“I’ll be brief.” Susan Fletcher smiled. “Right this way, please.”
Ten minutes later, Becker was in the NSA’s commissary enjoying a popover and cranberry juice with the NSA’s lovely head cryptographer, Susan Fletcher. It quickly became evident to David that the thirty‑eight‑year‑old’s high‑ranking position at the NSA was no fluke‑she was one of the brightest women he had ever met. As they discussed codes and code‑breaking, Becker found himself struggling to keep up‑a new and exciting experience for him.
An hour later, after Becker had obviously missed his squash match and Susan had blatantly ignored three pages on the intercom, both of them had to laugh. There they were, two highly analytical minds, presumably immune to irrational infatuations‑but somehow, while they sat there discussing linguistic morphology and pseudo‑random number generators, they felt like a couple of teenagers‑everything was fireworks.
Susan never did get around to the real reason she’d wanted to speak to David Becker‑to offer him a trial post in their Asiatic Cryptography Division. It was clear from the passion with which the young professor spoke about teaching that he would never leave the university. Susan decided not to ruin the mood by talking business. She felt like a schoolgirl all over again; nothing was going to spoil it. And nothing did.
* * *
Their courtship was slow and romantic‑stolen escapes whenever their schedules permitted, long walks through the Georgetown campus, late‑night cappuccinos at Merlutti’s, occasional lectures and concerts. Susan found herself laughing more than she’d ever thought possible. It seemed there was nothing David couldn’t twist into a joke. It was a welcome release from the intensity of her post at the NSA.
One crisp, autumn afternoon they sat in the bleachers watching Georgetown soccer get pummeled by Rutgers.
“What sport did you say you play?” Susan teased. “Zucchini?”
Becker groaned. “It’s called squash.”
She gave him a dumb look.
“It’s like zucchini,” he explained, “but the court’s smaller.”
Susan pushed him.
Georgetown’s left wing sent a corner‑kick sailing out of bounds, and a boo went up from the crowd. The defensemen hurried back downfield.
“How about you?” Becker asked. “Play any sports?”
“I’m a black belt in Stairmaster.”
Becker cringed. “I prefer sports you can win.”
Susan smiled. “Overachiever, are we?”
Georgetown’s star defenseman blocked a pass, and there was a communal cheer in the stands. Susan leaned over and whispered in David’s ear. “Doctor.”
He turned and eyed her, lost.
“Doctor,” she repeated. “Say the first thing that comes to mind.”
Becker looked doubtful. “Word associations?”
“Standard NSA procedure. I need to know who I’m with.” She eyed him sternly. “Doctor.”
Becker shrugged. “Seuss.”
Susan gave him a frown. “Okay, try this one . . . 'kitchen.'”
He didn’t hesitate. “Bedroom.”
Susan arched her eyebrows coyly. “Okay, how about this . . . 'cat.'”
“Gut,” Becker fired back.
“Gut?”
“Yeah. Catgut. Squash racquet string of champions.”
“That’s pleasant.” She groaned.
“Your diagnosis?” Becker inquired.
Susan thought a minute. “You’re a childish, sexually frustrated squash fiend.”
Becker shrugged. “Sounds about right.”
* * *
It went on like that for weeks. Over dessert at all‑night diners Becker would ask endless questions.
Where had she learned mathematics?
How did she end up at the NSA?
How did she get so captivating?
Susan blushed and admitted she’d been a late bloomer. Lanky and awkward with braces through her late teens, Susan said her Aunt Clara had once told her God’s apology for Susan’s plainness was to give her brains. A premature apology, Becker thought.
Susan explained that her interest in cryptography had started in junior high school. The president of the computer club, a towering eighth grader named Frank Gutmann, typed her a love poem and encrypted it with a number‑substitution scheme. Susan begged to know what it said. Frank flirtatiously refused. Susan took the code home and stayed up all night with a flashlight under her covers until she figured out the secret‑every number represented a letter. She carefully deciphered the code and watched in wonder as the seemingly random digits turned magically into beautiful poetry. In that instant, she knew she’d fallen in love‑codes and cryptography would become her life.
Almost twenty years later, after getting her master’s in mathematics from Johns Hopkins and studying number theory on a full scholarship from MIT, she submitted her doctoral thesis, Cryptographic Methods, Protocols, and Algorithms for Manual Applications. Apparently her professor was not the only one who read it; shortly afterward, Susan received a phone call and a plane ticket from the NSA.
Everyone in cryptography knew about the NSA; it was home to the best cryptographic minds on the planet. Each spring, as the private‑sector firms descended on the brightest new minds in the workforce and offered obscene salaries and stock options, the NSA watched carefully, selected their targets, and then simply stepped in and doubled the best standing offer. What the NSA wanted, the NSA bought. Trembling with anticipation, Susan flew to Washington’s Dulles International Airport where she was met by an NSA driver, who whisked her off to Fort Meade.
There were forty‑one others who had received the same phone call that year. At twenty‑eight, Susan was the youngest. She was also the only female. The visit turned out to be more of a public relations bonanza and a barrage of intelligence testing than an informational session. In the week that followed, Susan and six others where invited back. Although hesitant, Susan returned. The group was immediately separated. They underwent individual polygraph tests, background searches, handwriting analyses, and endless hours of interviews, including taped inquiries into their sexual orientations and practices. When the interviewer asked Susan if she’d ever engaged in sex with animals, she almost walked out, but somehow the mystery carried her through‑the prospect of working on the cutting edge of code theory, entering “The Puzzle Palace,” and becoming a member of the most secretive club in the world‑the National Security Agency.
Becker sat riveted by her stories. “They actually asked you if you’d had sex with animals?”
Susan shrugged. “Part of the routine background check.”
“Well . . .” Becker fought off a grin. “What did you say?”
She kicked him under the table. “I told them no!” Then she added, “And until last night, it was true.”
* * *
In Susan’s eyes, David was as close to perfect as she could imagine. He only had one unfortunate quality; every time they went out, he insisted on picking up the check. Susan hated seeing him lay down a full day’s salary on dinner for two, but Becker was immovable. Susan learned not to protest, but it still bothered her. I make more money than I know what to do with, she thought. I should be paying.
Nonetheless, Susan decided that aside from David’s outdated sense of chivalry, he was ideal. He was compassionate, smart, funny, and best of all, he had a sincere interest in her work. Whether it was during trips to the Smithsonian, bike rides, or burning spaghetti in Susan’s kitchen, David was perpetually curious. Susan answered what questions she could and gave David the general, unclassified overview of the National Security Agency. What David heard enthralled him.
Founded by President Truman at 12:01 a.m. on November 4, 1952, the NSA had been the most clandestine intelligence agency in the world for almost fifty years. The NSA’s seven‑page inception doctrine laid out a very concise agenda: to protect U.S. government communications and to intercept the communications of foreign powers.