Dan Brown - Digital Fortess

Downstairs at the Alfonso XIII, Becker wandered tiredly over to the bar. A dwarf‑like bartender lay a napkin in front of him. “Que bebe Usted? What are you drinking?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Becker replied. “I need to know if there are any clubs in town for punk rockers?”

The bartender eyed him strangely. “Clubs? For punks?”

“Yeah. Is there anyplace in town where they all hangout?”

“No lo se, senor. I don’t now. But certainly not here!” He smiled. “How about a drink?”

Becker felt like shaking the guy. Nothing was going quite the way he’d planned.

“?Quiere Vd. algo?” The bartender repeated. “?Fino??Jerez?”

Faint strains of classical music were being piped in overhead. Brandenburg Concertos, Becker thought. Number four. He and Susan had seen the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields play the Brandenburgs at the university last year. He suddenly wished she were with him now. The breeze from an overhead air‑conditioning vent reminded Becker what it was like outside. He pictured himself walking the sweaty, drugged‑out streets of Triana looking for some punk in a British flag T‑shirt. He thought of Susan again. “Zumo de arandano,” he heard himself say. “Cranberry juice.”

The bartender looked baffled. “Solo?” Cranberry juice was a popular drink in Spain, but drinking it alone was unheard of.

“Si.” Becker said. “Solo.”

“?Echo un poco de Smirnoff?” The bartender pressed. “A splash of vodka?”

“No, gracias.”

“?Gratis?” he coaxed. “On the house?”

Through the pounding in his head, Becker pictured the filthy streets of Triana, the stifling heat, and the long night ahead of him. What the hell. He nodded. “Si, echame un poco de vodka.”

The bartender seemed much relieved and hustled off to make the drink.

Becker glanced around the ornate bar and wondered if he was dreaming. Anything would make more sense than the truth. I’m a university teacher, he thought, on a secret mission.

The bartender returned with a flourish and presented Becker’s beverage. “A su gusto, senor. Cranberry with a splash of vodka.”

Becker thanked him. He took a sip and gagged. That’s a splash?

Hale stopped halfway to the Node 3 pantry and stared at Susan. “What’s wrong, Sue? You look terrible.”

Susan fought her rising fear. Ten feet away, Hale’s monitor glowed brightly. “I’m . . . I’m okay,” she managed, her heart pounding.

Hale eyed her with a puzzled look on his face. “You want some water?”

Susan could not answer. She cursed herself. How could I forget to dim his damn monitor? Susan knew the moment Hale suspected her of searching his terminal, he’d suspect she knew his real identity, North Dakota. She feared Hale would do anything to keep that information inside Node 3.

Susan wondered if she should make a dash for the door. But she never got the chance. Suddenly there was a pounding at the glass wall. Both Hale and Susan jumped. It was Chartrukian. He was banging his sweaty fists against the glass again. He looked like he’d seen Armageddon.

Hale scowled at the crazed Sys‑Sec outside the window, then turned back to Susan. “I’ll be right back. Get yourself a drink. You look pale.” Hale turned and went outside.

Susan steadied herself and moved quickly to Hale’s terminal. She reached down and adjusted the brightness controls. The monitor went black.

Her head was pounding. She turned and eyed the conversation now taking place on the Crypto floor. Apparently, Chartrukian had not gone home, after all. The young Sys‑Sec was now in a panic, spilling his guts to Greg Hale. Susan knew it didn’t matter‑Hale knew everything there was to know.

I’ve got to get to Strathmore, she thought. And fast.

Room 301. Rocio Eva Granada stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. This was the moment she’d been dreading all day. The German was on the bed waiting for her. He was the biggest man she’d ever been with.

Reluctantly, she took an ice cube from the water bucket and rubbed it across her nipples. They quickly hardened. This was her gift‑to make men feel wanted. It’s what kept them coming back. She ran her hands across her supple, well‑tanned body and hoped it would survive another four or five more years until she had enough to retire. Senor Roldan took most of her pay, but without him she knew she’d be with the rest of the hookers picking up drunks in Triana. These men at least had money. They never beat her, and they were easy to satisfy. She slipped into her lingerie, took a deep breath, and opened the bathroom door.

As Rocio stepped into the room, the German’s eyes bulged. She was wearing a black negligee. Her chestnut skin radiated in the soft light, and her nipples stood at attention beneath the lacy fabric.

“Komm doch hierher,” he said eagerly, shedding his robe and rolling onto his back.

Rocio forced a smile and approached the bed. She gazed down at the enormous German. She chuckled in relief. The organ between his legs was tiny.

He grabbed at her and impatiently ripped off her negligee. His fat fingers groped at every inch of her body. She fell on top of him and moaned and writhed in false ecstasy. As he rolled her over and climbed on top of her, she thought she would be crushed. She gasped and choked against his puttylike neck. She prayed he would be quick.

“Si! Si!” she gasped in between thrusts. She dug her fingernails into his backside to encourage him.

Random thoughts cascaded through her mind‑faces of the countless men she’d satisfied, ceilings she’d stared at for hours in the dark, dreams of having children . . .

Suddenly, without warning, the German’s body arched, stiffened, and almost immediately collapsed on top of her. That’s all? she thought, surprised and relieved.

She tried to slide out from under him. “Darling,” she whispered huskily. “Let me get on top.” But the man did not move.

She reached up and pushed at his massive shoulders. “Darling, I . . . I can’t breathe!” She began feeling faint. She felt her ribs cracking. “?Despiertate!” Her fingers instinctively started pulling at his matted hair. Wake up!

It was then that she felt the warm sticky liquid. It was matted in his hair‑flowing onto her cheeks, into her mouth. It was salty. She twisted wildly beneath him. Above her, a strange shaft of light illuminated the German’s contorted face. The bullet hole in his temple was gushing blood all over her. She tried to scream, but there was no air left in her lungs. He was crushing her. Delirious, she clawed toward the shaft of light coming from the doorway. She saw a hand. A gun with a silencer. A flash of light. And then nothing.

Outside Node 3, Chartrukian looked desperate. He was trying to convince Hale that TRANSLTR was in trouble. Susan raced by them with only one thought in mind‑to find Strathmore.

The panicked Sys‑Sec grabbed Susan’s arm as she passed. “Ms. Fletcher! We have a virus! I’m positive! You have to—”

Susan shook herself free and glared ferociously. “I thought the commander told you to go home.”

“But the Run‑Monitor! It’s registering eighteen—”

“Commander Strathmore told you to go home!”

“FUCK STRATHMORE!” Chartrukian screamed, the words resounding throughout the dome.

A deep voice boomed from above. “Mr. Chartrukian?”

The three Crypto employees froze.

High above them, Strathmore stood at the railing outside his office.

For a moment, the only sound inside the dome was the uneven hum of the generators below. Susan tried desperately to catch Strathmore’s eye. Commander! Hale is North Dakota!