第 13 页

　This time the response was in polite German, but again no redheads. "Keine Rotkцpfe, I'm sorry." The woman hung up.

　Strike two.

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

　He dialed.

　* * *

　"Escortes Belйn," a man answered in a very slick tone.

　Again Becker told his story.

　"Sн, sн, seсor. My name is Seсor Roldбn. 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 Seсor Roldбn was a careful man. He'd been burned before by Guardia officials posing as eager tourists. I want lie with her. Roldбn 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 Roldбn spoke, his voice not quite as friendly. "Sir, this is Escortes Belйn. May I ask who's calling?"

　"Aah... Sigmund Schmidt," Becker invented weakly.

　"Where did you get our number?"

　"La Guнa Telefуnica--yellow pages."

　"Yes, sir, that's because we are an escort service."

　"Yes. I want escort." Becker sensed something was wrong.

　"Sir, Escortes Belйn 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 Rocнo, 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 Asunciуn. 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?

　CHAPTER?25

　Inside the Clнnica de Salud Pъblica, 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

　CHAPTER?26

　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 Seсor Roldбn at Escortes Belйn was on endless loop in his head. "We only have two redheads... Two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocнo... Rocнo... Rocнo..."

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

　Rocнo 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!

　The old Canadian's voice rang in Becker's ears. Dewdrop. Rocнo had translated her name to the only language she and her client had in common--English. Excited, Becker hurried off to find a phone.

　Across the street, a man in wire-rim glasses followed just out of sight.

　CHAPTER?27

　On the Crypto floor, the shadows were growing long and faint. Overhead, the automatic lighting gradually increased to compensate. Susan was still at her terminal silently awaiting news from her tracer. It was taking longer than expected.

　Her mind had been wandering--missing David and willing Greg Hale to go home. Although Hale hadn't budged, thankfully he'd been silent, engrossed in whatever he was doing at his terminal. Susan couldn't care less what Hale was doing, as long as he didn't access the Run-Monitor. He obviously hadn't--sixteen hours would have brought an audible yelp of disbelief.

　Susan was sipping her third cup of tea when it finally happened--her terminal beeped once. Her pulse quickened. A flashing envelope icon appeared on her monitor announcing the arrival of E-mail. Susan shot a quick glance toward Hale. He was absorbed in his work. She held her breath and double-clicked the envelope.

　"North Dakota," she whispered to herself. "Let's see who you are."

　When the E-mail opened, it was a single line. Susan read it. And then she read it again.

　DINNER AT ALFREDO'S? 8 PM?

　Across the room, Hale muffled a chuckle. Susan checked the message header.

　FROM: GHALE@crypto.nsa.gov

　Susan felt a surge of anger but fought it off. She deleted the message. "Very mature, Greg."

　"They make a great carpaccio." Hale smiled. "What do you say? Afterward we could--"

　"Forget it."

　"Snob." Hale sighed and turned back to his terminal. That was strike eighty-nine with Susan Fletcher. The brilliant female cryptographer was a constant frustration to him. Hale had often fantasized about having sex with her--pinning her against TRANSLTR's curved hull and taking her right there against the warm black tile. But Susan would have nothing to do with him. In Hale's mind, what made things worse was that she was in love with some university teacher who slaved for hours on end for peanuts. It would be a pity for Susan to dilute her superior gene pool procreating with some geek--particularly when she could have Greg. We'd have perfect children, he thought.

　"What are you working on?" Hale asked, trying a different approach.

　Susan said nothing.

　"Some team player you are. Sure I can't have a peek?" Hale stood and started moving around the circle of terminals toward her.

　Susan sensed that Hale's curiosity had the potential to cause some serious problems today. She made a snap decision. "It's a diagnostic," she offered, falling back on the commander's lie.

　Hale stopped in his tracks. "Diagnostic?" He sounded doubtful. "You're spending Saturday running a diagnostic instead of playing with the prof?"

　"His name is David."

　"Whatever."

　Susan glared at him. "Haven't you got anything better to do?"

　"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Hale pouted.

　"Actually, yes."

　"Gee, Sue, I'm hurt."

　Susan Fletcher's eyes narrowed. She hated being called Sue. She had nothing against the nickname, but Hale was the only one who'd ever used it.

　"Why don't I help you?" Hale offered. He was suddenly circling toward her again. "I'm great with diagnostics. Besides, I'm dying to see what diagnostic could make the mighty Susan Fletcher come to work on a Saturday."

　Susan felt a surge of adrenaline. She glanced down at the tracer on her screen. She knew she couldn't let Hale see it--he'd have too many questions. "I've got it covered, Greg," she said.

　But Hale kept coming. As he circled toward her terminal, Susan knew she had to act fast. Hale was only a few yards away when she made her move. She stood to meet his towering frame, blocking his way. His cologne was overpowering.

　She looked him straight in the eye. "I said no."

　Hale cocked his head, apparently intrigued by her odd display of secrecy. He playfully stepped closer. Greg Hale was not ready for what happened next.

　With unwavering cool, Susan pressed a single index finger against his rock-hard chest, stopping his forward motion.

　Hale halted and stepped back in shock. Apparently Susan Fletcher was serious; she had never touched him before, ever. It wasn't quite what Hale had had in mind for their first contact, but it was a start. He gave her a long puzzled look and slowly returned to his terminal. As he sat back down, one thing became perfectly clear: The lovely Susan Fletcher was working on something important, and it sure as hell wasn't any diagnostic.

　CHAPTER?28

　Seсor Roldбn was sitting behind his desk at Escortes Belйn congratulating himself for deftly sidestepping the Guardia's newest pathetic attempt to trap him. Having an officer fake a German accent and request a girl for the night--it was entrapment; what would they think of next?

　The phone on his desk buzzed loudly. Seсor Roldбn scooped up the receiver with a confident flair. "Buenas noches, Escortes Belйn."

　"Buenas noches," a man's voice said in lightning-fast Spanish. He sounded nasal, like he had a slight cold. "Is this a hotel?"

　"No, sir. What number are you dialing?" Seсor Roldбn was not going to fall for any more tricks this evening.

　"34-62-10," the voice said.

　Roldбn frowned. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. He tried to place the accent--Burgos, maybe? "You've dialed the correct number," Roldбn offered cautiously, "but this is an escort service."

　There was a pause on the line. "Oh... I see. I'm sorry. Somebody wrote down this number; I thought it was a hotel. I'm visiting here, from Burgos. My apologies for disturbing you. Good nigh--"

　"Espйre! Wait!" Seсor Roldбn couldn't help himself; he was a salesman at heart. Was this a referral? A new client from up north? He wasn't going to let a little paranoia blow a potential sale.

　"My friend," Roldбn gushed into the phone. "I thought I recognized a bit of a Burgos accent on you. I myself am from Valencia. What brings you to Seville?"

　"I sell jewelry. Majуrica pearls."

　"Majуricas, reeaally! You must travel quite a bit."

　The voice coughed sickly. "Well, yes, I do."

　"In Seville on business?" Roldбn pressed. There was no way in hell this guy was Guardia; he was a customer with a capital C. "Let me guess--a friend gave you our number? He told you to give us a call. Am I right?"