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　In a flurry of involuntary motion, Susan found herself groping wildly across stall doors and sinks. Disoriented, she spun through the blackness with her hands out in front of her and tried to picture the room. She knocked over a garbage can and found herself against a tiled wall. Following the wall with her hand, she scrambled toward the exit and fumbled for the door handle. She pulled it open and stumbled out onto the Crypto floor.

　There she froze for a second time.

　The Crypto floor looked nothing like it had just moments ago. TRANSLTR was a gray silhouette against the faint twilight coming in through the dome. All of the overhead lighting was dead. Not even the electronic keypads on the doors were glowing.

　As Susan's eyes became accustomed to the dark, she saw that the only light in Crypto was coming through the open trapdoor--a faint red glow from the utility lighting below. She moved toward it. There was the faint smell of ozone in the air.

　When she made it to the trapdoor, she peered into the hole. The freon vents were still belching swirling mist through the redness, and from the higher-pitched drone of the generators, Susan knew Crypto was running on backup power. Through the mist she could make out Strathmore standing on the platform below. He was leaning over the railing and staring into the depths of TRANSLTR's rumbling shaft.

　"Commander!"

　There was no response.

　Susan eased onto the ladder. The hot air from below rushed in under her skirt. The rungs were slippery with condensation. She set herself down on the grated landing.

　"Commander?"

　Strathmore did not turn. He continued staring down with a blank look of shock, as if in a trance. Susan followed his gaze over the banister. For a moment she could see nothing except wisps of steam. Then suddenly she saw it. A figure. Six stories below. It appeared briefly in the billows of steam. There it was again. A tangled mass of twisted limbs. Lying ninety feet below them, Phil Chartrukian was sprawled across the sharp iron fins of the main generator. His body was darkened and burned. His fall had shorted out Crypto's main power supply.

　But the most chilling image of all was not of Chartrukian but of someone else, another body, halfway down the long staircase, crouched, hiding in the shadows. The muscular frame was unmistakable. It was Greg Hale.

　CHAPTER?58

　The punk screamed at Becker, "Megan belongs to my friend Eduardo! You stay away from her!"

　"Where is she?" Becker's heart was racing out of control.

　"Fuck you!"

　"It's an emergency!" Becker snapped. He grabbed the kid's sleeve. "She's got a ring that belongs tome. I'll pay her for it! A lot!"

　Two-Tone stopped dead and burst into hysterics. "You mean that ugly, gold piece of shit is yours?"

　Becker's eyes widened. "You've seen it?"

　Two-Tone nodded coyly.

　"Where is it?" Becker demanded.

　"No clue." Two-Tone chuckled. "Megan was up here trying to hock it."

　"She was trying to sell it?"

　"Don't worry, man, she didn't have any luck. You've got shitty taste in jewelry."

　"Are you sure nobody bought it?"

　"Are you shitting me? For four hundred bucks? I told her I'd give her fifty, but she wanted more. She was trying to buy a plane ticket--standby."

　Becker felt the blood drain from his face. "Whereto?"

　"Fuckin' Connecticut," Two-tone snapped. "Eddie's bummin'."

　"Connecticut?"

　"Shit, yeah. Going back to Mommy and Daddy's mansion in the burbs. Hated her Spanish homestay family. Three Spic brothers always hitting on her. No fucking hot water."

　Becker felt a knot rise in his throat. "When is she leaving?"

　Two-Tone looked up. "When?" He laughed. "She's long gone by now. Went to the airport hours ago. Best spot to hock the ring--rich tourists and shit. Once she got the cash, she was flying out."

　A dull nausea swept through Becker's gut. This is some kind of sick joke, isn't it? He stood a long moment. "What's her last name?"

　Two-Tone pondered the question and shrugged.

　"What flight was she taking?"

　"She said something about the Roach Coach."

　"Roach Coach?"

　"Yeah. Weekend red-eye--Seville, Madrid, La Guardia. That's what they call it. College kids take it 'cause it's cheap. Guess they sit in back and smoke roaches."

　Great. Becker groaned, running a hand through his hair. "What time did it leave?"

　"Two a.m. sharp, every Saturday night. She's some whereover the Atlantic by now."

　Becker checked his watch. It read 1:45 p.m. He turned to Two-Tone, confused. "You said it's a two a.m. flight?"

　The punk nodded, laughing. "Looks like you're fucked, ol' man."

　Becker pointed angrily to his watch. "But it's only quarter to two!"

　Two-Tone eyed the watch, apparently puzzled. "Well, I'll be damned." he laughed. "I'm usually not this buzzed till four a.m.!"

　"What's the fastest way to the airport?" Becker snapped.

　"Taxi stand out front."

　Becker grabbed a 1,000-peseta note from his pocket and stuff edit in Two-Tone's hand.

　"Hey, man, thanks!" the punk called after him. "If you see Megan, tell her I said hi!" But Becker was already gone.

　Two-Tone sighed and staggered back toward the dance floor. He was too drunk to notice the man in wire-rim glasses following him.

　Outside, Becker scanned the parking lot for a taxi. There was none. He ran over to a stocky bouncer. "Taxi!"

　The bouncer shook his head. "Demasiado temprano. Too early."

　Too early? Becker swore. It's two o'clock in the morning!

　"Pнdame uno! Call me one!"

　The man pulled out a walkie-talkie. He said a few words and then signed off. "Veinte minutos," he offered.

　"Twenty minutes?!" Becker demanded. "Y elautobus?"

　The bouncer shrugged. "Forty-five minutos."

　Becker threw up his hands. Perfect!

　The sound of a small engine turned Becker's head. It sounded like a chainsaw. A big kid and his chain-clad date pulled into the parking lot on an old Vespa 250 motorcycle. The girl's skirt had blown high on her thighs. She didn't seem to notice. Becker dashed over. I can't believe I'm doing this, he thought. I hate motorcycles. He yelled to the driver. "I'll pay you ten thousand pesetas to take me to the airport!"

　The kid ignored him and killed the engine.

　"Twenty thousand!" Becker blurted. "I need to get to the airport!"

　The kid looked up. "Scusi?" He was Italian.

　"Aeropуrto! Per favore. Sulla Vespa! Venti mille pesete!"

　The Italian eyed his crummy, little bike and laughed. "Venti mille pesete? La Vespa?"

　"Cinquanta mille! Fifty thousand!" Becker offered. It was about four hundred dollars.

　The Italian laughed doubtfully. "Dov'й la plata? Where's the cash?"

　Becker pulled five 10,000-peseta notes from his pocket and held them out. The Italian looked at the money and then at his girlfriend. The girl grabbed the cash and stuffed it in her blouse.

　"Grazie!" the Italian beamed. He tossed Becker the keys to his Vespa. Then he grabbed his girlfriend's hand, and they ran off laughing into the building.

　"Aspetta!" Becker yelled. "Wait! I wanted a ride!"

　CHAPTER?59

　Susan reached for Commander Strathmore's hand as he helped her up the ladder onto the Crypto floor. The image of Phil Chartrukian lying broken on the generators was burned into her mind. The thought of Hale hiding in the bowels of Crypto had left her dizzy. The truth was inescapable--Hale had pushed Chartrukian.

　Susan stumbled past the shadow of TRANSLTR back toward Crypto's main exit--the door she'd come through hours earlier. Her frantic punching on the unlit keypad did nothing to move the huge portal. She was trapped; Crypto was a prison. The dome sat like a satellite, 109 yards away from the main NSA structure, accessible only through the main portal. Since Crypto made its own power, the switchboard probably didn't even know they were in trouble.

　"The main power's out," Strathmore said, arriving behind her. "We're on aux."

　The backup power supply in Crypto was designed so that TRANSLTR and its cooling systems took precedence over all other systems, including lights and doorways. That way an untimely power outage would not interrupt TRANSLTR during an important run. It also meant TRANSLTR would never run without its freon cooling system; in an uncooled enclosure, the heat generated by three million processors would rise to treacherous levels--perhaps even igniting the silicon chips and resulting in a fiery meltdown. It was an image no one dared consider.

　Susan fought to get her bearings. Her thoughts were consumed by the single image of the Sys-Sec on the generators. She stabbed at the keypad again. Still no response. "Abort the run!" she demanded. Telling TRANSLTR to stop searching for the Digital Fortress pass-key would shut down its circuits and free up enough backup power to get the doors working again.

　"Easy, Susan," Strathmore said, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder.

　The commander's reassuring touch lifted Susan from her daze. She suddenly remembered why she had been going to get him. She wheeled, "Commander! Greg Hale is North Dakota!"

　There was a seemingly endless beat of silence in the dark. Finally Strathmore replied. His voice sounded more confused than shocked. "What are you talking about?"

　"Hale..." Susan whispered. "He's North Dakota."

　There was more silence as Strathmore pondered Susan's words. "The tracer?" He seemed confused. "It fingered Hale?"

　"The tracer isn't back yet. Hale aborted it!"

　Susan went on to explain how Hale had stopped her tracer and how she'd found E-mail from Tankado in Hale's account. Another long moment of silence followed. Strathmore shook his head in disbelief.

　"There's no way Greg Hale is Tankado's insurance! It's absurd! Tankado would never trust Hale."

　"Commander," she said, "Hale sank us once before--Skipjack. Tankado trusted him."

　Strathmore could not seem to find words.

　"Abort TRANSLTR," Susan begged him. "We've got North Dakota. Call building security. Let's get out of here."

　Strathmore held up his hand requesting a moment to think.

　Susan looked nervously in the direction of the trapdoor. The opening was just out of sight behind TRANSLTR, but the reddish glow spilled out over the black tile like fire on ice. Come on, call Security, Commander! Abort TRANSLTR! Get us out of here!

　Suddenly Strathmore sprang to action. "Follow me," he said. He strode toward the trapdoor.

　"Commander! Hale is dangerous! He--"

　But Strathmore disappeared into the dark. Susan hurried to follow his silhouette. The commander circled around TRANSLTR and arrived over the opening in the floor. He peered into the swirling, steaming pit. Silently he looked around the darkened Crypto floor. Then he bent down and heaved the heavy trapdoor. It swung in a low arc. When he let go, it slammed shut with a deadening thud. Crypto was once again a silent, blackened cave. It appeared North Dakota was trapped.

　Strathmore knelt down. He turned the heavy butterfly lock. It spun into place. The sublevels were sealed.

　Neither he nor Susan heard the faint steps in the direction of Node 3.

　CHAPTER?60

　Two-tone headed through the mirrored corridor that led from the outside patio to the dance floor. As he turned to check his safety pin in the reflection, he sensed a figure looming up behind him. He spun, but it was too late. A pair of rocklike arms pinned his body face-first against the glass.

　The punk tried to twist around. "Eduardo? Hey, man, is that you?" Two-Tone felt a hand brush over his wallet before the figure leaned firmly into his back. "Eddie!" the punk cried. "Quit fooling around! Some guy was lookin' for Megan."

　The figure held him firmly.

　"Hey, Eddie, man, cut it out!" But when Two-Tone looked up into the mirror, he saw the figure pinning him was not his friend at all.

　The face was pockmarked and scarred. Two lifeless eyes stared out like coal from behind wire-rim glasses. The man leaned forward, placing his mouth against Two-Tone's ear. A strange, voice choked, "Adуnde fuй? Where'd he go?" The words sounded somehow misshapen.

　The punk froze, paralyzed with fear.

　"Adуnde fuй?" the voice repeated. "El Americano."

　"The... the airport. Aeropuerto," Two-Tone stammered.

　"Aeropuerto?" the man repeated, his dark eyes watching Two-Tone's lips in the mirror.

　The punk nodded.

　"Tenнa el anillo? Did he have the ring?"

　Terrified, Two-Tone shook his head. "No."

　"Viste el anillo? Did you see the ring?"

　Two-Tone paused. What was the right answer?

　"Viste el anillo?" the muffled voice demanded.

　Two-Tone nodded affirmatively, hoping honesty would pay. It did not. Seconds later he slid to the floor, his neck broken.

　CHAPTER?61

　Jabba lay on his back lodged halfway inside a dismantled mainframe computer. There was a penlight in his mouth, a soldering iron in his hand, and a large schematic blueprint propped on his belly. He had just finished attaching a new set of attenuators to a faulty motherboard when his cellular phone sprang to life.

　"Shit," he swore, groping for the receiver through a pile of cables. "Jabba here."

　"Jabba, it's Midge."

　He brightened. "Twice in one night? People are gonna start talking."

　"Crypto's got problems." Her voice was tense.

　Jabba frowned. "We been through this already. Remember?"

　"It's a power problem."

　"I'm not an electrician. Call Engineering."

　"The dome's dark."

　"You're seeing things. Go home." He turned back to his schematic.

　"Pitch black!" she yelled.