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.
Sobol continued. “I wish I could have met you—you who will be my eyes, my ears, and my hands. My growing power will course through you. I will protect you. Like any father protects his beloved son.”
Gragg saw in Sobol’s eyes the respect and compassion he had always sought. The acceptance for who and what he was. This was home. Gragg was finally home. He wept openly. He was filled with joy for the first time in his life. Nothing else mattered to him anymore.
Sobol looked on. “There is so much I wish to teach you….”
Chapter 20:// Speaking with the Dead
It was a perfect autumn dawn. The hills were shrouded in the mist that usually burned off by mid-morning, and the glowing orb of the sun silhouetted the columns of SUVs heading south on the 101. An earthy fragrance sent aloft by a hundred thousand lawn sprinklers filled the air and a constant airy rush, like the sound of falling water or wind in the trees, echoed across the valley from the freeway. Southern California was booting up for another day—as long as the power grid held.
Jon Ross strode across the pavement of his hotel parking lot, dressed impeccably in a black pinstriped, four-button suit and a gray silk tie. His black leather laptop bag was slung over one shoulder.
Ross preferred corporate residence suites like this. They usually had open parking lots and direct-access front doors. It was more like a regular apartment and less like a hotel. He almost felt like a resident of Woodland Hills. He breathed in deeply, appreciating the morning air. Was that the smell of jasmine?
Ross stopped short.
Detective Sebeck leaned on the hood of Ross’s silver Audi sedan and sipped takeout coffee while reading the Ventura Star. He didn’t even look up. “Morning, Jon.”
Ross resumed walking toward his car, but more slowly. “Good morning, Sergeant. Do you normally get up this early?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” As Ross walked past, Sebeck folded the paper and threw it down on the car hood in front of him. The headline screamed Second Massacre at Sobol Estate in a font size normally reserved for advertisements or declarations of war.
Ross didn’t pick it up. “I live in the western hemisphere; it would have been difficult to miss.”
Sebeck stabbed a thick finger toward a sidebar story elsewhere on page one.
Ross cocked his head to read Sobol Funeral Today. He looked back up at Sebeck.
Sebeck flipped Ross’s lapel. “Dressed a little mournfully, aren’t you?”
Ross was taken aback. The cop was perceptive. Ross dropped his formality and nodded in acknowledgment. “It seemed odd to me—his having a viewing. He doesn’t strike me as the religious type.”
“No kidding. So why are you trying to shake me by ducking out early?”
Ross looked down at the parking lot and squeezed his laptop bag’s shoulder strap rhythmically. “I don’t want my name to wind up in the news.”
Sebeck considered this. “Is that what all this is about? You’re afraid of Sobol?”
“As a computer consultant, the Daemon might consider me a threat.”
Sebeck nodded. “All right. We’ll keep our collaboration secret, but if you’re going to pursue Sobol, anyway, remember: I can open doors for you—and you for me.”
Ross breathed the morning air deeply again as he pondered the offer. He looked up. “What do you hope to accomplish that the FBI can’t?”
“You tell me.”
They stared at each other for a moment more until Ross nodded. “Who knows I’m working with you?”
“The better question is: who would care in all this insanity?”
“Pete, please.”
“The FBI knows—but I’d be surprised if Trear is thinking about that this morning. They lost a Hostage Rescue Team last night.”
“I’m not going to meet with the FBI computer forensics team. Tell Trear I pussed out.”
“No problem.” Sebeck looked him in the eye. “You made the right call at the estate. I need you to tell me what Sobol’s up to.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”