But as she began to move, something registered as strange. She backpedaled a few steps and peered into Node 3 again. In the soft light she could see Hale's arm. It was not at his side. He was no longer tied like a mummy. His arm was up over his head. He was sprawled backward on the floor. Had he gotten free? There was no movement. Hale was deathly still.
Susan gazed up at Strathmore's workstation perched high on the wall. "Commander?"
Silence.
Tentatively she moved toward Node 3. There was an object in Hale's hand. It glimmered in the light of the monitors. Susan moved closer… closer. Suddenly she could see what Hale was holding. It was the Beretta.
Susan gasped. Following the arch of Hale's arm, her eyes moved to his face. What she saw was grotesque. Half of Greg Hale's head was soaked in blood. The dark stain had spread out across the carpet.
Oh my God! Susan staggered backward. It wasn't the commander's shot she'd heard, it was Hale's!
As if in a trance, Susan moved toward the body. Apparently, Hale had managed to free himself. The printer cables were piled on the floor beside him. I must have left the gun on the couch, she thought. The blood flowing through the hole in his skull looked black in the bluish light.
On the floor beside Hale was a piece of paper. Susan went over unsteadily, and picked it up. It was a letter.
Dearest friends, I am taking my life today in penance for the following sins…
In utter disbelief, Susan stared at the suicide note in her hand. She read slowly. It was surreal-so unlike Hale-a laundry list of crimes. He was admitting to everything-figuring out that NDAKOTA was a hoax, hiring a mercenary to kill Ensei Tankado and take the ring, pushing Phil Chartrukian, planning to sell Digital Fortress.
Susan reached the final line. She was not prepared for what she read. The letter's final words delivered a numbing blow.
Above all, I'm truly sorry about David Becker. Forgive me, I was blinded by ambition.
As Susan stood trembling over Hale's body, the sound of running footsteps approached behind her. In slow motion, she turned.
Strathmore appeared in the broken window, pale and out of breath. He stared down at Hale's body in apparent shock.
"Oh my God!" he said. "What happened?"
Chapter 93
Communion.
Hulohot spotted Becker immediately. The khaki blazer was impossible to miss, particularly with the small bloodstain on one side. The jacket was moving up the center aisle in a sea of black. He must not know I'm here. Hulohot smiled. He's a dead man.
He fanned the tiny metal contacts on his fingertips, eager to tell his American contact the good news. Soon, he thought, very soon.
Like a predator moving downwind, Hulohot moved to the back of the church. Then he began his approach-straight up the center aisle. Hulohot was in no mood to track Becker through the crowds leaving the church. His quarry was trapped, a fortunate turn of events. Hulohot just needed a way to eliminate him quietly. His silencer, the best money could buy, emitted no more than a tiny spitting cough. That would be fine.
As Hulohot closed on the khaki blazer, he was unaware of the quiet murmurs coming from those he was passing. The congregation could understand this man's excitement to receive the blessing of God, but nevertheless, there were strict rules of protocol-two lines, single file.
Hulohot kept moving. He was closing quickly. He thumbed the revolver in his jacket pocket. The moment had arrived. David Becker had been exceptionally fortunate so far; there was no need to tempt fortune any further.
The khaki blazer was only ten people ahead, facing front, head down. Hulohot rehearsed the kill in his mind. The image was clear-cutting in behind Becker, keeping the gun low and out of sight, firing two shots into Becker's back, Becker slumping, Hulohot catching him and helping him into a pew like a concerned friend. Then Hulohot would move quickly to the back of the church as if going for help. In the confusion, he would disappear before anyone knew what had happened.
Five people. Four. Three.
Hulohot fingered the gun in his pocket, keeping it low. He would fire from hip level upward into Becker's spine. That way the bullet would hit either the spine or a lung before finding the heart. Even if the bullet missed the heart, Becker would die. A punctured lung was fatal, maybe not in more medically advanced parts of the world, but in Spain, it was fatal.
Two people… one. And then Hulohot was there. Like a dancer performing a well-rehearsed move, he turned to his right. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the khaki blazer, aimed the gun, and… fired. Two muffled spats.
Instantly the body was rigid. Then it was falling. Hulohot caught his victim under the armpits. In a single motion, he swung the body into a pew before any bloodstains spread across his back. Nearby, people turned. Hulohot paid no heed-he would be gone in an instant.
He groped the man's lifeless fingers for the ring. Nothing. He felt again. The fingers were bare. Hulohot spun the man around angrily. The horror was instantaneous. The face was not David Becker's.
Rafael de la Maza, a banker from the suburbs of Seville, had died almost instantly. He was still clutching the 50,000 pesetas the strange American had paid him for a cheap black blazer.
Chapter 94
Midge Milken stood fuming at the water cooler near the entrance to the conference room. What the hell is Fontaine doing? She crumpled her paper cup and threw it forcefully into the trash can. There's something happening in Crypto! I can feel it! Midge knew there was only one way to prove herself right. She'd go check out Crypto herself-track down Jabba if need be. She spun on her heel and headed for the door.
Brinkerhoff appeared out of nowhere, blocking her way. "Where are you headed?"
"Home!" Midge lied.
Brinkerhoff refused to let her pass.
Midge glared. "Fontaine told you not to let me out, didn't he?"
Brinkerhoff looked away.
"Chad, I'm telling you, there's something happening in Crypto-something big. I don't know why Fontaine's playing dumb, but TRANSLTR's in trouble. Something is not right down there tonight!"
"Midge," he soothed, walking past her toward the curtained conference room windows, "let's let the director handle it."
Midge's gaze sharpened. "Do you have any idea what happens to TRANSLTR if the cooling system fails?"
Brinkerhoff shrugged and approached the window. "Power's probably back on-line by now anyway." He pulled apart the curtains and looked.
"Still dark?" Midge asked.
But Brinkerhoff did not reply. He was spellbound. The scene below in the Crypto dome was unimaginable. The entire glass cupola was filled with spinning lights, flashing strobes, and swirling steam. Brinkerhoff stood transfixed, teetering light-headed against the glass. Then, in a frenzy of panic, he raced out. "Director! Director!"
Chapter 95
The blood of Christ… the cup of salvation…
People gathered around the slumped body in the pew. Overhead, the frankincense swung its peaceful arcs. Hulohot wheeled wildly in the center aisle and scanned the church. He's got to be here! He spun back toward the altar.
Thirty rows ahead, holy communion was proceeding uninterrupted. Padre Gustaphes Herrera, the head chalice bearer, glanced curiously at the quiet commotion in one of the center pews; he was not concerned. Sometimes some of the older folks were overcome by the holy spirit and passed out. A little air usually did the trick.
Meanwhile, Hulohot was searching frantically. Becker was nowhere in sight. A hundred or so people were kneeling at the long altar receiving communion. Hulohot wondered if Becker was one of them. He scanned their backs. He was prepared to shoot from fifty yards away and make a dash for it.
* * *
El cuerpo de Jesus, el pan del cielo.
The young priest serving Becker communion gave him a disapproving stare. He could understand the stranger's eagerness to receive communion, but it was no excuse to cut inline.
Becker bowed his head and chewed the wafer as best he could. He s
ensed something was happening behind him, some sort of disturbance. He thought of the man from whom he'd bought the jacket and hoped he had listened to his warning and not taken Becker's in exchange. He started to turn and look, but he feared the wire-rim glasses would be staring back. He crouched in hopes his black jacket was covering the back of his khaki pants. It was not.
The chalice was coming quickly from his right. People were already swallowing their wine, crossing themselves, and standing to leave. Slow down! Becker was in no hurry to leave the altar. But with two thousand people waiting for communion and only eight priests serving, it was considered bad form to linger over a sip of wine.
* * *
The chalice was just to the right of Becker when Hulohot spotted the mismatched khaki pants. "Estas ya muerto," he hissed softly. "You're already dead." Hulohot moved up the center aisle. The time for subtlety had passed. Two shots in the back, and he would grab the ring and run. The biggest taxi stand in Seville was half a block away on Mateus Gago. He reached for his weapon.
Adios, Senor Becker…
* * *
La sangre de Cristo, la copa de la salvacion.
The thick scent of red wine filled Becker's nostrils as Padre Herrera lowered the hand-polished, silver chalice. Little early for drinking, Becker thought as he leaned forward. But as the silver goblet dropped past eye level, there was a blur of movement. A figure, coming fast, his shape warped in the reflection of the cup.
Becker saw a flash of metal, a weapon being drawn. Instantly, unconsciously, like a runner from a starting block at the sound of a gun, Becker was vaulting forward. The priest fell back in horror as the chalice sailed through the air, and red wine rained down on white marble. Priests and altar boys went scattering as Becker dove over the communion rail. A silencer coughed out a single shot. Becker landed hard, and the shot exploded in the marble floor beside him. An instant later he was tumbling down three granite stairs into the valle, a narrow passageway through which the clergy entered, allowing them to rise onto the altar as if by divine grace.
At the bottom of the steps, he stumbled and dove. Becker felt himself sliding out of control across the slick polished stone. A dagger of pain shot though his gut as he landed on his side. A moment later he was stumbling through a curtained entryway and down a set of wooden stairs.
Pain. Becker was running, through a dressing room. It was dark. There were screams from the altar. Loud footsteps in pursuit. Becker burst through a set of double doors and stumbled into some sort of study. It was dark, furnished with rich Orientals and polished mahogany. On the far wall was a life-size crucifix. Becker staggered to a stop. Dead end. He was at the tip of the cross. He could hear Hulohot closing fast. Becker stared at the crucifix and cursed his bad luck.
"Goddamn it!" he screamed.
There was the sudden sound of breaking glass to Becker's left. He wheeled. A man in red robes gasped and turned to eye Becker in horror. Like a cat caught with a canary, the holy man wiped his mouth and tried to hide the broken bottle of holy communion wine at his feet.
"Salida!" Becker demanded. "Salida!" Let me out!
Cardinal Guerra reacted on instinct. A demon had entered his sacred chambers screaming for deliverance from the house of God. Guerra would grant him that wish-immediately. The demon had entered at a most inopportune moment.
Pale, the cardinal pointed to a curtain on the wall to his left. Hidden behind the curtain was a door. He'd installed it three years ago. It led directly to the courtyard outside. The cardinal had grown tired of exiting the church through the front door like a common sinner.
Chapter 96
Susan was wet and shivering, huddled on the Node 3 couch. Strathmore draped his suit coat over her shoulders. Hale's body lay a few yards away. The sirens blared. Like ice thawing on a frozen pond, TRANSLTR's hull let out a sharp crack.
"I'm going down to kill power," Strathmore said, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I'll be right back."
Susan stared absently after the commander as he dashed across the Crypto floor. He was no longer the catatonic man she'd seen ten minutes before. Commander Trevor Strathmore was back-logical, controlled, doing whatever was necessary to get the job done.
The final words of Hale's suicide note ran through her mind like a train out of control: Above all, I'm truly sorry about David Becker. Forgive me, I was blinded by ambition.
Susan Fletcher's nightmare had just been confirmed. David was in danger… or worse. Maybe it was already too late. I'm truly sorry about David Becker.
She stared at the note. Hale hadn't even signed it-he'd just typed his name at the bottom: Greg Hale. He'd poured out his guts, pressed print, and then shot himself-just like that. Hale had sworn he'd never go back to prison; he'd kept his vow-he'd chosen death instead.
"David…" She sobbed. David!
* * *
At that moment, ten feet below the Crypto floor, Commander Strathmore stepped off the ladder onto the first landing. It had been a day of fiascoes. What had started out as a patriotic mission had swerved wildly out of control. The commander had been forced to make impossible decisions, commit horrific acts-acts he'd never imagined himself capable of.
It was a solution! It was the only damn solution!
There was duty to think of: country and honor. Strathmore knew there was still time. He could shut down TRANSLTR. He could use the ring to save the country's most valuable databank. Yes, he thought, there was still time.
Strathmore looked out over the disaster around him. The overhead sprinklers were on. TRANSLTR was groaning. The sirens blared. The spinning lights looked like helicopters closing in through dense fog. With every step, all he could see was Greg Hale-the young cryptographer gazing up, his eyes pleading, and then, the shot. Hale's death was for country… for honor. The NSA could not afford another scandal. Strathmore needed a scapegoat. Besides, Greg Hale was a disaster waiting to happen.
* * *
Strathmore's thoughts were jarred free by the sound of his cellular. It was barely audible over the sirens and hissing fumes. He snatched it off his belt without breaking stride.
"Speak."
"Where's my pass-key?" a familiar voice demanded.
"Who is this?" Strathmore yelled over the din.
"It's Numataka!" the angry voice bellowed back. "You promised me a pass-key!"
Strathmore kept moving.
"I want Digital Fortress!" Numataka hissed.
"There is no Digital Fortress!" Strathmore shot back.
"What?"
"There is no unbreakable algorithm!"
"Of course there is! I've seen it on the Internet! My people have been trying to unlock it for days!"
"It's an encrypted virus, you fool-and you're damn lucky you can't open it!"
"But-"
"The deal is off!" Strathmore yelled. "I'm not North Dakota. There is no North Dakota! Forget I ever mentioned it!" He clamped the cellular shut, turned off the ringer, and rammed it back on his belt. There would be no more interruptions.
* * *
Twelve thousand miles away, Tokugen Numataka stood stunned at his plate-glass window. His Umami cigar hung limply in his mouth. The deal of his lifetime had just disintegrated before his eyes.
* * *
Strathmore kept descending. The deal is off. Numatech Corp. would never get the unbreakable algorithm… and the NSA would never get its back door.
Strathmore's dream had been a long time in the planning-he'd chosen Numatech carefully. Numatech was wealthy, a likely winner of the pass-key auction. No one would think twice if it ended up with the key. Conveniently there was no company less likely to be suspected of consorting with the U.S. government. Tokugen Numataka was old-world Japan-death before dishonor. He hated Americans. He hated their food, he hated their customs, and most of all, he hated their grip on the world's software market.
* * *
Strathmore's vision had been bold-a world encryption standard with a back door for the NSA. He'd longed to
share his dream with Susan, to carry it out with her by his side, but he knew he could not. Even though Ensei Tankado's death would save thousands of lives in the future, Susan would never have agreed; she was a pacifist. I'm a pacifist too, thought Strathmore, I just don't have the luxury of acting like one.
There had never been any doubt in the commander's mind who would kill Tankado. Tankado was in Spain-and Spain meant Hulohot. The forty-two-year-old Portuguese mercenary was one of the commander's favorite pros. He'd been working for the NSA for years. Born and raised in Lisbon, Hulohot had done work for the NSA all over Europe. Never once had his kills been traced back to Fort Meade. The only catch was that Hulohot was deaf; telephone communication was impossible. Recently Strathmore had arranged for Hulohot to receive the NSA's newest toy, the Monocle computer. Strathmore bought himself a SkyPager and programmed it to the same frequency. From that moment on, his communication with Hulohot was not only instantaneous but also entirely untraceable.
The first message Strathmore had sent Hulohot left little room for misunderstanding. They had already discussed it. Kill Ensei Tankado. Obtain pass-key.
Strathmore never asked how Hulohot worked his magic, but somehow he had done