Force a hand, the voice warned, and it will fight you. But convince a mind to think as you want it to think, and you have an ally.
“Susan,” Hale heard himself saying, “Strathmore’s a killer! You’re in danger here!”
Susan didn’t seem to hear. Hale knew it was an absurd angle anyway; Strathmore would never hurt Susan, and she knew it.
Hale strained his eyes into the darkness, wondering where the commander was hidden. Strathmore had fallen silent suddenly, which made Hale even more panicky. He sensed his time was up. Security would arrive at any moment.
With a surge of strength, Hale wrapped his arms around Susan’s waist and pulled her hard up the stairs. She hooked her heels on the first step and pulled back. It was no use, Hale overpowered her.
Carefully, Hale backed up the stairs with Susan in tow. Pushing her up might have been easier, but the landing at the top was illuminated from Strathmore’s computer monitors. If Susan went first, Strathmore would have a clear shot at Hale’s back. Pulling Susan behind him, Hale had a human shield between himself and the Crypto floor.
About a third of the way up, Hale sensed movement at the bottom of the stairs. Strathmore’s making his move! “Don’t try it, Commander,” he hissed. “You’ll only get her killed.”
Hale waited. But there was only silence. He listened closely. Nothing. The bottom of the stairs was still. Was he imagining things? It didn’t matter. Strathmore would never risk a shot with Susan in the way.
But as Hale backed up the stairs dragging Susan behind him, something unexpected happened. There was a faint thud on the landing behind him. Hale stopped, adrenaline surging. Had Strathmore slipped upstairs? Instinct told him Strathmore was at the bottom of the stairs. But then, suddenly, it happened again‑louder this time. A distinct step on the upper landing!
In terror, Hale realized his mistake. Strathmore’s on the landing behind me! He has a clear shot of my back! In desperation, he spun Susan back to his uphill side and started retreating backwards down the steps.
As he reached the bottom step, he stared wildly up at the landing and yelled, “Back off, Commander! Back off, or I’ll break her—”
The butt of a Berretta came slicing through the air at the foot of the stairs and crashed down into Hale’s skull.
As Susan tore free of the slumping Hale, she wheeled in confusion. Strathmore grabbed her and reeled her in, cradling her shaking body. “Shhh,” he soothed. “It’s me. You’re okay.”
Susan was trembling. “Com . . . mander.” She gasped, disoriented. “I thought . . . I thought you were upstairs . . . I heard . . .”
“Easy now,” he whispered. “You heard me toss my loafers up onto the landing.”
Susan found herself laughing and crying at the same time. The commander had just saved her life. Standing there in the darkness, Susan felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was not, however, without guilt; Security was coming. She had foolishly let Hale grab her, and he had used her against Strathmore. Susan knew the commander had paid a huge price to save her. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“Your plans for Digital Fortress . . . they’re ruined.”
Strathmore shook his head. “Not at all.”
“But . . . but what about Security? They’ll be here any minute. We won’t have time to—”
“Security’s not coming, Susan. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Susan was lost. Not coming? “But you phoned . . .”
Strathmore chuckled. “Oldest trick in the book. I faked the call.”
CHAPTER 83
Becker’s Vespa was no doubt the smallest vehicle ever to tear down the Seville runway. Its top speed, a whining 50 mph , sounded more like a chainsaw than a motorcycle and was unfortunately well below the necessary power to become airborne.
In his side mirror, Becker saw the taxi swing out onto the darkened runway about four hundred yards back. It immediately started gaining. Becker faced front. In the distance, the contour of the airplane hangars stood framed against the night sky about a half mile out. Becker wondered if the taxi would overtake him in that distance. He knew Susan could do the math in two seconds and calculate his odds. Becker suddenly felt fear like he had never known.
He lowered his head and twisted the throttle as far as it would go. The Vespa was definitely topped out. Becker guessed the taxi behind him was doing almost ninety, twice his speed. He set his sights on the three structures looming in the distance. The middle one. That’s where the Learjet is. A shot rang out.
The bullet buried itself in the runway yards behind him. Becker looked back. The assassin was hanging out the window taking aim. Becker swerved and his side mirror exploded in a shower of glass. He could feel the impact of the bullet all the way up the handlebars. He lay his body flat on the bike. God help me, I’m not going to make it!
The tarmac in front of Becker’s Vespa was growing brighter now. The taxi was closing, the headlights throwing ghostly shadows down the runway. A shot fired. The bullet ricocheted off the hull of the bike.
Becker struggled to keep from going into a swerve. I’ve got to make the hangar! He wondered if the Learjet pilot could see them coming. Does he have a weapon? Will he open the cabin doors in time? But as Becker approached the lit expanse of the open hangars, he realized the question was moot. The Learjet was nowhere to be seen. He squinted through blurred vision and prayed he was hallucinating. He was not. The hangar was bare. Oh my God! Where’s the plane!
As the two vehicles rocketed into the empty hangar, Becker desperately searched for an escape. There was none. The building’s rear wall, an expansive sheet of corrugated metal, had no doors or windows. The taxi roared up beside him, and Becker looked left to see Hulohot raising his gun.
Reflex took over. Becker slammed down on his brakes. He barely slowed. The hangar floor was slick with oil. The Vespa went into a headlong skid.
Beside him there was a deafening squeal as the taxi’s brakes locked and the balding tires hydroplaned on the slippery surface. The car spun around in a cloud of smoke and burning rubber only inches to the left of Becker’s skidding Vespa.
Now side by side, the two vehicles skimmed out of control on a collision course with the rear of the hangar. Becker desperately pumped his brakes, but there was no traction; it was like driving on ice. In front of him, the metal wall loomed. It was coming fast. As the taxi spiraled wildly beside him, Becker faced the wall and braced for the impact.
There was an earsplitting crash of steel and corrugated metal. But there was no pain. Becker found himself suddenly in the open air, still on his Vespa, bouncing across a grassy field. It was as if the hangar’s back wall had vanished before him. The taxi was still beside him, careening across the field. An enormous sheet of corrugated metal from the hangar’s back wall billowed off the taxi’s hood and sailed over Becker’s head.
Heart racing, Becker gunned the Vespa and took off into the night.
CHAPTER 84
Jabba let out a contented sigh as he finished the last of his solder points. He switched off the iron, put down his penlight, and lay a moment in the darkness of the mainframe computer. He was beat. His neck hurt. Internal work was always cramped, especially for a man of his size.
And they just keep building them smaller, he mused.
As he closed his eyes for a well‑deserved moment of relaxation, someone outside began pulling on his boots.
“Jabba! Get out here!” a woman’s voice yelled.
Midge found me. He groaned.
“Jabba! Get out here!”
Reluctantly he slithered out. “For the love of God, Midge! I told you—” But it was not Midge. Jabba looked up, surprised. “Soshi?”
Soshi Kuta was a ninety‑pound live wire. She was Jabba’s righthand assistant, a razor‑sharp Sys‑Sec techie from MIT. She often worked late with Jabba and was the one member of his staff who seemed unintimidated by him. She glared at him and demanded, “Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone? Or my page?”