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. “.” 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?”