Philips looked to The Major, who pounded a nearby caf 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."

"Surely the NSA has heard of phones. They're those things you tap."

"Why weren't we told about Sebeck?"

They stood glaring at each other.

Another NSA agent came running up. "Agent Philips. Ross just used his Amex card five minutes ago at a car rental place down the street. We put out an all-points bulletin."

"E911 tracking?"

"We're talking to the cell phone company now."

"GPS in the rental car?"

The agent shook his head. "He rented a subcompact. No onboard GPS."

"Flag his license plates on the freeway plate readers." She turned to Trear. "I know you're angry, Agent Trear, but we could really use your assistance on this. Ross could be the one behind the Daemon. He certainly has the technical know-how."

"The Daemon is a hoax, Agent Philips. When is the NSA going to catch up with us on this?"

"Look, whether you think the Daemon is a hoax or not, the man posing as Ross has been involved from the start, and he's escaping. Can we get your help?"

Trear took a deep breath and nodded to his men.

Straub turned and shouted, "You heard the man!"

Ten blocks away, Ross tossed his cell phone onto the back of a lumber truck waiting at a stoplight. The rental car ruse combined with the moving cell phone should buy him some time.

Ross headed in the opposite direction as the truck pulled away. The Feds probably wouldn't take long to figure out Ross wasn't who he claimed to be, and by then he needed to have taken another identity. He walked with composure onto the parking lot of a nearby Mercedes dealership, still wondering why he'd gotten himself mixed up in all this to begin with. And what the hell had happened to Detective Sebeck? The Daemon must be behind it. This was the type of reversal Sobol was famous for. It's what Ross had tried to warn the Feds about. Now he needed to figure out Sobol's plan, and for the time being at least, the only priority had to be getting out of this area. Ross straightened his tie and walked calmly through the glass doors of the Mercedes dealership. He strolled between the showroom models, scrutinizing window stickers. An aria from The Marriage of Figaro played softly on the showroom speakers.

Several police cars raced past on the road outside, lights and sirens blaring.

A sharply attired salesman approached Ross, hand extended. "How are you today, sir?"

Ross looked up. "Bored, but it's nothing a sports car won't fix."

The salesman laughed politely. "Well, what are you driving now, Mr…"

"Ross. I have a twelve-cylinder A8-drives like a dream-but I want to get a second car. Something smaller and sportier."

"And you're familiar with the SL roadster?"

Ross examined the silver car nearby. "A golf buddy of mine has one. I've done some research, but the truth is, if I like the way it feels I'll buy it today. No financing necessary."

The salesman nodded. "Let's take it for a spin. I'll just need a photocopy of your driver's license."

Ross drew his wallet. "Of course."

The platinum cards were clearly visible as he offered his license to the salesman.

Natalie Philips stood in the car rental company's parking lot and stared at the car Ross had rented an hour before. She had tracked Ross's cell phone through E911, only to find it riding to Oxnard on the back of a truck. Ross's rented subcompact was never driven off the rental lot. And nobody in the Task Force had thought to look for it here-especially with his cell phone on the move.

Trear pounded the roof of his car. "Damnit! This guy's probably halfway to Mexico by now."

Philips turned to him. "Halfway isn't all the way. Besides, he still needs transportation, and we have all the airports, train stations, and bus stations staked out. If he makes any ATM withdrawals or credit card purchases, we'll be on top of him in minutes. There's a strike team airborne in the L.A. basin as we speak."

Trear grabbed a radio, but looked to Philips. "This Ross imposter was most likely Sebeck's go-to man for computer work. Maybe even the mastermind of this hoax."

"You mean ifthe Daemon is a hoax."

"It's definitely a hoax, and I don't think Sebeck was smart enough to pull it off-much less to conceive of it. But our imposter just might be."

Philips nodded, even though it made less sense the more she thought about it.

Ross ditched the Mercedes salesman off the 23 freeway in Simi Valley. He exited the freeway, claiming a bathroom emergency, and never returned after rushing into a restaurant to use the restroom. Instead, he ducked out a side exit and walked over one block to a row of nondescript, corrugated metal box garages.