第 20 页

　In a situation like this, Chartrukian knew there was only one person to call: the NSA's senior Sys-Sec officer, the short-fused, 400-pound computer guru who had built Gauntlet. His nickname was Jabba. He was a demigod at the NSA--roaming the halls, putting out virtual fires, and cursing the feeblemindedness of the inept and the ignorant. Chartrukian knew that as soon as Jabba heard Strathmore had bypassed Gauntlet's filters, all hell would break loose. Too bad, he thought, I've got a job to do. He grabbed the phone and dialed Jabba's twenty-four-hour cellular.

　CHAPTER?45

　David Becker wandered aimlessly down Avenida del Cid and tried to collect his thoughts. Muted shadows played on the cobblestones beneath his feet. The vodka was still with him. Nothing about his life seemed in focus at the moment. His mind drifted back to Susan, wondering if she'd gotten his phone message yet.

　Up ahead, a Seville Transit Bus screeched to a halt in front of a bus stop. Becker looked up. The bus's doors cranked open, but no one disembarked. The diesel engine roared back to life, but just as the bus was pulling out, three teenagers appeared out of a bar up the street and ran after it, yelling and waving. The engines wound down again, and the kids hurried to catch up.

　Thirty yards behind them, Becker stared in utter incredulity. His vision was suddenly focused, but he knew what he was seeing was impossible. It was a one-in-a-million chance.

　I'm hallucinating.

　But as the bus doors opened, the kids crowded around to board. Becker saw it again. This time he was certain. Clearly illuminated in the haze of the corner streetlight, he'd seen her.

　The passengers climbed on, and the bus's engines revved up again. Becker suddenly found himself at a full sprint, the bizarre image fixed in his mind--black lipstick, wild eye shadow, and that hair... spiked straight up in three distinctive spires. Red, white, and blue.

　As the bus started to move, Becker dashed up the street into awake of carbon monoxide.

　"Espera!" he called, running behind the bus.

　Becker's cordovan loafers skimmed the pavement. His usual squash agility was not with him, though; he felt off balance. His brain was having trouble keeping track of his feet. He cursed the bartender and his jet lag.

　The bus was one of Seville's older diesels, and fortunately for Becker, first gear was a long, arduous climb. Becker felt the gap closing. He knew he had to reach the bus before it downshifted.

　The twin tailpipes choked out a cloud of thick smoke as the driver prepared to drop the bus into second gear. Becker strained for more speed. As he surged even with the rear bumper, Becker moved right, racing up beside the bus. He could see the rear doors--and as on all Seville buses, it was propped wide open: cheap air-conditioning.

　Becker fixed his sights on the opening and ignored the burning sensation in his legs. The tires were beside him, shoulder high, humming at a higher and higher pitch every second. He surged toward the door, missing the handle and almost losing his balance. He pushed harder. Underneath the bus, the clutch clicked as the driver prepared to change gears.

　He's shifting! I won't make it!

　But as the engine cogs disengaged to align the larger gears, the bus let up ever so slightly. Becker lunged. The engine reengaged just as his fingertips curled around the door handle. Becker's shoulder almost ripped from its socket as the engine dug in, catapulting him up onto the landing.

　* * *

　David Becker lay collapsed just inside the vehicle's doorway. The pavement raced by only inches away. He was now sober. His legs and shoulder ached. Wavering, he stood, steadied himself, and climbed into the darkened bus. In the crowd of silhouettes, only a few seats away, were the three distinctive spikes of hair.

　Red, white, and blue! I made it!

　Becker's mind filled with images of the ring, the waiting Learjet 60, and at the end of it all, Susan.

　As Becker came even with the girl's seat wondering what to say to her, the bus passed beneath a streetlight. The punk's face was momentarily illuminated.

　Becker stared in horror. The makeup on her face was smeared across a thick stubble. She was not a girl at all, but a young man. He wore a silver stud in his upper lip, a black leather jacket, and no shirt.

　"What the fuck do you want?" the hoarse voice asked. His accent was New York.

　With the disorientated nausea of a slow-motion free fall, Becker gazed at the busload of passengers staring back at him. They were all punks. At least half of them had red, white, and blue hair.

　"Siйntate!" the driver yelled.

　Becker was too dazed to hear.

　"Siйntate!" The driver screamed. "Sit down!"

　Becker turned vaguely to the angry face in the rearview mirror. But he had waited too long.

　Annoyed, the driver slammed down hard on the brakes. Becker felt his weight shift. He reached for a seat back but missed. For an instant, David Becker was airborne. Then he landed hard on the gritty floor.

　On Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. He adjusted his wire-rim glasses and peered after the departing bus. David Becker had escaped, but it would not be for long. Of all the buses in Seville, Mr. Becker had just boarded the infamous number 27.

　Bus 27 had only one destination.

　CHAPTER?46

　Phil Chartrukian slammed down his receiver. Jabba's line was busy; Jabba spurned call-waiting as an intrusive gimmick that was introduced by AT&T to increase profits by connecting every call; the simple phrase "I'm on the other line, I'll call you back" made phone companies millions annually. Jabba's refusal of call-waiting was his own brand of silent objection to the NSA's requirement that he carry an emergency cellular at all times.

　Chartrukian turned and looked out at the deserted Crypto floor. The hum of the generators below sounded louder every minute. He sensed that time was running out. He knew he was supposed to leave, but from out of the rumble beneath Crypto, the Sys-Sec mantra began playing in his head: Act first, explain later.

　In the high-stakes world of computer security, minutes often meant the difference between saving a system or losing it. There was seldom time to justify a defensive procedure before taking it. Sys-Secs were paid for their technical expertise... and their instinct.

　Act first, explain later. Chartrukian knew what he had to do. He also knew that when the dust settled, he would be either an NSA hero or in the unemployment line.

　The great decoding computer had a virus--of that, the Sys-Sec was certain. There was one responsible course of action. Shut it down.

　Chartrukian knew there were only two ways to shut down TRANSLTR. One was the commander's private terminal, which was locked in his office--out of the question. The other was the manual kill-switch located on one of the sublevels beneath the Crypto floor.

　Chartrukian swallowed hard. He hated the sublevels. He'd only been there once, during training. It was like something out of an alien world with its long mazes of catwalks, freon ducts, and a dizzy 136-foot drop to the rumbling power supplies below...

　It was the last place he felt like going, and Strathmore was the last person he felt like crossing, but duty was duty. They'll thank me tomorrow, he thought, wondering if he was right.

　Taking a deep breath, Chartrukian opened the senior Sys-Sec's metal locker. On a shelf of disassembled computer parts, hidden behind a media concentrator and LAN tester, was a Stanford alumni mug. Without touching the rim, he reached inside and lifted out a single Medeco key.

　"It's amazing," he grumbled, "what System-Security officers don't know about security."

　CHAPTER?47

　"A billion-dollar code?" Midge snickered, accompanying Brinkerhoff back up the hallway. "That's a good one."

　"I swear it," he said.

　She eyed him askance. "This better not be some ploy to get me out of this dress."

　"Midge, I would never--" he said self-righteously.

　"I know, Chad. Don't remind me."

　Thirty seconds later, Midge was sitting in Brinkerhoff's chair and studying the Crypto report.

　"See?" he said, leaning over her and pointing to the figure in question. "This MCD? A billion dollars!"

　Midge chuckled. "It does appear to be a touch on the high side, doesn't it?"

　"Yeah." He groaned. "Just a touch."

　"Looks like a divide-by-zero."

　"A who?"

　"A divide-by-zero," she said, scanning the rest of the data. "The MCD's calculated as a fraction--total expense divided by number of decryptions."

　"Of course." Brinkerhoff nodded blankly and tried not to peer down the front of her dress.

　"When the denominator's zero," Midge explained, "the quotient goes to infinity. Computers hate infinity, so they type all nines." She pointed to a different column. "See this?"

　"Yeah." Brinkerhoff refocused on the paper.

　"It's today's raw production data. Take a look at the number of decryptions."

　Brinkerhoff dutifully followed her finger down the column.

　NUMBER OF DECRYPTIONS = 0

　Midge tapped on the figure. "It's just as I suspected. Divide-by-zero."

　Brinkerhoff arched his eyebrows. "So everything's okay?"

　She shrugged. "Just means we haven't broken any codes today. TRANSLTR must be taking a break."

　"A break?" Brinkerhoff looked doubtful. He'd been with the director long enough to know that "breaks" were not part of his preferred modus operandi--particularly with respect to TRANSLTR. Fontaine had paid $2 billion for the code-breaking behemoth, and he wanted his money's worth. Every second TRANSLTR sat idle was money down the toilet.

　"Ah... Midge?" Brinkerhoff said. "TRANSLTR doesn't take any breaks. It runs day and night. You know that."

　She shrugged. "Maybe Strathmore didn't feel like hanging out last night to prepare the weekend run. He probably knew Fontaine was away and ducked out early to go fishing."

　"Come on, Midge." Brinkerhoff gave her disgusted look. "Give the guy a break."

　It was no secret Midge Milken didn't like Trevor Strathmore. Strathmore had attempted a cunning maneuver rewriting Skipjack, but he'd been caught. Despite Strathmore's bold intentions, the NSA had paid dearly. The EFF had gained strength, Fontaine had lost credibility with Congress, and worst of all, the agency had lost a lot of its anonymity. There were suddenly housewives in Minnesota complaining to America Online and Prodigy that the NSA might be reading their E-mail--like the NSA gave a damn about a secret recipe for candied yams.

　Strathmore's blunder had cost the NSA, and Midge felt responsible--not that she could have anticipated the commander's stunt, but the bottom line was that an unauthorized action had taken place behind Director Fontaine's back, a back Midge was paid to cover. Fontaine's hands-off attitude made him susceptible; and it made Midge nervous. But the director had learned long ago to stand back and let smart people do their jobs; that's exactly how he handled Trevor Strathmore.

　"Midge, you know damn well Strathmore's not slacking," Brinkerhoff argued. "He runs TRANSLTR like a fiend."

　Midge nodded. Deep down, she knew that accusing Strathmore of shirking was absurd. The commander was as dedicated as they came--dedicated to a fault. He bore the evils of the world as his own personal cross. The NSA's Skipjack plan had been Strathmore's brainchild--a bold attempt to change the world. Unfortunately, like so many divine quests, this crusade ended in crucifixion.

　"Okay," she admitted, "so I'm being a little harsh."

　"A little?" Brinkerhoff eyes narrowed. "Strathmore's got a backlog of files a mile long. He's not about to let TRANSLTR sit idle for a whole weekend."

　"Okay, okay." Midge sighed. "My mistake." She furrowed her brow and puzzled why TRANSLTR hadn't broken any codes all day. "Let me double-check something," she said, and began flipping through the report. She located what she was looking for and scanned the figures. After a moment she nodded. "You're right, Chad. TRANSLTR's been running full force. Raw consumables are even a little on the high side; we're at over half a million kilowatt-hours since midnight last night."

　"So where does that leave us?"

　Midge was puzzled. "I'm not sure. It's odd."

　"You want to rerun the data?"

　She gave him a disapproving stare. There were two things one never questioned about Midge Milken. One of them was her data. Brinkerhoff waited while Midge studied the figures.

　"Huh." She finally grunted. "Yesterday's stats look fine: 237 codes broken. MCD, $874. Average time per code, a little over six minutes. Raw consumables, average. Last code entering TRANSLTR--" She stopped.

　"What is it?"

　"That's funny," she said. "Last file on yesterday's queue log ran at 11:37 p.m."

　"So?"

　"So, TRANSLTR breaks codes every six minutes or so. The last file of the day usually runs closer to midnight. It sure doesn't look like--" Midge suddenly stopped short and gasped.

　Brinkerhoff jumped. "What!"

　Midge was staring at the readout in disbelief. "This file? The one that entered TRANSLTR last night?"

　"Yeah?"

　"It hasn't broken yet. It's queue time was 23:37:08--but it lists no decrypt time." Midge fumbled with the sheets. "Yesterday or today!"

　Brinkerhoff shrugged. "Maybe those guys are running a tough diagnostic."

　Midge shook her head. "Eighteen hours tough?" She paused. "Not likely. Besides, the queue data says it's an outside file. We should call Strathmore."

　"At home?" Brinkerhoff swallowed. "On a Saturday night?"

　"No," Midge said. "If I know Strathmore, he's on top of this. I'll bet good money he's here. Just a hunch." Midge's hunches were the other thing one never questioned. "Come on," she said, standing up. "Let's see if I'm right."

　* * *

　Brinkerhoff followed Midge to her office, where she sat down and began to work Big Brother's keypads like a virtuoso pipe organist.