Digital Fortress by Dan Brown
CLICK.
Becker swore under his breath and dropped the phone back into its cradle. Strike three. He was certain Cloucharde had said the German had hired the girl for the entire weekend.
* * *
Becker stepped out of the phone booth at the intersection of Calle Salado and Avenida Asuncion. Despite the traffic, the sweet scent of Seville oranges hung all around him. It was twilight-the most romantic hour. He thought of Susan. Strathmore's words invaded his mind: Find the ring. Becker flopped miserably on a bench and pondered his next move.
What move?
Chapter 25
Inside the Clinica de Salud Publica, visiting hours were over. The gymnasium lights had been turned out. Pierre Cloucharde was fast asleep. He did not see the figure hunched over him. The needle of a stolen syringe glinted in the dark. Then it disappeared into the IV tube just above Cloucharde's wrist. The hypodermic contained 30 cc of cleaning fluid stolen from a janitor's cart. With great force, a strong thumb rammed the plunger down and forced the bluish liquid into the old man's veins.
Cloucharde was awake only for a few seconds. He might have screamed in pain had a strong hand not been clamped across his mouth. He lay trapped on his cot, pinned beneath a seemingly immovable weight. He could feel the pocket of fire searing its way up his arm. There was an excruciating pain traveling through his armpit, his chest, and then, like a million shattering pieces of glass, it hit his brain. Cloucharde saw a brilliant flash of light… and then nothing.
The visitor released his grip and peered through the darkness at the name on the medical chart. Then he slipped silently out.
On the street, the man in wire-rim glasses reached to a tiny device attached to his belt. The rectangular pack was about the size of a credit card. It was a prototype of the new Monocle computer. Developed by the U.S. Navy to help technicians record battery voltages in cramped quarters on submarines, the miniature computer packed a cellular modem and the newest advances in micro technology. Its visual monitor was a transparent liquid crystal display, mounted in the left lens of a pair of eyeglasses. The Monocle reflected a whole new age in personal computing; the user could now look through his data and still interact with the world around him.
The Monocle's real coup, though, was not its miniature display but rather its data entry system. A user entered information via tiny contacts fixed to his fingertips; touching the contacts together in sequence mimicked a shorthand similar to court stenography. The computer would then translate the shorthand into English.
The killer pressed a tiny switch, and his glasses flickered to life. His hands inconspicuously at his sides, he began touching different fingertips together in rapid succession. A message appeared before his eyes.
SUBJECT: P. CLOUCHARDE-TERMINATED
He smiled. Transmitting notification of kills was part of his assignment. But including victim's names… that, to the man in the wire-rim glasses, was elegance. His fingers flashed again, and his cellular modem activated.
MESSAGE SENT
Chapter 26
Sitting on the bench across from the public clinic, Becker wondered what he was supposed to do now. His calls to the escort agencies had turned up nothing. The commander, uneasy about communication over unsecured public phones, had asked David not to call again until he had the ring. Becker considered going to the local police for help-maybe they had a record of a red-headed hooker-but Strathmore had given strict orders about that too. You are invisible. No one is to know this ring exists.
Becker wondered if he was supposed to wander the drugged-out district of Triana in search of this mystery woman. Or maybe he was supposed to check all the restaurants for an obese German. Everything seemed like a waste of time.
Strathmore's words kept coming back: It's a matter of national security… you must find that ring.
A voice in the back of Becker's head told him he'd missed something-something crucial-but for the life of him, he couldn't think what it would be. I'm a teacher, not a damned secret agent! He was beginning to wonder why Strathmore hadn't sent a professional.
Becker stood up and walked aimlessly down Calle Delicias pondering his options. The cobblestone sidewalk blurred beneath his gaze. Night was falling fast.
Dewdrop.
There was something about that absurd name that nagged at the back of his mind. Dewdrop. The slick voice of Senor Roldan at Escortes Belen was on endless loop in his head. "We only have two redheads… Two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocio… Rocio… Rocio…"
Becker stopped short. He suddenly knew. And I call myself a language specialist? He couldn't believe he'd missed it.
Rocio was one of the most popular girl's names in Spain. It carried all the right implications for a young Catholic girl-purity, virginity, natural beauty. The connotations of purity all stemmed from the name's literal meaning-Drop of Dew!
The old Canadian's voice rang in Becker's ears. Dewdrop. Rocio had translated her name to the only language she and her client had in common-English. Excited, Becker hurried off to find a phone.
Across the street, a man in wire-rim glasses followed just out of sight.
Chapter 27
On the Crypto floor, the shadows were growing long and faint. Overhead, the automatic lighting gradually increased to compensate. Susan was still at her terminal silently awaiting news from her tracer. It was taking longer than expected.
Her mind had been wandering-missing David and willing Greg Hale to go home. Although Hale hadn't budged, thankfully he'd been silent, engrossed in whatever he was doing at his terminal. Susan couldn't care less what Hale was doing, as long as he didn't access the Run-Monitor. He obviously hadn't-sixteen hours would have brought an audible yelp of disbelief.
Susan was sipping her third cup of tea when it finally happened-her terminal beeped once. Her pulse quickened. A flashing envelope icon appeared on her monitor announcing the arrival of E-mail. Susan shot a quick glance toward Hale. He was absorbed in his work. She held her breath and double-clicked the envelope.
"North Dakota," she whispered to herself. "Let's see who you are."
When the E-mail opened, it was a single line. Susan read it. And then she read it again.
DINNER AT ALFREDO'S? 8 PM?
Across the room, Hale muffled a chuckle. Susan checked the message header.
FROM: [email protected] Susan felt a surge of anger but fought it off. She deleted the message. "Very mature, Greg."
"They make a great carpaccio." Hale smiled. "What do you say? Afterward we could-"
"Forget it."
"Snob." Hale sighed and turned back to his terminal. That was strike eighty-nine with Susan Fletcher. The brilliant female cryptographer was a constant frustration to him. Hale had often fantasized about having sex with her-pinning her against TRANSLTR's curved hull and taking her right there against the warm black tile. But Susan would have nothing to do with him. In Hale's mind, what made things worse was that she was in love with some university teacher who slaved for hours on end for peanuts. It would be a pity for Susan to dilute her superior gene pool procreating with some geek-particularly when she could have Greg. We'd have perfect children, he thought.
"What are you working on?" Hale asked, trying a different approach.
Susan said nothing.
"Some team player you are. Sure I can't have a peek?" Hale stood and started moving around the circle of terminals toward her.
Susan sensed that Hale's curiosity had the potential to cause some serious problems today. She made a snap decision. "It's a diagnostic," she offered, falling back on the commander's lie.
Hale stopped in his tracks. "Diagnostic?" He sounded doubtful. "You're spending Saturday running a diagnostic instead of playing with the prof?"
"His name is David."
"Whatever."
Susan glared at him. "Haven't you got anything better to do?"
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Hale pouted.
"Actually, yes."
"Gee, Sue, I'm hurt."
Susan Fletcher's eyes narrowed. She hated being called Sue. She had nothing against the nickname, but Hale was the only one who'd ever used it.
"Why don't I help you?" Hale offered. He was suddenly circling toward her again. "I'm great with diagnostics. Besides, I'm dying to see what diagnostic could make the mighty Susan Fletcher come to work on a Saturday."
Susan felt a surge of adrenaline. She glanced down at the tracer on her screen. She knew she couldn't let Hale see it-he'd have too many questions. "I've got it covered, Greg," she said.
But Hale kept coming. As he circled toward her terminal, Susan knew she had to act fast. Hale was only a few yards away when she made her move. She stood to meet his towering frame, blocking his way. His cologne was overpowering.
She looked him straight in the eye. "I said no."
Hale cocked his head, apparently intrigued by her odd display of secrecy. He playfully stepped closer. Greg Hale was not ready for what happened next.
With unwavering cool, Susan pressed a single index finger against his rock-hard chest, stopping his forward motion.
Hale halted and stepped back in shock. Apparently Susan Fletcher was serious; she had never touched him before, ever. It wasn't quite what Hale had had in mind for their first contact, but it was a start. He gave her a long puzzled look and slowly returned to his terminal. As he sat back down, one thing became perfectly clear: The lovely Susan Fletcher was working on something important, and it sure as hell wasn't any diagnostic.
Chapter 28
Senor Roldan was sitting behind his desk at Escortes Belen congratulating himself for deftly sidestepping the Guardia's newest pathetic attempt to trap him. Having an officer fake a German accent and request a girl for the night-it was entrapment; what would they think of next?
The phone on his desk buzzed loudly. Senor Roldan scooped up the receiver with a confident flair. "Buenas noches, Escortes Belen."
"Buenas noches," a man's voice said in lightning-fast Spanish. He sounded nasal, like he had a slight cold. "Is this a hotel?"
"No, sir. What number are you dialing?" Senor Roldan was not going to fall for any more tricks this evening.
"34-62-10," the voice said.
Roldan frowned. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. He tried to place the accent-Burgos, maybe? "You've dialed the correct number," Roldan offered cautiously, "but this is an escort service."
There was a pause on the line. "Oh… I see. I'm sorry. Somebody wrote down this number; I thought it was a hotel. I'm visiting here, from Burgos. My apologies for disturbing you. Good nigh-"
"Espere! Wait!" Senor Roldan couldn't help himself; he was a salesman at heart. Was this a referral? A new client from up north? He wasn't going to let a little paranoia blow a potential sale.
"My friend," Roldan gushed into the phone. "I thought I recognized a bit of a Burgos accent on you. I myself am from Valencia. What brings you to Seville?"
"I sell jewelry. Majorica pearls."
"Majoricas, reeaally! You must travel quite a bit."
The voice coughed sickly. "Well, yes, I do."
"In Seville on business?" Roldan pressed. There was no way in hell this guy was Guardia; he was a customer with a capital C. "Let me guess-a friend gave you our number? He told you to give us a call. Am I right?"
The voice was obviously embarrassed. "Well, no, actually, it's nothing like that."
"Don't be shy, senor. We are an escort service, nothing to be ashamed of. Lovely girls, dinner dates, that is all. Who gave you our number? Perhaps he is a regular. I can give you a special rate."
The voice became flustered. "Ah… nobody actually gave me this number. I found it with a passport. I'm trying to find the owner."
Roldan's heart sank. This man was not a customer after all. "You found the number, you say?"
"Yes, I found a man's passport in the park today. Your number was on a scrap of paper inside. I thought perhaps it was the man's hotel; I was hoping to return his passport to him. My mistake. I'll just drop it off at a police station on my way out of-"
"Perdon," Roldan interrupted nervously. "Might I suggest a better idea?" Roldan prided himself on discretion, and visits to the Guardia had a way of making his customers ex-customers. "Consider this," he offered. "Because the man with the passport had our number, he is most likely a client here. Perhaps I could save you a trip to the police."
The voice hesitated. "I don't know. I should probably just-"
"Do not be too hasty, my friend. I'm ashamed to admit that the police here in Seville are not always as efficient as the police up north. It could be days before this man's passport is returned to him. If you tell me his name, I could see that he gets his passport immediately."
"Yes, well… I suppose there's no harm…" Some paper rustled, and the voice returned. "It's a German name. I can't quite pronounce it… Gusta… Gustafson?"
Roldan didn't recognize the name, but he had clients from all over the world. They never left their real names. "What does he look like-in his photo? Perhaps I will recognize him."
"Well…" the voice said. "His face is very, very fat."
Roldan immediately knew. He remembered the obese face well. It was the man with Rocio. It was odd, he thought, to have two calls about the German in one night.
"Mr. Gustafson?" Roldan forced a chuckle. "Of course! I know him well. If you bring me his passport, I'll see he gets it."
"I'm downtown without a car," the voice interrupted. "Maybe you could come to me?"
"Actually," Roldan hedged, "I can't leave the phone. But it's really not that far if you-"
"I'm sorry, it's late to be out wandering about. There's a Guardia precinct nearby. I'll drop it there, and when you see Mr. Gustafson, you can tell him where it is."
"No, wait!" Roldan cried. "The police really needn't be involved. You said you're downtown, right? Do you know the Alfonso XIII Hotel? It's one of the city's finest."
"Yes," the voice said. "I know the Alfonso XIII. It's nearby."
"Wonderful! Mr. Gustafson is a guest there tonight. He's probably there now."
The voice hesitated. "I see. Well, then… I suppose it would be no trouble."
"Superb! He's having dinner with one of our escorts in the hotel restaurant." Roldan knew they were probably in bed by now, but he needed to be careful not to offend the caller's refined sensibilities. "Just leave the passport with the concierge, his name is Manuel. Tell him I sent you. Ask him to give it to Rocio. Rocio is Mr. Gustafson's date for the evening. She will see that the passport is returned. You might slip your name and address inside-perhaps Mr. Gustafson will send you a little thank you."
"A fine idea. The Alfonso XIII. Very well, I'll take it over right now. Thank you for your help."
* * *
David Becker hung up the phone. "Alfonso XIII." He chuckled. "Just have to know how to ask."
Moments later a silent figure followed Becker up Calle Deliciasinto the softly settling Andalusian night.
Chapter 29
Still unnerved from her encounter with Hale, Susan gazed out through the one-way glass of Node 3. The Crypto floor was empty. Hale was silent again, engrossed. She wished he would leave.
She wondered if she should call Strathmore; the commander could simply kick Hale out-after all, it was Saturday. Susan knew, however, that if Hale got kicked out, he would immediately become suspicious. Once dismissed, he probably would start calling other cryptographers asking what they thought was going on. Susan decided it was better just to let Hale be. He would leave on his own soon enough.
An unbreakable algorithm. She sighed, her thoughts returning to Digital Fortress. It amazed her that an algorithm like that could really be created-then again, the proof was right there in front of her; TRANSLTR appeared useless against it.
Susan thought of Strathmore, nobly bearing the weight of this ordeal on his shoulders, doing what was necessary, staying cool in the face of disaster.
Susan sometimes saw David in Strathmore. They had
Susan relied on Strathmore too; he was her shelter in a world of power-hungry men, nurturing her career, protecting her, and, as he often joked, making all her dreams come true. There was some truth to that, she thought. As unintentional as it may have been, the commander was the one who'd made the call that brought David Becker to the NSA that fateful afternoon. Her mind reeled back to him, and her eyes fell instinctively to the pull-slide beside her keyboard. There was a small fax taped there.
The fax had been there for seven months. It was the only code Susan Fletcher had yet to break. It was from David. She read it for the five-hundredth time.
PLEASE ACCEPT THIS HUMBLE FAX
MY LOVE FOR YOU IS WITHOUT WAX.
He'd sent it to her after a minor tiff. She'd begged him for months to tell her what it meant, but he had refused. Without wax. It was David's revenge. Susan had taught David a lot about code-breaking, and to keep him on his toes, she had