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!”