“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.