Dan Brown - Digital Fortress

"It's the only explanation," she said. "Jabba said a virus is the only thing that could keep TRANSLTR running this long, so-"

"Wait a minute!" Brinkerhoff flashed her the time-out sign. "Strathmore said everything's fine!"

"He's lying."

Brinkerhoff was lost. "You're saying Strathmore intentionally let a virus into TRANSLTR?"

"No," she snapped. "I don't think he knew it was a virus. I think he was tricked."

Brinkerhoff was speechless. Midge Milken was definitely losing it.

"It explains a lot," she insisted. "It explains what he's been doing in there all night."

"Planting viruses in his own computer?"

"No," she said, annoyed. "Trying to cover up his mistake! And now he can't abort TRANSLTR and get aux power back because the virus has the processors locked down!"

Brinkerhoff rolled his eyes. Midge had gone nuts in the past, but never like this. He tried to calm her. "Jabba doesn't seem to be too worried."

"Jabba's a fool," she hissed.

Brinkerhoff looked surprised. Nobody had ever called Jabba a fool-a pig maybe, but never a fool. "You're trusting feminine intuition over Jabba's advanced degrees in anti-invasive programming?"

She eyed him harshly.

Brinkerhoff held up his hands in surrender. "Never mind. I take it back." He didn't need to be reminded of Midge's uncanny ability to sense disaster. "Midge," he begged. "I know you hate Strathmore, but-"

"This has nothing to do with Strathmore!" Midge was in overdrive. "The first thing we need to do is confirm Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet. Then we call the director."

"Great." Brinkerhoff moaned. "I'll call Strathmore and ask him to send us a signed statement."

"No," she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. "Strathmore's lied to us once already today." She glanced up, her eyes probing his. "Do you have keys to Fontaine's office?

"Of course. I'm his PA."

"I need them."

Brinkerhoff stared in disbelief. "Midge, there's no way in hell I'm letting you into Fontaine's office."

"You have to!" she demanded. Midge turned and started typing on Big Brother's keyboard. "I'm requesting a TRANSLTR queue list. If Strathmore manually bypassed Gauntlet, it'll show up on the printout."

"What does that have to do with Fontaine's office?"

She spun and glared at him. "The queue list only prints to Fontaine's printer. You know that!"

"That's because it's classified, Midge!"

"This is an emergency. I need to see that list."

Brinkerhoff put his hands on her shoulders. "Midge, please settle down. You know I can't-"

She huffed loudly and spun back to her keyboard. "I'm printing a queue list. I'm going to walk in, pick it up, and walk out. Now give me the key."

"Midge…"

She finished typing and spun back to him. "Chad, the report prints in thirty seconds. Here's the deal. You give me the key. If Strathmore bypassed, we call security. If I'm wrong, I leave, and you can go smear marmalade all over Carmen Huerta." She gave him a malicious glare and held out her hands for the keys. "I'm waiting."

Brinkerhoff groaned, regretting that he had called her back to check the Crypto report. He eyed her outstretched hand. "You're talking about classified information inside the director's private quarters. Do you have any idea what would happen if we got caught?"

"The director is in South America."

"I'm sorry. I just can't." Brinkerhoff crossed his arms and walked out.

Midge stared after him, her gray eyes smoldering. "Oh, yes you can," she whispered. Then she turned back to Big Brother and called up the video archives.

Midge'll get over it, Brinkerhoff told himself as he settled in at his desk and started going over the rest of his reports. He couldn't be expected to hand out the director's keys whenever Midge got paranoid.

He had just begun checking the COMSEC breakdowns when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming from the other room. He set down his work and walked to his doorway.

The main suite was dark-all except a dim shaft of grayish light from Midge's half-open door. He listened. The voices continued. They sounded excited. "Midge?"

No response.

He strode through the darkness to her workspace. The voices were vaguely familiar. He pushed the door open. The room was empty. Midge's chair was empty. The sound was coming from overhead. Brinkerhoff looked up at the video monitors and instantly felt ill. The same image was playing on each one of the twelve screens-a kind of perversely choreographed ballet. Brinkerhoff steadied himself on the back of Midge's chair and watched in horror.

"Chad?" The voice was behind him.

He spun and squinted into the darkness. Midge was standing kitty-corner across the main suite's reception area in front of the director's double doors. Her palm was outstretched. "The key, Chad."

Brinkerhoff flushed. He turned back to the monitors. He tried to block out the images overhead, but it was no use. He was everywhere, groaning with pleasure and eagerly fondling Carmen Huerta's small, honey-covered breasts.

Becker crossed the concourse toward the rest room doors only to find the door marked CABALLEROS blocked by an orange pylon and a cleaning cart filled with detergent and mops. He eyed the other door. DAMAS. He strode over and rapped loudly.

"Hola?" he called, pushing the ladies' room door open an inch. "Con permiso?"

Silence.

He went in.

The rest room was typical, Spanish institutional-perfectly square, white tile, one incandescent bulb overhead. As usual, there was one stall and one urinal. Whether the urinals were ever used in the women's bathrooms was immaterial-adding them saved the contractors the expense of having to build the extra stall.

Becker peered into the rest room in disgust. It was filthy. The sink was clogged with murky brown water. Dirty paper towels were strewn everywhere. The floor was soaked. The old electric hand blower on the wall was smeared with greenish fingerprints.

Becker stepped in front of the mirror and sighed. The eyes that usually stared back with fierce clarity were not so clear tonight. How long have I been running around over here? he wondered. The math escaped him. Out of professorial habit, he shimmied his necktie's Windsor knot up on his collar. Then he turned to the urinal behind him.

As he stood there, he found himself wondering if Susan was home yet. Where could she have gone? To Stone Manor without me?

"Hey!" a female voice behind him said angrily.

Becker jumped. "I-I'm…" he stammered, hurrying to zip up. "I'm sorry… I…"

Becker turned to face the girl who had just entered. She was a young sophisticate, right off the pages of Seventeen Magazine. She wore conservative plaid pants and a white sleeveless blouse. In her hand was a red L. L. Bean duffel. Her blond hair was perfectly blow-dried.

"I'm sorry." Becker fumbled, buckling his belt. "The men's room was… anyway… I'm leaving."

"Fuckin' weirdo!"

Becker did a double-take. The profanity seemed inappropriate coming from her lips-like sewage flowing from a polished decanter. But as Becker studied her, he saw that she was not as polished as he'd first thought. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and her left forearm was swollen. Underneath the reddish irritation on her arm, the flesh was blue.

Jesus, Becker thought. Intravenous drugs. Who would have guessed?

"Get out!" she yelled. "Just get out!"

Becker momentarily forgot all about the ring, the NSA, all of it. His heart went out to the young girl. Her parents had probably sent her over here with some prep school study program and a VISA card-and she'd ended up all alone in a bathroom in the middle of the night doing drugs.

"Are you okay?" he asked, backing toward the door.