Daniel Suarez - Daemon

“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.”

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.

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.