew the drill. He watched poker-faced as the young guy popped what he probably thought was ecstasy into the girl’s mouth. She washed it down with a swig of bottled water, laughed, then writhed with the pounding music. The bouncer nodded to Gragg. Gragg nodded back and the rope was withdrawn to let them pass.

As the boy passed by Gragg, Gragg leaned into his ear. “Play your cards right, man, and I’m gonna get you laid within the hour.” The guy smiled back and gave Gragg what the kid probably assumed was the universal “playas’” handshake.

Gragg watched them go. They were now in the holding pen—a controlled area where he could further reduce her inhibitions. The prostitutes there and Cheko’s men would make it all seem completely acceptable to ”go wild.” Gragg had successfully separated her from her support system. The rest should be easy. He was already erect in anticipation, but a little patience was required.

Gragg walked the perimeter for a good fifteen minutes before heading back to the holding pen. He found the girl dancing on the mid-deck with a crowd of perhaps twenty. Most of the women there were attractive and scantily clad—but these were Cheko’s whores and were of no interest to Gragg. The seventeen-year-old target was laughing as her date danced between women in g-strings. The girl was evidently flying high. On meth the laser lights, the trance music, and the writhing motion were said to be hypnotic. Accompanied by a surge of sexual arousal and perceived invulnerability. Or so Gragg had heard. He didn’t take drugs himself.

Gragg radioed the security guard in the DJ tower. He couldn’t even hear himself talk, but he knew the guard would hear. The guard looked out and saw Gragg wave his arm slowly, then point at the girl dancing nearby. The guard leaned over to Mix Master Jamal, and the DJ looked out at Gragg. He nodded and then snapped his fingers at the light board operator. Gragg leaned over to her date. “What’s your girl’s name?”

“Jennifer!”

“You wanna see her tits?”

The guy stared for a second in dumb amazement. Then burst out laughing. “Hell yeah!”

Gragg spoke her name into the radio and moved forward. A spotlight shone down onto Jennifer, and the DJ’s voice came out like the booming voice of God, “Check out Jennifer! Is she hot or what?” A roar of lust arose from a thousand voices.

Jennifer laughed and looked back to see her date and those around her shouting encouragement.

The DJ’s voice. “Let’s see you move, baby!” The pounding bass moved back in, and she moved seductively to it. The other dancers moved away, and the laser lights enshrined her on the platform. The crowd surged in anticipation. Her eyes became wild with her potent sexuality. Each rhythmic gyration of her hips made a thousand guys howl. She was anonymous and powerful.

But Gragg was her new master. He looked back at Jennifer’s date, smiled, and nodded to the DJ.

The DJ’s voice boomed down again. “Lose the top!”

A thousand voices roared and took up the chant. The chant quickly fell in line with the music. “Lose-the-top! Lose-the-top!” Even the girls in the audience were cheering. Jennifer danced, soaking up the adoration. All eyes were on her body, screaming with lust. She was high enough that she didn’t mind, and it seemed such a small thing to please them all.

She first teased them by flashing her breasts, but that only drove the crowd wild for more. They knew they had her now; it was only a matter of wills. They took up the chant with renewed vigor. “Lose-the-top! Lose-the-top!”

When she pulled her top off and danced, breasts jiggling free, the roar of joy rattled the walls. They motioned for her to toss her top down, and she dangled it above the outstretched hands of the lustful mob. Someone managed to grab it from her, and it was soon torn to pieces. Jennifer laughed and tugged at the All Area Access badge around her neck. Girls around the room started flashing their breasts, sitting atop the shoulders of guys in the crowd.

The DJ cranked up the music again, and the party moved on. But Gragg moved in with one of Cheko’s men holding a digital video camera. Jennifer smiled as they filmed her dancing topless in front of a thousand people. Her young, toned body glistened with sweat.

Within a half hour, Jennifer was sitting on a sofa in the holding pen, sucking Gragg off while her date looked on in shock. But her date didn’t stop them. Gragg moaned while one of Cheko’s men videotaped her. He looked to Jennifer’s date. “You’re after me.”

When he ejaculated into her mouth, Gragg felt a rush of power and sexual release. This was his drug. Gragg didn’t like whores. He liked to turn women into whores. The feeling of power was every bit as pleasurable as his ejaculation—perhaps more so. The fact that he was making money off this girl by doing a live porn Web cast for Cheko’s Web site was even sweeter. She was being broadcast to the world, and the file would never go away. Gragg made sure he was never filmed above the waist.

As he moved away, he yelled, “Bukkaki!” And a dozen men surrounded her. She was already sucking on her date’s cock. The meth was working its magic on her as the cameraman zoomed in.

Gragg zipped up his pants and moved away, feeling the endorphins course through his body.

Heider suddenly appeared next to him, laughing. “You’re an evil man, Loki.” Heider handed him a bottle of water.

“At least I got laid tonight.”

Heider poked a finger into Gragg’s chest. “At least I don’t need a thousand people to orchestrate a blow job.” He looked back at the girl starting on another guy. “Is she gonna remember any of this?”

“Probably not. And even if she does, she won’t. If you know what I mean.” Gragg looked at his watch. “Listen, meet me back at the car at three A.M. sharp. I’ve got to meet the Filipinos.”

Heider nodded absently, still watching the girl work.

Gragg punched his arm.

“Ow!”

“I mean it. Meet me at the car at three A.M. sharp—or you’ll have to bum a ride off the Albanian mob. Got it?”

“All right. I got it. Now if you’ll excuse me…” At that, Heider stepped away to join the circle of men.

By 3:15 A.M., Gragg and Heider were back on the Katy Freeway heading east. Heider was leaning against the passenger door fucked up out of his mind.

“That MPEG video over the dance floor. It showed rams butting heads. Butting their heads! Their fucking heads!” He was weeping, but then suddenly erupted into uncontrollable laughter. He was apparently laughing about having just been crying.

Gragg focused on driving. He headed north and east for a half hour or so, then exited in a seedy industrial district amid rail sidings. They rattled along potholed streets. With each bone-shuddering bump, Gragg winced. The ground effects on his Si were going to get thrashed at this rate. He also felt like a prime car-jacking target in this industrial wasteland.

Yet, as he looked around the deserted factory streets, it didn’t look like a popular gang hangout. The streets were too broken and crisscrossed with railroad sidings for the street-racing scene.

Before long, Gragg found the street he was looking for. He turned down the dead end and parked next to a rusted chain-link fence topped with brand-new razor wire. It enclosed flatbed tractor-trailers in various stages of decay.

At the end of the street stood a brick factory building marked INDUSTRIAL LAUNDRY CORP in faded paint. The windows near the roof glowed with fluorescent light from within, and the double doors near the loading dock were open wide, letting a wedge of light splay out across the weed-encrusted sidewalk. Signs in some Asian script covered the backs of both open doors. A couple of men in white aprons smoked out front, apparently on break.

Gragg turned off the car and looked at Heider’s dozing form. He quietly pulled a piece of paper from his own jacket pocket and glanced at the code number written on it in pen. He took his car keys from the ignition and carefully slipped them into Heider’s pocket. It wasn’t difficult. In fact, he hoped he could still rouse Heider, who was out cold.

He nudged him. No response. He shoved Heider. Then finally shook him. “Heider, man! Wake up.”

Heider awoke slowly, still high out of his mind. “What the fuck, man?”

“I need you to pick up the new encryption key from my contact. He’s in there.” He pointed.

Heider squinted and looked back at him like he was insane. “Fuck you, man. You go.”

“Heider. Take a look around you. I’m not leaving my car sitting out here—and you’ll fall asleep the minute I’m gone. You know what I put into this ride?”

“Well, then why the fuck did you park a mile away, asshole?”

“A semi was just in the loading dock.”

“I don’t know who your fucking contact is.”

“Just give them this code number.” Gragg handed him the piece of paper. “They won’t even ask who you are. You’re just picking up the code.”

Heider wavered fuzzily, trying to process what Gragg just said.

Gragg sighed impatiently. “Christ, Jase, why do I have to do everything? I arranged the business; I keep you supplied with new gear—and I got you laid tonight.”

Heider conceded this by nodding reluctantly.

“When are you gonna start pulling your weight, man?”

Heider squinted at the two dumpy middle-aged Asians smoking and chatting two hundred feet away.

Gragg pointed. “Oh, they sure look dangerous.”

“Fuck…all right. Just don’t do this shit to me without telling me first, man. I don’t like surprises.” Heider exchanged a last serious look with Gragg. Gragg just rolled his eyes. Heider sighed and got out.

Gragg watched Heider stagger down the street toward the lighted factory door less than a football field away. Once Heider was gone, Gragg grabbed his own backpack and quietly got out of the car. He slipped behind two Dumpsters and from the darkness watched Heider approach the men.

The Asian men watched impassively as Heider labored up to them. Heider said something and handed the piece of paper to the nearest guy. After reading it, the man pointed toward the open doorway. Heider walked through and stood silhouetted for a moment before one of the men walked in after him and shoved him forward. The other man scanned the street, threw his cigarette to the ground, and then walked inside—pulling the doors shut behind him. They closed with a resounding bang, leaving the street dark and quiet.

Gragg knelt down, shivering now in the cold autumn air. He waited for about a half hour before he heard the doors open again. Footsteps clacked across the pavement, heading his way. Gragg knew that Heider never wore anything that could remotely clack on pavement. So he hunkered down as a younger Filipino in slacks and a sport coat walked past the opening between the Dumpsters. Gragg heard his own car alarm chirp off, and the man got inside. He started the car up, raced the engine a bit, and then peeled off in a wild, squealing U-turn back down the street.

Gragg slumped down against the brick wall behind the Dumpsters. He felt the cold of the brick seep into his back.

Maybe he shouldn’t have hacked the Filipino’s Web server. Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? How had they caught on?

Damn! They got my car. Thank God it was registered under a false name.

Gragg sighed and took out his GPS receiver. He found the nearest cross street on the map, then flipped open his phone and selected a saved number. After a few rings, it picked up.

“Yeah, I need a cab.”

Chapter 5:// Icarus-Seven

Jon Ross raced his Audi A8 sedan onto the Alcyone Insurance corporate campus, then quickly slowed down as he noticed several police cruisers and unmarked cars near the lobby doors. He turned down his music—a relentlessly pounding techno track—and motored at a more civilized speed past the squad cars. Interesting. No flashing lights, though.

Ross headed for the parking garage.

In a few minutes his voice was echoing across the granite-floored lobby as he approached the security desk. “Hey, Alejandro.”

Alejandro smiled. “Jon, my boy. How’re you doin’ tonight?”

Ross swiped his consultant’s badge and signed the after-hours access list. “What’s with the police cars?”

“Oh, there was a computer break-in. The cops are down in the data center.”

Ross stopped writing. He looked up. “A break-in?”

“Yeah. It’s something, what these people can do. It’s all computers nowadays.” Alejandro leaned closer to Ross. “Ted Wynnik was askin’ about you. I won’t tell nobody I saw you if you want to clear out.”

Ross finished signing in. He smiled. “Thanks, but not necessary. It was probably some twelve-year-old kid.”

Ross headed down the clean white corridor of B2. Soon he reached the accounting department’s data center and slid his badge through the reader. The door clicked open, and he moved briskly toward his office at the far wall. Then he slowed. The lights were on in his office. He forced himself not to stop and instead resumed a normal walking pace.

He opened his office door and was greeted by the sight of two severely groomed men in inexpensive suits and comfortable shoes sitting on the edge of his desk. One was a Latino, the other Caucasian, but they shared the same humorless expression. Hadi Sarkar, the night-shift data center supervisor, sat at Ross’s keyboard, pecking away behind them. He turned somewhat sheepishly to face Ross.

One of the clean-cut men reached into his jacket and withdrew credentials, which he flipped open. “Jonathan Ross?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Straub. This is Special Agent Vasquez. We’d like to ask you a few questions about last night. Your colleague, Hadi here, has been able to shed some light on things, but he tells us you’re the real expert.”

Ross glared at Sarkar and put his laptop case down on the desk. “I’m happy to help any way I can. What’s all this about?”

“You were present in Alcyone’s data center last night?”

“I was working under contract for another department, but Hadi requested my help. His development servers had become infected with what appeared to be a kernel rootkit.”

“And you have experience with computer viruses?”

Ross paused. He had to be careful here. “Look, I’m a database consultant. Computer security is part of my job. I know what I need to know.”

“Why did you make Hadi and his coworkers promise not to tell anyone about your help?”

“Because I was breaking the rules to help Hadi. That endangered my contract here. I made that clear to him.”

“So you were asking Hadi to lie on your behalf?”

“I was asking him not to tell people that I was doing his job.”

Sarkar jumped in. “I was requesting advice merely, Jon.”

Ross folded his arms. “Hadi, your exact words were that you had tried everything you could think of and wanted my help.” He turned back to Agent Straub. “A rogue process somewhere in his data center was broadcasting packets to the Web last night. Hadi couldn’t find it. The process was incredibly stealthy—possibly a kernel rootkit.”

Sarkar shook his head emphatically. “There is no way to hide the source of network traffic, Jon. I told you this.”

“Well, the test bed servers were definitely involved. Test servers are usually the weakest on security. They have beta software and they’re frequently reconfigured. So I had Hadi kill Icarus servers one through ten, and the packet broadcast stopped—even though it wasn’t supposed to be originating from there.”

Agent Straub nodded, taking notes. “So you knew right where to look, then….”

“That wasn’t my point.”

Agent Vasquez ignored the discussion and picked up the phone. He dialed while Ross glanced at the computer screen. Sarkar had the Event Viewer maximized. “I see we’re starting the hunt on my machine.”

Straub slid his credentials back into his suit pocket. “We haven’t ruled out an inside job.”

“Of course. Forget the fact that I was the one who advised Hadi to shut that system down. Hardly something I’d do if I was the one running the exploit.”

“You might, if you realized it had been discovered. It seems convenient that due to your involvement, the hard drives were erased.”

Ross was poker-faced. “The rootkit destroyed the machine when I tried to shut it down. In any event, FBI forensics can reconstruct data from a wiped drive.”

Vasquez hung up the phone. “They want us in the main data center.”

As they moved down the hallway, Sarkar kept groaning softly and shaking his head. Ross didn’t take the bait. Sarkar finally muttered, “Jon, I had no choice but to tell them.”

“Hadi, I’ve been in this business long enough to know better.“ Ross knew that no good deed goes unpunished, and though he hadn’t technically done anything wrong, helping Sarkar out with his little problem could result in the loss of his contract with Alcyone. Or worse, he thought, eyeing their FBI escort.

“They were asking questions about what we did. This is the FBI, not human resources. They talked to us separately, and I knew that Maynard would mention you. Jon, what was I supposed to do? I do not wish to get deported.”

Ross grimaced. “I should have known better than to get involved, Hadi.”

“I am not a Muslim. I am a Hindu. You will tell them, won’t you?”

Ross didn’t respond.

Sarkar looked genuinely pained. “I am sorry, Jon.”

“Ted Wynnik probably called the Feds in to force Accounting’s hand and have my contract canceled. He doesn’t like having people down here who don’t answer to him.”

“Ted didn’t call the FBI, Jon.”

“Then who did? You?”

“No one did.”

Ross stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

“They came here on their own. Because of what the Icarus-Seven server did.”

Ross looked back to the FBI agents. Straub motioned for him to keep moving.

Just what have I gotten involved in here? Ross wondered.

There were a lot of people in the data center. It was almost acceptably warm as a result. Sarkar’s boss, Ted Wynnik, leaned against a counter, glowering beneath thick eyebrows as he listened to two techs Ross hadn’t seen before. This was probably the A-team—the daytime shift. They looked at Ross with the special contempt reserved for young consultants.

Half a dozen uniformed Woodland Hills police officers were in here along with more FBI agents. They were talking with a network admin—a pear-shaped guy with bad skin. He was probably Maynard. Pear-shaped pointed at various server racks enthusiastically. At least someone was enjoying this.

What happened?

As soon as Ross entered the room, everyone stopped talking and turned to face him. The sudden silence was almost embarrassing because Ross knew he had none of the answers they were looking for. He decided to ask the obvious question. “Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?”

All eyes turned to someone behind Ross, so he spun on his heel to face a trim man in a crisp suit. The guy looked like a fifty-year-old varsity quarterback. A leader of men.

“Mr. Ross. I’m Special Agent Neal Decker, L.A. Division. Do you know why we’re here?”

“Because of last night?”

Decker sized him up. It unnerved Ross that no one was talking.

But Decker was in no hurry. He finally placed his hand on a disconnected rack server sitting on the nearby counter. “They tell me this computer killed two men earlier today.”

The shock took a while to work through Ross. He had expected some sort of child pornography ring or a credit card scam. “Killed? How?”

“I was hoping you could help us explain that.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

Decker smiled good-naturedly. “A lot of people are suspects right now. But once we get the people in here to help us interpret the evidence, we’ll know more. In the meantime, we’d like to take you gentlemen in for questioning.” His gaze spanned the room to include all the men who were present during the incident.

A wave of dread washed over Ross. “We’re not under arrest?”

“No. I’m asking you to voluntarily come in for questioning.”

Ross wondered what would happen if he said no. Of course, he couldn’t say no. What about a lawyer? “I must tell you, I’m just completely floored by this.”

“I’m certain you are.”

This guy was disconcertingly calm. He gave the impression that he knew more than he was letting on. Goddamnit.

Just then a man appeared at the glass data center door. He was the linebacker to match Decker as quarterback. His casual confidence seemed to indicate he wasn’t FBI—the agents here were all keyed up in Decker’s presence. No, this guy was an outsider to them. The man rapped on the glass, and a Woodland Hills patrolman opened the door for him. The newcomer showed a badge and was let inside.

“I’m looking for an Agent Decker.”

Decker and the FBI agents turned and moved forward, hands extended. “Detective Sebeck. We spoke on the phone.” They shook hands. Decker turned to some of his crew. “Agent Knowles, Agent Straub, Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck, Ventura County Major Crimes Unit. Detective Sebeck was heading the murder investigation up in Thousand Oaks.” Handshakes all around.

Then everyone turned back to Ross.

Sebeck pointed at him. “Who’s this?”

Decker leaned against the counter. “This is Jon Ross, one of Alcyone’s independent computer consultants. He designs their corporate data systems. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ross?”

“Certain systems, yes. Not this one.”

“Is he a suspect or a witness?”

Ross thought it was a good question.

Decker was calm as ever. “That depends.” He looked to Ross. “Tell me, Mr. Ross, why is it that no one at your home address has ever heard of you?”

Damn it to hell….

Chapter 6:// Exile

“Мs. Anderson?” The security guard stepped from the guard shack and ducked to look into the Jaguar XK8.

Anji Anderson looked down her nose at him from behind the wheel, lowering her Vuitton sunglasses. “Yesss. Open the gate.”

“Ma’am, if you could drive off to the right here, I believe Mr. Langley wants to have a word with you.”

“I think you should open the gate.”

“Ma’am, Mr. Langley—“

“Mr. Langley—whoever that is—can call my office if he wants to speak with me.” She dug through her glove compartment and produced a drive-on studio pass. “Now, open the gate.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to pull off to the right, there.”

“Why? Do you know who I am?”

He gave her an incredulous look. He obviously knew who she was.

“And why do you keep calling me ‘Ma’am’? What is this, the Ponderosa? My name is Anji Anderson—although later you’ll be calling me ‘That Bitch Who Got Me Fired.’”

“Ma’am, there’s no call for cussing.”

“Cussing? Okay, Clem, I won’t cuss no more, as long as you open the fucking gate.”

His look hardened. He leaned down closer. “Look, if you don’t pull off to the right, you’ll wish you had. Now park over there.” He pointed.

She just laughed. “Ahhh, I guess there’s only so much shit you’ll take for eight bucks an hour, eh?”

“Pull over to the right.”

A car behind her honked.

“And what if I don’t?”

“Pull over to the right!”

Another guard approached the car.

“Oh, you called for backup. You need protection from a helpless woman, Clem?”

The second guard eased the first away from the car and then turned to her. “Ms. Anderson, using your superior social position to belittle a powerless employee does not speak well of you.”

She stared at him.

“The fact is that we’ve been instructed by your superiors to prevent you from entering. If you want to know why, I suggest you pull over to the right.”

She nodded slowly and put the car in gear. “Okay. I will.” She yanked the steering wheel to the right and accelerated madly into the walk-on lot.

Anderson was burning with anger after walking in high heels from the far corner of the parking lot. She was going to raise hell about this with Walter Kahn. She was talent. She shouldn’t have to put up with facilities crap.

When she finally reached the guard shed again, the second guard pointed to a pedestrian gate where two people waited for her, one a trim woman in a tailored suit, the other another security guard. Anderson slowed down and then stopped. She stood there not liking what she was suddenly thinking.

The woman motioned for her to approach.

Anderson took a deep breath and walked up to them as composedly as she could manage. “What’s this all about?”

The woman extended her hand from between the bars. It was like visiting hours at the state pen. Anderson extended her own hand for a cold handshake. “Ms. Anderson, I’m Josephine Curto from Human Resources. There’s been a change in your contract status at the network.”

“My agent is negotiating a contract renewal. It doesn’t lapse for another five weeks.”

“Yes. I see. Those negotiations are over. The network decided not to renew your contract. Please understand this decision came down from corporate. I’m just delivering the news. We thought your agent would have told you.”

Anderson felt the tears welling up, but sucked in a breath and forced them back down again. She looked away and pressed her forefinger and thumb against the bridge of her nose—then looked back sharply at Curto. “This is how you decide to tell me I’m fired? I’m standing here like some kind of vagrant in the street. What am I, a threat? What am I going to do, shoot up the place?”

Curto was unperturbed as she attached papers to a clipboard. “That’s not the concern. You are known to studio personnel and have access to a live television broadcast. I’m sure you can appreciate that the network doesn’t want you getting on the air at this difficult time.”

“Difficult time?” Anderson tried in vain to form her thoughts into words several times. The tears threatened again. She finally blurted out, lamely, “I have fans. You’ve seen my fan mail? There are men and women in Marin and Oakland and Walnut Creek—people who’ve asked to marry me. What are you going to tell them about my sudden disappearance?”

“I have no idea how to respond to that question.”

“You should let me do a final broadcast.”

“Lifestyles reporters don’t get farewell broadcasts, Ms. Anderson.”

“What about Jim McEwen? They had a big send-off when he retired.”

“Jim was the anchor. He worked at the studio for thirty-two years. You’ve been here six.”

“This is no way to treat talent.”

“That’s hardly at issue here.”

Anderson realized Curto was smart for being on the other side of the bars. She took another deep breath and tried to center herself. “Can’t I at least go in to say goodbye to Jamie and Doug and the others?”

“Oh, see, now why are we having this conversation? It’s not productive,” Curto said. She pushed a clipboard and pen through the bars. “Can you please sign these?”

Anderson just stared at her indignantly. “I’m not signing anything.”

“You want your personal effects, right?”

“My personal effects? You mean you people emptied out my office?”

“Anji, what do you think is going on here? This is a large corporation with global responsibilities. Emptying out your office wasn’t a vengeful act. It was a work order. Just sign the documents, and let’s get this over with. This is not fun for you or me.”

Anderson grabbed the clipboard and pen. She slapped it against the bars right in front of Curto’s face and started reading the COBRA and 401(k) documents. She felt like a public spectacle. A loser standing outside the gates where everyone could see her. The grips and cameramen stared as they drove in through the nearby gate. She started tearing up in humiliation. Someone was punishing her. But who?

She finally just signed all the papers without reading them and shoved the clipboard back through the bars.

“We’ll deliver your personal effects to your home.”

Anderson hurried away, rushing for the distant refuge of her car.

“Ms. Anderson. My pen.”

Anderson had been starting pitcher on Wisconsin State’s girls’ softball team. She stopped, turned, and hurled the pen at the corporate ice bitch with all her strength. The woman took it right in the torso. Had it been a Mont Blanc, she would have been sucking for air. But it was just a Bic, and the woman shrank back.

“There’s no call for that!”

Anderson stormed away, her mind running in fast-forward to all the bad things that were sure to follow. Someone had dynamited a bridge on her road to success. She hadn’t prepared for this at all. Fucking terrorists.

She mentally ticked off a list of her friends. They were all in the business or attached to the business. Who could find her a soft landing at another station? If not in San Francisco, then where? Not Madison, Wisconsin, again, please, dear God.

Then it hit her that Melanie hadn’t warned her. That bitch had let her be publicly humiliated. Anderson pulled her cell phone out of her handbag and speed-dialed her agent. It rang three times and went to voice mail.

“You’ve reached the office of Melanie Smalls. Ms. Smalls is not available at the moment. To reach her assistant, Jason Karcher, press 3349.”

Anderson punched in the numbers.

“Ms. Smalls’s office. Can I help you?”

“Jason, it’s Anji Anderson. Put me through to Melanie.”

“Hi, Ms. Anderson. Melanie’s on another line. Do you want to hold?”

“Look, I’m standing out here in front of KTLZ, and they’ve locked me out of the studio. Get Melanie on the damned phone.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

Anderson reached her car and clicked the remote. She got inside and cleaned up her mascara in the rearview mirror while Barry Manilow tortured her on hold because it looked like she had emphatically not “made it.” The anger built inside her with each passing verse.

Finally Melanie clicked on. “Anji, what’s going on?”

“I’ve just been fired at the studio front gate—publicly humiliated. Josephine Curto tells me that you knew my contract wasn’t being picked up.”

“Who the hell’s Josephine Curto?”

“Some toady from Human Resources.”

“Anji, we’re still in negotiations with the network, and I wasn’t told that any decision had been made. The ball was still in Kahn’s court.”

“Josephine just told me that my agent knew about this, Melanie. I just signed papers!”

“Well, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, and what do you mean you just signed papers? Why would you sign papers?” Melanie’s voice became muted. “Jase, check the fax machine.”

Anderson started crying again. She hit the dashboard—angry with herself for being so emotional. “Damnit, Melanie. Why didn’t I see this coming? Who the hell did the network get to replace me?”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll see if we can get you something on the E! Channel or—“

“No! Stop. I’ve been trying for six years to get on a serious news desk. I can’t afford to do any more fluff pieces. I’m a journalist, not a damned fashion model.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here. Anji, you don’t have the right pedigree for it. You haven’t been a journalist, honey. Not really. And you weren’t talking serious journalism when we got you onto the San Francisco affiliate.”

“I’m realizing—“

“You’re realizing you’re past thirty and fluff reporting is for twenty-four-year-old news models.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s a problem.”

“No, it’s a challenge.”

“Anji, what you’re talking about is starting back at square one and reinventing yourself. No, actually you’re starting at square negative one because you’re already known as a fashion and lifestyles reporter—meaning you have all the journalistic heft of a British tabloid. It’s going to be a stretch, and at my age, I don’t stretch.”

Anderson searched for words. This was unraveling fast.

“Honey, you’re too old to intern as a serious journalist. Unless you’re a proven hard news reporter at thirty, you’re not going to be a hard news reporter.”

Anderson bit her lip gently. Performed in front of the right man, that used to solve a lot of problems. She realized that Christiane Amanpour probably didn’t bite her lip.

“Unfortunately, major networks are consolidating news production in Atlanta, and laying off in most markets. I could try to get you a spot on a cosmetics infomercial casting in L.A.”

Tears flowed down Anderson’s cheeks.

Chapter 7:// Daemon

Sebeck was already staring at the ceiling when his alarm clock sounded. He switched it off by touch and kept staring at the ceiling. He’d gotten in late last night. Even so, he hadn’t slept. He kept turning the case over in his mind. That’s what he’d taken to calling it: The Case.

The FBI had taken over. They were forming a temporary task force with local law enforcement, but the Feds were in charge. Agents were photocopying files and interrogating suspects when Sebeck left at two A.M. Decker was some sort of workaholic.

Sebeck explored his sense of loss. The Case no longer belonged to him. Why did it bother him so much? He was afraid he knew the answer: he felt truly alive only when something horrible was happening. That was the dirty secret behind every promotion he had ever received.

He’d miscast himself in the role of authority figure. A decision made one afternoon fifteen years ago. He had had to grow up fast, back then—after the baby—but he sometimes wondered if he wasn’t just pretending. If he wasn’t simply acting the way he thought he should act. The way others around him did. He didn’t even know who he’d be without this role. Pete Sebeck was just an idea—a collection of responsibilities with a mailing address.

He tried to recall the last time he actually felt something. The last time he felt alive. That inevitably led to thoughts of her. Memories of the trip to Grand Cayman. He tried to remember the smell of her hair. He wondered where she was right now, and if he’d ever see her again. She didn’t need a damned thing from him. Maybe that’s what he loved most about her.

Sebeck’s cell phone sounded from the nightstand, scattering his thoughts. He glanced over at his wife’s side of the bed. She roused slightly. He grabbed the handset and sat up. “Sebeck.”

“Detective Sebeck?”

“Yeah. Who’s—”

“This is Special Agent Boerner, FBI. I just sent an e-mail to your home address. The agent in charge wants a response before you’re in this morning.” Someone yelled in the background. Boerner clicked off without saying goodbye.

“Hello?” Sebeck stared in irritation at the handset. Rude asshole. He glanced at the clock: 6:32 A.M.

His wife sat up on the other side of the bed and stretched in one of her full-length nightgowns.

“Laura, I have to jump in the shower first. I’ve got a full day ahead.”

“Fine, Pete.”

“I won’t be long. Go back to sleep.”

Sebeck ran through his ablutions in fifteen minutes, dressed, and tied his tie on the way downstairs. He ducked into the kitchen.

His son, Chris, sat reading the morning paper. The kid was getting big—muscular big. Sixteen. Almost the age Sebeck was when he and Laura conceived the boy. Had it really been sixteen years? “Why don’t you get a shovel, Chris?”

Chris had a bulging mouthful of cereal. The boy grabbed at his dad’s suit jacket as he walked past. Chris flipped the paper over to reveal the front page. There was a color picture of Sebeck over the headline: “Internet Killings Spark Federal Investigation.” Mantz was also in the picture to his left. Sebeck stopped short and picked up the page, reading slowly as he sank down into a seat at the table.

Chris chewed his way back to speech. “L.A. Times. That’s big.”

Sebeck just kept reading.

Laura walked into the kitchen.

Sebeck glanced up. “Did you see this?”

She looked down at the page. “Not a great picture of Nathan.” She went over to the stove to make tea.

Sebeck handed the paper back to Chris but kept looking at Laura. “I won’t be able to pick up Chris from practice today. I’ve got the FBI here, the national media, and God knows what else.”

“We’ll manage.”

Chris lowered the paper. “The Feds are interrogating the insurance guys. You think they did it?”

“I’m not the one questioning them, Chris.” Sebeck stood. “From here on out, I’ll be lucky to be in the loop at all.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go.”

Sebeck headed down the hall to the den. Once there, he dropped into the desk chair and hit the power switch on the computer. While the computer booted, he moved a gaming joystick off to the side and tossed two soda cans into the trash. He called to the kitchen, “Chris, I won’t keep asking you to clean up in here when you’re done!” No answer.

The computer desktop came up. Sebeck launched his e-mail program, then clicked the GET MAIL button. He waited as 132 messages downloaded. Goddamned spam. When it finished, the message subject lines ranged from “Barely Legal Teens” to ”Nigerian Exile Needs Help” to ”Lolitas Take Horse Cock.”

He searched his inbox for the FBI message. It was near the top and had the subject line “Case #93233—CyberStorm/Pavlos” from boernerh@fbi.gov. Sebeck double-clicked on it.

Strangely, as the e-mail opened, the screen went black. Then the words ”Testing Audio” faded in. The hard drive strained. Sebeck stared in confusion. What did he do? In a moment, the words faded out and were replaced by a grainy video image of a man. It was hard to tell his age or precise appearance due to the poor video quality. It was amateurish—poorly lit and off-center.

The man looked thin and pale—a condition emphasized by his standing against a featureless white background. He was completely bald and wore what looked to be a medical gown.

What the hell was this, some sort of FBI lab report?

It took Sebeck a moment to realize that the video was already playing. The man swayed unsteadily—his pixels adjusting like colored tiles. Then he looked directly into the camera and nodded as if in greeting.

“Detective Sebeck. I was Matthew Sobol. Chief technology officer of CyberStorm Entertainment. I am dead.”

Sebeck leaned forward—his eyes fixed on the monitor.

“I see you’ve been assigned to the Josef Pavlos and Chopra Singh murder cases. Let me save you some time; I killed both men. Soon you’ll know why. But you have a problem: Because I’m dead, you can’t arrest me. More importantly: You can’t stop me.”

Sebeck stared in stunned silence.

Sobol continued. “Since you have no choice but to try and stop me, I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”

The image disappeared, revealing the e-mail inbox again.

Sebeck didn’t move for several moments. When he finally did, it was to forward the message to his sheriff’s e-mail address.

Chapter 8:// Escalation

“Mr. Ross, help us understand this: You have no permanent address, and yet you’ve got nearly three hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets. Am I to believe you live with your parents?”

Jon Ross rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate on the question—the same question they’d asked twenty different ways. The one they kept coming back to.

The taller FBI agent leaned in close. “Mr. Ross?”

“I’m a contract nomad. Ancient people followed caribou. I follow software contracts.”

The shorter agent stood next to a mirrored window and flipped through his notes. “You’ve been at Alcyone Insurance for what, two months now? Is that a long time for you?”

“Not particularly. Three or four is typical.”

“Your clients give us various physical addresses for your business. Kind of strange for a one-man corporation, isn’t it?”

Ross ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You contacted my clients? Are you trying to destroy my business?”

“Why are you concealing information from your clients?”

“I maintain contact addresses legally through resident agents in several states. This is legal commerce. Why are you guys doing this to me? I was trying to help Hadi.”

“That doesn’t explain why you have a phony personal address.”

Ross sighed. “I had the fake address because society requires everyone to have a permanent home address.”

“Then why don’t you have one?”

“Because I don’t need one.”

Both agents were pacing again. The shorter one was the first to speak. “Single. No property. Do you pay all your taxes, Mr. Ross?”

“I’m a Delaware service corporation. I pay myself a reasonable salary, max out my 401(k), and take the remainder as corporate profits—minus travel and business expenses. And the corporation leases my car.” He hesitated. “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was trying to help my client.”

The phone in the center of the table rang. The shorter agent grabbed it without saying a word. He listened. After a few moments he nodded slightly and looked at Ross with some surprise. “Understood.” A pause. “Yes.”

He hung up. “It looks like you’re off the hook, Mr. Ross.”

Neal Decker and three other FBI agents sat in the darkened training room of the Ventura County Sheriff’s headquarters intently watching a screen projection of Sobol’s MPEG video. Sebeck, Mantz, Burkow, and Ventura County’s assistant chief, Stan Eichhorn, watched alongside them. Aaron Larson ran the video off a laptop hooked to the department’s digital projector.

Sobol’s grainy image glowed on-screen. “…I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”

The image froze, and Sobol’s audience whistled and broke out into raucous discussion. Larson brought up the lights, revealing Agent Decker staring intently at the blank screen. He finally came around and stepped to the front of the room.

“Gentlemen, this changes things.” Decker looked to Agent Straub. “When does the computer forensics team get in, Tom?”

“They’re already en route from Oxnard Airport.”

“Get them over to CyberStorm as soon as they arrive. Where are the Alcyone Insurance computers?”

“Put on a plane to D.C. last night.”

“Good. Hopefully they’ll get something off the drives. In the meantime, have the forensics team comb through the CyberStorm network. I want it sniffed for booby traps, and then we need to shift our focus to Matthew Sobol.” He pointed to the projector. “Get forensics a copy of this video file.”

Larson perked up. “I burned copies onto CD. I can make more if you need them.”

Decker held up his hands. “That brings up an important point. I want absolute secrecy concerning this case.” He looked to the local police. “That means no talking to friends and relatives, and absolutely no talking to the media. We need to control what information gets out there.”

Sebeck pointed at the screen. “Has anyone heard of this Sobol guy?”

Decker didn’t say anything. He just fished through folders on a nearby tabletop and then slid a folder over to Sebeck. It was labeled MATTHEW ANDREW SOBOL.

“What, you already knew about him?”

“Died Thursday. We thought he might be another victim, but he died of brain cancer. He’s been ill for years. He was a company founder. Had access to everything. It all fits. Except for the motive.”

Straub picked up from there. They were like an old married couple. “His assistant said Sobol suffered from dementia. He was paranoid and secretive. It got worse as his illness progressed. He finally had to stop working last year.”

Sebeck flipped through the folder. It was filled with medical files and psychology reports. “Did he have the know-how to build that booby trap over at CyberStorm?”

Decker and Straub exchanged knowing glances. Decker took the folder back. “Sobol scored 220 on an IQ test in 1993. The NSA tried to recruit him out of Stanford for his dissertation on polymorphic data encryption. Instead he started a game company and made millions by his early twenties. He was plenty capable.”

Sebeck knew he could either accept it or say something. He pondered it for several more moments before he decided to make an ass of himself by speaking up. “What about the phone call from that fictitious FBI agent? There’s someone else involved in this.”

“We’ve got good technical people, Sergeant. Let’s see what they find. But I’ll need wiretaps on your cell, office, and home phones.” He turned to Straub. “Let’s also get Sebeck’s ISP to forward all incoming e-mail to the forensics unit. Sergeant, can I expect your cooperation?”

Sebeck nodded. “Yeah. Let me tell my wife and kid, but yes, of course.”

Straub wrote on a small notepad. “I’ll need your signature on some paperwork.”

Sebeck drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “Look, I don’t doubt that this Sobol guy was brilliant, but I’m not convinced that that grainy video is Matthew Sobol. If he was such a genius, he sure as hell could take a clearer video than that. I can’t even make out his face all that well.”

A murmur of agreement swept through the room.

Decker was unperturbed. “We’ll have it analyzed by experts.”

Sebeck still pushed. “I think a CyberStorm employee is committing these murders and trying to pin it on this dead guy. The killer obviously has access to CyberStorm’s network, and from what I’ve seen at CyberStorm, they’ve got a lot of clever people. I think this is a setup.”

“You and I are not technical experts, Sergeant. Let’s see what the forensics team finds.” Decker looked at the assembled officers. “Okay, listen up. We’ve got to get our hands on more facts. Chief Eichhorn, I’m going to need your cooperation and some of your resources.”

Eichhorn nodded. “Anything you need.”

“Matthew Sobol had an eighty-acre estate near here. We should have the search warrant in an hour or so. I’m going to need traffic and perimeter control.”

Larson was still absorbing the first sentence. “Eighty acres?”

Decker nodded. “Yes. Our Mr. Sobol had considerable assets. A net worth of around three hundred million.”

Whistles all around.

“Detective Sebeck might be right; this case might involve others, but we’ll need to follow up on the Sobol lead. Vasquez, I need to know about any disagreements or professional rivalries Sobol might have had with the two victims. I want more detailed interviews with the victims’ families. I also need to know anyone else who might have had a run-in with Sobol. Let’s get someone at NCAMD to do a work-up on him. Straub, I want you over at CyberStorm with the forensics team. Keep me apprised of any new information.”

Decker grabbed a written report from a nearby table and turned to Sebeck. “Sergeant, there’s critical information missing from your report on the first murder scene. Specifically the cable winch. We need the manufacturer, model, serial numbers—”

Sebeck stopped him. “I pulled the evidence unit onto the CyberStorm scene after the second murder. We were going to follow up.”

“Now’s your chance.” Decker tossed the report and a plastic bag containing a gate key and remote. “I want to know when the winch was purchased and who installed it. Maybe the installer can tell us what other work they’ve done. Also find out if a permit was pulled with the city. I want the revised report on my desk ASAP.”

Mantz looked to Sebeck. “I’ll head over to the city permit office, Pete.”

Sebeck felt the heat of this professional slight coursing through his veins. He took a breath and tried to keep a clear head. He wasn’t used to being closely managed. “All right. I want to revisit the first scene, anyway.”

The training room phone rang and Vasquez grabbed it. He listened and then called to Decker. “Neal. NSA.”

Decker addressed the room. “Gentlemen, we’re going to need non-FBI out of this room. Chief Eichhorn, plan for an early afternoon search of Sobol’s estate.”

“Will do.” Eichhorn and the deputies soon found themselves being hustled out of their own training room. The door closed behind them, and the five men stood in the hallway.

Sebeck gestured to his rejected report. “Hell of a morning.”

Eichhorn pointed. “I want to see that revised report before you hand it to Decker.” He turned to the others. “Burkow, Larson, come with me. We’ve got to scare up some manpower.” They moved off toward the division offices.

Mantz slapped Sebeck on the back. “Don’t let him get to you, Pete. I’ll hook up with you after the permit office.” Mantz headed down the hall.

Sebeck watched him go. Just then, two FBI agents emerged from a nearby interrogation room. They had one of the suspects from Alcyone Insurance in tow—an exhausted-looking Jon Ross. Ross’s laptop bag was slung over his shoulder, and he was folding up his flip phone. One of the agents turned to shake his hand. “Mr. Ross, thanks for your cooperation. We know this has been disruptive to your business.”

Ross slipped the phone into his pocket. “Disruptive? I just got a voice mail from Alcyone’s lawyers. They’re threatening a lawsuit, and they canceled my contract. I have messages from two other clients who are putting my projects on hold, no doubt because of you guys.”

“Be sure to let us know where to get in touch with you if you leave town.” The agent handed Ross a business card. “And don’t leave the country.”

Ross stared at the card. “Don’t leave the country? I have a project in Toronto next month.” He studied the unsympathetic expressions on the agents’ faces, then pocketed the card. “Any chance of getting a ride back to Woodland Hills?”

“Check with the sheriff’s. But it might be quicker to call a cab. Thanks again.” Both agents made a beeline for the training room door. They knocked twice and ducked inside, leaving Ross staring after them in the busy corridor.

Sebeck called across the hallway, “I see the Feds haven’t lost their light touch.”

Ross regarded Sebeck warily.

Sebeck approached and extended his hand. “Detective Sebeck.”

“I know who you are, Sergeant. You were at Alcyone last night.”

“You need a ride someplace?”

“I can call a cab.”

“C’mon, it’s the least I can do. It looks like you’ve gotten the short end of the stick in this whole thing. I’m heading out, anyway.”

Ross hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.”

Sebeck and Ross drove in silence for a few minutes. Ross was absorbed by a smart phone in his hand. He brushed his finger through several screens, reading intently. Eventually he looked up. “Interesting.”

Sebeck glanced at him. “What’s that?”

“I finally got a chance to read the news. It’s nice to know what I was almost accused of.”

Sebeck said nothing.

“Your murder case is all over the headlines. Look, there’s you.” Ross held up the phone to show a news Web site with a photo of Sebeck at the press conference.

Sebeck barely looked. “Well, it’s not my case anymore.” They drove on for a few moments in silence. “So, you’re some kind of computer consultant, is that it?”

“Yes. I design relational database management systems.”

“How does a young guy like you get such big clients?”

“Word of mouth. I’m good at what I do. You look young to be a sergeant of detectives.”

Sebeck grimaced. “I got an early start.” They came up on the entrance ramp to the 101 freeway, but Sebeck headed across the bridge to the far side of town.

“Sergeant, you just missed the freeway ramp.”

“I need to stop off somewhere first. Listen, can I ask you some computer questions?”

Ross looked uncertain. “What about?”

“That virus at Alcyone. Everybody there was looking to you for help. So, you know a lot about viruses?”

“I already told all this to the FBI. I’ve been cleared, remember?”

Sebeck waved his hand in acknowledgment. “I know, I know. But our in-house guy doesn’t have the chops to deal with much more than teen hackers and drug dealers.”

“Sergeant, the FBI has a cyber crime unit to deal with this. They don’t need my help.”

“It’s not the FBI that’s asking.”

Ross looked to Sebeck. “Ah…I see.” He raised his hands to represent headlines. “Local cop cracks case.”

Sebeck looked darkly at Ross. “I’m just trying to stop a killer.”

“To be frank, Sergeant, you’re going to have a difficult time finding whoever killed those men. This is essentially a computer forensics case, and the FBI is better equipped for that.”

Sebeck took a chance. “What if I told you I know who the killer is?”

Ross tensed visibly.

“No, not you.”

“That’s why the FBI let me go?”

Sebeck nodded. “What if I also told you that the killer was dead at the time of the murders?”

Ross looked puzzled for a moment—but then a look of realization came over his face. “No way.”

“That’s what I need to know. Is it possible?”

“Holy shit, you’re serious.”

“The Feds believe it. But I don’t. I think the real killer is over at CyberStorm and that he’s framing this dead guy for the murders.”

“It’s Matthew Sobol, isn’t it?”

Sebeck cast a surprised look at Ross. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

Ross gestured to his phone. “The news said Sobol died this week from brain cancer. He’s your dead killer, isn’t he, Sergeant?”

Sebeck realized he might be in trouble. “Whatever you learn here doesn’t go to the media, your friends—anyone. If I even think you leaked this, I’ll charge you with interfering with a police investigation. Do you understand?”

“Your secret’s safe with me. But if I were you, I’d be more concerned about Sobol. If that’s who’s behind this, then there’s more going on than just these murders.”

“How come everyone but me has heard of this Sobol guy?”

“I’m a hard-core gamer, Sergeant. Sobol was a legend. He helped build the online gaming industry.”

“Legend or not, how could a dead man have known when to trigger his traps? He’d have to know in advance the exact day he’d be dead.”

“Not necessarily.” Ross held up his phone again. “He could be reading the news.”

“Don’t talk science fiction crap.“

“Sergeant, it’s a trivial matter for a computer program to monitor Web site content. It’s just text. All Sobol would have to do is create a program to scan news sites for specific phrases—like his obituary, or stories about the deaths of certain programmers. A simple key word search.”

Sebeck considered this. “That virus you stopped over at Alcyone Insurance. Could that be the program that was waiting for Sobol’s death?”

“Maybe. And it sent packets to thousands of IP addresses.”

“Packets containing what?”

“Probably commands.”

“To thousands of addresses?”

Ross nodded grimly.

“Jesus. Would the Feds know this?”

“Oh yeah. The type of program I stopped at Alcyone is fairly common in computing. It’s known as a daemon. It runs in the background waiting for some event to take place. Usually it’s something simple like a request to print. In this case it would be news of Sobol’s death. Then it activates.”

“And triggers the killings.”

Ross nodded. “It’s possible.”

“Just one problem. Sobol couldn’t call me on the phone. I got a phone call this morning from someone pretending to be an FBI agent. They told me to check my e-mail—and that’s what led me to Sobol. So someone else is coordinating this.”

Ross was shaking his head. “It could have been VOIP—voice over Internet protocol.”

Sebeck glared at him. “Have I stepped through a fucking time machine? Was I asleep for the last decade or something?”

“VOIP went mainstream in the corporate world years ago. It saves on phone bills by directing voice communications over Internet servers instead of long-distance telephone lines.”

“So you’re telling me this Daemon program can talk to people over the phone?”

“Playing a prerecorded message over a phone line is easy. The Daemon could manage the sequence and schedule the calls based on what it reads in the news.”

“So it’s not actually a computer talking? Someone must have recorded the message?”

“Probably. Although there are programs that can convert text streams into pretty convincing synthetic voices. Call any airline reservation desk—you’ll be talking to a computer pretty quick. It’s used to announce flight schedules, credit card balances, things like that.”

They drove on for a few moments in silence.

Sebeck sighed. “Well, at least you got the Alcyone server. That’ll put a kink in the killer’s plans—whether he’s alive or dead.”

Ross didn’t look comforted. “You really should play one of Sobol’s games, Sergeant.”

Chapter 9:// Herr Oberstleutnant

Over the Rhine was the only first-person shooter to which Brian Gragg had ever become addicted. He’d played and mastered a score of PC action games. All of them had incredible 3-D graphics, volumetric smoke, realistic physics engines, thirty-two-voice sound, vast levels, and multi-player Internet features. But OTR was different: Its AI was scary smart.

Where enemies in other games poured through doorways, wave after wave, only to be slaughtered, OTR’s AI engine deployed Nazi soldiers realistically. In a house-to-house search, groups of three or four would peel off from the main group, kicking in doors. If you shot one or two or even three, the officer in the street would blow his whistle and shout orders. Then you’d better haul ass because dozens of soldiers would surround your cottage. They wouldn’t storm the place like mindless automatons. Instead, they’d take cover behind fences, walls, and vehicles, and they’d shout in German for you to come out. When you didn’t (and, of course, why would you?) they’d start tossing grenades through the windows or set fire to the house. If you tried to look out a window to see what they were doing, a sniper might cap you.

But what was even more fascinating to Gragg was that they didn’t do it the same way each time. There were smart and dumb soldiers, and varying qualities of Nazi officers. If you holed up in a particularly defensible spot, they might call in a Stug to batter the place into rubble—or worse yet, a Flamenwerfer. And if the siege went on for a while, the Gestapo would arrive to take charge of the situation, and that meant only one thing: SS Oberstleutnant Heinrich Boerner, an adversary so wily and twisted, this fictional character had become a cause célèbre at the E3 gaming convention. There was a thirty-foot color banner of his face hanging over CyberStorm Entertainment’s booth. He was literally the poster boy for evil.

OTR’s AI cemented the impression that you were fighting against a rational opponent—and a challenging one. Gragg appreciated the endless hours of distraction this afforded, particularly since his real-life incident with the Filipinos.

Heider’s body had been found in a rail yard near Hobby Airport, south of Houston. Heider had been bound, gagged, and beaten to death—left as a warning to the carder community. It was at times like these that Gragg was thankful for his limited social circle.

Few, if any, would be able to connect him to Heider, but just in case he decided to lay low for a few weeks.

He had about fifty or sixty thousand in cash on hand at various banks under various identities. Good thing, because he couldn’t trade the identity database he had copied from the Filipino server with any of his Abkhazian contacts. It was just too hot. He felt a wave of humiliation again. Over twenty thousand high-net-worth identities down the drain—a fortune on the open market. How did they know it was him?

Gragg had cracked their database through a Unicode directory traversal that allowed him to install a back door on their Web server. They hadn’t properly patched it, and the sample applications were still on the server, so it was a fairly trivial matter to gain Administrator rights. He was pretty certain that a network admin was lying at the bottom of Manila Harbor over that simple mistake.

But how the hell did they trace the hack to him? Gragg ran the exploit through a zombied machine somewhere in Malaysia and a hijacked 803.11g wireless connection in a Houston subdivision. Even if they tracked the file transfer to the destination IP address, how did that lead them back to him? Even if they beat the hell out of the poor suburban sap whose Wi-Fi access point he’d hijacked, that wouldn’t tell them anything. Nonetheless, Gragg had spent a couple sleepless nights waiting for his front door to be kicked in while pondering the question. He just couldn’t figure it. What had he missed?

Only recently did it occur to Gragg that he might have been the Filipinos’ only partner in Houston. By staging the attack from a Houston domain, Gragg had made a pathetically obvious mistake. The carder, Loki, from Houston, Texas, was an obvious suspect.

But as the days slipped by, it became apparent that either the gang was satisfied that Loki was dead or they had no idea of Gragg’s real identity. Until he was positive, Gragg spent his waking hours hiding in the rough industrial space that served as his apartment, playing endless hours of OTR. And OTR was quite a challenge, after all.

Gragg usually chose the Nazi side, and his preferred weapon was the sniper rifle, which he’d use to pick off newbies from a hiding place in a bell tower or garret window. He combined this with a liberal amount of verbal abuse, using hot keys to launch the taunts built into the game: I’ve seen French schoolgirls shoot straighter!

His cable Internet connection usually gave him a ping in the 20-to 50-millisecond range, which was a major advantage against lamers with pings of 150-plus. Their in-game avatars would hesitate as Gragg dropped them. He never tired of piling up the bodies in front of his hiding place.

Deathmatch OTR was a distributed network game—that is, one of the players hosted the game map off of his machine and made the match available for anyone to join over the Internet. There were deathmatch clients available that listed all available matches by geographical region—each machine sending out a message that it was available. The server listings numbered in the thousands.

Since Gragg had been playing OTR off and on for the last six months—well before the Filipino problem—he was intimately familiar with every game map. He knew that if he tossed a potato masher grenade from the end of the park in the Saint-Lô map, it would land just behind the vegetable cart on the far end, killing anyone hiding there. He knew a place on the Tunisian map where he could jump up onto shattered rooftops and snipe people with impunity. It took an experienced jumper to make the leap without falling to his death off the balcony.

Frankly, deathmatch had begun to lose its luster until CyberStorm released the custom map editor. Since then, a score of popular custom maps had appeared in the deathmatch server listing. Most of these maps were the out-of-control Rambo fantasies of fourteen-year-old boys, with ridiculous numbers of mounted machine guns and no logic in the placement and design of fortifications. Gragg knew he could do much better, but he didn’t have the inclination to learn the scripting language used to create the maps—no money in it.

So it was with low expectations that Gragg downloaded a new custom map named Monte Cassino. The reasonably historic name was unusual, since the fourteen-year-old crowd usually named maps something like “Fuckmeister Shitfest.”

Gragg quickly found a server named Houston Central running the Monte Cassino map. Since it was geographically local, it gave him a killer ping of twenty milliseconds, and he joined the deathmatch already under way.

The moment the map loaded, he noticed differences from other custom maps. First off, he wasn’t even allowed to join the Axis team. The map permitted Internet team play only for the Allied forces. The Germans were bots. It was humans against the AI, which irked Gragg because he loved playing the German side—they were the villains, after all.

Likewise, respawning was different in this map. It wasn’t a straight team match, where you respawned elsewhere after dying. Instead it was described as an “objective” map, where you stayed dead until the last member of your team died or until you defeated all the Germans—at which point the map reset and everyone was alive again.

Also, this map had radically different terrain and textures—as though it was all done from scratch. The map consisted of a steep mountain topped by the ruins of a large Benedictine monastery. The scenario description said U.S. heavy bombers had struck the monastery. The resulting ruins turned out to be a maze of shattered walls, charred wooden beams, and entrances to cellars. It provided excellent cover for the Germans, and the designer placed MG42s with interlocking fields of fire along the approaches to the hilltop. The Germans also had light mortars to kill you if you hid behind boulders. It was as if they’d “registered” the coordinates of all the good cover in advance—which was something the Germans might actually do. As a result, Gragg was determined to beat it.

It was quickly apparent that a pack of lone gunmen could not take the monastery. It required an orchestrated attack. It took an hour of goading other teammates using the chat window, but Gragg finally convinced them to coordinate their attack—instead of running hell-bent for leather up the hill. With some experimentation, they soon discovered that half the squad could draw fire from the Krauts while the other half of the force outflanked them on the left, using the steeper incline for cover. If they ran, they’d be spotted and cut down, but if they crawled on their bellies, they could usually get to within grenade-tossing distance of the outer fortifications. Once the grenades exploded, they’d charge into the ruins and the rest of the battle would be room-to-room fighting.

By this time, the squad distracting the Germans would be mostly dead from mortar rounds and heavy machine guns, so they couldn’t contribute much. It was a tough slog, and Gragg was still at it two days later. He hadn’t slept and had eaten very little, but he would not disconnect from the Houston Monte Cassino server without beating this map. The closest he’d come had been yesterday, when he made it into the wine cellars. There, an SS officer shot him in the back after Gragg raced past a row of wine tuns.

This was what had driven Gragg for the last twenty-four hours straight: After shooting him, the SS officer stood over his body. It was the infamous Oberstleutnant Heinrich Boerner from the single-player mode of OTR. Even freakier, Boerner spoke over Gragg’s body. He said: “Tod ist unvermeidlich, aber meist unbeutend,” with an English subtitle appearing on the bottom of the screen: “Death is inevitable but largely unimportant.”

How the fuck had they done that? It was absolutely the same voice-over artist for Boerner from the original single-player game.

Had this custom map been done by the CyberStorm folks themselves? Gragg was obsessed with reaching the wine cellars again. He had to find out what Boerner was doing there. Only this time he wasn’t going to let that fuck shoot him in the back. Yet he knew only too well that Boerner was a slippery character—not likely to repeat his tactics. Gragg resolved to save grenades for the cellars.

The next round started with much of the usual crew—similarly obsessed folks, cursing this addictive game and striving to take the abbey before dawn broke on another sleepy-eyed workday. This time Gragg made sure to follow in the path of a player whose screen name was Major Pain in the Ass. MPITA was a good player, with quick reflexes and a good grasp of key combinations for jumping, switching weapons, and leaning around corners. Gragg crawled behind him during the flanking maneuver, then stuck close on his tail going into the monastery ruins. He never let him get more than a step or two ahead. MPITA soaked up most of the gunfire from Krauts with Schmeissers and heavy machine guns. By the time MPITA was taken out with a Panzerfaust, Gragg was farther into the ruins than he’d ever gotten without taking serious damage.

He took out the Panzerfaust team with a couple blasts from his pump shotgun—his weapon of choice for this map. A sniper rifle was useless in the close quarters of the ruins.

Gragg then stormed forward, hitting a command key that caused his avatar to shout, “Follow me!” He headed toward the dormitory hall, and that was going to be the next problem.

As he reached the corner, Gragg hit the key combo to lean left. He quickly spotted the MG42 team a hundred feet down the roofless, rubble-strewn corridor. The loader pointed and shouted, and the gunner turned toward him and opened fire just as Gragg ducked back again. Tracers whined past for a moment or two until the Krauts decided to save their ammo.

It was an engrossingly realistic game.

Gragg turned his view to face five other Allied players catching up behind him. This was fantastic. They’d never come this far with so few casualties. That meant only ten of the sixteen had been killed in the assault—a record low. He hit the command keys again, and his avatar shouted, “Charge!”

He raced straight across the hall toward a shallow alcove he knew of, immediately drawing fire again from the MG42 at the end of the hall. He watched his health meter drop quickly to 20 percent by the time he reached the safety of the alcove. The players right behind him tried to follow him into the alcove, but Gragg knew it could fit only one player at a time. Their avatars bumped and jumped against his, striving for cover until the Germans mowed them down. Three other players had hung back under cover, and they exchanged fire with the MG42 until Gragg heard what he was waiting for: silence from the Kraut machine gun. They were reloading.

Gragg switched to grenades and charged forward. As he ran over the corpses of his fallen comrades, he picked up their med kits, increasing his health back to 95 percent. It was an odd genre conceit that fallen players sprouted medical kits like Christmas presents, and that picking up a medical kit would immediately increase the health of injured characters—but right now Gragg was all for it. He wanted Boerner’s head on a stick.

He could see the Krauts wrestling a belt of ammo into the open breech of their gun while he ran toward them. The machine gun barrel steamed ominously.

The detail of this game is fantastic.

Just as the Krauts slammed the breech closed again, Gragg hurled his grenade down the hallway. It was a perfect throw, and the Germans ran shouting from their machine gun nest.

By that time, Gragg had switched to his shotgun, and he pumped two rounds into each of them as they fled the explosion. They dropped with captivating rag-doll physics. When he reached the smoking machine gun nest, only one of the Krauts was still moving, lying on his back with a 3-D texture of blood ostensibly flowing from his mouth—that meant he was 98 percent wounded.

Gragg loved this part. Sometimes severely wounded AI soldiers would surrender.

The injured Kraut held up his hands with melodramatic fear, looking up at Gragg’s avatar. “Nicht schiessen!”

BOOM! Gragg wasted him and reloaded.

The other three surviving members of his squad arrived, reloading their Tommy guns. The chat window started rolling fast and furious now:

Sergeant Hairy Balls> Any more grenades?

Your Retarded Brother> Never been this far!

Go Mets!> Loki, we’ll cover u

Gragg smirked. Like hell, motherfucker. He typed:

Loki> Fuk u. I took out the machine gun

A moment, then Sergeant Hairy Balls’s avatar moved toward some cellar steps. The others followed, with Gragg taking up the rear. This was the way he liked it.

Gragg looked down the stairway. That was the entrance to the wine cellar where he’d seen Oberstleutnant Boerner yesterday. He was going to kill that fucker this time.

Should he warn the others? He calculated whether it was better to share the information and increase the chance of success, or risk it all and keep victory for himself. He decided to let them find out the same way he did.

Hairy Balls tossed a grenade into the cellar and chased the resulting explosion, charging inside with his Thompson blazing. Suddenly the doorway filled with an orange glow, and flames leapt out of the cellar with a throaty roar.

Flamethrower. Boerner was holed up in the cellars with a fucking Flammenwerfer. This was suicide. Hairy Balls was already dead.

The other two players started tossing grenades in through the opening. They ducked in and out of the doorway, chased by roaring flames each time. Gragg knew they were taking damage, but they were helping; a flamethrower had only ten blasts.

By the time the flamethrower was exhausted, Your Retarded Brother was dead, and Go Mets! was badly injured. Gragg knew this because a player’s avatar limped when it had less than 20 percent health—and his companion was limping pitifully.

Gragg let Go Mets! grab the med kits from their fallen comrades, since he was of no use to Gragg dead, and they both charged into the wine cellar, guns blazing. Boerner was nowhere in sight.

Gragg hoped it was Boerner they were chasing, since he was running out of ammo. He typed into the chat window:

Loki> Did u see him?

Go Mets!> No

The wine cellar was dimly lit the last time Gragg was here, but now the fires left by the flamethrower illuminated the place pretty well, so they didn’t have to probe the dark corners of the room behind the wine barrels. From experience Gragg knew that wood textures could ”burn” in OTR, so they had to move through here fast, or they might lose any chance of catching Herr OberstLeutnant at all. Gragg glanced up and saw that the beams overhead had caught fire.

Damn! Who designed this level? It’s incredible.

A doorway led through the far wall of the cellar. The exhausted flamethrower pack lay on the stone floor there.

An echoing German voice shouted from that direction: “Amerikaner!” It was Boerner, all right.

Gragg rushed forward with Go Mets!, and they took up positions on either side of the doorway. Gragg started leaning in to take a look, when he saw the infamous Heinrich Boerner character stand up from the cover of some crates behind Go Mets!. Boerner was dressed in his trademark SS officer grays with a floor-length greatcoat and an Iron Cross under his chin.

This bastard son of an AI engine had dropped the flamethrower in the exit to make them think he’d left the room, and they both fell for it, like morons.

Boerner leveled a Schmeisser submachine gun at Go Mets!’s back and opened up. To his credit, Go Mets! leapt up like a house cat and spun around, firing wildly with his Thompson. Gragg tried to pump a few rounds in Boerner’s general direction, but Go Mets! was blocking the line of fire.

By the time Gragg circled around and Go Mets! limped to cover, Boerner was moving behind the huge wine tuns again—his evil laugh echoing.

“Fucker, fucker, fucker!” Gragg actually shouted at his flat-screen monitor.

Just then he heard the telltale clink, clank of a German potato masher landing in his general vicinity.

“Fuck!” Gragg ducked down and scurried away, but he was still caught by the blast and went flying across the room. He was suddenly down to 15 percent health.

“Damnit!” He pounded his workbench.

The grenades kept coming, and both Gragg and Go Mets! fell back, firing at nothing in particular. By the time they stopped, they were damn near back at the cellar entrance. Embers were falling down around their ears. Gragg lost another 1 percent of health in fire damage.

Gragg tilted his view upward to see the ceiling fully engulfed in flames. The place was filling with smoke. A beam in the corner collapsed, sending up sparks.

Incredible effects.

Gragg turned his view to Go Mets!’s avatar. The guy looked like hell, swaying unsteadily and wheezing.

Gragg aimed the shotgun. BOOM!

Go Mets! fell dead. Gragg collected his med kit and was back up to 39 percent health again.

PK-ing’s a bitch, fella.

Then Gragg realized he was out of shotgun shells. He also had no grenades left. He switched to his Colt pistol. This was laughable; he was up against Boerner with a peashooter.

Good as dead now. Might as well go out fighting.

Gragg’s avatar ran like a wild man across the burning cellar, firing his pistol at nothing in particular. He ran to the doorway on the far side and jumped over the discarded flamethrower pack. He ran full-speed into the darkness.

It was with considerable surprise that he found himself still alive and moving toward a faint light ahead. He stopped to reload his pistol and then continued.

Soon he reached a circular chamber with a beam of sunlight shining down from a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a section of the wall. It appeared to be the basement of a shattered tower. Several barred windows ringed the walls in the shadows. It was a dead end.

Gragg looked back the way he’d come. No wonder Boerner let him in here—now he was trapped.

Gragg wondered why Go Mets! wasn’t flaming him in the chat window for player killing. Perhaps if any of the first squad survived the diversion attack, he could convince them to move up and help out. Gragg hit the TAB key to bring up the player list. To his surprise, no one else was playing on the server anymore. There weren’t even any spectators—which is what you turned into after getting killed. All thirty-one human players had disconnected. It was strange. He closed the player list. Maybe they were shunning him for player killing?

Gragg’s avatar moved around the dark room. He noticed the wall where the sunlight struck it. There, in the center of the sunlight, a texture map of chiseled stone spelled out a cryptic message:

m0wFG3PRCoJVTs7JcgBwsOXb3U7yPxBB

Gragg stared at it for a while. What the hell?

Just then he heard a familiar voice off to his left: “Amerikaner.”

Gragg spun left and emptied his Colt in the direction of the voice. It was Boerner all right, standing behind a latticework grate cut into the wall. His shadowy form was partially hidden by the grate. The bullets didn’t seem to have any effect. Apparently the game engine treated the latticework as a solid object—like a bulletproof confessional.

In a few seconds Gragg’s pistol was empty. As he stood there, his gun still aimed at Boerner, the SS officer took out a lighter and lit a cigarette at the end of a long black filter. The orange glow lit up his hawkish, Aryan face for a moment.

The Oberstleutnant’s dark eyes turned to Gragg’s avatar. “You haf played long. Haf you no job?”

Gragg’s jaded eyes widened in amazement.

Who the hell created this map?

Boerner continued to smoke calmly. On a lark, Gragg hit a hotkey for game taunts. His avatar shouted at Boerner: “I think the Germans are out of real men!”

Boerner frowned. “Stop zat nonsense.”

At his computer, Gragg stood up, kicked his chair back and gripped his head in mute amazement. His eyes quickly returned to the screen.

Boerner took another drag on his cigarette. “Are you a brain-dead punk”—he motioned to the text centered in the sunlight on the wall—“or do you haf useful knowledge, yes? If you do, use your key, and ve vill meet again.” He clenched his teeth on the cigarette filter, smiled darkly, then turned and walked away—laughing his (literally) trademark evil laugh. It echoed in the halls.

Gragg watched him go, then turned to face the writing on the wall again. He hit a key combination for the in-game camera to snap a screen capture.

The moment he did so, he was ejected from the game. The Houston Monte Cassino server never appeared in the public listings again.

Chapter 10:// In the Air

Ross leaned against Sebeck’s unmarked police cruiser. It was parked on the shoulder of Potrero Road. “Do you need directions to Woodland Hills, Sergeant?”

“Just a brief detour.”

“What is this, the first murder scene?”

“Down that dirt road.” Sebeck pointed back at the closed steel gate. He stood in front of the steel winch box. A police warning tag hung from the winch housing.

Sebeck noticed that the steel cable was coiled on the ground beyond the chain-link fence, stretching out of sight downhill. The county probably lowered it to avoid any additional accidents. “Hang on a sec.” Sebeck keyed a handheld radio. “Unit 992, this is D-19, over.” Sebeck looked to Ross again. “We have a patrol unit guarding the murder scene down below.”

A voice crackled over the radio, “Unit 992, over.”

“I’m at your 20. I need to raise this cable. Is the area clear down there? Over.”

“Ten-four. Area clear, D-19. Over.”

“Stand by. Out.”

Sebeck clipped the radio onto his belt under his sports coat. He produced a ziplock bag from his pocket and unrolled it. It contained keys and a remote control. He removed the keys and flipped through them. He used one to unlock the winch housing. He flipped open the door, then searched for the key to the winch. He inserted the key and turned it in the lock.

The winch motor kicked to life, grinding like a powerful can opener. Sebeck leaned around the side of the winch housing to check the progress of the cable. It wasn’t budging.

Ross looked on from his position at the car. “You turning it the right way?”

Sebeck stopped it. He pointed to the arrows next to the lock. “It says ‘In.’ I’m turning it to ‘In.’ This is ‘Out.’”

He cranked it the other way. The winch paid out a small bit of cable before clicking to a stop. “See? That’s ‘Out.’”

Sebeck cranked it the other way again. The motor ran, but it didn’t even retrieve the small amount he had just paid out. The winch mechanism would not engage even though the motor was running. He stopped it and pulled the key out.

“That’s strange. Although, now that I think about it, the handyman said the cable didn’t come out of the ground when he ran the winch.”

Ross looked puzzled. “The cable was in the ground?”

“Yeah. It was buried in the ground, and the handyman got a faked e-mail from the management company to come over and run the winch.”

Ross came up alongside and studied the winch housing. “If running the winch doesn’t do anything, why bother to send a spoofed e-mail to have someone run it?”

“It is strange. The FBI lab will probably take it apart.” Sebeck pulled out a pad and pen. He started writing down brand, model, and serial numbers for the winch. “Any writing on that side?”

Ross shook his head.

In a moment they were done, and Sebeck put his pad away. “I want to take another look at the murder scene while I’m here. It’ll only be a few minutes.” They returned to the cruiser. Before getting back into the car, Sebeck pulled the remote control from the ziplock bag and pointed it at the gate. He clicked it.

The gate squeaked once, then started swinging open. Another, familiar sound came to Sebeck’s ears, and he cocked his head to listen closely. Ross’s hand slapped across his chest, startling him. He glared at Ross, who was pointing. Sebeck followed his finger.

The winch was running, pulling the steel cable taut.

It took the final clang of the gate stopping to rouse them from their stunned silence. The cable was as taut as a piano wire.

Sebeck looked at Ross.

Ross pointed at the remote. “Whose remote is that?”

Sebeck looked down at it. Then nodded appreciatively. “It belonged to Joseph Pavlos. The victim.”

Ross nodded back. “That’s about right. Otherwise, the cable might be discovered too early, and the murder attempt would fail.”

Sebeck pondered it. “But then why send someone out here to run the winch if the key didn’t do anything? Like you said: why fake the work order?”

They both thought about it for a few moments.

Ross turned to Sebeck again. “What was the first thing you did after finding out the handyman ran the winch?”

“We detained him and requested a search warrant for the property management office.”

“And how much time did you spend waiting for the warrant and searching the office?”

Sebeck grimaced. “Long enough for the second victim to die.”

“So maybe it was a distraction to give him time to kill the second programmer.”

“Then the bigger question is: why was it so important to kill these programmers?”

Ross frowned.

Sebeck watched him closely. “What?”

Ross hesitated. “The Egyptian pharaohs slew the workers who built their pyramids—”

“The programmers knew too much.”

“Maybe. Maybe Sobol had some help to code this thing. He was dying of cancer, after all.”

“But why on earth would they help him? Pavlos rode his dirt bike out here all the time. He’d have to notice this was designed to kill him.”

Ross leaned back against the hood of the car. “I’m guessing they didn’t design this part. Sobol probably did that. They probably coded other parts. Maybe parts we haven’t seen yet.”

They stood there a moment in silence, weighing the significance of this.

Ross was the first to break the silence. “It’s interesting that this Singh guy died trying to get into a server farm.”

“Why’s that interesting?”

“Well, a server farm is basically a big data storage vault. Racks and racks of servers.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, if I were a programmer trying to get to a secret cache of data—or to physically stop some machine from running—perhaps I’d head for that server farm.”

Sebeck leaned onto the car hood next to Ross.

“Okay, so Singh, who probably works closely with Pavlos, hears about Pavlos’s death and makes a beeline for the server farm. Sobol anticipated this and kills him when he tries to enter. So you think there’s something in the server farm?”

“Probably not anymore. It sounds like Sobol found whatever Singh put there. So what was Singh working on at CyberStorm? Do you know?”

Sebeck strained to remember the name of Singh’s project. “Singh was lead programmer for a game called…Gate?”

“The Gate?”

“Yeah, The Gate.”

Ross let out a pained groan.

“What now?”

“Do you know the story line for The Gate, Sergeant?”

Sebeck gave Ross a look. Clearly he did not.

“It’s about a cult opening a gate to the Abyss and releasing a demon that lays waste to the world.”

Sebeck just stared at him.

Ross laughed. “I’m talking about Sobol’s game, Sergeant—I don’t believe in demons and devils.”

“Good. You had me worried for a second.”

“The only daemon I’m worried about is the Unix variety. There’s a delicious irony here that I don’t think Sobol would be able to resist. You’d know what I’m talking about if you played his games. Now consider this: The Gate is an MMORPG.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A massively multi-player online role-playing game.”

“And what the hell is that?”

“It’s a persistent 3-D game world experienced simultaneously by tens of thousands of players over the Internet.”

Sebeck pointed at Ross. “Okay, now that sounds bad.”

“In this case it’s very bad.”

“Well, the Feds powered down the whole server farm last night. There’s not a pocket calculator running over at CyberStorm now. So whatever he planned is…”

Ross didn’t look reassured.

Sebeck persisted, “I mean, hell, whoever did this couldn’t put tens of thousands of steel cables and electrocution traps in people’s houses. Failing that, this is basically just another computer virus.”

Ross jerked his thumb. “I need my laptop.” He walked back and pulled his laptop case from the rear seat. He laid it on the trunk and unzipped the top compartment.

Sebeck walked up to him. “What are you doing now?”

Ross had a credit-card-sized device in his hand. He scanned the area with it. “I’m seeing if there’s a Wi-Fi signal in this area.” He looked to Sebeck. “And there is.” He pointed to the meter on the device, which indicated a strong signal.

Sebeck took the device and examined it while Ross started unpacking his laptop. “Okay, so what’s this prove?”

Ross pointed to the gate down the road. “We need some indication that we’re on the right track.”

“And this does that?”

“Well, for starters it confirms that the gate or the winch could be wirelessly hooked in to the Internet.”

“Like the black box over at CyberStorm.”

“Right. It means a living human being didn’t have to be involved in this. The news reports said Joseph Pavlos went riding down here just about every day. That means his gate remote became a murder weapon only after Sobol died.”

Sebeck nodded. “Meaning the Daemon told the gate to kill Pavlos after it read the news of Sobol’s death.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Now we’ll see what I can glean from this wireless network.”

Sebeck leaned over Ross’s shoulder as his laptop booted up. “What are you looking for?”

“The usual: whatever I can find.” Ross logged on to his laptop, shielding his logon from Sebeck. Then he launched NetStumbler and waited for it to initialize. “This is a freeware program that helps me see wireless networks.”

“I’m not computer illiterate, Jon. I have a wireless network at home.”

Ross turned the laptop so the wireless card faced the Wi-Fi signal, and he almost pushed his laptop off the trunk lid. He caught it just in time, held on to it, and continued scanning.

In a moment Ross smiled. “Oh yeah. I picked up an AP.” His face suddenly got serious. He looked up at Sebeck.

Sebeck moved over to him. “What?”

“If there’s one thing I know from playing Sobol’s games, it’s this: time works against you. You need to act fast or you’re dead.”

“Okay, and…?”

Ross turned the laptop around for Sebeck to see.

Sebeck leaned down. The single entry in the NetStumbler window showed text under a column labeled SSID. The text read simply:

DAEMON_63

“I’d say there’s more trouble coming, Sergeant.”

Sebeck pointed. “Get in the car.”

Chapter 11:// The Voice

Anderson was nearing forty minutes on the stair climber. Her work-out music mix drowned out everything except the pain. The sweat and the rage poured from her body.

How could they replace her? She wasn’t old. Not yet.

She kept driving forward.

The Bay Club was pricey and exclusive, filled with high-powered business types and trophy wives. More than once she thought she saw them whispering and pointing. Her professional demise was in the trades. She burned with humiliation.

Without another network-level job, she couldn’t afford this gym, much less her condo. Her credit card balances kept her driving forward, legs burning.

She had saved nothing. She had been projecting an image of success. The reality of her modest roots was something she’d tried to hide even from herself. Her artificial world was coming down around her ears. They’d call it vanity. No one would understand that it was more than that. It was ambition. It was a willingness to risk everything. Wasn’t that admirable?

Anderson’s cell phone lit up and vibrated on the tray in front of her. She stopped and pulled her earbuds out. She steadied her breathing and considered not answering it. It vibrated again.

It could be Melissa with news of a job. She checked the display. The caller’s number was unknown.

Anderson let it ring one more time, then answered it. “This is Anji.”

“Is this…Anji…Anderson?” It was a strangely clipped and measured voice. A woman. British.

“This is she.”

“Was that a yes?”

The sound was odd. It must be an overseas call. “Yes. I’m Anji Anderson. Who is this?”

There was a pause. “I’m calling to let you know about a news story. A story that’s about to happen.”

“I don’t know how you got this number—”

“You just lost your job. I can give you a big news story. Are you interested?”

Anderson just stood there, trying to decide. What was this, some sort of telemarketing scam? Was it another stalker?

“I didn’t hear you say anything. Do you want the information? Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

She tried to imagine what Christiane Amanpour would do. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“‘Okay’ is not ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You must understand before we continue that this is not a person. This is an interactive voice system. It can only understand certain things you say.”

Anderson hung up. Damned telemarketers.

Her phone rang again almost immediately. She let it go to voice mail. Psycho telemarketers. She looked around for someone who might be staring at her. No one seemed to be watching.

Her phone beeped, and the text VOICE MESSAGE appeared on her display. She stared at the text, waiting for the phone to ring again. It did not.

She speed-dialed her voice mail and put the phone to her ear, then pulled it away again and tapped in her voice mail password. Phone to ear once more.

The familiar computer voice said, “You have…one…new message.”

The message played. It was that measured female British voice again. “Anji, watch the news tonight. The biggest news story in the world is about to occur in Thousand Oaks, California. The next time I call, perhaps you’ll listen.”

Anderson saved the message. Should she tell someone? Should she call the police?

What if the voice was telling the truth? She thought about that again: what if it was telling the truth? She considered it some more, then grabbed her water bottle and hurried toward the locker room.

Chapter 12:// Opening the Gate

Sebeck and Ross drove down Potrero Road, past the Arabian horse farms and neo-antebellum mansions set amid the rolling hills. It was warm and sunny now. California oaks shaded the road and clustered densely around wrought iron entrance gates flanked by white split-rail fences and stone walls. Most of the mansions were set back far from the road and hidden behind hills and hedges. The spicy scent of hay perfumed the air.

Ross studied the scenery. “Where are we going, Sergeant?”

“Sobol’s estate. The FBI is there.”

“I thought you were taking me back to my car.”

“I need you to show the FBI exactly what you showed me back there.”

“Look, they know where to find me if they have any questions.”

“That’s just it. I’m afraid they won’t. And I’m not sure that any of their forensics experts have played Sobol’s games before.”

The police dispatcher’s voice came over the radio. Sebeck grabbed the handset. “This is D-19. I’m 10-97 at 1215 Potrero Road. Out.” He looked to Ross. “We’re here.”

Sebeck turned left past two marked patrol cars guarding the open gates of a large estate. He nodded to the deputies standing nearby and rolled past them, heading down the long driveway flanked by lines of mature oaks. In between the trunks they caught glimpses of a fine Mediterranean villa some distance ahead. This wasn’t a modern replica. It looked like an authentic 1920s-era mansion with a cupola and slanting roofs capped in terra cotta tile. The mansion was set back about a thousand feet from the road, nestled in a copse of manzanita trees.

Ross whistled.

Sebeck nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t know there was so much money in computer games.”

“They generate more revenue than all of Hollywood.”

The driveway ended in a wide cobblestone courtyard flanked by a horse stable, a six-car garage, and what looked to be a guesthouse or office. The main house lay straight ahead with landscaped lawns opening the courtyard on either side. Through these openings Sebeck saw sweeping views of the estate grounds.

More than a dozen police vehicles were parked in the courtyard—FBI sedans, county patrol cars, a forensics van, an ambulance, and the bomb squad’s truck with a disposal trailer. But there was room to spare. The courtyard was large.

Sebeck pulled up behind a sedan with white government plates. He and Ross got out.

A couple dozen officers stood near the entrance to the main house. They were listening to Neal Decker addressing them from the steps leading up to the mansion’s heavy wooden door. It was a mix of county and local police, along with federal agents wearing blue windbreakers with the letters FBI stenciled on the back. It was impossible to hear what Decker was saying at this distance.

Nathan Mantz came up to Sebeck as he and Ross took in the scene. “Hey, Pete. You’re just in time.”

“How’d it go at the permit office?”

Mantz shook his head. “No permit pulled for the winch housing. The gate was installed by a big GC named McKenser and Sons. Licensed, bonded, legit. Nothing in the permit applications about a winch. I put a call in to McKenser’s office, and they’re checking their records.”

Mantz looked to Ross. “You’re that computer guy the Feds were holding.” He extended his hand. “Detective Nathan Mantz.”

Ross shook his hand. “Jon Ross. I was cleared, by the way.”

Sebeck kept his eye on the crowd of agents in the distance. “Yeah, it turns out Mr. Ross here is quite an expert—on a few subjects. I brought him out to the canyon scene, and he shed some light on things. I’ve got important information for Decker.” Sebeck pointed to Decker, who was addressing the troops. “What are the Feds up to?”

“They’re preparing to search the house. FBI bomb squad and forensics teams came up from L.A. Decker’s treating this as a hazardous search.”

Ross nodded. “He’s right. It is.”

Mantz gave him a curious look.

Sebeck jerked a thumb at Ross. “He thinks it’s Sobol, not somebody at CyberStorm. Now he’s got me wondering.”

Mantz nodded, impressed. “Really?”

Sebeck tore a page out of his small notepad and handed it to Mantz. “Nathan, do me a favor; here’s the manufacturer and serial number on the winch assembly. When we get back to the station, check with the factory to see if they have a record of the wholesaler they shipped it to. Let’s find out what else was purchased.”

“No problem.” Mantz pocketed the piece of paper.

Sebeck walked toward the gathered officers. Ross and Mantz followed. They passed three FBI agents preparing a tracked bomb disposal robot. Ross took a keen interest, peering over their shoulders as they tested the video cameras with a large remote control.

They were having problems. The operator smacked the handheld controller. “Try channel four. Is the picture any clearer?”

Sebeck tugged Ross along.

Decker was still addressing the troops. “…papers, computers, electrical components, tools. Virtually everything should be considered dangerous until the bomb squad marks a room as clear. If you find a device—”

Decker leaned down as agent Straub said something to him. Decker looked up again at the crowd. “Hang on. Is anyone else having radio problems?”

Most of the officers held up their hands and voiced in the affirmative.

Sebeck noticed a man in his fifties and a woman in her forties standing among the FBI agents. The two civilians looked pensive. Sebeck turned to Mantz.

Mantz responded. “The caretaker and the security guard. Husband and wife. Sobol’s widow lives in Santa Barbara. They separated before his death. Get this: she told them she couldn’t live in the house because she heard voices. They’re tracking her down as we speak. I was hoping she’d be here….” Mantz pulled a folded magazine page out of his jacket pocket. He unfolded it to reveal a photo of a tanned and beautiful blonde wearing a string bikini and stretched out on the wet sand of a tropical beach. “The widow Sobol. Miss New Zealand, 2001.”

Sebeck grabbed the page. “Holy shit.”

Ross leaned in. “Wow.”

Mantz grabbed it back. “Show some respect. She’s in mourning.” He folded it and put it back into his jacket pocket. “Sobol may have died of cancer, but I still envy the bastard.”

Sebeck was already walking toward the crowd of agents and officers. He waded through them, headed directly for Assistant Chief Eichhorn.

“Hey, Chief.” Sebeck stepped aside and gestured toward Ross. “This is Jon Ross—the computer consultant from Alcyone.”

Chief Eichhorn nodded toward Ross. “One of the guys the Feds brought in.”

“They cleared him this morning. I was bringing him back to Woodland Hills, and I stopped by the Pavlos scene to get serial numbers. Mr. Ross detected a wireless device there. He has some pretty mind-blowing theories about how Sobol’s doing all this. I think Decker should talk to this guy.”

“Pete, the FBI brought experts in from L.A. and Washington.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how many of them have spent serious time playing in Sobol’s games. Mr. Ross has.”

“I can’t vet Mr. Ross’s skills—no offense—can you, Pete?”

“Somebody technical should listen to him.”

Suddenly the FBI robot crew leader stepped between them and called up to Decker on the patio. “The robot’s a no-go, Neal. There’s signal interference. This guy probably has spread spectrum radio towers or something inside.”

Decker looked around. “Should we have the city cut power to the house?”

The lead operator conferred with the other two, then looked up to Decker. “The computer forensics team will want to keep the power on—otherwise they might lose computer memory evidence.”

Decker nodded vigorously. “Of course…I knew that.” He spoke softly with agents Straub and Knowles. After a moment he looked up again and announced, “Okay, we go to plan B. The bomb squad goes in with fiber optics. Guerner, get your crew ready.”

Three heavily padded men with high Kevlar collars, bulletproof helmets, and plastic toolboxes moved through the crowd. The officers made way for them.

Decker motioned with both arms. “Let’s move it back behind the vehicles, people!”

The crowd of officers moved back through the parked cars and gathered on the far side. Decker followed them.

Sebeck gave a look to Chief Eichhorn, then approached Decker. “Agent Decker, I’ve got important information from the canyon scene.“

“Let me resolve this first, Sergeant.” Decker tried his radio again and then conferred with the bomb squad.

Sebeck leaned on a nearby car hood and looked to Ross. “If Sobol is behind the murders, we should find some evidence of it here.”

Ross looked around. “Look, the FBI knows where to reach me, Sergeant. I really just want to get back to my hotel and salvage my client list.”

“Not until I get you in front of Decker.”

Agent Andrew Guerner was proud of his team. Rick Limon and Frank Chapman had served with him in the FBI Explosives Unit through four years and scores of bomb calls in the U.S. and abroad—real ones and hoaxes. Among them they had thirty-five years of experience. As a demining expert with the 101st Airborne, Guerner had extensive field experience in demolitions, booby traps, improvised explosive devices, and cell phone detonators. He’d cleared mines from Bosnia to Iraq and spent two years as an explosives instructor at Quantico. His companions had military experience with Special Forces and Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland. It was a top-notch crew.

Decker’s briefing laid out the details of the two earlier killings—and that this Sobol guy was some kind of genius. Guerner clucked his tongue inside his helmet. He’d seen a lot of clever devices in his day. They were all sitting in his lab, defused.

He turned to his partners and nodded. Limon and Chapman nodded back. Far behind them, the gathered officers gave the thumbs-up sign. Guerner started by taking the fiber optic snake out and flipping up his visor. He looked for a gap wide enough to slip it under the mansion’s front door. It was a tight seal. Looked like an authentic Spanish mission door. Too bad.

He motioned to Limon, who leaned forward and drove a hole through it with a battery-powered drill.

Guerner fed the snake through the hole and put his eye to the lens. He turned the snake this way and that, examining every angle of the room beyond the door.

Christ, that’s a nice floor.

Probably Venetian marble. He’d just laid ceramic tile in his downstairs bathroom at home, and he had a greater appreciation of these things now. He examined the twin staircases curving down from a single landing above the foyer. There were three ground-floor doorways, not including the front door. The foyer was probably twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide. The millwork was nicely done. Right down to the baseboards.

He moved back and gave a hand signal to Limon, who stepped forward with a frequency detector.

Limon moved the detector along the doorjamb and the face of the door itself. He watched the LCD readout intently. “This thing’s going nuts.” He pulled it away from the door and just held it there. “It’s still going nuts. I’m getting signals on all frequencies.”

Interesting. For a moment Guerner considered using an explosive sheet to blast an opening through the door, but the antique oak was reinforced with black iron bands and was probably several inches thick. Power saws would also be tricky. Sparks from cutting the iron might set off fire detection systems. “Got the caretaker’s key?”

Chapman leaned forward and placed it in Guerner’s heavily gloved hand. He was surprised by the key’s weight. You could break a window with it. He examined it closely: a straight brass rod with a crystal embedded on its end. Or was that a diamond? He looked at the lock. Custom. The mechanism was most likely attuned to the precise vibrating frequency of the crystal when subjected to an electrical current. Some sophisticated shit.

He looked to his partners. “Window.”

They moved down to the nearest large window. It was off to the right about fifteen feet. Guerner peered through the glass. Beyond lay a living room with a high, beamed ceiling, stucco walls, and a large fireplace. Tall bookshelves lined the walls. A sofa and authentic-looking mission furniture were placed tastefully about the room. He spotted at least two motion sensors in the upper corners near the ceiling. Sprinkler caps dotted the ceiling as well. It made sense, this far from the road. It also meant there was an emergency fire pump or a fire department hookup outside. He didn’t remember seeing that in the blueprints.

He kept looking through the window. “Limon. Are there sprinkler heads shown on the blueprints?”

Guerner heard his partners flipping through the plans.

“Not shown.”

“Damnit. The plans aren’t accurate.” He looked closely at the edges of the window frame. He shined a Maglite into the corners. No visible sensors, but he knew it was alarmed. Decker had ordered Guerner to treat the place as a potential death trap. In light of the electrocution at CyberStorm, Guerner intended to. He considered the front door key again, then led his team back to the front door.

“The caretaker deactivated the alarm and used her front door key just this morning without incident. I say we do the same.” He looked to the other two.

Limon and Chapman nodded.

Limon handed him a short pole with a gripping claw on the end. Guerner took it and fitted the key onto its end. He extended his arm and, using a steady hand, inserted the key into the lock. There was no need to turn it; it emitted a loud click. He let go of the key and used the pole to depress the lever doorknob. He took a deep breath, then nudged it inward. It opened very smoothly for such a large door.

They peered inside. Limon tried to get a frequency reading again, while Chapman pulled an aerosol can from his toolbox. Chapman looked to Guerner, who nodded. Chapman sprayed a smoky mist evenly into the foyer doorway.

All three men scanned the smoke-filled air for laser beams. Nothing.

Guerner gave the hand signal to advance.

He was first through the door, prodding ahead with the pole. He slowly skirted the edge of the foyer and looked around the room. It was gorgeous. His partners followed him inside. Limon slipped a plastic wedge underneath the front door to keep it open.

Guerner checked his radio. “Blue Team Leader, this is Unit B, do you copy? Over.” There was nothing but static.

Limon looked at him. “This whole place is a storm of radio signals.”

Suddenly they heard a noise of movement upstairs. Like someone walking around. Footsteps echoing on hardwood. They looked at each other. Guerner grabbed his radio. “Blue Team Leader, we’ve got someone in here. Do you read?” Still static.

Just then a voice called out clearly from the end of the hallway upstairs. “Who’s there?” The voice echoed in the marble foyer.

Guerner unsnapped his holster cover and raised his visor. “This is the FBI! Show yourself with your hands on your head!”

No reply. But they heard walking again. The footsteps came down the marble stairs to their right, some distance away from them. They could clearly see the staircase, but no one was there. They could hear the sound of a hand sliding down the metal railing.

Instinctively they all drew their pistols.

Limon smacked Guerner in the arm. “Jesus, what are we, idiots? This is a trick.” He still didn’t lower his pistol.

Guerner focused on the staircase. “I know. But it’s a fucking impressive one.”

The footsteps were moving across the floor to them now.

Guerner motioned toward the front door. “Let’s back it up, guys.”

Then, in midair not five feet in front of them, a man’s voice shouted, “You don’t belong here!”

What happened next surprised even the veteran Guerner. The deepest sound he’d ever felt passed over and through him. Then it was quiet, until the mission table near him began to vibrate so violently it started moving across the floor. A crystal vase on top of it shattered.

Suddenly Guerner felt as though someone had grabbed his intestines straight through his Kevlar suit. He didn’t even have time to warn Limon and Chapman before he was doubled over on the marble floor, vomiting. His guts felt like writhing snakes trying to climb out of his body. The agony was intense. His whole being was gripped with a deep and primordial feeling of dread—like a palpable evil had climbed inside him.

Guerner was a man of science and reasoning, but his entire knowledge of the world fled, leaving him alone on the floor weeping in terror. He crawled away through his vomit, listening to insane shrieking. Then he realized the shrieks were coming from him.

Sebeck, Ross, and Mantz stood with the gathered officers in the courtyard. A moment ago they had heard Guerner shout a warning to someone in the house. Chief Eichhorn leaned over to the caretaker to confirm that no one else was in the mansion.

Sebeck’s cell phone twittered. He pulled it from his belt clip. “Sebeck.”

A voice he vaguely recognized said, “Detective Sebeck, I just needed to know where you were.” The connection dissolved in a flurry of static.

Mantz noticed Sebeck’s stunned expression. “Who was it, Pete?”

Sebeck stared at his phone, then looked to Ross. “I’m not certain, but I think that was Matthew Sobol….”

That’s when the shrieking began. They were the most bloodcurdling shrieks Sebeck had ever heard, like a man burning alive. Agents and officers pelted toward the front door. Before they got far, Decker shouted, “Don’t go inside! Stay clear!”

They slowed for a second, but then they saw Limon clawing his way out the open front door on his hands and knees. His Kevlar vest was covered in vomit, and his helmet was off. He was bleeding from the nose, eyes, and ears and groped along as if blind.

Sebeck and some of the others rushed to his aid. Limon was still sixty feet away from them. Eichhorn and Decker shouted for caution, and with all eyes looking forward, no one noticed the middle garage door silently rise behind them.

The first warning they received was the guttural sound of a powerful engine, then screeching tires. Sebeck and the other officers turned to face a full-sized black Hummer roaring out of the garage. It bore down on the nearest of them and crushed a deputy and an FBI agent into the side of an FBI sedan, hitting it so hard the car slid into the police cruiser behind it.

Sebeck stood in a paralysis of incomprehension. He could clearly see that no one was driving the Hummer. It sported six tall whip antennas—still wagging from the impact of the collision—and it had odd-looking sensors bolted to its hood, roof, and fenders.

The Hummer’s engine roared as it backed away from the wrecked car and the bodies tumbled onto the paving stones. The Hummer’s push-bar bumper was barely dented and was covered in blood.

It all happened so fast. Two men had just been killed. Adrenaline flooded into Sebeck’s system.

People ran in every direction, shouting. Sebeck looked back to the door of the mansion to see the other two bomb squad members running out of the house, screaming. One of them stumbled down the front steps and fell into the flower beds, where he went into convulsions.

Deputies and FBI agents drew pistols and fired at the Hummer as it screeched around the edge of the courtyard, building up speed again. Shots cracked in rapid succession, echoing against the side of the house. The familiar, pungent smell of smokeless powder brought Sebeck to his senses, and he pulled his Beretta from its holster. He rammed its slide back, gripped it with both hands, then opened fire. He aimed for the Hummer’s tires.

Sebeck could clearly see bullet impacts on the tires, but they had no effect. The tires were either run-flat or solid rubber. He brought his aim up to the windows—but remembered there was no one to shoot at.

Now the Hummer howled straight back toward them. Deputies and agents fired a few frantic last shots before scrambling from between the parked police vehicles. It crashed into the side of another patrol car, halving the car’s width and driving it back like a battering ram into two more cruisers. Those cars smashed into the patio wall, pinning a couple of officers there. The sheer force and loudness of the crash sent Sebeck running for the nearest high ground—a garden wall.

Screams of pain came to his ears from the pinned officers. He looked back and saw the Hummer seesawing backward as its gears whined. It swung wide and winged a fleeing officer with its fender. The man went rolling across the courtyard. Turning on him, the Hummer screeched forward before he could get up. The deputy went shrieking under its wheels. His body was dragged halfway across the courtyard before it fell loose.

Sebeck screamed in rage and emptied his pistol at the rear of the Hummer while it chased down two agents fleeing toward a garden pond.

An agent with a pump shotgun ran up to it as it passed by. He fired two rounds into it, blasting out its windows and sending pieces of plastic flying. He kept firing as it drove on.

Shouts filled the courtyard now. Nearby, Sebeck saw Decker screaming into his radio, “…do you copy?”

Back at the estate gates, Deputy Karla Gleason stood taking in the sun and watching for the expected arrival of the media. There hadn’t been any radio calls from the mansion—which was odd—but she stood next to her patrol car, attentive and wondering what the mansion would fetch on the real estate market.

Across the driveway, Deputy Gil Trevetti stood next to his cruiser, waving a curious passenger car on by. That’s when the crackling of gunfire reached Gleason’s ears. She and Trevetti exchanged looks, then ran for the fence line.

Everything looked normal. The mansion was partially masked by trees, so none of the police vehicles were visible from here. But now the gunfire crackled like firecrackers. It was an unbelievable amount of sustained shooting. Maybe it was fireworks.

Gleason pressed the button on her shoulder radio. “Unit 920 to any available Blue Team member: 10-73?”

No response.

“Repeat. Unit 920 to any available Blue Team member: 10-73?”

A distant truck engine raced, then a crash.

“What the hell’s going on, Gil?”

The unmistakable boom of a shotgun reached them over the grounds. Five shots in five seconds. Gleason shot skeet. She knew that sound well. She pressed the button on her shoulder radio. “920 to Control, multiple 10-57 at 1215 Potrero Road. Repeat, multiple, multiple 10-57. Code 30. Radio contact lost with Blue Team.”

The courtyard was chaos as the Hummer roared back in from the garden and smashed headlong into the ambulance, sending glass and metal debris flying. It surged ahead, pushing the ambulance sideways at the mouth of the driveway—blocking the exit.

The entire time, officers laid down sustained gunfire on it, pocking its body with bullet holes. The bullets didn’t appear to have much effect, even though some of the Hummer’s sensors now dangled loose on wires.

It slalomed across the courtyard, finally locking in on an agent firing at it from the garage. The man stopped shooting and ran for cover through the doorway.

The Hummer plowed through the entire wall after him and emerged on the far side, leaving shards of two-by-fours and shattered walls toppling in its wake.

Sebeck fired the last of his third clip into its rump as it roared back out into the garden. He added his own voice to the shouting and the cries of the injured. “Nathan!”

“Here, Pete!” Nathan came running across the courtyard with a shotgun and a box of shells in his hand. Several car trunks were wrenched open in the wreckage, and the officers raided them for heavier weapons.

Sebeck pointed to the bomb squad truck. “Stay with Mr. Ross, and make sure he gets out of here. He has information the FBI needs.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll help with the wounded. Move!”

Nathan gave him one last look, then raced off toward the bomb squad van. Sebeck dodged between damaged police vehicles and almost slipped on blood as he raced across the cobblestones. A severed arm lay next to a crumpled bumper. His mind had trouble wrapping itself around the sights and smells. Officers were trying to get a bleeding FBI agent out from under a smashed sedan before the Hummer returned. The wounded man screamed in agony and fear.

Nearby, Sebeck saw Aaron Larson attended to by an FBI agent and another deputy. Larson looked to be in tremendous pain. He was standing up, sandwiched between two damaged patrol cars.

Sebeck turned and called across the courtyard. “Get that truck over here! We need to pull these cars apart!” He holstered his pistol and ran to help. Shouted commands echoed from every corner of the courtyard.

“I can’t get anybody on the radio!”

“Cell phones don’t work either!”

“It’s coming back in!”

Decker climbed across the crumpled hood of his sedan. “Get the wounded into the vans! Fall back to the road!”

Sebeck was sprinting across the middle of the courtyard when the Hummer roared in behind him through an opening between the house and garage, sending debris flying.

“Pete, look out!” Gunfire erupted almost immediately. A bullet whined past Sebeck’s head. He ducked, then turned to see the Hummer bearing down on him. It was almost on him already. He felt the bass rumble of its engine in his chest, the black grill racing straight toward him.

Then it shuddered violently to a stop on the cobblestones just a foot away. Sebeck stood motionless—heart pounding—before the massive steel grill. His eyes focused on the Hummer’s front vanity plate: AUTOM8D. It was smeared with blood. The plate suddenly began to recede as the Hummer shifted into reverse and backed away from him. The Hummer then roared forward again, passing Sebeck wide on the left and accelerating toward the FBI agent and deputy helping Aaron Larson. They scattered as Larson screamed.

The crash scattered the cars across the courtyard, sending Larson’s body hurtling like a rag doll.

Sebeck stood motionless, in a state of shock in the middle of the courtyard. Amid all the screams and shouts, gunshots, and the roaring engine of the Hummer. He was still alive, and he didn’t know why.

Then the familiar sound of racing V8 engines came to Sebeck’s ears. Two Ventura County police cruisers hurtled down the driveway from the front gate, rack lights flashing. They screeched to a stop next to the ambulance blocking the driveway. A male deputy jumped out of one and raced to retrieve Larson’s body, while a female deputy leaned out the passenger side of the other car and opened fire on the Hummer with a shotgun.

Sebeck was dimly aware of someone pulling on his arms. “Pete!” He turned to see Deputy Gil Trevetti. “Larson’s dead! We need to pull back!” Trevetti tugged Sebeck toward a nearby patrol car. A rumble came to his ears and Sebeck turned to see the FBI’s bomb squad truck with deputies and agents hanging off its armored bomb disposal trailer accelerating across the littered courtyard. Mantz leaned out off the trailer and jabbed a finger at Sebeck, then toward the exit. The bomb truck crashed through a nearby rose garden and headed out across the estate lawn.

Sebeck snapped back to reality and turned to Trevetti. “Okay. Got it.” They jumped into the patrol car while the black Hummer raced to intercept the bomb squad truck in the distance.

From the front seat of the bomb squad truck, Ross saw the Hummer racing toward them like a torpedo—leaving twin ruts in the soft grass.

“It’s going to ram us!” the agent driving shouted. “I can’t maneuver on this grass.”

Ross faced him. “Turn toward it. Head-on!”

The driver gave him a look.

“It will avoid a head-on collision with a larger object.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because Sobol’s probably using his game physics engine.” On the driver’s blank look, he shouted, “Ram the Hummer, goddamnit!”

The driver looked into Ross’s intense eyes. There was no doubting his confidence. The driver spun the wheel to aim head-on at the advancing Hummer.

Agents and deputies hanging on to the bomb squad truck shouted at the driver. The Hummer accelerated straight toward their front grill—then it swerved aside at the last second, winging their front right fender with its rear quarter panel.

A cheer went up in the truck. The driver accelerated straight toward the estate fence line. He glanced toward Ross. “How the hell did you know that?”

Ross pointed and shouted. “Slow down!”

The estate fence was wrought iron with a masonry base. They crashed through it going at least thirty, nosed down onto Potrero Road, and slammed into the ditch on the far side. Ross held his hands up and smashed against the windshield with the other two deputies sitting up front. They shattered it with their weight, then slammed back against the seat as the truck came to a complete stop.

There were groans of pain from the wounded and the newly wounded. Someone shouted, “What the fuck are you trying to do, get us all killed?”

Ross shook his head clear and could now hear approaching sirens. Lots of them. He looked at his hands. They were only slightly cut. He followed the deputies out of the truck.

They raced around the overturned bomb squad trailer to the estate side of the road. They could see the Hummer still on the other side of the fence. It wasn’t following them, but was instead charging around the lawn like a raging bull, spinning and tearing up the turf.

The officers opened fire on it again, emptying shotguns, pistols, and an M-16 rifle while shouting obscenities. The Hummer raced off toward the mansion.

Ross covered his ears against the noise and looked up the road to see approaching emergency vehicles.

It had begun. He knew there was no hope of containing the Daemon now. And guns were useless against it.

Chapter 13:// Demo

Anderson’s North Beach condo had twelve-foot pressed-tin ceilings, original wood floors, full-height windows with a fabulous view of the windows across the street, and enough Victorian charm to draw grudging praise from the snottiest folks she knew. It had taken her years to decorate, and she never tired of appreciating the style it reflected upon her. Even though she could no longer afford it.

But her eyes were riveted right now to the plasma screen television hanging within a Victorian picture frame on her living room wall. There was breaking news from Thousand Oaks, California—just as The Voice had promised.

She sat numb with fear and excitement all at once, soaking up the images on the screen.

In the absence of facts, a local reporter was breathlessly transforming hearsay into news under the harsh lights of a live remote: “Thanks, Sandy. Sources describe a scene of total carnage and devastation on the estate. The area has been cordoned off, with FBI tactical units brought in. Once again, a robotic killing machine is roaming the estate grounds, unleashed by a recently deceased madman. That madman: Matthew Sobol.“

Anderson’s cell phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of her. She looked at it and recoiled in terror. The phone vibrated again, moving slightly across the tabletop.

Christiane Amanpour would answer it.

Anderson timidly picked up the phone and pressed the SEND button—not saying anything, just listening.

A man’s voice came over the line. “Do you know who I am? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

She watched the video footage of injured policemen being loaded into ambulances. “Yes.”

“Clearly speak my name.”

“Matthew…Sobol.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, “If you contact the authorities, I will know, and you will lose the exclusive on this story.”

Anderson’s hands were trembling as the voice continued.

“I am analyzing your verbal responses with voice stress analysis software—I can tell if you lie to me. Answer truthfully or our relationship is over. Remember: I have extended my will beyond physical death. I will never be gone from this earth. Do not make an enemy of me.”

Anderson dared not even breathe. She wasn’t a religious person—but she felt as if an evil force was on the other end of the line. An immortal being.

“Do you still want to be a journalist? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson swallowed hard and took a breath. She used her best broadcasting voice. “Yes.” Anderson’s heart raced.

There was a pause.

“Do you want access to exclusive information on this story? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’…”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Do you agree to keep our relationship secret from everyone—with no exceptions? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Are you prepared to follow my instructions in exchange for success and power? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson caught her breath. This was the proverbial Rubicon. If she crossed it, there was likely no turning back. Years from now she would remember this moment with either regret or relief—but she knew she would never forget it.

The Voice insisted, “Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson’s mind raced. She couldn’t let it go now. It was a machine—it wouldn’t judge her. Worse, she would never know the whole story if she declined. Didn’t a real journalist pursue the story no matter what? Wasn’t that admirable?

“Yes.”

Yet another pause.

“Do you believe in God? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson was taken aback. She hesitated, not sure whether she did or not. Then, “No?”

A pause.

She half expected a lightning bolt to smite her.

Suddenly the British-sounding female voice cut in, speaking with its clipped, synthetic efficiency.

“Your user ID is…J-92. Remember your ID…J-92. It is your identity. You have been assigned a role. If you deviate from this role—for any reason—you will be removed from the system. Follow all instructions, and the system will protect and reward you.”

Anderson was trying to gather her thoughts to say something, but then she realized there was no one to say anything to. She had cashed in her morals at a vending machine.

The Voice continued like the unstoppable force it was. “An airline ticket is waiting under your human name at the…Southwest Airlines…ticket counter at…Oakland International…Airport. Proceed to this location within the next…four…hours. If you speak to anyone else regarding this matter, you will be killed.”

The line went dead.

Anderson stifled a scream of terror. What had she done?

She looked up to see video footage of body bags being lifted into a coroner’s van on the evening news—mute testimony to the truth of the threat.

Chapter 14:// Meme Payload

Sebeck knelt on the ground next to a black body bag. He stared emptily at the fading sunlight reflected on the black vinyl.

Ross watched from some distance away, leaning against the side of an ambulance. Five more body bags were lined up nearby. FBI agents consoled each other. There were tears on many faces.

Sebeck took a deep breath and finally stood. He turned toward Ross with a smoldering rage. “Jon!”

Ross followed as Sebeck strode through the tarpaulin walls of the makeshift morgue and into a crowd of FBI agents, local police, county tactical teams, paramedics, reporters, and technicians laying siege to Sobol’s estate. Literally hundreds of people ringed the place. City workers were setting up construction lights to illuminate the staging area as the sun began to set. The road was closed to civilian traffic, and something resembling a heavily armed county fair stretched along its length. Police from three neighboring jurisdictions were on hand.

Nearby homes had been evacuated. The Feds were in the process of quarantining the Daemon; power and phone people were cutting service to Sobol’s property. Sebeck could see their hydraulic lifts clustered around utility poles a considerable distance from the estate. He guessed power was being killed to the entire neighborhood, and diesel generators added to the general din.

Sebeck kept moving, tugging Ross through the crowd, alternately surging ahead, then turning back to face him.

“It can’t be a machine. There’s a living person behind this.”

Ross didn’t respond.

“Someone was controlling that Hummer.”

Ross looked grim. “My condolences on Deputy Larson.”

Sebeck glared at him. “Don’t you tell me that was software.”

“It could be done—using the same AI engine that controls characters in a computer game. We were the objective. We’re just infrared heat sources.”

Sebeck shook his head. “Bullshit.”

“Any word on Detective Mantz? He was hanging on to the trailer last time I saw him.”

“Broken leg and a couple of broken ribs. Someone is going to pay for this.”

“Sobol is dead, Pete.”

“I don’t care. Someone is going to pay.”

“I know you’re upset.” Ross gestured to encompass the scene. “Where are we going?”

“To find Agent Decker. He needs to hear your theory about how Sobol’s doing this. Maybe they can use the information to contain this thing.”

“Sergeant, the Daemon probably spread to the four corners of the world in minutes. It’s too late for containment. What you have to do is understand what it’s trying to accomplish and prevent it from accomplishing it.”

“It’s trying to kill people—wake up.”

Ross spoke calmly. “Pete, think about it: If all it wanted to do was kill people, why did it phone you to find out if you were present? Why didn’t it kill you in the courtyard when it had the chance? We all saw that Hummer stop and turn away from you. The Daemon has plans for you, and I’m sure it has plans for others as well.”

Sebeck fumed for a bit, but then what Ross said began to sink in. “We’ve got to find Decker.” Sebeck pointed at the county sheriff’s mobile command trailer a couple hundred yards away. “That’s probably where he’ll be.” He started walking toward it.

Ross grabbed Sebeck’s sleeve.

“What?”

“Why are police massing around the estate?”

Sebeck gave Ross a quizzical look. “What do you suggest they do?”

“The house is not important, Pete. It won’t contain any useful information.”

“The hell it won’t.”

“Let’s not replay this map. We’re wasting time.”

Sebeck raised his eyebrows. “So you think this is that much of a game to Sobol?”

“I think life was a game to Sobol.”

Sebeck sighed, truly lost. “Why would Sobol issue a press release forbidding the Feds from entering the property if there wasn’t anything important inside?”

“Will the Feds defy the demand?”

“I would. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?”

Ross pointed. “That’s why Sobol did it.”

“You think he’s just pushing the FBI’s buttons?”

“More than that. He publicly drew a line in the sand against authority. They’ll have little choice but to cross it, and people will die. He’s manipulating them—to keep public attention focused on this location.”

“But why? If Sobol killed the two programmers to protect the secrets of the Daemon’s design, then what’s the purpose behind the Hummer? Isn’t it also to protect the Daemon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why in the hell would he go through so much trouble?”

Ross thought for a moment, then looked back up at Sebeck. “What do you think will be the number one news story in the world tonight?”

Sebeck didn’t hesitate. “This.”

“Right. And that’s what we have to worry about: what is the Daemon about to do that requires the attention of the whole world?”

Sebeck glared at him again. “Oh, come on, Jon. My head hurts just from talking to you.”

“This didn’t happen by accident. Manipulation was Sobol’s specialty. These physical killings were to attract publicity. He’s issuing press releases.”

“Look, I know you feel you’re a Sobol expert, but what I need is a technology expert.”

“You’ll need both.”

“You’re biased, Jon.”

“Biased? How am I biased?”

“You’re too big a fan of this guy. Listen to yourself; you make Sobol out to be twenty feet tall.”

“Pete—”

“Sobol had brain cancer. You should see how thick his medical file is. Did it ever occur to you that he was just fucking crazy?”

“Does that make him less or more dangerous? I’m telling you, it doesn’t end here at his house. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you suggest we just let the Hummer prowl the neighborhood?”

“No, I’m saying the main investigation should branch off and try to discover Sobol’s master plan. We’re wasting time here. The master plan is everything.”

Sebeck pointed toward the sheriff’s mobile command center. “C’mon. Tell your theory to the Feds.”

In the mobile command trailer, Agent Decker sat motionless while a paramedic prepared a bandage for his recently stitched head wound. Decker was docile—perhaps sedated. Next to him stood another agent—taller, leaner, younger, and with an air of self-confidence. This was Steven Trear, the special agent in charge of the Los Angeles Division of the FBI, and he was carefully considering the expectant face of Peter Sebeck.

“Are you sure it was Sobol?”

Sebeck nodded. “I think it was the same voice from the computer video this morning, and in any event it phoned me just before the attack.”

Ross piped in. “And no other radio or cell phone traffic worked on the estate.”

Trear considered this, calculating the impact of this information on the case. He looked more serious the more he thought about it. He shot a glance at Decker. “We cut off electrical power to the house, right?”

Decker nodded slowly. “Yes, but the acoustic team says there’s a motor running in an outbuilding. Probably a generator.”

“Damn. We’ve got to take that house as soon as possible.”

Ross stepped past Sebeck and right up to Trear. “You’re not thinking of defying the Daemon’s demands, are you?”

“Defying?” He pointed at Ross but looked at Decker. “Who does he belong to?”

Decker was gingerly touching his bandaged head. “That’s Jon Ross. The consultant we brought in for questioning from Alcyone Insurance.”

Sebeck added, “He discovered the Daemon.”

“No, I didn’t.” Ross turned to Trear. “Look, just don’t storm the estate.”

“Sobol’s not in charge, Mr. Ross. He can make all the demands he wants. It won’t affect my plans in the least.”

“Agent Trear, I think this is another trap.”

Trear rolled his eyes. “No kidding. The whole house is a trap.” He looked to Sebeck. “Detective, please escort Mr. Ross out.”

Ross persisted. “I just don’t think the house contains critical information. It wouldn’t make sense—from a technological standpoint—for Sobol to store his plans there.”

“No one’s accusing Sobol of making sense, Mr. Ross.”

“I think this event was designed to announce the Daemon’s arrival to the world, and to set the stage for something to come. It’s finished here.”

Trear digested that for a moment. “And what makes you think this?”

“Because that’s the way Sobol thinks.”

“How would you know that? You’re not a psychologist.”

“I’ve played Sobol’s games. A lot. His AI succeeds because it doesn’t anticipate you—it manipulates you.”

Trear didn’t dismiss it immediately.

Nearby, Agent Straub glanced at his watch. “The press briefing was scheduled to start four minutes ago, sir.”

Trear looked to Ross again. “Why should I take you seriously, Mr. Ross? You’re a wandering computer consultant who doesn’t even keep a permanent address—and you play video games. Does that qualify you to deconstruct the motivations of Matthew Sobol?”

Ross couldn’t think of an immediate response. Put that way, it sounded bad even to him.

Trear continued. “I appreciate that you want to help. But what you see here is not our entire investigation. Sobol was under psychiatric care for nearly a year before his death. As we speak, I have criminal psychologists conferring with his doctors and reviewing thousands of pages of medical notes—all to build a profile of Sobol’s changing motivations as his illness progressed. His goals. His fears. We’ve used this approach with great success in countless cases—and usually with far less raw data to work with. So I think we know a lot more about Sobol’s motivations than you.”

He waited for his words to sink in. “This is a serious situation. Six good men died today—leaving behind wives and children. These were people Detective Sebeck, Agent Decker, and I knew. Others were maimed and injured. This isn’t a game. If we guess wrong, many more people could die—and not just here.”

Sebeck spoke up. “Agent Trear, I’ve seen Jon work. He helped me understand how Sobol killed Pavlos at the canyon scene, and he shut down the Daemon over at Alcyone Insurance when it first appeared. If it wasn’t for him, this situation might be even worse. I think somebody technical should listen to what Jon has to say.”

Trear nodded appreciatively.

Agent Straub cleared his throat. “Sir, if we want to make the evening news window, we’ve got to hold a press conference.”

Trear looked at him. “Straub, this scene is being covered 24/7 by every news channel on the planet. Don’t worry about the news window.” Trear turned away and pulled a pen from his suit jacket. He started scribbling on a memo pad on a nearby conference table. “Look…” He tore the page off and handed it to Sebeck. “Bring Mr. Ross down to CyberStorm’s corporate headquarters and ask for Agent Andrew Corland. He’s head of the FBI Cyber Division. They’re examining the CyberStorm corporate network and interviewing staff.”

Trear turned to Agent Decker. “We did a background check on Mr. Ross yesterday?”

Decker nodded. “Preliminary came up clean—except for the address.”

Ross leaned in. “I explained that.”

Trear silenced him with an upheld hand. “If you can convince Corland that you know something useful, I’ll be willing to listen to your theories. Failing that, I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

Sebeck folded and pocketed the slip of paper. “Fair enough. Thanks, Agent Trear. Agent Decker. C’mon, Jon.”

Ross resisted. “But you do believe this is a diversion?”

“Have Agent Corland call me, Mr. Ross.” Trear looked to Sebeck. “Sergeant, I know it’s a difficult time, but I need written reports from you as soon as possible. I want your account of the attack, the cell phone call, and I want those findings from the canyon scene.”

Sebeck nodded. He turned and pulled Ross out the trailer door and into the fading sunlight. Once outside, Sebeck and Ross squeezed past the gathering press corps and headed toward the estate fence line.

Ross pulled himself free. “I never even wanted to be involved in this mess in the first place.”

“Jon, you’ve got an unusual skill set. And we need your help. Larson was engaged to be married. He was barely twenty-five. How many more people like him are going to die?”

“The Feds are wasting their time. They won’t find anything on the CyberStorm network.”

Sebeck grabbed Ross’s arm again. “Look, I’m getting tired of hearing what we won’t find. Tell me where we can find something.”

“Sobol had the whole damned Internet to hide his plan. That’s what I would have done.”

“Don’t even go there.”

“It’s that type of thinking that’s going to limit us. We must put ourselves in his frame of mind.”

“Fuck his frame of mind.”

Ross met Sebeck’s stare for a moment or two, then looked away. “Sorry. I guess that is annoying. If someone could just get me back to my car, I’d like to get some rest.”

Sebeck’s stare softened. “I forgot the Feds grilled you all last night. I’ll take you back. No detours this time.”

They turned and faced a barrier of concrete highway dividers ringing Sobol’s estate. CALDOT crews had placed them over the last several hours. Both men looked into the distance. Beyond the estate fence, a quarter mile away, the black Hummer sat motionless in the center of the sweeping lawn amid crisscrossing tire tracks. Its whip antennae stood straight up, like the spines on some deadly insect.

A few deputy sheriffs were placed here and there along the road, sitting inside rugged-looking Forest Service crew trucks, engines idling. Sebeck guessed they were there to win a demolition derby should the Hummer make a break for it.

Sebeck turned to Ross. “You really think this is just the beginning, don’t you?”

Ross scanned the terrain. “I don’t know what I think anymore. Maybe Trear’s right.”

Sebeck took one last venomous look at the Hummer. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to your car.”

Chapter 15:// Countermeasures

Crypto City. That was what they called National Security Agency headquarters. Each day thousands of agency personnel took an unmarked highway exit in Fort Meade, Maryland, into a sprawling business park of mid-rise office buildings surrounded by concentric rings of barbed wire fencing and a yawning desert of parking spaces. The mirrored windows of the buildings were fakes. Behind them sheets of copper and electromagnetic shielding prevented any electrical signals from escaping the premises.

The agency was a vast communications drift net, catching hundreds of millions of electrical and radio transmissions worldwide every hour and sifting through them with some of the most powerful supercomputers on the planet. From its very beginning—back in the days of the fabled Black Chamber after World War II—the agency was responsible for creating the cryptologic ciphers relied upon to safeguard America’s secrets and for cracking the ciphers of foreign powers.

A culture of secrecy dating back to the Cold War permeated the place. Posters seemingly from a bygone era hung in the common spaces, extolling the virtues of keeping secrets—even from other top-secret researchers. However, with the explosion of technology throughout the nineties, even the NSA was no longer able to keep up with the worldwide flow of digital information, and they were forced to let the rumors of their omniscience hide a brutal reality: no one knew where the next threat was coming from. Nation states were no longer the enemy. The enemy had become a catchall phrase: bad actors.

In a corner boardroom of the OPS-2B building, a group of agency directors convened an emergency meeting. No introductions were necessary. They had already worked together closely in the War on Terror and the War on Drugs, and they stood ready to combat any other noun that caused trouble. Senior intelligence and research officers from a periodic table of agencies were in attendance: NSA, CIA, DIA, DARPA, and the FBI. The talk was fast and urgent.

NSA: “So, what is it, a virus? An Internet worm?”

DARPA: “No, something new. Some sort of distributed scripting engine that responds to real-world events. It’s almost certainly capable of further propagation.”

NSA: “Can we write a bot to scour the Net and delete it?”

DARPA: “Not likely.”

NSA: “Why not?”

DARPA: “Because it doesn’t appear to have a single profile. Our best guess is that it consists of hundreds or even thousands of individual components spread over compromised workstations linked to the Net. Once a component is used, it’s probably no longer needed.”

NSA: “Then there’s an end to it? I mean, Sobol’s dead, so it will stop once it runs its course.”

DARPA: “True, but there’s obvious concern over the damage it might cause in the meantime. It’s already killed eight people.”

NSA: “Can’t we block its communications? Surely the components have to communicate with each other?”

DARPA: “No. They don’t. We believe the components are triggered not by each other, but by reading news stories. For example, one component just issued this press release”—he passed a printed page—“only after the siege story hit the wire services. The release is digitally signed. Sobol wants us to know it was his. We already tracked down the origin of the press release; it was e-mailed from a poorly secured computer in a St. Louis accounting firm. The program destroyed itself after it ran, but we were able to recover it from a tape backup. It was a simple HTML reader searching hundreds of Web sites for headlines about this estate siege.”

CIA: “Jesus. So we can’t stop this thing? What’s it up to?”

DARPA: “Its proximate purpose appears to be self-preservation. Its ultimate purpose is unclear. It acts like a distributed AI agent—which would make sense if Matthew Sobol designed it.”

CIA: “Artificial intelligence? You’re not serious?”

DARPA: “Let me be clear: this is not a thinking, talking, sentient machine. This is narrow AI—like a character in a computer game. It’s a collection of specific rules searching for recognizable patterns or events. Very basic. Nonetheless, very potent. It can alter course based on what’s occurring in the real world, but it can’t innovate or deviate from its given parameters. It required an incredible amount of planning. The name the press gave it is apt: it’s basically a daemon. A distributed daemon.”

CIA: “This is horseshit. There must be living people controlling it—cyber terrorists. I mean, how could Sobol know in advance exactly how we’re going to react?”

DARPA: “He didn’t have to. He could plan for multiple contingencies and then observe what actually occurs. Thus its monitoring of Internet news.”

FBI: “Just shut down the Internet.”

The others gave him a patronizing look.

FBI: “You guys built the damned thing. Why can’t you turn it off?”

NSA: “Let’s stick to reasonable suggestions, shall we?”

FBI: “I don’t mean for a long time—just for a second.”

DARPA: “The Internet is not a single system. It consists of hundreds of millions of individual computer systems linked with a common protocol. No one controls it entirely. It can’t be ‘shut down.’ And even if you could shut it down, the Daemon would just come back when you turned it back on.”

The director cut him off.

NSA: “Look, let’s not hold a remedial class on distributed networks. Let’s get back to the big question: do we defy Sobol’s demand? What can he do if we enter the estate prior to thirty days?”

CIA: “We must enter the estate—you know that.”

NSA: “Of course I do. But before I make my report to the Advisory Council, I need to know the potential consequences of defying this thing.”

Everyone looked to the scientist.

DARPA: “Based on the deaths yesterday, I’d say there will be more fatalities.”

CIA: “But nothing on a grander scale? No economic damage? No political ramifications?”

DARPA: “It’s impossible to say. We’ll only know when we defy it.”

NSA: “What about jamming the radio signals to the Hummer?”

DARPA opened a folder and flipped through it while he talked.

DARPA: “The Hummer isn’t the problem. The problem is the ultrawideband signals emanating from the house.” He distributed handouts.

NSA: “Ultrawideband? Refresh me on that.”

DARPA: “Ultrawideband involves extremely short pulses of radio energy—just billionths or trillionths of a second. By their nature ultrashort radio pulses occupy a wide swath of the frequency spectrum, covering several gigahertz in range.”

NSA: “Bottom-line it for us.”

DARPA: “Okay. This explains the high amount of radio interference around the estate. Normally, ultrawideband transceivers wouldn’t be made powerful for that very reason, but Sobol’s got a big one in place—and I don’t think he’s worried about violating FCC rules. It’s screwing up our radio communications, and it will be hard as hell to jam.”

CIA: “This is commercial technology? What good is something like that?”

DARPA, warming up to his topic: “It can be used as a super-accurate local GPS system—and I mean accurate down to a centimeter scale. Because of the wide swath of frequencies in use, some portion of the signal’s going to get through even brick walls and radio jamming. With a computer map of the property and a transponder mounted in the Hummer, it would be possible to know exactly where the vehicle was at all times. He could relay infrared or other targeting information to the Hummer from a central computer, and he could protect the central computer from direct attack.”

CIA: “You’re sure he’s using this ultrawideband?”

DARPA: “We’ve got CSC techs on the scene gathering COMINT and SIGINT.”

FBI: “Was it ultrawideband that took out the bomb disposal team?”

DARPA: “No.” He passed out more folders. “Fortunately the disposal team survived, and one of our researchers was able to interview Agent Guerner at County USC. His account leads our scientists to conclude that Sobol used some form of acoustical weaponry.”

CIA: “Jesus Christ, why didn’t we recruit this guy?”

NSA: “We tried to.”

FBI: “Acoustical weaponry?”

DARPA: “Yes. Extremely low-frequency sound waves have been researched for use as nonlethal weapons. They’re intended for quelling riots.”

NSA, reading report: “Some nonlethal weapon. The capillaries in their eyes burst.”

DARPA: “The low-frequency sound vibrates the victim’s intestines, creating a feeling of deep unease and panic, difficulty breathing—and in stronger applications damaging delicate blood vessels. This matches Guerner’s account and his injuries. Bear in mind, much of this technology isn’t classified. With a good amount of money, a technical expert like Sobol could theoretically reproduce it—especially if he didn’t intend to profit from it.”

The attendees were duly sobered.

NSA: “How do we keep the Daemon from knowing we’ve entered the estate?”

FBI: “Can’t we simply impose a news blackout? To stop it from reading the news?”

DIA: “Domestically? All hell would break loose.”

FBI: “Not a total news blackout—just redaction of news about the Daemon. A gag order. Use our ties to the Web search companies. Or just decree it in the name of national security.”

CIA: “Why not take out a full-page ad asking the public to panic?”

DARPA: “Look, you’re ignoring the fact that at least one component of the Daemon is in Sobol’s house. It doesn’t need to read the headlines to find out we’re breaking in.”

Everyone grew quiet again.

DIA: “They’ve cut power to the house, right?”

It was FBI’s turn to roll his eyes.

DARPA: “It probably has backup power systems.”

FBI, examining his own report: “Ground-penetrating radar shows nothing unusual on the estate grounds. No secret power lines or tunnels. The L.A. Division got ahold of the networking company that installed Sobol’s server room. He’s got about twelve hours of backup battery power. The city permit office plans also show a backup diesel generator with three-hundred-gallon fuel capacity.”

CIA: “How long could that last?”

NSA: “The political pressure will be intense. I’m guessing we can’t wait even a couple of days.”

FBI: “It’s being taken care of, gentlemen.”

DARPA: “Frankly, we’re more concerned about the Daemon components on the Internet than the components in the house.”

CIA: “Can’t you focus Carnivore on this thing?”

NSA: “That quickly turns into a discussion of USSID-18. We all know what a shitstorm that kicked up.”

CIA: “That’s ridiculous. This isn’t a domestic surveillance issue. Sobol’s dead. He’s no longer a U.S. citizen.”

DIA: “I’ll bet the ACLU would have an opinion on that.”

FBI: “Just purchase consumer data from the private sector. It’s easier.”

DARPA: “Once again, gentlemen, reality intrudes. Our standard surveillance methods won’t work. The Daemon issues press releases or reads the news. One is highly public; the other is a passive activity. There are no recurrent IP addresses or search words in e-mails to monitor. Carnivore won’t help you. Neither will purchasing patterns.”

The room grew quiet again.

NSA: “Then we’re agreed that we need to defy the Daemon’s demand as soon as power can be brought down on the estate?”

They all nodded.

NSA: “Good. We’ll know more once we capture Sobol’s server room.” He looked to FBI. “Make that happen, and we’ll see what this thing has up its sleeve.”

Marine Captain Terence Lawne waited in a prone position on a shipping blanket laid across the roof of the County’s SWAT van. This gave him a vantage point over the estate fence line and deep into Sobol’s property. Lawne’s right eye pressed against the rubberized viewfinder on the infrared scope of his M82A1A .50-caliber anti-materiel rifle. He panned the property, swiveling the monster gun on its bipod until he located Sobol’s Hummer. He focused the crosshairs on it. The Hummer’s engine had been off for a while, but there was still a good heat signature. “I got it.”

Major Karl Devon shifted position next to him to get a good look with his FLIR scope. The sheet metal roof of the SWAT van thumped and moved as he did so.

“Major, watch the movement. This thing’s four hundred and fifty yards downrange.”

He kept looking. “How’s your angle?”

Lawne settled in again, getting his breathing under control. “It’s a clear shot.” He pulled on his hearing protection.

Devon looked down toward the nearby road at the gathered crowd of police, FBI, reporters, and technicians. It was a veritable army standing in the darkness below. The construction lights had been extinguished to facilitate Lawne’s work.

Devon shouted, “Cover your ears, people!” Devon pulled on his own ear protection and looked back to Lawne. “Fire when ready, Captain.”

Captain Lawne got the Hummer back in his crosshairs. He focused on his breathing, and felt the calm flow over him. He slowly squeezed the trigger.

The big gun boomed and kicked back into his shoulder. He brought his eye back up to the infrared scope for damage assessment. Hot liquid streamed out of the bottom of the Hummer’s engine compartment. Heat suddenly spread throughout the engine, and Lawne heard the distant sound of a diesel engine coming to life. The Hummer started to move—albeit slowly.

“It’s on the move!” He kept his eye to the scope and aimed again. The gun boomed and recoiled. Lawne saw the Hummer jerk to a stop. He had nailed it straight through the engine block. The armor-piercing round struck a mortal blow. Powerful heat was spreading now. Lawne looked up from the viewfinder. He could see orange flames downrange. He pulled off his hearing protectors. “Sorry, Major. It started its engine after the first hit. The Hummer’s on fire.”

Devon checked his FLIR scope. “Goddamnit, Lawne.”

He scanned the scene some more. Nothing they could do about it now. Diesel fuel was fairly slow burning, but nobody was going on that property until the Daemon was down for the count. “Forget about it. Let’s take out the emergency generator.”

Captain Lawne put his eye up to the scope again and swung the long sniper rifle toward the garage, a good hundred yards closer. His eye followed a gravel footpath fifty feet or so to a small stucco outbuilding with an air-conditioning unit set in the wall. The AC unit was red with heat—obviously running. There was also an exterior light just to the right of the nearby door. Lawne switched from infrared to normal view.

Rustling paper came to Lawne’s ear.

Major Devon lowered his night vision goggles and examined blueprints with the aid of an infrared flashlight. “Do you see the AC unit in the south wall—just to the left of the door?”

“I see it.”

“From this vector, you want to put your rounds…” The major was trying to see his pencil lines. “…about halfway between the door and the AC unit, about a foot below the bottom of the AC unit.” He looked up from the blueprints. “Understood?”

“Got it.”

“Fire when ready.”

They both put their ear protection back on. Lawne squinted and took aim. This would be an easy shot if he knew exactly what he was aiming for. He let loose. BOOM.

A divot appeared in the stucco, followed by draining brick dust. The electrical power was still on—the exterior light was still on.

Lawne fired several more times, spreading the shots over an imaginary grid of six-inch squares. The wall rapidly started to crumble. He paused several seconds between each shot to recover from the recoil. His shoulder was starting to ache just as the exterior light flicked off. A muffled cheer and scattered applause went up from hundreds of people in the darkness. Lawne looked up from the viewfinder and could see that all the lights on the Sobol estate had gone out. The only visible light was the Hummer—nearly fully engulfed in flames four football fields away. Lawne pulled off his earphones. He could now hear the excited buzz of the crowd below.

Major Devon called down to a Computer Systems Corporation SIGINT team sent out from DOD, working from the back of a nearby van. “Rigninski! Is the house still emitting ultrawideband?”

An engineer conferred with a technician wearing headphones. He looked up at Devon—even though he couldn’t clearly see him in the darkness. “Yes. It’s still transmitting. Must be running on battery backup.”

Devon looked toward a nearby FBI van, where an array of parabolic microphones was focused on various parts of the Sobol estate. “Agent Gruder, did we take out the generator?”

Gruder held up a finger as she listened in on a pair of headphones. After a good ten seconds she gave the thumbs-up sign. “It’s dead, Major. Good job.”

A somewhat forced cheer went up in the crowd closest to them. It was a small victory.

Major Devon smiled in the darkness. Now it was just a matter of waiting out the battery power backup in the computer room. That gave the Daemon just twelve hours to live.

Chapter 16:// The Key

Gragg hadn’t slept in three days, and he was beginning to hallucinate. At least he hoped he was hallucinating. Maybe he was dreaming. Oberstleutnant Boerner stood over him in the predawn darkness, smoking a cigarette in that faggy long filter holder of his. He morphed into a Colonel Klink–like character, and Gragg finally shook himself back to reality.

Gragg needed sleep, but once his mind was set on a problem, it always ran until physical exhaustion brought it crashing down. He was nearly at that point now.

Sleep. Blessed sleep. Dreamless sleep. No Boerners to trouble him—that 3-D texturized bastard. But there couldn’t be sleep until he solved the problem. The problem of the key.

Gragg looked around. He was lying on his couch beneath a scratchy wool blanket that carried the humid stink of a Houston cellar. The couch was a great big thing he’d picked up at a garage sale. It also carried the stench of too many humid days. The cushions, long since missing, had been replaced by a cot mattress that more or less fit in place. The sofa was his bed, dining room table, and La-Z-Boy chair rolled into one, and it stood like an island in the center of the industrial space that served as his apartment. There was nothing near the sofa for twenty feet in every direction. This was intentional. He had to get away from computer screens sometimes.

The key. What the fuck was the key? It was driving Gragg insane. He had screen-captured the encrypted text on that one Monte Cassino wall, and he hadn’t seen any other writing that might be the key. Could it have been in another room? What was he missing?

Fuck!

What kind of sadistic shithead created a map with an impossible puzzle? More irritating was that Gragg couldn’t reload the map to get more information. Not only was the Houston Monte Cassino server nowhere to be found, no other Monte Cassino maps appeared anywhere. The map was gone, as though the creator pulled the map from the entire Web.

How had they gotten Oberstleutnant Boerner to say those things? Was it some sort of Easter egg created by CyberStorm? Gragg had already checked the chat boards, but his search turned up nothing—no mention of the encrypted message or of Boerner’s little speech, or of the disappearance of the Monte Cassino map. Was he the only one experiencing this? He hadn’t asked a soul, though. This was Gragg’s secret.

Gragg had begun to suspect that the Monte Cassino map made a registry entry on his machine that prevented the map from appearing in the game listings again. To test his hypothesis, he cleared out hard-drive space on another PC and installed Over the Rhine on it in the hope that the clean machine would give him access to the Monte Cassino map, but it still didn’t appear in the Internet listings.

Had the game somehow restricted his IP address? Or his router’s MAC address? Goddamnit, he was grasping at straws now.

Think!

The problem: he had an encrypted string but no key—and no idea what encryption algorithm was used to create the string. Boerner had looked straight at him—or at least his avatar—and said, “…use your key, and ve vill meet again.” If Gragg found the key and decrypted the string, where did he enter the decrypted value? Would entering it somewhere make the Monte Cassino map reappear?

Gragg got up and wrapped the scratchy, smelly blanket around him. He shuffled across the room toward his workbench. Four desktops and two laptops were still powered up there. One was running a dictionary file against the encrypted string using a series of standard decryption algorithms. He stared at the lines spinning past in the debug window and laughed.

This was ridiculous. It could take a thousand years with all the permutations of a thirty-two-character string.

He thought about it for a moment. He could harness a few dozen zombie computers and distribute the task among them. He shook his head. He’d have to design the program to distribute the load—and it would still take too long to run. What, a hundred years? And what if the result wasn’t a proper word? How could he programmatically detect a successful decryption? He didn’t even know the encoding algorithm.

He cast off the scratchy blanket and sat down before a keyboard. He’d searched the chat boards, but he hadn’t done the obvious thing and Google-proxied the problem. He launched a Web browser and prepared to type the URL in manually. Perhaps there was a Web page dedicated to this.

Gragg froze just after his home page loaded. It was a popular news portal, and there off to the right were the news stories of the moment. The top headline screamed at him:

Dead Computer Genius Kills Eight

Gragg clicked the link, and the extensive news coverage of the siege at Sobol’s estate unfolded before him. Gragg voraciously read every word and followed every link. An hour later and he was wide-awake again with one ‘factoid’ echoing in his mind: “…Matthew Sobol, game designer and AI architect for Over the Rhine.”

This Sobol guy had been a genius. Beyond a genius. Gragg was rarely impressed by other people’s hacks—but this Sobol was the king. Engineering a daemon that took vengeance on the world once you were safely dead and beyond all punishment. Gragg’s mind ran through the possibilities. They were endless.

How much money had Sobol spent on this? The planning! And the Daemon was still on the loose. The Feds didn’t know how to stop it. You could hear it in the closed-lip pronouncements of the government spokespeople.

Goose bumps swept over Gragg’s skin. It felt like a new world had opened up to him. Was the Monte Cassino map just a coincidence? It had appeared in the last few days—only after Sobol’s death.

He couldn’t say that for sure, though. He’d been otherwise engaged prior to the mess with the Filipinos.

It couldn’t be a coincidence, though, could it?

Gragg knew, now more than ever, that he had to decipher the encrypted text. He felt he could never be sane again unless he knew more about the Monte Cassino map and about Sobol’s Daemon. He might have the inside track on something incredible—a new frontier in a world filled with familiar hacks, police surveillance, and drab suburban vistas. How long had it been since he’d felt a sense of wonder in his jaded soul? He was feeling that now. Was Monte Cassino Sobol’s work?

Gragg did a Web search for Monte Cassino and came up with a slew of hits—all relating to World War II. Instead, he reran the search, adding Over the Rhine as criteria. He still got about seven hundred hits, all of them historical because the Italian campaign, ultimately, was aimed toward Germany.

Gragg looked up from his laptop and stared at a desktop computer’s debug window scrolling the results of his program’s decryption attempts. Output appeared every millisecond or so and varied between gibberish and the words “Bad Data.” He sighed, realizing that encryption could even be something like a proprietary Triple DES, where the designer re-encrypted the message multiple times. Hadn’t the Russians done something like that with their Venona project? Gragg felt quicksand rising up to swallow his efforts. Would he go to his grave never knowing the answer to this riddle?

He knew a little more now, though. Didn’t he? Well, assuming that Matthew Sobol had designed the Monte Cassino map, he did. He halted the decryption program and brought up the immediate window. Gragg typed the stub of his decryption function:

?DecryptIt(

He had to supply the only argument for the function—the key to use for the encryption. His function was hard-coded to use the encrypted string he got from the Monte Cassino map along with any key he entered here as an argument for the function. It would then cycle through a dozen common decryption algorithms—DES, Triple DES, RSA—feeding the key as the variable. Gragg thought hard. What would Sobol use as a key? Gragg typed: ?DecryptIt(“MatthewSobol”)

And hit ENTER. The output was twelve lines of gibberish or “Bad Data” once again—one line for each algorithm attempted by the function. He tried scores of variations on Sobol’s name, and then variations on CyberStorm Entertainment, then variations of Over the Rhine. He started entering the names of some of the games Sobol had created—or at least ones Gragg could remember. Then the names of notable game characters, like Boerner.

The output was all gibberish.

Gragg just stared at the flat-panel monitor. He might as well curl up and die now because some bastard had placed this virus in his head, and he would never be free of it. If he ever got his hands on the Monte Cassino map designer, he was going to wring that fuck’s scrawny neck. Gragg pounded his head on the desk—not hard enough to hurt himself, but hard enough to inform his brain of the danger.

Clues. He needed to examine what would be important to someone—say, Sobol—who wanted to keep a secret away from the Feds, but who also wanted Generation Y to find it. Those Feds would no doubt be using sniffers, crackers, and decompilers in order to find encrypted strings in Sobol’s work. If not now, then soon. But they couldn’t decrypt it if they didn’t find it. Where to hide data from automated forensics tools?

Gragg had an epiphany: there was no encrypted string in the Monte Cassino map. Gragg had perceived the encrypted text, but it wasn’t really computer text; it was a graphical image—and one done in a Teutonic stone-carved font, no less. The encrypted string, “m0wFG3PRCo JVTs7JcgBwsOXb3U7yPxBB,” was an arrangement of pixels that only a human eye—or a really good optical character-recognition scanner—could interpret. Programmatically scanning the contents of this map wouldn’t uncover any encrypted text—only a human being viewing the map in the context in which it was meant to be seen could see its significance. But even within the game the significance of the coded string wasn’t truly revealed until…

Gragg smiled. Herr Oberstleutnant Boerner pointed out its significance. The combination of the picture file and Boerner’s verbal statement, “…use your key, and ve vill meet again….”—these were the components of the encryption, the data and the key to unlocking it. The more he contemplated it, the more sense it made. The data and the key appeared in proximity to each other only within the context of the game, and then only if the player was dedicated and capable enough to reach the inner sanctum of that difficult map. That probably ruled out anyone over thirty years of age. Certainly it ruled out anyone in a position of responsibility.

Excitement coursed through Gragg’s body. He had forgotten all about his exhaustion. He was hopeful again. Either that or he was headed toward madness.

If the audio file contained the key, then where was it? Was it hidden somewhere as steganographic information in the .wav format? Gragg guessed there must be hundreds of numerically named .wav files in the OTR game directory. Then he thought once again about Boerner’s words: “…use your key, and ve vill meet again….”

A mischievous smile crept across his face. It fit Boerner’s style; the invisible punctuation that only the human brain could provide:

“…use ‘your key,’ and ve vill meet again….”

Gragg took a deep breath and entered “your key” as the argument for his decryption function. He tapped the ENTER key.

Twelve output strings—all but one gibberish. All but the seventh one: RSA Decryption Result: 29.3935 -95.3933

He leapt up and howled in joy, dancing around his apartment like the sleep-deprived lunatic he was. But then a cocktail of other emotions flowed in: relief, caution, even fear. Did he dare to think this might be Sobol speaking to him? Guiding him from beyond the grave? What was Gragg setting in motion?

Gragg grabbed a remote and powered up the forty-two-inch plasma TV on the other side of the room. As he suspected, the twenty-four-hour news channels had set up live feeds from Sobol’s estate. Their cameras panned the besieging forces with night vision scopes—like a report from some foreign war. Hundreds of local and federal police surrounded the place. Heavy equipment was everywhere. A video segment of a military marksman walking toward a van with a massive sniper rifle played repeatedly in inset. The government was deadly serious about Sobol’s little game. Gragg got suddenly serious, too.

He looked back at his computer screen:

29.3935-95.3933

These were numbers Gragg knew well. In fact, they were numbers that any Texas geo-caching enthusiast knew well. They were GPS coordinates of a location somewhere in southern Texas. He had been playing the Monte Cassino map on the Houston Monte Cassino server, so this made sense. Gragg picked up his GPS receiver and checked its battery.

…ve vill meet again…

Indeed. Gragg opened the drawer of his heavy 1960s-era desk and drew out a Glock 9mm pistol in a nylon belt holster. He pondered it gravely, realizing just how quickly things were getting out of control. This could be a trap. This could be something he couldn’t even imagine. He clipped the holster to the small of his back.

Either way, he wasn’t going to live a long life in the trackless wastes of suburbia—and that was something.

The only car Gragg had at the moment was the first one he’d ever owned—a piece-of-shit blue 1989 Ford Tempo whose paint had long ago bleached into Grateful Dead tie-dye patterns. The rear window leaked, and the resulting mildew stench in the car made his sofa smell like a field of heather by comparison.

He kept the Tempo because a guy his age was suspicious without a car. Gragg lived most of his life under stolen identities—such was the life of a carder—but he still had a real name and social security number to maintain. Thus, the Tempo. On paper Gragg was a loser, supposedly working part-time at a computer parts store in Montrose. He officially earned little but didn’t apply for welfare or food stamps. He was just a slacker—an unambitious young punk who spent most of his hours in the alt.binaries.nospam.facials newsgroup. His ISP could vouch for that. The official Brian Gragg was a totally uninteresting person.

Gragg always registered his good cars under assumed identities, and unlike his bulk identity thefts, Gragg was more selective about the identities he “wore.” No one too successful or too poor. He found his victims by trading with other carders for the social security numbers, names, and addresses of middle-class folks. Folks who weren’t worth much on the open market except as a mask. Once he picked a name, it was easy to use online skip-tracing services to find the last half-dozen places where the victim worked, where they’d lived, their credit reports, income tax information, relatives, and neighbors. It was all readily available. Gragg had a policy of selecting only Fortune 1000 or government employees for his victims—real solid folks. His Honda Si had been registered under the name of an Oregonian man who worked for TRW. The irony always made Gragg smile. Of course, he made certain to pay his victim’s illicit bills on time—at least as long as he kept the identity.

But the fiasco with the Filipinos left him without a decent ride, and there hadn’t been time to set up a new identity. Certainly Gragg didn’t want to be seen shopping for a new car just now. Too risky.

So here he was getting into his own car—with a laptop full of warez and a 9mm pistol. The pistol wasn’t really a concern—this was Texas, after all—but the laptop made him nervous. He knew the government wasn’t afraid of guns, but it was afraid of laptops—and what the government feared, it punished. Connecting his real identity with the hacking world would be disastrous. As far as authorities knew, he was a know-nothing high school dropout with no prior arrests, and he wanted to keep it that way. He brought a degausser with him as well as a DC-to-AC adapter for his car’s cigarette lighter socket. In a pinch, he could use it to demagnetize the drive. At worst the police would suspect he’d stolen the laptop. That was no big deal.

Gragg had slept a few hours after cracking Boerner’s code. Although he was eager to get on with his self-appointed quest, there might be difficulties ahead—and he wanted to be sharp. Meth wasn’t the answer. Down that road lay madness and the worst sort of police difficulties. It was important to keep the blood pure.

Standing next to the Ford Tempo in the early night, Gragg glanced around at his light industrial neighborhood. They made screen doors and custom car parts down here. After dark it was generally a ghost town except for the occasional pit bull behind a fence or tractor-trailer backing into a parking lot. Tonight was no exception. Gragg breathed deeply of the night air. It was crisp and refreshing.

He placed his GPS unit on the seat next to him. The coordinates from the encrypted string were somewhere up near Houston International Airport—North Houston, below Beltway 8 between Tomball Parkway and Interstate 45. If he remembered correctly, this was scrubland crisscrossed at half-mile intervals by surface roads, bayous, and occasional subdivisions.

Gragg drove for nearly an hour into the cool autumn night. Between knots of office parks and suburban sprawl, the metal halide streetlights gave way to darkness, and the stars shimmered, unobscured overhead. The pleasant fragrance of dead leaves and chimney smoke sometimes overpowered the fungal stench in his car.

Getting into the general area of the GPS coordinates proved to be the easy part. Normally, if he had to convert GPS coordinates to a map location, Gragg would just key in a destination, but this time, he didn’t want to leave a data trail. So he spent a couple of hours trying to find a road that brought him closer to his target, glancing now and again at the map on his GPS unit. Several rural routes weren’t in the database, so he was left backtracking and zigzagging over back roads, following hunches.

The countryside alternated between narrow wooded roads, spanking new subdivisions, and gritty industrial or heavy-equipment companies. Around one A.M. Gragg found a surface road that mercifully continued to within a couple decimals of his target. He was heading out into scrubland again when a dilapidated-looking low brick building loomed up on his left, between clumps of trees. It bore the name Nasen Trucking, Ltd., although no trucks were visible in the chain-link-fenced parking lot. A lone streetlight shone down from a telephone pole near the gravel entrance.

Gragg slowed down as the GPS latitude coordinate clicked to match his target. Longitude was still a decimal off, though. Gragg checked the compass reading. That meant left. He pulled the car over to the entrance of the parking lot, beneath the bright streetlight, and looked around.

There were a couple of battered mailboxes near the entrance—the larger sort that rural companies and farmers used. Gragg squinted to read the writing on the side. The nearest had “Nasen Trucking” stenciled on it in a sans serif font. The other box had one word on it in black Gothic lettering: Boerner.

Gragg’s throat tightened. He looked to the left, where a gravel road ran past Nasen Trucking, into the woods—into darkness. He was exposed, sitting in the light like this. He cranked the wheel to the left. The power steering screeched in protest, and Gragg gritted his teeth. If he hadn’t alerted anyone before, he sure as hell had now.

He accelerated down the gravel road and out of the light. The stones crunched under his tires and dinged off his tire wells. The sound reminded him of his childhood and long prairie driveways. Once out of the cone of the streetlight, he slowed to five mph and scanned the darkness for…he didn’t know what. Bare birch trees lined the road on the left, while a ditch and a riot of thornbushes ran along the right. Gragg turned off his headlights and put the car in park. He took his foot off the brake to prevent the brake lights from giving away his location to anyone driving along the main road.

Gragg fumbled around in the darkness and found his rucksack. He unzipped it and pulled out night vision goggles. Untangling the headband, he then pulled them over his head and powered them up. He scanned the terrain ahead in the green glow of the viewfinder.

The edge of a single-story cinderblock building was visible a couple hundred feet down the road. There were no lights there. A single, thick chain spanned the road fifty feet ahead, secured to two steel posts. A metal NO TRESPASSING sign hung down at its lowest point.

Gragg looked at the GPS unit. He was still one decimal off. He put the car in gear and, with some trepidation, let it roll forward without putting his foot on the gas. He scanned from side to side, looking for anything that wasn’t a plant or a rock. He finally reached the chain and put the car in park again. He glanced at the GPS unit.

He was on station.

Gragg hesitated for a moment, then turned off the engine. Suddenly he could hear the woods. He heard the clattering of naked tree branches in the wind. Leaves scraped across the gravel road with each gust. The interior of the car cooled rapidly.

Gragg pulled the Glock 9mm pistol out of his rucksack and then freed the pistol from its holster. He placed it on the bench seat beside him.

What the fuck am I doing out here?

It was starting to seem like a really bad idea. He was running blind, and that was definitely something Brian Gragg did not like. It ran against his nature. He scanned the trees and the desolate-looking cinderblock building again.

How did this place have anything to do with the Monte Cassino map? There wasn’t any light out here. Was there even electricity? Gragg craned his neck to look up through the windshield and accidentally bumped the single night vision lens against the glass. He straightened the goggles and looked again. An electrical feed line ran along the road on the left side. Narrow utility poles of gray, cracked wood supported it every hundred feet or so.

Following the line with his eyes, Gragg noticed something interesting ahead: a fairly tall antenna was bolted to the side of the cinderblock building. He could see the mast rising above the roof.

Gragg took a deep breath. He was jittery. Time to concentrate. He pulled his laptop bag from the backseat and cleared space on the seat beside him. He put the pistol on the dashboard, then unzipped the laptop bag. He unpacked his laptop and booted up, flipping up the tiny antenna on the wireless card. He was temporarily blinded as the screen lit up, and he hurriedly stripped off the night vision goggles.

While the laptop booted up, he kept looking around in the darkness. He could actually see pretty well once his eyes adjusted. There was some moonlight.

After what seemed an eternity, the logon dialog came up, and a minute later Gragg launched NetStumbler. The program scanned for access points. In a moment, he was surprised to see a familiar SSID appear: Monte_Cassino.

The signal appeared to originate from the cinderblock building. Gragg’s jitters returned. Had he really done this? He tried to calm his rising fear. What was he doing? He thought about it.

There was an OTR server here.

He configured his Wi-Fi card to use the SSID, and soon Gragg obtained an IP address on the unsecured network. He didn’t even bother to explore. Instead, he closed NetStumbler and ripped open his CD case. He flipped through the CD-Rs until he found one marked with felt pen “OTR.” He slid the CD into the laptop’s drive and launched Over the Rhine. He clicked quickly past the opening screens, then selected multi-player mode. He let the game scan for available servers. Only one appeared in the server list: the Houston Monte Cassino server. This was the one visible to his wireless card.

Gragg smiled, then double-clicked on the name. The map started to load. Oddly, the weapon selection dialog box never appeared. Soon, Gragg’s avatar was standing, unarmed, in a trench at the base of the Monte Cassino mountain. Normally he’d work his way around to the left, but without weapons it was rather pointless. Gragg peered over the lip of the trench, and he could see the familiar German MG42 nests up at the edge of the ruins.

Strangely, the Krauts didn’t open fire immediately. Gragg let his avatar stand there for a moment, and still no tracer bullets came streaming down. He decided to push his luck and hopped up on the fire step—then out into full view.

Still no gunfire. The Germans just sat there.

Gragg started walking toward their lines. He had never approached the monastery successfully from this angle, and now he could see three machine gun nests aiming down at him from a hundred meters away. The gun barrels followed him as he walked, but still they did not fire.

Gragg kept walking, straight up to the center machine gun. The loader crouched next to the gunner. The NPCs had that familiar blank look on their faces. Before long, Gragg was within ten feet of the machine gun barrel. It stared down on him, ready to send his avatar into the spectator list. He was so close he could see the rank of the gunner from the textured graphic patches on his shoulders: Unterfeldwebel. A sergeant.

To Gragg’s shock, the gunner released his grip on the weapon and held up his hand. “Halt!” He peered at Gragg closely. “Ich kenne Deinen Namen.” He rose and motioned for Gragg to follow. “Komm mit!” With that the gunner walked off into the ruins. Gragg hurried to follow. A dozen German soldiers rose from their concealed positions among the rocks and watched with glaring eyes as he passed.

The Unterfeldwebel brought Gragg through a maze of rooms and splintered wreckage. Around each corner were more Kraut soldiers clutching Schmeissers or manning mortar positions. Every time he walked past, the Krauts would whisper to each other and point. Gragg had to hand it to Sobol; every detail was there. It gave him a strong sense of being an outsider in an enemy stronghold.

Gragg was led down into the same cellar where he’d first encountered Boerner in the Monte Cassino map. They walked between the wine casks toward the doorway in the opposite wall. Torches lit their way, flickering against the darkness under the influence of a digital breeze. Gragg glanced around. There was no sign of the fire damage from the earlier game.

They headed into the dark passage that led to the round tower base. The ray of sunlight still shined there, illuminating the wall where the encrypted message once was, but now it was carved with:

29.3935-95.3933

Gragg turned his avatar to face the familiar metal screen through which he’d spoken to Boerner before. It was dark behind the screen. Suddenly the space beyond filled with the flare of a match, and Boerner was there, lighting his cigarette at the end of that damned filter. He cupped it with his hand until it lit, then breathed out a cloud of voluminous smoke.

The Unterfeldwebel gave a sharp salute with a click of his boot heels and scurried out, leaving Gragg’s avatar alone with Boerner. Boerner looked up and fixed his monocle over his left eye.

“Vee meet again, mein freund.” Boerner clamped the cigarette holder in one corner of his mouth. “You know ze console, yes? Use it zu answer my qvestions.” Boerner waited for some response.

The console. Gragg usually used it for cheat codes. He peered at the keyboard and hit the tilde key. A DOS-like console appeared in the northern third of the screen. It listed a number of scripting events that had already taken place—such as the appearance of the Boerner model and the creation of the objects in this room. The console served as both a comprehensive log of program events and a command console for overriding game settings. Basically, it gave him a blinking cursor where he could type input.

As soon as the console appeared, Boerner said, “Excellent. You haf some knowledge zu find me again. Vee vill zee how much knowledge you haf. Haf you come alone? Yes or no?”

Gragg sucked in a breath. He didn’t want to admit he was alone, but lying made him more nervous. He typed Yes at the console line and hit ENTER.

Boerner’s avatar kneeled down so he could “see” Gragg’s avatar around the console window. He smiled at him. “Gut. Haf you told anyone else about zis?”

Gragg hesitated again. What better way to get killed than to say yes? He remembered all too well the video images of body bags from Sobol’s estate. But what would that gain Sobol? Why go through so much effort just to kill someone?

Gragg typed No and hit ENTER.

Boerner regarded Gragg’s avatar, then suddenly thrust open the grate that separated them. The metal door slammed against the stone wall as Boerner strode forward to get right in Gragg’s face. “I vill later find out ze truth. Better zu admit it now if you haf told ozzers.” Boerner’s eyes bored into Gragg through the laptop screen. “Haf you told anyone?”

Gragg typed No again and hit ENTER.

Boerner smiled that wicked smile of his again. He patted Gragg’s avatar on the shoulder. “Ausgezeichnet. Und haf you brought your bag of tricks mit you? Yes?” Boerner waited for an answer.

Gragg typed Yes and hit ENTER.

Boerner swept his arms into the air. “Open ze gate!” His words echoed in the cellar corridors.

Beyond Gragg’s laptop screen—in the real world of autumn cold—Gragg heard a metallic noise. He glanced up toward the front of the car. Suddenly the thick metal chain blocking the road dropped completely to the ground. The NO TRESPASSING sign clattered noisily on gravel.

“Fuck me! That’s it….” Gragg pushed the laptop away and fumbled for the car’s ignition switch. He started the car, threw it in reverse, and twisted in his seat to see where he was going. What he saw behind him stopped him cold.

Another thick chain had risen up not far behind his car. He could see it illuminated in his backup lights, along with the back of a metal sign—probably identical to the other one. In gravel and without a running start, there was no way he was getting through that thing. He started to panic. He glanced to the left and right. The birch trees on the left were impenetrable by car. To the right, he’d never get the car over that ditch. He heard talking and looked down at the laptop still facing him on the bench seat.

Boerner puffed on his cigarette there. “Relax, mein freund. If I vanted zu kill you, I could haf done so already. Move your car forvart, please.”

Gragg’s mind raced, gauging his chances of fleeing on foot—through the birch trees and into the fields beyond. That was crazy, right? He was out in the middle of fucking nowhere. This whole area could be filled with traps for all Gragg knew. How much planning had Sobol already displayed? It had to be Sobol. Gragg contemplated facing a real-world Boerner, and it dawned on him that running away on foot was a one-way ticket to zero health—without respawning.

Boerner stared at him from the nearby laptop. Gragg shook his head clear of that thought. Boerner wasn’t staring at anybody. It was just a bunch of texture maps arranged for a first-person viewer. Sobol was fucking with his mind. This was definitely not a cool situation.

Boerner shook his finger at Gragg. “You mustn’t be afraid, mein freund. Unless, of course, you lack skill.”

Gragg gave Boerner the finger and pulled out his cell phone. He took a moment to consider whom he might call. Surely not the police? Definitely not the police. How about one of his road-racing buddies? Or one of his rave bouncers? Bad idea. Right now, “Loki” was supposed to be dead. But they didn’t know him as Loki. His world was so full of lies he couldn’t keep them straight.

Gragg cycled through his saved phone numbers and selected his lead rave bouncer. Gragg put the phone to his ear. Nothing but static came back. He looked at the bar count. “No Service.”

Boerner was talking again. Gragg looked down.

“Your phone ist useless. Only Vi-Fi vill vork here.” His expression grew decidedly less friendly. “Move ze car forvart.”

Gragg put his phone away. He shifted the car from reverse back to drive. He took a deep breath, then took his foot off the brake. The Tempo rolled forward. Gragg realized someone might see his headlights from the road—so he kicked them on. Then he flicked on his high beams.

Up ahead an exterior light kicked on at the cinderblock building.

Boerner growled. “Drive benees zi light.”

As Gragg’s car rolled forward, he crossed the tree line and was suddenly in a well-lit, muddy clearing in front of the cinderblock building. There was another vehicle there—a badly smashed VW Vanagon with Louisiana plates.

As Gragg’s Ford Tempo rolled into the clearing, he felt the tires bog down in deep mud. In a second he was up to his axles in it and stuck like a fly on flypaper.

“Oh fuck…” Gragg groaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pounded the steering wheel. What had he gotten himself into? He should run.

Boerner spoke again. “Mein freund.”

Gragg looked down at the laptop.

Boerner took another puff on his cigarette. “Zis ist fun, yes?” Boerner paused a moment. “Ist zis you, mein freund?”

The console window populated with Brian Gragg’s full name, social security number, age, birth date, last known address, mother’s maiden name—a huge piece of his life. The adrenaline of pure, high-octane fear swept through Gragg. He almost screamed in terror. He honestly could not remember a time when he’d been more afraid. This machine knew who he was. It knew his real fucking name.

Boerner barked angrily, “Ist zis you? Answer!”

Gragg fearfully typed No in the console window beneath his personal information and hit ENTER.

Boerner loomed again. “If zis is not you, I haf ozzer names. But if you lie zu me, I vill find out. Und zer vill be no mercy. Answer again. Ist zis you?”

Gragg pondered Boerner’s cold eyes, then typed Yes and hit ENTER.

Boerner relented and went back to smoking. “Gut. Now ve may begin.” He put one hand behind his back and started pacing. “Run your Vi-Fi scanner again. You vill see a new netvork. You must gain entry zu it. Do not attempt zu leef here before you do. Auf wiedersehen.” Boerner swept out of the room. The moment he did, the 3-D iron grate snapped shut behind him. Immediately after that, the game shut down without warning, leaving Gragg staring at his computer desktop.

Gragg rubbed his forehead. This was a nightmare. At least he wished it was, but since it wasn’t, he figured he’d better get down to business. Boerner wanted to see what Gragg was made of? Okay. Gragg launched NetStumbler again. The SSID for the Houston Monte Cassino server was now gone. In its place was a new Wi-Fi access point with no SSID at all.

No doubt this one was going to be tougher. Gragg opened the NetStumbler logs and checked each entry. The new AP was running Wi-Fi Protected Access—WPA—a form of wireless encryption. Damn. He was hoping it would be WEP-encrypted. That would take only seconds to defeat. WPA had no structural flaws. It was as strong as its passphrase. But that would be the test, then, wouldn’t it? Hopefully, the phrase wasn’t more than eight or nine characters. Gragg would need to sniff the key exchange messages between the adapter and the access point, then crack the key off-line with a PSK dictionary (which he had on his laptop). He could use Air-Jack to force the key exchange by broadcasting a disassociate message. Gragg slumped in his seat. Hopefully there would be some client exchanges to monitor. But if this was a test, then that was the only correct answer. So fuck Boerner.

It was going to take some time to crack the key, though. Gragg pulled out the DC-to-AC adapter and plugged it into his car lighter, then plugged his laptop into the new AC power source. He launched Asleap, a program for grabbing and cracking wireless key exchanges. He could see the network clearly enough. He sent the command to de-authenticate every user on the new network and prayed to the freaking gods that some client connections were present.

Thirty seconds later, two authentication exchanges occurred to reconnect the clients. Gragg started breathing again. He now had an encrypted hash that Asleap was working the dictionary to decrypt. He was on his way.

Gragg leaned his driver’s seat back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever get out of here alive.

Chapter 17:// Succubus

Jon Ross hopped out at the front entrance to Alcyone Insurance. He opened the rear passenger door of Sebeck’s Dodge Durango and grabbed his laptop bag from the backseat. It was Sebeck’s personal car and reeked of his aftershave. The interior was immaculate, devoid of personal touches like Kleenex holders or errant CDs. It had the brutal cleanliness of a military barracks, and by revealing nothing about Sebeck it revealed a lot.

Ross looked from the backseat into the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Sebeck. “Well, Pete, again, my condolences on Deputy Larson. And I wish you the best of luck on the case.”

Sebeck just stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sebeck’s cell phone started ringing.

Ross slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. “It means that I’m done. The Feds have this under control.”

“Don’t even try that bullshit on me, Jon. Go get some sleep.” He motioned for Ross to get out, and he unfolded his phone as he pulled away from the curb. He smiled grimly as he saw Ross flip him off in the rearview mirror. Then he answered the phone. “Sebeck.”

A woman’s voice said, “Nothing can kill you, can it, Pete?”

He felt his pulse accelerate. It was her. When had he last heard her voice? How long ago? This phone line is tapped. “Cheryl, I’m heading to the office. Call me there.”

The line went dead. Sebeck stowed his phone, then drove a couple of blocks. He pulled over in a residential area, then looked in the rearview mirror. No one watching. He got out and opened the tailgate of the Durango. Sebeck reached down into the spare tire well and came up with a bright red prepaid, disposable cell phone. He closed the tailgate, looked around again, then got back in the Durango and plugged the phone into his car lighter. Moments later the little phone chirped, and he grabbed it.

“God, it’s great to hear your voice. Things have been crazy. We lost two men today. I’ve got more in the hospital.”

“I know. I caught the news in the terminal at O’Hare.”

“You’re in Chicago?” He knew better than to ask too much.

“No. Westwood.”

“At the company suite?”

“You’ll come meet me.”

“Oh God, baby.” Sebeck sighed. “This is a really bad time. This Daemon thing is—“

“You survived, Pete. I’ll make you remember why you want to be alive.”

That she would. Sebeck was quiet for a moment. Cheryl Lanthrop was the most beautiful woman he had ever been with. Her predatory sexuality made it even harder to resist. It was unfair that he should be expected to resist a woman like her. He had convinced himself that even his wife would understand.

Still, it was a bad time to disappear. But they could reach him by phone, couldn’t they? The Feds would probably be busy tearing apart CyberStorm’s network all night. And Sobol’s estate? Hell, there were hundreds of police surrounding it. If he got caught, no man alive would think less of him.

He hesitated. “I’m just…” He couldn’t find words.

“Only you know what you want, Pete.”

He already knew he was going. He was someone else entirely with her. His responsibilities faded away. His goals were here and now—the conquest of her. And that’s what it required: conquest.

“I’m on my way.”

Wilshire Boulevard between Beverly Hills and Westwood Village was a canyon of tony high-rises one row deep. The buildings seemed out of place in Los Angeles, as though someone had grafted a piece of Manhattan’s Upper East Side to L.A.’s suburban grid. This was the location of Cheryl’s corporate condo.

Cheryl was some sort of medical executive. In one of his fits of curiosity about her, Sebeck had run a background check. She had a surprisingly benign past; good premed education, clean credit, no criminal record. Her employer sold and installed complex medical diagnostic systems, and she traveled the world consulting on multi-million-dollar deals. She had money—the type of money Sebeck could only dream about. And she had perks, like the corporate suite at this copper-roofed faux French provincial tower.

Sebeck still had a parking card, so he was able to avoid the doorman. His face was still in the news, and he wasn’t anxious to be seen in the vicinity.

As he exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he peered both ways down the hall to be sure no one was in sight. As he approached Cheryl’s door, Sebeck noticed it was slightly open. He looked around warily, then nudged it in. Cheryl stood beneath a halogen spotlight near the entryway. She wore a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps. Black stockings with garters, visible below the hemline, wrapped her long legs and shapely, shoeless feet. Her auburn hair sparkled in the light. She smirked and curled a finger at him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Worth losing everything for.

Sebeck moved toward her, closing the door behind him. He knew better than to expect consolation from her. What they shared was different. Just before he reached her, she pirouetted and ducked her head low, bringing a roundhouse kick straight at his head. He saw it coming and grabbed her leg just in time. The impact sent him back against the wall.

She followed it with an open-hand karate punch toward his face. He ducked back, releasing her leg. “No bruising! Cheryl—“

“Shhhh.” She put a painted fingernail to his lips.

Sebeck took the moment to grab her wrist, twisting her arm around her back. He brandished handcuffs seemingly out of thin air. She quickly tried to clear his legs out from under him, but he blocked her legs. Their shins slammed together, and he bore down on her to fling her to the floor. He felt her strong, lean body resisting, and then finally throwing him over her. He landed hard on the carpeted floor.

Struggling for breath, he managed to hiss out, “We’ve got to be more quiet—”

She let out a tigress growl, kicked the handcuffs away, and landed a few vicious punches to his abdomen. His tightened stomach muscles dampened the blows.

She smiled playfully and lightly bit his ear. “You goddamned pig.” She grabbed him in a headlock and started a chokehold.

Perfume mixed with sweat filled his nostrils. Adrenaline filled his veins. If this wasn’t love, then it was something nearly as good. He felt his consciousness begin to fade. He smacked his open hands against her ears, and she dropped the chokehold in an instant, grabbing her head in pain.

He rolled over, kneeling next to her. “Baby, did I hurt you?”

She looked up, one eye and half a mischievous smile visible behind a curtain of auburn hair. He saw his mistake too late, and her open hand shot like a jackhammer into his solar plexus. He doubled over in pain as she leaped over him, moving for the handcuffs.

She had a thing for cops—and he was probably one of several she had flings with around the country. He didn’t care. She was a sexual hand grenade with the pin pulled out, but he could never manage to resist her. Whatever this said about him didn’t matter. Cheryl was here, and the whole world could go screw itself.

He heard the clinking of the handcuffs coming up behind him, and he swept one hand back, grabbing her elbow. He shot the other arm up and grabbed her beautiful hair. It was a cheap shot, but effective. He made sure to grab enough of her hair to use as a rope. He twisted it tighter and finally yanked her head down toward his. He felt her struggling, and her open, pouting lips brushed against his.

He twisted her arm and pulled her around in front of him. Now she was really struggling, but he used all his prodigious strength to dominate her. All her skill had not been enough. He had mastered her. He heard her moan softly as he wrenched the handcuffs from her hand. In a moment he had forced her to her knees and slapped the cuffs over one wrist. She struggled mightily one last time, but he forced her head back down using her hair as a leash. The cuffs went over the second wrist, and he felt her sigh and settle back onto her knees.

He came up behind her and smelled her perfumed hair. Her lips brushed against his cheek.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

Across Wilshire Boulevard, directly opposite the building, a camera lens in a darkened room reflected the streetlights. The camera clicked and whirred as Sebeck and the woman passionately kissed.

Anji Anderson raised her eye from the camera lens. She let an aroused breath escape as though she had been holding it for a while. She had no idea why The Voice felt this was news, but it had already been worth the trip.

Chapter 18:// Abyss

Wrecked county and federal police vehicles came under the glare of a mercury vapor searchlight. The bomb disposal robot’s arm panned to reveal more carnage. A thousand feet away, a spectator in the control trailer whistled softly at the video image. A murmur went through the assembled agents. Special Agent Ellis Garvey released his hold on the joystick and awaited instructions.

The FBI’s Critical Incidence Response Group (or CIRG) had taken over operations for the siege of Sobol’s estate, but Steven Trear still had nominal control of strategy. He knew that he had to get this situation under control quickly, or it would be taken from him just as he had taken it from Decker.

Trear put a hand on Garvey’s shoulder. “Bring us up to the mansion’s front door.”

The lawn mower–sized robot turned in place on rubberized treads and started moving across a blood-streaked debris field of plastic car bumpers and shattered glass, toward the mansion’s front steps. Along the way the robot passed a crushed and twisted version of itself. It was the robot brought in by Guerner’s team the day before. Garvey’s camera lingered on the image. Ominously symbolic. Trear cleared his throat, and Garvey nudged the joystick again, sending the robot forward.

He halted the robot at the base of the mansion’s front steps and raised its camera arms—shining the bright lights into the yawning, black maw of the doorway. The door was still wedged open.

A score of federal agents in the command trailer craned their necks to see the monitors.

Trear nodded to Garvey, who took a breath and eased the left joystick forward. The little robot’s motors whined as it inched up the stone steps.

Before long it moved warily through the front door and into the foyer, where some type of fearsome technology had assaulted Guerner and his team. Washington wanted more information. The robot’s camera arm panned the room. Glass from a shattered vase littered the tiled floor—along with vomit and specks of blood.

Someone in the back muttered, “Jesus.”

One of the bomb squad guys leaned in. “Look for transceivers or sensors on the walls.”

Garvey started panning the walls with the camera lights.

It looked like a classic Mediterranean, but there was a lot more than paintings and sculpture alcoves along the winding stairs. Near the ceiling an array of mysterious, white plastic sensors lined the walls.

Trear called out. “Guys, what are we looking at?”

A deafening silence filled the darkened trailer. In the glow of the camera monitors Trear looked for Allen Wyckoff, an FBI senior systems analyst who always seemed to know what he was talking about. Although there were bomb squad agents and a couple of computer forensics experts on hand, this wasn’t a bomb and it wasn’t software. It looked like a system. “Wyckoff. What am I looking at here?”

Wyckoff was just a silhouette in the darkness, except for the lenses of his round glasses, which reflected the monitor images. “Those are standard motion detectors…also what looks to be infrared sensors…I have no idea what that is…. The round pod might be a transmitter of some sort.” He turned toward Trear, and the monitor reflections disappeared from his glasses. “Sir, we’re going to need to analyze this video. There’s a lot of technology there I’m not familiar with.”

Trear looked around at the assembled experts, who were silently nodding in the dark. “So no one can tell me how the bomb disposal team was incapacitated? No guesses?”

The agents exchanged glances in the shadows.

Garvey ventured, “Should I keep going?”

Trear nodded. “Get us into the server room.”

Garvey took another breath and eased the joystick forward again.

The robot moved easily across the floor toward the center doorway at the back of the foyer. The mercury light revealed a long hall with stone tile flooring and embroidered rugs. Mission-style furniture braced the walls here and there along the length of the hall.

One of Garvey’s team spoke from the console nearby while examining blueprints. “We want to take the next hall on the right. Then it’s the second door on the right.”

“Got it. Turning.” Garvey turned the robot in place and shined the camera lights down a short side hall. It led into the recreation room toward the back of the house. Garvey panned the hallway, examining the walls and ceilings. More of the mysterious sensors lined the walls. It was dark except for the lights on the robot.

“Cellar door, second on the right. It should lead down to the server room.”

Garvey brought the robot forward, then moved to a second set of controls to activate the robot’s arm. The mechanical hand slid into camera view and swiveled once to align with the lever door handle on the cellar door. The arm moved forward, grabbed the door handle, then depressed it.

Suddenly the camera image jolted wildly and shouts of alarm filled the trailer. In a moment all the screens were filled with snow.

Trear pushed forward. “What just happened?”

Garvey’s hands hovered over the useless controls, his mouth open in shock. He turned. “I don’t know. I…”

“Do we have any signal from the robot?”

Garvey and his assistant checked the console and shook their heads. Everyone was talking again.

Trear shouted, “Quiet down! Everyone shut up.” He turned back to Garvey. “Play back the video—in slow motion.”

Garvey nodded, then rewound the video. All the monitors flickered, then a still image came up again: the mansion side hall.

“Roll it forward slowly.”

On-screen, frame by frame, the robotic arm grabbed the door handle and pushed down.

“There.”

Garvey stopped the image.

There was an unmistakable gap in the floor toward the bottom of the frame. The floor looked like it was opening up.

“Okay, advance it slowly.”

Garvey hit a button.

The gap expanded. In a quick succession of frames, the door handle pulled from the robot’s grip, and the entire machine slid down a chute that opened beneath it. Its mercury lights illuminated the dark hole, revealing a cinderblock-lined pit—the bottom of which was filled with water. Successive video images showed the water washing up onto its cameras and the robot shorting out. The entire process took about one and a half seconds.

Sidebar conversations filled the trailer.

Trear clasped a hand on Garvey’s shoulder. “It’s all right. That’s why we have robots.” Trear looked unruffled, almost serene.

He turned to the assembled agents. “I think we’ve established that there’s no power in the house.” He pointed to some techs sitting at a frequency-scanning console. “And there’s no radio transmissions emanating from the house, correct?”

The techs nodded.

Trear continued. “What we’re looking at here is a simple pit trap. Sobol’s high-tech weaponry is down. He’s gone medieval on us. That’s great news.”

Garvey turned from the robot command console. “That’s our last robot. We’ll have to send back to L.A. for another one.”

Trear nodded. “Bring in several. Fly them in if you have to. But we need to get our hands on Sobol’s personal computers as soon as possible.”

There was silence for a moment in the trailer.

Garvey hesitated, then asked, “Meaning that we…?”

“Send in the Hostage Rescue Team. Have them go in as far as the pit. I want the area around the cellar entrance ramped over by the time we get the extra robots here.”

Wyckoff looked surprised. “Sir, are you certain that’s a good idea?”

“Certain? No, not certain. But Sobol’s home computers might hold the key to destroying this monster. That’s what we came to do. So let’s do it.”

Everyone murmured in agreement.

Someone in back asked, “What about the Hummer, sir?”

“Pull out the wreckage and ship it down to the L.A. lab. Cover it with a tarpaulin before pulling it out. I don’t want to see any more pictures of the ‘death machine’ on the front page tomorrow.” He clapped his hands once. “Let’s get moving, people. The world’s watching.”

Special Agent Michael Kirchner sat poring over financial documents with five other agents in an unassuming accountant’s office in Thousand Oaks. The desks were littered with open folders, receipts, tax returns, and ledgers. Another agent was busy imaging computer hard drives. Kirchner, a CPA and a tax attorney, believed that he and his team did more to fight crime than any field office in the bureau. Organized crime couldn’t accomplish much without money.

They had spent the last eight hours scrutinizing the detailed financial history of Matthew Sobol. It was quite a trail. Sobol was an officer in thirty-seven corporations. He had three sole proprietorships, two partnerships, eleven LLCs—and a slew of international business corporations, holding companies, and offshore trusts. Tons of financial activity over the last two years, with equipment purchases, wire transfers, professional and consulting fees. It was a rat’s nest. The finances of the rich usually were.

Kirchner reviewed a report of the largest capital expenditures. Technical components from the looks of it. Purchased by one company but shipped to Sobol’s Thousand Oaks address.

Kirchner looked up at his partner, Lou Galbraith, who was sifting through filing cabinets nearby. “Lou, you lost money in fuel cells a few years back, didn’t you?”

Galbraith stopped, raised his reading glasses up onto his forehead, and gave Kirchner an impatient look. “I don’t want to talk about it. Why?”

Kirchner held up the printed report. “Sobol made some big purchases that I thought you might be interested in….” He leafed through the report. “Here, identical hydrogen fuel cell power units purchased by two separate holding corporations, both shipped to his estate. $146,000 a pop.”

“Tax dodge?”

Kirchner frowned. “We’re not trying to nail him on tax evasion, Lou.” He looked down at the report. “Fuel cell power units? Things like that really work?”

“I wasn’t an idiot, Mike. Of course they work. Hospitals and big companies use them to generate electrical power from natural gas. You know, where the electrical grid is unreliable or too expensive. It was supposed to be huge. Just before its time, that’s all, and—”

“These things were shipped to Sobol’s estate.” Kirchner looked even more concerned.

“What’s wrong, Mike?”

“Call the SAC at the Sobol estate. I want to make sure he knows about this.”

Agent Roy “Tripwire” Merritt took a deep breath, gathering in the last of the night air, redolent with moist earth. A sliver of moon hung just above the horizon, silhouetting the tree-dotted hills. He scanned the terrain without night vision gear, taking joy in this simple pleasure. It reminded him of the Basque region of Spain by moonlight—or South Africa’s Transvaal. He’d seen a lot of the world by night, and usually from behind third-generation night vision goggles.

The predawn air was crisp and cool on Merritt’s face as he stood in the payload area of an army ten-ton truck. Its powerful diesel engine labored in low gear as it climbed through a bulldozered breech in the estate wall. The canvas top had been removed, leaving it open to the night sky.

Merritt slung an HK MP-5/10 over his shoulder, then looked back toward his FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Six of the best-trained operators in the bureau sat on either side of the cargo bay, swaying in unison as the truck lurched over mounds of dirt and rock. These were his men, and they were intimidating as hell. Clad in black Nomex flight suits, body armor with ceramic trauma plates, Pro-Tec helmets, night vision goggles, and bulletproof face masks, they made Darth Vader look like a Wal-Mart greeter. But of all the missions they had carried out together—from Karachi to the wilds of Montana—Merritt had never had more misgivings than on this one. During the mission briefing he kept thinking that this was a job for the bomb disposal teams or the demining experts. It kept coming back to urgency. Six officers were dead, nine more injured. No one had any answers and time was apparently of the essence. Still…

Merritt looked down at the metal and wood scaffolding materials lying on the floor space between the benches. Four toolboxes lay there as well. His highly trained rapid response team was going to bridge a pit in a hostile environment. He wondered what sort of fuck-up happened upstairs to make this come about.

Merritt glanced over at the mansion three hundred yards away. No lights had appeared in it since last evening. Radio communications had been back up for the last hour, ever since the ultrawideband transmissions from the house died.

Merritt spoke normally, knowing his headset mic would pick it up. “Echo One to TOC. We’re at yellow. Request compromise authority and permission to move to green.”

“Copy, Echo One. I have your team at yellow. You have compromise authority and permission to move to green.”

“Copy that, TOC.” Merritt gave his men the thumbs-up signal. They returned it.

Waucheuer, the breaching specialist, flipped up his face mask and grinned. “Hey, Trip, why do we need guns? Sobol’s already dead.”

“Cut the chatter, Wack. Dead or not, Sobol managed to kill some good people here. Stay alert.”

Waucheuer shrugged, then nodded sharply, causing his face mask to flip back down.

Merritt stood and looked over the cab of the truck as it advanced slowly across the wide lawn of the estate. They were coming up on the burnt-out hulk of the automated Hummer now.

The other men stood to lean against the railing as the Hummer came up on the right-hand side. The truck slowed, then stopped about twenty feet from the wreckage. Two county SWAT team members were in the truck cab. The passenger kicked on a side-mounted searchlight, focusing it on the still smoldering remains. The Hummer was definitely nonoperational. The wheels were just blackened hubs, and the interior was gutted.

“Those marines ever hear of a little thing called evidence?”

Merritt could practically hear Waucheuer grinning behind his mask. Merritt ignored him. He spoke into his headset. “Echo One to TOC. The Hummer is nonoperational. Proceeding to green. Out.” Merritt pounded the cab roof twice. The truck lurched forward toward the mansion some one hundred yards away.

The truck searchlight swung toward the house. A three-foot-high terrace wall surrounded the mansion at a distance of about two hundred feet. The terrace leveled out the hilltop for the lawns around the pool and patio. The wall prevented the truck from driving all the way to the house, but Merritt agreed with the SAC that driving along the front entrance or rear service road was a bad idea; it was a chokepoint and could be booby-trapped.

Instead, the truck turned in front of the wall, then backed up; the ridiculous beep-beep of the backup warning filled the tense silence.

It looked like it was going to work out. The tailgate now stood about two feet off the ground as the truck backed up to the terrace wall. It would be easy to unload the scaffolding and tools. But first, they needed to scout ahead. Merritt shouted to the driver, “Cut the engine and the lights.”

Relative silence suddenly prevailed. The sound of crickets returned after a few moments. The only lights visible were the work lamps of the besieging FBI at the estate fence line—about three hundred yards away. Merritt swung down his night vision goggles and powered them up. His men did the same.

Merritt spoke into his bone mic. “Leave the scaffolding. Let’s make sure we have a clear path to the objective.” Merritt gave a hand signal, and his men fell in line behind him.

The plan was to circle around to the front of the house and enter through the open front door. They were on the east side of the house right now. So they were looking at a 150-yard infil over manicured lawns and gardens. Aerial radar had revealed no hidden pits or other apparent traps on the estate grounds to a depth of ten meters, but the approach to the mansion wasn’t what concerned Merritt. He was worried about entering the house itself—especially considering what happened to the last people to do so. Merritt stepped off the truck tailgate and started moving through the night. He felt and heard his men moving close behind him.

This wasn’t a hostage crisis. A flash-bang grenade wasn’t going to stun anyone here. Overwhelming firepower wouldn’t intimidate the opponent. This was a new situation.

Merritt turned and put a hand up to halt his men. “Wait here. I’m going to scout ahead. If you lose contact with me, pull back to the estate perimeter. Understood?”

They exchanged concerned looks. This went against everything they’d trained for. They were a team. Even Waucheuer had no wisecracks.

“That’s an order. Assume a defensive posture and wait here.” Merritt turned and moved cautiously toward the house.

Hundreds of yards away at the FBI Command and Control trailer, the SAC, Steven Trear, stood gazing through a FLIR scope at the distant figures of the HRT unit. He could see one moving ahead of the others—moving toward the side of Sobol’s mansion. Trear muttered to himself, “What’s he doing?”

One of the agents from the Command Trailer emerged and called to Trear. “Sir, a Special Agent Kirchner on the line for you. Something about Sobol’s purchase records.”

Trear didn’t look up from the night vision scope. “Kirchner’s heading the audit team?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“He says it’s important—“

Another Command Center agent pushed his head out through the doorway. “Sir! I’m picking up noise from the parabolic mics. Noise from inside the house.”

Everyone stopped and looked at the guy with something resembling terror. Trear started walking toward him. “What kind of noise?”

“It sounds like a pump motor, sir.”

“Get those men out of there!”

About sixty feet ahead of his men, Merritt heard the click and stopped cold. His men did likewise. They’d all heard it, too, and they instinctively spun to face every direction—training their weapons. Against what, they didn’t know.

Suddenly Merritt’s radio crackled. Someone shouted in an urgent voice over the channel, “Echo One, abort immediately! Repeat, abort immediately!”

Before he could react, Merritt heard a disquieting hiss start to emanate from the ground. Just as suddenly the air around him sprang to life, and he and his men nearly jumped out of their skins.

Retractable lawn sprinklers popped up and started spraying the lush terrace lawn with cold water. His team burst out laughing as they stood getting soaked by the lawn sprinklers.

Waucheuer shielded his night vision goggles and shouted the distance to Merritt. “Shit, Trip, I just aged ten years!”

Even Merritt smiled behind his mask this time. “You heard ’em. Pull out!”

Then something changed. Suddenly Merritt was aware of an overpowering odor. His eyes narrowed behind his goggles. The sprinklers were no longer spraying water.

He looked to his men and shouted, “Gasoline!”

Before they could turn and run, a high-precision motor whirred in the distant cupola tower. A deep choom sound issued from it, and the last thing Merritt saw through his goggles was a blinding green flare arcing over the distance between him and the tower.

The rolling fireball lit up the sky for a mile around. Its dull roar echoed off the side of the trailer, and the orange light illuminated three hundred horrified faces. Trear still held the radio in his hand. He stood paralyzed as shrieks of agony came over the radio channel. All around him men raced into action—or anarchy, it was hard to tell.

“Get the fire trucks over there!”

“Ambulance! Bring up an ambulance!”

“We’ve got agents down!”

The fireball climbed to the sky, and in its stark light Trear could see the lawn sprinklers surrounding it still running. They were spraying water—to contain the fire in the precise spot where the HRT unit had infiltrated. Trear felt like he was watching something on TV. It had the surreal feeling of the impossible. People were grabbing him, shouting at him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the raging fire and the wildly thrashing dark forms dancing in the flames like damned souls—then falling. The ten-ton truck was burning like a Texas A&M bonfire.

Someone shouted in his ear about radio transmissions, and Trear absently looked down at the radio in his hand. Only static hissed out of it now. That’s when it happened.

Suddenly all the lights went on in Sobol’s mansion, glowing with a frightful intensity. Then lights kicked back on all across the estate. An audible groan ran through the ranks of the besieging agents.

Trear snapped out of it and shoved the now useless radio into another agent’s hands. “Get to cover! Everybody get to cover!”

The pain (because it must have been pain) was white noise that Merritt had no time for. On the imaginary control board in his mind, every light was flashing red. He ran as only men on fire can run, yanking his Nomex balaclava up to cover his mouth. The whole world had turned into the surface of the sun. He resisted the panic-stricken need to breathe the superheated air. To breathe was to die.

But then it turned dark again—the bright glow beyond his clenched eyelids had gone away. Had the night vision goggles failed? Probably. But he’d have to open his eyes to find out, and he wasn’t ready for that. But the heat was gone—and now there was only cold. His entire body tingled. It was almost pleasant. Experience told him that, in combat, tingling sensations meant you had just been seriously injured.

Merritt staggered on blindly. Finally he stopped and tore off his night vision goggles and opened his eyes. Instantly he was blinded by cold water spraying into his face. It felt wonderful. He smelled a combination of gasoline, burnt flesh, melted plastic, and hot metal. He turned in place dizzily—feeling shock creep up on him. He stood in a manicured section of lawn right next to a rising mushroom of orange flame fifty feet tall. The cold water spraying over him made it tolerable to be this close. His men were in those flames somewhere.

He reached for his bone mic, melted against his cheek. “Waucheuer! Reese! Littleton! Report! Kirkson! Engels! Report!” The microphone pulled off in his hands. His earphones were dead under his Kevlar helmet.

His men were gone. All gone.

Merritt was numb. He spun in place to orient himself and saw the mansion blazing white light a hundred feet farther on. He held his arm up and saw that the stock of his MP-5 had melted onto the back of his sleeve. His nylon web belt containing ammunition clips had melted into his jumpsuit and Kevlar body armor. He wasn’t sure whether he was badly injured, but his temper was beginning to flare. He decided to go with it.

Merritt grabbed the gun’s barrel with his left hand and wrenched the twisted mass free from his arm. The Nomex appeared to have protected him from the worst of it, but he felt the confused buzzing in his nerve endings that was the neurological equivalent of “Please Stand By For Pain….”

Merritt started running, not toward the perimeter wall and safety, but toward the mansion. He raced for the fenced-in pool area and a set of white French doors with polished brass handles—its windows blazing light. His eyes never left it as he leapt over stone benches and herb gardens.

Around him, in the sprinkler wash, he smelled gasoline again, and he heard the whoosh of flames racing to overtake him, but he outran it and stayed in the cool clear water that served as a buffer against the flames reaching the house.

As he ran, Merritt clutched at his back for the sawed-off shotgun strapped there. He was still tugging on its rubberized pistol grip, trying to free it from the melted mass of his web belt, when he kicked in the wooden pool gate. Metal gate hardware clattered across the paving stones—but he was already smashing through a field of teak wood patio chairs and flipping tables in his quest for the French doors. Almost there. He was vaguely aware of spotlights focusing on him from the house, but he didn’t give a damn what Sobol was up to. He might drop dead once he got there, but he was getting inside that house.

He whipped out his Mark V knife and slashed the melted bits of the web belt from the shotgun. To save time he hurled the knife ahead, where it stuck quivering in the door frame. He drew the Remington 870 shotgun into his gloved hands and chambered a round with a satisfying click-clack.

Merritt hit the door hard with his booted foot—and damn near shattered his shinbone. His forward momentum sent him hurtling into the door, where his knee came up into his mouth—driving a sharp nail of pain straight to the center of his skull. He staggered back and reflexively wiped the back of his glove across his mouth. It came back covered with blood. His front teeth felt loose.

Doesn’t matter.

Merritt leveled the shotgun at the door handles and blasted a foot-wide hole in their place. He chambered another breaching round and quickly blasted similar holes at the top and bottom where the doors met—the most likely spot for reinforcing bolts.

Hundreds of yards away, the FBI camp was pandemonium. Agents and police scrambled to gather rescue gear while others scrambled to order no one to go anywhere near the site of the attack. It was a disorganized mess. Somewhere in the chaos Trear heard distant shotgun blasts.

He shouted, “Who’s shooting? Decker, order them to cease fire!”

“Com is down.”

Merritt rammed his shoulder into the French doors, bashing them in. He stumbled into a neo-mission-style entertainment room with wide-plank wooden floors. There was a sunken area of sectional sofas in front of a large plasma screen television. The lights here blazed brilliantly, practically blinding him. Nonetheless he craned his neck and weaved from side to side. He knew what he had to do.

The bomb disposal team was taken out by weaponized acoustics, and he wasn’t going to let that happen to him. Merritt raised his shotgun and noticed half a dozen different sensors spaced along the ceiling over each wall—behind the brilliant lights.

A clear and commanding voice called from the doorway leading farther into the house. “You don’t belong here!”

Merritt’s response came out reflexively. “Fuck you, Sobol.”

Merritt heard footsteps approaching him over the wooden floor. It was uncanny. There was definitely the sense that someone was there. A change in the echoes of the room. That’s when Merritt felt as much as heard the deepest sound he’d ever experienced pass over and through him. The nearby coffee table started vibrating so badly that the glass panels fell out of it.

Merritt twisted to look back up at the ceiling and noticed a reflected LED light pulsating on the back of one of the round sensor pods. He raised the shotgun just as an ungodly feeling of horror gripped him. His intestines were trying to strangle him, and he felt his eyes preparing to explode. He screamed in agony and fired the shotgun.

Immediately the pain stopped. Merritt paused for a second to lean over and vomit on the floor, but he was immediately back up. His eyes and nose were bleeding, but he wiped it away and swiveled around to blast another Hatton round into an identical sensor on the far wall. Then the interior wall. He swayed as he pulled more shotgun shells from his cargo pants pockets and started reloading the Remington. Blood dripped onto his fingers from his nose.

“You son of a bitch! I’m going to shut you down, Sobol!” Merritt slid a shell into the magazine. “You hear me?” His words echoed in the big house.

A voice right behind him said, “There’s no need to shout. I can hear you.”

Merritt jumped and turned around, letting loose a shotgun blast into the wall behind him.

The voice was still there, just inches from his face. “I see you got past the firewall.”

How the hell was this possible? The sound was appearing in midair. No stereo could possibly do that. Merritt scanned the arrays of sensors again, but none were visibly active.

The voice was right in his ear, whispering. “They knew you would die, but they sent you, anyway.”

Merritt jumped away, twisting his gloved finger in his ear as though an insect had flown into it. “Son of a—”

Merritt let the shotgun hang from its shoulder strap while he drew one of his twin P14-45 pistols. The voice continued in his ear, but there was no pain. No agonizing constriction of his intestines.

“They’re willing to sacrifice you to find out what I’m capable of.”

“Keep talking, asshole.” Merritt stood in formal range stance—aiming at the ceiling sensors. He started shooting them out, one by one, waiting a second after each shot.

“Did they even tell you—”

The fourth shot cut him off. A reflective, white plastic panel shattered as the bullet hit it. The voice was gone. Merritt shot out another identical sensor on the far wall, then flipped the safety on the pistol, holstering it. “Blah, blah, blah.”

Merritt noticed his reflection in a mirror over the mantel as he walked farther into the room. His whole face was crimson red and covered in blisters, with the headset melted onto his cheek. His Pro-Tec helmet had protected his scalp, but the whites of his eyes were shockingly blood red—and blood trailed down from his nose over his burnt chin. The Nomex hood and suit had kept him alive, but he might soon be entering cataleptic shock. The dizziness came at him in waves. He felt the rage building in him again. His men had had much worse.

Merritt heard a slight tick sound and a sizzle of static electricity. He spun around to see the plasma-screen television come to life. A 3-D graphic of the mansion as seen from the air resolved on-screen. It looked like a briefing schematic.

“You’re here for the server room. It’s down the hall, to the left, and to the left again. I’m sure they gave you a map, but in case it burned up, here are directions….” The 3-D graphic leaped into action, with the camera performing a virtual fly-through, coming down on the mansion from above, straight through the doors Merritt had entered by. The camera flew down the adjoining hall, banked left, then sailed through the billiard room, left, and up to the cellar door—which flung open as the camera went down into blackness. It was like a first-person video game.

Merritt grabbed an end table nearby, clearing off the lamp standing on it.

Sobol’s voice continued, oblivious. “Did you want me to replay that? Yes or no.”

The face of the plasma-screen television shattered under the impact of the heavy end table, and the entire thing keeled over backward on its stand—sending up a puff of electrical smoke as it died hitting the floor.

“No more mind games.” Merritt strode past it and grabbed a piece of the sectional sofa, pulling it up with great effort from the sunken area onto the main floor level. He shouldered it in front of him as he advanced toward the doorway leading farther into the house. He held the shotgun in his free hand.

The dimensions of Sobol’s house went beyond anything Merritt would consider a home. To him it felt more like a university building. He guessed these were twelve-to sixteen-foot ceilings, and the doors and adjoining hallways were all two or three times wider and taller than necessary. The hall adjoining the entertainment area was easily ten feet wide, with terra cotta tile flooring in two-foot squares. The hall could pass as a serviceable elevator lobby for the Biltmore. It ran along the center of the house and was braced here and there with gargantuan furniture—angry-looking armoires and iron-studded cabinets done in something akin to Spanish Inquisition style. They looked large enough to serve as a redoubt in the event of Indian attack.

As he stood at the entrance to the wide hallway, Merritt leaned right and left to glimpse a little of what lay ahead. He couldn’t see into any of the doorways. He pushed the sofa section onward, down the left side of the hall. The sofa’s metal-studded feet scraped the tile like nails on a chalkboard.

Suddenly the floor dropped away beneath the sofa section, and Merritt caught himself just before pitching forward into the yawning blackness below the trapdoor. The sofa splashed into a water-filled pit, and then the floor section snapped up, almost hitting Merritt in the face. He heard a latch click, locking the floor in place. It was obviously meant to prevent escape from the pit once a victim fell in.

Merritt pounded the trapdoor with the butt of his shotgun. The floor seemed firm. He didn’t want to take any chances, so he backed up to get a running start. He sprinted and leaped over the farthest seam of the trapdoor, landing in a tumble he purposely shortened by rolling hard into an armoire the size and height of a squatter’s shack. In a moment he was up and ready with the shotgun.

He felt the humming sound of the acoustic weapons powering up. He glanced right and left up near the ceiling and found the nearest acoustic pod. A blast from the shotgun took it clean off the wall. He found its twin behind him and blasted that as well. He collected his breath in the resulting silence.

Suddenly a voice in front of him said, “Slap a pair of tits and a ponytail on you, and we’ve got ourselves a game.”

Merritt just gave Sobol’s voice the finger. Let him talk. Merritt had to conserve ammunition.

It was time to orient himself. He pulled a laminated floor plan card of Sobol’s house from his chest pocket. It was warped from the heat of the fire but still legible. Merritt found his location and realized he wasn’t far from the cellar door—and the pit that swallowed the bomb disposal robot. Merritt looked up and noticed the silence.

“What’s the matter, Sobol? Run out of things to say?”

The voice spoke from the same place—right in front of him. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, cat got your tongue?”

“I didn’t catch that.”

It couldn’t really understand him. This was all an elaborate technological trick. A logic tree with weaponry.

“Dead retard.” Merritt pocketed the card and put a shoulder behind the heavy armoire, trying to push it ahead of him. It insisted on being stationary. He took a step back to look at it. He’d seen railroad trestles built with less wood. It looked a century old and its shelves were lined with Talavera plates and wooden carvings of Dia de los Muertos figurines. Merritt smiled humorlessly at the little skeletons cavorting and going about their daily business—apparently unaffected by their demise. Real cute.

He grabbed a bronze candlestick off the shelf and looked ahead of him. A twenty-foot stretch of barren hall lay before him. After that, he’d be at the doorway opening onto the billiards room—which led to the cellar door.

He slung the shotgun and got down onto his belly, spreading his weight over the tile floor. He turned back to rap the hollow floor behind him—to get a sense for its sound. Then he rapped the floor under him. Solid. Very different sound. Merritt faced forward again, and he started crawling, cautiously rapping on the floor with the heavy candlestick as he went.

Merritt was halfway along the open stretch of hall when Sobol’s voice spoke again a foot or so in front of Merritt’s face. “I hate to interrupt, but now I have to kill you.”

Merritt heard something from deep inside the house. It sounded like a sump pump—only many times larger than the one in Merritt’s house. The sound of water coursing through pipes came to his ears, and suddenly water began to silently spread out across the floor from an unseen vent beneath the baseboards. Then Merritt glanced left, right, and back behind him. The water was coming at him from ahead and behind—spreading out from the walls across the tile floor about a half-inch deep. Merritt got up into a crouch, not sure what to do next. He’d never reach the armoire before the water overtook him.

And what could the water do, anyway? Sobol could never fill this room—there were six or seven doorways leading into it. Merritt started scanning the walls for hidden danger. And he quickly found it.

Ahead of him, one of the electrical outlets in the wall suddenly extended out and down onto the floor. It was mounted on the end of a curved bar. A zap and pop were audible as the socket hit the surface of the water—which was now electrified.

“Shit!” Merritt leaped to his feet and looked around for something to stand on. Nothing. He quickly flipped the shotgun from his back and blasted two holes in the lath and plaster wall near him—one about a foot from the floor, and another at hand-holding height. He let the shotgun fall on its shoulder strap as he jumped, latching on to the jagged edges of the holes just as water collided beneath him from both directions.

Merritt almost lost his grip as the thin slats of broken wood snapped under his weight. But he soon found studs and cross-braces to cling to. He took a deep breath and leaned his burnt face against the cool plaster. He was really starting to feel the pain of his burns now. Second-degree burns were the worst for pain. He collected himself, then glanced beneath him.

The water was now about three inches deep on the floor and was draining through the seams of several pits. The cascade of water echoed below the floor. More water was constantly being pumped in, but it appeared to have found equilibrium. The humming sound of the electrified surface was unnerving.

Merritt looked ahead. He was only eight feet or so from the billiard room doorway, and there was a step up—so the water was not rushing into it.

Merritt began ripping out lath slats and kicking in the plaster wall ahead of him. His bulletproof gloves and armored knuckle plates helped as he repeatedly punched the cracked edge of the rapidly expanding hole. The debris fell into the buzzing water below.

It took him a good five minutes, but he was soon at the edge of the billiard room doorway. He leaned over to gaze inside. It contained twin pool tables and a bar that would suffice for a small town. He immediately considered the many ways this room could kill him. High-speed billiard balls fired from an antique cannon. Molotov cocktails of twenty-year-old scotch. Asbestos poisoning. Choking hazards. He couldn’t begin to guess.

Even at this distance, Merritt could see one of the acoustic weapon sensors up near the ceiling. He unholstered his pistol with his right hand while holding on to a wooden beam with the other. He raised the gun, aimed carefully, and sent three shots into the pod. Parts of it fell to the carpeted floor at the foot of the bar.

Merritt stared at the room. What the hell…

He unhooked a flash-bang grenade from his web harness. The grenade handle was melted onto the webbing, but he managed to pull it off. He struggled to remove the pin while still holding on to the beam. Most people thought you could pull the pin with your teeth, but that was a great way to crack a tooth or blast your head off—or both. He finally wrapped his hand around the beam and pulled the pin out with his forefinger. He tossed the grenade into the center of the nearest pool table—then he ducked around the corner.

The blast was deafening even at this distance. The beams of the house shook, and he heard lots of shattering glass. He hoped it would confuse any infrared or acoustical sensors. Merritt swung around the corner and ran headlong toward the nearest table—whose felt top was scorched and smoking from the blast.

Merritt lunged onto the tabletop and rolled over its far edge. Then he rolled over the next one as well, landing like a cat, crouched and ready for action with the shotgun. He covered the last ten feet to the opposite doorway and slammed his body against the wall there. He was breathing hard—but then again his heart had been beating 180 times a minute since he entered the house.

The telltale sound of acoustical weapons powering up reached him. He aimed upward and blasted the pod into plastic confetti that rained down on him. He scanned the ceiling, but none of the other pods seemed threatening.

The cellar door was four feet ahead and to his left. The floor before it was terra cotta tile—but he knew it concealed the pit that had swallowed the FBI’s bomb disposal robot. He looked for seams, but the pit was well concealed.

Merritt stood back at the edge of the short hall, then leaned forward and depressed the cellar’s lever door handle with the shotgun barrel.

Suddenly a four-foot section of floor in front of the cellar door fell away, revealing a brick-lined pit splashing with water. The tip of a robot arm extended above the water’s surface. Merritt quickly jumped to the far side of the pit, then leaned forward and grabbed the cellar door handle. He pried the door open as it resisted. He shoved the shotgun behind the door, pointing at the top hinge.

BOOM!

The top of the door fell away from the wall, and with a little twisting and kicking, the other hinge ripped off. The door fell into the pit, smacking the water with its flat face.

Merritt looked into the doorway and could see the top of a flight of steps leading downward. A barred gate blocked his path. They were stainless steel bars, like the kind found on the inner door of a bank vault. A numeric keypad was set into the steel strike plate.

The voice spoke, this time right behind Merritt’s head. “Dave, Stop. Stop, Dave.”

“Fuck off, Sobol.” Merritt concentrated on the keypad in the strike plate. He was no security specialist, and he knew it was probably booby-trapped. He aimed the shotgun at an angle and squeezed off a Hatton round into the strike plate. The lead and wax slug disintegrated into a pall of smoke. Merritt waved it away and looked at the strike plate. The keypad was entirely gone—leaving behind only a small round hole where its electronics entered the steel gate mechanism. Otherwise the strike plate was undamaged. Hot lead was useless against it.

Merritt unholstered his second P14 pistol. He’d give hot copper a try. Merritt aimed at the strike plate, then fired repeatedly at the same spot. Bullet holes appeared in the far wall as they ricocheted. After the last shot, he inspected the damage. Fourteen shots and he had successfully dulled the finish—barely.

Merritt sank down to lean his back against the wall. Waucheuer and the others had been carrying the heavy-duty breaching kit—the cutting charges and boosters. All Merritt had was a roll of strip explosives, and that wouldn’t take out this steel gate.

Sobol’s voice was right there with him. “Does it help to know that there’s nothing important here?”

Merritt looked down into the watery pit. He examined its walls. They were of brick painted with thick black marine paint. The pit was on the same level as the rest of the cellar—and presumably the server room.

Merritt holstered his pistol and took the remaining grenades from his web harness. He had four flash-bang grenades left. He took the roll of Primasheet and det cord from his thigh pocket and wrapped them tightly around the grenades. Then he stood, straddling the corner of the pit. He dropped the package into the water, reeling out detonator cord as it fell. Then he ducked around the corner and activated the detonator.

The muffled blast shot a geyser of water into the ceiling. The floor trembled for a few moments. Merritt soon heard the sound of water rushing through an opening. He had cracked the brick wall.

He came back to the edge of the pit and could see water draining through the wall and into the server room.

A klaxon suddenly sounded in the house, and fire strobes flickered on the ceiling. A British female voice spoke on a regular PA system, “Primary data center penetrated. Commencing self-destruct sequence.” There was a pause. “And there is no countdown.”

“Shit!” Merritt knew the front door was around the corner and down the front hall. He sprinted around the corner as a piercing beep filled the house. It was like a smoke detector on steroids—drilling into his brain.

The sprinkler caps popped off in the ceiling above him, and sprinkler heads clicked down. He heard the hiss of pressure building up. Merritt looked ahead. The front door of the mansion still stood wide open about a hundred feet ahead—wedged open by that blessed bomb squad team. He sprinted for the opening with everything he had.

The sprinkler heads came to life, spraying gasoline over the stylish décor. He was still sixty feet from the front door when he saw a bright halogen bulb start to burn intensely up near the ceiling in the foyer. The light grew so intense that Merritt couldn’t look directly at it.

When the bulb exploded—sending a wall of flame roaring toward him—Merritt’s brain trotted forward a candidate for his last mortal thought:

I’ll never see my daughters grow up.

Without warning, the floor gave way beneath him as he ran. A pit trap swallowed him. He fell into blackness, chased by flames that lit up the brackish water. Time slowed down, and Merritt had the leisure to consider what a bastard Sobol was; he’d activated a pit trap after letting the bomb disposal robot drive down the hallway safely.

The devious bastard.

Merritt hit the water face-first and blacked out as the trapdoor snapped shut above him.

Among the agents surrounding the mansion a shout went up. It was quickly followed by hundreds of other voices shouting. Sobol’s mansion was now glowing orange. Then flames burst out through literally all of its windows. In seconds the entire structure was engulfed in flames reaching fifty feet into the air. The half-dozen outbuildings burst into flames, too, and were quickly roaring infernos.

Trear numbly watched the scene. It was the nightmarish Waco visual he’d dreaded—one almost certainly combined with the worst casualties ever suffered by the FBI in a single operation. And all of Sobol’s data were going up in flames. Along with Trear’s career.

Chapter 19:// Sarcophagus

It took Gragg nearly three and a half hours to crack the WPA key on Boerner’s second Wi-Fi network. He had to keep his car running the entire time to be certain he didn’t drain his laptop battery. Once he cracked the key, he configured his card to use it, and DHCP soon handed him an IP address on the wireless network. By that time it was roughly four in the morning.

But he’d slept a little, and buoyed by the successful crack, he felt good. If this was a test, he’d passed the first part. He might get out of this alive yet.

Gragg used Superscan to run a ping sweep and port scan for machines on this new network, but he discovered only the single workstation running the wireless access point. The workstation returned information on its operating system and coughed up the status of several running services—but its hard drive was sealed tight.

Gragg considered his options. He wanted a quick exploit that would give him a remote shell on the host machine with sysadmin rights. From there, he should be able to see into the hardwired LAN not yet visible to him.

Since he didn’t have the luxury of time, he opted for an attack that was effective against a wide range of devices: SNMP—a buffer overrun that exploited a known vulnerability in unpatched implementations of Simple Network Management Protocol. This service was present on the target, and it was worth a shot.

He switched to the command console and quickly keyed in the commands, pointing his exploit code to port 161 on the target machine. If the target was running an unpatched OpenBSD, he’d get to root pretty quick.

He executed the command, waited, and in a moment he got a return instructing him to telnet to port 6161 at the target IP address. He sighed in relief. Another hurdle overcome.

Gragg launched a telnet session and soon had a root prompt. He now owned Boerner’s workstation. Time to escalate network privileges.

Gragg searched the target machine’s domain but was disappointed by the results. His victim was linked to a single server—and that was sealed up tight. It barely divulged any information. Gragg took a look in the server’s shared directory and raised his eyebrows.

The directory contained a single Web page file. A page named HackMe.htm.

Gragg smiled. He was beginning to feel a connection with Sobol. Sobol wanted him to get this far—that’s what this was all about.

Gragg double-clicked on the file. A plain white Web page appeared in a browser window. It had logon and password text boxes and a SUBMIT button—nothing more.

There were options here. Unicode directory traversal? Gragg smiled. Logon. Sobol was encouraging him. This had all the earmarks of an SQL-injection attack, and he had a favorite one. In the logon and password boxes he entered:

‘or 1=1--

He clicked the SUBMIT button. After a moment’s pause an animation appeared with the words “Logon successful. Please wait….” Gragg felt a rush of endorphins. He’d just received high praise from his new mentor. He was getting more comfortable by the minute in this environment.

In a few moments a slick Flash-based diagram of a cinderblock building appeared with various features highlighted. It was an isometric view depicting the building right in front of Gragg’s car. He could see the antenna tower with a call-out label captioned “WI-FI ANTENNA ARRAY.” He moved his pointer around the diagram and noticed rollovers come to life as his mouse passed over certain features.

Gragg saw a sensor array depicted on the roof, and the illustration looked like it included at least one camera. Gragg pointed at the array, and a translucent drop-down menu unfolded to the right of it containing a submenu:

Ultrawideband Transceiver

HD Video Multiplexer

Acoustical Sensor Array

He was beginning to feel the rush now. This wasn’t a game, and it was clearly designed by a well-funded and technologically capable person. He had always sought the edge—and this was it. This was as far from Main Street as he’d ever been. This wasn’t the tattooed, pierced, neo-tribal rebellious bullshit of his generation. This was a quiet demonstration of networked power. This was it.

Gragg selected HD Video Multiplexer from the drop-down menu. A new browser window appeared containing a selection of six thumbnail images. They appeared to be streaming video feeds. Gragg saw an image of a car in one thumbnail, and he double-clicked on it—as anyone his age would do. It expanded to fill the window. It was a live image of his car. He waved his hand, and his hand appeared waving on the video feed. Gragg noticed a superimposed red bracket around his license plate. A call-out label showed the software’s interpretation of the tag number. It was correct. So Sobol was employing an optical license plate reader. Gragg knew it was commercially available software—used all the time on interstates and downtown roads. But Sobol needed access to DMV records to determine who owned the car. He must have cracked a DMV database in order to get his registration information. Gragg considered the hourly rate of the average DMV worker and realized that gaining access wasn’t a problem for Sobol.

In the background of the video, there was a similar bracket around the VW Vanagon’s license plate. Gragg couldn’t help but wonder what was up with that. The van was smashed all to hell.

He closed that dialog box and checked out the other video feeds. There were cameras placed all around the cinderblock building, guarding it from every direction. Every time the wind blew, the swaying branches were outlined by vectored lines trying to resolve into something recognized by the software. Gragg found himself watching the red lines appear and disappear like a lava lamp. Motion-capture software? This was sophisticated stuff. No one would ever suspect that this isolated blockhouse held so much processing power.

Gragg closed the video feeds and moved around to the other visible features of the diagram. He noticed that a garage-like protrusion extended from the rear of the building. He pointed his mouse at it, and the words “H1 Alpha” materialized beneath his pointer. That explained the damage to the Vanagon. There was an automated Hummer here—just like at Sobol’s mansion. Gragg smiled. It was Sobol. He was walking in the footsteps of a genius. To his dismay, there was no more information visible for the Hummer, so he clicked on one of the nodes around the base of the building. The label “Seismic Sensors” appeared. Probably for detection of approaching vehicles and people.

As Gragg scrolled around the base of the building illustration, a rollover displayed the red, glowing outline of a door in the front wall. He looked up at the real wall some twenty feet ahead of him. He couldn’t see any indication that there was a door in the plain cinder blocks. He hovered his mouse cursor back over the section of wall in the diagram, and a drop-down menu appeared. It had two selections: “Open” and “Close.” Gragg clicked “Open.”

In front of his car, he saw a section of the cinderblock wall move inward and then slide sideways—revealing a dark doorway about five feet wide. Gragg half expected roiling steam to emanate from the opening. It was outlined with a soft red glow.

Was this it? Was he supposed to enter? He looked around warily. That would require getting out of his car.

The spotlight from the building still shined down on the area, revealing what a horrendous morass of mud he’d driven into. He had no idea how he’d get the car out without a tow truck. He couldn’t stay in here forever.

Gragg shut down his laptop and packed up all his gear. In a few minutes he had everything in his rucksack except for his Glock 9mm—which he kept in his right hand. Gragg opened the Tempo’s driver door with its trademark 1980s-Detroit-crack-squeak sound. He gingerly placed one combat-booted foot into the quagmire and felt it sink up to his knee. He groaned in disgust, but realizing he had no choice, he followed it with his other foot, closing the car door behind him. Pretty soon he was stagger-stepping through the deep mud toward the dark opening in the cinderblock wall.

Gragg stopped and took another look at the smashed VW Vanagon with Louisiana plates and anarchy bumper stickers. Shattered taillight plastic and twisted side moldings littered the area. The left rear wheel of the VW was smashed into immobility, set at an angle to the axle. The passenger door of the Vanagon was slightly open, with deep footprints leading out of the mud and toward the road.

Gragg stood for a moment, deciding whether to check it out. He realized he didn’t want to be walking around out here and continued staggering through the foot-sucking mud toward the building.

Before long he climbed up onto a ledge of solid ground that ringed the building. Gragg examined his legs. They were caked in mud. His feet were sopping wet. He tried to scrape the mud off his boots by dragging them against the ground but gave up and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. Then he chambered a round in the Glock and faced the opening.

Diffuse red light emanated from the edges of the door. It was just enough light to reveal a polished stone floor extending into the blackness beyond. Red. Low-frequency light not visible from any significant distance.

Suddenly a British-accented female voice spoke in midair right alongside Gragg’s head. “Come inside, Mr. Gragg.”

Gragg was so startled he reflexively squeezed off a shot with the Glock. The deafening crack echoed off into the sky. The bullet whined off the cinderblock wall, then howled out into the woods.

The female voice spoke again. It sounded slightly artificial, clipped. “Are you familiar with gunshot detectors? Police departments in major U.S. cities deploy them to identify and triangulate the precise location of gunshots the moment they occur. A gunshot has a distinct acoustic pattern. Even the weapon fired can be identified by its sound pattern. You apparently have a…nine millimeter.” There was a pause. “You won’t need it. You’ve earned the right to enter.”

Gragg looked down at the Glock in his hand. He took a breath. He’d never felt out of his depth technologically, but the disembodied voice was as close to magic as he’d ever experienced. He didn’t like the role of awed primitive. It didn’t suit him. He took another deep breath and tentatively spoke to the voice. “Who are you?”

The voice shot back. “This door will close permanently in ten seconds.”

Gragg’s thoughts scattered, and he hesitated for a moment before rushing through the doorway and into the darkness—feet squishing mud. The moment he did so, the door slid noiselessly closed behind him. The red glow from the door frame faded away as the opening sealed shut. Gragg stood in pitch-black darkness for a moment. It smelled not at all musty. It was super-clean, dry, filtered air. He wasn’t in South Texas anymore….

Suddenly a diffuse white light began to emanate from the walls. It didn’t flicker on, like fluorescent lights, but steadily rose from nothing to a comfortable, even glow. It was confident, effortless light, and completely silent.

Gragg found himself in a room twenty feet square, with a single steel door set in the middle of the wall straight ahead of him. The door had a dappled gunmetal look to its surface, as though it were meant to draw the eye. The walls in here were all glowing white panels—made of some nylon or fiberglass material. The floor was simple polished concrete.

The voice came back suddenly, startling Gragg as it circled around him. Gragg was hearing it, but he was still having difficulty accepting it. In real life a voice couldn’t appear in thin air. It wasn’t possible.

“You’ve come a long way, and you’ve accomplished much.” A pause. “Don’t be frightened by my voice. Its appearance in midair is accomplished through a HyperSonic Sound system. This technology is commercially available. Would you like to hear a technical explanation? Yes or no?”

Gragg looked around at the ceiling and walls. There were tiny plastic pods of various sorts mounted there. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“A HyperSonic Sound system—or HSS—does not use physical speakers. HSS pulsates quartz crystals at a frequency thousands of times faster than the vibrations in a normal speaker—creating ultrasonic waves at frequencies far beyond human hearing. Unlike lower-frequency sound, these waves travel in a tight path—a beam. Two beams can be focused to intersect each other, and where they interact they produce a third sonic wave whose frequency is exactly the difference between the two original sounds. In HSS that difference will fall within the range of human hearing—and will appear to come from thin air. This is known as a Tartini Tone—in honor of Guiseppe Tartini, the eighteenth-century Italian composer who first discovered this principle.”

Gragg was feeling slightly faint.

“This is only the beginning of what you will learn. You do wish to learn, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he blurted.

“Then we must determine your sincerity.”

The whir of a precise electrical motor came to his ears, and Gragg glanced around the room. A small console had opened up in the wall next to the door. Gragg warily approached it, his feet squishing mud onto the concrete floor. He saw no other muddy prints. He must have been the first to make it this far. A smile stole across his face, and he approached the console with more courage.

The console appeared to be an array of biometric devices—a handprint reader, a camera lens with a rubber viewfinder, and a microphone. There was also a small LCD screen—like the type found on the backs of airline seats. It was not illuminated.

The voice was right next to him. “Place either hand on the reader. Place your eye against the viewfinder, and adjust the microphone to a position approximately three inches to the right of your mouth.”

Gragg did as instructed. It was not the most comfortable setup, but he didn’t think complaining was a good idea.

“Very good. I can administer this test in one of seven different languages. Is English your primary language? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Gragg cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Good. I am going to ask a series of questions. You must answer truthfully—even if you think the truth is not the optimal response. This is not a test of your skills as a hacker. It is an effort to determine if you bear us ill will. A pattern of falsehoods will terminate the test. Early termination of the test will cause the air to be pumped from the room. This will create a partial vacuum that will cause the nitrogen to bubble out of your blood—resulting in an excruciating death. An MPEG video of your death will be placed on the Internet as a warning to others. Do you understand? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Fuck!” Gragg pulled his head up from the viewfinder and looked back at the featureless cinderblock wall.

“Stop!” The voice was so loud that it actually hurt. Then it returned to a comfortable volume. “Your earlier work was impressive. Your future lies ahead of you. Not behind you. Please return your eye to the viewfinder.” There was a pause. “I will not ask you a second time.”

Gragg was suddenly sweating. He felt his palm damp against the hand reader as he quickly returned his eye to the viewfinder. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“Stop talking until you are asked a question.”

Gragg bit his lip and couldn’t stop shaking. The phrase excruciating death kept running through his mind. This was not an idiot he was dealing with here—he was the idiot. And he was truly afraid.

“Answer truthfully or die. Do you know who built this place? Yes or no?

“Yes.”

“Speak the name slowly—first name, then last.”

“Matthew…Sobol.”

“Do you dislike Mr. Sobol? Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Do you admire Mr. Sobol? Yes or no?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Answer just ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

The sweating returned. “Yes!” Jesus H. fucking Christ…

“Would you be interested in playing an active role in Mr. Sobol’s plans?”

“Yes.”

“If you were generously rewarded with power, knowledge, and wealth, would you be willing to break the law and expose yourself to personal risk as required to fulfill the plans of Mr. Sobol?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No.”

“Would you be willing to follow the instructions of a dead person?”

Ahhhh…The feelings welling up inside of him surprised even Gragg. Here he was strapped to the polygraph from hell, and he still hated taking orders from anyone—and yes, he had a subtle prejudice against the dead. They had no skin in the game. Sobol was impressive, but Gragg wasn’t going to spend the rest of his fucking life serving a macro on steroids. Goddamnit.

“Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Fuck! “No.” Gragg closed his eyes and waited to die.

“Keep your eyes open.”

He complied immediately.

There was a pause. “To clarify. Your powerful intellect will be required to define the precise path to reach objectives set by Mr. Sobol. There will be a considerable degree of freedom in the means. The outcome will be all that matters. Knowing this, would you still have a problem performing in this role? Yes or no?”

Relief flooded over him. “No.”

“Would you be willing to direct others in the pursuit of Mr. Sobol’s goals—possibly resulting in the deaths of these subordinates?”

No problem. “Yes.”

“Do you have knowledge of a warrant out for your arrest in any state, territory, protectorate, or nation?”

“No.”

“Do you have a criminal record in any state, territory, protectorate, or nation?”

“No.”

“Do you take drugs?”

“No.”

“Do you have any significant medical condition or physical limitation?”

“No.”

“Are you currently in a significant romantic relationship?”

“No.”

“Do you have pressing family obligations?”

“No.”

“Do you have a history of mental illness?”

Hmmm. “Yes.”

“Have you ever purposely caused the death of another person?”

Gragg paused. “Yes.” He’d never really taken ownership of it before. He felt a strange pang of guilt that surprised him. It passed quickly.

“Are you available to begin work immediately?”

“Yes.” Gragg shrugged. Apparently this wasn’t a typical organization.

There was silence. It was deafening. Then—

“Mr. Gragg. You may lift your head from the viewfinder and remove your hand from the reader. Your convictions appear genuine. You are now under our protection. The remaining test is to determine your service rank and is a modified intelligence quotient exam. It was designed to assess your knowledge of human psychology, logic, mathematics, language, and your ability to think creatively while under pressure. It is not possible to fail this test, but performing well on it will greatly increase your personal power and the opportunities for your Faction.”

The LCD screen glowed to life, presenting a simple Web page with a crocus yellow background and a large title in Times New Roman font: Faction Multi-phasic Assessment Battery.

A START button appeared just beneath the title.

The Voice spoke again, “This test will take several hours. You will be judged on both the accuracy and speed of your answers. Use the touch screen to enter your selections. You may return to any question to change an answer, although you will be penalized for doing so. When you are ready to begin, press the START button.

Gragg took a look around, shrugged his shoulders, and clicked START.

It wound up taking Gragg three hours and twelve minutes to complete the ”multi-phasic battery”—at the end of which his legs were lead and his back was killing him from hunching over. Worst of all, his brain felt sucked dry. He’d never been presented with such a grueling test of his intellect. The questions ranged from simple memory retention and spatial relationships to intense cryptographic theory. There were brutally complex logic problems—elaborate tautological diagrams and language math. The most enjoyable questions were the ones on social engineering. Gragg felt extremely confident of his answers there. In fact, he felt confident about most of the exam. He was just emotionally and intellectually spent.

He expected to see a test score or something at the end, but instead a simple Web page announced the completion of the exam and the amount of time elapsed: 3 hrs 12 m.

Gragg stared at the little LCD screen, wondering what to do next.

The Voice returned, startling Gragg. “You scored very well, Mr. Gragg, and your rank will reflect this. You are now the founding member of a Faction. Welcome.”

The steel door next to the console clanked and moved inward, then noiselessly slid aside, revealing another dimly lit room beyond. Gragg grabbed his rucksack—he didn’t even bother to draw his pistol. He walked confidently through the door.

This room was perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. It looked more like a pagan temple than anything else. Four stone pillars supported the relatively low, arched ceiling. The floors were of polished granite, and a half-dozen pedestals covered with chrome or stainless steel domes were set about the room. Soft, almost imperceptible white light suffused the chamber.

Straight ahead at the far wall was a dais, whereupon sat a wide high-definition plasma-screen television. As Gragg moved forward, dried mud cracking off his boots, he saw a man in his early to mid-thirties displayed on the plasma screen. The man’s hawkish features were accentuated by piercing blue eyes. His hair was light brown and neatly groomed. He wore a crisp linen shirt and was viewed in medium close-up, with his hands held in front of him, fingers interleaved in quiet repose—staring straight at Gragg as he approached the dais.

As Gragg came into a circle set into the granite floor, the man nodded solemnly to him in greeting. Even if Gragg hadn’t seen the photos on the news, he would have known this man instantly. It was Matthew Sobol. Gragg buckled to his knees on the stone floor before him. For the first time in his life Gragg finally understood what a cathedral was—it was a psychological hack.

Sobol was there, larger than life in perfect digital clarity. He extended his arms in a gesture of welcome.

“Few have accomplished what you have. You’re a rare person. But then you know that.” Sobol let the words sink in. “While I lived, I could not father a son. But in death I will. What things I could teach you, were you my son. What pride I would have had in you.”

Gragg’s eyes welled with tears. He felt emotion from a place he’d long forgotten. Memories of his father and long years seeking approval never granted bubbled up from the depths of his mind.

Sobol continued. “I wish I could have met you—you who will be my eyes, my ears, and my hands. My growing power will course through you. I will protect you. Like any father protects his beloved son.”

Gragg saw in Sobol’s eyes the respect and compassion he had always sought. The acceptance for who and what he was. This was home. Gragg was finally home. He wept openly. He was filled with joy for the first time in his life. Nothing else mattered to him anymore.

Sobol looked on. “There is so much I wish to teach you….”

Chapter 20:// Speaking with the Dead

It was a perfect autumn dawn. The hills were shrouded in the mist that usually burned off by mid-morning, and the glowing orb of the sun silhouetted the columns of SUVs heading south on the 101. An earthy fragrance sent aloft by a hundred thousand lawn sprinklers filled the air and a constant airy rush, like the sound of falling water or wind in the trees, echoed across the valley from the freeway. Southern California was booting up for another day—as long as the power grid held.

Jon Ross strode across the pavement of his hotel parking lot, dressed impeccably in a black pinstriped, four-button suit and a gray silk tie. His black leather laptop bag was slung over one shoulder.

Ross preferred corporate residence suites like this. They usually had open parking lots and direct-access front doors. It was more like a regular apartment and less like a hotel. He almost felt like a resident of Woodland Hills. He breathed in deeply, appreciating the morning air. Was that the smell of jasmine?

Ross stopped short.

Detective Sebeck leaned on the hood of Ross’s silver Audi sedan and sipped takeout coffee while reading the Ventura Star. He didn’t even look up. “Morning, Jon.”

Ross resumed walking toward his car, but more slowly. “Good morning, Sergeant. Do you normally get up this early?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” As Ross walked past, Sebeck folded the paper and threw it down on the car hood in front of him. The headline screamed Second Massacre at Sobol Estate in a font size normally reserved for advertisements or declarations of war.

Ross didn’t pick it up. “I live in the western hemisphere; it would have been difficult to miss.”

Sebeck stabbed a thick finger toward a sidebar story elsewhere on page one.

Ross cocked his head to read Sobol Funeral Today. He looked back up at Sebeck.

Sebeck flipped Ross’s lapel. “Dressed a little mournfully, aren’t you?”

Ross was taken aback. The cop was perceptive. Ross dropped his formality and nodded in acknowledgment. “It seemed odd to me—his having a viewing. He doesn’t strike me as the religious type.”

“No kidding. So why are you trying to shake me by ducking out early?”

Ross looked down at the parking lot and squeezed his laptop bag’s shoulder strap rhythmically. “I don’t want my name to wind up in the news.”

Sebeck considered this. “Is that what all this is about? You’re afraid of Sobol?”

“As a computer consultant, the Daemon might consider me a threat.”

Sebeck nodded. “All right. We’ll keep our collaboration secret, but if you’re going to pursue Sobol, anyway, remember: I can open doors for you—and you for me.”

Ross breathed the morning air deeply again as he pondered the offer. He looked up. “What do you hope to accomplish that the FBI can’t?”

“You tell me.”

They stared at each other for a moment more until Ross nodded. “Who knows I’m working with you?”

“The better question is: who would care in all this insanity?”

“Pete, please.”

“The FBI knows—but I’d be surprised if Trear is thinking about that this morning. They lost a Hostage Rescue Team last night.”

“I’m not going to meet with the FBI computer forensics team. Tell Trear I pussed out.”

“No problem.” Sebeck looked him in the eye. “You made the right call at the estate. I need you to tell me what Sobol’s up to.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“And what did you come up with?”

“Nothing.” Ross popped his trunk and went to stow his laptop.

“That’s what you came up with? Nothing?”

“Everything we’ve been dealing with so far is a diversion. Bullshit to keep us busy. I went online last night to check out the talk in the taverns of Gedan—forgetting that the Feds shut down the CyberStorm server farm.”

“The taverns of Gedan?”

“It’s the biggest port city in Cifrain—a monarchy in CyberStorm’s online game The Gate.”

Sebeck just stared at him blankly.

“Forget that. The point is this: The Gate is up and running, Pete.”

“Wait—that’s impossible. The Feds shut the servers down.”

“In California, yes. But CyberStorm Entertainment maintains a Chinese mirror site for just such a contingency. It’s beyond the reach of U.S. law. CyberStorm was losing a million a day in revenue, so they switched over to the mirror site and filed suit against the FBI in federal court.”

“Filed suit? For what?”

“For unlawfully shutting down their business.”

“The judge will throw it out.”

“Don’t count on it. CyberStorm is a wholly owned subsidiary of a multinational corporation. They have a serious amount of political clout.”

“So this is what people talk about in the taverns of Gedan?”

“No, that was The Wall Street Journal online. In Gedan the talk is all about the sudden death of the Mad Emperor.”

Sebeck grimaced. “The Mad Emperor? They got that right.”

“Well, his funeral is today.”

“In the real world or the fake one?”

“Both.”

Sebeck threw up his hands.

Ross soldiered on. “A power struggle between Factions is anticipated for control of The Gate.”

“This is a game?”

Ross nodded. “But rituals figure prominently in The Gate, as, apparently, they do in real life. Thus Sobol’s funeral.”

“Jon, I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“Sobol might be trying to communicate something through his funeral.”

“Okay, now I’m with you. But you don’t think he’s trying to communicate something to us?”

Ross shook his head. “I’m hoping we’re being more perceptive than he anticipated. Let me emphasize hoping.”

“Well, that’s optimistic.”

Ross looked at his watch. “Look, the viewing’s in Santa Barbara. That’s an hour and a half away. It wouldn’t hurt to be early.” He gestured for Sebeck to get in on the passenger side. “I’ll drive.”

Sebeck glanced at the gleaming Audi A8. “Only because my cruiser’s wrecked.”

Ross’s Audi raced up the coast on U.S. 101. The morning mist was already clearing, providing a view of the Channel Islands and the offshore oil platforms. It was a gorgeous day.

Sebeck settled into the black leather of the passenger seat. The dashboard and door panels were trimmed in burled walnut and brushed steel. So this was what rich people drove? The twelve-cylinder engine growled with apparently limitless power as they accelerated past another car on a hill. Sebeck figured this car could give a police interceptor a run for its money.

The stereo system alone looked like it could land a 747. John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme played on the stereo. Coltrane might as well have been sitting in Sebeck’s lap for the quality of the sound. The title and artist displayed in Teutonic yellow dots that scrolled like a Times Square news flash across the front of the sound console.

Sebeck looked over to Ross. “I’ve never seen a stereo like that.”

“Scandinavian. Linux-based DVD-Audio emulation. Four hundred gigs. I can store twenty thousand songs at five hundred times the clarity of a CD.”

“You have twenty thousand songs?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It isn’t?”

“Hard-drive space is cheap.”

Sebeck just gave him a look.

“Okay, I’ll admit I have a technology problem. I’m in a twelve-step program.”

Sebeck looked around at the car interior again. “How much is a car like this?”

“About a hundred and thirty. But I talked them down to a hundred and twenty.”

Sebeck winced. That was a third higher than his annual salary. A pang of jealousy stole over him. Surely police work was vital. Why did the white-collar professions earn so much more? It was a puzzle to him. One he didn’t think he was going to resolve.

The Audi raced north, giving him plenty of time to try.

Ross had a turn-by-turn map to the funeral home, but they could just as easily have followed the satellite news trucks. As they drove past the manicured front lawn of the funeral home, the parking lot overflowed with camera-ready protestors holding up signs reading BURN IN HELL, SOBOL, American flags, and yellow ribbons—while still others bore banners with anarchy symbols and pentagrams. It was a flea market of anger. Police and reporters with microphones vied with each other, alternately shoving back competing protestors and interviewing them. The side streets leading to the funeral home were blocked off by SBP traffic cops and sawhorses. No cars were allowed in.

Ross turned to Sebeck. “I’m not sure about this.”

“This is where I come in. Pull up to the roadblock.”

Ross turned into the side street, and two policemen held up their hands to stop them, then pointed back at the main street.

Sebeck lowered his passenger window and showed his badge. One of the cops came up to the window. Sebeck spoke with authority. “Detective Sergeant Sebeck, Ventura County Sheriff’s Department. I was heading the murder investigation in Thousand Oaks.”

“Welcome to Santa Barbara, Sergeant. I saw you on the news. Park around back.” He waved to the other cop to move the barrier aside. The first cop leaned down to Sebeck again. “The Feds are running the show inside.”

Sebeck nodded and motioned for Ross to drive on through.

They entered the funeral home through the rear door. After a brief discussion, one of the federal agents at the door peeled off to escort them to the chapel.

As they moved through the rear hallways, the acrid smell of embalming chemicals and cleansers assaulted them. Men and women in suits were everywhere, going through files and computers in side offices and interviewing a man who appeared to be a mortician in a lab coat.

Soon they passed through a double set of automated doors that let out onto an ornate hallway with marble tile floors. They could hear funerary music playing ahead, and another doorway brought them through a side entrance into a churchlike room with a podium, rows of pews, mountains of flowers, and a raised dais whereupon sat a bronze coffin on a pedestal draped in white satin. The lid of the coffin was partitioned for viewings, and the upper portion was raised—although the body within could not be seen from this vantage point.

Everyone in the place looked like an FBI agent—including the dozen or so people sitting in the nearly empty pews up front. A crime scene photographer was busy taking photos of the room from every angle—although it wasn’t apparent what crime was being committed just now. Apparently the Feds didn’t want to wait.

Ross gestured to the coffin. “Behold the devil himself.”

The FBI agent escorting them excused himself to resume his post, leaving Sebeck and Ross standing in the doorway relatively alone. The sonorous tones of funeral Muzak were punctuated by the occasional squawking of police radios.

Sebeck glanced around the room. It was remarkably unremarkable. Tapestries depicting generic salvation—lots of light beams coming from on high—hung down between the unexceptional stained glass windows. A stylized statue of Jesus stood at the head of the chapel, set into an alcove. It was eroded in a modern art sort of way to render it theologically inoffensive and appeared to be fashioned out of cheap, imitation-stone resin—stuff that would last until the Second Coming. Its hands were outstretched like an Australian-rules football referee signaling a goal, with robes hanging down.

The room was modern and provided no sense of history or permanence. The floor sounded hollow under the heels, and on the whole the room reminded him more of a library annex than a chapel. It was sterile and unfeeling, except for the banks of flowers—all white lilies—which through their sheer numbers answered the unasked question: How many white lilies can you cram onto this stage? This many.

An easel to the left of the coffin held a foam-core poster of Matthew Sobol, in younger and saner days. He looked like an accountant or an insurance broker. His hair was short and dusty brown. He was smiling good-naturedly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he would kill fifteen people—most of them law officers.

An eternal flame—which someone had spitefully extinguished or never lit—stood next to the easel on a trestle table. Apparently the authorities had a different eternal flame in mind for Sobol.

Scattered around the room in groups of two and three were what looked to be FBI agents. Sebeck felt sure they were trying to figure out a way to declare a funeral illegal. Certainly Sebeck felt like putting Sobol’s body through a mulcher.

Ross tapped his shoulder. “I want to see him.”

Sebeck nodded, and they both stepped out across the pews. All eyes turned on them. Carpeting absorbed most of the sound of their footfalls, but they still seemed deafening in the stillness of this place. Ross nodded to serious-looking men who watched them pass. The men stared back.

Sebeck led Ross to the dais steps. They ascended slowly, and as they did, the mortal remains of Matthew Sobol came into view from beyond the rim of the coffin.

Sebeck came here filled with hate. He despised this diseased freak who had slain Deputy Larson and all the others. He was wholly unprepared for his reaction upon first sight of Sobol’s corpse.

Sobol was practically a skeleton already. It was shocking how the cancer had wasted him away. His disease was readily apparent from the massive scar tracing along the left side of his bald head. It looked like they had opened his skull to attempt surgical resection. The scar was so long it descended to the orbital socket of Sobol’s left eye—where a black patch indicated that his eye had been removed. No other effort had been made to make Sobol presentable. His cheeks were sunken and pale, his neck lost in the spaciousness of a stiff white shirt collar and a Victorian jacket and tie. His dead hands clutched a golden cross against his chest. Most alarming of all was Sobol’s one remaining eye—oddly open and staring milky blue at the ceiling. It was a window to madness and terror.

Nothing had prepared Sebeck for this. A seed of pity took root in him. Sobol had endured the tortures of the damned. Surely Sebeck wanted Sobol to burn in Hell—but he’d never considered Sobol had been living in Hell for some time already.

Ross croaked, “Jesus.”

A woman spoke from behind them. “What did you expect to find, Mr. Ross?”

Ross and Sebeck spun around to regard a young black woman sitting in the first pew. She was neither beautiful nor unattractive. She wore an immaculate dark blue pantsuit, but she did not have the telltale earphone of the Feds. A white guy sat in the pew behind her, leaning forward to join her symbolically. He had buzz-cut blond hair and wore a dark plaid sports jacket and a black sweater. He didn’t look uncomfortable in the jacket, but somehow the jacket appeared uncomfortable with him.

Ross looked to Sebeck and then back to the woman. “Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. You’re Jon Frederick Ross, son of Harold and Ivana. Graduated with honors 1999 from the University of Illinois at Urbana with a master’s in computer science. President and CEO of Cyberon Systems, Inc., a one-man Delaware Service Corporation founded in 2003.” She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a badge folder. “Natalie Philips. National Security Agency.”

“Oh shit.” Ross looked to the nearby Jesus for mercy.

Sebeck stepped in. “I’m trying to keep Jon’s name out of the news. He’s worried that Sobol will come after him.”

“Interesting.” She stood up and approached the dais. “Egotistical, but interesting.”

She was lean and fit—probably about thirty years old. Sebeck couldn’t help but notice her body and cursed his libido.

She gestured to the coffin. “I’m surprised you’d come here if you thought Sobol was after you. He might have packed the coffin with C-four.”

Ross stepped away from the casket warily.

She laughed. “Relax. We T-rayed it and swept the whole chapel for computers and wireless transmitters. Came up empty.” She walked up and stood looking over Sobol’s remains. “Apparently Sobol anticipated his unpopularity and left behind a program to carry out his funeral arrangements.”

Sebeck frowned. “The Daemon did this?”

“It ordered the deluxe package from the funeral home’s Web page—but it never had direct control over these objects. Just-in-time inventory; the coffin was built by Bates Corporation yesterday and shipped overnight by truck. We tailed it the whole way. The lilies arrived this morning. This is the mortuary equivalent of a number two combo.”

Ross extended his hand. “Agent Philips.” She shook it.

Sebeck extended his hand, too. “Detective—“

“—Sergeant Peter Sebeck,” she finished for him. “My condolences on the deaths of your colleagues. It must be very hard to see this psycho in the flesh.”

Sebeck nodded. “What’s left of him.” He looked down at the body. “I didn’t expect him to look so…”

“Pitiful?”

“Yeah.”

Philips viewed Sobol’s remains, too. She gestured to the cross. “They say he found religion in the end.”

A cold laugh came out of Sebeck. “I thought crosses burned vampires.”

Ross changed the subject. “What’s the NSA doing up here, Agent Philips? Isn’t the big investigation down in Thousand Oaks?”

“I’m not a field agent. I’m a steganalyst.”

Ross nodded, then answered Sebeck’s quizzical look. “She finds hidden messages. Terrorists and drug traffickers sometimes hide data inside JPEGs and other computer files.”

“I won’t ask why you know that. My own parents don’t understand what I do.”

“So, what brings a steganalyst to Sobol’s funeral?”

“Symbolism. Sobol’s games are packed with symbols—and I’m not convinced all of them are harmless.”

“What’s that got to do with his funeral?”

“What’s a funeral but a symbolic ritual? He’s sending a message. Maybe to us, maybe to someone else.”

“Perhaps. One thing’s for sure, it got us all here.”

She nodded grimly. “Yes, but it looks like the Feds have scared off anyone else.”

Ross leaned in close. “You’re trying to identify the Daemon’s components, aren’t you?”

The buzz-cut guy bristled in the pews. “Dr. Philips, remember your directive.”

Ross stepped back. “Who’s he?”

“Hard to say. I just call him The Major.”

The Major didn’t respond. He just stared.

Philips stepped into Ross’s line of sight. “Mr. Ross, you played three hundred forty-seven hours of The Gate in the last year. That makes you the only CyberStorm game expert cleared by the FBI. You’re on my list of people to talk to. As long as you’re here, I’ve got a lot of questions about the MMORPG subculture.”

“Three hundred forty-seven hours? That’s embarrassing.”

Sebeck smirked. “You need to get a life, Jon.”

Philips pressed on. “What’s your level of knowledge concerning the Ego AI and CyberStorm 3-D graphics engines?”

“You think Sobol’s hidden components of the Daemon in his games?”

“Think texture maps—“

“Ahh…there’ll be thousands of them.”

“There are. That’s not including custom maps created by individual users with the map editor.”

“But why would Sobol bother? He could just as easily hide scripting files on some forgotten server. There’s no reason to hide anything inside his games.”

“Sobol’s AI engine and CyberStorm’s graphics codecs power a dozen popular games. You can understand why I’m pursuing this angle. They encompass tens of millions of installs worldwide.”

“Have you interviewed the CyberStorm programmers?”

“We polygraphed them all. None knew anything about Sobol’s plan—although plenty of them wrote code for purposes they didn’t understand.”

“That’s no surprise. It’s project management.”

“Proximity card reader logs showed that Pavlos and Singh were in and out of Sobol’s office wing all during the last year. Their workstations were physically replaced last month, and their hard-drive images contained nothing unusual.”

“The lack of incriminating evidence is suspicious?”

“I’m saying they were working long hours on something together—something that’s missing. And they were game developers. Some of the best in the business.”

Ross considered this. “So that’s why you think his games contain hidden data?”

She nodded. “The MMORPG world is a male-dominated subculture. I need a guide.”

“A guide?”

“I need to see these games as a skilled player sees them—and I can’t trust some twelve-year-old kid or a CyberStorm employee. I need secrecy.”

“You don’t want the Daemon to know what you’re doing.”

“Look, you’re an IT professional. You know how dangerous this situation is. We don’t know what the Daemon’s up to, and we don’t know how big it is.”

The Major stood up. “Dr. Philips.”

She turned and stabbed a finger in his direction. “If you’re going to censor my conversations this entire damned trip, Major, then I’m heading back to Maryland. I, of all people, am acutely aware of the national security implications of this discussion, and I am having it because it is necessary. Do you read me?”

“I have my orders, Doctor.”

“Well, then we have a situation—because my orders are to stop the Daemon, and apparently your orders are to stop me.”

The Major stood impassively. She eyed him a bit longer, then turned back to Ross. “I need to derive the Daemon’s topology in order to assess the threat.”

It took Ross a moment to recover from her sudden outburst toward The Major. “You need its master plan.“

“Yes. I’m developing a timeline of its creation so that we can correlate it with Sobol’s real-world financial and travel activities. If I can reconstruct the development timeline, I might be able to infer its topology.”

Sebeck interjected. “Topology?”

They both looked at him.

Philips sighed. “The physical or logical layout of a networked system.”

Philips then looked back at Ross and continued. “But there are bigger worries.” She cast an eye toward The Major, then pulled Ross aside, conferring with him privately. This close, Agent Philips had a slight flowery scent that was surprisingly feminine. Ross saw the sharp intellect in her eyes, the intensity. A slight hot flash spread over his skin as he relished this intimacy.

Philips was oblivious. “Huge amounts of money flowed from Sobol’s bank accounts immediately after his death. ACH wire transfers totaling tens of millions of dollars went offshore. He also took out large lines of credit in the months before his death. This money, too, went overseas the day he died. The Feds are still tracing it. Picture the combination of a widely distributed, compartmentalized application with high failover tolerance—perhaps thousands of copies of each component, able to reconstitute itself if any x-percentage of its components are destroyed.”

Ross was nodding as she talked. God, this woman was razor sharp. He found his normal resistance to all thoughts not his own falling away.

She continued, “Now combine an application like that—a widely distributed entity that never dies—with tens of millions of dollars and the ability to purchase goods and services. It’s answerable to no one and has no fear of punishment.”

“My God. It’s a corporation.”

“Bingo.”

Sebeck’s cell phone twittered. He welcomed the intrusion. He was just holding hats in this conversation. “Excuse me.” Sebeck turned and walked away as he pulled his phone out. He glanced at the number on the LCD panel. The caller was unknown. He answered it. “Sebeck.”

A familiar, rasping voice came to his ear. “Forgive my appearance, Sergeant.”

Sebeck sucked in a breath and gazed at Sobol’s corpse lying in state six feet away. He glanced at the FBI and NSA agents standing around the chapel. Ross and Agent Philips were still locked in an animated technobabble conversation nearby.

Sebeck moved right up to the coffin and stared down at Sobol’s corpse. “Is hell a toll call for you, Sobol?”

Sebeck stood waiting. There was a moment’s delay.

The voice returned, weak and wavering. “Detective Sebeck. It’s too late.” The sound of labored breathing and wheezing came over the line. “There is no stopping my Daemon now.”

Sebeck looked again toward Philips and Ross, but Sobol was already talking.

“I’m sorry, but I must destroy you. They will require a sacrifice, Sergeant.” Sobol wheezed. “It’s necessary. Maybe before it’s over, you’ll understand. I don’t know if I’m right. I don’t know anymore.”

Sebeck looked down at Sobol’s tortured remains. The insane eye matched the voice of madness.

Sobol’s voice hissed urgently. “Before you die…invoke the Daemon. Do it in the months before your death. Say this…exactly this: ‘I, Peter Sebeck, accept the Daemon.’” Sobol gasped for air. “Either way…you must die.”

The line went dead.

Sebeck folded his phone and stared hard at Sobol’s corpse for a few moments. Then he spoke loudly. “Agent Philips.”

Philips and Ross stopped talking.

Sebeck turned to face them. “That call I just received. It was Sobol.”

Ross and Philips exchanged looks. He had their attention now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was listening carefully.”

“What did he say?” Philips motioned to The Major, who came sprinting up. He took the dais steps in a leap. They all converged on Sebeck’s location at the coffin.

“He sounded just like that.” Sebeck pointed at the corpse. “He was wheezing and semi-coherent. He kept telling me that I was going to die. That it was necessary that I die.”

“What else did he say? Try to remember it, word-for-word.”

Sebeck thought on it. “He said I needed to ‘invoke’ the Daemon. That I needed to ‘accept’ it. He said I had to speak directly to it in the months before my death. But that either way I was going to die.”

Philips looked grim.

Sebeck pondered the situation. “You think it’s more mind games?”

She turned to The Major. “Find out if those wiretaps on Detective Sebeck’s phone and computer lines have gone through. If they haven’t, fast-track them.”

The Major nodded and immediately bolted down the center aisle and out the front doors with a bang.

Sebeck watched the man leave, then turned to Philips. “You think Sobol will call again?”

“Maybe. He’s most likely manipulating you.”

“He definitely wants me to do something.”

Philips stared. “Don’t. In fact, we’ll prevent the press from communicating with you or any members of your family.”

Ross raised his eyebrows at that. “That’s to prevent him from inadvertently triggering a new Daemon event?”

“Precisely. There’s no doubt it’s reading the news. So you’d be advised to stay out of the headlines.”

“You’re quarantining me?”

“Only for a little while. At least until we can reliably monitor Sobol’s communications. You’ll be very useful in that regard, Sergeant.”

Two suited agents double-timed it up the dais steps. One whispered in Philips’s ear. Her face displayed momentary shock before she regained her composure. She glanced at Sebeck and Ross. “I have to go, gentlemen. Sobol is up to something.” She and the agents scurried down the steps of the dais. Several other darkly suited men converged on her from far-flung corners of the chapel.

Ross called after her. “Do you still need a guide, Agent Philips?”

She didn’t turn around. “I’ll contact you soon.” She and the other agents banged through the doors and out of the chapel.

Ross gestured to the door swinging closed in her wake. “Doctorate in mathematics from Stanford, and she’s a graduate of the Cryptologic School at Fort Meade. That woman is sharp as hell. I think I’m in love.”

Sebeck chuckled to himself.

“What?”

“Good luck with that.” He started for the front doors.

Chapter 21:// Hotel Menon

The Republic of Nauru was the smallest, most remote republic in the world. A spit of coral in the South Pacific, it was barely ten kilometers long and half as wide and had all the topographical complexity of a soccer field. Nauru was basically a phosphate mine that convinced the U.N. it was a country.

Dominated first by the Germans and after World War II by the Australians, the Nauruans had come to accept the fact that their chief industry was selling off the ground they stood on. With their phosphate deposits nearly exhausted by the turn of the millennium, the interior of the island—what the locals called “topside”—was now a ravaged, strip-mined wasteland carved down to the coral bedrock. Fully 90 percent of Nauru was a lifeless expanse swept by choking, talcumlike dust. The place had been so systematically scoured of life by mining equipment that the Nauruans considered buying a new island and physically relocating their entire country—leaving a forwarding address with the U.N. However, after most of the tiny nation’s wealth evaporated in investment scandals, the Nauruans had to face a grim reality: they were here to stay.

The entire population of ten thousand South Sea, islanders now lived on a narrow band of sand and palm trees ringing the island—a quarter of which was taken up by an airfield—and tried to ignore the ecological nightmare of the interior.

Anji Anderson had never toured an entire country in twenty minutes before. Afterward she realized there were only three things to do on Nauru: drink heavily, lament the past, or engage in international money laundering. Judging from the private jets at the airport and the forest of satellite dishes, the latter was Nauru’s future.

The community of nations officially took a dim view of money-laundering centers with lax banking and incorporation laws and powerful privacy regulations—but then again, at some point every government had need of such things. The Daemon had directed Anderson to an informative Web page prior to her whirlwind tour of offshore tax havens, and it opened her eyes. Tax havens were tolerated—and in some cases facilitated—by powerful nations and global corporations. Intelligence agencies needed to wire untraceable money to informants or to fund operations in various troubled or soon-to-be-troubled regions. Corporations needed to incentivize key people without interference from investment groups and regulators. All of this was possible in areas far from the public eye. At twelve hundred miles from the nearest neighboring island, Nauru was both incredibly remote and, due to decades of mining, physically unsightly. And tourists and journalists weren’t allowed: Nauru issued only business visas. No rebels could take to the hills here, either, because the Nauruans had sold the hills years ago.

Anderson smiled as she lay soaking in the sun, poolside at the Hotel Menon—one of only two hotels on the island. If she kept her chaise lounge pointed in this exact direction, she could avoid seeing rusted derricks as she looked out over the ocean.

Evenings were the best time. The sunsets here were huge pyrotechnic displays with towering clouds that melted into the distant horizon. It almost made up for the rusted ruin of the place and the fact that the air was so humid that standing in the ocean breeze was like taking a shower. But in the time she’d been employed by the Daemon, her world had taken on a dimension of true adventure, and this was part of it. Forget Machu Picchu or Prince Patrick Island—that was soo bourgeois. She was in a country probably none of her well-traveled and educated friends had ever heard of, much less been to. One that was not on any commonly used map. She laughed to herself from behind her Lemon Drop martini. She had just left the Isle of Man two days ago—the Nevada of the British Isles—and she had no idea where she’d be going tomorrow. She didn’t care. She didn’t have to. She felt oddly secure for the first time in her life. A kept woman. As a well-paid consultant on retainer to Daedalus Research, Inc.—no doubt owned by the Daemon—she was making more money then she’d ever made in her life. All her travel expenses were being paid on an apparently bottomless company credit card. Her airline tickets were all first class, and she had a chartered private jet for this little jaunt out to Nauru. She was bewildered and excited. Every day was filled with surprises. What a change from the network affiliate. Her new boss was an undead automaton from hell, true, but no job was perfect.

Anderson listened to chatter in a dozen languages at the poolside tables around her. She felt eyes upon her in her relatively modest bikini. There were few other women about, but no one was making a move—unsure of which underworld figure she belonged to. She smiled to herself. Her man was about as underworld as you could get….

The Hotel Menon looked like an upscale Motel 6. Casa Blanca in stucco and plywood. Most of the people conducting business here never had to physically set foot on the island, so appearances didn’t matter much. Those who did make the journey typically came to the edge of the world just to exchange briefcases. Most of these transactions were technically legal, but they weren’t the sort of thing participants wanted on the evening news back home.

Pale-faced, tubby Russians in impeccable Armani suits sat with Arabs in robes so white it hurt to look at them. Ruddy-cheeked Australians and Nipponese in silk suits looked down through their sunglasses to examine the spotty glasses before drinking to the health of their business partners. Most tables sported two or three expressionless Terminator types scanning the patio for trouble and thumbing the handles of metallic briefcases. Anderson was finally doing serious journalism. If only her friends knew.

Of course, she wasn’t here as a journalist. She was undercover as CFO of a Hong Kong fiber optic concern. She smiled. Her business card was spectacular, with a holographic cross-section of a bundle of fiber, glittering with light.

Her new satellite phone emitted a melodic ringtone. She lifted up her sunglasses and pulled a small encryption chip from its location, clipped invisibly in her hair. She grabbed the phone from a nearby end table and fitted the chip into a slot on the side. Then she answered it. No need to say anything. She knew who it was.

It was The Voice with her clipped British accent. “Can you get to a satellite news channel? Yes or no.”

Anderson glanced around. She saw a television mounted over the hotel bar beyond tinted glass. It was always tuned to business news. “Yes.”

“Go to it. CyberStorm Entertainment.” The line clicked off.

Synthetic bitch. She liked Sobol’s voice better. Anderson yanked the chip and stowed it, as though fixing her hair. She saw a Ukrainian enforcer staring at her longingly. She pointedly ignored him and wondered what sort of dental hygiene was prevalent in the former Eastern Bloc nations. She also wondered what physical security the Daemon could offer her.

She gathered her things and clicked across the tiled patio to the refrigerated air of the bar. An Australian satellite news feed was already on, but muted. Anderson smiled brightly at Oto, the Tahitian bartender, in his starched collar and black vest. She wondered what horrific thing he did to deserve exile on Nauru. Probably hacked someone to death with a machete. “Oto, can you turn the volume up?”

“Yes, Ms. Vindmar.”

Her cover name—a deliberately amateurish attempt at privacy, since she was traveling under her real passport.

The crawl at the bottom of the cluttered TV screen flashed “CyberStorm Entertainment.” The newscaster’s Aussie accent came up, “…from the American NASDAQ. CyberStorm Entertainment’s share price has plummeted 97 percent in the four hours following a press release by the deceased CTO Matthew Sobol, in which he claims to have placed a back door in the company’s Ego AI engine. Share prices of third-party game companies using CyberStorm’s software have also been punished since the news—and lawsuits are already in the works as products are yanked from store shelves worldwide. Analysts expect a cloud will be hanging over the entire PC gaming sector until the full extent of the problem is known.”

Oto smiled in that good-natured way South Seas islanders have when noticing how fucked up the mainland is. “The dead are punishing the living, eh?”

Strangely, Anderson swelled with pride. That’s my boss for you.

But why had the Daemon phoned her about it? Something was up, and it had everything to do with Tremark Holdings, IBC. She was sure of it. She was also glad she didn’t have to figure any of it out—since the Daemon was handing her both the clues and the answers in its own sweet time.

“May I join you?”

Anderson jerked her head to see a handsome, square-jawed American in a floral print shirt and khakis standing over her. He was in his mid-thirties, but he had a trim waist, broad shoulders, and rugged good looks that made Anderson imagine a string of broken-hearted women stretching from Minnesota to Sumatra. He had that cool, self-assured air that effective people have.

Anderson acted cool right back. “Can’t you see I’m catching the business report?”

He straddled a bar stool next to her. “There are more convenient places than Nauru to do that. So what brings you way out here?”

“An intense desire to be left alone.”

He laughed. Then he leaned close and spoke sotto voce, “The better question is: what is Anji Anderson, previously of KTLZ TV, doing in Nauru?” He laid his FBI credentials on the bar in front of her.

Anderson’s eyes widened for a moment as she nearly panicked. She should tell him. But what would that do? The Daemon was taking care of her. It wasn’t her enemy. This was leading somewhere. Betraying it could ruin everything.

She got ahold of herself. The Daemon had sent her here, and it knew everything. “I should have figured you for a spook.”

He collected his badge and grabbed her by the hand as he pulled her over to a red vinyl booth in the corner of the deserted bar. He was a man of action. Pseudo-romantic scenes from a dozen cable soft-porn films entered her mind. She tried to concentrate on the real situation.

“Oto, another drink for the lady.”

Oto nodded and got busy.

The FBI agent slid into the booth, pulling her in alongside him. She couldn’t help but see the bulge of a pistol holster in the small of his back as he slid across the bench seat. He smiled and extended his hand. “Call me Barry.”

She shook his hand warily. “All right, Barry, what’s this all about?”

“I want answers.”

“Such as?”

“What’s a lifestyles reporter recently let go from a San Francisco affiliate doing asking questions about Tremark Holdings, IBC, in far-flung Nauru?”

“What’s a big corn-fed frat boy like you doing so far from a Hooters?”

“I asked first.”

She acted coy. “Okay. I’m trying to launch a career as an investigative journalist. I’m tired of being the stewardess of the evening news.”

“Not an answer.”

“You mean, why am I so interested in the names of the officers of Tremark Holdings?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean. You know, of course, that asking questions around here is a good way to wind up missing.”

“Then why are you asking so many questions?”

He pointed a finger at her and let out a slow laugh. “I think I like you, Anji. Are you going to help me?”

“Help you how?”

“What does Tremark Holdings have to do with the Daemon?”

“What makes you think it has anything to do with the Daemon?”

“Because Matthew Sobol moved money into Tremark Holdings on the day he died.”

A wave of shock sent goose bumps over Anderson’s skin. God, this was fun. She couldn’t have faked that surprise. “Really? That answers a lot of questions.”

“How did you get wind of Tremark Holdings?”

“Let’s just say I have my sources.”

“Are they the same sources bankrolling your trip? The same sources helping you encrypt your satphone conversations?”

“Oh, please, Barry.” She emphasized his name with contempt. “Don’t be childish. Espionage isn’t the only reason for privacy. I’m working on possibly the biggest story of the year. Sobol had bankers, and some of those bankers are fond of a certain blond reporter—who at present is unemployed.”

“What did you learn on the Isle of Man?”

“That a Manx/Celtic fusion restaurant is a bad idea.”

He gave her a look. “Anji.”

“Okay. I learned that Sobol moved money into three different accounts there—all held by various international business corporations. But I also learned the money was moved out seconds after it arrived.”

He looked surprised. “How the hell did you get them to tell you that?”

She wasn’t about to tell him that the Daemon told her. No, the new Anderson was a resourceful investigative journalist. She smiled. “If you’re an overweight, balding Welsh banker, and I start coming on to you in a tavern, what would you do?”

He considered this. “I’d do anything to keep you talking to me.”

“Of course, I don’t do just anything, Barry. I’m not that kind of woman.”

“What else?”

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know already—or at least won’t learn soon.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

She toyed with him, smiling and ticking up her eyebrows as Oto arrived with her drink. “Thanks, Oto.”

“No problem, Ms. Vindmar.” He retreated to the bar again.

Barry looked at her incredulously. “Where’d you come up with Ms. Vindmar?”

“It’s better than Barry.” She hammed it up, acting like a dope. “Hey, I’m Barry—not an FBI agent.”

“All right, stop. What if my name’s actually Barry? Did you ever think of that?”

She burst out laughing.

He looked intently at her. “Did you learn anything else?”

She sipped her Lemon Drop and then rolled the twist sensuously over her lips. God, this espionage stuff was fun! Especially when you held all the cards, and handsome tough guys had to wait on your every word. “Yes, I did, Barry. Have you noticed the short positions on the CyberStorm stock?”

She may as well have cracked a two-by-four over his head. He apparently hadn’t expected a sexy, fluff-piece reporter to actually come up with something. “Tell me more.”

“You’ll find there was an extraordinary rise in short positions in the weeks leading up to Sobol’s death. I was real curious about it until I saw the news today. Now it makes more sense. You know what stock shorting is, right?”

He gave her a slight smile. “I have a series seven.”

“Well, if that means ‘yes,’ then you can appreciate that someone just made a boatload of money by destroying CyberStorm.”

He looked confused. “But what good is money to a dead guy?”

“What makes you think the recipient is dead?”

He smiled at her—for real. “I’m really starting to like you, Anji.”

“I don’t know whether I like you yet, Barry. But I know what would make me like you.”

“What?”

“An exclusive on the story when we find out where the money’s going.”

“An exclusive.”

“I get to break the story. And the FBI gives me an introduction to a major media company.”

He frowned. “You’re serious?”

“I’m unemployed. Remember? You just confirm that I’m investigating something big with the bureau.”

“Wouldn’t they think it’s a planted story?”

She laughed. “You’re so funny, Barry. I think I do like you. You’re like an innocent little fawn.”

He tried to eye her darkly, but it wound up just looking stupid. “I’ll need to run it past some people.”

“You do that.” She felt firmly in the driver’s seat now. He was reacting to her, not the other way around. “In the meantime, I’m going to get that list of corporate officers, and when you Feds catch up, we’ll talk some more.”

“Careful, Anji. This isn’t a game.”

“Who said I’m playing one?” She kept her eyes on him and took another sip of her drink.

He looked confused, as if he suddenly realized he was talking to someone else—not the Anji Anderson he’d expected to find.

She continued. “Are you going to help me, or are you going to stop me? Your choice.”

He stared at her. His silence said it all.

Chapter 22:// Honey Pot

Agent Philips did not contact Sebeck or Ross directly. Nonetheless, Sebeck felt the heavy presence of NSA security all around his house. Two windowless vans sat curbside near his driveway, and federal agents shooed away reporters foolhardy enough to approach his residential block—although, in the tumult of media attention following the fiery destruction of Sobol’s estate, no one focused much on the cop who discovered the Sobol connection. Control of the Task Force had been transferred to Washington, which meant that Sebeck and the entire Sheriff’s Department were out of the loop. That was fine with Sebeck. It gave him time to focus on something he’d never given a damn about: computer games.

In general, Sebeck viewed computers as a necessary fact of modern life. His chief complaint was that they gave a false sense of precision to poor thinking. But then, technology was like religion—you either had the faith or you didn’t.

It was almost midnight, and Sebeck scanned his keyboard to find the hotkeys that would twirl his barbarian character around. The majesty of a fully textured 3-D wilderness filled his computer screen. In the foreground, giant rats were overcoming a muscle-bound barbarian.

Sebeck’s son, Chris, stood next to him. “Dad! They’re kicking your ass.” He laughed and covered his eyes.

Sebeck glanced at the screen. He started hitting keys at random. His barbarian had the digital equivalent of an epileptic fit, while the rats brought him down. “Damnit.”

“Oh man, you suck.”

Sebeck gave Chris the evil eye, and the boy held up his palms in submission. “Just trying to help.”

“Yeah, you’re a hell of a teacher.”

“You should just let me do it for you.”

“This isn’t a game, Chris.”

“Yes, it is a game.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ve been after you for a year for a subscription to The Gate. What’s the difference if I play for a while?”

“Because the psychopath who killed Aaron Larson created this game.” He cast an angry look at his son.

Chris was taken aback at the harshness of the reaction.

Sebeck collected himself. “Chris…”

Chris adopted the intense indifference unique to angry teenagers. “No problem.” He stood up and walked out—only to pop his head back in the doorway to say, “I was just trying to help, Dad.” He stormed down the hall, then thundered upstairs.

Sebeck stared at the floor. He’d screwed that up—like most aspects of fatherhood. Listening to himself speak sometimes Sebeck wondered who the hell he’d become. In high school he’d been a laid-back guy. But that was before all this. And why was he not repentant? Even now he sat at the desk with a vague feeling that he should feel bad—but he didn’t. Instead, he felt justified by the importance of his work. It was a coping mechanism he’d honed to a razor edge over the years.

He focused on that work again.

The computer game, The Gate, seemed infantile. Apparently, loads of people were eager to spend fifteen bucks a month to wander around an endless 3-D wasteland bashing rats, slugs, and zombies over the head. No wonder Sobol was rich. Sebeck didn’t see the appeal in it, and aside from the arcane hotkey commands required to turn around quickly, it wasn’t much of a challenge. Certainly there wasn’t any thought required.

His home phone rang. Sebeck eyed the cordless handset suspiciously. He glanced at his watch. It was just after midnight. He picked it up and pressed “Talk.” “Sebeck residence.”

Ross chuckled on the other end. “Giant rats? You let giant rats kill you?”

Sebeck frowned. “You saw that?”

“I was watching you from a nearby hill.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“It’s involved. Suffice it to say there are ways.”

“Jon, tell me again why it’s not stupid to be running this game on my computer. The Gate is supposed to have a back door in it.”

“We’re trying to draw the Daemon out. You backed up your hard drive like I told you, right?”

“Chris did—although you can delete the whole damned thing for all I care. All I ever find on here is spam, porn, and pirated music.”

“Look, there’s something strange happening off the northern coast of Cifrain. I want to check it out, and you’ll need to be tougher to come with me.”

“I’m still stuck in this Briar Patch.”

“Forget about that. I went on eBay and bought you a real character—not that newbie Conan cut-out you’re running around with now.”

“What do you mean bought? CyberStorm sells better characters?”

“No. People do. Students and the terminally unemployed build up characters the hard way, then sell them on eBay for quick cash. I bought you a knight of Cifrain for three hundred and eighty dollars.”

“Three hundred eighty dollars? People actually pay that much?”

“Market forces. Busy professionals play these games to cool off in the evening. They have money but no time. Then there are skilled gamers with no money but lots of time. It’s a natural ecosystem. Whole economies exist in these virtual worlds. A baron with lands can go for a couple thousand. I can loan you some equipment, but I want it back.”

“I’ll see if the department can reimburse you.”

“I don’t need real money, Pete, but the Cloak of Aggis I will want back. You ready to go?”

“I’m still trying to get the hang of the controls. Just what the hell do people see in this game, anyway? It’s just bashing the same monsters on the head. And by the way, this artificial intelligence that everyone’s going on about is nothing spectacular.”

“You haven’t even scratched the surface. You’re in the training ground.”

“The training ground?”

“Did you even read the FAQ?”

Silence.

“Okay, look: the Briar Patch is the starting level you need to graduate from before you can play in the main world. It keeps the world from being overrun with spastic newbies—no offense.”

“None taken.”

“Don’t worry about combat commands right now. We’ve got to get moving.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until Agent Philips contacts you?”

“No point. The NSA is eavesdropping on your Internet and phone traffic, so they’ll have a record of whatever we discover. You know how to end your game, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Log off and get back to the title screen. You do it by hitting the Escape key a few times.”

“All right, all right.” Sebeck did as he was told. He resisted the temptation to save the current game and clicked all the way back to the main screen. “I’m there.”

“Good. You’ll need your hands for the controls. Can you put me on speakerphone?”

“My son’s got a headset here.”

“Perfect. Hook it up.”

Sebeck hooked up the phone headset and put it on. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Click the ‘Logon’ command.”

“Okay.” Sebeck waited a few moments.

“When it prompts you for the logon and password, enter the following values…” Ross spoke slowly, “Logon: CLXSOLL3. Password: 39XDK_88.”

Sebeck used hunt-and-peck typing to enter the values, then he clicked the CONTINUe button. An unfamiliar screen came up, showing a heavily armored, muscular human form rotating in space. It was like Leonardo da Vinci’s sketchbook with heavy weaponry. At the top of the screen were the words “Character Name: Sir Dollus Andreas” in large type. Dozens of stats and hyperlinks appeared alongside the frame containing the spinning human warrior. “What the hell is this?”

“Your new character.”

“This guy looks dangerous.” Sebeck started clicking around the character sheet. It looked similar in format to his original barbarian—but all the categories were greatly expanded. He clicked through lists of weapons. “What’s a Vorpal Sword?”

“Something I want back. We need to start out by getting information.”

“Okay, what do I do?”

“Click the SPAWN button. I’ll meet you outside your villa.”

“My villa?”

“You’re a knight. You hold a manse from the local lord.”

“What’s a manse?”

“It’s land that produces income to support you as a knight. Just hit the SPAWN button, please.”

Sebeck sighed and hit the SPAWN button. In a moment the screen faded out. His hard drive was clicking like mad.

“Did you spawn yet?”

“It’s working on it.” The screen faded in to reveal a large medieval bedchamber lit by smoky torchlight. Sebeck’s point of view was from the foot of his canopied bed. Three men stood before him. The computer graphics were pretty impressive; so were the movements of the animated characters as they fidgeted and one shoved the other to pay attention.

The lead man bowed. The others followed suit. “Good morning, my lord.”

Sebeck noticed two armored men standing guard at the bedchamber door. He spoke into his phone headset. “Okay, Jon, I’m in. I’ve got some guys talking to me.”

“They’re probably your servants. To find out what you can do with people, point at them and right-click. A menu will come up.”

Sebeck clicked on the lead servant, then right-clicked. A menu appeared:

Follow me

Guard me

Bring me…

Leave me

Stop what you’re doing

All of you, out of my sight, motherless dogs!

Sebeck selected the last command, and everyone in sight shrank back and scurried from the room—including the guards at the door. The door slammed behind them. Sebeck chuckled heartily. “This is just like the office.”

Ross’s voice came over the phone. “You called them motherless dogs, didn’t you?”

“How could I resist?”

“Just get to the street, please. I’m waiting.”

Sebeck hit the Up arrow to get himself moving. He eventually discovered the keyboard stroke to open doors, and soon he was walking through the halls of his villa. Servants scurried this way and that on apparent errands. They all bowed their heads as he passed. It was pretty impressive, but Sebeck wondered what the point of it all was. It’s not like he could really enjoy the comforts of the place. It was just computer graphics.

He made it to the main hall, and from there Sebeck could see double doors with four men on guard. As he moved toward the front door, two men in rich-looking robes with fur collars and necklaces approached him from the wings.

“My lord, a word, please. I hope you’ve considered our proposal. The price is fair. What say you, my lord?”

Sebeck was confused. If this was his house, who the hell were these guys? “Jon, I’ve got a couple of shysters accosting me in my own foyer.”

“Might be a deal the previous owner of the character had going.”

“Are you serious? This game remembers what you do?”

“Do they look important?”

“Sort of.” Sebeck right-clicked on the man. A selection of responses appeared:

I’ll sell for 500

Offer more money

No, I’ll never sell

I’ll think about it

Sebeck’s mouse accidentally hovered over the guard in the background, and the menu listing went away. Sebeck right-clicked on the guard out of curiosity. Another list appeared:

Attack…

Guard me

Guard this place

Leave me

Sebeck selected Attack…. When he did so, the mouse cursor started trailing a red line from it, with a fixed point leading from the guard. The game was apparently asking him to select the target. Sebeck clicked smack dab in the expectant face of the bearded merchant.

An echoing shout went up in the room as not just one but all the guards pulled swords and came screaming toward the merchant.

The man’s face actually registered fear. “No! To me! To me!”

Sebeck’s warriors converged on the men and started hacking them with swords. Animated blood spattered the floor as the merchants tried to flee. Sebeck’s warriors hemmed them in. The merchants shrieked pitiably. That’s when Sebeck heard pounding on the front doors. A couple of his guards peeled off just in time to meet a dozen swordsmen in what looked to be chain mail. They burst into the foyer screaming like banshees and rushed to the merchants’ defense.

A general alarm bell went up in the house. Shouts were heard all around. “We’re under attack!”

Sebeck muttered into the phone. “Oh shit…”

“Why are those swordsmen running into the villa?”

“Okay, I may have fucked up here.”

“Damnit, Pete, you couldn’t get out your front door without causing a brawl?”

“It’s under control.” Sebeck was trying to remember the command to get a sword into his hand. This character was incredibly confusing. There was so much to choose from—too much. Suddenly a wild-haired swordsman was on him, screaming and swinging like a maniac. “Uh-oh.”

More of Sebeck’s men were coming in from the wings, but not enough. Already some of his men lay dead. The merchants had good bodyguards, and they were moving out the door under close protection now.

The bearded one looked back and pointed to Sebeck. “I will have vengeance upon you!”

Sebeck muttered into his headset. “Yeah, yeah…”

Suddenly the merchant jerked and dropped to the ground with a black arrow in his back. His two bodyguards scanned the terrain outside, and one of them suddenly dropped dead as well. The remaining guard ran for the road.

A horn sounded, and the merchant’s men-at-arms retreated, bringing the surviving younger merchant along with them. As they made their way through the doorway, another black arrow appeared in the younger merchant’s forehead, and he, too, pitched forward, dead. The remaining men-at-arms scattered, running through the gardens and over the low hedgerows. Sebeck’s four or five remaining guards gave chase. One of them turned back in the doorway and shouted to a servant. “Summon the town watch!” Then he was gone. The servant ran off through the villa shouting, “The watch! The watch!”

In a moment Sebeck stood alone among the dead. On closer inspection, some were groaning and twitching, obviously injured. This was frighteningly detailed. Sebeck scanned the room, hitting the arrow keys to move about.

He almost jumped out of his digital skin when he turned to see a fearsome-looking hooded assassin appear out of thin air a foot from his face.

Ross’s voice came over the phone. “Boo.”

“Stop screwing around.” Sebeck noticed that this avatar was different from the ones he’d seen so far—a glowing call-out box hovered over its head. The box was labeled “Entro-P” and a series of green bars were stacked up to the left of it, like a graph. It was a ninja with a floating name tag. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“You really screwed things up, you know that?”

“I don’t remember you teaching me how to play this game.”

“I plead guilty. I just didn’t think your first instinct would be to attack an unarmed old man.”

“He was annoying me.”

“Okay, a little tip: everything has consequences in this world—as in the real one. See the dead merchant on the floor? That’s the patriarch of the House of Peduin and a leading merchant. He had many friends, and he provided the local nobility with much of their liquidity—i.e., cash. This is an agrarian society, so cold hard cash is hard to come by. Even my character has used his services.”

“You’re the one who killed him.”

“But I wasn’t seen trying to kill him. See how that works? Just like the real world. Once you ordered your men to kill him, it was important to slay all the witnesses. Even then, you might have spies in your household.”

“Enough. So what? Some digital graphics are upset at me. Who gives a shit?”

“I bought your character because he was useful. He had title, lands, and income from his holdings. These things would have come in handy where we’re going—particularly your following of men-at-arms and any alliances you might have had with regional nobility. But now you’ll be branded outlaw and your lands and title will be forfeit.”

“All right. I owe you a character. Should we buy another one?”

Ross chuckled. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.” He sighed. “No, let’s see if we can get out of town alive.”

“Town? We’re in a town?”

“Yes. This is your autumn villa. The one used during market season. It’s in downtown Gedan.”

“As in the taverns of Gedan?”

“That’s right. Although, thanks to you, we won’t be visiting any taverns. C’mon.”

Ross’s assassin led the way, waiting impatiently as Sebeck tried in vain to navigate his character through the doorway and out to the road.

“You’re like a retarded Sir Lancelot.”

“Look, unlike you, I have a life, and I don’t have hundreds of extra hours to spend learning to play this game.”

They made it out to the road, and Sebeck finally got a good look around. This was a surprisingly complex-looking world. They stood on a narrow cobblestone street in a picturesque medieval town. A bell tower stood above what looked to be a square, and the bell was ringing. Birds even flew past in the morning sky. “Holy Moses. This is really something.”

“Incoming…”

A mob of armed men headed down the otherwise deserted street in their direction. They didn’t look friendly.

“Goddamnit, I didn’t want to use this, but we’ve got places to go.” Ross’s character made some animated, generic hand gestures.

“What are you up to? You casting a spell or something?”

“No, I’m using a magical device.”

Suddenly a shimmering portal opened in midair in the middle of the street. It revealed a tunnel that appeared to enter some extra-dimensional space.

“Why don’t you just sprinkle them with pixie dust?”

“I’m going to sprinkle you with pixie dust in a second. This is a fantasy world. Whether you think it’s cool is irrelevant. Several million people do think it’s cool, and the Daemon is using this to propagate in reality—so stop poking fun and get your psycho ass through the portal.”

“Okay, okay.” Sebeck ran his character through the portal. He immediately came out on a windswept hillside in knee-high grass. The hillside overlooked a rocky coastline. The sea shimmered in the algorithmic sunshine. It was beautiful. He turned to see Ross’s assassin run through the portal, a shouting mob close on his heels. Ross snapped the gate shut just as the crowd reached it. They were now alone on the hillside. The sound of the wind sweeping across the grass was their only companion.

“Where are we now?”

“About two hundred miles north.”

“Well, that is handy. So what’s up here?”

Ross’s ninja avatar pointed. “Turn around and take a look off the coast.”

Sebeck’s character started backing up.

Ross barked, “Left arrow key.”

“Oh.” Sebeck searched for the left arrow key on his keyboard. His view swiveled until he was looking off the coast again. There, in the distance, he could make out a jagged islet—perhaps a mile offshore and partially obscured by mist. Sitting atop the islet was a towering castle in jet-black stone.

“Hello. Dr. Evil’s beach house.”

“Chat rooms say it appeared the day Sobol died. No one has even gotten close to it and lived.”

“We’ll need to tell the NSA. They need to impound these servers.”

“These servers are in China. Or maybe South Korea. The companies that own them are politically connected there.”

“Well, the Feds can exert a lot of political pressure.”

“So can corporate executives.”

They stood staring at the castle. It was Sebeck who broke the silence.

“Why didn’t you transport us inside the castle?”

“I tried. This is as close as we can get. I can’t use scrying devices to see inside either.”

“Sobol’s locked it up tight.”

“Basically.”

They stood there for several more moments.

“So, how do we get in?”

“Is it me, or did I just say that no one has approached the place and lived?”

“We’ve got to find out what Sobol’s up to. Better our cartoon skins than our real ones.”

“Who says we need to get inside to find out what it’s for? What if we put the place under surveillance? Watch comings and goings?”

“Great. So if a dragon and a fairy show up at the castle, what the hell am I supposed to do with that information? Put out a warrant for their arrest?”

“No, but we might get some idea of how to get inside. With a little luck, we won’t be observed from this distance, and—” Ross stopped mid-sentence.

Sebeck saw it, too. A huge shadow had cast over them from behind. It had a vaguely humanoid outline.

“Control-Down-Arrow turns you around, Pete. Do it now.”

“Control-who-what?”

“Control-Down-Arrow.”

“Hold it. Control…where’s the Down key?”

“Pete! For the love of Christ, the Down arrow is a single key. Hold it down and simultaneously hold down the C-T-R-L key.”

Sebeck did. His character pirouetted.

A jet-black figure, about twelve feet tall, towered over them. The figure held an obsidian rod and wore a black crown. Piercing, demonic red eyes glowed from deep sockets. No mouth was visible as it raised its arm, pointing at Sebeck. A deep, gravelly wav file played, “Detective Sebeck. You don’t belong here!”

Before Sebeck could do anything, a lightning bolt arced hotly from the rod, blasting his avatar to dust. His screen went black, and his entire machine crashed—never to reboot.

Sebeck grabbed the headset mouthpiece. “Jesus! It said my name, Jon. And it just fried my computer. What’s it doing now?”

Only Ross’s cursing came over the phone line.

After the demon wasted Sebeck’s knight, Ross went into defensive mode, ducking and retreating. There wasn’t time to invoke another portal; the demon turned upon him. It raised its rod and spoke again. “You guided him here. Are you NSA or a Fed?” A pause. “Or neither? We shall see….”

The hard drive on Ross’s laptop started clattering.

“Shit!” He ripped the network cable from the socket. The game was still running, so he pulled the AC power cord and the battery, too. His laptop was now inert, the screen black.

He slumped back into his hotel desk chair and took a deep breath.

Sebeck’s voice barked over the phone. “Jon! What the hell is going on?”

“I just disconnected, Pete. It was trying to find out who I was. I only had the game and a video capture program on this laptop, but I didn’t want to lose the video images.” He frowned to himself as he reinserted the laptop battery and placed the computer on the desk. His mind was turning over the possibilities. Ross stopped short. “Pete. I need you to come and get me out of jail.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just come to Woodland Hills and get me out of jail, please.” He ignored Sebeck’s questions and pulled off the phone headset, bolting through his hotel room door.

Ross sprinted down the exterior walkway toward the lobby. He brushed past two regional sales reps unloading luggage from a rental car and hauled ass on the final straightaway, banging through the lobby push doors.

The desk clerk was a fresh-faced, conspicuously Caucasian kid. He shot a stern glance up at Ross. “Watch the doors, please, sir.”

Ross slammed into the counter, breathing hard. “I need access to your billing system. It’s an emergency.”

“Perhaps I can assist you, sir.” He manned a keyboard, prairie-dog-like with his paws poised.

“Do you track Internet use on guest accounts?”

“Your Internet viewing habits won’t appear on your bill.”

“That’s not what I meant. Do you connect guest billing information to an internal IP address?”

“Sir, we are required by law to maintain—”

“Goddamnit.” Ross swung his leg up and started clawing his way over the counter, sending brochures and phones flying. “This isn’t about pornography.”

“You can’t—“

Ross slipped on a PBX phone and tumbled to the floor behind the front desk.

The night clerk locked his workstation, then pressed a button under the counter. “The police are on their way!” He raced for the back office just as Ross got to his feet.

“Wait!” Ross lunged for the office door, but the kid slammed it in his face, ramming a heavy bolt home. Ross pounded on it with his open hand. It was a security door.

The kid’s voice came through muffled. “You’re not the first idiot to look at porn on a hotel account, sir. But you just made it a whole lot worse.”

“This is a police emergency.”

“I didn’t see a badge.”

“Look, I’m working with the Feds on the Daemon case. Sobol’s house is five miles down the road. It’s not improbable that I would stay here.”

“You checked in weeks ago—before Sobol died. Just wait for the police.”

“By the time they get here, it’ll be too late. The Daemon is going to attack your servers to find out who I am.”

“I’m not listening, sir!”

“If the Web server is in there with you, just pull the cables out of the back. That’s all I’m asking.”

There was no response.

“Kid! This isn’t a joke. The Daemon has already killed more than a dozen people. If it finds out who I am—“

“Sir, I suggest you talk to the police about it.”

Shit. Ross stalked around the front desk. He manned the computer on the counter. It displayed a browser-based hotel management program. A logon screen stared him in the face. Ross flipped over the mouse pad and found a tiny Post-it note scrawled with logons and passwords. He used one to log on. “Well, that’s one advantage I have over the Daemon….”

Like most point-of-sale systems, this one was designed to minimize training requirements. Ross was presented with a standard switchboard form for the billing system. He chose Customer Accounts and searched for his name. He quickly found his billing record, but he couldn’t edit anything. The night clerk’s logon didn’t have sufficient privileges to change existing information—only to add new charges. Ross’s name and credit card number were clearly displayed. There was also a link for his Internet and phone charges. Damnit.

The server for The Gate would already have the hotel’s main IP address—so the Daemon would know precisely where to launch its attack. If the hotel ran a common hotel management system—as was likely—then the database layout would be public knowledge. “Son of a bitch.”

In the back office, the kid was on the phone with a 911 operator. Behind him stood a couple of rack-mounted servers, a router, and a network switch, their green LED lights lazily blinking. The whole rack was locked off to him, but a flat-panel monitor displayed the logon dialog for the server, bouncing around the black screen.

Then, like a floodgate opening, the entire bank of LEDs started fluttering like crazy. The network was slammed with IP traffic. Even the kid noticed it. He heard the hard drive straining.

“Hey! Whatever you’re doing out there, stop it.”

Ross cocked an ear toward the office but did not take his eyes off the computer screen. “Kid, I’m not doing anything. That’s the Daemon trying to bash its way in. It’ll try to get at the Web access logs to find my connection to its Web site. Then it’ll try to link my billing record with that IP address. I’m begging you: please open the door.”

Ross minimized the hotel billing app and interrogated the DNS server from a console window. Thankfully the server was not properly configured and permitted a zone transfer. This let him view the internal IP map of the network from his machine—complete with machine names and operating systems.

The clerk watched the LED lights flickering like a Vegas marquee. Suddenly the server monitor screen came to life. The logon dialog went away and the desktop appeared. The kid spoke to the 911 operator. “He’s doing something to our computers.”

Back at the front desk Ross typed like a maniac. Now he knew the OS of the Web server. He thought about the odds of cracking into the server in time to clear the Web logs. Not likely, and it was the first thing the Daemon would try for.

“Listen, open the door.”

“No way!”

Ross flipped back to the hotel’s Web application. He needed to go straight for the customer database. The file extension on the URL told him it was a scripted page. He started typing directly in the URL box of the browser, back-spacing to the hotel’s domain name—to which he appended the text: /global.asa+.htr

Then he hit ENTER.

To Ross’s relief, the hotel hadn’t patched their Web server, either, and the browser disgorged the source code of the application onto the screen. The developers had been lazy; near the top of the code, there was a database connection string and two variables for dbowner: one for logon and one for password. He was in.

In the back office the kid closely watched the server’s monitor. Command console windows kept appearing and disappearing on the screen—commands entered at blinding speed. The hard drives labored. Dialogs came up showing file transfers. There was no way a person could work this fast. He tried the server’s enclosure door. Locked. He couldn’t shut the server down if he wanted to.

Ross logged back into the billing application using the sysadmin logon he had found in the source code. He navigated to his customer record. This time all the fields were unlocked for editing. There wasn’t a DELETE button, so he rapidly filled the billing record with false information, replacing his own name with “Matthew Sobol”—along with a phantom address, a random phone number, and all 9’s for a credit card number. He was about to click SUBMIT when he heard footsteps running on the tile floor of the lobby behind him.

“Hands in the air!” The shout echoed in the lobby.

Ross turned to see two Woodland Hills police officers aiming Berettas at him from beyond the front desk. They squinted over their sights, with a two-hand clasp.

Ross tapped the SUBMIT button, then raised his hands. “It’s all right. I’m working on the Daemon case with officer Pete Sebeck of the Thousand Oaks police department.”

“Stop talking!” One of the officers motioned to the countertop. “Both hands, palms down on the counter!”

In the back office the kid stared at the computer screen. A DOS window was up, displaying a customer record:

Room 1318—No Name (999) 999-9999

CC#9999-9999-9999-9999

Then the server crashed.

Chapter 23:// Transformation

Sebeck escorted Ross out the front door of the Woodland Hills police station. Ross rubbed one wrist. “Do they always cuff people that tightly?”

“Only the troublemakers.” Sebeck’s new police cruiser was parked at the curb, and he pointed Ross to it.

“I like the color better.”

“Just get in the car.”

Ross sniffed the morning air. “It’s good to breathe free again. I was starting to worry you weren’t coming.”

“I needed to smooth things over with the DA. The Daemon trashed the hotel’s reservation system.”

“That’s not my fault. They should have applied security patches.”

“Jon, I talked the prosecutor out of bringing criminal charges, but I’m getting the distinct impression we’re chasing our tails. Sobol’s always three steps ahead of us.”

“Are you kidding? We made great progress last night.”

Sebeck gave him a look. “I got killed, and you got arrested. How is that great progress?”

“Well, if you’re gonna look on the gloomy side—”

“Just get in the car.”

“What’s with you?”

“I got an earful this morning over this little stunt. I’ve got NSA agents moving into my house. My son’s not speaking to me. My wife is speaking to me, and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet. Other than that, everything’s just great.”

“Pete, we need to reconnect with the Daemon as soon as possible.”

“We’re just stumbling around blind.” Sebeck got into the car.

Ross thought for a moment. “I know a good coffee place near here.”

“That’s a start.”

Calabasas was an upscale bedroom community not far from Woodland Hills. It was part of the circulatory system of L.A. and, like most towns, straddled an artery of freeway.

Ross guided Sebeck to a new shopping plaza—a riot of pastel stucco, imitation fieldstone, and palm trees—that more resembled a Tim Burton film set than a retail center. The sprawling parking lot was clogged with tiny au pair cars and the monstrous SUVs of stay-at-home moms.

Sebeck gazed at the scene from an outdoor faux-French café. Beyond a nearby railing stood a burbling water feature replete with ducks, as though this wasn’t a desert but a mill pond in the south of France. If someone cut the pumps, Sebeck figured the ducks would be dead inside of six hours. He tossed a piece of croissant to them and sipped his AA Kenya coffee.

Across the table Ross sipped a triple latte. The cup was something straight out of Alice in Wonderland. Sebeck frowned. “What the hell was that thing that attacked us last night? And how did it know my name?”

Ross put his latte down on a freakishly large saucer. “I’m not surprised it knew your name, but I am surprised it spoke your name—particularly since I didn’t hear it.”

“What do you mean you didn’t hear it? It said my name in a huge booming voice.”

“Yes, but I think the file only played for you.”

“What file?”

“The sound file. Someone was recorded speaking your name. That recording was saved as a sound file, and your computer played that file on command. But it wasn’t on my laptop.”

“Why would I have the file but not you?”

“Because Sobol placed it on your computer.”

“But that should have been easy. Sobol’s press release said Ego puts a back door in every machine that runs it.”

Ross took another sip of his latte and shook his head. “No, I don’t buy that.”

“Hold the phone. You were the one saying that Sobol could do anything. That we shouldn’t underestimate him. Now you’re saying he didn’t put a back door in the Ego AI engine?”

“What sense would it make to place a back door in a program, and then tell everyone? All that would do is drastically reduce the number of machines Sobol would have access to. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Sobol was insane.”

“So everyone keeps saying. You know, it would have taken a coordinated effort—by many people—to place a back door in release code.”

Sebeck pondered it. “So, why would Sobol lie about the back door? That lie basically destroyed his own company.”

Both men realized it at the same time.

Ross tapped his chin, thinking. “So, the reason was to destroy his company. I have no idea why, but clearly, that must have been the purpose of the press release.”

“It’s just insane….”

“Maybe, but if there was no back door in the Ego AI engine, it brings us back to the question: how did the Daemon know it was you last night? Remember: you were playing on someone else’s account.”

Sebeck shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

Ross took another sip of his latte. “You were running the game on the same machine you received Sobol’s e-mail on, correct?”

“You mean the e-mail with the video link?”

“Yes.”

Sebeck nodded.

“This whole time we were focusing on what Sobol said in that video, but it never occurred to us that playing the video might also install a Trojan horse.”

“To do what?”

“Open a back door in the computer that runs it.”

Sebeck thought for a moment. “Wait. Aaron ran that video file on the sheriff’s network. Hell, I think most people at the department got a copy. It also found its way to a lot of journalists.”

Ross put his latte down. “Shit, if Sobol used the same kernel rootkit I encountered at Alcyone Insurance, he could open a back door in the sheriff’s network. Sobol could even monitor e-mails between you and the Feds. And antivirus programs wouldn’t detect it.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“If you run a malicious program, that program can do a lot of bad things and not just to you.”

“Christ, how could I be so stupid?”

“We’re not positive that’s what happened. Not yet.”

The thumping of a helicopter registered above the surrounding traffic—it was coming in low and fast. It suddenly crested the roof of the plaza anchor store and swung low over the parking lot.

Sebeck and Ross craned their necks up to see an LAPD chopper angling in directly toward them over the shopping plaza. The chopper wash sent the ducks scurrying for cover under a fairy tale bridge.

Sebeck shielded his eyes against the wind as the noise built to deafening levels. Dozens of napkins flicked away on the wind as nannies squealed in alarm and fled from the surrounding café tables.

Sebeck looked to Ross. “What the hell’s he up to?”

Just then sirens approached from several directions at once. Cars screeched in from every entrance of the parking lot. Sebeck glanced to see federal sedans and Los Angeles police cars race up onto the courtyard paving stones. The cars hadn’t quite stopped when agents wearing bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets issued forth aiming M-16s at him and Ross. The flak vests were emblazoned with the letters FBI.

A dozen voices shouted, “Hands on your head!”

More agents came rushing through the back of the coffee bar, M-16s and HKs aimed and ready.

Sebeck glanced back and forth in confusion. He raised his hands slowly, shouting back, “What the hell is going on?”

“Hands on your head, or we will shoot!”

Something was beyond wrong. Sebeck looked at the faces of the agents and police arrayed around him. There was abject hatred in their eyes. Burning anger. He knew that look. It was the look reserved for the vilest criminals. They were closing in from two directions—leaving a clear field of fire. Twenty or thirty heavily armed men. Sebeck glanced at Ross, who already had his hands on his head. “What the hell is going on, Jon?”

“I don’t know. But the Daemon’s got something to do with it.”

“This is your last warning! Put your hands on your head, or we will open fire!”

Sebeck felt his blood rising. He put his hands on the back of his head but looked to Ross. “Why are they looking at me?”

“I don’t know.”

The Feds hit Sebeck like linebackers. They piled on him, pounding him into the concrete, wrenching his hands behind his back and handcuffing him. Then they patted him down and took his service Beretta away. The lead agent hissed into his ear. “If I had my way, I’d put a bullet in your head, Sebeck.” He rammed Sebeck’s face into the sidewalk, and then they pulled him up roughly, shoving Ross aside. Blood flowed from Sebeck’s nose down his shirtfront.

“Peter Sebeck, you are under arrest for the murder of Aaron Larson and other local and federal law officers, for conspiracy, wire fraud, and attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law….”

The world warped as Sebeck’s mind seemed to float four feet above his head. This was impossible. Every pair of eyes bored holes of hatred into him. How was he the Daemon? How was this possible?

He turned toward Ross, standing now beyond a wall of FBI agents. “Jon. Jon!”

“Pete, it’s the Daemon!”

Agents pulled Sebeck along, and half a dozen others shoved him forward from behind. In a second, Ross was lost to sight in the knot of people.

Sebeck felt as though reality had ripped apart and he was floating in the realm of fantasy. Sobol’s game world was more real than this. Sebeck’s unseeing eyes never noticed the lone camera crew he was hauled past, nor did he notice the attractive blond reporter standing with a microphone.

“This is Anji Anderson, live in Calabasas, California, bringing you a shocking exclusive report as federal agents apprehend Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck of the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department. Sebeck—previously the lead investigator in the Daemon murder case—now stands accused of participating in one of the most audacious frauds in modern history. Federal prosecutors claim that Sebeck played a key role in a conspiracy to defraud a mentally impaired Matthew Sobol out of tens of millions of dollars. Money that was later used to purchase options in CyberStorm stock. Stock that eventually collapsed, netting the conspirators an estimated $190 million dollars. The FBI, in cooperation with the Secret Service and Interpol, has reportedly made three other arrests in two countries tonight. But at this hour, two things are clear: Matthew Sobol was apparently an innocent victim in this deadly plan, and much to the relief of authorities, the Internet Daemon appears to be a hoax.”

Natalie Philips stood flanked by The Major and half a dozen NSA agents in the shopping plaza. FBI agents were still cordoning off the scene. She beheld the FBI SAC, Steven Trear, with a look somewhere between disbelief and disgust. “You let Jon Ross go?”

Trear stood in the center of a knot of FBI agents. “He was questioned and released. We found no evidence that Ross was involved with Sebeck prior to this week. And he’s been cleared on the Alcyone Insurance worm. Do you know something we don’t?”

Philips looked to The Major, who pounded a nearby café table in frustration, then tipped it over with a crash.

Trear threw up his hands. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on here?”

Philips motioned to a nearby NSA agent but spoke to Trear. “We just came from Woodland Hills. Jon Ross was taken into custody last night, booked on malicious vandalism and making terroristic threats.”

Trear squinted at her like she was nuts. “Jon Ross?”

Philips accepted a file folder from the NSA agent. “The DA dropped the charges after intervention by Peter Sebeck.” She opened the folder and handed it to Trear. “Your preliminary background check didn’t include a fingerprint comparison. The real Jon Ross had a DUI conviction three years ago. Those records don’t match the man you brought in for questioning in Thousand Oaks. Neither do his photos.”

“Hold on a second. You’re telling me—”

“He’s an identity thief. He’s not the real Jon Ross.”

Trear started thumbing through the folder. “Why the hell was this kept from us?”

The Major answered instead. “Need-to-know basis.”

“Bullshit.”

Philips checked her watch. “You interviewed him for what, an hour?”

“He’s already been extensively interrogated, and he was traumatized. We turned him over to the paramedics.”

“Brilliant.”

Trear moved toward her, finger pointing, “Listen, missy….”

The Major interposed himself and physically pushed Trear back. This caused three of Trear’s agents to launch to his defense. The scene quickly resembled a brawl on a baseball infield. Shouting filled the air as more NSA and FBI agents jumped in.

The Major had Trear by the tie.

“Get your damned hands off me!” He extricated himself from The Major’s grip as a couple of his agents yanked the burly man’s head back. The scene calmed a little, and Trear glared at The Major. “I want your name, agent! I’ll have you up on charges!”

The Major stared back even harder. “You don’t have sufficient clearance for my name.” He produced credentials from his jacket pocket—his photo next to a long alphanumeric sequence in bold letters. “Special Collections Service. I’m here on the highest authority concerning a matter of national security.”

One of the FBI agents nearby scoffed, “What the hell do you think Sebeck’s arrest was?”

Trear barked at him, “Quiet!” He looked back at The Major. “Special Collections Service?” Then he looked at Philips with a slightly different regard. “What the hell do you have going on here, Philips? Who called out the black bag men?”

Philips tried to contain her irritation. “He doesn’t answer to me, Trear. He’s got his own orders, and I’m not privy to them. Look, the man posing as Ross could be involved in this.”

“If you had a warrant out for Ross, why weren’t we told about it?”

“It’s not that simple. This is a national security operation, not a criminal investigation.”

“That’s crap, Philips. You guys are stovepiping information. The bureau is supposed to be a customer of the NSA.“ He looked at The Major. “And what does the CIA know, I wonder?”

Philips was conciliatory. “I notified Fort Meade. It takes time for them to contact you. This all happened in the last three hours.”

“Surely the NSA has heard of phones. They’re those things you tap.”

“Why weren’t we told about Sebeck?”

They stood glaring at each other.

Another NSA agent came running up. “Agent Philips. Ross just used his Amex card five minutes ago at a car rental place down the street. We put out an all-points bulletin.”

“E911 tracking?”

“We’re talking to the cell phone company now.”

“GPS in the rental car?”

The agent shook his head. “He rented a subcompact. No onboard GPS.”

“Flag his license plates on the freeway plate readers.” She turned to Trear. “I know you’re angry, Agent Trear, but we could really use your assistance on this. Ross could be the one behind the Daemon. He certainly has the technical know-how.”

“The Daemon is a hoax, Agent Philips. When is the NSA going to catch up with us on this?”

“Look, whether you think the Daemon is a hoax or not, the man posing as Ross has been involved from the start, and he’s escaping. Can we get your help?”

Trear took a deep breath and nodded to his men.

Straub turned and shouted, “You heard the man!”

Ten blocks away, Ross tossed his cell phone onto the back of a lumber truck waiting at a stoplight. The rental car ruse combined with the moving cell phone should buy him some time.

Ross headed in the opposite direction as the truck pulled away. The Feds probably wouldn’t take long to figure out Ross wasn’t who he claimed to be, and by then he needed to have taken another identity. He walked with composure onto the parking lot of a nearby Mercedes dealership, still wondering why he’d gotten himself mixed up in all this to begin with. And what the hell had happened to Detective Sebeck? The Daemon must be behind it. This was the type of reversal Sobol was famous for. It’s what Ross had tried to warn the Feds about. Now he needed to figure out Sobol’s plan, and for the time being at least, the only priority had to be getting out of this area. Ross straightened his tie and walked calmly through the glass doors of the Mercedes dealership. He strolled between the showroom models, scrutinizing window stickers. An aria from The Marriage of Figaro played softly on the showroom speakers.

Several police cars raced past on the road outside, lights and sirens blaring.

A sharply attired salesman approached Ross, hand extended. “How are you today, sir?”

Ross looked up. “Bored, but it’s nothing a sports car won’t fix.”

The salesman laughed politely. “Well, what are you driving now, Mr….”

“Ross. I have a twelve-cylinder A8—drives like a dream—but I want to get a second car. Something smaller and sportier.”

“And you’re familiar with the SL roadster?”

Ross examined the silver car nearby. “A golf buddy of mine has one. I’ve done some research, but the truth is, if I like the way it feels I’ll buy it today. No financing necessary.”

The salesman nodded. “Let’s take it for a spin. I’ll just need a photocopy of your driver’s license.”

Ross drew his wallet. “Of course.”

The platinum cards were clearly visible as he offered his license to the salesman.

Natalie Philips stood in the car rental company’s parking lot and stared at the car Ross had rented an hour before. She had tracked Ross’s cell phone through E911, only to find it riding to Oxnard on the back of a truck. Ross’s rented subcompact was never driven off the rental lot. And nobody in the Task Force had thought to look for it here—especially with his cell phone on the move.

Trear pounded the roof of his car. “Damnit! This guy’s probably halfway to Mexico by now.”

Philips turned to him. “Halfway isn’t all the way. Besides, he still needs transportation, and we have all the airports, train stations, and bus stations staked out. If he makes any ATM withdrawals or credit card purchases, we’ll be on top of him in minutes. There’s a strike team airborne in the L.A. basin as we speak.”

Trear grabbed a radio, but looked to Philips. “This Ross imposter was most likely Sebeck’s go-to man for computer work. Maybe even the mastermind of this hoax.”

“You mean if the Daemon is a hoax.”

“It’s definitely a hoax, and I don’t think Sebeck was smart enough to pull it off—much less to conceive of it. But our imposter just might be.”

Philips nodded, even though it made less sense the more she thought about it.

Ross ditched the Mercedes salesman off the 23 freeway in Simi Valley. He exited the freeway, claiming a bathroom emergency, and never returned after rushing into a restaurant to use the restroom. Instead, he ducked out a side exit and walked over one block to a row of nondescript, corrugated metal box garages.

He pulled out his key ring and cycled through the keys for a moment. Then he unlocked the garage door padlock and pulled up the door to reveal a late-model white utility truck with side cargo panels. A logo on the door read “Lasseter Heating & Air.” Ross flicked the garage light switch then ducked inside, lowering the door behind him.

There was about six feet of space on either side of the vehicle. Ross moved alongside and opened one of the cargo panels, revealing a mirror hanging on the inside of the door. There was a toiletry bag and a change of clothes. He pulled a wallet out from under the clothes and flipped it open to reveal a California driver’s license with his picture on it. The name read “Michael Lasseter.” In the picture he was bald as a billiard ball. He lined up the mirror and pulled an electric shaver out of the toiletry bag. He looked for the single electric socket up by the overhead light.

In ten minutes or so, he was completely bald. Clumps of dark hair covered the floor. He examined himself in the mirror and rubbed his bald scalp.

“Я надеюсь, что твои волосы вырастут опять.”

It felt strangely good to speak his native language again. And bad, too. This place wasn’t supposed to be needed.

He emptied Jon Ross’s wallet and placed the credit cards and identification on a hot plate. He powered it up and kept working as the acrid smell of melting plastic filled the space.

He changed into jeans and a work shirt.

When he finished he looked at himself in the mirror. He stopped and grabbed a bottle of rub-on tan, then smeared it over his face, neck, and arms. He took another look at Lasseter’s license photo. Much better.

Jon Ross was dead. Long live Michael Lasseter.

He hid Ross’s clothes and the toiletry bag in a tool bench cabinet, then unplugged the hot plate. He checked to be certain that Ross’s ID and credit cards were completely melted. It was a multicolored puddle. He took one last look around, then opened the garage door.

The sun was suddenly blinding. He got into the truck and started it up. He sat there pondering for a moment. He was confident he’d get past any roadblocks, but what then?

Sobol was sharper than he expected—and he was expecting a lot. Sobol had destroyed Sebeck somehow and made everyone believe the Daemon was a hoax. Why? Some milestone had been achieved, and the Daemon was moving on to the next task. He knew there was a reason for framing Sebeck, but he just couldn’t wrap his head around it. Why make the Daemon famous and then turn around and make people believe it didn’t exist again?

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

One thing was for sure: he’d be damned if the Daemon was going to defeat him. It might have defeated Jon Ross, but it had never even heard of Michael Lasseter.

Chapter 24:// Sit Rep

In the corner boardroom of building OPS-2B, the group of agency directors reconvened. In the windowless room it was impossible to tell whether it was night or day. And from the government décor it was impossible to tell whether it was 1940 or 2040.

DIA: “I caught the news on the way in. They’re saying the Daemon is a hoax. Is that true?”

FBI: “The money trail leads to two people that we know of. Detective Sebeck, now in custody, and one Cheryl Lanthrop, a medical executive. We thought we found her in Kuala Lumpur, but our intel was bad.”

There was silence for a moment.

NSA: “Let me get this straight: you’re telling me that Detective Sebeck and this Lanthrop woman turned Sobol’s estate into a high-tech death trap?”

FBI: “Tax records show Lanthrop was sales director for a string of MRI labs owned by Matthew Sobol. He appears to have become obsessed with MRI technology in the latter stages of his illness. E-mail records show her advising Sobol to invest in a functional MRI business in which she was part owner. She sounds like a kook. Her specialty was neuromarketing research—examining the brain activity of people viewing various consumer products.”

NSA: “You didn’t answer the question.”

CIA: “Where does Sebeck come in?”

FBI: “We’re not sure yet, but credit card records show Lanthrop staying at the same hotels where Sebeck attended law-enforcement seminars. They also traveled to Grand Cayman together. Lanthrop set up an offshore bank account there for a holding company that later held short positions in CyberStorm Entertainment stock. We have video of Lanthrop and Sebeck sitting at a bank manager’s desk. Sebeck’s wife had no knowledge of this trip.”

NSA: “How do Sebeck and Lanthrop build an automated Hummer or an electrocution trap in the CyberStorm server farm? I mean, how would they get access to CyberStorm?”

FBI: “We’re still putting the pieces together. There may be more people involved. Possibly even Singh and Pavlos. We found deleted files on Sebeck’s computer. They include lists of equipment and a draft power of attorney later signed by Matthew Sobol—probably after dementia incapacitated him. That power of attorney placed part of Sobol’s assets under the control of an offshore corporation in which Sebeck held a controlling interest.”

CIA: “Am I the only person who thinks this is a load of horseshit?”

NSA: “No.”

FBI: “If you read the report—”

CIA: “Hang on a second. This is too far-fetched. You’re telling me that these two managed to swindle Sobol out of forty million dollars in loans—but that they didn’t just take the money and run. Instead, they bought stock on margin and orchestrated a shorting scam? Hell, a Wall Street banker might have been able to do it, but not some yokel cop and his girlfriend.”

NSA: “I’m going to side with him on that. This seems improbable. They’d need serious technical and financial expertise. Not to mention luck.”

FBI: “We’re still searching for the man who claimed to be Jon Ross. He escaped from the Calabasas scene and disappeared without a trace. He might be our skilled operator. Sebeck was most likely the muscle. He was probably just looking for a way out. Had his first kid at sixteen, married the mother at seventeen. A rocky marriage. By all accounts, not a family man. Probably felt trapped.”

NSA: “What about the e-mail video of Sobol?”

FBI: “Preliminary voice and image analysis indicates the MPEG video was faked. Not surprisingly, Sebeck was the one who discovered it. This and the other evidence probably gave Lanthrop and Sebeck time to—”

NSA: “What about the acoustic weapons? And the ultrawideband transmitters?”

FBI: “Clearly someone with tremendous technical know-how was involved. But that didn’t have to be Sobol. Don’t forget: Detective Sebeck was a signatory on eight offshore accounts and an officer in nine offshore holding corporations. Some of these accounts are years old. For godsakes, Detective Sebeck had a safe deposit box in a Los Angeles bank where we found twenty thousand dollars in cash and a forged passport with his picture on it.”

NSA: “That’s quite interesting.” He paused for effect. “I also find it interesting that there were several other Ventura County detectives besides Peter Sebeck who might have been assigned this case. And all of them had not one, but multiple offshore bank accounts. About which they claim ignorance.”

This produced frowns around the table.

CIA: “I don’t understand.”

NSA motioned for a nearby aide to hit the lights. The room dimmed.

NSA: “Look at this map.” He pulled out a remote and a map of the U.S. appeared, via PowerPoint, on a wall screen. “Here, we see cities where these same detectives incurred credit card charges in the last two years.” He clicked. “Now, we overlay credit card charges occurring on those same days for Ms. Lanthrop.”

The map showed the detectives didn’t travel all that widely. But they had an unusual habit of taking trips to cities on the same day that Cheryl Lanthrop was in them.

FBI: “What the hell…?”

NSA: “Same city. Same day. Note that they all took a trip to Grand Cayman at one time or another.”

There was general confusion around the table.

DARPA: “You’re saying that every senior detective in Ventura County was involved?”

NSA: “No. I’m saying that the groundwork was laid to frame every detective—a precaution against a single point of failure in the Daemon. That wasn’t the only precaution….” He clicked the remote. The screen changed to a still image from a security camera showing Lanthrop checking in at a business hotel. She was beautiful even here. “Our Ms. Lanthrop. Memphis. Auburn hair, high cheekbones.” The image changed to another security camera image. “Dallas. Blond hair, soft features, and ample bustline.” Another photograph. “Kansas City. Brunette, tall.”

DARPA: “They’re different women.”

FBI: “So this is the NSA’s attempt to bring the Daemon back into the picture?”

NSA: “It’s not an attempt to do anything. These are the facts. It’s also a fact that Cheryl Lanthrop had no known medical or business experience prior to working at Sobol’s company, nor can we find any trace of her family or anyone who knew her prior to that time.”

CIA: “She’s a doppelganger.”

NSA: “It would appear so.”

FBI: “But that just proves my point; these are sophisticated grifters who scammed Sobol.”

NSA: “Your evidence is largely digital. E-mail, financial transactions, travel records. How do you know that Sebeck’s Lanthrop was anything more than a call girl?”

FBI: “This is ridiculous. Occam’s razor kicks in here. Which is more probable: that a dead man set up a system for framing multiple detectives—simultaneously flushing half his estate down the toilet—or that a group of people abused a position of trust to swindle a dying rich man?”

DIA: “But why was it necessary to have all the detectives involved? If a group of people were swindling Sobol, wouldn’t they want to have cops as far away as possible?”

There was silence.

FBI: “Well, it’s a fact that a cop was involved, and it’s a fact that someone orchestrated the stock swindle.”

DIA: “So, does the Daemon exist or not?”

They looked at each other in the semidarkness.

NSA: “I think we can agree that—as far as the public is concerned—the Daemon must remain a hoax.”