Daemon (29 page)

Mosely leaned in. The keys were in the ignition.

Not quite yet…

He searched for the trunk latch and tripped it. He heard the trunk pop at the back of the car. Mosely cautiously moved to the rear bumper and lifted the trunk lid.

The trunk did not contain a corpse. Nor was it filled with kilos of cocaine or heroin. It contained only a brown leather two-suiter suitcase and a black leather computer bag. He unzipped the computer bag. A laptop computer. These were not his favorite. He’d had too much data on his the last time he was busted. The computer bag contained numerous pockets, stuffed with pens, legal pads, and cables. One had a stack of business cards snugged into it. He pulled a business card out and read it:

Charles Taylor, Jr.

Executive Vice President, Corporate Counsel

Stratford Systems, Inc.

He pictured some lawyer lying dead in a bayou.

Mosely closed the bag and undid the clasps on the brown two-suiter case, unfolding it. Expensive. With an engraved monogram of “CWT” in the center of a brass plaque. He unzipped the case to reveal a couple of very fine suits (both size 48), shirts, and a tie. The side pockets contained toiletries, boxers, and socks. No weapons, drugs, or anything else. It was looking alarmingly harmless.

I’m a mule. I just don’t know how.

Maybe the body panels were packed with heroin. Welded in place. He closed the suitcase and slammed the trunk. He’d never know.

He took off his suit jacket and laid it on the passenger seat, then sat behind the wheel. He turned the ignition key to the first position. The car’s instrument panel came to life, and a computer screen in the dashboard flickered, revealing a color map. A large arrow indicated his current position and direction.

Suddenly the car phone rang. Mosely looked around. He noticed a phone button on the steering wheel. He pressed it, and the familiar British female voice spoke out over the stereo speakers, startling him.
“Good, Mr. Moze-ly. I trust you’ve searched the car and found nothing dangerous. Please open the glove compartment and remove the manila envelope.”

Mosely realized with a start that he hadn’t checked the glove compartment.
Stupid.
He leaned over and flipped it open. The manila envelope was right on top. He grabbed it and noticed the car’s registration and insurance certificate in a neat plastic sleeve just beneath that. He withdrew the envelope and slammed the glove box. He sat back in the driver’s seat and opened the envelope with a rip.

The Voice returned.
“Inside you will find materials necessary for your journey.”

Mosely poured a whole bunch of card-sized objects into his lap. The most noticeable was a Texas driver’s license with his picture on it. Alongside his picture was the name Charles W. Taylor, Jr., and a Houston address. The license looked and felt real—holograms and all. There was also a stack of platinum credit cards in his lap—Visa, American Express, MasterCard, Discover—all in the name of Charles Taylor, and a couple of them had the Stratford Systems, Inc., name beneath his. There were more of his business cards, a gym membership, a University of Southern California Alumni Association card with his name on it, a Houston Bar Association ID, and then there were dozens of credit card receipts from all sorts of businesses—restaurants mostly—that ranged from $97 to $1,780. The charges were from the last few days. There was also a two-page hotel receipt for the Hyatt Regency in Austin. The bill was $6,912. Taylor’s signature was the barest squiggle of a line—very easy to forge.

He looked in the envelope and found a few more items. There were several wallet-sized photos of a very attractive mixed-race woman. One a formal portrait and others casual photos: her in a tropical location, another of her laughing with skis over her shoulder near a lodge. She was incredibly fine.

This was a complete identity. An identity he preferred to his own.

The Voice continued.
“Place these items in your wallet. Memorize your new name. When you are ready to proceed, say the word ‘ready.’”

Mosely started fitting the items into his wallet. This was getting interesting. If he wanted to make a break, he had all the tools necessary. As soon as he had everything stowed in his wallet. He grabbed the steering wheel. “Ready.”

“Take a moment to familiarize yourself with the controls of this vehicle. Adjust the mirrors and seat. Note the location of the headlight and wiper controls.”
There was a pause.
“When you are ready to proceed, say the word ‘ready.’”

Mosely reflexively shrugged it off and was about to say ”Ready” instantly. But he thought better of it. If he owned this car, then he’d know where everything was. She was right. He took several minutes learning the layout. He even pulled out the owner’s manual and flipped through it. As he did so, he glanced at the registration. It was a company car leased by Stratford Systems, Inc. Taylor had a company car.

After Mosely was satisfied he knew where all the controls were, he sat up again. “Ready.”

“Fasten your seat belt and start the car.”

He did as instructed. The car started smoothly. After a few moments, cooler AC air washed over him. He fanned it onto his sweaty face, then pulled the driver’s door closed.

He gunned the engine. He could barely hear it. He had to trust the tachometer. What self-respecting car had a noiseless engine?

Her voice came again.
“Above the rearview mirror you will notice three buttons. These are home automation controls. Click the left one to open the garage door in front of you.”

He paused a moment. If there was going to be a raid or an ambush, now was the time.
Oh hell…can’t live forever.
He hit the button. The garage door rose to reveal…

An empty street in a ratty blue-collar neighborhood. He breathed easier.

She kept talking.
“Drive out of the garage and turn right. Then continue to the Stop sign at the end of the street….”

He drove out of the garage. Her voice guided Mosely, turn by turn, through town and toward the interstate. He kept one eye on the rearview mirror, looking for signs he was being followed. He’d done that a lot as a dealer. But there was almost no one on the road here.

“Get into the left lane, and take the entrance to the Ten East.
”

Mosely considered his situation. He had money. A fast car and ID. Maybe he could get some distance between himself and these people—maybe even reach Mexico. This was so obviously a setup. He couldn’t stand it another minute.

Mosely changed to the right lane and prepared to take the 10 West.

Her voice came on again over the speakerphone.
“Mr. Moze-ly, get in the left lane.”

He kept driving toward the westbound interstate entrance ramp. “Sorry, Jane. I’m not your man.” He hung up the line.

The car immediately stalled. It bucked to a stop in the middle of the road.

“Damnit!” Mosely tried to restart it as a good ol’ boy in a pickup truck came up behind him and honked. He could hear the guy cursing before the man screeched around him and gave him the finger. Mosely tried the key again, but the engine wasn’t even turning over. Nothing.

Then the car phone rang. Mosely looked around to see if any local police were watching. They’d come over to help get him out of traffic, if nothing else. He was a sitting duck. Mosely clicked the speakerphone button. “I got your point. Fix the engine, please.”

Her voice was unperturbed.
“Get in the left lane and merge onto the Ten East.”

He tried the engine again, and it started right up. He accelerated into the left lane and then took the eastbound highway entrance ramp. The car accelerated smoothly and with impressive power. But his hands were still shaking, the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. He had no desire to go back to Highland.

Her voice came over the eight speakers.
“If you disobey me again, I will activate the satellite anti-theft system in this car. It will alert local law enforcement and give its precise location.”

“Okay, Jane, I fucked up. Won’t happen again.”

“Keep driving. Stay within five miles of the speed limit, and signal all lane changes. If you deviate from my instructions, I will return you to Warmonk, Inc., and bear in mind, Mr. Moze-ly: if I can erase your prison record, I can just as easily expand it. Life without the possibility of parole. Child molesters are the lowest in the prison social order, are they not?”

This chilled him to the core. Going back to prison was one thing. Going back as a pederast was quite something else. Death was preferable.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” No flippant responses this time. She had his full attention.

Mosely kept the car aimed at the distant horizon. A passing sign told him Houston lay 102 miles ahead.

A
gent Roy Merritt stood stiffly—eyes straight ahead—one hand resting on his cane for support. Burn scars traced across his neck and chin above his suit collar. More scars were visible on the back of his hand as he straightened his tie. Agent Roy Merritt. No one called him Tripwire anymore. The men who had were long gone. He’d led them to their deaths.

Merritt focused his eyes on a frieze of workers building a glorious tomorrow. The image was set into the wall, done in the 1930s, art deco style—a WPA project. Master craftsmen had built this entire building, dispossessed workers in the throes of the Great Depression. The ornamental ceiling. The paneled walls and the inlaid granite floor. This room was a masterpiece. Their own dreams lay in ruins, and they built this temple to democracy. His forebears were tougher than he ever thought he could be.

Merritt stood before a narrow table, placed in the center of the room. Arrayed in front of him were congressional committee members, sitting high in judgment behind a richly carved oak judges’ bench. Microphones jutted up before each of them. They shuffled through papers, reading with their bifocals low on their noses.

The committee chairman looked up and pulled the microphone toward him. “You may be seated, Agent Merritt.” The words echoed flatly in the empty gallery. It was a confidential committee hearing. No one but Merritt and the committee members were present.

“Sir.” Merritt limped to the chair and sat rigidly.

The chairman regarded him. “Agent Merritt, it is the responsibility of this committee to investigate the tactical failures that led to a record loss of federal officers in October of last year at the estate of the late Matthew Sobol. We have already heard relevant testimony from all bureau personnel and local law enforcement officers who were at the scene, and now that you have sufficiently recovered from your injuries, we would like to close out our investigation with your testimony on this matter.”

He paused and lowered his sheaf of papers. “Before we begin, let me state for the record, Mr. Merritt, that this committee is aware of the many personal sacrifices you have made for this country, both here and overseas following September 11th. We have the highest regard for both your personal courage and your patriotism.”

Merritt stared at the floor in front of him. He said nothing.

The chairman picked up the papers and turned to the senator on his right. “Senator Tilly, you may proceed.”

Tilly was a white-haired, loose-jowled man—like most of the legislators in attendance. He glanced at his notes and then stared at Merritt. He spoke in a Southern drawl that seemed strangely in keeping with the proceedings. “Agent Merritt. We have reviewed both your written
repoats
—the first dated ten March and the second from three April—and these documents do not shed any light on one crucial question: why did you force entry into Sobol’s mansion after being ordered to abort your mission?”

Merritt barely looked up at Tilly. He took a breath. “I have no explanation, Senator.”

The senators exchanged looks. The chairman leaned in to his mic.

“Mr. Merritt, it is your duty to provide—”

“My team was dead. Because of me. I was injured and angry, and I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Tilly responded immediately. “You weren’t thinking clearly? Because of your injuries or because of your anger?”

He looked down at the floor again. “Because of my anger.”

“So you were angry. Do you feel this released you from your duty?”

“No, I do not, sir.”

“And you were angry at Matthew Sobol?”

Merritt nodded.

The chairman leaned in again. “Agent Merritt, please state your response.”

Merritt looked up. “I was angry at Sobol, correct. I wanted to shut him down.”

Tilly resumed. “So this was before you learned that the so-called ‘Daemon’ did not exist?”

“That’s correct.” He paused. “I know it’s my fault the house burned down, Senator.”

The chairman motioned for Tilly to hold off, then turned to Merritt. “The committee will judge who’s at fault—if fault is to be found. Please just answer the questions.”

Tilly pressed on. “To be clear: did you not enter the house to take refuge from the fire on the lawn?”

Were they giving him an out? He thought of the dead faces of his men. Their fatherless children. He wouldn’t take the easy way out. “No. I meant to destroy the Daemon.”

Tilly glanced at the chairman with some exasperation, then turned back to Merritt. “This was your
sole
reason for entering the mansion?”

Merritt looked up. “Yes.”

Tilly flipped through the pages of Merritt’s reports.

There was silence for a moment.

The chairman looked gravely at Merritt. “Agent Merritt, I can only imagine the horror you’ve been through, but because of your actions the mansion and all the outbuildings burned to the ground—destroying evidence that might have helped to locate and convict Sebeck’s accomplices.”

Merritt knew this all too well. He thought of little else nowadays.

The chairman looked down his glasses. “Let’s bring this fish to the boat, shall we?” He flipped through his papers, then looked up. “You say you have very little recollection of how you survived the fire. You write in your report”—he lifted his glasses and read from the page—“‘my tac-suit must have kept me afloat in the water and turned me upright.’” The chairman lowered the page. “And yet, you were found a hundred feet east of the location you indicated as the mouth of the pit. It might be very hard, Mr. Merritt, but can you recall anything—absolutely anything—of the layout or contents of the cellars before you lost consciousness?”

Merritt stared at the floor. Not a night went by that he didn’t recall fleeting images of terror from that night. The trapdoor above him engulfed in flames. Flaming wood falling down upon him. The air in his gas mask growing warmer—suffocating him slowly. The sudden explosion. The cinderblock wall blasting apart near him, sending fragments into his leg. A rush of water. Falling as it flowed out into a room of fire. The flood of water roiling around him. Scalding steam. Like a scene of hell itself. Crawling. Then the water sweeping him—converging with another stream and sucking him across the center of the inferno as he struggled for air. The rush of water. Tumbling down steps into the wine cellar and landing in the pool gathered there at the lowest spot in the house.

He didn’t regain consciousness until four days later in the burn unit at USC. Months of agony followed. His wife’s loving eyes. The faces of his girls. Faces he thought he’d never see again. Faces that gave him the courage to face each agonizing day.

He had no recollection of floor plans or equipment or schematics. It was all just a sea of fire.

He shook his head slowly.

The senators looked at each other. The chairman nodded. “Well, Agent Merritt, I must tell you this is not easy. Six men died under your command, and the entire estate was lost—by your own admission—due to your attempts to penetrate the server room—contrary to orders. This committee has no choice but to recommend to Director Bennett that you be put on a disciplinary suspension, pending final judgment in this matter.”

The words fell on Merritt like slabs of rock. It felt like the last ounce of breath had been crushed out of him. He couldn’t speak.

The chairman picked up his gavel and rapped it twice with an echoing
clack-clack
. “This hearing is adjourned.”

Merritt limped down the steps of the Capitol, thinking hard on the changes in his life since that October night. But today was a beautiful spring day. The cherry trees blossomed along the Potomac. He gazed across the National Mall at the monuments built by the valiant generations that came before him.

All he ever wanted was to serve his country.

But he’d failed. And all of the conspirators except Sebeck had escaped, possibly because of Merritt’s foolhardiness. His career was over.

He limped onward, along a landscaped sidewalk beneath budding oak trees. Men and women in uniform or suits scurried this way and that in groups of two or three, clutching briefcases and talking earnestly. Merritt needed time to think. Time to figure out what he was going to say to his wife.

He eased onto a park bench and gazed out at the National Mall. The business of government was carrying on without him.

Merritt was still lost in thought as a nondescript man in a nondescript suit approached and sat down on the far end of the bench. Merritt bristled slightly. All he wanted was to be left alone.

The man spoke without looking at him. “The house didn’t hold any important information, Agent Merritt.”

Merritt stopped short and turned to glare at the man—a federal bureaucrat type, late twenties. The kind of person you forgot even while you were looking at him. Cheap gray suit, unkempt brown hair, lime green shirt with a striped tie, leatherette attaché case. Merritt saw a federal ID badge hanging off the man’s lapel:

Littleton, Leonard

General Services Administration

Merritt finally looked up into the man’s eyes, narrowing his own. “What did you say to me?”

“I said: Sobol’s house was a trap. It didn’t hold anything important.”

“Yeah? What the hell do you know about it?”

Littleton’s reaction surprised Merritt. He didn’t shrink back. He didn’t even seem surprised.

“I know a lot. In fact, I know more than any man alive.”

Merritt frowned. There was something about those eyes. The nose. He’d seen this man before. But where?

Littleton sensed that Merritt was trying to place him. “No, you don’t know me, Agent Merritt. But you know
of
me.”

Merritt studied Littleton’s face.

Littleton zipped open his ratty attaché, producing a small notebook computer about the size of a thin hardcover book. Littleton dropped his attaché without concern and flipped open the computer.

It turned out to be a portable DVD player.

“Who are you? A reporter?”

Littleton ignored him and instead hit the
PLAY
button, then turned the screen to face Merritt.

In a moment Merritt was taken back to that night many months ago. The video screen showed him standing in Sobol’s entertainment room, eyes bloody, face blistered, nose bleeding—a smoking shotgun in his hand. It was an isometric perspective, looking down on him from near the ceiling. A slightly grainy image, as though from a security camera.

On the screen Merritt was reloading. He looked up and shouted, “I’m going to shut you down, Sobol!” And that voice behind him—but the voice didn’t register at all on the video. It was as if the Merritt on the DVD screen was a schizophrenic—hearing voices. Merritt saw himself turn and fire point-blank into the wall behind him.

The real Merritt shook himself out of his stunned silence and dropped his cane with a clatter onto the sidewalk. He leaned over to Littleton, whispering urgently. “Where did you get this?”

Littleton snapped the DVD player closed. “From the source.”

“What source?”

“The Daemon.”

Littleton leaned down to pick up Merritt’s cane while Merritt groped for words.

It suddenly dawned on Merritt. He pointed a tentative finger. “You’re Jon Ross.”

He extended the cane to Merritt. “I once was, yes. That seems like ages ago now.”

“The FBI’s Most Wanted man.”

“I suppose I’m manna from heaven to you. You could quickly get yourself reinstated if you turned me in. Maybe even decorated—which, on a personal note, I think is overdue.”

Merritt felt reflexively for his shoulder holster—then remembered that he didn’t have a weapon on him. He had come for a congressional committee hearing. It would have created an unnecessary hassle going through the metal detectors with a gun.

Merritt smiled calmly. “What’s to stop me from turning you in?”

“My innocence. And the fact that you’re a man who loves this country.”

Merritt tried to resist the appeal to his wounded patriotism.
Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.

He got his emotions under control. “What did you do to Mr. Littleton?” He ripped off the Littleton ID badge. “Where is he? Dead?”

Ross laughed. “No, of course not.”

Merritt examined the badge. Plastic. It had Ross’s picture on it. But it was blank on the back, unlike real federal IDs.

“Not Littleton’s fault. He was eating lunch on a park bench. A digital camera with a zoom lens gave me a close-up image of his ID badge. I used a graphics program to paste in my own photo, then a portable card printer. All from the confines of my car.” Ross frowned. “No smart chip inside, though. So I couldn’t actually get into a federal building. But it’s very good for moving around the public spaces without arousing suspicion.”

Merritt pocketed the ID. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Ross.”

“The Daemon exists, Agent Merritt. No living person was running the defenses in that house. You know it’s true. Now imagine the exact same thing loose in the world, and you’ll have some idea what we’re up against.”

Merritt paused, but then shook his head. “No. I don’t know that. I was angry—”

“They didn’t tell you everything they knew. Didn’t you think it strange that they sent a hostage rescue team in to bridge a pit? It’s because they knew they were sending you against a barricaded suspect.”

“Tell your story in court.”

“I’m not an American citizen. I don’t think I get a trial.”

“Either way, you’re coming with me.”

Ross just gave Merritt an impatient look. “Agent Merritt, I watched you go through the metal detectors earlier. I know you’re unarmed.”

Son of a bitch.

“I, on the other hand,
am
armed—so I suggest you listen to what I have to say. Because after the shooting starts, there will be no more talk—and you may never get the answers to those questions that keep you up at night.”

They said Ross was slippery. Merritt did need answers. He looked beyond Ross at two Capitol Hill police walking in the distance. He knew he wouldn’t call them. Not yet.