Daemon (21 page)

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….”

I
t 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 B
URN IN
H
ELL
, S
OBOL
, 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.