Daemon (25 page)

“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.

S
ebeck 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.”