the stall and hitting the killer in the chest, causing his gun to fire a split second early. It was Megan's duffel.
Becker exploded from the stall. He buried his shoulder in the man's chest and drove him back into the sink. There was a bone-crushing crash. A mirror shattered. The gun fell free. The two men collapsed to the floor. Becker tore himself away and dashed for the exit. Hulohot scrambled for his weapon, spun, and fired. The bullet ripped into the slamming bathroom door.
The empty expanse of the airport concourse loomed before Becker like an uncrossable desert. His legs surged beneath him faster than he'd ever known they could move.
As he skidded into the revolving door, a shot rang out behind him. The glass panel in front of him exploded in a shower of glass. Becker pushed his shoulder into the frame and the door rotated forward. A moment later he stumbled onto the pavement outside.
A taxi stood waiting.
"Dejame entrar!" Becker screamed, pounding on the locked door. "Let me in!" The driver refused; his fare with the wire-rim glasses had asked him to wait. Becker turned and saw Hulohot streaking across he concourse, gun in hand. Becker eyed his little Vespa on the sidewalk. I'm dead.
Hulohot blasted through the revolving doors just in time to see Becker trying in vain to kick start his Vespa. Hulohot smiled and raised his weapon.
The choke! Becker fumbled with the levers under the gas tank. He jumped on the starter again. It coughed and died.
"El anillo. The ring." The voice was close.
Becker looked up. He saw the barrel of a gun. The chamber was rotating. He rammed his foot on the starter once again.
Hulohot's shot just missed Becker's head as the little bike sprang to life and lurched forward. Becker hung on for his life as the motorcycle bounced down a grassy embankment and wobbled around the corner of the building onto the runway.
Enraged, Hulohot raced toward his waiting taxi. Seconds later, the driver lay stunned on the curb watching his taxi peel out in a cloud of dust.
Chapter 82
As the implications of the Commander's phone call to Security began to settle on the dazed Greg Hale, he found himself weakened by a wave of panic. Security is coming! Susan began to slip away. Hale recovered, clutching at her midsection, pulling her back.
"Let me go!" she cried, her voice echoing though the dome.
Hale's mind was in overdrive. The commander's call had taken him totally by surprise. Strathmore phoned Security! He's sacrificing his plans for Digital Fortress!
Not in a million years had Hale imagined the commander would let Digital Fortress slip by. This back door was the chance of a lifetime.
As the panic rushed in, Hale's mind seemed to play tricks on him. He saw the barrel of Strathmore's Berretta everywhere he looked. He began to spin, holding Susan close, trying to deny the commander a shot. Driven by fear, Hale dragged Susan blindly toward the stairs. In five minutes the lights would come on, the doors would open, and a SWAT team would pour in.
"You're hurting me!" Susan choked. She gasped for breath as she stumbled through Hale's desperate pirouettes.
Hale considered letting her go and making a mad dash for Strathmore's elevator, but it was suicide. He had no password. Besides, once outside the NSA without a hostage, Hale knew he was as good as dead. Not even his Lotus could outrun a fleet of NSA helicopters. Susan is the only thing that will keep Strathmore from blowing me off the road!
"Susan," Hale blurted, dragging her toward the stairs. "Come with me! I swear I won't hurt you!"
As Susan fought him, Hale realized he had new problems. Even if he somehow managed to get Strathmore's elevator open and take Susan with him, she would undoubtedly fight him all the way out of the building. Hale knew full well that Strathmore's elevator made only one stop: "the Underground Highway," a restricted labyrinth of underground access tunnels through which NSA powerbrokers moved in secrecy. Hale had no intention of ending up lost in the basement corridors of the NSA with a struggling hostage. It was a death trap. Even if he got out, he realized, he had no gun. How would he get Susan across the parking lot? How would he drive?
It was the voice of one of Hale's marine, military-strategy professors that gave him his answer:
Force a hand, the voice warned, and it will fight you. But convince a mind to think as you want it to think, and you have an ally.
"Susan," Hale heard himself saying, "Strathmore's a killer! You're in danger here!"
Susan didn't seem to hear. Hale knew it was an absurd angle anyway; Strathmore would never hurt Susan, and she knew it.
Hale strained his eyes into the darkness, wondering where the commander was hidden. Strathmore had fallen silent suddenly, which made Hale even more panicky. He sensed his time was up. Security would arrive at any moment.
With a surge of strength, Hale wrapped his arms around Susan's waist and pulled her hard up the stairs. She hooked her heels on the first step and pulled back. It was no use, Hale overpowered her.
Carefully, Hale backed up the stairs with Susan in tow. Pushing her up might have been easier, but the landing at the top was illuminated from Strathmore's computer monitors. If Susan went first, Strathmore would have a clear shot at Hale's back. Pulling Susan behind him, Hale had a human shield between himself and the Crypto floor.
About a third of the way up, Hale sensed movement at the bottom of the stairs. Strathmore's making his move! "Don't try it, Commander," he hissed. "You'll only get her killed."
Hale waited. But there was only silence. He listened closely. Nothing. The bottom of the stairs was still. Was he imagining things? It didn't matter. Strathmore would never risk a shot with Susan in the way.
But as Hale backed up the stairs dragging Susan behind him, something unexpected happened. There was a faint thud on the landing behind him. Hale stopped, adrenaline surging. Had Strathmore slipped upstairs? Instinct told him Strathmore was at the bottom of the stairs. But then, suddenly, it happened again-louder this time. A distinct step on the upper landing!
In terror, Hale realized his mistake. Strathmore's on the landing behind me! He has a clear shot of my back! In desperation, he spun Susan back to his uphill side and started retreating backwards down the steps.
As he reached the bottom step, he stared wildly up at the landing and yelled, "Back off, Commander! Back off, or I'll break her-"
The butt of a Berretta came slicing through the air at the foot of the stairs and crashed down into Hale's skull.
As Susan tore free of the slumping Hale, she wheeled in confusion. Strathmore grabbed her and reeled her in, cradling her shaking body. "Shhh," he soothed. "It's me. You're okay."
Susan was trembling. "Com… mander." She gasped, disoriented. "I thought… I thought you were upstairs… I heard…"
"Easy now," he whispered. "You heard me toss my loafers up onto the landing."
Susan found herself laughing and crying at the same time. The commander had just saved her life. Standing there in the darkness, Susan felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was not, however, without guilt; Security was coming. She had foolishly let Hale grab her, and he had used her against Strathmore. Susan knew the commander had paid a huge price to save her. "I'm sorry," she said.
"What for?"
"Your plans for Digital Fortress… they're ruined."
Strathmore shook his head. "Not at all."
"But… but what about Security? They'll be here any minute. We won't have time to-"
"Security's not coming, Susan. We've got all the time in the world."
Susan was lost. Not coming? "But you phoned…"
Strathmore chuckled. "Oldest trick in the book. I faked the call."
Chapter 83
Becker's Vespa was no doubt the smallest vehicle ever to tear down the Seville runway. Its top speed, a whining 50 mph, sounded more like a chainsaw than a motorcycle and was unfortunately well below the necessary power to become airborne.
In his side mirror, Becker saw the taxi swing out onto the darkened runway about
four hundred yards back. It immediately started gaining. Becker faced front. In the distance, the contour of the airplane hangars stood framed against the night sky about a half mile out. Becker wondered if the taxi would overtake him in that distance. He knew Susan could do the math in two seconds and calculate his odds. Becker suddenly felt fear like he had never known.
He lowered his head and twisted the throttle as far as it would go. The Vespa was definitely topped out. Becker guessed the taxi behind him was doing almost ninety, twice his speed. He set his sights on the three structures looming in the distance. The middle one. That's where the Learjet is. A shot rang out.
The bullet buried itself in the runway yards behind him. Becker looked back. The assassin was hanging out the window taking aim. Becker swerved and his side mirror exploded in a shower of glass. He could feel the impact of the bullet all the way up the handlebars. He lay his body flat on the bike. God help me, I'm not going to make it!
The tarmac in front of Becker's Vespa was growing brighter now. The taxi was closing, the headlights throwing ghostly shadows down the runway. A shot fired. The bullet ricocheted off the hull of the bike.
Becker struggled to keep from going into a swerve. I've got to make the hangar! He wondered if the Learjet pilot could see them coming. Does he have a weapon? Will he open the cabin doors in time? But as Becker approached the lit expanse of the open hangars, he realized the question was moot. The Learjet was nowhere to be seen. He squinted through blurred vision and prayed he was hallucinating. He was not. The hangar was bare. Oh my God! Where's the plane!
As the two vehicles rocketed into the empty hangar, Becker desperately searched for an escape. There was none. The building's rear wall, an expansive sheet of corrugated metal, had no doors or windows. The taxi roared up beside him, and Becker looked left to see Hulohot raising his gun.
Reflex took over. Becker slammed down on his brakes. He barely slowed. The hangar floor was slick with oil. The Vespa went into a headlong skid.
Beside him there was a deafening squeal as the taxi's brakes locked and the balding tires hydroplaned on the slippery surface. The car spun around in a cloud of smoke and burning rubber only inches to the left of Becker's skidding Vespa.
Now side by side, the two vehicles skimmed out of control on a collision course with the rear of the hangar. Becker desperately pumped his brakes, but there was no traction; it was like driving on ice. In front of him, the metal wall loomed. It was coming fast. As the taxi spiraled wildly beside him, Becker faced the wall and braced for the impact.
There was an earsplitting crash of steel and corrugated metal. But there was no pain. Becker found himself suddenly in the open air, still on his Vespa, bouncing across a grassy field. It was as if the hangar's back wall had vanished before him. The taxi was still beside him, careening across the field. An enormous sheet of corrugated metal from the hangar's back wall billowed off the taxi's hood and sailed over Becker's head.
Heart racing, Becker gunned the Vespa and took off into the night.
Chapter 84
Jabba let out a contented sigh as he finished the last of his solder points. He switched off the iron, put down his penlight, and lay a moment in the darkness of the mainframe computer. He was beat. His neck hurt. Internal work was always cramped, especially for a man of his size.
And they just keep building them smaller, he mused.
As he closed his eyes for a well-deserved moment of relaxation, someone outside began pulling on his boots.
"Jabba! Get out here!" a woman's voice yelled.
Midge found me. He groaned.
"Jabba! Get out here!"
Reluctantly he slithered out. "For the love of God, Midge! I told you-" But it was not Midge. Jabba looked up, surprised. "Soshi?"
Soshi Kuta was a ninety-pound live wire. She was Jabba's righthand assistant, a razor-sharp Sys-Sec techie from MIT. She often worked late with Jabba and was the one member of his staff who seemed unintimidated by him. She glared at him and demanded, "Why the hell didn't you answer your phone? Or my page?"
"Your page," Jabba repeated. "I thought it was-"
"Never mind. There's something strange going on in the main databank."
Jabba checked his watch. "Strange?" Now he was growing concerned. "Can you be any more specific?"
Two minutes later Jabba was dashing down the hall toward the databank.
Chapter 85
Greg Hale lay curled on the Node 3 floor. Strathmore and Susan had just dragged him across Crypto and bound his hands and feet with twelve-gauge printer cable from the Node 3 laser-printers.
Susan couldn't get over the artful maneuver the commander had just executed. He faked the call! Somehow Strathmore had captured Hale, saved Susan, and bought himself the time needed to rewrite Digital Fortress.
Susan eyed the bound cryptographer uneasily. Hale was breathing heavily. Strathmore sat on the couch with the Berretta propped awkwardly in his lap. Susan returned her attention to Hale's terminal and continued her random-string search.
Her fourth string search ran its course and came up empty. "Still no luck." She sighed. "We may need to wait for David to find Tankado's copy."
Strathmore gave her a disapproving look. "If David fails, and Tankado's key falls into the wrong hands…"
Strathmore didn't need to finish. Susan understood. Until the Digital Fortress file on the Internet had been replaced with Strathmore's modified version, Tankado's pass-key was dangerous.
"After we make the switch," Strathmore added, "I don't care how many pass-keys are floating around; the more the merrier." He motioned for her to continue searching. "But until then, we're playing beat-the-clock."
Susan opened her mouth to acknowledge, but her words were drowned out by a sudden deafening blare. The silence of Crypto was shattered by a warning horn from the sublevels. Susan and Strathmore exchanged startled looks.
"What's that?" Susan yelled, timing her question between the intermittent bursts.
"TRANSLTR!" Strathmore called back, looking troubled. "It's too hot! Maybe Hale was right about the aux power not pulling enough freon."
"What about the auto-abort?"
Strathmore thought a moment, then yelled, "Something must have shorted." A yellow siren light spun above the Crypto floor and swept a pulsating glare across his face.
"You better abort!" Susan called.
Strathmore nodded. There was no telling what would happen if three million silicon processors overheated and decided to ignite. Strathmore needed to get upstairs to his terminal and abort the Digital Fortress run-particularly before anyone outside of Crypto noticed the trouble and decided to send in the cavalry.
Strathmore shot a glance at the still-unconscious Hale. He laid the Berretta on a table near Susan and yelled over the sirens, "Be right back!" As he disappeared through the hole in the Node 3 wall, Strathmore called over his shoulder, "And find me that pass-key!"
Susan eyed the results of her unproductive pass-key search and hoped Strathmore would hurry up and abort. The noise and lights in Crypto felt like a missile launch.
On the floor, Hale began to stir. With each blast of the horn, he winced. Susan surprised herself by grabbing the Berretta. Hale opened his eyes to Susan Fletcher standing over him with the gun leveled at his crotch.
"Where's the pass-key?" Susan demanded.
Hale was having trouble getting his bearings. "Wh-what happened?"
"You blew it, that's what happened. Now, where's the passkey?"
Hale tried to move his arms but realized he was tied. His face became taut with panic. "Let me go!"
"I need the pass-key," Susan repeated.
"I don't have it! Let me go!" Hale tried to getup. He could barely roll over.
Susan yelled between blasts of the horn. "You're North Dakota, and Ensei Tankado gave you a copy of his key. I need it now!"
"You're crazy!" Hale gasped. "I'm not North Dakota!" He struggled unsuccessfully to free himself.
Susan charged angr
ily. "Don't lie to me. Why the hell is all of North Dakota's mail in your account?"
"I told you before!" Hale pleaded as the horns blared on. "I snooped Strathmore! That E-mail in my account was mail I copied out of Strathmore's account-E-mail COMINT stole from Tankado!"
"Bull! You could never snoop the commander's account!"
"You don't understand!" Hale yelled. "There was already a tap on Strathmore's account!" Hale delivered his words in short bursts between the sirens. "Someone else put the tap there. I think it was Director Fontaine! I just piggybacked! You've got to believe me! That's how I found out about his plan to rewrite Digital Fortress! I've been reading Strathmore's brainstorms!"
Brain Storms? Susan paused. Strathmore had undoubtedly outlined his plans for Digital Fortress using his BrainStorm software. If anyone had snooped the commander's account, all the information would have been available…
"Rewriting Digital Fortress is sick!" Hale cried. "You know damn well what it implies-total NSA access!" The sirens blasted, drowning him out, but Hale was possessed. "You think we're ready for that responsibility? You think anyone is? It's fucking shortsighted! You say our government has the people's best interests at heart? Great! But what happens when some future government doesn't have our best interests at heart! This technology is forever!"
Susan could barely hear him; the noise in Crypto was deafening.
Hale struggled to get free. He looked Susan in the eye and kept yelling. "How the hell do civilians defend themselves against a police state when the guy at the top has access to all their lines of communication? How do they plan a revolt?"
Susan had heard this argument many times. The future-governments argument was a stock EFF complaint.
"Strathmore had to be stopped!" Hale screamed as the sirens blasted. "I swore I'd do it. That's what I've been doing here all day-watching his account, waiting for him to make his move so I could record the switch in progress. I needed proof-evidence that he'd written in a back door. That's why I copied all his E-mail into my account. It was evidence that he'd been watching Digital Fortress. I planned to go to the press with the information."
Susan's heart skipped. Had she heard correctly? Suddenly this did sound like Greg Hale. Was it possible? If Hale had known about Strathmore's plan to release a tainted version of Digital Fortress, he could wait until the whole world was using it and then drop his bombshell-complete with proof!
Susan imagined the headlines: Cryptographer Greg Hale unveils secret U.S. plan to control global information!
Was it Skipjack all over? Uncovering an NSA back door again would make Greg Hale famous beyond his wildest dreams. It would also sink the NSA. She suddenly found herself wondering if maybe Hale was telling the truth. No! she decided. Of course not!
Hale continued to plead. "I aborted your tracer because I thought you were looking for me! I thought you suspected Strathmore was being snooped! I didn't want you to find the leak and trace it back to me!"
It was plausible but unlikely. "Then why'd you kill Chartrukian?" Susan snapped.
"I didn't!" Hale screamed over the noise. "Strathmore was the one who pushed him! I saw the whole thing from downstairs! Chartrukian was about to call the Sys-Secs and ruin Strathmore's plans for the back door!"
Hale's good, Susan thought. He's got an angle for everything.
"Let me go!" Hale begged. "I didn't do anything!"
"Didn't do anything?" Susan shouted, wondering what was taking Strathmore so long. "You and Tankado were holding the NSA hostage. At least until you double-crossed him. Tell me," she pressed, "did Tankado really die of a heart attack, or did you have one of your buddies take him out?"