Chapter 80
   Hale clamped down on Susan's neck and yelled into the darkness. "Commander, I've got your sweetheart. I want out!"
   His demands were met with silence.
   Hale's grip tightened. "I'll break her neck!"
   A gun cocked directly behind them. Strathmore's voice was calm and even. "Let her go."
   Susan winced in pain. "Commander!"
   Hale spun Susan's body toward the sound. "You shoot and you'll hit your precious Susan. You ready to take that chance?"
   Strathmore's voice moved closer. "Let her go."
   "No way. You'll kill me."
   "I'm not going to kill anyone."
   "Oh, yeah? Tell that to Chartrukian!"
   Strathmore moved closer. "Chartrukian's dead."
   "No shit. You killed him. I saw it!"
   "Give it up, Greg," Strathmore said calmly.
   Hale clutched at Susan and whispered in her ear, "Strathmore pushed Chartrukian-I swear it!"
   "She's not going to fall for your divide-and-conquer technique," Strathmore said, moving closer. "Let her go."
   Hale hissed into the darkness, "Chartrukian was just a kid, for Christ's sake! Why'd you do it? To protect your little secret?"
   Strathmore stayed cool. "And what little secret is that?"
   "You know damn-fucking-well what secret that is! Digital Fortress!"
   "My, my," Strathmore muttered condescendingly, his voice like an iceberg. "So you do know about Digital Fortress. I was starting to think you'd deny that too."
   "Fuck you."
   "A witty defense."
   "You're a fool," Hale spat. "For your information, TRANSLTR is overheating."
   "Really?" Strathmore chuckled. "Let me guess-I should open the doors and call in the Sys-Secs?"
   "Exactly," Hale fired back. "You'd be an idiot not to."
   This time Strathmore laughed out loud. "That's your big play? TRANSLTR's overheating, so open the doors and let us out?"
   "It's true, dammit! I've been down to the sublevels! The aux power isn't pulling enough freon!"
   "Thanks for the tip," Strathmore said. "But TRANSLTR's got automatic shutdown; if it's overheating, Digital Fortress will quit all by itself."
   Hale sneered. "You're insane. What the fuck do I care if TRANSLTR blows? The damn machine should be outlawed anyway."
   Strathmore sighed. "Child psychology only works on children, Greg. Let her go."
   "So you can shoot me?"
   "I won't shoot you. I just want the pass-key."
   "What pass-key?"
   Strathmore sighed again. "The one Tankado sent you."
   "I have no idea what you're talking about."
   "Liar!" Susan managed. "I saw Tankado's mail in your account!"
   Hale went rigid. He spun Susan around. "You went in my account?"
   "And you aborted my tracer," she snapped.
   Hale felt his blood pressure skyrocket. He thought he'd covered his tracks; he had no idea Susan knew what he'd done. It was no wonder she wasn't buying a word he said. Hale felt the walls start to close in. He knew he could never talk his way out of that one-not in time. He whispered to her in desperation, "Susan… Strathmore killed Chartrukian!"
   "Let her go," the commander said evenly. "She doesn't believe you."
   "Why should she?" Hale fired back. "You lying bastard! You've got her brainwashed! You only tell her what suits your needs! Does she know what you really plan to do with Digital Fortress?"
   "And what's that?" Strathmore taunted.
   Hale knew what he was about to say would either be his ticket to freedom or his death warrant. He took a deep breath and went for broke. "You plan to write a back door in Digital Fortress."
   The words met with a bewildered silence from the darkness. Hale knew he had hit a bull's-eye.
   Apparently Strathmore's unflappable cool was being put to the test. "Who told you that?" he demanded, his voice rough around the edges.
   "I read it," Hale said smugly, trying to capitalize on the change of momentum. "In one of your brainstorms."
   "Impossible. I never print my brainstorms."
   "I know. I read it directly off your account."
   Strathmore seemed doubtful. "You got into my office?"
   "No. I snooped you from Node 3." Hale forced a self-assured chuckle. He knew he'd need all the negotiating skills he'd learned in the marines to get out of Crypto alive.
   Strathmore edged closer, the Berretta leveled in the darkness. "How do you know about my back door?"
   "I told you, I snooped your account."
   "Impossible."
   Hale forced a cocky sneer. "One of the problems of hiring the best, Commander-sometimes they're better than you."
   "Young man," Strathmore seethed, "I don't know where you get your information, but you're in way over your head. You will let Ms. Fletcher go right now or I'll call in Security and have you thrown in jail for life."
   "You won't do it," Hale stated matter-of-factly. "Calling Security ruins your plans. I'll tell them everything." Hale paused. "But let me out clean, and I'll never say a word about Digital Fortress."
   "No deal," Strathmore fired back. "I want the pass-key."
   "I don't have any fucking pass-key!"
   "Enough lies!" Strathmore bellowed. "Where is it?"
   Hale clamped down on Susan's neck. "Let me out, or she dies!"
 
***
 
   Trevor Strathmore had done enough high-stakes bargaining in his life to know that Hale was in a very dangerous state of mind. The young cryptographer had painted himself into a corner, and a cornered opponent was always the most dangerous kind-desperate and unpredictable. Strathmore knew his next move was a critical one. Susan's life depended on it-and so did the future of Digital Fortress.
   Strathmore knew the first thing he had to do was release the tension of the situation. After a long moment, he sighed reluctantly. "Okay, Greg. You win. What do you want me to do?"
   Silence. Hale seemed momentarily unsure how to handle the commander's cooperative tone. He let up a bit on Susan's neck.
   "W-well…" he stammered, his voice wavering suddenly. "First thing you do is give me your gun. You're both coming with me."
   "Hostages?" Strathmore laughed coldly. "Greg, you'll have to do better than that. There are about a dozen armed guards between here and the parking lot."
   "I'm not a fool," Hale snapped. "I'm taking your elevator. Susan comes with me! You stay!"
   "I hate to tell you this," Strathmore replied, "but there's no power to the elevator."
   "Bullshit!" Hale snapped. "The lift runs on power from the main building! I've seen the schematics!"
   "We tried it already," Susan choked, trying to help. "It's dead."
   "You're both so full of shit, it's incredible." Hale tightened his grip. "If the elevator's dead, I'll abort TRANSLTR and restore power."
   "The elevator takes a password," Susan managed feistily.
   "Big deal." Hale laughed. "I'm sure the commander will share. Won't you, Commander?"
   "No chance," Strathmore hissed.
   Hale boiled over. "Now you listen to me, old man-here's the deal! You let Susan and me out through your elevator, we drive a few hours, and then I let her go."
   Strathmore felt the stakes rising. He'd gotten Susan into this, and he needed to get her out. His voice stayed steady as a rock. "What about my plans for Digital Fortress?"
   Hale laughed. "You can write your back door-I won't say a word." Then his voice turned ominous. "But the day I think you're tracking me, I go to the press with the whole story. I tell them Digital Fortress is tainted, and I sink this whole fucking organization!"
   Strathmore considered Hale's offer. It was clean and simple. Susan lived, and Digital Fortress got its back door. As long as Strathmore didn't chase Hale, the back door stayed a secret. Strathmore knew Hale couldn't keep his mouth shut for long. But still… the knowledge of Digital Fortress was Hale's only insurance-maybe he'd be smart. Whatever happened, Strathmore knew Hale could be removed later if necessary.
   "Make up your mind, old man!" Hale taunted. "Are we leaving or not?" Hale's arms tightened around Susan like a vice.
   Strathmore knew that if he picked up the phone right now and called Security, Susan would live. He'd bet his life on it. He could see the scenario clearly. The call would take Hale completely by surprise. He would panic, and in the end, faced with a small army, Hale would be unable to act. After a brief standoff, he would give in. But if I call Security, Strathmore thought, my plan is ruined.
   Hale clamped down again. Susan cried out in pain.
   "What's it gonna be?" Hale yelled. "Do I kill her?"
   Strathmore considered his options. If he let Hale take Susan out of Crypto, there were no guarantees. Hale might drive for a while, park in the woods. He'd have a gun…. Strathmore's stomach turned. There was no telling what would happen before Hale set Susan free… if he set her free. I've got to call Security, Strathmore decided. What else can I do? He pictured Hale in court, spilling his guts about Digital Fortress. My plan will be ruined. There must be some other way.
   "Decide!" Hale yelled, dragging Susan toward the staircase.
   Strathmore wasn't listening. If saving Susan meant his plans were ruined, then so be it-nothing was worth losing her. Susan Fletcher was a price Trevor Strathmore refused to pay.
   Hale had Susan's arm twisted behind her back and her neck bent to one side. "This is your last chance, old man! Give me the gun!"
   Strathmore's mind continued to race, searching for another option. There are always other options! Finally he spoke-quietly, almost sadly. "No, Greg, I'm sorry. I just can't let you go."
   Hale choked in apparent shock. "What!"
   "I'm calling Security."
   Susan gasped. "Commander! No!"
   Hale tightened his grip. "You call Security, and she dies!"
   Strathmore pulled the cellular off his belt and flicked it on. "Greg, you're bluffing."
   "You'll never do it!" Hale yelled. "I'll talk! I'll ruin your plan! You're only hours away from your dream! Controlling all the data in the world! No more TRANSLTR. No more limits-just free information. It's a chance of a lifetime! You won't let it slip by!"
   Strathmore voice was like steel. "Watch me."
   "But-but what about Susan?" Hale stammered. "You make that call, and she dies!"
   Strathmore held firm. "That's a chance I'm ready to take."
   "Bullshit! You've got a bigger hard-on for her than you do for Digital Fortress! I know you! You won't risk it!"
   Susan began to make an angry rebuttal, but Strathmore beat her to it. "Young man! You don't know me! I take risks for a living. If you're looking to play hardball, let's play!" He started punching keys on his phone. "You misjudged me, son! Nobody threatens the lives of my employees and walks out!" He raised the phone and barked into the receiver, "Switchboard! Get me Security!"
   Hale began to torque Susan's neck. "I-I'll kill her. I swear it!"
   "You'll do no such thing!" Strathmore proclaimed. "Killing Susan will just make things wor-" He broke off and rammed the phone against his mouth. "Security! This is Commander Trevor Strathmore. We've got a hostage situation in Crypto! Get some men in here! Yes, now, goddamn it! We also have a generator failure. I want power routed from all available external sources. I want all systems on-line in five minutes! Greg Hale killed one of my junior Sys-Secs. He's holding my senior cryptographer hostage. You're cleared to use tear gas on all of us if necessary! If Mr. Hale doesn't cooperate, have snipers shoot him dead. I'll take full responsibility. Do it now!"
   Hale stood motionless-apparently limp in disbelief. His grip on Susan eased.
   Strathmore snapped his phone shut and shoved it back onto his belt. "Your move, Greg."

Chapter 81
   Becker stood bleary-eyed beside the telephone booth on the terminal concourse. Despite his burning face and a vague nausea, his spirits were soaring. It was over. Truly over. He was on his way home. The ring on his finger was the grail he'd been seeking. He held his hand up in the light and squinted at the gold band. He couldn't focus well enough to read, but the inscription didn't appear to be in English. The first symbol was either a Q, an O, or a zero, his eyes hurt too much to tell. Becker studied the first few characters. They made no sense. This was a matter of national security?
   Becker stepped into the phone booth and dialed Strathmore. Before he had finished the international prefix, he got a recording. "Todos los circuitos estan ocupados," the voice said. "Please hang up and try your call later." Becker frowned and hung up. He'd forgotten: Getting an international connection from Spain was like roulette, all a matter of timing and luck. He'd have to try again in a few minutes.
   Becker fought to ignore the waning sting of the pepper in his eyes. Megan had told him rubbing his eyes would only make them worse; he couldn't imagine. Impatient, he tried the phone again. Still no circuits. Becker couldn't wait any longer-his eyes were on fire; he had to flush them with water. Strathmore would have to wait a minute or two. Half blind, Becker made his way toward the bathrooms.
   The blurry image of the cleaning cart was still in front of the men's room, so Becker turned again toward the door marked damas. He thought he heard sounds inside. He knocked. "Hola?"
   Silence.
   Probably Megan, he thought. She had five hours to kill before her flight and had said she was going to scrub her arm till it was clean.
   "Megan?" he called. He knocked again. There was no reply. Becker pushed the door open. "Hello?" He went in. The bathroom appeared empty. He shrugged and walked to the sink.
   The sink was still filthy, but the water was cold. Becker felt his pores tighten as he splashed the water in his eyes. The pain began to ease, and the fog gradually lifted. Becker eyed himself in the mirror. He looked like he'd been crying for days.
   He dried his face on the sleeve of his jacket, and then it suddenly occurred to him. In all the excitement, he'd forgotten where he was. He was at the airport! Somewhere out thereon the tarmac, in one of the Seville airport's three private hangars, there was a Learjet 60 waiting to take him home. The pilot had stated very clearly, I have orders to stay here until you return.
   It was hard to believe, Becker thought, that after all this, he had ended up right back where he'd started. What am I waiting for? he laughed. I'm sure the pilot can radio a message to Strathmore!
   Chuckling to himself, Becker glanced in the mirror and straightened his tie. He was about to go when the reflection of something behind him caught his eye. He turned. It appeared to be one end of Megan's duffel, protruding from under a partially open stall door.
   "Megan?" he called. There was no reply. "Megan?"
   Becker walked over. He rapped loudly on the side of the stall. No answer. He gently pushed the door. It swung open.
   Becker fought back a cry of horror. Megan was on the toilet, her eyes rolled skyward. Dead center of her forehead, a bullet hole oozed bloody liquid down her face.
   "Oh, Jesus!" Becker cried in shock.
   "Esta muerta," a barely human voice croaked behind him. "She's dead."
   It was like a dream. Becker turned.
   "Senor Becker?" the eerie voice asked.
   Dazed, Becker studied the man stepping into the rest room. He looked oddly familiar.
   "Soy Hulohot," the killer said. "I am Hulohot." The misshapen words seemed to emerge from the depths of his stomach. Hulohot held out his hand. "El anillo. The ring."
   Becker stared blankly.
   The man reached in his pocket and produced a gun. He raised the weapon and trained it on Becker's head. "El anillo."
   In an instant of clarity, Becker felt a sensation he had never known. As if cued by some subconscious survival instinct, every muscle in his body tensed simultaneously. He flew through the air as the shot spat out. Becker crashed down on top of Megan. A bullet exploded against the wall behind him.
   "Mierda!" Hulohot seethed. Somehow, at the last possible instant, David Becker had dived out of the way. The assassin advanced.
   Becker pulled himself off the lifeless teenager. There were approaching footsteps. Breathing. The cock of a weapon.
   "Adios," the man whispered as he lunged like a panther, swinging his weapon into the stall.
   The gun went off. There was a flash of red. But it was no tblood. It was something else. An object had materialized as if out of nowhere, sailing out of 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 angrily. "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?"
   "You're so blind!" Hale yelled. "Can't you see I'm not involved? Untie me! Before Security gets here!"
   "Security's not coming," she snapped flatly.
   Hale turned white. "What?"
   "Strathmore faked the phone call."
   Hale's eyes went wide. He seemed momentarily paralyzed. Then he began writhing fiercely. "Strathmore'll kill me! I know he will! I know too much!"
   "Easy, Greg."
   The sirens blared as Hale yelled out, "But I'm innocent!"
   "You're lying! And I have proof!" Susan strode around the ring of terminals. "Remember that tracer you aborted?" she asked, arriving at her own terminal. "I sent it again! Shall we see if it's back yet?"
   Sure enough, on Susan's screen, a blinking icon alerted her that her tracer had returned. She palmed her mouse and opened the message. This data will seal Hale's fate, she thought. Hale is North Dakota. The databox opened. Hale is– Susan stopped. The tracer materialized, and Susan stood in stunned silence. There had to be some mistake; the tracer had fingered someone else-a most unlikely person.
   Susan steadied herself on the terminal and reread the databox before her. It was the same information Strathmore said he'd received when he ran the tracer! Susan had figured Strathmore had made a mistake, but she knew she'd configured the tracer perfectly.
   And yet the information on the screen was unthinkable:
   NDAKOTA = ET@DOSHISHA.EDU
   "ET?" Susan demanded, her head swimming. "Ensei Tankado is North Dakota?"
   It was inconceivable. If the data was correct, Tankado and his partner were the same person. Susan's thoughts were suddenly disconnected. She wished the blaring horn would stop. Why doesn't Strathmore turn that damn thing off?
   Hale twisted on the floor, straining to see Susan. "What does it say? Tell me!"
   Susan blocked out Hale and the chaos around her. Ensei Tankado is North Dakota….
   She reshuffled the pieces trying to make them fit. If Tankado was North Dakota, then he was sending E-mail to himself… which meant North Dakota didn't exist. Tankado's partner was a hoax.
   North Dakota is a ghost, she said to herself. Smoke and mirrors.
   The ploy was a brilliant one. Apparently Strathmore had been watching only one side of a tennis match. Since the ball kept coming back, he assumed there was someone on the other side of the net. But Tankado had been playing against a wall. He had been proclaiming the virtues of Digital Fortress in E-mail he'd sent to himself. He had written letters, sent them to an anonymous remailer, and a few hours later, the remailer had sent them right back to him.
   Now, Susan realized, it was all so obvious. Tankado had wanted the commander to snoop him… he'd wanted him to read the E-mail. Ensei Tankado had created an imaginary insurance policy without ever having to trust another soul with his pass-key. Of course, to make the whole farce seem authentic, Tankado had used a secret account… just secret enough to allay any suspicions that the whole thing was a setup. Tankado was his own partner. North Dakota did not exist. Ensei Tankado was a one-man show.
   A one-man show.
   A terrifying thought gripped Susan. Tankado could have used his fake correspondence to convince Strathmore of just about anything.
   She remembered her first reaction when Strathmore told her about the unbreakable algorithm. She'd sworn it was impossible. The unsettling potential of the situation settled hard in Susan's stomach. What proof did they actually have that Tankado had really created Digital Fortress? Only a lot of hype in his E-mail. And of course… TRANSLTR. The computer had been locked in an endless loop for almost twenty hours. Susan knew, however, that there were other programs that could keep TRANSLTR busy that long, programs far easier to create than an unbreakable algorithm.
   Viruses.
   The chill swept across her body.
   But how could a virus get into TRANSLTR?
   Like a voice from the grave, Phil Chartrukian gave the answer. Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet!
   In a sickening revelation, Susan grasped the truth. Strathmore had downloaded Tankado's Digital Fortress file and tried to send it into TRANSLTR to break it. But Gauntlet had rejected the file because it contained dangerous mutation strings. Normally Strathmore would have been concerned, but he had seen Tankado's E-mail-Mutation strings are the trick! Convinced Digital Fortress was safe to load, Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet's filters and sent the file into TRANSLTR.
   Susan could barely speak. "There is no Digital Fortress," she choked as the sirens blared on. Slowly, weakly, she leaned against her terminal. Tankado had gone fishing for fools… and the NSA had taken the bait.
   Then, from upstairs, came a long cry of anguish. It was Strathmore.

Chapter 86
   Trevor Strathmore was hunched at his desk when Susan arrived breathless at his door. His head was down, his sweaty head glistening in the light of his monitor. The horns on the sublevels blared.
   Susan raced over to his desk. "Commander?"
   Strathmore didn't move.
   "Commander! We've got to shut down TRANSLTR! We've got a-"
   "He got us," Strathmore said without looking up. "Tankado fooled us all…"
   She could tell by the tone of his voice he understood. All of Tankado's hype about the unbreakable algorithm… auctioning off the pass-key-it was all an act, a charade. Tankado had tricked the NSA into snooping his mail, tricked them into believing he had a partner, and tricked them into downloading a very dangerous file.
   "The mutation strings-" Strathmore faltered.
   "I know."
   The commander looked up slowly. "The file I downloaded off the Internet… it was a…"
   Susan tried to stay calm. All the pieces in the game had shifted. There had never been any unbreakable algorithm-never any Digital Fortress. The file Tankado had posted on the Internet was an encrypted virus, probably sealed with some generic, mass-market encryption algorithm, strong enough to keep everyone out of harm's way-everyone except the NSA. TRANSLTR had cracked the protective seal and released the virus.
   "The mutation strings," the commander croaked. "Tankado said they were just part of the algorithm." Strathmore collapsed back onto his desk.
   Susan understood the commander's pain. He had been completely taken in. Tankado had never intended to let any computer company buy his algorithm. There was no algorithm. The whole thing was a charade. Digital Fortress was a ghost, a farce, a piece of bait created to tempt the NSA. Every move Strathmore had made, Tankado had been behind the scenes, pulling the strings.
   "I bypassed Gauntlet." The commander groaned.
   "You didn't know."
   Strathmore pounded his fist on his desk. "I should have known! His screen name, for Christ's sake! NDAKOTA! Look at it!"
   "What do you mean?"
   "He's laughing at us! It's a goddamn anagram!"
   Susan puzzled a moment. NDAKOTA is an anagram? She pictured the letters and began reshuffling them in her mind. Ndakota… Kadotan… Oktadan… Tandoka… Her knees went weak. Strathmore was right. It was as plain as day. How could they have missed it? North Dakota wasn't a reference to the U.S. state at all-it was Tankado rubbing salt in the wound! He'd even sent the NSA a warning, a blatant clue that he himself was NDAKOTA. The letters spelled TANKADO. But the best code-breakers in the world had missed it, just as he had planned.
   "Tankado was mocking us," Strathmore said.
   "You've got to abort TRANSLTR," Susan declared.
   Strathmore stared blankly at the wall.
   "Commander. Shut it down! God only knows what's going on in there!"
   "I tried," Strathmore whispered, sounding as faint as she'd ever heard him.
   "What do you mean you tried?"
   Strathmore rotated his screen toward her. His monitor had dimmed to a strange shade of maroon. At the bottom, the dialogue box showed numerous attempts to shut down TRANSLTR. They were all followed by the same response:
 
SORRY. UNABLE TO ABORT.
 
SORRY. UNABLE TO ABORT.
 
SORRY. UNABLE TO ABORT.
 
   Susan felt a chill. Unable to abort? But why? She feared she already knew the answer. So this is Tankado's revenge? Destroying TRANSLTR! For years Ensei Tankado had wanted the world to know about TRANSLTR, but no one had believed him. So he'd decided to destroy the great beast himself. He'd fought to the death for what he believed-the individual's right to privacy.
   Downstairs the sirens blared.
   "We've got to kill all power," Susan demanded. "Now!"
   Susan knew that if they hurried, they could save the great parallel processing machine. Every computer in the world-from Radio Shack PCs to NASA's satellite control systems-had a built-in fail-safe for situations like this. It wasn't a glamorous fix, but it always worked. It was known as "pulling the plug."
   By shutting off the remaining power in Crypto, they could force TRANSLTR to shut down. They could remove the virus later. It would be a simple matter of reformatting TRANSLTR's hard drives. Reformatting would completely erase the computer's memory-data, programming, virus, everything. In most cases, reformatting resulted in the loss of thousands of files, sometimes years of work. But TRANSLTR was different-it could be reformatted with virtually no loss at all. Parallel processing machines were designed to think, not to remember. Nothing was actually stored inside TRANSLTR. Once it broke a code, it sent the results to the NSA's main databank in order to– Susan froze. In a stark instant of realization, she brought her hand to her mouth and muffled a scream. "The main databank!"
   Strathmore stared into the darkness, his voice disembodied. He'd apparently already made this realization. "Yes, Susan. The main databank…."
   Susan nodded blankly. Tankado used TRANSLTR to put a virus in our main databank.
   Strathmore motioned sickly to his monitor. Susan returned her gaze to the screen in front of her and looked beneath the dialogue box. Across the bottom of the screen were the words:
 
TELL THE WORLD ABOUT TRANSLTR
 
ONLY THE TRUTH WILL SAVE YOU NOW…
 
   Susan felt cold. The nation's most classified information was stored at the NSA: military communication protocols, SIGINT confirmation codes, identities of foreign spies, blueprints for advanced weaponry, digitized documents, trade agreements-the list was unending.
   "Tankado wouldn't dare!" she declared. "Corrupting a country's classified records?" Susan couldn't believe even Ensei Tankado would dare attack the NSA databank. She stared at his message.
 
ONLY THE TRUTH WILL SAVE YOU NOW
 
   "The truth?" she asked. "The truth about what?"
   Strathmore was breathing heavily. "TRANSLTR," he croaked. "The truth about TRANSLTR."
   Susan nodded. It made perfect sense. Tankado was forcing the NSA to tell the world about TRANSLTR. It was blackmail after all. He was giving the NSA a choice-either tell the world about TRANSLTR or lose your databank. She stared in awe at the text before her. At the bottom of the screen, a single line was blinked menacingly.
 
ENTER PASS-KEY
 
   Staring at the pulsating words, Susan understood-the virus, the pass-key, Tankado's ring, the ingenious blackmail plot. The pass-key had nothing to do with unlocking an algorithm; it was an antidote. The pass-key stopped the virus. Susan had read a lot about viruses like this-deadly programs that included a built-in cure, a secret key that could be used to deactivate them. Tankado never planned to destroy the NSA databank-he just wanted us go public with TRANSLTR! Then he would give us the pass-key, so we could stop the virus!
   It was now clear to Susan that Tankado's plan had gone terribly wrong. He had not planned on dying. He'd planned on sitting in a Spanish bar and listening to the CNN press conference about America's top-secret code-breaking computer. Then he'd planned on calling Strathmore, reading the pass-key off the ring, and saving the databank in the nick of time. After a good laugh, he'd disappear into oblivion, an EFF hero.
   Susan pounded her fist on the desk. "We need that ring! It's the only pass-key!" She now understood-there was no North Dakota, no second pass-key. Even if the NSA went public with TRANSLTR, Tankado was no longer around to save the day.
   Strathmore was silent.
   The situation was more serious than Susan had ever imagined. The most shocking thing of all was that Tankado had allowed it to go this far. He had obviously known what would happen if the NSA didn't get the ring-and yet, in his final seconds of life, he'd given the ring away. He had deliberately tried to keep it from them. Then again, Susan realized, what could she expect Tankado to do-save the ring for them, when he thought the NSA had killed him?
   Still, Susan couldn't believe that Tankado would have allowed this to happen. He was a pacifist. He didn't want to wreak destruction; all he wanted was to set the record straight. This was about TRANSLTR. This was about everyone's right to keep a secret. This was about letting the world know that the NSA was listening. Deleting the NSA's databank was an act of aggression Susan could not imagine Ensei Tankado committing.
   The sirens pulled her back to reality. Susan eyed the debilitated commander and knew what he was thinking. Not only were his plans for a back door in Digital Fortress shot, but his carelessness had put the NSA on the brink of what could turn out to be the worst security disaster in U.S. history.
   "Commander, this is not your fault!" she insisted over the blare of the horns. "If Tankado hadn't died, we'd have bargaining power-we'd have options!"
   But Commander Strathmore heard nothing. His life was over. He'd spent thirty years serving his country. This was supposed to be his moment of glory, his piece de resistance-aback door in the world encryption standard. But instead, he had sent a virus into the main databank of the National Security Agency. There was no way to stop it-not without killing power and erasing every last one of the billions of bytes of irretrievable data. Only the ring could save them, and if David hadn't found the ring by now…
   "I need to shut down TRANSLTR!" Susan took control. "I'm going down to the sublevels to throw the circuit breaker."
   Strathmore turned slowly to face her. He was a broken man. "I'll do it," he croaked. He stood up, stumbling as he tried to slide out from behind his desk.
   Susan sat him back down. "No," she barked. "I'm going." Her tone left no room for debate.
   Strathmore put his face in his hands. "Okay. Bottom floor. Beside the freon pumps."
   Susan spun and headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned and looked back. "Commander," she yelled. "This is not over. We're not beaten yet. If David finds the ring in time, we can save the databank!"
   Strathmore said nothing.
   "Call the databank!" Susan ordered. "Warn them about the virus! You're the deputy director of the NSA. You're a survivor!"
   In slow motion, Strathmore looked up. Like a man making the decision of a lifetime, he gave her a tragic nod.
   Determined, Susan tore into the darkness.

Chapter 87
   The Vespa lurched into the slow lane of the Carretera de Huelva. It was almost dawn, but there was plenty of traffic-young Sevillians returning from their all-night beach verbenas. A van of teenagers laid on its horn and flew by. Becker's motorcycle felt like a toy out there on the freeway.
   A quarter of a mile back, a demolished taxi swerved out onto the freeway in a shower of sparks. As it accelerated, it sideswiped a Peugeot 504 and sent it careening onto the grassy median.
   Becker passed a freeway marker: SEVILLA CENTRO-2 KM. If he could just reach the cover of downtown, he knew he might have a chance. His speedometer read 60 kilometers per hour. Two minutes to the exit. He knew he didn't have that long. Somewhere behind him, the taxi was gaining. Becker gazed out at the nearing lights of downtown Seville and prayed he would reach them alive.
   He was only halfway to the exit when the sound of scraping metal loomed up behind him. He hunched on his bike, wrenching the throttle as far as it would go. There was a muffled gunshot, and a bullet sailed by. Becker cut left, weaving back and forth across the lanes in hopes of buying more time. It was no use. The exit ramp was still three hundred yards when the taxi roared to within a few car lengths behind him. Becker knew that in a matter of seconds he would be either shot or run down. He scanned ahead for any possible escape, but the highway was bounded on both sides by steep gravel slopes. Another shot rang out. Becker made his decision.
   In a scream of rubber and sparks, he leaned violently to his right and swerved off the road. The bike's tires hit the bottom of the embankment. Becker strained to keep his balance as the Vespa threw up a cloud of gravel and began fish-tailing its way up the slope. The wheels spun wildly, clawing at the loose earth. The little engine whimpered pathetically as it tried to dig in. Becker urged it on, hoping it wouldn't stall. He didn't dare look behind him, certain at any moment the taxi would be skidding to a stop, bullets flying.
   The bullets never came.
   Becker's bike broke over the crest of the hill, and he saw it-the centro. The downtown lights spread out before him like a star-filled sky. He gunned his way through some underbrush and out over the curb. His Vespa suddenly felt faster. The Avenue Luis Montoto seemed to race beneath his tires. The soccer stadium zipped past on the left. He was in the clear.
   It was then that Becker heard the familiar screech of metal on concrete. He looked up. A hundred yards ahead of him, the taxi came roaring up the exit ramp. It skidded out onto Luis Montoto and accelerated directly toward him.
   Becker knew he should have felt a surge of panic. But he did not. He knew exactly where he was going. He swerved left on Menendez Pelayo and opened the throttle. The bike lurched across a small park and into the cobblestoned corridor of Mateus Gago-the narrow one-way street that led to the portal of Barrio Santa Cruz.
   Just a little farther, he thought.
   The taxi followed, thundering closer. It trailed Becker through the gateway of Santa Cruz, ripping off its side mirror on the narrow archway. Becker knew he had won. Santa Cruz was the oldest section of Seville. It had no roads between the buildings, only mazes of narrow walkways built in Roman times. They were only wide enough for pedestrians and the occasional Moped. Becker had once been lost for hours in the narrow caverns.
   As Becker accelerated down the final stretch of Mateus Gago, Seville's eleventh-century Gothic cathedral rose like a mountain before him. Directly beside it, the Giralda tower shot 419 feet skyward into the breaking dawn. This was Santa Cruz, home to the second largest cathedral in the world as well as Seville's oldest, most pious Catholic families.
   Becker sped across the stone square. There was a single shot, but it was too late. Becker and his motorcycle disappeared down a tiny passageway-Callita de la Virgen.

Chapter 88
   The headlight of Becker's Vespa threw stark shadows on the walls of the narrow passageways. He struggled with the gear shift and roared between the whitewashed buildings, giving the inhabitants of Santa Cruz an early wake-up call this Sunday morning.
   It had been less than thirty minutes since Becker's escape from the airport. He'd been on the run ever since, his mind grappling with endless questions: Who's trying to kill me? What's so special about this ring? Where is the NSA jet? He thought of Megan dead in the stall, and the nausea crept back.
   Becker had hoped to cut directly across the barrio and exit on the other side, but Santa Cruz was a bewildering labyrinth of alleyways. It was peppered with false starts and dead ends. Becker quickly became disoriented. He looked up for the tower of the Giralda to get his bearings, but the surrounding walls were so high he could see nothing except a thin slit of breaking dawn above him.
   Becker wondered where the man in wire-rim glasses was; he knew better than to think the assailant had given up. The killer probably was after him on foot. Becker struggled to maneuver his Vespa around tight corners. The sputtering of the engine echoed up and down the alleys. Becker knew he was an easy target in the silence of Santa Cruz. At this point, all he had in his favor was speed. Got to get to the other side!
   After a long series of turns and straightaways, Becker skidded into a three-way intersection marked Esquina de los Reyes. He knew he was in trouble-he had been there already. As he stood straddling the idling bike, trying to decide which way to turn, the engine sputtered to a stop. The gas gauge read vacio. As if on cue, a shadow appeared down an alley on his left.
   The human mind is the fastest computer in existence. In the next fraction of a second, Becker's mind registered the shape of the man's glasses, searched his memory for a match, found one, registered danger, and requested a decision. He got one. He dropped the useless bike and took off at a full sprint.
   Unfortunately for Becker, Hulohot was now on solid ground rather than in a lurching taxi. He calmly raised his weapon and fired.
   The bullet caught Becker in the side just as he stumbled around the corner out of range. He took five or six strides before the sensation began to register. At first it felt like a muscle pull, just above the hip. Then it turned to a warm tingling. When Becker saw the blood, he knew. There was no pain, no pain anywhere, just a headlong race through the winding maze of Santa Cruz.
 
***
 
   Hulohot dashed after his quarry. He had been tempted to hit Becker in the head, but he was a professional; he played the odds. Becker was a moving target, and aiming at his midsection provided the greatest margin of error both vertically and horizontally. The odds had paid off. Becker had shifted at the last instant, and rather than missing his head, Hulohot had caught a piece of his side. Although he knew the bullet had barely grazed Becker and would do no lasting damage, the shot had served its purpose. Contact had been made. The prey had been touched by death. It was a whole new game.
   Becker raced forward blindly. Turning. Winding. Staying out of the straightaways. The footsteps behind him seemed relentless. Becker's mind was blank. Blank to everything-where he was, who was chasing him-all that was left was instinct, self preservation, no pain, only fear, and raw energy.
   A shot exploded against the azulejo tile behind him. Shards of glass sprayed across the back of his neck. He stumbled left, into another alley. He heard himself call for help, but except for the sound of footsteps and strained breathing, the morning air remained deathly still.
   Becker's side was burning now. He feared he was leaving a crimson trail on the whitewashed walks. He searched everywhere for an open door, an open gate, any escape from the suffocating canyons. Nothing. The walkway narrowed.
   "Socorro!" Becker's voice was barely audible. "Help!"
   The walls grew closer on each side. The walkway curved. Becker searched for an intersection, a tributary, any way out. The passageway narrowed. Locked doors. Narrowing. Locked gates. The footsteps were closing. He was in a straightaway, and suddenly the alley began to slope upward. Steeper. Becker felt his legs straining. He was slowing.
   And then he was there.
   Like a freeway that had run out of funding, the alley just stopped. There was a high wall, a wooden bench, and nothing else. No escape. Becker looked up three stories to the top of the building and then spun and started back down the long alley, but he had only taken a few steps before he stopped short.
   At the foot of the inclined straightaway, a figure appeared. The man moved toward Becker with a measured determination. In his hand, a gun glinted in the early morning sun.
   Becker felt a sudden lucidity as he backed up toward the wall. The pain in his side suddenly registered. He touched the spot and looked down. There was blood smeared across his fingers and across Ensei Tankado's golden ring. He felt dizzy. He stared at the engraved band, puzzled. He'd forgotten he was wearing it. He'd forgotten why he had come to Seville. He looked up at the figure approaching. He looked down at the ring. Was this why Megan had died? Was this why he would die?
   The shadow advanced up the inclined passageway. Becker saw walls on all sides-a dead end behind him. A few gated entryways between them, but it was too late to call for help.
   Becker pressed his back against the dead end. Suddenly he could feel every piece of grit beneath the soles of his shoes, every bump in the stucco wall behind him. His mind was reeling backward, his childhood, his parents… Susan.
   Oh, God… Susan.
   For the first time since he was a kid, Becker prayed. He did not pray for deliverance from death; he did not believe in miracles. Instead he prayed that the woman he left behind would find strength, that she would know without a doubt that she had been loved. He closed his eyes. The memories came like a torrent. They were not memories of department meetings, university business, and the things that made up 90 percent of his life; they were memories of her. Simple memories: teaching her to use chopsticks, sailing on Cape Cod. I love you, he thought. Know that… forever.
   It was as if every defense, every facade, every insecure exaggeration of his life had been stripped away. He was standing naked-flesh and bones before God. I am a man, he thought. And in a moment of irony he thought, A man without wax. He stood, eyes closed, as the man in wire-rim glasses drew nearer. Somewhere nearby, a bell began to toll. Becker waited in darkness, for the sound that would end his life.

Chapter 89
   The morning sun was just breaking over the Seville rooftops and shining down into the canyons below. The bells atop the Giralda cried out for sunrise mass. This was the moment inhabitants had all been waiting for. Everywhere in the ancient barrio, gates opened and families poured into the alleyways. Like lifeblood through the veins of old Santa Cruz, they coursed toward the heart of their pueblo, toward the core of their history, toward their God, their shrine, their cathedral.
   Somewhere in Becker's mind, a bell was tolling. Am I dead? Almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes and squinted into the first rays of sunlight. He knew exactly where he was. He leveled his gaze and searched the alley for his assailant. But the man in wire-rims was not there. Instead, there were others. Spanish families, in their finest clothes, stepping from their gated portals into the alleyways, talking, laughing.
 
***
 
   At the bottom of the alley, hidden from Becker's view, Hulohot cursed in frustration. At first there had been only a single couple separating him from his quarry. Hulohot had been certain they would leave. But the sound of the bells kept reverberating down the alley, drawing others from their homes. A second couple, with children. They greeted each another. Talking, laughing, kissing three times on the cheek. Another group appeared, and Hulohot could no longer see his prey. Now, in a boiling rage, he raced into the quickly growing crowd. He had to get to David Becker!
   The killer fought his way toward the end of the alley. He found himself momentarily lost in a sea of bodies-coats and ties, black dresses, lace mantles over hunched women. They all seemed oblivious to Hulohot's presence; they strolled casually, all in black, shuffling, moving as one, blocking his way. Hulohot dug his way through the crowd and dashed up the alley into the dead end, his weapon raised. Then he let out a muted, inhuman scream. David Becker was gone.
 
***
 
   Becker stumbled and sidestepped his way through the crowd. Follow the crowd, he thought. They know the way out. He cut right at the intersection and the alley widened. Everywhere gates were opening and people were pouring out. The pealing of the bells grew louder.
   Becker's side was still burning, but he sensed the bleeding had stopped. He raced on. Somewhere behind him, closing fast, was a man with a gun.
   Becker ducked in and out of the groups of churchgoers and tried to keep his head down. It was not much farther. He could sense it. The crowd had thickened. The alley had widened. They were no longer in a little tributary, this was the main river. As he rounded a bend, Becker suddenly saw it, rising before them-the cathedral and Giralda tower.
   The bells were deafening, the reverberations trapped in the high-walled plaza. The crowds converged, everyone in black, pushing across the square toward the gaping doors of the Seville Cathedral. Becker tried to break away toward Mateus Gago, but he was trapped. He was shoulder to shoulder, heel to toe with the shoving throngs. The Spaniards had always had a different idea of closeness than the rest of the world. Becker was wedged between two heavyset women, both with their eyes closed, letting the crowd carry them. They mumbled prayers to themselves and clutched rosary beads in their fingers.
   As the crowd closed on the enormous stone structure, Becker tried to cut left again, but the current was stronger now. The anticipation, the pushing and shoving, the blind, mumbled prayers. He turned into the crowd, trying to fight backward against the eager throngs. It was impossible, like swimming upstream in a mile-deep river. He turned. The cathedral doors loomed before him-like the opening to some dark carnival ride he wished he hadn't taken. David Becker suddenly realized he was going to church.