Chapter 60
   Two-tone headed through the mirrored corridor that led from the outside patio to the dance floor. As he turned to check his safety pin in the reflection, he sensed a figure looming up behind him. He spun, but it was too late. A pair of rocklike arms pinned his body face-first against the glass.
   The punk tried to twist around. "Eduardo? Hey, man, is that you?" Two-Tone felt a hand brush over his wallet before the figure leaned firmly into his back. "Eddie!" the punk cried. "Quit fooling around! Some guy was lookin' for Megan."
   The figure held him firmly.
   "Hey, Eddie, man, cut it out!" But when Two-Tone looked up into the mirror, he saw the figure pinning him was not his friend at all.
   The face was pockmarked and scarred. Two lifeless eyes stared out like coal from behind wire-rim glasses. The man leaned forward, placing his mouth against Two-Tone's ear. A strange, voice choked, "Adonde fue? Where'd he go?" The words sounded somehow misshapen.
   The punk froze, paralyzed with fear.
   "Adonde fue?" the voice repeated. "El Americano."
   "The… the airport. Aeropuerto," Two-Tone stammered.
   "Aeropuerto?" the man repeated, his dark eyes watching Two-Tone's lips in the mirror.
   The punk nodded.
   "Tenia el anillo? Did he have the ring?"
   Terrified, Two-Tone shook his head. "No."
   "Viste el anillo? Did you see the ring?"
   Two-Tone paused. What was the right answer?
   "Viste el anillo?" the muffled voice demanded.
   Two-Tone nodded affirmatively, hoping honesty would pay. It did not. Seconds later he slid to the floor, his neck broken.

Chapter 61
   Jabba lay on his back lodged halfway inside a dismantled mainframe computer. There was a penlight in his mouth, a soldering iron in his hand, and a large schematic blueprint propped on his belly. He had just finished attaching a new set of attenuators to a faulty motherboard when his cellular phone sprang to life.
   "Shit," he swore, groping for the receiver through a pile of cables. "Jabba here."
   "Jabba, it's Midge."
   He brightened. "Twice in one night? People are gonna start talking."
   "Crypto's got problems." Her voice was tense.
   Jabba frowned. "We been through this already. Remember?"
   "It's a power problem."
   "I'm not an electrician. Call Engineering."
   "The dome's dark."
   "You're seeing things. Go home." He turned back to his schematic.
   "Pitch black!" she yelled.
   Jabba sighed and set down his penlight. "Midge, first of all, we've got aux power in there. It would never be pitch black. Second, Strathmore's got a slightly better view of Crypto than I do right now. Why don't you call him?"
   "Because this has to do with him. He's hiding something."
   Jabba rolled his eyes. "Midge sweetie, I'm up to my armpits in serial cable here. If you need a date, I'll cut loose. Otherwise, call Engineering."
   "Jabba, this is serious. I can feel it."
   She can feel it? It was official, Jabba thought, Midge was in one of her moods. "If Strathmore's not worried, I'm not worried."
   "Crypto's pitch black, dammit!"
   "So maybe Strathmore's stargazing."
   "Jabba! I'm not kidding around here!"
   "Okay, okay," he grumbled, propping himself up on an elbow. "Maybe a generator shorted out. As soon as I'm done here, I'll stop by Crypto and-"
   "What about aux power!" Midge demanded. "If a generator blew, why is there no aux power?"
   "I don't know. Maybe Strathmore's got TRANSLTR running and aux power is tapped out."
   "So why doesn't he abort? Maybe it's a virus. You said something earlier about a virus."
   "Damn it, Midge!" Jabba exploded. "I told you, there's no virus in Crypto! Stop being so damned paranoid!"
   There was a long silence on the line.
   "Aw, shit, Midge," Jabba apologized. "Let me explain." His voice was tight. "First of all, we've got Gauntlet-no virus could possibly get through. Second, if there's a power failure, it's hardware-related-viruses don't kill power, they attack software and data. Whatever's going on in Crypto, it's not a virus."
   Silence.
   "Midge? You there?"
   Midge's response was icy. "Jabba, I have a job to do. I don't expect to be yelled at for doing it. When I call to ask why a multi billion-dollar facility is in the dark, I expect a professional response."
   "Yes, ma'am."
   "A simple yes or no will suffice. Is it possible the problem in Crypto is virus-related?"
   "Midge… I told you-"
   "Yes or no. Could TRANSLTR have a virus?"
   Jabba sighed. "No, Midge. It's totally impossible."
   "Thank you."
   He forced a chuckle and tried to lighten the mood. "Unless you think Strathmore wrote one himself and bypassed my filters."
   There was a stunned silence. When Midge spoke, her voice had an eerie edge. "Strathmore can bypass Gauntlet?"
   Jabba sighed. "It was a joke, Midge." But he knew it was too late.

Chapter 62
   The Commander and Susan stood beside the closed trapdoor and debated what to do next.
   "We've got Phil Chartrukian dead down there," Strathmore argued. "If we call for help, Crypto will turn into a circus."
   "So what do you propose we do?" Susan demanded, wanting only to leave.
   Strathmore thought a moment. "Don't ask me how it happened," he said, glancing down at the locked trapdoor, "but it looks like we've inadvertently located and neutralized North Dakota." He shook his head in disbelief. "Damn lucky break if you ask me." He still seemed stunned by the idea that Hale was involved in Tankado's plan. "My guess is that Hale's got the pass-key hidden in his terminal somewhere-maybe he's got a copy at home. Either way, he's trapped."
   "So why not call building security and let them cart him away?"
   "Not yet," Strathmore said, "if the Sys-Secs uncover stats of this endless TRANSLTR run, we've got a whole new set of problems. I want all traces of Digital Fortress deleted before we open the doors."
   Susan nodded reluctantly. It was a good plan. When Security finally pulled Hale from the sublevels and charged him with Chartrukian's death, he probably would threaten to tell the world about Digital Fortress. But the proof would be erased-Strathmore could play dumb. An endless run? An unbreakable algorithm? But that's absurd! Hasn't Hale heard of the Bergofsky Principle?
   "Here's what we need to do." Strathmore coolly outlined his plan. "We erase all of Hale's correspondence with Tankado. We erase all records of my bypassing Gauntlet, all of Chartrukian's Sys-Sec analysis, the Run-Monitor records, everything. Digital Fortress disappears. It was never here. We bury Hale's key and pray to God David finds Tankado's copy."
   David, Susan thought. She forced him from her mind. She needed to stay focused on the matter at hand.
   "I'll handle the Sys-Sec lab," Strathmore said. "Run-Monitor stats, mutation activity stats, the works. You handle Node 3. Delete all of Hale's E-mail. Any records of correspondence with Tankado, anything that mentions Digital Fortress."
   "Okay," Susan replied, focusing. "I'll erase Hale's whole drive. Reformat everything."
   "No!" Strathmore's response was stern. "Don't do that. Hale most likely has a copy of the pass-key in there. I want it."
   Susan gaped in shock. "You want the pass-key? I thought the whole point was to destroy the pass-keys!"
   "It is. But I want a copy. I want to crack open this damn file and have a look at Tankado's program."
   Susan shared Strathmore's curiosity, but instinct told her unlocking the Digital Fortress algorithm was not wise, regardless of how interesting it would be. Right now, the deadly program was locked safely in its encrypted vault-totally harmless. As soon as he decrypted it…. "Commander, wouldn't we be better off just to-"
   "I want the key," he replied.
   Susan had to admit, ever since hearing about Digital Fortress, she'd felt a certain academic curiosity to know how Tankado had managed to write it. Its mere existence contradicted the most fundamental rules of cryptography. Susan eyed the commander. "You'll delete the algorithm immediately after we see it?"
   "Without a trace."
   Susan frowned. She knew that finding Hale's key would not happen instantly. Locating a random pass-key on one of the Node 3 hard drives was somewhat like trying to find a single sock in a bedroom the size of Texas. Computer searches only worked when you knew what you were looking for; this pass-key was random. Fortunately, however, because Crypto dealt with so much random material, Susan and some others had developed a complex process known as a nonconformity search. The search essentially asked the computer to study every string of characters on its hard drive, compare each string against an enormous dictionary, and flag any strings that seemed nonsensical or random. It was tricky work to refine the parameters continually, but it was possible.
   Susan knew she was the logical choice to find the pass-key. She sighed, hoping she wouldn't regret it. "If all goes well, it will take me about half an hour."
   "Then let's get to work," Strathmore said, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her through the darkness toward Node 3.
   Above them, a star-filled sky had stretched itself across the dome. Susan wondered if David could see the same stars from Seville.
   As they approached the heavy glass doors of Node 3, Strathmore swore under his breath. The Node 3 keypad was unlit, and the doors were dead.
   "Damn it," he said. "No power. I forgot."
   Strathmore studied the sliding doors. He placed his palms flat against the glass. Then he leaned sideways trying to slide them open. His hands were sweaty and slipped. He wiped them on his pants and tried again. This time the doors slid open a tiny crack.
   Susan, sensing progress, got in behind Strathmore and they both pushed together. The doors slid open about an inch. They held it a moment, but the pressure was too great. The doors sprang shut again.
   "Hold on," Susan said, repositioning herself in front of Strathmore. "Okay, now try."
   They heaved. Again the door opened only about an inch. A faint ray of blue light appeared from inside Node 3; the terminals were still on; they were considered critical to TRANSLTR and were receiving aux power.
   Susan dug the toe of her Ferragamo's into the floor and pushed harder. The door started to move. Strathmore moved to get a better angle. Centering his palms on the left slider, he pushed straight back. Susan pushed the right slider in the opposite direction. Slowly, arduously, the doors began to separate. They were now almost a foot apart.
   "Don't let go," Strathmore said, panting as they pushed harder. "Just a little farther."
   Susan repositioned herself with her shoulder in the crack. She pushed again, this time with a better angle. The doors fought back against her.
   Before Strathmore could stop her, Susan squeezed her slender body into the opening. Strathmore protested, but she was intent. She wanted out of Crypto, and she knew Strathmore well enough to know she wasn't going anywhere until Hale's pass-key was found.
   She centered herself in the opening and pushed with all her strength. The doors seemed to push back. Suddenly Susan lost her grip. The doors sprang toward her. Strathmore fought to hold them off, but it was too much. Just as the doors slammed shut, Susan squeezed through and collapsed on the other side.
   The commander fought to reopen the door a tiny sliver. He put his face to the narrow crack. "Jesus, Susan-are you okay?"
   Susan stood up and brushed herself off. "Fine."
   She looked around. Node 3 was deserted, lit only by the computer monitors. The bluish shadows gave the place a ghostly ambiance. She turned to Strathmore in the crack of the door. His face looked pallid and sickly in the blue light.
   "Susan," he said. "Give me twenty minutes to delete the files in Sys-Sec. When all traces are gone, I'll go up to my terminal and abort TRANSLTR."
   "You better," Susan said, eyeing the heavy glass doors. She knew that until TRANSLTR stopped hoarding aux power, she was a prisoner in Node 3.
   Strathmore let go of the doors, and they snapped shut. Susan watched through the glass as the commander disappeared into the Crypto darkness.

Chapter 63
   Becker's newly purchased Vespa motorcycle struggled up the entry road to Aeropuerto de Sevilla. His knuckles had been white the whole way. His watch read just after 2:00 a.m. local time.
   As he approached the main terminal, he rode up on the sidewalk and jumped off the bike while it was still moving. It clattered to the pavement and sputtered to a stop. Becker dashed on rubbery legs through the revolving door. Never again, he swore to himself.
   The terminal was sterile and starkly lit. Except for a janitor buffing the floor, the place was deserted. Across the concourse, a ticket agent was closing down the Iberia Airlines counter. Becker took it as a bad sign.
   He ran over. "El vuelo a los Estados Unidos?"
   The attractive Andalusian woman behind the counter looked up and smiled apologetically. "Acaba de salir. You just missed it." Her words hung in the air for a long moment.
   I missed it. Becker's shoulders slumped. "Was there standby room on the flight?"
   "Plenty," the woman smiled. "Almost empty. But tomorrow's eight a.m. also has-"
   "I need to know if a friend of mine made that flight. She was flying standby."
   The woman frowned. "I'm sorry, sir. There were several standby passengers tonight, but our privacy clause states-"
   "It's very important," Becker urged. "I just need to know if she made the flight. That's all."
   The woman gave a sympathetic nod. "Lovers' quarrel?"
   Becker thought a moment. Then he gave her a sheepish grin. "It's that obvious?"
   She gave him a wink. "What's her name?"
   "Megan," he replied sadly.
   The agent smiled. "Does your lady friend have a last name?"
   Becker exhaled slowly. Yes, but I don't know it!" Actually, it's kind of a complicated situation. You said the plane was almost empty. Maybe you could-"
   "Without a last name I really can't…"
   "Actually," Becker interrupted, having another idea. "Have you been on all night?"
   The woman nodded. "Seven to seven."
   "Then maybe you saw her. She's a young girl. Maybe fifteen or sixteen? Her hair was-" Before the words left his mouth, Becker realized his mistake.
   The agent's eyes narrowed. "Your lover is fifteen years old?"
   "No!" Becker gasped. "I mean…" Shit. "If you could just help me, it's very important."
   "I'm sorry," the woman said coldly.
   "It's not the way it sounds. If you could just-"
   "Good night, sir." The woman yanked the metal grate down over the counter and disappeared into a back room.
   Becker groaned and stared skyward. Smooth, David. Very smooth. He scanned the open concourse. Nothing. She must have sold the ring and made the flight. He headed for the custodian. "Has visto a una nina?" he called over the sound of the tile buffer. "Have you seen a girl?"
   The old man reached down and killed the machine. "Eh?"
   "Una nina?" Becker repeated. "Pelo rojo, azul, y blanco. Red white and blue hair."
   The custodian laughed. "Que fea. Sounds ugly." He shook his head and went back to work.
 
***
 
   David Becker stood in the middle of the deserted airport concourse and wondered what to do next. The evening had been a comedy of errors. Strathmore's words pounded in his head: Don't call until you have the ring. A profound exhaustion settled over him. If Megan sold the ring and made the flight, there was no telling who had the ring now.
   Becker closed his eyes and tried to focus. What's my next move? He decided to consider it in a moment. First, he needed to make a long-overdue trip to a rest room.

Chapter 64
   Susan stood alone in the dimly lit silence of Node 3. The task at hand was simple: Access Hale's terminal, locate his key, and then delete all of his communication with Tankado. There could be no hint of Digital Fortress anywhere.
   Susan's initial fears of saving the key and unlocking Digital Fortress were nagging at her again. She felt uneasy tempting fate; they'd been lucky so far. North Dakota had miraculously appeared right under their noses and been trapped. The only remaining question was David; he had to find the other pass-key. Susan hoped he was making progress.
   As she made her way deeper into Node 3, Susan tried to clear her mind. It was odd that she felt uneasy in such a familiar space. Everything in Node 3 seemed foreign in the dark. But there was something else. Susan felt a momentary hesitation and glanced back at the inoperable doors. There was no escape. Twenty minutes, she thought.
   As she turned toward Hale's terminal, she noticed a strange, musky odor-it was definitely not a Node 3 smell. She wondered if maybe the deionizer was malfunctioning. The smell was vaguely familiar, and with it came an unsettling chill. She pictured Hale locked below in his enormous steaming cell. Did he set something on fire? She looked up at the vents and sniffed. But the odor seemed to be coming from nearby.
   Susan glanced toward the latticed doors of the kitchenette. And in an instant she recognized the smell. It was cologne… and sweat.
   She recoiled instinctively, not prepared for what she saw. From behind the lattice slats of the kitchenette, two eyes stared out at her. It only took an instant for the horrifying truth to hit her. Greg Hale was not locked on the sublevels-he was in Node 3! He'd slipped upstairs before Strathmore closed the trapdoor. He'd been strong enough to open the doors all by himself.
   Susan had once heard that raw terror was paralyzing-she now knew that was a myth. In the same instant her brain grasped what was happening, she was in motion-stumbling backward through the dark with a single thought in mind: escape.
   The crash behind her was instantaneous. Hale had been sitting silently on the stove and extended his legs like two battering rams. The doors exploded off their hinges. Hale launched himself into the room and thundered after her with powerful strides.
   Susan knocked over a lamp behind her, attempting to trip Hale as he moved toward her. She sensed him vault it effortlessly. Hale was gaining quickly.
   When his right arm circled her waist from behind, it felt like she'd hit a steel bar. She gasped in pain as the wind went out of her. His biceps flexed against her rib cage.
   Susan resisted and began twisting wildly. Somehow her elbow struck cartilage. Hale released his grip, his hands clutching his nose. He fell to his knees, hands cupped over his face.
   "Son of a-" He screamed in pain.
   Susan dashed onto the door's pressure plates saying a fruitless prayer that Strathmore would in that instant restore power and the doors would spring open. Instead, she found herself pounding against the glass.
   Hale lumbered toward her, his nose covered with blood. In an instant, his hands were around her again-one of them clamped firmly on her left breast and the other on her midsection. He yanked her away from the door.
   She screamed, her hand outstretched in futile attempt to stop him.
   He pulled her backward, his belt buckle digging into her spine. Susan couldn't believe his strength. He dragged her back across the carpet, and her shoes came off. In one fluid motion, Hale lifted her and dumped her on the floor next to his terminal.
   Susan was suddenly on her back, her skirt bunched high on her hips. The top button of her blouse had released, and her chest was heaving in the bluish light. She stared up in terror as Hale straddled her, pinning her down. She couldn't decipher the look in his eyes. It looked like fear. Or was it anger? His eyes bore into her body. She felt a new wave of panic.
   Hale sat firmly on her midsection, staring down at her with an icy glare. Everything Susan had ever learned about self-defense was suddenly racing through her mind. She tried to fight, but her body did not respond. She was numb. She closed her eyes.
   Oh, please, God. No!

Chapter 65
   Brinkerhoff paced Midge's office. "Nobody bypasses Gauntlet. It's impossible!"
   "Wrong," she fired back. "I just talked to Jabba. He said he installed a bypass switch last year."
   The PA looked doubtful. "I never heard that."
   "Nobody did. It was hush-hush."
   "Midge," Brinkerhoff argued, "Jabba's compulsive about security! He would never put in a switch to bypass-"
   "Strathmore made him do it," she interrupted.
   Brinkerhoff could almost hear her mind clicking.
   "Remember last year," she asked, "when Strathmore was working on that anti-Semitic terrorist ring in California?"
   Brinkerhoff nodded. It had been one of Strathmore's major coups last year. Using TRANSLTR to decrypt an intercepted code, he had uncovered a plot to bomb a Hebrew school in Los Angeles. He decrypted the terrorist's message only twelve minutes before the bomb went off, and using some fast phone work, he saved three hundred schoolchildren.
   "Get this," Midge said, lowering her voice unnecessarily. "Jabba said Strathmore intercepted that terrorist code six hours before that bomb went off."
   Brinkerhoff's jaw dropped. "But… then why did he wait-"
   "Because he couldn't get TRANSLTR to decrypt the file. He tried, but Gauntlet kept rejecting it. It was encrypted with some new public key algorithm that the filters hadn't seen yet. It took Jabba almost six hours to adjust them."
   Brinkerhoff looked stunned.
   "Strathmore was furious. He made Jabba install a bypass switch in Gauntlet in case it ever happened again."
   "Jesus." Brinkerhoff whistled. "I had no idea." Then his eyes narrowed. "So what's your point?"
   "I think Strathmore used the switch today… to process a file that Gauntlet rejected."
   "So? That's what the switch is for, right?"
   Midge shook her head. "Not if the file in question is a virus."
   Brinkerhoff jumped. "A virus? Who said anything about a virus!"
   "It's the only explanation," she said. "Jabba said a virus is the only thing that could keep TRANSLTR running this long, so-"
   "Wait a minute!" Brinkerhoff flashed her the time-out sign. "Strathmore said everything's fine!"
   "He's lying."
   Brinkerhoff was lost. "You're saying Strathmore intentionally let a virus into TRANSLTR?"
   "No," she snapped. "I don't think he knew it was a virus. I think he was tricked."
   Brinkerhoff was speechless. Midge Milken was definitely losing it.
   "It explains a lot," she insisted. "It explains what he's been doing in there all night."
   "Planting viruses in his own computer?"
   "No," she said, annoyed. "Trying to cover up his mistake! And now he can't abort TRANSLTR and get aux power back because the virus has the processors locked down!"
   Brinkerhoff rolled his eyes. Midge had gone nuts in the past, but never like this. He tried to calm her. "Jabba doesn't seem to be too worried."
   "Jabba's a fool," she hissed.
   Brinkerhoff looked surprised. Nobody had ever called Jabba a fool-a pig maybe, but never a fool. "You're trusting feminine intuition over Jabba's advanced degrees in anti-invasive programming?"
   She eyed him harshly.
   Brinkerhoff held up his hands in surrender. "Never mind. I take it back." He didn't need to be reminded of Midge's uncanny ability to sense disaster. "Midge," he begged. "I know you hate Strathmore, but-"
   "This has nothing to do with Strathmore!" Midge was in overdrive. "The first thing we need to do is confirm Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet. Then we call the director."
   "Great." Brinkerhoff moaned. "I'll call Strathmore and ask him to send us a signed statement."
   "No," she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. "Strathmore's lied to us once already today." She glanced up, her eyes probing his. "Do you have keys to Fontaine's office?
   "Of course. I'm his PA."
   "I need them."
   Brinkerhoff stared in disbelief. "Midge, there's no way in hell I'm letting you into Fontaine's office."
   "You have to!" she demanded. Midge turned and started typing on Big Brother's keyboard. "I'm requesting a TRANSLTR queue list. If Strathmore manually bypassed Gauntlet, it'll show up on the printout."
   "What does that have to do with Fontaine's office?"
   She spun and glared at him. "The queue list only prints to Fontaine's printer. You know that!"
   "That's because it's classified, Midge!"
   "This is an emergency. I need to see that list."
   Brinkerhoff put his hands on her shoulders. "Midge, please settle down. You know I can't-"
   She huffed loudly and spun back to her keyboard. "I'm printing a queue list. I'm going to walk in, pick it up, and walk out. Now give me the key."
   "Midge…"
   She finished typing and spun back to him. "Chad, the report prints in thirty seconds. Here's the deal. You give me the key. If Strathmore bypassed, we call security. If I'm wrong, I leave, and you can go smear marmalade all over Carmen Huerta." She gave him a malicious glare and held out her hands for the keys. "I'm waiting."
   Brinkerhoff groaned, regretting that he had called her back to check the Crypto report. He eyed her outstretched hand. "You're talking about classified information inside the director's private quarters. Do you have any idea what would happen if we got caught?"
   "The director is in South America."
   "I'm sorry. I just can't." Brinkerhoff crossed his arms and walked out.
   Midge stared after him, her gray eyes smoldering. "Oh, yes you can," she whispered. Then she turned back to Big Brother and called up the video archives.
 
***
 
   Midge'll get over it, Brinkerhoff told himself as he settled in at his desk and started going over the rest of his reports. He couldn't be expected to hand out the director's keys whenever Midge got paranoid.
   He had just begun checking the COMSEC breakdowns when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming from the other room. He set down his work and walked to his doorway.
   The main suite was dark-all except a dim shaft of grayish light from Midge's half-open door. He listened. The voices continued. They sounded excited. "Midge?"
   No response.
   He strode through the darkness to her workspace. The voices were vaguely familiar. He pushed the door open. The room was empty. Midge's chair was empty. The sound was coming from overhead. Brinkerhoff looked up at the video monitors and instantly felt ill. The same image was playing on each one of the twelve screens-a kind of perversely choreographed ballet. Brinkerhoff steadied himself on the back of Midge's chair and watched in horror.
   "Chad?" The voice was behind him.
   He spun and squinted into the darkness. Midge was standing kitty-corner across the main suite's reception area in front of the director's double doors. Her palm was outstretched. "The key, Chad."
   Brinkerhoff flushed. He turned back to the monitors. He tried to block out the images overhead, but it was no use. He was everywhere, groaning with pleasure and eagerly fondling Carmen Huerta's small, honey-covered breasts.

Chapter 66
   Becker crossed the concourse toward the rest room doors only to find the door marked CABALLEROS blocked by an orange pylon and a cleaning cart filled with detergent and mops. He eyed the other door. DAMAS. He strode over and rapped loudly.
   "Hola?" he called, pushing the ladies' room door open an inch. "Con permiso?"
   Silence.
   He went in.
   The rest room was typical, Spanish institutional-perfectly square, white tile, one incandescent bulb overhead. As usual, there was one stall and one urinal. Whether the urinals were ever used in the women's bathrooms was immaterial-adding them saved the contractors the expense of having to build the extra stall.
   Becker peered into the rest room in disgust. It was filthy. The sink was clogged with murky brown water. Dirty paper towels were strewn everywhere. The floor was soaked. The old electric hand blower on the wall was smeared with greenish fingerprints.
   Becker stepped in front of the mirror and sighed. The eyes that usually stared back with fierce clarity were not so clear tonight. How long have I been running around over here? he wondered. The math escaped him. Out of professorial habit, he shimmied his necktie's Windsor knot up on his collar. Then he turned to the urinal behind him.
   As he stood there, he found himself wondering if Susan was home yet. Where could she have gone? To Stone Manor without me?
   "Hey!" a female voice behind him said angrily.
   Becker jumped. "I-I'm…" he stammered, hurrying to zip up. "I'm sorry… I…"
   Becker turned to face the girl who had just entered. She was a young sophisticate, right off the pages of Seventeen Magazine. She wore conservative plaid pants and a white sleeveless blouse. In her hand was a red L. L. Bean duffel. Her blond hair was perfectly blow-dried.
   "I'm sorry." Becker fumbled, buckling his belt. "The men's room was… anyway… I'm leaving."
   "Fuckin' weirdo!"
   Becker did a double-take. The profanity seemed inappropriate coming from her lips-like sewage flowing from a polished decanter. But as Becker studied her, he saw that she was not as polished as he'd first thought. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and her left forearm was swollen. Underneath the reddish irritation on her arm, the flesh was blue.
   Jesus, Becker thought. Intravenous drugs. Who would have guessed?
   "Get out!" she yelled. "Just get out!"
   Becker momentarily forgot all about the ring, the NSA, all of it. His heart went out to the young girl. Her parents had probably sent her over here with some prep school study program and a VISA card-and she'd ended up all alone in a bathroom in the middle of the night doing drugs.
   "Are you okay?" he asked, backing toward the door.
   "I'm fine." Her voice was haughty. "You can leave now!"
   Becker turned to go. He shot her forearm a last sad glance. There's nothing you can do, David. Leave it alone.
   "Now!" she hollered.
   Becker nodded. As he left he gave her a sad smile. "Be careful."

Chapter 67
   "Susan?" Hale panted, his face in hers.
   He was sitting, one leg on either side of her, his full weight on her midsection. His tailbone ground painfully into her pubis through the thin fabric of her skirt. His nose was dripping blood all over her. She tasted vomit in the back of her throat. His hands were at her chest.
   She felt nothing. Is he touching me? It took a moment for Susan to realize Hale was buttoning her top button and covering her up.
   "Susan." Hale gasped, breathless. "You've got to get me out of here."
   Susan was in a daze. Nothing made sense.
   "Susan, you've got to help me! Strathmore killed Chartrukian! I saw it!"
   It took a moment for the words to register. Strathmore killed Chartrukian? Hale obviously had no idea Susan had seen him downstairs.
   "Strathmore knows I saw him!" Hale spat. "He'll kill me too!"
   Had Susan not been breathless with fear, she would have laughed in his face. She recognized the divide-and-conquer mentality of an ex-Marine. Invent lies-pit your enemies against each other.
   "It's true!" he yelled. "We've got to call for help! I think we're both in danger!"
   She did not believe a word he said.
   Hale's muscular legs were cramping, and he rolled up on his haunches to shift his weight slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance.
   As Hale's body rose, Susan felt the circulation surge back into her legs. Before she knew what had happened, a reflex instinct jerked her left leg back hard into Hale's crotch. She felt her kneecap crush the soft sac of tissue between his legs.
   Hale whimpered in agony and instantly went limp. He rolled onto his side, clutching himself. Susan twisted out from under his deadweight. She staggered toward the door, knowing she'd never be strong enough to get out.
   Making a split-second decision, Susan positioned herself behind the long maple meeting table and dug her feet into the carpet. Mercifully the table had casters. She strode with all her might toward the arched glass wall, pushing the table before her. The casters were good, and the table rolled well. Halfway across Node 3, she was at a full sprint.
   Five feet from the glass wall, Susan heaved and let go. She leapt to one side and covered her eyes. After a sickening crack, the wall exploded in a shower of glass. The sounds of Crypto rushed into Node 3 for the first time since its construction.
   Susan looked up. Through the jagged hole, she could see the table. It was still rolling. It spun wide circles out across the Crypto floor and eventually disappeared into the darkness.
   Susan rammed her mangled Ferragamo's back on her feet, shot a last glance at the still-writhing Greg Hale, and dashed across the sea of broken glass out onto the Crypto floor.

Chapter 68
   "Now wasn't that easy?" Midge said with a sneer as Brinkerhoff handed over the key to Fontaine's office.
   Brinkerhoff looked beaten.
   "I'll erase it before I go," Midge promised. "Unless you and your wife want it for your private collection."
   "Just get the damned printout," he snapped. "And then get out!"
   "Si, senor," Midge cackled in a thick Puerto Rican accent. She winked and headed across the suite to Fontaine's double doors.
   Leland Fontaine's private office looked nothing like the rest of the directorial suite. There were no paintings, no overstuffed chairs, no ficus plants, no antique clocks. His space was streamlined for efficiency. His glass-topped desk and black leather chair sat directly in front of his enormous picture window. Three file cabinets stood in the corner next to a small table with a French press coffeepot. The moon had risen high over Fort Meade, and the soft light filtering through the window accentuated the starkness of the director's furnishings.
   What the hell am I doing? Brinkerhoff wondered.
   Midge strode to the printer and scooped up the queue list. She squinted in the darkness. "I can't read the data," she complained. "Turn on the lights."
   "You're reading it outside. Now come on."
   But Midge was apparently having too much fun. She toyed with Brinkerhoff, walking to the window and angling the readout for a better view.
   "Midge…"
   She kept reading.
   Brinkerhoff shifted anxiously in the doorway. "Midge… come on. These are the director's private quarters."
   "It's here somewhere," she muttered, studying the printout. "Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet, I know it." She moved closer to the window.
   Brinkerhoff began to sweat. Midge kept reading.
   After a few moments, she gasped. "I knew it! Strathmore did it! He really did! The idiot!" She held up the paper and shook it. "He bypassed Gauntlet! Have a look!"
   Brinkerhoff stared dumbfounded a moment and then raced across the director's office. He crowded in next to Midge in front of the window. She pointed to the end of the readout.
   Brinkerhoff read in disbelief. "What the…?"
   The printout contained a list of the last thirty-six files that had entered TRANSLTR. After each file was a four-digit Gauntlet clearance code. However, the last file on the sheet had no clearance code-it simply read: manual bypass.
   Jesus, Brinkerhoff thought. Midge strikes again.
   "The idiot!" Midge sputtered, seething. "Look at this! Gauntlet rejected the file twice! Mutation strings! And he still bypassed! What the hell was he thinking?"
   Brinkerhoff felt weak-kneed. He wondered why Midge was always right. Neither of them noticed the reflection that had appeared in the window beside them. A massive figure was standing in Fontaine's open doorway.
   "Jeez," Brinkerhoff choked. "You think we have a virus?"
   Midge sighed. "Nothing else it could be."
   "Could be none of your damn business!" the deep voice boomed from behind them.
   Midge knocked her head against the window. Brinkerhoff tipped over the director's chair and wheeled toward the voice. He immediately knew the silhouette.
   "Director!" Brinkerhoff gasped. He strode over and extended his hand. "Welcome home, sir."
   The huge man ignored it.
   "I-I thought," Brinkerhoff stammered, retracting his hand, "I thought you were in South America."
   Leland Fontaine glared down at his aide with eyes like bullets. "Yes… and now I'm back."

Chapter 69
   "Hey, mister!"
   Becker had been walking across the concourse toward a bank of pay phones. He stopped and turned. Coming up behind him was the girl he'd just surprised in the bathroom. She waved for him to wait. "Mister, wait!"
   Now what? Becker groaned. She wants to press invasion-of-privacy charges?
   The girl dragged her duffel toward him. When she arrived, she was now wearing a huge smile. "Sorry to yell at you back there. You just kind of startled me."
   "No problem," Becker assured, somewhat puzzled. "I was in the wrong place."
   "This will sound crazy," she said, batting her bloodshot eyes. "But you wouldn't happen to have some money you can lend me, would you?"
   Becker stared at her in disbelief. "Money for what?" he demanded. I'm not funding your drug habit if that's what you're asking.
   "I'm trying to get back home," the blonde said. "Can you help?"
   "Miss your flight?"
   She nodded. "Lost my ticket. They wouldn't let me get on. Airlines can be such assholes. I don't have the cash to buy another."
   "Where are your parents?" Becker asked.
   "States."
   "Can you reach them?"
   "Nope. Already tried. I think they're weekending on somebody's yacht."
   Becker scanned the girl's expensive clothing. "You don't have a credit card?"
   "Yeah, but my dad canceled it. He thinks I'm on drugs."
   "Are you on drugs?" Becker asked, deadpan, eyeing her swollen forearm.
   The girl glared, indignant. "Of course not!" She gave Becker an innocent huff, and he suddenly got the feeling he was being played.
   "Come on," she said. "You look like a rich guy. Can't you spot me some cash to get home? I could send it to you later."
   Becker figured any cash he gave this girl would end up in the hands of some drug dealer in Triana. "First of all," he said, "I'm not a rich guy-I'm a teacher. But I'll tell you what I'll do…" I'll call your bluff, that's what I'll do. "Why don't I charge the ticket for you?"
   The blonde stared at him in utter shock. "You'd do that?" she stammered, eyes wide with hope. "You'd buy me a ticket home? Oh, God, thank you!"
   Becker was speechless. He had apparently misjudged the moment.
   The girl threw her arms around him. "It's been a shitty summer," she choked, almost bursting into tears. "Oh, thank you! I've got to get out of here!"
   Becker returned her embrace halfheartedly. The girl let go of him, and he eyed her forearm again.
   She followed his gaze to the bluish rash. "Gross, huh?"
   Becker nodded. "I thought you said you weren't on drugs."
   The girl laughed. "It's Magic Marker! I took off half my skin trying to scrub it off. The ink smeared."
   Becker looked closer. In the fluorescent light, he could see, blurred beneath the reddish swelling on her arm, the faint outline of writing-words scrawled on flesh.
   "But… but your eyes," Becker said, feeling dumb. "They're all red."
   She laughed. "I was crying. I told you, I missed my flight."
   Becker looked back at the words on her arm.
   She frowned, embarrassed. "Oops, you can still kind of read it, can't you?"
   Becker leaned closer. He could read it all right. The message was crystal clear. As he read the four faint words, the last twelve hours flashed before his eyes.
   David Becker found himself back in the Alfonso XIII hotel room. The obese German was touching his own forearm and speaking broken English: Fock off und die.
   "You okay?" the girl asked, eyeing the dazed Becker.
   Becker did not look up from her arm. He was dizzy. The four words smeared across the girl's flesh carried a very simple message: FUCK OFF AND DIE.
   The blonde looked down at it, embarrassed. "This friend of mine wrote it… pretty stupid, huh?"
   Becker couldn't speak. Fock off und die. He couldn't believe it. The German hadn't been insulting him, he'd been trying to help. Becker lifted his gaze to the girl's face. In the fluorescent light of the concourse, he could see faint traces of red and blue in the girl's blond hair.
   "Y-you…" Becker stammered, staring at her unpierced ears. "You wouldn't happen to wear earrings, would you?"
   The girl eyed him strangely. She fished a tiny object from her pocket and held it out. Becker gazed at the skull pendant dangling in her hand.
   "A clip-on?" he stammered.
   "Hell, yes," the girl replied. "I'm scared shitless of needles."