Hard to imagine they support a 170 IQ, he mused to himself.
He stared after her a long time. Finally he shook his head as she disappeared in the distance.
* * *
As Susan reached the end of the tunnel, a circular, vaultlike door blocked her way. The enormous letters read: crypto.
Sighing, she placed her hand inside the recessed cipher box and entered her five‑digit PIN. Seconds later the twelve‑ton slab of steel began to revolve. She tried to focus, but her thoughts reeled back to him.
David Becker. The only man she’d ever loved. The youngest full professor at Georgetown University and a brilliant foreign‑language specialist, he was practically a celebrity in the world of academia. Born with an eidetic memory and a love of languages, he’d mastered six Asian dialects as well as Spanish, French, and Italian. His university lectures on etymology and linguistics were standing‑room only, and he invariably stayed late to answer a barrage of questions. He spoke with authority and enthusiasm, apparently oblivious to the adoring gazes of his star‑struck coeds.
Becker was dark‑a rugged, youthful thirty‑five with sharp green eyes and a wit to match. His strong jaw and taut features reminded Susan of carved marble. Over six feet tall, Becker moved across a squash court faster than any of his colleagues could comprehend. After soundly beating his opponent, he would cool off by dousing his head in a drinking fountain and soaking his tuft of thick, black hair. Then, still dripping, he’d treat his opponent to a fruit shake and a bagel.
As with all young professors, David’s university salary was modest. From time to time, when he needed to renew his squash club membership or restring his old Dunlop with gut, he earned extra money by doing translating work for government agencies in and around Washington. It was on one of those jobs that he’d met Susan.
It was a crisp morning during fall break when Becker returned from a morning jog to his three‑room faculty apartment to find his answering machine blinking. He downed a quart of orange juice as he listened to the playback. The message was like many he received‑a government agency requesting his translating services for a few hours later that morning. The only strange thing was that Becker had never heard of the organization.
“They’re called the National Security Agency,” Becker said, calling a few of his colleagues for background.
The reply was always the same. “You mean the National Security Council?”
Becker checked the message. “No. They said Agency. The NSA.”
“Never heard of 'em.”
Becker checked the GAO Directory, and it showed no listing either. Puzzled, Becker called one of his old squash buddies, an ex‑political analyst turned research clerk at the Library of Congress. David was shocked by his friend’s explanation.
Apparently, not only did the NSA exist, but it was considered one of the most influential government organizations in the world. It had been gathering global electronic intelligence data and protecting U.S. classified information for over half a century. Only 3 percent of Americans were even aware it existed.
“NSA,” his buddy joked, “stands for 'No Such Agency.'”
With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, Becker accepted the mysterious agency’s offer. He drove the thirty‑seven miles to their eighty‑six‑acre headquarters hidden discreetly in the wooded hills of Fort Meade, Maryland. After passing through endless security checks and being issued a six‑hour, holographic guest pass, he was escorted to a plush research facility where he was told he would spend the afternoon providing “blind support” to the Cryptography Division‑an elite group of mathematical brainiacs known as the code‑breakers.
For the first hour, the cryptographers seemed unaware Becker was even there. They hovered around an enormous table and spoke a language Becker had never heard. They spoke of stream ciphers, self‑decimated generators, knapsack variants, zero knowledge protocols, unicity points. Becker observed, lost. They scrawled symbols on graph paper, pored over computer printouts, and continuously referred to the jumble of text on the overhead projector.
JHdja3jKHDhmado/ertwtjlw+jgj328 5jhalsfnHKhhhfafOhhdfgaf/fj37we ohi93450s9djfd2h/HHrtyFHLf89303 95jspjf2j0890Ihj98yhfi080ewrt03 jojr845h0roq+jt0eu4tqefqe//oujw 08UY0IH0934jtpwfiajer09qu4jr9gu ivjP$duw4h95pe8rtugvjw3p4e/ikkc mffuerhfgv0q394ikjrmg+unhvs9oer rk/0956y7u0poikIOjp9f8760qwerqi
Eventually one of them explained what Becker had already surmised. The scrambled text was a code‑a “cipher text”‑groups of numbers and letters representing encrypted words. The cryptographers’ job was to study the code and extract from it the original message, or “cleartext.” The NSA had called Becker because they suspected the original message was written in Mandarin Chinese; he was to translate the symbols as the cryptographers decrypted them.
For two hours, Becker interpreted an endless stream of Mandarin symbols. But each time he gave them a translation, the cryptographers shook their heads in despair. Apparently the code was not making sense. Eager to help, Becker pointed out that all the characters they’d shown him had a common trait‑they were also part of the Kanji language. Instantly the bustle in the room fell silent. The man in charge, a lanky chain‑smoker named Morante, turned to Becker in disbelief.
“You mean these symbols have multiple meanings?”
Becker nodded. He explained that Kanji was a Japanese writing system based on modified Chinese characters. He’d been giving Mandarin translations because that’s what they’d asked for.
“Jesus Christ.” Morante coughed. “Let’s try the Kanji.”
Like magic, everything fell into place.
The cryptographers were duly impressed, but nonetheless, they still made Becker work on the characters out of sequence. “It’s for your own safety,” Morante said. “This way, you won’t know what you’re translating.”
Becker laughed. Then he noticed nobody else was laughing.
When the code finally broke, Becker had no idea what dark secrets he’d helped reveal, but one thing was for certain‑the NSA took code‑breaking seriously; the check in Becker’s pocket was more than an entire month’s university salary.
On his way back out through the series of security check points in the main corridor, Becker’s exit was blocked by a guard hanging up a phone. “Mr. Becker, wait here, please.”
“What’s the problem?” Becker had not expected the meeting to take so long, and he was running late for his standing Saturday afternoon squash match.
The guard shrugged. “Head of Crypto wants a word. She’s on her way out now.”
“She?” Becker laughed. He had yet to see a female inside the NSA.
“Is that a problem for you?” a woman’s voice asked from behind him.
Becker turned and immediately felt himself flush. He eyed the ID card on the woman’s blouse. The head of the NSA’s Cryptography Division was not only a woman, but an attractive woman at that.
“No,” Becker fumbled. “I just . . .”
“Susan Fletcher.” The woman smiled, holding out her slender hand.
Becker took it. “David Becker.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Becker. I hear you did a fine job today. Might I chat with you about it?”
Becker hesitated. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a rush at the moment.” He hoped spurning the world’s most powerful intelligence agency wasn’t a foolish act, but his squash match started in forty‑five minutes, and he had a reputation to uphold: David Becker was never late for squash . . . class maybe, but never squash.