Lindhurst looked darkly at Vanowen. "That's a touching sentiment, but I seem to remember it was you who told me to cut IT head count by half and slash the benefits of the rest. That left us with plenty of disgruntled people in our midst."

"You took your bonus, if I remember."

"Look, let's not turn this into a blamestorming session. There'll be plenty of time for that if we fail. In the meantime, we should focus on what we're going to do."

"You mean what you're going to do. I'm going to Moscow to maintain the appearance of normalcy. But I want a report in my inbox by the time I land, detailing precisely what you intend to do to solve this problem."

"No e- mail. Our systems are compromised. The phones, too. They're voice over IP-the signals go over the computer network. We'll need to use our personal cell phones and handwritten correspondence only-nothing enters a computer concerning this situation. Not a single typed character. Not even a scheduled meeting between us. Nothing.Otherwise they'll know what we're up to."

Vanowen was slightly taken aback. "You're serious?"

"Russ, you might not have noticed, but this entire organization is stitched together with computer networks. You can't enter the parking garage without producing half a dozen records in some database. Sobol says he has people on our staff, and they no doubt can see everything we're doing."

"If you ask me, this is simple: we shut everything off and go back to using pens, paper, and phones. Lay off all these IT bastards. We'll see how they like that."

Lindhurst took a deep breath to keep from losing his temper. He heard this suggestion from time to time from men of Vanowen's generation. Lindhurst chose his words carefully. "Russ, our competitors deliver market information in seconds to their clients, and we need to also. That doesn't even begin to cover the fact that we need information just as much, if not more, than our clients in order to make a profit. If you turn off these systems, you may as well lock the doors."

Vanowen was already nodding. "You're right. Of course, you're right. But damnit, I knew this would happen one of these days with these goddamn computers."

Lindhurst let this Nostradamus-like postdated prediction go uncontested. "Let's be explicit, then: you go about your normal schedule. I'll see what I can do about the problem, and when you return, we meet first thing. In person and off-site."

"Are you sure we shouldn't simply call the authorities?"

"Look, even if we decide to contact them, the more we know about what's really going on, the better. We're only talking about a few days more, and this thing has been inside us for months. Remember, the slightest hint that there's trouble, and this thing is liable to pull the plug on all our data."

"But would it really do that? Then it would get nothing."

"This isn't a person,Russ. It's a logic tree. That's like wondering if a computer has the courage to put the letter Don-screen if you tap the «D» key. I suspect that a few employees have handed over control to the Daemon. I'm hoping I can quietly discover who and convince them to change sides again."

Vanowen waved that topic aside. "I don't want to hear details. Just tell me when you've solved it. Now get out of here, I've got to get ready to leave."

Lindhurst put the remote down. He moved to leave but then turned back toward Vanowen. "What's in Moscow, Russ?"

Vanowen scowled. "What?"

"I'm just curious why you're heading to Moscow. Are we setting up a branch office there?"

Vanowen pointed to the door. "Go solve this problem, will you, please?"

Lindhurst regarded Vanowen for a moment more. He knew the old man was hiding something from him. He just didn't know what.

But for once, Lindhurst had a few cards up his own sleeve. Cards that the old man's generation didn't even know existed.

Chapter 32:// Message

B ack screen. Suddenly a gleaming chrome logo hissed in from the left while ultrapasteurized techno music thumped in over the title:

News to America

The title twirled into infinity as inset video images crisscrossed the screen, and the music built in tempo. Anji Anderson pushing a microphone at a businessman covering his face. Anderson helping a handicapped child take her first steps on artificial limbs. Anderson typing feverishly at a laptop keyboard in the open air while columns of black smoke towered over a city skyline behind her. Fast cuts following fast cuts. Half a second each. The human brain had to scramble to identify the image, determine whether it presented a threat, and just barely resolved it in time for the next image: Anderson standing, arms akimbo, glowering at the camera in the middle of Times Square while her name slid into place beneath her belt line. The music stopped cold.

The screen flipped immediately to black. A color photograph of a small child faded in. A boy smiling into his birthday cake, surrounded by friends. Anderson's voice rose. "Peter Andrew Sebeck was born in Simi Valley, California, only son to Marilyn and Wayne Sebeck. He was their ray of hope after the loss of their first daughter to leukemia two years earlier. Outgoing, well liked, Peter was a model child."

Another picture resolved over the first. It showed Sebeck in a high school football uniform, holding his helmet on his knee, once again smiling.

"Peter appeared to have the perfect life. But his early promise was cut short when he fathered a child at the age of sixteen with Laura Dietrich, a girl he'd known only a short while. Within a year they married. Friends described it as a cold marriage, devoid of tenderness. Yet, to all outward appearances, Pete Sebeck was still a model citizen. He joined the Ventura County Sheriff's Department at age twenty-one, took night classes to earn a bachelor's degree in criminal justice, and rose quickly, becoming a twice-decorated officer and later a sergeant of detectives. To his fellow deputies, he was a no-nonsense officer and a family man-a well-respected citizen of Thousand Oaks, California, the safest city in America."

Chilling music rose. The image changed to a still photo of a menacing Sebeck being escorted in handcuffs, his face a blur of fast-moving rage, lashing out at reporters. It was the type of iconic photograph that made careers. A photo of the year. A symbol of the times.

"But this faade concealed a darker side. Peter Sebeck, convicted mass murderer-nine of his victims federal officers. Another victim, a young colleague who trusted and admired him. Conspirator, embezzler, adulterer. Sex and drug addict. What drives seemingly normal people to commit heinous acts? Is it anger? Greed? Or does evil really exist? Can it possess you? Tonight we'll find out as I interview Peter Sebeck live from Lompoc Federal Prison. This is News to America."

The techno music rose again. A title appeared:

Sebeck on Death Row

The screen resolved on Anderson, sitting erect and alert in medium close-up. She looked businesslike yet sexy in a dark Chanel suit. Her makeup was perfect in the warm glow of camera lights. The lighting had to be done carefully so as not to reflect harshly off the bulletproof glass partition-beyond which sat Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck. The most hated man in America.

She had helped to make that a reality.

Sebeck stared from behind the small intercom microphone in the prison visitation cell. The studio provided a better sound system for this interview, and a smaller microphone was clipped onto Sebeck's khaki prison jumpsuit. One quarter of all households in America were anticipated to tune in. Everything was in place, and after a quick smile Anderson began.

"I must confess, Detective Sebeck, I'm surprised you agreed to this interview. I'm the person most responsible for your capture and conviction."