Jesus, Becker thought. Intravenous drugs. Who would have guessed?
“Get out!” she yelled. “Just get out!”
Becker momentarily forgot all about the ring, the NSA, all of it. His heart went out to the young girl. Her parents had probably sent her over here with some prep school study program and a VISA card‑and she’d ended up all alone in a bathroom in the middle of the night doing drugs.
“Are you okay?” he asked, backing toward the door.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was haughty. “You can leave now!”
Becker turned to go. He shot her forearm a last sad glance. There’s nothing you can do, David. Leave it alone.
“Now!” she hollered.
Becker nodded. As he left he gave her a sad smile. “Be careful.”
CHAPTER 67
“Susan?” Hale panted, his face in hers.
He was sitting, one leg on either side of her, his full weight on her midsection. His tailbone ground painfully into her pubis through the thin fabric of her skirt. His nose was dripping blood all over her. She tasted vomit in the back of her throat. His hands were at her chest.
She felt nothing. Is he touching me? It took a moment for Susan to realize Hale was buttoning her top button and covering her up.
“Susan.” Hale gasped, breathless. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”
Susan was in a daze. Nothing made sense.
“Susan, you’ve got to help me! Strathmore killed Chartrukian! I saw it!”
It took a moment for the words to register. Strathmore killed Chartrukian? Hale obviously had no idea Susan had seen him downstairs.
“Strathmore knows I saw him!” Hale spat. “He’ll kill me too!”
Had Susan not been breathless with fear, she would have laughed in his face. She recognized the divide‑and‑conquer mentality of an ex‑Marine. Invent lies‑pit your enemies against each other.
“It’s true!” he yelled. “We’ve got to call for help! I think we’re both in danger!”
She did not believe a word he said.
Hale’s muscular legs were cramping, and he rolled up on his haunches to shift his weight slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance.
As Hale’s body rose, Susan felt the circulation surge back into her legs. Before she knew what had happened, a reflex instinct jerked her left leg back hard into Hale’s crotch. She felt her kneecap crush the soft sac of tissue between his legs.
Hale whimpered in agony and instantly went limp. He rolled onto his side, clutching himself. Susan twisted out from under his deadweight. She staggered toward the door, knowing she’d never be strong enough to get out.
Making a split‑second decision, Susan positioned herself behind the long maple meeting table and dug her feet into the carpet. Mercifully the table had casters. She strode with all her might toward the arched glass wall, pushing the table before her. The casters were good, and the table rolled well. Halfway across Node 3, she was at a full sprint.
Five feet from the glass wall, Susan heaved and let go. She leapt to one side and covered her eyes. After a sickening crack, the wall exploded in a shower of glass. The sounds of Crypto rushed into Node 3 for the first time since its construction.
Susan looked up. Through the jagged hole, she could see the table. It was still rolling. It spun wide circles out across the Crypto floor and eventually disappeared into the darkness.
Susan rammed her mangled Ferragamo’s back on her feet, shot a last glance at the still‑writhing Greg Hale, and dashed across the sea of broken glass out onto the Crypto floor.
CHAPTER 68
“Now wasn’t that easy?” Midge said with a sneer as Brinkerhoff handed over the key to Fontaine’s office.
Brinkerhoff looked beaten.
“I’ll erase it before I go,” Midge promised. “Unless you and your wife want it for your private collection.”
“Just get the damned printout,” he snapped. “And then get out!”
“Si, senor,” Midge cackled in a thick Puerto Rican accent. She winked and headed across the suite to Fontaine’s double doors.
Leland Fontaine’s private office looked nothing like the rest of the directorial suite. There were no paintings, no overstuffed chairs, no ficus plants, no antique clocks. His space was streamlined for efficiency. His glass‑topped desk and black leather chair sat directly in front of his enormous picture window. Three file cabinets stood in the corner next to a small table with a French press coffeepot. The moon had risen high over Fort Meade, and the soft light filtering through the window accentuated the starkness of the director’s furnishings.
What the hell am I doing? Brinkerhoff wondered.
Midge strode to the printer and scooped up the queue list. She squinted in the darkness. “I can’t read the data,” she complained. “Turn on the lights.”
“You’re reading it outside. Now come on.”
But Midge was apparently having too much fun. She toyed with Brinkerhoff, walking to the window and angling the readout for a better view.
“Midge . . .”
She kept reading.
Brinkerhoff shifted anxiously in the doorway. “Midge . . . come on. These are the director’s private quarters.”
“It’s here somewhere,” she muttered, studying the printout. “Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet, I know it.” She moved closer to the window.
Brinkerhoff began to sweat. Midge kept reading.
After a few moments, she gasped. “I knew it! Strathmore did it! He really did! The idiot!” She held up the paper and shook it. “He bypassed Gauntlet! Have a look!”
Brinkerhoff stared dumbfounded a moment and then raced across the director’s office. He crowded in next to Midge in front of the window. She pointed to the end of the readout.
Brinkerhoff read in disbelief. “What the . . . ?”
The printout contained a list of the last thirty‑six files that had entered TRANSLTR. After each file was a four‑digit Gauntlet clearance code. However, the last file on the sheet had no clearance code‑it simply read: manual bypass.
Jesus, Brinkerhoff thought. Midge strikes again.
“The idiot!” Midge sputtered, seething. “Look at this! Gauntlet rejected the file twice! Mutation strings! And he still bypassed! What the hell was he thinking?”
Brinkerhoff felt weak‑kneed. He wondered why Midge was always right. Neither of them noticed the reflection that had appeared in the window beside them. A massive figure was standing in Fontaine’s open doorway.
“Jeez,” Brinkerhoff choked. “You think we have a virus?”
Midge sighed. “Nothing else it could be.”
“Could be none of your damn business!” the deep voice boomed from behind them.
Midge knocked her head against the window. Brinkerhoff tipped over the director’s chair and wheeled toward the voice. He immediately knew the silhouette.
“Director!” Brinkerhoff gasped. He strode over and extended his hand. “Welcome home, sir.”
The huge man ignored it.
“I‑I thought,” Brinkerhoff stammered, retracting his hand, “I thought you were in South America.”
Leland Fontaine glared down at his aide with eyes like bullets. “Yes . . . and now I’m back.”
CHAPTER 69
“Hey, mister!”
Becker had been walking across the concourse toward a bank of pay phones. He stopped and turned. Coming up behind him was the girl he’d just surprised in the bathroom. She waved for him to wait. “Mister, wait!”
Now what? Becker groaned. She wants to press invasion‑of‑privacy charges?