Dan Brown - Digital Fortess

Strathmore had told Becker, “Use the ten thousand cash to buy the ring if you have to. I’ll reimburse you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Becker had replied. He’d intended to return the money anyway. He hadn’t gone to Spain for money, he’d gone for Susan. Commander Trevor Strathmore was Susan’s mentor and guardian. Susan owed him a lot; a one‑day errand was the least Becker could do.

Unfortunately, things this morning hadn’t gone quite as Becker had planned. He’d hoped to call Susan from the plane and explain everything. He considered having the pilot radio Strathmore so he could pass along a message but was hesitant to involve the deputy director in his romantic problems.

Three times Becker had tried to call Susan himself‑first from a defunct cellular on board the jet, next from a pay phone at the airport, then again from the morgue. Susan was not in. David wondered where she could be. He’d gotten her answering machine but had not left a message; what he wanted to say was not a message for an answering machine.

As he approached the road, he spotted a phone booth near the park entrance. He jogged over, snatched up the receiver, and used his phone card to place the call. There was a long pause as the number connected. Finally it began to ring.

Come on. Be there.

After five rings the call connected.

“Hi. This is Susan Fletcher. Sorry I’m not in right now, but if you leave your name . . .”

Becker listened to the message. Where is she? By now Susan would be panicked. He wondered if maybe she’d gone to Stone Manor without him. There was a beep.

“Hi. It’s David.” He paused, unsure what to say. One of the things he hated about answering machines was that if you stopped to think, they cut you off. “Sorry I didn’t call,” he blurted just in time. He wondered if he should tell her what was going on. He thought better of it. “Call Commander Strathmore. He’ll explain everything.” Becker’s heart was pounding. This is absurd, he thought. “I love you,” he added quickly and hung up.

Becker waited for some traffic to pass on Avenida Borbolla. He thought about how Susan undoubtedly would have assumed the worst; it was unlike him not to call when he’d promised to.

Becker stepped out onto the four‑lane boulevard. “In and out,” he whispered to himself. “In and out.” He was too preoccupied to see the man in wire‑rim glasses watching from across the street.

Standing before the huge plate‑glass window in his Tokyo skyrise, Numataka took a long pull on his cigar and smiled to himself. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had spoken to the American again, and if all was going according to the timetable, Ensei Tankado had been eliminated by now, and his copy of the pass‑key had been confiscated.

It was ironic, Numataka thought, that he himself would end up with Ensei Tankado’s pass‑key. Tokugen Numataka had met Tankado once many years ago. The young programmer had come to Numatech Corp. fresh out of college, searching for a job. Numataka had denied him. There was no question that Tankado was brilliant, but at the time there were other considerations. Although Japan was changing, Numataka had been trained in the old school; he lived by the code of menboko‑honor and face. Imperfection was not to be tolerated. If he hired a cripple, he would bring shame on his company. He had disposed of Tankado’s resume without a glance.

Numataka checked his watch again. The American, North Dakota, should have called by now. Numataka felt a tinge of nervousness. He hoped nothing was wrong.

If the pass‑keys were as good as promised, they would unlock the most sought‑after product of the computer age‑a totally invulnerable digital encryption algorithm. Numataka could embed the algorithm in tamper‑proof, spray‑sealed VSLI chips and mass market them to world computer manufacturers, governments, industries, and perhaps, even the darker markets . . . the black market of world terrorists.

Numataka smiled. It appeared, as usual, that he had found favor with the shichigosan‑the seven deities of good luck. Numatech Corp. was about to control the only copy of Digital Fortress that would ever exist. Twenty million dollars was a lot of money‑but considering the product, it was the steal of the century.

“What if someone else is looking for the ring?” Susan asked, suddenly nervous. “Could David be in danger?”

Strathmore shook his head. “Nobody else knows the ring exists. That’s why I sent David. I wanted to keep it that way. Curious spooks don’t usually tail Spanish teachers.”

“He’s a professor,” Susan corrected, immediately regretting the clarification. Every now and again Susan got the feeling David wasn’t good enough for the commander, that he thought somehow she could do better than a schoolteacher.

“Commander,” she said, moving on, “if you briefed David by car phone this morning, someone could have intercepted the—”

“One‑in‑a‑million shot,” Strathmore interrupted, his tone reassuring. “Any eavesdropper had to be in the immediate vicinity and know exactly what to listen for.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I would never have sent David if I thought it was dangerous.” He smiled. “Trust me. Any sign of trouble, and I’ll send in the pros.”

Strathmore’s words were punctuated by the sudden sound of someone pounding on the Node 3 glass. Susan and Strathmore turned.

Sys‑Sec Phil Chartrukian had his face pressed against the pane and was pounding fiercely, straining to see through. Whatever he was excitedly mouthing was not audible through the soundproofed glass. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“What the hell is Chartrukian doing here?” Strathmore growled. “He’s not on duty today.”

“Looks like trouble,” Susan said. “He probably saw the Run‑Monitor.”

“Goddamn it!” the commander hissed. “I specifically called the scheduled Sys‑Sec last night and told him not to come in!”

Susan was not surprised. Canceling a Sys‑Sec duty was irregular, but Strathmore undoubtedly had wanted privacy in the dome. The last thing he needed was some paranoid Sys‑Sec blowing the lid off Digital Fortress.

“We better abort TRANSLTR,” Susan said. “We can reset the Run‑Monitor and tell Phil he was seeing things.”

Strathmore appeared to consider it, then shook his head. “Not yet. TRANSLTR is fifteen hours into this attack. I want to run it a full twenty‑four‑just to be sure.”

This made sense to Susan. Digital Fortress was the first ever use of a rotating cleartext function. Maybe Tankado had overlooked something; maybe TRANSLTR would break it after twenty‑four hours. Somehow Susan doubted it.

“TRANSLTR keeps running,” Strathmore resolved. “I need to know for sure this algorithm is untouchable.”

Chartrukian continued pounding on the pane.

“Here goes nothing.” Strathmore groaned. “Back me up.”

The commander took a deep breath and then strode to the sliding glass doors. The pressure plate on the floor activated, and the doors hissed open.

Chartrukian practically fell into the room. “Commander, sir. I . . . I’m sorry to bother you, but the Run‑Monitor . . . I ran a virus probe and—”

“Phil, Phil, Phil,” the commander gushed pleasantly as he put a reassuring hand on Chartrukian’s shoulder. “Slow down. What seems to be the problem?”

From the easygoing tone in Strathmore’s voice, nobody would ever have guessed his world was falling in around him. He stepped aside and ushered Chartrukian into the sacred walls of Node 3. The Sys‑Sec stepped over the threshold hesitantly, like a well‑trained dog that knew better.