"Such as?"

"What's a lifestyles reporter recently let go from a San Francisco affiliate doing asking questions about Tremark Holdings, IBC, in far-flung Nauru?"

"What's a big corn-fed frat boy like you doing so far from a Hooters?"

"I asked first."

She acted coy. "Okay. I'm trying to launch a career as an investigative journalist. I'm tired of being the stewardess of the evening news."

"Not an answer."

"You mean, why am I so interested in the names of the officers of Tremark Holdings?"

"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean. You know, of course, that asking questions around here is a good way to wind up missing."

"Then why are you asking so many questions?"

He pointed a finger at her and let out a slow laugh. "I think I like you, Anji. Are you going to help me?"

"Help you how?"

"What does Tremark Holdings have to do with the Daemon?"

"What makes you think it has anything to do with the Daemon?"

"Because Matthew Sobol moved money into Tremark Holdings on the day he died."

A wave of shock sent goose bumps over Anderson's skin. God, this was fun. She couldn't have faked that surprise. "Really? That answers a lot of questions."

"How did you get wind of Tremark Holdings?"

"Let's just say I have my sources."

"Are they the same sources bankrolling your trip? The same sources helping you encrypt your satphone conversations?"

"Oh, please, Barry." She emphasized his name with contempt. "Don't be childish. Espionage isn't the only reason for privacy. I'm working on possibly the biggest story of the year. Sobol had bankers, and some of those bankers are fond of a certain blond reporter-who at present is unemployed."

"What did you learn on the Isle of Man?"

"That a Manx/Celtic fusion restaurant is a bad idea."

He gave her a look. "Anji."

"Okay. I learned that Sobol moved money into three different accounts there-all held by various international business corporations. But I also learned the money was moved out seconds after it arrived."

He looked surprised. "How the hell did you get them to tell you that?"

She wasn't about to tell him that the Daemon told her. No, the new Anderson was a resourceful investigative journalist. She smiled. "If you're an overweight, balding Welsh banker, and I start coming on to you in a tavern, what would you do?"

He considered this. "I'd do anything to keep you talking to me."

"Of course, I don't do just anything, Barry. I'm not that kind of woman."

"What else?"

"I'm not telling you anything you don't know already-or at least won't learn soon."

"Did you find out anything else?"

She toyed with him, smiling and ticking up her eyebrows as Oto arrived with her drink. "Thanks, Oto."

"No problem, Ms. Vindmar." He retreated to the bar again.

Barry looked at her incredulously. "Where'd you come up with Ms. Vindmar?"

"It's better than Barry." She hammed it up, acting like a dope. "Hey, I'm Barry-not an FBI agent."

"All right, stop. What if my name's actually Barry? Did you ever think of that?"

She burst out laughing.

He looked intently at her. "Did you learn anything else?"

She sipped her Lemon Drop and then rolled the twist sensuously over her lips. God, this espionage stuff was fun! Especially when you held all the cards, and handsome tough guys had to wait on your every word. "Yes, I did, Barry. Have you noticed the short positions on the CyberStorm stock?"

She may as well have cracked a two-by-four over his head. He apparently hadn't expected a sexy, fluff-piece reporter to actually come up with something. "Tell me more."

"You'll find there was an extraordinary rise in short positions in the weeks leading up to Sobol's death. I was real curious about it until I saw the news today. Now it makes more sense. You know what stock shorting is, right?"

He gave her a slight smile. "I have a series seven."

"Well, if that means 'yes,' then you can appreciate that someone just made a boatload of money by destroying CyberStorm."

He looked confused. "But what good is money to a dead guy?"

"What makes you think the recipient is dead?"

He smiled at her-for real. "I'm really starting to like you, Anji."

"I don't know whether I like you yet, Barry. But I know what would makeme like you."

"What?"

"An exclusive on the story when we find out where the money's going."

"An exclusive."

"I get to breakthe story. And the FBI gives me an introduction to a major media company."

He frowned. "You're serious?"

"I'm unemployed. Remember? You just confirm that I'm investigating something big with the bureau."

"Wouldn't they think it's a planted story?"

She laughed. "You're so funny, Barry. I think I do like you. You're like an innocent little fawn."

He tried to eye her darkly, but it wound up just looking stupid. "I'll need to run it past some people."

"You do that." She felt firmly in the driver's seat now. He was reacting to her, not the other way around. "In the meantime, I'm going to get that list of corporate officers, and when you Feds catch up, we'll talk some more."

"Careful, Anji. This isn't a game."

"Who said I'm playing one?" She kept her eyes on him and took another sip of her drink.

He looked confused, as if he suddenly realized he was talking to someone else-not the Anji Anderson he'd expected to find.

She continued. "Are you going to help me, or are you going to stop me? Your choice."

He stared at her. His silence said it all.

Chapter 22:// Honey Pot

Agent Philips did not contact Sebeck or Ross directly. Nonetheless, Sebeck felt the heavy presence of NSA security all around his house. Two windowless vans sat curbside near his driveway, and federal agents shooed away reporters foolhardy enough to approach his residential block-although, in the tumult of media attention following the fiery destruction of Sobol's estate, no one focused much on the cop who discovered the Sobol connection. Control of the Task Force had been transferred to Washington, which meant that Sebeck and the entire Sheriff's Department were out of the loop. That was fine with Sebeck. It gave him time to focus on something he'd never given a damn about: computer games.

In general, Sebeck viewed computers as a necessary fact of modern life. His chief complaint was that they gave a false sense of precision to poor thinking. But then, technology was like religion-you either had the faith or you didn't.

It was almost midnight, and Sebeck scanned his keyboard to find the hotkeys that would twirl his barbarian character around. The majesty of a fully textured 3-D wilderness filled his computer screen. In the foreground, giant rats were overcoming a muscle-bound barbarian.

Sebeck's son, Chris, stood next to him. "Dad! They're kicking your ass." He laughed and covered his eyes.

Sebeck glanced at the screen. He started hitting keys at random. His barbarian had the digital equivalent of an epileptic fit, while the rats brought him down. "Damnit."

"Oh man, you suck."

Sebeck gave Chris the evil eye, and the boy held up his palms in submission. "Just trying to help."