DINNER AT ALFREDO’s? 8 PM?

Across the room, Hale muffled a chuckle. Susan checked the message header.

FROM: GHALE@crypto.nsa.gov 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 many of the same qualities‑tenacity, dedication, intelligence. Sometimes Susan thought Strathmore would be lost without her; the purity of her love for cryptography seemed to be an emotional lifeline to Strathmore, lifting him from the sea of churning politics and reminding him of his early days as a code‑breaker.

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.

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 584