The blood of Christ . . . the cup of salvation . . .
People gathered around the slumped body in the pew. Overhead, the frankincense swung its peaceful arcs. Hulohot wheeled wildly in the center aisle and scanned the church. He’s got to be here! He spun back toward the altar.
Thirty rows ahead, holy communion was proceeding uninterrupted. Padre Gustaphes Herrera, the head chalice bearer, glanced curiously at the quiet commotion in one of the center pews; he was not concerned. Sometimes some of the older folks were overcome by the holy spirit and passed out. A little air usually did the trick.
Meanwhile, Hulohot was searching frantically. Becker was nowhere in sight. A hundred or so people were kneeling at the long altar receiving communion. Hulohot wondered if Becker was one of them. He scanned their backs. He was prepared to shoot from fifty yards away and make a dash for it.
* * *
El cuerpo de Jesus, el pan del cielo.
The young priest serving Becker communion gave him a disapproving stare. He could understand the stranger’s eagerness to receive communion, but it was no excuse to cut inline.
Becker bowed his head and chewed the wafer as best he could. He sensed something was happening behind him, some sort of disturbance. He thought of the man from whom he’d bought the jacket and hoped he had listened to his warning and not taken Becker’s in exchange. He started to turn and look, but he feared the wire‑rim glasses would be staring back. He crouched in hopes his black jacket was covering the back of his khaki pants. It was not.
The chalice was coming quickly from his right. People were already swallowing their wine, crossing themselves, and standing to leave. Slow down! Becker was in no hurry to leave the altar. But with two thousand people waiting for communion and only eight priests serving, it was considered bad form to linger over a sip of wine.
* * *
The chalice was just to the right of Becker when Hulohot spotted the mismatched khaki pants. “Estas ya muerto,” he hissed softly. “You’re already dead.” Hulohot moved up the center aisle. The time for subtlety had passed. Two shots in the back, and he would grab the ring and run. The biggest taxi stand in Seville was half a block away on Mateus Gago. He reached for his weapon.
Adios, Senor Becker . . .
* * *
La sangre de Cristo, la copa de la salvacion.
The thick scent of red wine filled Becker’s nostrils as Padre Herrera lowered the hand‑polished, silver chalice. Little early for drinking, Becker thought as he leaned forward. But as the silver goblet dropped past eye level, there was a blur of movement. A figure, coming fast, his shape warped in the reflection of the cup.
Becker saw a flash of metal, a weapon being drawn. Instantly, unconsciously, like a runner from a starting block at the sound of a gun, Becker was vaulting forward. The priest fell back in horror as the chalice sailed through the air, and red wine rained down on white marble. Priests and altar boys went scattering as Becker dove over the communion rail. A silencer coughed out a single shot. Becker landed hard, and the shot exploded in the marble floor beside him. An instant later he was tumbling down three granite stairs into the valle, a narrow passageway through which the clergy entered, allowing them to rise onto the altar as if by divine grace.
At the bottom of the steps, he stumbled and dove. Becker felt himself sliding out of control across the slick polished stone. A dagger of pain shot though his gut as he landed on his side. A moment later he was stumbling through a curtained entryway and down a set of wooden stairs.
Pain. Becker was running, through a dressing room. It was dark. There were screams from the altar. Loud footsteps in pursuit. Becker burst through a set of double doors and stumbled into some sort of study. It was dark, furnished with rich Orientals and polished mahogany. On the far wall was a life‑size crucifix. Becker staggered to a stop. Dead end. He was at the tip of the cross. He could hear Hulohot closing fast. Becker stared at the crucifix and cursed his bad luck.
“Goddamn it!” he screamed.
There was the sudden sound of breaking glass to Becker’s left. He wheeled. A man in red robes gasped and turned to eye Becker in horror. Like a cat caught with a canary, the holy man wiped his mouth and tried to hide the broken bottle of holy communion wine at his feet.
“Salida!” Becker demanded. “Salida!” Let me out!
Cardinal Guerra reacted on instinct. A demon had entered his sacred chambers screaming for deliverance from the house of God. Guerra would grant him that wish‑immediately. The demon had entered at a most inopportune moment.
Pale, the cardinal pointed to a curtain on the wall to his left. Hidden behind the curtain was a door. He’d installed it three years ago. It led directly to the courtyard outside. The cardinal had grown tired of exiting the church through the front door like a common sinner.
CHAPTER 96
Susan was wet and shivering, huddled on the Node 3 couch. Strathmore draped his suit coat over her shoulders. Hale’s body lay a few yards away. The sirens blared. Like ice thawing on a frozen pond, TRANSLTR’s hull let out a sharp crack.
“I’m going down to kill power,” Strathmore said, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Susan stared absently after the commander as he dashed across the Crypto floor. He was no longer the catatonic man she’d seen ten minutes before. Commander Trevor Strathmore was back‑logical, controlled, doing whatever was necessary to get the job done.
The final words of Hale’s suicide note ran through her mind like a train out of controclass="underline" Above all, I’m truly sorry about David Becker. Forgive me, I was blinded by ambition.
Susan Fletcher’s nightmare had just been confirmed. David was in danger . . . or worse. Maybe it was already too late. I’m truly sorry about David Becker.
She stared at the note. Hale hadn’t even signed it‑he’d just typed his name at the bottom: Greg Hale. He’d poured out his guts, pressed print, and then shot himself‑just like that. Hale had sworn he’d never go back to prison; he’d kept his vow‑he’d chosen death instead.
“David . . .” She sobbed. David!
* * *
At that moment, ten feet below the Crypto floor, Commander Strathmore stepped off the ladder onto the first landing. It had been a day of fiascoes. What had started out as a patriotic mission had swerved wildly out of control. The commander had been forced to make impossible decisions, commit horrific acts‑acts he’d never imagined himself capable of.
It was a solution! It was the only damn solution!
There was duty to think of: country and honor. Strathmore knew there was still time. He could shut down TRANSLTR. He could use the ring to save the country’s most valuable databank. Yes, he thought, there was still time.
Strathmore looked out over the disaster around him. The overhead sprinklers were on. TRANSLTR was groaning. The sirens blared. The spinning lights looked like helicopters closing in through dense fog. With every step, all he could see was Greg Hale‑the young cryptographer gazing up, his eyes pleading, and then, the shot. Hale’s death was for country . . . for honor. The NSA could not afford another scandal. Strathmore needed a scapegoat. Besides, Greg Hale was a disaster waiting to happen.
* * *
Strathmore’s thoughts were jarred free by the sound of his cellular. It was barely audible over the sirens and hissing fumes. He snatched it off his belt without breaking stride.
“Speak.”
“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.