"Call your commander and get a report on the record. But for the moment we'd appreciate it if you'd keep this to yourself otherwise. It'd be helpful if the perp doesn't know we're on to him. Don't send anything by e-mail. Only use the phone."

"Sure. I'll call my HQ right now."

Bishop apologized to Pittman for the dressing-down and hung up. He glanced at the team. "Social engineered again." He said to Mott, "Describe him, the guy you saw."

"Thin, mustache. Wore a dark raincoat."

"Same one we saw in Sunnyvale. What was he doing here?"

"Looked like he was leaving the office but I didn't actually see him come out the door. Maybe he was snooping around."

Gillette said, "It's Shawn. Has to be."

Bishop concurred. He said to Mott, "Let's you and me come up with a picture of what he looks like." He turned to Miller, "You have an Identikit here?"

This was a briefcase containing plastic overlays of different facial attributes that could be combined so witnesses could reconstruct an image of a suspect - essentially it was a police artist in a box.

But Linda Sanchez shook her head. "We don't usually do much with facial IDs."

Bishop said, "I've got one in the car. I'll be right back."

In his dining room office Phate was typing contentedly away when a flag rose on screen, indicating that he had an e-mail - one sent to his private screen name, Deathknell.

He noticed that it'd been sent by Vlast, his Bulgarian friend. An attachment was included. They'd traded snuff pictures regularly at one time but hadn't for a while and he wondered if that's what his friend had sent him.

Phate was curious what the man had sent but he'd have to wait until later to find out. At the moment he was too excited about his latest hunt with Trapdoor. After an hour of serious pa.s.scode cracking on borrowed supercomputer time Phate had finally seized root in a computer system not far away from his house in Los Altos.

He now scrolled through the menu.

Stanford-Packard Medical Center Palo Alto, California Main Menu 1. Administration 2. Personnel 3. Patient Admissions 4. Patient Records 5. Departments by Specialty 6. CMS.

7. Facilities management 8. Tyler-Kresge Rehabilitation Center 9. Emergency Services 10. Critical Care Unit He spent some time exploring and finally chose number 6. A new menu appeared.

Computerized Medical Services 1. Surgical Scheduling 2. Medicine Dosage and Administration Scheduling 3. Oxygen Replenishment 4. Oncological Chemo/Radiation Scheduling 5. Patient Dietary Menus and Scheduling He typed 2 and hit ENTER.

In the parking lot of the Computer Crimes Unit Frank Bishop, on his way to fetch the Identikit, sensed the threat before he actually looked directly at the man.

Bishop knew the intruder - fifty feet away, half hidden through the early-morning mist and fog - was dangerous the way you know somebody is carrying a weapon just because of the way he steps off the curb. The way you know that a threat awaits you behind the door, down the alley, in the front seat of the stopped car.

Bishop hesitated for only a moment. But then he continued on his way as if he suspected nothing. He couldn't see the intruder's face clearly but he knew it had to be Pittman - well, Shawn. He'd been staking out the place yesterday when Tony Mott had seen him and he was staking it out again.

Only today the detective had a sense that Shawn might be doing more than surveillance; maybe he was hunting.

And Frank Bishop, veteran of the trenches, guessed that if this man was here then he'd know what kind of car Bishop drove and that he was going to cut Bishop off on the way to his vehicle, that he'd already checked angles and shooting zones and backgrounds.

So the detective continued on his way toward the car, patting his pockets as if looking for the cigarettes that he'd given up smoking years ago and gazing up at the rain with a perplexed frown on his face, trying to fathom the weather.

Nothing makes perps more skittish and likely to flee -or attack - than unpredictability and sudden motion by cops.

He knew he could sprint back inside CCU for help but if he did that Shawn would vanish and they might never get this chance again. No, Bishop would no more miss this opportunity to nail the killer's partner than he'd ignore his son's tears.

Keep walking, keep walking.

It all comes down to this...

A bit of dark motion ahead, as Shawn, now hiding beside a large Winnebago camper, peeked out to gauge Bishop's position and then ducked back again. The detective continued strolling over the asphalt, pretending that he hadn't seen.

When he was nearly to the Winnebago, the detective ducked to the right, pulling his well-worn gun from his holster, and sprinted as fast as he could around the corner of the camper. He raised his weapon.

But he stopped fast.

Shawn was gone. In the few seconds that it had taken him to circle behind the vehicle Phate's partner had vanished.

To his right, across the parking lot, a car door slammed. Bishop spun toward the sound, crouching and raising his weapon. But he saw that the noise had come from a delivery van. A heavyset black man was carrying a box from the vehicle to a nearby factory.

Well, where could Shawn have gotten to?

Then he found out - the door to the camper behind him flew open and, before he could turn, Bishop felt a pistol barrel nestle itself against the back of his head.

The detective had a fast glimpse of the slight man's mustachioed face as Shawn leaned forward and his hand shot out like a snake to rip Bishop's weapon away.

Bishop thought of Brandon and then of Jennie.

He sighed.

It all comes down to this...

Frank Bishop closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 00011110 / THIRTY.

The chime on the CCU computer was merely an off-the-shelf .wav sound but to the team it blared like a siren. Wyatt Gillette ran to the workstation. "Yes!" he whispered. "Phate's looked at the picture. The virus is in his machine."

On the screen flashed these words: Config.sys modified "That's it. But we don't have much time - all he has to do is check his system once and he's going to see that we're inside."

Gillette sat down at the computer. Lifted his hands to the keyboard, feeling the unparalleled excitement he always did just before he started a journey into an uncharted part - an illicit part - of the Blue Nowhere.

He started to key.

"Gillette!" a man's voice shouted as the front door of the CCU crashed open.

The hacker turned to see someone striding into the dinosaur pen. Gillette gasped. It was Shawn - the man who'd pretended to be Charles Pittman.

"Jesus," Shelton called, startled.

Tony Mott moved fast, reaching for his large silver pistol. But Shawn had his own weapon out of his holster and, before Mott could even draw, Shawn's was c.o.c.ked and aimed at the young cop's head. Mott lifted his hands slowly.

Shawn motioned Sanchez and Miller back and continued on toward Gillette, pointing the gun at him.

The hacker stood and backed away, his arms up.

There was nowhere to run.

But, wait... What was going on?

Frank Bishop, grim-faced, walked through the front door. He was flanked by two large men in suits.

So, he wasn't Shawn.

An ID appeared in the man's hand. "I'm Arthur Backle, with the Department of Defense Criminal Investigation Division." He nodded at his two partners. "These're Agents Luis Martinez and Jim Cable."

"You're CID? What's going on here?" Shelton barked.

Gillette said to Bishop, "We're linked to Phate's machine. But we've only got a few minutes. I've got to go in now!"

Bishop started to speak but Backle said to one of his partners, "Cuff him."

The man stepped forward and ratcheted handcuffs on Gillette. "No!"

Mott said, "You told me you were Pittman."

Backle shrugged. "I was working undercover. I had reason to suspect you might not cooperate if I identified myself."

"f.u.c.king right we wouldn't've cooperated," Bob Shelton said.

Backle said to Gillette, "We're here to escort you back to the San Jose Correctional Facility."

"You can't!"

Bishop said, "I talked to the Pentagon, Wyatt. It's legit We got busted." He shook his head.

Mott said, "But the director approved his release."

"Dave Chambers is out," the detective explained. "Peter Kenyon's acting director of CID. He rescinded the release order."

Kenyon, Gillette recalled, was the man who'd overseen the creation of the Standard 12 encryption program. The man who was the most likely to end up embarra.s.sed - if not unemployed - if it was cracked. "What happened to Chambers?"

"Financial impropriety," narrow-faced Backle said prissily. "Insider trading, off-sh.o.r.e corporations. I don't know and I don't care." Backle then said to Gillette, "We have an order to look through all the files you've had access to and see if there's evidence related to your improper accessing of Department of Defense encryption software."

Tony Mott said desperately to Bishop, "We're online with Phate, Frank. Right now!"

Bishop stared at the screen. He said to Backle, "Please! We have a chance to find out where this suspect is. Wyatt's the only one who can help us."

"Let him go online? In your dreams."

Shelton snapped, "You need a warrant if--"

The blue-backed paper appeared in the hands of one of Backle's partners. Bishop read it quickly and nodded sourly. "They can take him back and confiscate all his disks and any computers he's used."

Backle looked around, saw an empty office and told his partners to lock Gillette inside while they searched for the files.

"Don't let them do it, Frank!" Gillette called. "I was just about to seize root of his machine. This is his real machine, not a hot one. It could have addresses in it. It could have Shawn's real name. It could have the address of his next victim!"

"Shut up, Gillette," Backle snapped.

"No!" the hacker protested, struggling against the agents, who easily dragged him toward the office. "Get your f.u.c.king hands off me! We--"

They pitched him inside and closed the door.

"Can you get inside Phate's machine?" Bishop asked Stephen Miller.

The big man looked at the screen of the workstation uneasily. "I don't know. Maybe. It's just... If you hit one key wrong Phate'll know we're inside."

Bishop was in agony. This was their first real break and it was being stolen away from them because of pointless infighting and government bureaucracy. This was their only chance to look inside the electronic mind of the killer.

"Where're Gillette's files?" Backle asked. "And his disks?"

No one volunteered the information. The team gazed defiantly at the agent. Backle shrugged and said in a cheerful tone, "We'll confiscate everything. Doesn't matter to us. We'll just take it and you'll see it in six months - if you're lucky."

Bishop nodded at Sanchez.

"That workstation there," she muttered, pointing.

Backle and the other agents started looking over three-and-a-half-inch floppy disks as if they could see through the colorful plastic coverings and identify the data inside with their naked eyes.

As Miller stared at the screen uneasily, Bishop turned to Patricia Nolan and Mott. "Can either of you run Wyatt's program?"

Nolan said, "I know how it works in theory. But I've never cracked into somebody's machine with Backdoor-G. All I've done is try to find the virus and inoculate against it."

Mott said, "Same with me. And Wyatt's program is a hybrid he hacked together himself. It's probably got some unique command lines."

Bishop made the decision. He picked the civilian, saying to Patricia Nolan, "Do the best you can."

She sat down at the workstation. Wiped her hands on her bulky skirt and shoved her hair out of her face, staring at the screen, trying to understand the commands on the menu, which were, to Bishop, as incomprehensible as Russian.

The detective's cell phone rang. He answered. "Yes?" He listened for a moment. "Yessir. Who, Agent Backle?"

The agent looked up.

Bishop continued into the phone. "He's here, sir... But... No, this isn't a secure line. I'll have him call you on one of the landlines in the office. Yessir. I'll do it right now, sir." The detective scribbled a number and hung up. He lifted an eyebrow at Backle. "That was Sacramento. You're supposed to call the secretary of defense. At the Pentagon. He wants you to call on a secure line. Here's his private number."

One of his partners glanced at Backle uncertainly. "Secretary Metzger?" he whispered. The reverent tone II suggested that calls like this were unprecedented.