Chapter 10
   "Ensei Tankado is dead?" Susan felt a wave of nausea. "You killed him? I thought you said-"
   "We didn't touch him," Strathmore assured her. "He died of a heart attack. COMINT phoned early this morning. Their computer flagged Tankado's name in a Seville police log through Interpol."
   "Heart attack?" Susan looked doubtful. "He was thirty years old."
   "Thirty-two," Strathmore corrected. "He had a congenital heart defect."
   "I'd never heard that."
   "Turned up in his NSA physical. Not something he bragged about."
   Susan was having trouble accepting the serendipity of the timing. "A defective heart could kill him-just like that?" It seemed too convenient.
   Strathmore shrugged. "Weak heart… combine it with the heat of Spain. Throw in the stress of blackmailing the NSA…."
   Susan was silent a moment. Even considering the conditions, she felt a pang of loss at the passing of such a brilliant fellow cryptographer. Strathmore's gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts.
   "The only silver lining on this whole fiasco is that Tankado was traveling alone. Chances are good his partner doesn't know yet he's dead. The Spanish authorities said they'd contain the information for as long as possible. We only got the call because COMINT was on the ball." Strathmore eyed Susan closely. "I've got to find the partner before he finds out Tankado's dead. That's why I called you in. I need your help."
   Susan was confused. It seemed to her that Ensei Tankado's timely demise had solved their entire problem. "Commander," she argued, "if the authorities are saying he died of a heart attack, we're off the hook; his partner will know the NSA is not responsible."
   "Not responsible?" Strathmore's eyes widened in disbelief. "Somebody blackmails the NSA and turns up dead a few days later-and we're not responsible? I'd bet big money Tankado's mystery friend won't see it that way. Whatever happened, we look guilty as hell. It could easily have been poison, a rigged autopsy, any number of things." Strathmore paused. "What was your first reaction when I told you Tankado was dead?"
   She frowned. "I thought the NSA had killed him."
   "Exactly. If the NSA can put five Rhyolite satellites in geosynchronous orbit over the Mideast, I think it's safe to assume we have the resources to pay off a few Spanish policemen." The commander had made his point.
   Susan exhaled. Ensei Tankado is dead. The NSA will be blamed. "Can we find his partner in time?"
   "I think so. We've got a good lead. Tankado made numerous public announcements that he was working with a partner. I think he hoped it would discourage software firms from doing him any harm or trying to steal his key. He threatened that if there was any foul play, his partner would publish the key, and all firms would suddenly find themselves in competition with free software."
   "Clever." Susan nodded.
   Strathmore went on. "A few times, in public, Tankado referred to his partner by name. He called him North Dakota."
   "North Dakota? Obviously an alias of some sort."
   "Yes, but as a precaution I ran an Internet inquiry using North Dakota as a search string. I didn't think I'd find anything, but I turned up an E-mail account." Strathmore paused. "Of course I assumed it wasn't the North Dakota we were looking for, but I searched the account just to be sure. Imagine my shock when I found the account was full of E-mail from Ensei Tankado." Strathmore raised his eyebrows. "And the messages were full of references to Digital Fortress and Tankado's plans to blackmail the NSA."
   Susan gave Strathmore a skeptical look. She was amazed the commander was letting himself be played with so easily. "Commander," she argued, "Tankado knows full well the NSA can snoop E-mail from the Internet; he would never use E-mail to send secret information. It's a trap. Ensei Tankado gave you North Dakota. He knew you'd run a search. Whatever information he's sending, he wanted you to find-it's a false trail."
   "Good instinct," Strathmore fired back, "except for a couple of things. I couldn't find anything under North Dakota, so I tweaked the search string. The account I found was under a variation-NDAKOTA."
   Susan shook her head. "Running permutations is standard procedure. Tankado knew you'd try variations until you hit something. NDAKOTA's far too easy an alteration."
   "Perhaps," Strathmore said, scribbling words on apiece of paper and handing it to Susan. "But look at this."
   Susan read the paper. She suddenly understood the Commander's thinking. On the paper was North Dakota's E-mail address.
   NDAKOTA@ara.anon.org It was the letters ARA in the address that had caught Susan's eye. ARA stood for American Remailers Anonymous, a well-known anonymous server.
   Anonymous servers were popular among Internet users who wanted to keep their identities secret. For a fee, these companies protected an E-mailer's privacy by acting as a middleman for electronic mail. It was like having a numbered post office box-a user could send and receive mail without ever revealing his true address or name. The company received E-mail addressed to aliases and then forwarded it to the client's real account. The remailing company was bound by contract never to reveal the identity or location of its real users.
   "It's not proof," Strathmore said. "But it's pretty suspicious."
   Susan nodded, suddenly more convinced. "So you're saying Tankado didn't care if anybody searched for North Dakota because his identity and location are protected by ARA."
   "Exactly."
   Susan schemed for a moment. "ARA services mainly U.S. accounts. You think North Dakota might be over here somewhere?"
   Strathmore shrugged. "Could be. With an American partner, Tankado could keep the two pass-keys separated geographically. Might be a smart move."
   Susan considered it. She doubted Tankado would have shared his pass-key with anyone except a very close friend, and as she recalled, Ensei Tankado didn't have many friends in the States.
   "North Dakota," she mused, her cryptological mind mulling over the possible meanings of the alias. "What does his E-mail to Tankado sound like?"
   "No idea. COMINT only caught Tankado's outbound. At this point all we have on North Dakota is an anonymous address."
   Susan thought a minute. "Any chance it's a decoy?"
   Strathmore raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
   "Tankado could be sending bogus E-mail to a dead account in hopes we'd snoop it. We'd think he's protected, and he'd never have to risk sharing his pass-key. He could be working alone."
   Strathmore chuckled, impressed. "Tricky idea, except for one thing. He's not using any of his usual home or business Internet accounts. He's been dropping by Doshisha University and logging on to their mainframe. Apparently he's got an account there that he's managed to keep secret. It's a very well-hidden account, and I found it only by chance." Strathmore paused. "So… if Tankado wanted us to snoop his mail, why would he use a secret account?"
   Susan contemplated the question. "Maybe he used a secret account so you wouldn't suspect a ploy? Maybe Tankado hid the account just deep enough that you'd stumble on to it and think you got lucky. It gives his E-mail credibility."
   Strathmore chuckled. "You should have been a field agent. The idea's a good one. Unfortunately, every letter Tankado sends gets a response. Tankado writes, his partner responds."
   Susan frowned. "Fair enough. So, you're saying North Dakota's for real."
   "Afraid so. And we've got to find him. And quietly. If he catches wind that we're onto him, it's all over."
   Susan now knew exactly why Strathmore had called her in. "Let me guess," she said. "You want me to snoop ARA's secure database and find North Dakota's real identity?"
   Strathmore gave her a tight smile. "Ms. Fletcher, you read my mind."
   When it came to discreet Internet searches, Susan Fletcher was the woman for the job. A year ago, a senior White House official had been receiving E-mail threats from someone with an anonymous E-mail address. The NSA had been asked to locate the individual. Although the NSA had the clout to demand the remailing company reveal the user's identity, it opted for a more subtle method-a "tracer."
   Susan had created, in effect, a directional beacon disguised as a piece of E-mail. She could send it to the user's phony address, and the remailing company, performing the duty for which it had been contracted, would forward it to the user's real address. Once there, the program would record its Internet location and send word back to the NSA. Then the program would disintegrate without a trace. From that day on, as far as the NSA was concerned, anonymous remailers were nothing more than a minor annoyance.
   "Can you find him?" Strathmore asked.
   "Sure. Why did you wait so long to call me?"
   "Actually"-he frowned-"I hadn't planned on calling you at all. I didn't want anyone else in the loop. I tried to send a copy of your tracer myself, but you wrote the damn thing in one of those new hybrid languages; I couldn't get it to work. It kept returning nonsensical data. I finally had to bite the bullet and bring you in."
   Susan chuckled. Strathmore was a brilliant cryptographic programmer, but his repertoire was limited primarily to algorithmic work; the nuts and bolts of less lofty "secular" programming often escaped him. What was more, Susan had written her tracer in a new, crossbreed programming language called LIMBO; it was understandable that Strathmore had encountered problems. "I'll take care of it." She smiled, turning to leave. "I'll be at my terminal."
   "Any idea on a time frame?"
   Susan paused. "Well… it depends on how efficiently ARA forwards their mail. If he's here in the States and uses something like AOL or CompuServe, I'll snoop his credit card and get a billing address within the hour. If he's with a university or corporation, it'll take a little longer." She smiled uneasily. "After that, the rest is up to you."
   Susan knew that "the rest" would be an NSA strike team, cutting power to the guy's house and crashing through his windows with stun guns. The team would probably think it was on a drug bust. Strathmore would undoubtedly stride through the rubble himself and locate the sixty-four-character pass-key. Then he would destroy it. Digital Fortress would languish forever on the Internet, locked for all eternity.
   "Send the tracer carefully," Strathmore urged. "If North Dakota sees we're onto him, he'll panic, and I'll never get a team there before he disappears with the key."
   "Hit and run," she assured. "The moment this thing finds his account, it'll dissolve. He'll never know we were there."
   The commander nodded tiredly. "Thanks."
   Susan gave him a soft smile. She was always amazed how even in the face of disaster Strathmore could muster a quiet calm. She was convinced it was this ability that had defined his career and lifted him to the upper echelons of power.
   As Susan headed for the door, she took a long look down at TRANSLTR. The existence of an unbreakable algorithm was a concept she was still struggling to grasp. She prayed they'd find North Dakota in time.
   "Make it quick," Strathmore called, "and you'll be in the Smoky Mountains by nightfall."
   Susan froze in her tracks. She knew she had never mentioned her trip to Strathmore. She wheeled. Is the NSA tapping my phone?
   Strathmore smiled guiltily. "David told me about your trip this morning. He said you'd be pretty ticked about postponing it."
   Susan was lost. "You talked to David this morning?"
   "Of course." Strathmore seemed puzzled by Susan's reaction. "I had to brief him."
   "Brief him?" she demanded. "For what?"
   "For his trip. I sent David to Spain."

Chapter 11
   Spain. I sent David to Spain. The commander's words stung.
   "David's in Spain?" Susan was incredulous. "You sent him to Spain?" Her tone turned angry. "Why?"
   Strathmore looked dumbfounded. He was apparently not accustomed to being yelled at, even by his head cryptographer. He gave Susan a confused look. She was flexed like a mother tiger defending her cub.
   "Susan," he said. "You spoke to him, didn't you? David did explain?"
   She was too shocked to speak. Spain? That's why David postponed our Stone Manor trip?
   "I sent a car for him this morning. He said he was going to call you before he left. I'm sorry. I thought-"
   "Why would you send David to Spain?"
   Strathmore paused and gave her an obvious look. "To get the other pass-key."
   "What other pass-key?"
   "Tankado's copy."
   Susan was lost. "What are you talking about?"
   Strathmore sighed. "Tankado surely would have had a copy of the pass-key on him when he died. I sure as hell didn't want it floating around the Seville morgue."
   "So you sent David Becker?" Susan was beyond shock. Nothing was making sense. "David doesn't even work for you!"
   Strathmore looked startled. No one ever spoke to the deputy director of the NSA that way. "Susan," he said, keeping his cool, "that's the point. I needed-"
   The tiger lashed out. "You've got twenty thousand employees at your command! What gives you the right to send my fiance?"
   "I needed a civilian courier, someone totally removed from government. If I went through regular channels and someone caught wind-"
   "And David Becker is the only civilian you know?"
   "No! David Becker is not the only civilian I know! But at six this morning, things were happening quickly! David speaks the language, he's smart, I trust him, and I thought I'd do him a favor!"
   "A favor?" Susan sputtered. "Sending him to Spain is a favor?"
   "Yes! I'm paying him ten thousand for one day's work. He'll pick up Tankado's belongings, and he'll fly home. That's a favor!"
   Susan fell silent. She understood. It was all about money.
   Her thoughts wheeled back five months to the night the president of Georgetown University had offered David a promotion to the language department chair. The president had warned him that his teaching hours would be cut back and that there would be increased paperwork, but there was also a substantial raise in salary. Susan had wanted to cry out David, don't do it! You'll be miserable. We have plenty of money-who cares which one of us earns it? But it was not her place. In the end, she stood by his decision to accept. As they fell asleep that night, Susan tried to be happy for him, but something inside kept telling her it would be a disaster. She'd been right-but she'd never counted on being so right.
   "You paid him ten thousand dollars?" she demanded. "That's a dirty trick!"
   Strathmore was fuming now. "Trick? It wasn't any goddamn trick! I didn't even tell him about the money. I asked him as a personal favor. He agreed to go."
   "Of course he agreed! You're my boss! You're the deputy director of the NSA! He couldn't say no!"
   "You're right," Strathmore snapped. "Which is why I called him. I didn't have the luxury of-"
   "Does the director know you sent a civilian?"
   "Susan," Strathmore said, his patience obviously wearing thin, "the director is not involved. He knows nothing about this."
   Susan stared at Strathmore in disbelief. It was as if she no longer knew the man she was talking to. He had sent her fiance-a teacher-on an NSA mission and then failed to notify the director about the biggest crisis in the history of the organization.
   "Leland Fontaine hasn't been notified?"
   Strathmore had reached the end of his rope. He exploded. "Susan, now listen here! I called you in here because I need an ally, not an inquiry! I've had one hell of morning. I downloaded Tankado's file last night and sat here by the output printer for hours praying TRANSLTR could break it. At dawn I swallowed my pride and dialed the director-and let me tell you, that was a conversation I was really looking forward to. Good morning, sir. I'm sorry to wake you. Why am I calling? I just found out TRANSLTR is obsolete. It's because of an algorithm my entire top-dollar Crypto team couldn't come close to writing!" Strathmore slammed his fist on the desk.
   Susan stood frozen. She didn't make a sound. In ten years, she had seen Strathmore lose his cool only a handful of times, and never once with her.
   Ten seconds later neither one of them had spoken. Finally Strathmore sat back down, and Susan could hear his breathing slowing to normal. When he finally spoke, his voice was eerily calm and controlled.
   "Unfortunately," Strathmore said quietly, "it turns out the director is in South America meeting with the President of Colombia. Because there's absolutely nothing he could do from down there, I had two options-request he cut his meeting short and return, or handle this myself." There was along silence. Strathmore finally looked up, and his tired eyes met Susan's. His expression softened immediately. "Susan, I'm sorry. I'm exhausted. This is a nightmare come true. I know you're upset about David. I didn't mean for you to find out this way. I thought you knew."
   Susan felt a wave of guilt. "I overreacted. I'm sorry. David is a good choice."
   Strathmore nodded absently. "He'll be back tonight."
   Susan thought about everything the commander was going through-the pressure of overseeing TRANSLTR, the endless hours and meetings. It was rumored his wife of thirty years was leaving him. Then on top of it, there was Digital Fortress-the biggest intelligence threat in the history of the NSA, and the poor guy was flying solo. No wonder he looked about to crack.
   "Considering the circumstances," Susan said, "I think you should probably call the director."
   Strathmore shook his head, a bead of sweat dripping on his desk. "I'm not about to compromise the director's safety or risk a leak by contacting him about a major crisis he can do nothing about."
   Susan knew he was right. Even in moments like these, Strathmore was clear-headed. "Have you considered calling the President?"
   Strathmore nodded. "Yes. I've decided against it."
   Susan had figured as much. Senior NSA officials had the right to handle verifiable intelligence emergencies without executive knowledge. The NSA was the only U.S. intelligence organization that enjoyed total immunity from federal accountability of any sort. Strathmore often availed himself of this right; he preferred to work his magic in isolation.
   "Commander," she argued, "this is too big to be handled alone. You've got to let somebody else in on it."
   "Susan, the existence of Digital Fortress has major implications for the future of this organization. I have no intention of informing the President behind the director's back. We have a crisis, and I'm handling it." He eyed her thoughtfully. "I am the deputy director of operations." A weary smile crept across his face. "And besides, I'm not alone. I've got Susan Fletcher on my team."
   In that instant, Susan realized what she respected so much about Trevor Strathmore. For ten years, through thick and thin, he had always led the way for her. Steadfast. Unwavering. It was his dedication that amazed her-his unshakable allegiance to his principles, his country, and his ideals. Come what may, Commander Trevor Strathmore was a guiding light in a world of impossible decisions.
   "You are on my team, aren't you?" he asked.
   Susan smiled. "Yes, sir, I am. One hundred percent."
   "Good. Now can we get back to work?"

Chapter 12
   David Becker had been to funerals and seen dead bodies before, but there was something particularly unnerving about this one. It was not an immaculately groomed corpse resting in a silk-lined coffin. This body had been stripped naked and dumped unceremoniously on an aluminum table. The eyes had not yet found their vacant, lifeless gaze. Instead they were twisted upward toward the ceiling in an eerie freeze-frame of terror and regret.
   "?Donde estan sus efectos?" Becker asked in fluent Castillian Spanish. "Where are his belongings?"
   "Alli," replied the yellow-toothed lieutenant. He pointed to a counter of clothing and other personal items.
   "?Es todo? Is that all?"
   "Si."
   Becker asked for a cardboard box. The lieutenant hurried off to find one.
   It was Saturday evening, and the Seville morgue was technically closed. The young lieutenant had let Becker in under direct orders from the head of the Seville Guardia-it seemed the visiting American had powerful friends.
   Becker eyed the pile of clothes. There was a passport, wallet, and glasses stuffed in one of the shoes. There was also a small duffel the Guardia had taken from the man's hotel. Becker's directions were clear: Touch nothing. Read nothing. Just bring it all back. Everything. Don't miss anything.
   Becker surveyed the pile and frowned. What could the NSA possibly want with this junk?
   The lieutenant returned with a small box, and Becker began putting the clothes inside.
   The officer poked at the cadaver's leg. "?Quienes? Who is he?"
   "No idea."
   "Looks Chinese."
   Japanese, Becker thought.
   "Poor bastard. Heart attack, huh?"
   Becker nodded absently. "That's what they told me."
   The lieutenant sighed and shook his head sympathetically. "The Seville sun can be cruel. Be careful out there tomorrow."
   "Thanks," Becker said. "But I'm headed home."
   The officer looked shocked. "You just got here!"
   "I know, but the guy paying my airfare is waiting for these items."
   The lieutenant looked offended in the way only a Spaniard can be offended. "You mean you're not going to experience Seville?"
   "I was here years ago. Beautiful city. I'd love to stay."
   "So you've seen La Giralda?"
   Becker nodded. He'd never actually climbed the ancient Moorish tower, but he'd seen it.
   "How about the Alcazar?"
   Becker nodded again, remembering the night he'd heard Pacode Lucia play guitar in the courtyard-Flamenco under the stars in a fifteenth-century fortress. He wished he'd known Susan back then.
   "And of course there's Christopher Columbus." The officer beamed. "He's buried in our cathedral."
   Becker looked up. "Really? I thought Columbus was buried in the Dominican Republic."
   "Hell no! Who starts these rumors? Columbus's body is here in Spain! I thought you said you went to college."
   Becker shrugged. "I must have missed that day."
   "The Spanish church is very proud to own his relics."
   The Spanish church. Becker knew here was only one church in Spain-the Roman Catholic church. Catholicism was bigger here than in Vatican City.
   "We don't, of course, have his entire body," the lieutenant added. "Solo el escroto."
   Becker stopped packing and stared at the lieutenant. Solo el escroto? He fought off a grin. "Just his scrotum?"
   The officer nodded proudly. "Yes. When the church obtains the remains of a great man, they saint him and spread the relics to different cathedrals so everyone can enjoy their splendor."
   "And you got the…" Becker stifled a laugh.
   "Oye! It's a pretty important part!" the officer defended. "It's not like we got a rib or a knuckle like those churches in Galicia! You should really stay and see it."
   Becker nodded politely. "Maybe I'll drop in on my way out of town."
   "Mala suerte." The officer sighed. "Bad luck. The cathedral's closed till sunrise mass."
   "Another time then." Becker smiled, hoisting the box. "I should probably get going. My flight's waiting. "He made a final glance around the room.
   "You want a ride to the airport?" the officer asked. "I've got a Moto Guzzi out front."
   "No thanks. I'll catch a cab." Becker had driven a motorcycle once in college and nearly killed himself on it. He had no intention of getting on one again, regardless of who was driving.
   "Whatever you say," the officer said, heading for the door. "I'll get the lights."
   Becker tucked the box under his arm. Have I got everything? He took a last look at the body on the table. The figure was stark naked, face up under fluorescent lights, clearly hiding nothing. Becker found his eyes drawn again to the strangely deformed hands. He gazed a minute, focusing more intently.
   The officer killed the lights, and the room went dark.
   "Hold on," Becker said. "Turn those back on."
   The lights flickered back on.
   Becker set his box on the floor walked over to the corpse. He leaned down and squinted at the man's left hand.
   The officer followed Becker's gaze. "Pretty ugly, huh?"
   But the deformity was not what had caught Becker's eye. He'd seen something else. He turned to the officer. "You're sure everything's in this box?"
   The officer nodded. "Yeah. That's it."
   Becker stood for moment with his hands on his hips. Then he picked up the box, carried it back over to the counter, and dumped it out. Carefully, piece by piece, he shook out the clothing. Then he emptied the shoes and tapped them as if trying to remove a pebble. After going over everything a second time, he stepped back and frowned.
   "Problem?" asked the lieutenant.
   "Yeah," Becker said. "We're missing something."

Chapter 13
   Tokugen Numataka stood in his plush, penthouse office and gazed out at the Tokyo skyline. His employees and competitors knew him a sakuta same-the deadly shark. For three decade she'd outguessed, outbid, and out advertised all the Japanese competition; now he was on the brink of becoming a giant in the world market as well.
   He was about to close the biggest deal of his life-a deal that would make his Numatech Corp. the Microsoft of the future. His blood was alive with the cool rush of adrenaline. Business was war-and war was exciting.
   Although Tokugen Numataka had been suspicious when the call had come three days ago, he now knew the truth. He was blessed with myouri-good fortune. The gods had chosen him.
 
***
 
   "I have a copy of the Digital Fortress pass-key," the American accent had said. "Would you like to buy it?"
   Numataka had almost laughed aloud. He knew it was a ploy. Numatech Corp. had bid generously for Ensei Tankado's new algorithm, and now one of Numatech's competitors was playing games, trying to find out the amount of the bid.
   "You have the pass-key?" Numataka feigned interest.
   "I do. My name is North Dakota."
   Numataka stifled a laugh. Everyone knew about North Dakota. Tankado had told the press about his secret partner. It had been a wise move on Tankado's part to have a partner; even in Japan, business practices had become dishonorable. Ensei Tankado was not safe. But one false move by an overeager firm, and the pass-key would be published; every software firm on the market would suffer.
   Numataka took a long pull on his Umami cigar and played along with the caller's pathetic charade. "So you're selling your pass-key? Interesting. How does Ensei Tankado feel about this?"
   "I have no allegiance to Mr. Tankado. Mr. Tankado was foolish to trust me. The pass-key is worth hundreds of times what he is paying me to handle it for him."
   "I'm sorry," Numataka said. "Your pass-key alone is worth nothing to me. When Tankado finds out what you've done, he will simply publish his copy, and the market will be flooded."
   "You will receive both pass-keys," the voice said. "Mr. Tankado's and mine."
   Numataka covered the receiver and laughed aloud. He couldn't help asking. "How much are you asking for both keys?"
   "Twenty million U.S. dollars."
   Twenty million was almost exactly what Numataka had bid. "Twenty million?" He gasped in mock horror. "That's outrageous!"
   "I've seen the algorithm. I assure you it's well worth it."
   No shit, thought Numataka. It's worth ten times that. "Unfortunately," he said, tiring of the game, "we both know Mr. Tankado would never stand for this. Think of the legal repercussions."
   The caller paused ominously. "What if Mr. Tankado were no longer a factor?"
   Numataka wanted to laugh, but he noted an odd determination in the voice. "If Tankado were no longer a factor?" Numataka considered it. "Then you and I would have a deal."
   "I'll be in touch," the voice said. The line went dead.

Chapter 14
   Becker gazed down at the cadaver. Even hours after death, the Asian's face radiated with a pinkish glow of a recent sunburn. The rest of him was a pale yellow-all except the small area of purplish bruising directly over his heart.
   Probably from the CPR, Becker mused. Too bad it didn't work.
   He went back to studying the cadaver's hands. They were like nothing Becker had ever seen. Each hand had only three digits, and they were twisted and askew. The disfigurement, however, was not what Becker was looking at.
   "Well, I'll be." The lieutenant grunted from across the room. "He's Japanese, not Chinese."
   Becker looked up. The officer was thumbing through the dead man's passport. "I'd rather you didn't look at that," Becker requested. Touch nothing. Read nothing.
   "Ensei Tankado… born January-"
   "Please," Becker said politely. "Put it back."
   The officer stared at the passport a moment longer and then tossed it back on the pile. "This guy's got a class-3 visa. He could have stayed here for years."
   Becker poked at the victim's hand with a pen. "Maybe he lived here."
   "Nope. Date of entry was last week."
   "Maybe he was moving here," Becker offered curtly.
   "Yeah, maybe. Crummy first week. Sunstroke and a heart attack. Poor bastard."
   Becker ignored the officer and studied the hand. "You're positive he wasn't wearing any jewelry when he died?"
   The officer looked up, startled. "Jewelry?"
   "Yeah. Take a look at this."
   The officer crossed the room.
   The skin on Tankado's left hand showed traces of sunburn, everywhere except a narrow band of flesh around the smallest finger.
   Becker pointed to the strip of pale flesh. "See how this isn't sunburned here? Looks like he was wearing a ring."
   The officer seemed surprised. "A ring?" His voice sounded suddenly perplexed. He studied the corpse's finger. Then he flushed sheepishly. "My God." He chuckled. "The story was true?"
   Becker had a sudden sinking feeling. "I beg your pardon?"
   The officer shook his head in disbelief. "I would have mentioned it before… but I thought the guy was nuts."
   Becker was not smiling. "What guy?"
   "The guy who phoned in the emergency. Some Canadian tourist. Kept talking about a ring. Babbling in the worst damn Spanish I ever heard."
   "He said Mr. Tankado was wearing a ring?"
   The officer nodded. He pulled out a Ducado cigarette, eyed the no fumar sign, and lit up anyway. "Guess I should have said something, but the guy sounded totally loco."
   Becker frowned. Strathmore's words echoed in his ears. I want everything Ensei Tankado had with him. Everything. Leave nothing. Not even a tiny scrap of paper.
   "Where is the ring now?" Becker asked.
   The officer took a puff. "Long story."
   Something told Becker this was not good news. "Tell me anyway."

Chapter 15
   Susan Fletcher sat at her computer terminal inside Node 3. Node 3 was the cryptographers' private, soundproofed chamber just off the main floor. A two-inch sheet of curved one-way glass gave the cryptographers a panorama of the Crypto floor while prohibiting anyone else from seeing inside.
   At the back of the expansive Node 3 chamber, twelve terminals sat in a perfect circle. The annular arrangement was intended to encourage intellectual exchange between cryptographers, to remind them they were part of a larger team-something like a code-breaker's Knights of the Round Table. Ironically, secrets were frowned on inside Node 3.
   Nicknamed the Playpen, Node 3 had none of the sterile feel of the rest of Crypto. It was designed to feel like home-plush carpets, high-tech sound system, fully stocked fridge, kitchenette, a Nerf basketball hoop. The NSA had a philosophy about Crypto: Don't drop a couple billion bucks into a code-breaking computer without enticing the best of the best to stick around and use it.
   Susan slipped out of her Salvatore Ferragamo flats and dug her stockinged toes into the thick pile carpet. Well-paid government employees were encouraged to refrain from lavish displays of personal wealth. It was usually no problem for Susan-she was perfectly happy with her modest duplex, Volvo sedan, and conservative wardrobe. But shoes were another matter. Even when Susan was in college, she'd budgeted for the best.
   You can't jump for the stars if your feet hurt, her aunt had once told her. And when you get where you're going, you darn well better look great!
   Susan allowed herself a luxurious stretch and then settled down to business. She pulled up her tracer and prepared to configure it. She glanced at the E-mail address Strathmore had given her.
   NDAKOTA@ara.anon.org
   The man calling himself North Dakota had an anonymous account, but Susan knew it would not remain anonymous for long. The tracer would pass through ARA, get forwarded to North Dakota, and then send information back containing the man's real Internet address.
   If all went well, it would locate North Dakota soon, and Strathmore could confiscate the pass-key. That would leave only David. When he found Tankado's copy, both pass-keys could be destroyed; Tankado's little time bomb would be harmless, a deadly explosive without a detonator.
   Susan double-checked the address on the sheet in front of her and entered the information in the correct data field. She chuckled that Strathmore had encountered difficulty sending the tracer himself. Apparently he'd sent it twice, both times receiving Tankado's address back rather than North Dakota's. It was a simple mistake, Susan thought; Strathmore had probably interchanged the data fields, and the tracer had searched for the wrong account.
   Susan finished configuring her tracer and queued it for release. Then she hit return. The computer beeped once.
   TRACER SENT.
   Now came the waiting game.
   Susan exhaled. She felt guilty for having been hard on the commander. If there was anyone qualified to handle this threat single-handed, it was Trevor Strathmore. He had an uncanny way of getting the best of all those who challenged him.
   Six months ago, when the EFF broke a story that an NSA submarine was snooping underwater telephone cables, Strathmore calmly leaked a conflicting story that the submarine was actually illegally burying toxic waste. The EFF and the oceanic environmentalists spent so much time bickering over which version was true, the media eventually tired of the story and moved on.
   Every move Strathmore made was meticulously planned. He depended heavily on his computer when devising and revising his plans. Like many NSA employees, Strathmore used NSA-developed software called BrainStorm-a risk-free way to carry out "what-if" scenarios in the safety of a computer.
   BrainStorm was an artificial intelligence experiment described by its developers as a Cause Effect Simulator. It originally had been intended for use in political campaigns as a way to create real-time models of a given "political environment." Fed by enormous amounts of data, the program created a relationary web-a hypothesized model of interaction between political variables, including current prominent figures, their staffs, their personal ties to each other, hot issues, individuals' motivations weighted by variables like sex, ethnicity, money, and power. The user could then enter any hypothetical event and BrainStorm would predict the event's effect on "the environment."
   Commander Strathmore worked religiously with BrainStorm-not for political purposes, but as a TFM device; Time-Line, Flowchart, Mapping software was a powerful tool for outlining complex strategies and predicting weaknesses. Susan suspected there were schemes hidden in Strathmore's computer that someday would change the world.
   Yes, Susan thought, I was too hard on him.
   Her thoughts were jarred by the hiss of the Node 3 doors.
   Strathmore burst in. "Susan," he said. "David just called. There's been a setback."

Chapter 16
   "A ring?" Susan looked doubtful. "Tankado's missing a ring?"
   "Yes. We're lucky David caught it. It was a real heads-up play."
   "But you're after a pass-key, not jewelry."
   "I know," Strathmore said, "but I think they might be one and the same."
   Susan looked lost.
   "It's a long story."
   She motioned to the tracer on her screen. "I'm not going anywhere."
   Strathmore sighed heavily and began pacing. "Apparently, there were witnesses to Tankado's death. According to the officer at the morgue, a Canadian tourist called the Guardia this morning in a panic-he said a Japanese man was having a heart attack in the park. When the officer arrived, he found Tankado dead and the Canadian there with him, so he radioed the paramedics. While the paramedics took Tankado's body to the morgue, the officer tried to get the Canadian to tell him what happened. All the old guy did was babble about some ring Tankado had given away right before he died."
   Susan eyed him skeptically. "Tankado gave away a ring?"
   "Yeah. Apparently he forced it in this old guy's face-like he was begging him to take it. Sounds like the old guy got a close look at it." Strathmore stopped pacing and turned. "He said the ring was engraved-with some sort of lettering."
   "Lettering?"
   "Yes, and according to him, it wasn't English." Strathmore raised his eyebrows expectantly.
   "Japanese?"
   Strathmore shook his head. "My first thought too. But get this-the Canadian complained that the letters didn't spell anything. Japanese characters could never be confused with our Roman lettering. He said the engraving looked like a cat had gotten loose on a typewriter."
   Susan laughed. "Commander, you don't really think-"
   Strathmore cut her off. "Susan, it's crystal clear. Tankado engraved the Digital Fortress pass-key on his ring. Gold is durable. Whether he's sleeping, showering, eating-the pass-key would always be with him, ready at a moment's notice for instant publication."
   Susan looked dubious. "On his finger? In the open like that?"
   "Why not? Spain isn't exactly the encryption capital of the world. Nobody would have any idea what the letters meant. Besides, if the key is a standard sixty-four-bit-even in broad daylight, nobody could possibly read and memorize all sixty-four characters."
   Susan looked perplexed. "And Tankado gave this ring to a total stranger moments before he died? Why?"
   Strathmore's gaze narrowed. "Why do you think?"
   It took Susan only a moment before it clicked. Her eyes widened.
   Strathmore nodded. "Tankado was trying to get rid of it. He thought we'd killed him. He felt himself dying and logically assumed we were responsible. The timing was too coincidental. He figured we'd gotten to him, poison or something, a slow-acting cardiac arrestor. He knew the only way we'd dare kill him is if we'd found North Dakota."
   Susan felt a chill. "Of course," she whispered. "Tankado thought that we neutralized his insurance policy so we could remove him too."
   It was all coming clear to Susan. The timing of the heart attack was so fortunate for the NSA that Tankado had assumed the NSA was responsible. His final instinct was revenge. Ensei gave away his ring as a last-ditch effort to publish the pass-key. Now, incredibly, some unsuspecting Canadian tourist held the key to the most powerful encryption algorithm in history.
   Susan sucked in a deep breath and asked the inevitable question. "So where is the Canadian now?"
   Strathmore frowned. "That's the problem."
   "The officer doesn't know where he is?"
   "No. The Canadian's story was so absurd that the officer figured he was either in shock or senile. So he put the old guy on the back of his motorcycle to take him back to his hotel. But the Canadian didn't know enough to hang on; he fell off before they'd gone three feet-cracked his head and broke his wrist."
   "What!" Susan choked.
   "The officer wanted to take him to a hospital, but the Canadian was furious-said he'd walk back to Canada before he'd get on the motorcycle again. So all the officer could do was walk him to a small public clinic near the park. He left him there to get checked out."
   Susan frowned. "I assume there's no need to ask where David is headed."

Chapter 17
   David Becker stepped out onto the scorching tile concourse of Plaza de Espana. Before him, El Ayunta miento-the ancient city council building-rose from the trees on a three-acre bed of blue and white azulejo tiles. Its Arabic spires and carved facade gave the impression it had been intended more as a palace than a public office. Despite its history of military coups, fires, and public hangings, most tourists visited because the local brochures plugged it as the English military headquarters in the film Lawrence of Arabia. It had been far cheaper for Columbia Pictures to film in Spain than in Egypt, and the Moorish influence on Seville's architecture was enough to convince moviegoers they were looking at Cairo.
   Becker reset his Seiko for local time: 9:10 p.m.-still afternoon by local standards; a proper Spaniard never ate dinner before sunset, and the lazy Andalusian sun seldom surrendered the skies before ten.
   Even in the early-evening heat, Becker found himself walking across the park at a brisk clip. Strathmore's tone had sounded a lot more urgent this time than it had that morning. His new orders left no room for misinterpretation: Find the Canadian, get the ring. Do whatever is necessary, just get that ring.
   Becker wondered what could possibly be so important about a ring with lettering all over it. Strathmore hadn't offered, and Becker hadn't asked. NSA, he thought. Never Say Anything.
 
***
 
   On the other side of Avenida Isabela Catolica, the clinic was clearly visible-the universal symbol of a red cross in a white circle painted on the roof. The Guardia officer had dropped the Canadian off hours ago. Broken wrist, bumped head-no doubt the patient had been treated and discharged by now. Becker just hoped the clinic had discharge information-a local hotel or phone number where the man could be reached. With a little luck, Becker figured he could find the Canadian, get the ring, and be on his way home without any more complications.
   Strathmore had told Becker, "Use the ten thousand cash to buy the ring if you have to. I'll reimburse you."
   "That's not necessary," Becker had replied. He'd intended to return the money anyway. He hadn't gone to Spain for money, he'd gone for Susan. Commander Trevor Strathmore was Susan's mentor and guardian. Susan owed him a lot; a one-day errand was the least Becker could do.
   Unfortunately, things this morning hadn't gone quite as Becker had planned. He'd hoped to call Susan from the plane and explain everything. He considered having the pilot radio Strathmore so he could pass along a message but was hesitant to involve the deputy director in his romantic problems.
   Three times Becker had tried to call Susan himself-first from a defunct cellular on board the jet, next from a pay phone at the airport, then again from the morgue. Susan was not in. David wondered where she could be. He'd gotten her answering machine but had not left a message; what he wanted to say was not a message for an answering machine.
   As he approached the road, he spotted a phone booth near the park entrance. He jogged over, snatched up the receiver, and used his phone card to place the call. There was a long pause as the number connected. Finally it began to ring.
   Come on. Be there.
   After five rings the call connected.
   "Hi. This is Susan Fletcher. Sorry I'm not in right now, but if you leave your name…"
   Becker listened to the message. Where is she? By now Susan would be panicked. He wondered if maybe she'd gone to Stone Manor without him. There was a beep.
   "Hi. It's David." He paused, unsure what to say. One of the things he hated about answering machines was that if you stopped to think, they cut you off. "Sorry I didn't call," he blurted just in time. He wondered if he should tell her what was going on. He thought better of it. "Call Commander Strathmore. He'll explain everything." Becker's heart was pounding. This is absurd, he thought. "I love you," he added quickly and hung up.
   Becker waited for some traffic to pass on Avenida Borbolla. He thought about how Susan undoubtedly would have assumed the worst; it was unlike him not to call when he'd promised to.
   Becker stepped out onto the four-lane boulevard. "In and out," he whispered to himself. "In and out." He was too preoccupied to see the man in wire-rim glasses watching from across the street.

Chapter 18
   Standing before the huge plate-glass window in his Tokyo skyrise, Numataka took a long pull on his cigar and smiled to himself. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had spoken to the American again, and if all was going according to the timetable, Ensei Tankado had been eliminated by now, and his copy of the pass-key had been confiscated.
   It was ironic, Numataka thought, that he himself would end up with Ensei Tankado's pass-key. Tokugen Numataka had met Tankado once many years ago. The young programmer had come to Numatech Corp. fresh out of college, searching for a job. Numataka had denied him. There was no question that Tankado was brilliant, but at the time there were other considerations. Although Japan was changing, Numataka had been trained in the old school; he lived by the code of menboko-honor and face. Imperfection was not to be tolerated. If he hired a cripple, he would bring shame on his company. He had disposed of Tankado's resume without a glance.
   Numataka checked his watch again. The American, North Dakota, should have called by now. Numataka felt a tinge of nervousness. He hoped nothing was wrong.
   If the pass-keys were as good as promised, they would unlock the most sought-after product of the computer age-a totally invulnerable digital encryption algorithm. Numataka could embed the algorithm in tamper-proof, spray-sealed VSLI chips and mass market them to world computer manufacturers, governments, industries, and perhaps, even the darker markets… the black market of world terrorists.
   Numataka smiled. It appeared, as usual, that he had found favor with the shichigosan-the seven deities of good luck. Numatech Corp. was about to control the only copy of Digital Fortress that would ever exist. Twenty million dollars was a lot of money-but considering the product, it was the steal of the century.

Chapter 19
   "What if someone else is looking for the ring?" Susan asked, suddenly nervous. "Could David be in danger?"
   Strathmore shook his head. "Nobody else knows the ring exists. That's why I sent David. I wanted to keep it that way. Curious spooks don't usually tail Spanish teachers."
   "He's a professor," Susan corrected, immediately regretting the clarification. Every now and again Susan got the feeling David wasn't good enough for the commander, that he thought somehow she could do better than a schoolteacher.
   "Commander," she said, moving on, "if you briefed David by car phone this morning, someone could have intercepted the-"
   "One-in-a-million shot," Strathmore interrupted, his tone reassuring. "Any eavesdropper had to be in the immediate vicinity and know exactly what to listen for." He put his hand on her shoulder. "I would never have sent David if I thought it was dangerous." He smiled. "Trust me. Any sign of trouble, and I'll send in the pros."
   Strathmore's words were punctuated by the sudden sound of someone pounding on the Node 3 glass. Susan and Strathmore turned.
   Sys-Sec Phil Chartrukian had his face pressed against the pane and was pounding fiercely, straining to see through. Whatever he was excitedly mouthing was not audible through the soundproofed glass. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
   "What the hell is Chartrukian doing here?" Strathmore growled. "He's not on duty today."
   "Looks like trouble," Susan said. "He probably saw the Run-Monitor."
   "Goddamn it!" the commander hissed. "I specifically called the scheduled Sys-Sec last night and told him not to come in!"
   Susan was not surprised. Canceling a Sys-Sec duty was irregular, but Strathmore undoubtedly had wanted privacy in the dome. The last thing he needed was some paranoid Sys-Sec blowing the lid off Digital Fortress.
   "We better abort TRANSLTR," Susan said. "We can reset the Run-Monitor and tell Phil he was seeing things."
   Strathmore appeared to consider it, then shook his head. "Not yet. TRANSLTR is fifteen hours into this attack. I want to run it a full twenty-four-just to be sure."
   This made sense to Susan. Digital Fortress was the first ever use of a rotating cleartext function. Maybe Tankado had overlooked something; maybe TRANSLTR would break it after twenty-four hours. Somehow Susan doubted it.
   "TRANSLTR keeps running," Strathmore resolved. "I need to know for sure this algorithm is untouchable."
   Chartrukian continued pounding on the pane.
   "Here goes nothing." Strathmore groaned. "Back me up."
   The commander took a deep breath and then strode to the sliding glass doors. The pressure plate on the floor activated, and the doors hissed open.
   Chartrukian practically fell into the room. "Commander, sir. I… I'm sorry to bother you, but the Run-Monitor… I ran a virus probe and-"
   "Phil, Phil, Phil," the commander gushed pleasantly as he put a reassuring hand on Chartrukian's shoulder. "Slow down. What seems to be the problem?"
   From the easygoing tone in Strathmore's voice, nobody would ever have guessed his world was falling in around him. He stepped aside and ushered Chartrukian into the sacred walls of Node 3. The Sys-Sec stepped over the threshold hesitantly, like a well-trained dog that knew better.
   From the puzzled look on Chartrukian's face, it was obvious he'd never seen the inside of this place. Whatever had been the source of his panic was momentarily forgotten. He surveyed the plush interior, the line of private terminals, the couches, the bookshelves, the soft lighting. When his gaze fell on the reigning queen of Crypto, Susan Fletcher, he quickly looked away. Susan intimidated the hell out of him. Her mind worked on a different plane. She was unsettlingly beautiful, and his words always seemed to get jumbled around her. Susan's unassuming air made it even worse.
   "What seems to be the problem, Phil?" Strathmore said, opening the refrigerator. "Drink?"
   "No, ah-no, thank you, sir." He seemed tongue-tied, not sure he was truly welcome. "Sir… I think there's a problem with TRANSLTR."
   Strathmore closed the refrigerator and looked at Chartrukian casually. "You mean the Run-Monitor?"
   Chartrukian looked shocked. "You mean you've seen it?"
   "Sure. It's running at about sixteen hours, if I'm not mistaken."
   Chartrukian seemed puzzled. "Yes, sir, sixteen hours. But that's not all, sir. I ran a virus probe, and it's turning up some pretty strange stuff."
   "Really?" Strathmore seemed unconcerned. "What kind of stuff?"
   Susan watched, impressed with the commander's performance.
   Chartrukian stumbled on. "TRANSLTR's processing something very advanced. The filters have never seen anything like it. I'm afraid TRANSLTR may have some sort of virus."
   "A virus?" Strathmore chuckled with just a hint of condescension. "Phil, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But Ms. Fletcher and I are running a new diagnostic, some very advanced stuff. I would have alerted you to it, but I wasn't aware you were on duty today."
   The Sys-Sec did his best to cover gracefully. "I switched with the new guy. I took his weekend shift."
   Strathmore's eyes narrowed. "That's odd. I spoke to him last night. I told him not to come in. He said nothing about switching shifts."
   Chartrukian felt a knot rise in his throat. There was a tense silence.
   "Well." Strathmore finally sighed. "Sounds like an unfortunate mix-up." He put a hand on the Sys-Sec's shoulder and led him toward the door. "The good news is you don't have to stay. Ms. Fletcher and I will be here all day. We'll hold the fort. You just enjoy your weekend."
   Chartrukian was hesitant. "Commander, I really think we should check the-"
   "Phil," Strathmore repeated a little more sternly, "TRANSLTR is fine. If your probe saw something strange, it's because we put it there. Now if you don't mind…" Strathmore trailed off, and the Sys-Sec understood. His time was up.
 
***
 
   "A diagnostic, my ass!" Chartrukian muttered as he fumed back into the Sys-Sec lab. "What kind of looping function keeps three million processors busy for sixteen hours?"
   Chartrukian wondered if he should call the Sys-Sec supervisor. Goddamn cryptographers, he thought. They just don't understand security!
   The oath Chartrukian had taken when he joined Sys-Sec began running through his head. He had sworn to use his expertise, training, and instinct to protect the NSA's multibillion-dollar investment.
   "Instinct," he said defiantly. It doesn't take a psychic to know this isn't any goddamn diagnostic!
   Defiantly, Chartrukian strode over to the terminal and fired up TRANSLTR's complete array of system assessment software.
   "Your baby's in trouble, Commander," he grumbled. "You don't trust instinct? I'll get you proof!"