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.

CHAPTER 90

The Crypto sirens were blaring. Strathmore had no idea how long Susan had been gone. He sat alone in the shadows, the drone of TRANSLTR calling to him. You’re a survivor . . . you’re a survivor . . .

Yes, he thought. I’m a survivor‑but survival is nothing without honor. I’d rather die than live in the shadow of disgrace.

And disgrace was what was waiting for him. He had kept information from the director. He had sent a virus into the nation’s most secure computer. There was no doubt he would be hung out to dry. His intentions had been patriotic, but nothing had gone as he’d planned. There had been death and treachery. There would be trials, accusations, public outrage. He had served his country with honor and integrity for so many years, he couldn’t allow it to end this way.

I’m a survivor, he thought.

You’re a liar, his own thoughts replied.

It was true. He was a liar. There were people he hadn’t been honest with. Susan Fletcher was one of them. There were so many things he hadn’t told her‑things he was now desperately ashamed of. For years she’d been his illusion, his living fantasy. He dreamed of her at night; he cried out for her in his sleep. He couldn’t help it. She was as brilliant and as beautiful as any woman he could imagine. His wife had tried to be patient, but when she finally met Susan, she immediately lost hope. Bev Strathmore never blamed her husband for his feelings. She tried to endure the pain as long as possible, but recently it had become too much. She’d told him their marriage was ending; another woman’s shadow was no place to spend the rest of her life.

Gradually the sirens lifted Strathmore from his daze. His analytical powers searched for any way out. His mind reluctantly confirmed what his heart had suspected. There was only one true escape, only one solution.

Strathmore gazed down at the keyboard and began typing. He didn’t bother to turn the monitor so he could see it. His fingers pecked out the words slowly and decisively.

Dearest friends, I am taking my life today . . .

This way, no one would ever wonder. There would be no questions. There would be no accusations. He would spell out for the world what had happened. Many had died . . . but there was still one life to take.

CHAPTER 91

In a cathedral, it is always night. The warmth of the day turns to damp coolness. The traffic is silenced behind thick granite walls. No number of candelabras can illuminate the vast darkness overhead. Shadows fall everywhere. There’s only the stained glass, high above, filtering the ugliness of the outside world into rays of muted reds and blues.

The Seville Cathedral, like all great cathedrals of Europe, is laid out in the shape of a cross. The sanctuary and altar are located just above the midpoint and open downward onto the main sanctuary. Wooden pews fill the vertical axis, a staggering 113 yards from the altar to the base of the cross. To the left and right of the altar, the transept of the cross houses confessionals, sacred tombs, and additional seating.

Becker found himself wedged in the middle of a long pew about halfway back. Overhead, in the dizzying empty space, a silver censer the size of a refrigerator swung enormous arcs on a frayed rope, leaving a trail of frankincense. The bells of the Giralda kept ringing, sending low rumbling shock waves through the stone. Becker lowered his gaze to the gilded wall behind the altar. He had a lot to be thankful for. He was breathing. He was alive. It was a miracle.

As the priest prepared to give the opening prayer, Becker checked his side. There was a red stain on his shirt, but the bleeding had stopped. The wound was small, more of a laceration than a puncture. Becker tucked his shirt back in and craned his neck. Behind him, the doors were cranking shut. He knew if he’d been followed, he was now trapped. The Seville Cathedral had a single functional entrance, a design popularized in the days when churches were used as fortresses, a safe haven against Moorish invasion. With a single entrance, there was only one door to barricade. Now the single entrance had another function‑it ensured all tourists entering the cathedral had purchased a ticket.

The twenty‑two‑foot‑high, gilded doors slammed with a decisive crash. Becker was sealed in the house of God. He closed his eyes and slid low in his pew. He was the only one in the building not dressed in black. Somewhere voices began to chant.

* * *

Toward the back of the church, a figure moved slowly up the side aisle, keeping to the shadows. He had slipped in just before the doors closed. He smiled to himself. The hunt was getting interesting. Becker is here . . . I can feel it. He moved methodically, one row at a time. Overhead the frankincense decanter swung its long, lazy arcs. A fine place to die, Hulohot thought. I hope I do as well.

* * *

Becker knelt on the cold cathedral floor and ducked his head out of sight. The man seated next to him glared down‑it was most irregular behavior in the house of God.

“Enfermo,” Becker apologized. “Sick.”

Becker knew he had to stay low. He had glimpsed a familiar silhouette moving up the side aisle. It’s him! He’s here!

Despite being in the middle of an enormous congregation, Becker feared he was an easy target‑his khaki blazer was like a roadside flare in the crowd of black. He considered removing it, but the white oxford shirt underneath was no better. Instead he huddled lower.

The man beside him frowned. “Turista.” He grunted. Then he whispered, half sarcastically, “Llamo un medico? Shall I call a doctor?”

Becker looked up at the old man’s mole‑ridden face. “No, gracias. Estoy bien.”

The man gave him an angry look. “Pues sientate! Then sit down!” There were scattered shushes around them, and the old man bit his tongue and faced front.

Becker closed his eyes and huddled lower, wondering how long the service would last. Becker, raised Protestant, had always had the impression Catholics were long‑winded. He prayed it was true‑as soon as the service ended, he would be forced to stand and let the others out. In khaki he was dead.

Becker knew he had no choice at the moment. He simply knelt there on the cold stone floor of the great cathedral. Eventually, the old man lost interest. The congregation was standing now, singing a hymn. Becker stayed down. His legs were starting to cramp. There was no room to stretch them. Patience, he thought. Patience. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It felt like only minutes later that Becker felt someone kicking him. He looked up. The mole‑faced man was standing to his right, waiting impatiently to leave the pew.

Becker panicked. He wants to leave already? I’ll have to stand up! Becker motioned for the man to step over him. The man could barely control his anger. He grabbed the tails of his black blazer, pulled them down in a huff, and leaned back to reveal the entire row of people waiting to leave. Becker looked left and saw that the woman who had been seated there was gone. The length of pew to his left was empty all the way to the center aisle.

The service can’t be over! It’s impossible! We just got here!

But when Becker saw the altar boy at the end of the row and the two single‑file lines moving up the center aisle toward the altar, he knew what was happening.

Communion. He groaned. The damn Spaniards do it first!

CHAPTER 92

Susan climbed down the ladder into the sublevels. Thick steam was now boiling up around TRANSLTR’s hull. The catwalks were wet with condensation. She almost fell, her flats providing very little traction. She wondered how much longer TRANSLTR would survive. The sirens continued their intermittent warning. The emergency lights spun in two‑second intervals. Three stories below, the aux generators shook in a taxed whine. Susan knew somewhere at the bottom in the foggy dimness there was a circuit breaker. She sensed time was running out.

* * *

Upstairs, Strathmore held the Beretta in his hand. He reread his note and laid it on the floor of the room where he was standing. What he was about to do was a cowardly act, there was no doubt. I’m a survivor, he thought. He thought of the virus in the NSA databank, he thought of David Becker in Spain, he thought of his plans for a back door. He had told so many lies. He was guilty of so much. He knew this was the only way to avoid accountability . . . the only way to avoid the shame. Carefully he aimed the gun. Then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Susan had only descended six flights when she heard the muffled shot. It was far off, barely audible over the generators. She had never heard a gunshot except on television, but she had no doubt what it was.

She stopped short, the sound resounding in her ears. In a wave of horror, she feared the worst. She pictured the commander’s dreams‑the back door in Digital Fortress, the incredible coup it would have been. She pictured the virus in the databank, his failing marriage, that eerie nod he had given her. Her footing faltered. She spun on the landing, grappling for the banister. Commander! No!

Susan was momentarily frozen, her mind blank. The echo of the gunshot seemed to drown out the chaos around her. Her mind told her to keep on going, but her legs refused. Commander! An instant later she found herself stumbling back up the stairs, entirely forgetting the danger around her.

She ran blindly, slipping on the slick metal. Above her the humidity fell like rain. When she reached the ladder and began climbing, she felt herself lifted from below by a tremendous surge of steam that practically jettisoned her through the trapdoor. She rolled onto the Crypto floor and felt the cool air wash over her. Her white blouse clung to her body, soaked through.

It was dark. Susan paused, trying to get her bearings. The sound of the gunshot was on endless loop in her head. Hot steam billowed up through the trapdoor like gases from a volcano about to explode.

Susan cursed herself for leaving the Beretta with Strathmore. She had left it with him, hadn’t she? Or was it in Node 3? As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she glanced toward the gaping hole in the Node 3 wall. The glow from the monitors was faint, but in the distance she could see Hale lying motionless on the floor where she’d left him. There was no sign of Strathmore. Terrified of what she’d find, she turned toward the commander’s office.

But as she began to move, something registered as strange. She backpedaled a few steps and peered into Node 3 again. In the soft light she could see Hale’s arm. It was not at his side. He was no longer tied like a mummy. His arm was up over his head. He was sprawled backward on the floor. Had he gotten free? There was no movement. Hale was deathly still.

Susan gazed up at Strathmore’s workstation perched high on the wall. “Commander?”

Silence.

Tentatively she moved toward Node 3. There was an object in Hale’s hand. It glimmered in the light of the monitors. Susan moved closer . . . closer. Suddenly she could see what Hale was holding. It was the Beretta.

Susan gasped. Following the arch of Hale’s arm, her eyes moved to his face. What she saw was grotesque. Half of Greg Hale’s head was soaked in blood. The dark stain had spread out across the carpet.

Oh my God! Susan staggered backward. It wasn’t the commander’s shot she’d heard, it was Hale’s!

As if in a trance, Susan moved toward the body. Apparently, Hale had managed to free himself. The printer cables were piled on the floor beside him. I must have left the gun on the couch, she thought. The blood flowing through the hole in his skull looked black in the bluish light.

On the floor beside Hale was a piece of paper. Susan went over unsteadily, and picked it up. It was a letter.

Dearest friends, I am taking my life today in penance for the following sins . . .

In utter disbelief, Susan stared at the suicide note in her hand. She read slowly. It was surreal‑so unlike Hale‑a laundry list of crimes. He was admitting to everything‑figuring out that NDAKOTA was a hoax, hiring a mercenary to kill Ensei Tankado and take the ring, pushing Phil Chartrukian, planning to sell Digital Fortress.

Susan reached the final line. She was not prepared for what she read. The letter’s final words delivered a numbing blow.

Above all, I’m truly sorry about David Becker. Forgive me, I was blinded by ambition.

As Susan stood trembling over Hale’s body, the sound of running footsteps approached behind her. In slow motion, she turned.

Strathmore appeared in the broken window, pale and out of breath. He stared down at Hale’s body in apparent shock.

“Oh my God!” he said. “What happened?”

CHAPTER 93

Communion.

Hulohot spotted Becker immediately. The khaki blazer was impossible to miss, particularly with the small bloodstain on one side. The jacket was moving up the center aisle in a sea of black. He must not know I’m here. Hulohot smiled. He’s a dead man.

He fanned the tiny metal contacts on his fingertips, eager to tell his American contact the good news. Soon, he thought, very soon.

Like a predator moving downwind, Hulohot moved to the back of the church. Then he began his approach‑straight up the center aisle. Hulohot was in no mood to track Becker through the crowds leaving the church. His quarry was trapped, a fortunate turn of events. Hulohot just needed a way to eliminate him quietly. His silencer, the best money could buy, emitted no more than a tiny spitting cough. That would be fine.

As Hulohot closed on the khaki blazer, he was unaware of the quiet murmurs coming from those he was passing. The congregation could understand this man’s excitement to receive the blessing of God, but nevertheless, there were strict rules of protocol‑two lines, single file.

Hulohot kept moving. He was closing quickly. He thumbed the revolver in his jacket pocket. The moment had arrived. David Becker had been exceptionally fortunate so far; there was no need to tempt fortune any further.

The khaki blazer was only ten people ahead, facing front, head down. Hulohot rehearsed the kill in his mind. The image was clear‑cutting in behind Becker, keeping the gun low and out of sight, firing two shots into Becker’s back, Becker slumping, Hulohot catching him and helping him into a pew like a concerned friend. Then Hulohot would move quickly to the back of the church as if going for help. In the confusion, he would disappear before anyone knew what had happened.

Five people. Four. Three.

Hulohot fingered the gun in his pocket, keeping it low. He would fire from hip level upward into Becker’s spine. That way the bullet would hit either the spine or a lung before finding the heart. Even if the bullet missed the heart, Becker would die. A punctured lung was fatal, maybe not in more medically advanced parts of the world, but in Spain, it was fatal.

Two people . . . one. And then Hulohot was there. Like a dancer performing a well‑rehearsed move, he turned to his right. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the khaki blazer, aimed the gun, and . . . fired. Two muffled spats.

Instantly the body was rigid. Then it was falling. Hulohot caught his victim under the armpits. In a single motion, he swung the body into a pew before any bloodstains spread across his back. Nearby, people turned. Hulohot paid no heed‑he would be gone in an instant.

He groped the man’s lifeless fingers for the ring. Nothing. He felt again. The fingers were bare. Hulohot spun the man around angrily. The horror was instantaneous. The face was not David Becker’s.

Rafael de la Maza, a banker from the suburbs of Seville, had died almost instantly. He was still clutching the 50,000 pesetas the strange American had paid him for a cheap black blazer.

CHAPTER 94

Midge Milken stood fuming at the water cooler near the entrance to the conference room. What the hell is Fontaine doing? She crumpled her paper cup and threw it forcefully into the trash can. There’s something happening in Crypto! I can feel it! Midge knew there was only one way to prove herself right. She’d go check out Crypto herself‑track down Jabba if need be. She spun on her heel and headed for the door.

Brinkerhoff appeared out of nowhere, blocking her way. “Where are you headed?”

“Home!” Midge lied.

Brinkerhoff refused to let her pass.

Midge glared. “Fontaine told you not to let me out, didn’t he?”

Brinkerhoff looked away.

“Chad, I’m telling you, there’s something happening in Crypto‑something big. I don’t know why Fontaine’s playing dumb, but TRANSLTR’s in trouble. Something is not right down there tonight!”

“Midge,” he soothed, walking past her toward the curtained conference room windows, “let’s let the director handle it.”

Midge’s gaze sharpened. “Do you have any idea what happens to TRANSLTR if the cooling system fails?”

Brinkerhoff shrugged and approached the window. “Power’s probably back on‑line by now anyway.” He pulled apart the curtains and looked.

“Still dark?” Midge asked.

But Brinkerhoff did not reply. He was spellbound. The scene below in the Crypto dome was unimaginable. The entire glass cupola was filled with spinning lights, flashing strobes, and swirling steam. Brinkerhoff stood transfixed, teetering light‑headed against the glass. Then, in a frenzy of panic, he raced out. “Director! Director!”

CHAPTER 95

The blood of Christ . . . the cup of salvation . . .

People gathered around the slumped body in the pew. Overhead, the frankincense swung its peaceful arcs. Hulohot wheeled wildly in the center aisle and scanned the church. He’s got to be here! He spun back toward the altar.

Thirty rows ahead, holy communion was proceeding uninterrupted. Padre Gustaphes Herrera, the head chalice bearer, glanced curiously at the quiet commotion in one of the center pews; he was not concerned. Sometimes some of the older folks were overcome by the holy spirit and passed out. A little air usually did the trick.

Meanwhile, Hulohot was searching frantically. Becker was nowhere in sight. A hundred or so people were kneeling at the long altar receiving communion. Hulohot wondered if Becker was one of them. He scanned their backs. He was prepared to shoot from fifty yards away and make a dash for it.

* * *

El cuerpo de Jesus, el pan del cielo.

The young priest serving Becker communion gave him a disapproving stare. He could understand the stranger’s eagerness to receive communion, but it was no excuse to cut inline.

Becker bowed his head and chewed the wafer as best he could. He sensed something was happening behind him, some sort of disturbance. He thought of the man from whom he’d bought the jacket and hoped he had listened to his warning and not taken Becker’s in exchange. He started to turn and look, but he feared the wire‑rim glasses would be staring back. He crouched in hopes his black jacket was covering the back of his khaki pants. It was not.

The chalice was coming quickly from his right. People were already swallowing their wine, crossing themselves, and standing to leave. Slow down! Becker was in no hurry to leave the altar. But with two thousand people waiting for communion and only eight priests serving, it was considered bad form to linger over a sip of wine.

* * *

The chalice was just to the right of Becker when Hulohot spotted the mismatched khaki pants. “Estas ya muerto,” he hissed softly. “You’re already dead.” Hulohot moved up the center aisle. The time for subtlety had passed. Two shots in the back, and he would grab the ring and run. The biggest taxi stand in Seville was half a block away on Mateus Gago. He reached for his weapon.

Adios, Senor Becker . . .

* * *

La sangre de Cristo, la copa de la salvacion.

The thick scent of red wine filled Becker’s nostrils as Padre Herrera lowered the hand‑polished, silver chalice. Little early for drinking, Becker thought as he leaned forward. But as the silver goblet dropped past eye level, there was a blur of movement. A figure, coming fast, his shape warped in the reflection of the cup.

Becker saw a flash of metal, a weapon being drawn. Instantly, unconsciously, like a runner from a starting block at the sound of a gun, Becker was vaulting forward. The priest fell back in horror as the chalice sailed through the air, and red wine rained down on white marble. Priests and altar boys went scattering as Becker dove over the communion rail. A silencer coughed out a single shot. Becker landed hard, and the shot exploded in the marble floor beside him. An instant later he was tumbling down three granite stairs into the valle, a narrow passageway through which the clergy entered, allowing them to rise onto the altar as if by divine grace.

At the bottom of the steps, he stumbled and dove. Becker felt himself sliding out of control across the slick polished stone. A dagger of pain shot though his gut as he landed on his side. A moment later he was stumbling through a curtained entryway and down a set of wooden stairs.

Pain. Becker was running, through a dressing room. It was dark. There were screams from the altar. Loud footsteps in pursuit. Becker burst through a set of double doors and stumbled into some sort of study. It was dark, furnished with rich Orientals and polished mahogany. On the far wall was a life‑size crucifix. Becker staggered to a stop. Dead end. He was at the tip of the cross. He could hear Hulohot closing fast. Becker stared at the crucifix and cursed his bad luck.

“Goddamn it!” he screamed.

There was the sudden sound of breaking glass to Becker’s left. He wheeled. A man in red robes gasped and turned to eye Becker in horror. Like a cat caught with a canary, the holy man wiped his mouth and tried to hide the broken bottle of holy communion wine at his feet.

“Salida!” Becker demanded. “Salida!” Let me out!

Cardinal Guerra reacted on instinct. A demon had entered his sacred chambers screaming for deliverance from the house of God. Guerra would grant him that wish‑immediately. The demon had entered at a most inopportune moment.

Pale, the cardinal pointed to a curtain on the wall to his left. Hidden behind the curtain was a door. He’d installed it three years ago. It led directly to the courtyard outside. The cardinal had grown tired of exiting the church through the front door like a common sinner.

CHAPTER 96

Susan was wet and shivering, huddled on the Node 3 couch. Strathmore draped his suit coat over her shoulders. Hale’s body lay a few yards away. The sirens blared. Like ice thawing on a frozen pond, TRANSLTR’s hull let out a sharp crack.

“I’m going down to kill power,” Strathmore said, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Susan stared absently after the commander as he dashed across the Crypto floor. He was no longer the catatonic man she’d seen ten minutes before. Commander Trevor Strathmore was back‑logical, controlled, doing whatever was necessary to get the job done.

The final words of Hale’s suicide note ran through her mind like a train out of control: Above all, I’m truly sorry about David Becker. Forgive me, I was blinded by ambition.

Susan Fletcher’s nightmare had just been confirmed. David was in danger . . . or worse. Maybe it was already too late. I’m truly sorry about David Becker.

She stared at the note. Hale hadn’t even signed it‑he’d just typed his name at the bottom: Greg Hale. He’d poured out his guts, pressed print, and then shot himself‑just like that. Hale had sworn he’d never go back to prison; he’d kept his vow‑he’d chosen death instead.

“David . . .” She sobbed. David!

* * *

At that moment, ten feet below the Crypto floor, Commander Strathmore stepped off the ladder onto the first landing. It had been a day of fiascoes. What had started out as a patriotic mission had swerved wildly out of control. The commander had been forced to make impossible decisions, commit horrific acts‑acts he’d never imagined himself capable of.

It was a solution! It was the only damn solution!

There was duty to think of: country and honor. Strathmore knew there was still time. He could shut down TRANSLTR. He could use the ring to save the country’s most valuable databank. Yes, he thought, there was still time.

Strathmore looked out over the disaster around him. The overhead sprinklers were on. TRANSLTR was groaning. The sirens blared. The spinning lights looked like helicopters closing in through dense fog. With every step, all he could see was Greg Hale‑the young cryptographer gazing up, his eyes pleading, and then, the shot. Hale’s death was for country . . . for honor. The NSA could not afford another scandal. Strathmore needed a scapegoat. Besides, Greg Hale was a disaster waiting to happen.

* * *

Strathmore’s thoughts were jarred free by the sound of his cellular. It was barely audible over the sirens and hissing fumes. He snatched it off his belt without breaking stride.

“Speak.”

“Where’s my pass‑key?” a familiar voice demanded.

“Who is this?” Strathmore yelled over the din.

“It’s Numataka!” the angry voice bellowed back. “You promised me a pass‑key!”

Strathmore kept moving.

“I want Digital Fortress!” Numataka hissed.

“There is no Digital Fortress!” Strathmore shot back.

“What?”

“There is no unbreakable algorithm!”

“Of course there is! I’ve seen it on the Internet! My people have been trying to unlock it for days!”

“It’s an encrypted virus, you fool‑and you’re damn lucky you can’t open it!”

“But—”

“The deal is off!” Strathmore yelled. “I’m not North Dakota. There is no North Dakota! Forget I ever mentioned it!” He clamped the cellular shut, turned off the ringer, and rammed it back on his belt. There would be no more interruptions.

* * *

Twelve thousand miles away, Tokugen Numataka stood stunned at his plate‑glass window. His Umami cigar hung limply in his mouth. The deal of his lifetime had just disintegrated before his eyes.

* * *

Strathmore kept descending. The deal is off. Numatech Corp. would never get the unbreakable algorithm . . . and the NSA would never get its back door.

Strathmore’s dream had been a long time in the planning‑he’d chosen Numatech carefully. Numatech was wealthy, a likely winner of the pass‑key auction. No one would think twice if it ended up with the key. Conveniently there was no company less likely to be suspected of consorting with the U.S. government. Tokugen Numataka was old‑world Japan‑death before dishonor. He hated Americans. He hated their food, he hated their customs, and most of all, he hated their grip on the world’s software market.

* * *

Strathmore’s vision had been bold‑a world encryption standard with a back door for the NSA. He’d longed to share his dream with Susan, to carry it out with her by his side, but he knew he could not. Even though Ensei Tankado’s death would save thousands of lives in the future, Susan would never have agreed; she was a pacifist. I’m a pacifist too, thought Strathmore, I just don’t have the luxury of acting like one.

There had never been any doubt in the commander’s mind who would kill Tankado. Tankado was in Spain‑and Spain meant Hulohot. The forty‑two‑year‑old Portuguese mercenary was one of the commander’s favorite pros. He’d been working for the NSA for years. Born and raised in Lisbon, Hulohot had done work for the NSA all over Europe. Never once had his kills been traced back to Fort Meade. The only catch was that Hulohot was deaf; telephone communication was impossible. Recently Strathmore had arranged for Hulohot to receive the NSA’s newest toy, the Monocle computer. Strathmore bought himself a SkyPager and programmed it to the same frequency. From that moment on, his communication with Hulohot was not only instantaneous but also entirely untraceable.

The first message Strathmore had sent Hulohot left little room for misunderstanding. They had already discussed it. Kill Ensei Tankado. Obtain pass‑key.

Strathmore never asked how Hulohot worked his magic, but somehow he had done it again. Ensei Tankado was dead, and the authorities were convinced it was a heart attack. A textbook kill‑except for one thing. Hulohot had misjudged the location. Apparently Tankado dying in a public place was a necessary part of the illusion. But unexpectedly, the public had appeared too soon. Hulohot was forced into hiding before he could search the body for the pass‑key. When the dust settled, Tankado’s body was in the hands of Seville’s coroner.

Strathmore was furious. Hulohot had blown a mission for the first time ever‑and he’d picked an inauspicious time to do it. Getting Tankado’s pass‑key was critical, but Strathmore knew that sending a deaf assassin into the Seville morgue was a suicide mission. He had pondered his other options. A second scheme began to materialize. Strathmore suddenly saw a chance to win on two fronts‑a chance to realize two dreams instead of just one. At six‑thirty that morning, he had called David Becker.

CHAPTER 97

Fontaine burst into the conference room at a full sprint. Brinkerhoff and Midge were close at his heels.

“Look!” Midge choked, motioning frantically to the window.

Fontaine looked out the window at the strobes in the Crypto dome. His eyes went wide. This was definitely not part of the plan.

Brinkerhoff sputtered. “It’s a goddamn disco down there!”

Fontaine stared out, trying to make sense of it. In the few years TRANSLTR had been operational, it had never done this. It’s overheating, he thought. He wondered why the hell Strathmore hadn’t shut it down. It took Fontaine only an instant to make up his mind.

He snatched an interoffice phone off the conference table and punched the extension for Crypto. The receiver began beeping as if the extension were out of order.

Fontaine slammed down the receiver. “Damn it!” He immediately picked up again and dialed Strathmore’s private cellular line. This time the line began to ring.

Six rings went by.

Brinkerhoff and Midge watched as Fontaine paced the length of his phone cable like a tiger on a chain. After a full minute, Fontaine was crimson with rage.

He slammed down the receiver again. “Unbelievable!” he bellowed. “Crypto’s about to blow, and Strathmore won’t answer his goddamn phone!”

CHAPTER 98

Hulohot burst out of Cardinal Guerra’s chambers into the blinding morning sun. He shielded his eyes and cursed. He was standing outside the cathedral in a small patio, bordered by a high stone wall, the west face of the Giralda tower, and two wrought‑iron fences. The gate was open. Outside the gate was the square. It was empty. The walls of Santa Cruz were in the distance. There was no way Becker could have made it so far so quickly. Hulohot turned and scanned the patio. He’s in here. He must be!

The patio, Jardin de los Naranjos, was famous in Seville for its twenty blossoming orange trees. The trees were renowned in Seville as the birthplace of English marmalade. An eighteenth‑century English trader had purchased three dozen bushels of oranges from the Seville church and taken them back to London only to find the fruit inedibly bitter. He tried to make jam from the rinds and ended up having to add pounds of sugar just to make it palatable. Orange marmalade had been born.

Hulohot moved forward through the grove, gun leveled. The trees were old, and the foliage had moved high on their trunks. Their lowest branches were unreachable, and the thin bases provided no cover. Hulohot quickly saw the patio was empty. He looked straight up. The Giralda.

The entrance to the Giralda’s spiral staircase was cordoned off by a rope and small wooden sign. The rope hung motionless. Hulohot’s eyes climbed the 419‑foot tower and immediately knew it was a ridiculous thought. There was no way Becker would have been that stupid. The single staircase wound straight up to a square stone cubicle. There were narrow slits in the wall for viewing, but there was no way out.

* * *

David Becker climbed the last of the steep stairs and staggered breathless into a tiny stone cubicle. There were high walls all around him and narrow slits in the perimeter. No exit.

Fate had done Becker no favors this morning. As he’d dashed from the cathedral into the open courtyard, his jacket had caught on the door. The fabric had stopped him mid stride and swung him hard left before tearing. Becker was suddenly stumbling off balance into the blinding sun. When he’d looked up, he was heading straight for a staircase. He’d jumped over the rope and dashed up. By the time he realized where it led, it was too late.

Now he stood in the confined cell and caught his breath. His side burned. Narrow slats of morning sun streamed through the openings in the wall. He looked out. The man in the wire‑rim glasses was far below, his back to Becker, staring out at the plaza. Becker shifted his body in front of the crack for a better view. Cross the plaza, he willed him.

* * *

The shadow of the Giralda lay across the square like a giant felled sequoia. Hulohot stared the length of it. At the far end, three slits of light cut through the tower’s viewing apertures and fell in crisp rectangles on the cobblestone below. One of those rectangles had just been blotted out by the shadow of a man. Without so much as a glance toward the top of the tower, Hulohot spun and dashed toward the Giralda stairs.

CHAPTER 99

Fontaine pounded his fist into his hand. He paced the conference room and stared out at the spinning Crypto lights. “Abort! Goddamn it! Abort!”

Midge appeared in the doorway waving a fresh readout. “Director! Strathmore can’t abort!”

“What!” Brinkerhoff and Fontaine gasped in unison.

“He tried, sir!” Midge held up the report. “Four times already! TRANSLTR’s locked in some sort of endless loop.”

Fontaine spun and stared back out the window. “Jesus Christ!”

The conference room phone rang sharply. The director threw up his arms. “It’s got to be Strathmore! About goddamn time!”

Brinkerhoff scooped up the phone. “Director’s office.”

Fontaine held out his hand for the receiver.

Brinkerhoff looked uneasy and turned to Midge. “It’s Jabba. He wants you.”

The director swung his gaze over to Midge, who was already crossing the room. She activated the speaker phone. “Go ahead, Jabba.”

Jabba’s metallic voice boomed into the room. “Midge, I’m in the main databank. We’re showing some strange stuff down here. I was wondering if—”

“Dammit, Jabba!” Midge came unglued. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“It could be nothing,” Jabba hedged, “but—”

“Stop saying that! It’s not nothing! Whatever’s going on down there, take it seriously, very seriously. My data isn’t fried‑never has been, never will.” She started to hang up and then added, “Oh, and Jabba? Just so there aren’t any surprises . . . Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet.”

CHAPTER 100

Hulohot took the Giralda stairs three at a time. The only light in the spiral passage was from small open‑air windows every 180 degrees. He’s trapped! David Becker will die! Hulohot circled upward, gun drawn. He kept to the outside wall in case Becker decided to attack from above. The iron candle poles on each landing would make good weapons if Becker decided to use one. But by staying wide, Hulohot would be able to spot him in time. Hulohot’s gun had a range significantly longer than a five‑foot candle pole.

Hulohot moved quickly but carefully. The stairs were steep; tourists had died here. This was not America‑no safety signs, no handrails, no insurance disclaimers. This was Spain. If you were stupid enough to fall, it was your own damn fault, regardless of who built the stairs.

Hulohot paused at one of the shoulder‑high openings and glanced out. He was on the north face and, from the looks of things, about halfway up.

The opening to the viewing platform was visible around the corner. The staircase to the top was empty. David Becker had not challenged him. Hulohot realized maybe Becker had not seen him enter the tower. That meant the element of surprise was on Hulohot’s side as well‑not that he’d need it. Hulohot held all the cards. Even the layout of the tower was in his favor; the staircase met the viewing platform in the southwest corner‑Hulohot would have a clear line of fire to every point of the cell with no possibility that Becker could get behind him. And to top things off, Hulohot would be moving out of the dark into the light. A killing box, he mused.

Hulohot measured the distance to the doorway. Seven steps. He practiced the kill in his mind. If he stayed right as he approached the opening, he would be able to see the leftmost corner of the platform before he reached it. If Becker was there, Hulohot would fire. If not, he would shift inside and enter moving east, facing the right corner, the only place remaining that Becker could be. He smiled.

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 617