The agent noticed his second in command, Steadman, tap his watch impatiently then nod toward the house.

Bishop's voice was pure desperation. "Please. I'll stake my job on it."

The agent hesitated then muttered, "You sure as h.e.l.l just did, Bishop." He slung his machine gun over his shoulder and switched back to the tactical frequency. "All teams, stay in position. Repeat, stay in position. If you're fired upon full retaliation is authorized."

He sprinted back to the command post. The communications tech looked up in surprise. "What's up?"

On the screen Little could still see the confirmation code okaying the attack.

"Confirm the red code again."

"Why? We don't need to reconfirm if--"

"Now," Little snapped.

The man typed.

FROM: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA.

TO: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01:.

RED CODE CONFIRM? A message popped up on the screen: (Please Wait) These few minutes could give the killers inside a chance to prepare for an a.s.sault or to rig the house with explosives for a group suicide that would take the lives of a dozen of his men.

This was taking too much time. He said to the communications officer, "Forget it. We're going in." He started toward the door.

"Hey, wait," the officer said. "Something's weird." He nodded at the screen. "Take a look."

FROM: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA.

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01:.

The man said, "It's the right number. I checked." Little: "Send it again."

Once more the agent typed and hit ENTER. Another delay. Then: FROM: DOJ TAG OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA.

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01.

Little pulled his black hood off and wiped his face. Christ, what was this?

He grabbed the phone and called the FBI agent who handled the territory near the San Pedro military reserve, thirty miles away. The agent told him that there'd been no break-in or theft of weapons that afternoon. Little dropped the receiver into the cradle, staring at the screen.

Steadman ran up to the door of the trailer. "What the h.e.l.l's going on, Mark? We've waited too long. If we're going to hit them it's gotta be now."

Little continued to gaze at the screen.

"Mark, are we going?"

The commander glanced toward the house. By now there'd been enough of a delay that the occupants might have grown suspicious that the phones were out. Neighbors had probably called the local police about the troops in the neighborhood and reporters' police scanners would have picked up the calls.

Press helicopters might be on their way. There'd be live broadcasts from the choppers and the killers inside could be watching the accounts on TV in a few minutes.

Suddenly a voice in the radio: "Alpha team leader one, this's sniper three. One of the suspects's on the front steps. White male, late twenties. Hands in the air. I have a shot-to-kill. Should I take it?"

"Any weapons? Explosives?"

"None visible."

"What's he doing?"

"Walking forward slowly. He's turned around to show us his back. Still no weapons. But he could have something rigged under his shirt. I'll lose the shot to foliage in ten seconds. Sniper two, pick up target when he's past that bush."

"Roger that," came the voice of another sniper.

Steadman said, "He's got a device on him, Mark. All the bulletins've said that's what they're going to do - take out as many of us as they can. This guy'll set off the charge and the rest'll come out the back door, shooting."

Mark Little said into his mike, "Bravo team leader two, order suspect onto the ground. Sniper two if he's not facedown in five seconds, take your shot."

"Yessir."

They heard the loudspeaker a moment later: "This is the FBI. Lie down and extend your arms. Now, now, now!"

NO INFORMATION...

The agent then called in. "He's down, sir. Should we frisk and restrain?"

Little thought of his wife and two children and said, "No, I'll do it myself." He said into the mike: "All teams, pull back to cover."

He turned to the communications officer. "Get me the deputy director in Washington." Then he pointed a blunt finger at the conflicting messages - the go-ahead print-out and the "no information" message on the computer screen. "And let me know exactly how the h.e.l.l this happened."

CHAPTER 00101110 / FORTY-SIX.

Lying on the gra.s.s, smelling dirt, rain, and the faint scent of lilac, Wyatt Gillette blinked as the searing spotlights focused on him. He watched an edgy young agent move cautiously toward him, pointing a very large gun at his head.

The agent cuffed him and frisked him thoroughly, relaxing only when Gillette asked him to call a state trooper named Bishop, who could confirm that the FBI's computer system had been hacked and that the people in the house weren't the MARINKILL suspects.

The agent then ordered Elana's family out of the house. She, her mother and her brother walked slowly out onto the lawn, arms raised. They were searched and handcuffed and, though they weren't treated roughly, it was clear from their grim faces that they were suffering nearly as much from indignity and terror as if they'd been physically injured.

Gillette's ordeal, though, was the worst and that had nothing to do with his treatment at the hands of the FBI; it was that he knew that the woman he loved was now gone from him forever. She'd seemed to be wavering on her decision to move to New York with Ed but now the machines that had driven them apart years ago had almost killed her family and that was, of course, unforgivable. She would now flee to the East Coast with responsible, gainfully employed Ed, and Ellie would become to Gillette nothing more than a collection of memories, like .jpg and .wav files - visual and sound images that vanished when you powered down at night.

The FBI agents huddled and made a number of phone calls and then huddled some more. They concluded that the a.s.sault had indeed been illegally ordered. They released everyone - except Gillette, of course, though they helped him stand and loosened the cuffs a bit.

Elana strode up to her ex. He stood motionless in front of her, making not a sound as he took the full force of the powerful slap against his cheek. The woman, sensuous and beautiful even in her anger, turned away without a word and helped her mother up the stairs into the house. Her brother offered a twenty-two-year-old's inarticulate threat about a lawsuit and worse and followed them, slamming the door.

As the agents packed up, Bishop arrived and found Gillette being guarded by a large agent. He walked up to the hacker and said, "The scram switch."

"A halon dump." Gillette nodded. "That's what I was going to tell you to do when they cut the phone line."

Bishop nodded. "I remembered you mentioned it at CCU. When you first saw the dinosaur pen."

"Any other damage?" Gillette asked. "To Shawn?"

He hoped not. He was keenly curious about the machine - how it worked, what it could do, what operating system made up its heart and mind.

But the machine wasn't badly hurt, Bishop explained. "I emptied two full clips at the box but it didn't do much damage." He smiled. "Just a flesh wound."

A stocky man walked toward them through the blinding spotlights. When he got closer Gillette could see it was Bob Shelton. The pock-faced cop greeted his partner and glanced at Gillette with his typical disdain.

Bishop told him what had happened but said nothing about suspecting Shelton himself as being Shawn.

The cop shook his head with a bitter laugh. "Shawn was a computer? Jesus, somebody oughta throw every f.u.c.king one of 'em into the ocean."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Gillette snapped. "I'm getting a little tired of it."

"Of what?" Shelton shot back.

No longer able to control his anger at the cop's harsh treatment of him over the past few days, the hacker muttered, "You've been dumping on me and machines every chance you get. But it's a little hard to believe coming from somebody with a thousand-dollar Winchester drive sitting in his house."

"A what?"

"When we were over at your house I saw that server drive sitting in your living room."

The cop's eyes flared. "That was my son's," he growled. "I was throwing it out. I was finally cleaning out his room, getting rid of all that computer s.h.i.t he had. My wife didn't want me to throw out any of his things. That's what we were fighting about."

"He was into computers, your son?" Gillette asked, recalling that the boy had died several years ago.

Another bitter laugh. "Oh, yeah, he was into computers. He'd spend hours online. All he wanted to do was hack. Only some cybergang found out he was a cop's kid and thought he was trying to snitch 'em out. They went after him. Posted all kinds of s.h.i.t about him on the Internet -that he was gay, that he had a record, that he molested little kids... They broke into his school's computer and made it look like he changed his own grades. That got him suspended. Then they sent some girl he'd been dating this filthy e-mail in his name. She broke up with him because of it. The day that happened he got drunk and drove into a freeway abutment. Maybe it was an accident - maybe he killed himself. Either way it was computers that killed him."

"I'm sorry," Gillette said softly.

"The f.u.c.k you are." Shelton stepped closer to the hacker, his anger undiminished. "That's why I volunteered for this case. I thought the perp might be one of the kids in that gang. And that's why I went online that day - to see if you were one of 'em too."

"No, I wasn't. I wouldn't've done something like that to anybody. That's not why I hacked."

"Oh, you keep saying that. But you're as bad as any of them, making my boy believe that those G.o.dd.a.m.n plastic boxes're the whole world. Well, that's bulls.h.i.t. That's not where life is." He grabbed Gillette's jacket. The hacker didn't resist, just stared at the enraged man's face. Shelton snapped, "Life is here! Flesh and blood... human beings... Your family, your children..." His voice choked, tears filled his eyes. "That's what's real."

Shelton shoved the hacker back, wiped his eyes with his hands. Bishop stepped forward and touched his arm. But Shelton pulled away and disappeared into the crowd of police and agents.

Gillette's heart went out to the poor man but he couldn't help but think: Machines're real too, Shelton. They're becoming more and more a part of that flesh-and-blood life every day and that's never going to change. The question we have to ask ourselves isn't whether this transformation is in itself good or bad but simply this: Who do we become when we step through the monitor into the Blue Nowhere?

The detective and the hacker, alone now, stood facing each other. Bishop noticed his shirt was untucked. He shoved the tail into his slacks then nodded at the palm tree tattoo on Gillette's forearm. "You might want to get that removed, you know. I don't think it does a lot for you. The pigeon at least. The tree's not too bad."

"It's a seagull," the hacker replied. "But now that you bring it up, Frank... why don't you get one?"

"What?"

"A tattoo."

The detective started to say something then lifted an eyebrow. "You know, maybe I just will."

Then Gillette felt his arms being gripped from behind. The state troopers had arrived, right on schedule, to return him to San Ho.

CHAPTER 0010111 / FORTY-SEVEN.

A week after the hacker returned to prison Frank Bishop made good on Andy Anderson's promise and, over the warden's renewed objections, delivered to Wyatt Gillette a battered, secondhand Toshiba laptop computer.

When he booted it up the first thing he saw was a digitized picture of a fat, dark-complected baby, a few days old. The caption beneath it read "Greetings - from Linda Sanchez and her new granddaughter, Maria Andie Harmon." Gillette made a mental note to send her a letter of congratulations; a baby present would have to wait, federal prisons not having gift shops as such.

There was no modem included with the computer of course. Gillette could have gone online simply by building a modem out of Devon Franklin's Walkman (bartered to Gillette for some apricot preserves) but he chose not to. It was part of his deal with Bishop. Besides, all he wanted now was for the last year of his sentence to roll by and to get on with his life.

Which isn't to say that he was completely quarantined from the Net. He'd been allowed onto the library's dog-slow IBM PC to help with the a.n.a.lysis of Shawn, whose new foster home was Stanford University. Gillette was working with the school's computer scientists and with Tony Mott. (Frank Bishop had emphatically denied Mott's request to be transferred to Homicide and had placated the young cop by recommending that he be named acting head of the Computer Crimes Unit, which Sacramento agreed to.) What Gillette had found within Shawn had astonished him. To give Phate access to as many computers as possible, via Trapdoor, he'd endowed his creation with its own operating system. It was unique, incorporating all existing operating systems: Windows, MS-DOS, Apple, Unix, Linux, VMS and a number of obscure systems for scientific and engineering applications. His operating system, which he called Protean 1.1, reminded Gillette of the elusive unified theory that explains the behavior of all matter and energy in the universe.

Only Phate, unlike Einstein and his progeny, had apparently succeeded in his quest.

One thing that Shawn didn't disgorge was the source code to Trapdoor or the location of any sites where it might be hidden. The woman calling herself Patricia Nolan had, it seemed, been successful in isolating and stealing the code and destroying all other copies.

She hadn't been found either.

It used to be easy to disappear because there were no computers to trace you, Gillette had told Bishop when learning this news. Now, it was easy to disappear because computers can erase all the traces of your old ident.i.ty and create brand-new ones.

Bishop reported that Stephen Miller had been given a full-dress policeman's funeral. Linda Sanchez and Tony Mott were still apparently troubled that they'd believed Miller was the traitor when in fact he was only a sad holdout from the elder days of computing, a has-been on a futile search for the Next Big Thing in Silicon Valley. Wyatt Gillette could have told the cops, though, that they needn't have felt any guilt; the Blue Nowhere tolerates deceit far more than it does incompetence.

The hacker had been given further dispensation to go online for another mission. To look into the charges against David Chambers, the suspended head of the Department of Defense's Criminal Investigation Division. Frank Bishop, Captain Bernstein and the U.S. attorney had concluded that the man's personal and business computers had been hacked by Phate to get Chambers removed and to have Kenyon or one of his lackeys appointed as his replacement to get Gillette off the case It took the hacker only fifteen minutes to find and download proof that, indeed, the man's files had been cracked and brokerage trades and off-sh.o.r.e accounts had been faked by Phate. The charges against him were dropped and he was reinstated.

No charges were ever brought against Wyatt Gillette for his Standard 12 hack or against Frank Bishop for helping Gillette escape from the CCU. The U.S. attorney decided to drop the investigation - not because he believed the story that it had been Phate who'd hacked together the cracking program that busted Standard 12, but because of a Department of Defense audit committee investigation looking into why $35 million had been spent on an encryption program that was essentially unsecure.

Gillette was also being asked to help track down a particularly dangerous computer virus, known as Polonius, which had made its first appearance in the past week. The virus was a demon that would make your computer go online by itself and transmit all of your past and current e-mails to everyone in your electronic address book. Not only did this create major Internet traffic jams around the world but it resulted in a lot of embarra.s.sment when people received e-mails not intended for their eyes. Several people attempted suicide when affairs, cases of s.e.xually transmitted diseases and shady business practices were revealed.

What was particularly frightening, though, was how the computers were infected. Aware that firewalls and virus shields will stop most viruses, the perpetrator had cracked into the networks of commercial software manufacturers and instructed their disk-making machines to insert the virus into the disks included in the software packages sold by retail stores and mail-order companies.

The feds were running the case and all they could determine was that the virus had originated from a university in Singapore about two weeks before. They had no other leads - until one of the FBI agents on the case wondered aloud, "Polonius - that's the character from Hamlet, right?"