Daemon d-1

by Daniel Suarez

  Merritt was shaking his head, but not vigorously.

  “In fact, this video has gone viral in the darknet. Among Daemon operatives you’re something of a larger-than-life hero, Agent Merritt.”

  “For what?”

  “For surviving the worst that Sobol could throw at you. You’re darknet-famous.”

  “What’s a darknet?”

  “Not a darknet, the darknet. Imagine a network, like the Internet, but more sophisticated and much more exclusive, populated only by humans the Daemon has recruited.”

  Merritt frowned.

  Ross changed the subject. “In any event the Daemon detected my video applet, and I was ejected before I could capture the whole thing. If it knew my real name and address, I suppose I would be dead now. But it doesn’t know my real name. No one does. And no one ever can.”

  Merritt wasn’t thinking about calling for backup anymore. What if Ross was telling the truth? Far from being over, something might just be starting. Something terrible. He looked up at Ross. “I’ll need to see more evidence.”

  “That can be arranged.” He stood and motioned for Merritt to follow him. “Walk with me.”

  Merritt struggled to his feet and limped after Ross as he headed off through the park.

  “I’m innocent, Agent Merritt. So is Peter Sebeck.”

  “The detective?” Merritt remembered the local cop who had been convicted in the conspiracy. “He’s on death row.”

  “Yes. That’s partly why I’m here.”

  “So that’s the angle; you’re here to free your partner.”

  “For godsakes, who would be smart enough to steal a couple hundred million dollars, but then stupid enough to wire the money to tax havens controlled by Western intelligence agencies? Why would Sebeck keep fake passports in safe deposit boxes under his own name? Sobol stole Sebeck’s identity.”

  Merritt smirked. “And this Daemon stole your identity, too, I imagine?”

  Ross shook his head. “No. Sobol didn’t anticipate me, and his Daemon still doesn’t know who I am. But it’s trying to find out-because I’m the only one fighting it.”

  Merritt regarded him. “So, who are you, Mr. Ross?”

  “I already told you, no one-”

  “I don’t want your name. I want to know who you are.”

  They walked on for a while in silence, Ross considering the question. Before long he turned to Merritt. “I came here on an H1-B visa.”

  “A foreign tech worker?”

  “Yes. I was brought in for Y-two-K remediation and stayed through the Internet bubble. They billed us out as expert developers to large multinational corporations at two hundred and twenty dollars an hour.”

  “Who billed you out?”

  “The Russian mafia.”

  Merritt let out an involuntary laugh.

  Ross sighed. “There was a lot of money sloshing around back then-and a lot of Russian tech talent. An illegal trade developed.”

  Merritt’s instinct was to keep laughing. Except he couldn’t think of any particular reason why it couldn’t be true. It seemed all too possible. Was he being nave again?

  Ross urged Merritt to keep moving. “We developed secure e-commerce sites and Web solutions. Pound for pound, we probably pulled in more revenue than prostitutes-plus, the money didn’t need to be laundered.”

  “Get to the part where you become an identity thief.”

  “The tech bust. There was a falling-out between some of our handlers toward the end. I took advantage of the confusion to disappear. Most of my compatriots were brought back to the Russian Federation, where I assume they are still in servitude to this day. I stole an American identity-a Mr. Jon Ross. He had a suitable academic background for my purposes.”

  “Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “I worked on a lot of credit card systems and projects for various state governments. I learned how the systems work, and I created a place for myself within them.” He looked up at Merritt. “I just wanted my freedom, Agent Merritt. I never stole from Mr. Ross. In fact, he sold me his identity, and I substantially improved his FICO score.”

  “How is it you speak English so well? You sound like you’re from Ohio.”

  “My father worked with the Russian consulate here in D.C. during the Cold War.” Ross pointed toward the Potomac. “I grew up in Fairfax.”

  Merritt kept shaking his head-but then, he didn’t know what to believe.

  Ross grew somber. “After the fall of the Berlin Wall, we were recalled to Russia. My father was murdered by Communist hard-liners in the 1992 coup attempt.”

  Merritt searched for signs of dissembling-rapid facial movements, fluttering of the eyes. Ross displayed only a wistful calm. A melancholy.

  In a few moments Ross brightened. “Well, that was a long time ago.” He gestured to the government buildings around them. “I have always held a deep admiration for the founding fathers of your republic. Your Constitution and your Bill of Rights were an incredible gift to mankind. Although lately America appears to have strayed from the path set forth by its founders.”

  Merritt regarded him with some annoyance. “Well, that’s swell of you to emerge from the wreckage of Communism to tell us we’vestrayed from the true path. That means so much, coming from an admitted thief. And your theory about the Daemon would also be great, except for the mountain of evidence pointing straight at Detective Sebeck, and Cheryl Lanthrop, and you.”

  Ross tried to talk, but Merritt steamrolled onward. “Sebeck admittedto having an affair with Lanthrop. She was the same person who pulled millions out of offshore banks before the funds were frozen.”

  Ross shook his head. “Sobol could have stolen her identity, too.”

  Merritt was nonplussed. “There’s bank camera video of her withdrawing funds. She was a medical executive in a position to betray Sobol.”

  “Sobol had a controlling interest in that MRI company. He could have placed anyone he wanted there.”

  “Well, she conveniently turned up dead in Belize, so I guess we’ll never know. And you-or someone working with you-probably put the bullet in her head. Or did a computer do that, too?”

  “She was killed four months ago. By then the Daemon had people working for it. Namely, the criminal rings running online gambling and pornography-very dangerous people. Take my word for it.”

  “Right. I’m sure you can figure out a way to work in alien abduction and crop circles, too.”

  “Agent-»

  “I’m not an idiot, Mr. Ross-or whatever your name is. You had every motive and every capability of killing Lanthrop, Pavlos, Singh, and the others. You had tens of millions of motives-all of them currently stuck in frozen bank accounts.”

  “If I did all that, why would I have come within miles of this case? Why would I have assisted Sebeck at all?”

  “Because you’re vain. Or so smart you think everyone else is stupid.”

  “The video Sobol sent to Sebeck-”

  “That e-mail was analyzed and determined not to be Sobol, and the only person who ever spoke to Sobol on the phone was Sebeck. The message from Boerner left on Sebeck’s voice mail? Also not Sobol. Then there’s the Hummer at the estate that tried to kill everyone butyou and Pete Sebeck. What am I leaving out, Mr. Ross?”

  Ross looked Merritt in the eye. “Pete Sebeck is innocent. So am I.”

  “Well, if you guys didn’t commit the murders and the embezzlement, then I’m supposed to believe Sobol did?”

  Ross nodded.

  “Why would Sobol throw away tens of millions of dollars just to frame Sebeck?”

  “To make everyone believe the Daemon doesn’t exist.”

  “And what would that accomplish?”

  “If you don’t believe something exists, you won’t try to stop it.”

  Merritt halted. It had a nasty, effective simplicity-an ant climbing through the chinks of his armor. There was no ignoring it. He pondered it for a few more moments. “The murders, the stock swindle,
they were all just the beginning of something bigger?”

  Ross didn’t even look at Merritt. “I know it for a fact.”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say the Daemon exists. If Sobol didn’t want anyone to stop his plan, then why would he make the Daemon famous to begin with?”

  “To create a global brand. One that is instantly recognizable. One that will rally the disaffected to his cause. Worldwide.”

  “And what cause is that?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Merritt limped along silently.

  “Agent Merritt, I know this much: the Daemon is growing in power. It’s not visible yet, but soon it will show itself. When it does, bad things will happen.”

  Merritt glanced around again to see if anyone was watching. No one nearby. He turned back to Ross. “Turn yourself in, Jon. I’ll do everything I can-”

  Ross shook his head. “If I get locked in a cell and news of my capture is sent through the wrong e-mail server, I’m as good as dead.”

  “We have a witness protection program-”

  “Don’t even try.”

  “What about going to the media?”

  “The Daemon has infiltrated the media, Agent Merritt.”

  Merritt rolled his eyes. “How the hell does a computer program infiltrate the media?”

  “News organizations use data systems to prioritize, track, and prepare stories. The last thing we want to do is get this into the news. Even before it reaches the airwaves, the Daemon will know about me. That is, if the story ever reaches the airwaves.”

  “Now I’m supposed to believe the Daemon controls the media?”

  “Controls, no. Influences, yes. There are only five major media companies in the world. It doesn’t take a lot to influence content-particularly if you are inside their systems and you have secured key people.”

  Merritt was still shaking his head.

  Ross looked uncomfortable. “I’ve stayed too long.” He started heading for a nearby bus stop.

  Merritt limped after him. “You said you were going to show me evidence of the Daemon. I’m not letting you out of my sight until you do. I’ll start howling bloody murder if you try to leave.”

  “I have irrefutable proof that the Daemon exists. But you have to trust me-”

  “The hell I do.”

  “Why would I risk everything to come talk to you, and then never contact you again? I want something from you.”

  “What?”

  “Your help.”

  Merritt laughed ruefully. “It’s my help now? The nads on you…”

  “I need you to get a message to Dr. Natalie Philips at the NSA.” Ross handed Merritt a piece of paper. “I can be reached at this e-mail address. At least for a while.”

  Merritt glanced at it. An inscrutable e-mail address consisting of random numbers and letters was printed neatly on it. “Why don’t you contact her yourself?”

  “Let’s just say she’s unlisted. But you can probably find her. Tell her that she can get in direct contact with me at that e-mail address. Tell her that I found the back door in Sobol’s game. If she doubts my identity, tell her that I was there when Sobol phoned Sebeck at the funeral.”

  Merritt saw a policeman walking along the Mall not far away. He squeezed the piece of paper in his hand. Then sighed and turned back to Ross. “I want something, too.”

  “Okay. What?”

  “Give me that DVD.”

  Ross popped the DVD out of the player and then hesitated. “Agent Merritt, I wouldn’t watch this if I were you. Your squad burns to death on camera. It’s very disturbing.”

  Merritt hesitated, too. His hand wavered. Then he took it. “They say you’re a master con artist. I promise you: if you caused the death of my men, I’ll hunt you down. No matter how long it takes.”

  Ross met his gaze. “I would expect no less.”

  Merritt slipped the disc into his coat pocket.

  “Don’t show that video to anyone. Not yet. If the Daemon knows you’re on to it, it will kill you.”

  “Yeah, I’m shaking like a leaf.”

  Ross headed toward the bus stop.

  Merritt limped after him. “When do I get to see this irrefutable proof?”

  “I’ll contact you.”

  They reached the bus stop shelter, slathered with advertising posters. Ross peered down the street to see a bus-any bus-coming down the block. He turned to Merritt again. “I’ll show you everything I know about the Daemon.” He looked seriously into Merritt’s eyes. “I think your republic is in danger, Agent Merritt. I don’t know who else to turn to. Please realize I came to you because I saw that video, and I know you are a courageous man. That’s what your republic needed at its founding. And it’s what it needs now.”

  Merritt felt the rush return. Love for his country swelled within him. Was he being nave? He had always wanted a grand purpose. He avoided eye contact for the shame he felt in having his buttons so easily pushed.

  The bus squealed to a stop. The doors opened. Ross turned without a word and merged into the line of commuters. In a few moments he was aboard.

  Merritt watched the bus pull away, still wrestling over whether or not to alert the police. He committed the bus number and license plate to memory.

  Had he really just let the FBI’s Most Wanted man go? He withdrew the DVD from his jacket pocket and looked at it. It bore the handwritten title Sobol’s House.

  To Merritt, something had never seemed quite right about the Daemon hoax. Something about it just seemed too tidy. In his heart he had always had doubts, but after the deaths of his men it seemed self-serving to question the simple story. High-tech experts had declared the matter resolved.

  But months ago in Sobol’s mansion, Merritt had seen and heard things no one had ever satisfactorily explained.

  He looked around at the oblivious commuters waiting for their buses. He limped back the way he came. There was physical therapy to do. He would be ready for what was coming, and this time he would not fail his country-whether or not Ross was behind it all.

  As Merritt moved away through the crowd, he didn’t notice the six-foot-tall bus stop poster framed behind graffiti-carved Lexan. It boasted a medium close-up of Anji Anderson, all business, arms folded, set against an infinity background. She glowered at passersby from above the logo of her network news show, News to America.The tag line read:

  “The Most Trusted Name in News…”

  Chapter 27:// Mind Mapping

  Charles Mosely walked across the sunny corporate plaza and cast a glance back at the Lexus sitting curbside a hundred feet behind him. He wasn’t comfortable leaving his ride behind-but then again, The Voice was able to kill the engine at will, so it probably didn’t matter.

  A few corporate drones in business suits lock-stepped across the plaza, briefcases in hand. Mosely realized that he must look like one of them.

  A fountain occupied the center of the square. It was a dancing display of computer-controlled water jets, recirculating hundreds of gallons per second. Mosely walked around it, just now noticing how many things must be controlled by computers. It wasn’t intelligence, but then again most things in life didn’t really require intelligence.

  Gleaming twenty-story high-rises stood on either side of a four-story medical plaza. He walked straight toward the green-glass medical plaza.

  The logo over the glass doors read:

  fMRI Partners

  This was the name The Voice had given him. The landscaping and architecture were impressive. Somebody had put in little grass-carpeted mounds topped with cherry trees. It was pricey real estate. The whole district was dotted with fancy corporate towers. It was not a place where he had had reason to spend time back when he lived in Houston, and the police in these neighborhoods were always crazy suspicious of brothers. Still, he hadn’t been stopped on the way in. Must’ve been the suit and the white-guy car. For the first time he considered that classism might trump racism.

  Mosely
approached the glass doors and was about to push when they slid away noiselessly to either side. A blast of refrigerated air washed over him. The hot and humid outside air collided with it, creating a mini squall line at the entrance. He stepped straight through and into a minimalist corporate lobby. The doors hissed closed behind him. His heels clicked as he crossed the tiled lobby floor.

  The company logo was repeated in bold letters on the back wall behind the receptionist’s desk. The desk itself was the typical front-office bunker designed to look like a welding accident. The receptionist was a creamy-skinned blonde in her twenties who had either been born gorgeous or been modified to be that way. Didn’t matter to Mosely. She was the prettiest woman he’d seen in years.

  She was speaking on a wireless headset and smiled at him, mouthing I’ll be right with you.Her red lipstick almost burned images onto his corneas.

  He glanced around at the high ceiling, spotlights focused on jutting peninsulas of brushed steel. It was like a car showroom without the cars. No chairs anywhere in sight, either. Welcome. Now get the fuck out.

  In a moment she hung up. One could never really tell with headsets, but she focused her gaze on him and smiled. “Mr. Taylor. You’re expected. Please go right in.”

  Twin blond wood doors opened automatically in the wall beyond. They revealed a hallway that shared distant architectural relations with the lobby.

  Mosely stared at the opening for a moment, then turned to the receptionist. “Listen, baby, you want to explain just what the hell I’m doing here?”

  “Well, for one thing, I don’t like being called ‘baby’ any more than you’d like to be called ‘boy.’”

  “That’s just it, though. I feel like I’m a ‘boy’ brought down here to the plantation house.” He leaned close. “You know what goes on up in here. You wanna help me out?”

  She regarded him coolly. “Here’s some help: you’re expected through those doors.”

  Mosely straightened. “A company girl.” He started for the opening. “That why they pay you the big bucks?”

  She watched him warily.

  Once he passed the threshold, the doors closed behind him with a click, sealing him in. He just smirked. “Mosely, you dumb ass.” He kept walking down a nicely appointed hallway. It stretched a good fifty feet. There were no doors to either side, just tasteful artwork-ink drawings with as few lines as possible. He approached the set of double doors at the far end of the hall, and-as he expected-they opened noiselessly to admit him.