CHAPTER 53
Tokugen Numataka lay naked on the massage table in his penthouse office. His personal masseuse worked out the kinks in his neck. She ground her palms into the fleshy pockets surrounding his shoulder blades, slowly working her way down to the towel covering his backside. Her hands slipped lower . . . beneath his towel. Numataka barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. He had been waiting for his private line to ring. It had not.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” Numataka grunted.
The masseuse quickly pulled her hands from beneath the towel.
The switchboard operator entered and bowed. “Honored chairman?”
“Speak.”
The operator bowed a second time. “I spoke to the phone exchange. The call originated from country code 1‑the United States.”
Numataka nodded. This was good news. The call came from the States. He smiled. It was genuine.
“Where in the U.S. ?” he demanded.
“They’re working on it, sir.”
“Very well. Tell me when you have more.”
The operator bowed again and left.
Numataka felt his muscles relax. Country code 1. Good news indeed.
CHAPTER 54
Susan Fletcher paced impatiently in the Crypto bathroom and counted slowly to fifty. Her head was throbbing. Just a little longer, she told herself. Hale is North Dakota!
Susan wondered what Hale’s plans were. Would he announce the pass‑key? Would he be greedy and try to sell the algorithm? Susan couldn’t bear to wait any longer. It was time. She had to get to Strathmore.
Cautiously she cracked the door and peered out at the reflective wall on the far side of Crypto. There was no way to know if Hale was still watching. She’d have to move quickly to Strathmore’s office. Not too quickly, of course‑she could not let Hale suspect she was on to him. She reached for the door and was about to pull it open when she heard something. Voices. Men’s voices.
The voices were coming through the ventilation shaft near the floor. She released the door and moved toward the vent. The words were muffled by the dull hum of the generators below. The conversation sounded like it was coming up from the sublevel catwalks. One voice was shrill, angry. It sounded like Phil Chartrukian.
“You don’t believe me?”
The sound of more arguing rose.
“We have a virus!”
Then the sound of harsh yelling.
“We need to call Jabba!”
Then there were sounds of a struggle.
“Let me go!”
The noise that followed was barely human. It was a long wailing cry of horror, like a tortured animal about to die. Susan froze beside the vent. The noise ended as abruptly as it had begun. Then there was a silence.
An instant later, as if choreographed for some cheap horror matinee, the lights in the bathroom slowly dimmed. Then they flickered and went out. Susan Fletcher found herself standing in total blackness.
CHAPTER 55
“You’re in my seat, asshole.”
Becker lifted his head off his arms. Doesn’t anyone speak Spanish in this damn country?
Glaring down at him was a short, pimple‑faced teenager with a shaved head. Half of his scalp was red and half was purple. He looked like an Easter egg. “I said you’re in my seat, asshole.”
“I heard you the first time,” Becker said, standing up. He was in no mood for a fight. It was time to go.
“Where’d you put my bottles?” the kid snarled. There was a safety pin in his nose.
Becker pointed to the beer bottles he’d set on the ground. “They were empty.”
“They were my fuckin' empties!”
“My apologies,” Becker said, and turned to go.
The punk blocked his way. “Pick 'em up!”
Becker blinked, not amused. “You’re kidding, right?” He was a full foot taller and outweighed the kid by about fifty pounds.
“Do I fuckin' look like I’m kidding?”
Becker said nothing.
“Pick 'em up!” The kid’s voice cracked.
Becker attempted to step around him, but the teenager blocked his way. “I said, fuckin' pick 'em up!”
Stoned punks at nearby tables began turning to watch the excitement.
“You don’t want to do this, kid,” Becker said quietly.
“I’m warning you!” The kid seethed. “This is my table! I come here every night. Now pick 'em up!”
Becker’s patience ran out. Wasn’t he supposed to be in the Smokys with Susan? What was he doing in Spain arguing with a psychotic adolescent?
Without warning, Becker caught the kid under the armpits, lifted him up, and slammed his rear end down on the table. “Look, you runny‑nosed little runt. You’re going to back off right now, or I’m going to rip that safety pin out of your nose and pin your mouth shut.”
The kid’s face went pale.
Becker held him a moment, then he released his grip. Without taking his eyes off the frightened kid, Becker stooped down, picked up the bottles, and returned them to the table. “What do you say?” he asked.
The kid was speechless.
“You’re welcome,” Becker snapped. This kid’s a walking billboard for birth control.
“Go to hell!” the kid yelled, now aware of his peers laughing at him. “Ass‑wipe!”
Becker didn’t move. Something the kid had said suddenly registered. I come here every night. Becker wondered if maybe the kid could help him. “I’m sorry,” Becker said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Two‑Tone,” he hissed, as if he were giving a death sentence.
“Two‑Tone?” Becker mused. “Let me guess . . . because of your hair?”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Catchy name. Make that up yourself?”
“Damn straight,” he said proudly. “I’m gonna patent it.”
Becker scowled. “You mean trademark it?”
The kid looked confused.
“You’d need a trademark for a name,” Becker said. “Not a patent.”
“Whatever!” the punk screamed in frustration.
The motley assortment of drunken and drugged‑out kids at the nearby tables were now in hysterics. Two‑Tone stood up and sneered at Becker. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
Becker thought a moment. I want you to wash your hair, cleanup your language, and get a job. Becker figured it was too much to ask on a first meeting. “I need some information,” he said.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“I ain’t seen him.”
“Haven’t seen him,” Becker corrected as he flagged a passing waitress. He bought two Aguila beers and handed one to Two‑Tone. The boy looked shocked. He took a swig of beer and eyed Becker warily.
“You hitting on me, mister?”
Becker smiled. “I’m looking for a girl.”
Two‑Tone let out a shrill laugh. “You sure as hell ain’t gonna get any action dressed like that!”
Becker frowned. “I’m not looking for action. I just need to talk to her. Maybe you could help me find her.”
Two‑Tone set down his beer. “You a cop?”
Becker shook his head.
The kid’s eyes narrowed. “You look like a cop.”
“Kid, I’m from Maryland. If I were a cop, I’d be a little out of my jurisdiction, don’t you think?”
The question seemed to stump him.
“My name’s David Becker.” Becker smiled and offered his hand across the table.
The punk recoiled in disgust. “Back off, fag boy.”
Becker retracted the hand.
The kid sneered. “I’ll help you, but it’ll cost you.”
Becker played along. “How much?”
“A hundred bucks.”
Becker frowned. “I’ve only got pesetas.”
“Whatever! Make it a hundred pesetas.”
Foreign currency exchange was obviously not one of Two‑Tone’s fortes; a hundred pesetas was about eighty‑seven cents. “Deal,” Becker said, rapping his bottle on the table.
The kid smiled for the first time. “Deal.”