"Fuck!" Gragg pulled his head up from the viewfinder and looked back at the featureless cinderblock wall.

"Stop!" The voice was so loud that it actually hurt. Then it returned to a comfortable volume. "Your earlier work was impressive. Your future lies ahead of you. Not behind you. Please return your eye to the viewfinder." There was a pause. "I will not ask you a second time."

Gragg was suddenly sweating. He felt his palm damp against the hand reader as he quickly returned his eye to the viewfinder. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…"

"Stop talking until you are asked a question."

Gragg bit his lip and couldn't stop shaking. The phrase excruciating death kept running through his mind. This was not an idiot he was dealing with here-he was the idiot. And he was truly afraid.

"Answer truthfully or die. Do you know who built this place? Yes or no?

"Yes."

"Speak the name slowly-first name, then last."

"Matthew…Sobol."

"Do you dislike Mr. Sobol? Yes or no?"

"No."

"Do you admire Mr. Sobol? Yes or no?"

"Yes. Very much."

"Answer just 'yes' or 'no.'"

The sweating returned. "Yes!" Jesus H. fucking Christ…

"Would you be interested in playing an active role in Mr. Sobol's plans?"

"Yes."

"If you were generously rewarded with power, knowledge, and wealth, would you be willing to break the law and expose yourself to personal risk as required to fulfill the plans of Mr. Sobol?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Do you believe in God?"

"No."

"Would you be willing to follow the instructions of a dead person?"

Ahhhh…The feelings welling up inside of him surprised even Gragg. Here he was strapped to the polygraph from hell, and he still hated taking orders from anyone-and yes, he had a subtle prejudice against the dead. They had no skin in the game. Sobol was impressive, but Gragg wasn't going to spend the rest of his fucking life serving a macro on steroids. Goddamnit.

"Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"

Fuck!"No." Gragg closed his eyes and waited to die.

"Keep your eyes open."

He complied immediately.

There was a pause. "To clarify. Your powerful intellect will be required to define the precise path to reach objectives set by Mr. Sobol. There will be a considerable degree of freedom in the means. The outcome will be all that matters. Knowing this, would you still have a problem performing in this role? Yes or no?"

Relief flooded over him. "No."

"Would you be willing to direct others in the pursuit of Mr. Sobol's goals-possibly resulting in the deaths of these subordinates?"

No problem."Yes."

"Do you have knowledge of a warrant out for your arrest in any state, territory, protectorate, or nation?"

"No."

"Do you have a criminal record in any state, territory, protectorate, or nation?"

"No."

"Do you take drugs?"

"No."

"Do you have any significant medical condition or physical limitation?"

"No."

"Are you currently in a significant romantic relationship?"

"No."

"Do you have pressing family obligations?"

"No."

"Do you have a history of mental illness?"

Hmmm."Yes."

"Have you ever purposely caused the death of another person?"

Gragg paused. "Yes." He'd never really taken ownership of it before. He felt a strange pang of guilt that surprised him. It passed quickly.

"Are you available to begin work immediately?"

"Yes." Gragg shrugged. Apparently this wasn't a typical organization.

There was silence. It was deafening. Then-

"Mr. Gragg. You may lift your head from the viewfinder and remove your hand from the reader. Your convictions appear genuine. You are now under our protection. The remaining test is to determine your service rank and is a modified intelligence quotient exam. It was designed to assess your knowledge of human psychology, logic, mathematics, language, and your ability to think creatively while under pressure. It is not possible to fail this test, but performing well on it will greatly increase your personal power and the opportunities for your Faction."

The LCD screen glowed to life, presenting a simple Web page with a crocus yellow background and a large title in Times New Roman font: Faction Multi-phasic Assessment Battery.

A START button appeared just beneath the title.

The Voice spoke again, "This test will take several hours. You will be judged on both the accuracy and speed of your answers. Use the touch screen to enter your selections. You may return to any question to change an answer, although you will be penalized for doing so. When you are ready to begin, press the START button.

Gragg took a look around, shrugged his shoulders, and clicked START.

It wound up taking Gragg three hours and twelve minutes to complete the "multi-phasic battery"-at the end of which his legs were lead and his back was killing him from hunching over. Worst of all, his brain felt sucked dry. He'd never been presented with such a grueling test of his intellect. The questions ranged from simple memory retention and spatial relationships to intense cryptographic theory. There were brutally complex logic problems-elaborate tautological diagrams and language math. The most enjoyable questions were the ones on social engineering. Gragg felt extremely confident of his answers there. In fact, he felt confident about most of the exam. He was just emotionally and intellectually spent.

He expected to see a test score or something at the end, but instead a simple Web page announced the completion of the exam and the amount of time elapsed: 3 hrs 12 m.

Gragg stared at the little LCD screen, wondering what to do next.

The Voice returned, startling Gragg. "You scored very well, Mr. Gragg, and your rank will reflect this. You are now the founding member of a Faction. Welcome."

The steel door next to the console clanked and moved inward, then noiselessly slid aside, revealing another dimly lit room beyond. Gragg grabbed his rucksack-he didn't even bother to draw his pistol. He walked confidently through the door.

This room was perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. It looked more like a pagan temple than anything else. Four stone pillars supported the relatively low, arched ceiling. The floors were of polished granite, and a half-dozen pedestals covered with chrome or stainless steel domes were set about the room. Soft, almost imperceptible white light suffused the chamber.

Straight ahead at the far wall was a dais, whereupon sat a wide high-definition plasma-screen television. As Gragg moved forward, dried mud cracking off his boots, he saw a man in his early to mid-thirties displayed on the plasma screen. The man's hawkish features were accentuated by piercing blue eyes. His hair was light brown and neatly groomed. He wore a crisp linen shirt and was viewed in medium close-up, with his hands held in front of him, fingers interleaved in quiet repose-staring straight at Gragg as he approached the dais.

As Gragg came into a circle set into the granite floor, the man nodded solemnly to him in greeting. Even if Gragg hadn't seen the photos on the news, he would have known this man instantly. It was Matthew Sobol. Gragg buckled to his knees on the stone floor before him. For the first time in his life Gragg finally understood what a cathedral was-it was a psychological hack.

Sobol was there, larger than life in perfect digital clarity. He extended his arms in a gesture of welcome.

"Few have accomplished what you have. You're a rare person. But then you know that." Sobol let the words sink in. "While I lived, I could not father a son. But in death I will. What things I could teach you, were you my son. What pride I would have had in you."

Gragg's eyes welled with tears. He felt emotion from a place he'd long forgotten. Memories of his father and long years seeking approval never granted bubbled up from the depths of his mind.