Dan Brown - Digital Fortess

Strike two.

Becker looked down at the phone book. There was only one number left. The end of the rope already.

He dialed.

* * *

“Escortes Belen,” a man answered in a very slick tone.

Again Becker told his story.

“Si, si, senor. My name is Senor Roldan. I would be pleased to help. We have two redheads. Lovely girls.”

Becker’s heart leapt. “Very beautiful?” he repeated in his German accent. “Red hair?”

“Yes, what is your brother’s name? I will tell you who was his escort today. And we can send her to you tomorrow.”

“Klaus Schmidt.” Becker blurted a name recalled from an old textbook.

A long pause. “Well, sir . . . I don’t see a Klaus Schmidt on our registry, but perhaps your brother chose to be discreet‑perhaps a wife at home?” He laughed inappropriately.

“Yes, Klaus married. But he very fat. His wife no lie with him.” Becker rolled his eyes at himself reflected in the booth. If Susan could hear me now, he thought. “I fat and lonely too. I want lie with her. Pay lots of money.”

Becker was giving an impressive performance, but he’d gone too far. Prostitution was illegal in Spain, and Senor Roldan was a careful man. He’d been burned before by Guardia officials posing as eager tourists. I want lie with her. Roldan knew it was a setup. If he said yes, he would be heavily fined and, as always, forced to provide one of his most talented escorts to the police commissioner free of charge for an entire weekend.

When Roldan spoke, his voice not quite as friendly. “Sir, this is Escortes Belen. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Aah . . . Sigmund Schmidt,” Becker invented weakly.

“Where did you get our number?”

“ La Guia Telefonica ‑yellow pages.”

“Yes, sir, that’s because we are an escort service.”

“Yes. I want escort.” Becker sensed something was wrong.

“Sir, Escortes Belen is a service providing escorts to businessmen for luncheons and dinners. This is why we are listed in the phone book. What we do is legal. What you are looking for is a prostitute.” The word slid off his tongue like a vile disease.

“But my brother . . .”

“Sir, if your brother spent the day kissing a girl in the park, she was not one of ours. We have strict regulations about client‑escort contact.”

“But . . .”

“You have us confused with someone else. We only have two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocio, and neither would allow a man to sleep with them for money. That is called prostitution, and it is illegal in Spain. Good night, sir.”

“But—”

CLICK.

Becker swore under his breath and dropped the phone back into its cradle. Strike three. He was certain Cloucharde had said the German had hired the girl for the entire weekend.

* * *

Becker stepped out of the phone booth at the intersection of Calle Salado and Avenida Asuncion. Despite the traffic, the sweet scent of Seville oranges hung all around him. It was twilight‑the most romantic hour. He thought of Susan. Strathmore’s words invaded his mind: Find the ring. Becker flopped miserably on a bench and pondered his next move.

What move?

Inside the Clinica de Salud Publica, visiting hours were over. The gymnasium lights had been turned out. Pierre Cloucharde was fast asleep. He did not see the figure hunched over him. The needle of a stolen syringe glinted in the dark. Then it disappeared into the IV tube just above Cloucharde’s wrist. The hypodermic contained 30 cc of cleaning fluid stolen from a janitor’s cart. With great force, a strong thumb rammed the plunger down and forced the bluish liquid into the old man’s veins.

Cloucharde was awake only for a few seconds. He might have screamed in pain had a strong hand not been clamped across his mouth. He lay trapped on his cot, pinned beneath a seemingly immovable weight. He could feel the pocket of fire searing its way up his arm. There was an excruciating pain traveling through his armpit, his chest, and then, like a million shattering pieces of glass, it hit his brain. Cloucharde saw a brilliant flash of light . . . and then nothing.

The visitor released his grip and peered through the darkness at the name on the medical chart. Then he slipped silently out.

On the street, the man in wire‑rim glasses reached to a tiny device attached to his belt. The rectangular pack was about the size of a credit card. It was a prototype of the new Monocle computer. Developed by the U.S. Navy to help technicians record battery voltages in cramped quarters on submarines, the miniature computer packed a cellular modem and the newest advances in micro technology. Its visual monitor was a transparent liquid crystal display, mounted in the left lens of a pair of eyeglasses. The Monocle reflected a whole new age in personal computing; the user could now look through his data and still interact with the world around him.

The Monocle’s real coup, though, was not its miniature display but rather its data entry system. A user entered information via tiny contacts fixed to his fingertips; touching the contacts together in sequence mimicked a shorthand similar to court stenography. The computer would then translate the shorthand into English.

The killer pressed a tiny switch, and his glasses flickered to life. His hands inconspicuously at his sides, he began touching different fingertips together in rapid succession. A message appeared before his eyes.

SUBJECT: P. CLOUCHARDE‑TERMINATED

He smiled. Transmitting notification of kills was part of his assignment. But including victim’s names . . . that, to the man in the wire‑rim glasses, was elegance. His fingers flashed again, and his cellular modem activated.

MESSAGE SENT

Sitting on the bench across from the public clinic, Becker wondered what he was supposed to do now. His calls to the escort agencies had turned up nothing. The commander, uneasy about communication over unsecured public phones, had asked David not to call again until he had the ring. Becker considered going to the local police for help‑maybe they had a record of a red‑headed hooker‑but Strathmore had given strict orders about that too. You are invisible. No one is to know this ring exists.

Becker wondered if he was supposed to wander the drugged‑out district of Triana in search of this mystery woman. Or maybe he was supposed to check all the restaurants for an obese German. Everything seemed like a waste of time.

Strathmore’s words kept coming back: It’s a matter of national security . . . you must find that ring.

A voice in the back of Becker’s head told him he’d missed something‑something crucial‑but for the life of him, he couldn’t think what it would be. I’m a teacher, not a damned secret agent! He was beginning to wonder why Strathmore hadn’t sent a professional.

Becker stood up and walked aimlessly down Calle Delicias pondering his options. The cobblestone sidewalk blurred beneath his gaze. Night was falling fast.

Dewdrop.

There was something about that absurd name that nagged at the back of his mind. Dewdrop. The slick voice of Senor Roldan at Escortes Belen was on endless loop in his head. “We only have two redheads . . . Two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocio . . . Rocio . . . Rocio . . .”

Becker stopped short. He suddenly knew. And I call myself a language specialist? He couldn’t believe he’d missed it.

Rocio was one of the most popular girl’s names in Spain. It carried all the right implications for a young Catholic girl‑purity, virginity, natural beauty. The connotations of purity all stemmed from the name’s literal meaning‑Drop of Dew!