Daemon

this way and that in groups of two or three, clutching briefcases and talking earnestly. Merritt needed time to think. Time to figure out what he was going to say to his wife.
    He eased onto a park bench and gazed out at the National Mall. The business of government was carrying on without him.
    Merritt was still lost in thought as a nondescript man in a nondescript suit approached and sat down on the far end of the bench. Merritt bristled slightly. All he wanted was to be left alone.
    The man spoke without looking at him. ‘The house didn’t hold any important information, Agent Merritt.’
    Merritt stopped short and turned to glare at the man – a federal bureaucrat type, late twenties. The kind of person youforgot even while you were looking at him. Cheap gray suit, unkempt brown hair, lime green shirt with a striped tie, leatherette attaché case. Merritt saw a federal ID badge hanging off the man’s lapel:
    Littleton, Leonard
    General Services Administration
    Merritt finally looked up into the man’s eyes, narrowing his own. ‘What did you say to me?’
    ‘I said: Sobol’s house was a trap. It didn’t hold anything important.’
    ‘Yeah? What the hell do you know about it?’
    Littleton’s reaction surprised Merritt. He didn’t shrink back. He didn’t even seem surprised.
    ‘I know a lot. In fact, I know more than any man alive.’
    Merritt frowned. There was something about those eyes. The nose. He’d seen this man before. But where?
    Littleton sensed that Merritt was trying to place him. ‘No, you don’t know me, Agent Merritt. But you know
of
me.’
    Merritt studied Littleton’s face.
    Littleton zipped open his ratty attaché, producing a small notebook computer about the size of a thin hardcover book. Littleton dropped his attaché without concern and flipped open the computer.
    It turned out to be a portable DVD player.
    ‘Who are you? A reporter?’
    Littleton ignored him and instead hit the PLAY button, then turned the screen to face Merritt.
    In a moment Merritt was taken back to that night many months ago. The video screen showed him standing in Sobol’s entertainment room, eyes bloody, face blistered, nose bleeding – a smoking shotgun in his hand. It was an isometric perspective, looking down on him from near the ceiling. A slightly grainy image, as though from a security camera.
    On the screen Merritt was reloading. He looked up and shouted, ‘I’m going to shut you down, Sobol!’ And that voicebehind him – but the voice didn’t register at all on the video. It was as if the Merritt on the DVD screen was a schizophrenic – hearing voices. Merritt saw himself turn and fire point-blank into the wall behind him.
    The real Merritt shook himself out of his stunned silence and dropped his cane with a clatter onto the sidewalk. He leaned over to Littleton, whispering urgently. ‘Where did you get this?’
    Littleton snapped the DVD player closed. ‘From the source.’
    ‘What source?’
    ‘The Daemon.’
    Littleton leaned down to pick up Merritt’s cane while Merritt groped for words.
    It suddenly dawned on Merritt. He pointed a tentative finger. ‘You’re Jon Ross.’
    He extended the cane to Merritt. ‘I once was, yes. That seems like ages ago now.’
    ‘The FBI’s Most Wanted man.’
    ‘I suppose I’m manna from heaven to you. You could quickly get yourself reinstated if you turned me in. Maybe even decorated – which, on a personal note, I think is overdue.’
    Merritt felt reflexively for his shoulder holster – then remembered that he didn’t have a weapon on him. He had come for a congressional committee hearing. It would have created an unnecessary hassle going through the metal detectors with a gun.
    Merritt smiled calmly. ‘What’s to stop me from turning you in?’
    ‘My innocence. And the fact that you’re a man who loves this country.’
    Merritt tried to resist the appeal to his wounded patriotism.
Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel
.
    He got his emotions under control. ‘What did you do to Mr Littleton?’ He ripped off the Littleton ID badge. ‘Where is he? Dead?’
    Ross laughed. ‘No, of course not.’
    Merritt examined the badge. Plastic. It had Ross’s picture on it. But it was blank on the back, unlike real federal IDs.
    ‘Not Littleton’s fault. He was eating lunch on a park bench. A digital camera with a zoom lens gave me a close-up image of his ID badge. I used a graphics program to paste in my own photo, then a portable