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　CHAPTER?72

　Susan Fletcher stumbled across the darkened Crypto floor toward Strathmore's catwalk. The commander's office was as far from Hale as Susan could get inside the locked complex.

　When Susan reached the top of the catwalk stairs, she found the commander's door hanging loosely, the electronic lock rendered ineffective by the power outage. She barged in.

　"Commander?" The only light inside was the glow of Strathmore's computer monitors. "Commander!" she called once again. "Commander!"

　Susan suddenly remembered that the commander was in the Sys-Sec lab. She turned circles in his empty office, the panic of her ordeal with Hale still in her blood. She had to get out of Crypto. Digital Fortress or no Digital Fortress, it was time to act--time to abort the TRANSLTR run and escape. She eyed Strathmore's glowing monitors then dashed to his desk. She fumbled with his keypad. Abort TRANSLTR! The task was simple now that she was on an authorized terminal. Susan called up the proper command window and typed:

　ABORT RUN

　Her finger hovered momentarily over the ENTER key.

　"Susan!" a voice barked from the doorway. Susanwheeled scared, fearing it was Hale. But it was not, it was Strathmore. He stood, pale and eerie in the electronic glow, his chest heaving. "What the hell's going on!"

　"Com... mander!" Susan gasped. "Hale's in Node 3! He just attacked me!"

　"What? Impossible! Hale's locked down in--"

　"No, he's not! He's loose! We need security inhere now! I'm aborting TRANSLTR!" Susan reached for the keypad.

　"DON'T TOUCH THAT!" Strathmore lunged for the terminal and pulled Susan's hands away.

　Susan recoiled, stunned. She stared at the commander and for the second time that day did not recognize him. Susan felt suddenly alone.

　* * *

　Strathmore saw the blood on Susan's shirt and immediately regretted his outburst. "Jesus, Susan. Are you okay?"

　She didn't respond.

　He wished he hadn't jumped on her unnecessarily. His nerves were frayed. He was juggling too much. There were things on his mind--things Susan Fletcher did not know about--things he had not told her and prayed he'd never have to.

　"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Tell me what happened."

　She turned away. "It doesn't matter. The blood's not mine. Just get me out of here."

　"Are you hurt?" Strathmore put a hand on her shoulder. Susan recoiled. He dropped his hand and looked away. When he looked back at Susan's face, she seemed to be staring over his shoulder at something on the wall.

　There, in the darkness, a small keypad glowed full force. Strathmore followed her gaze and frowned. He'd hoped Susan wouldn't notice the glowing control panel. The illuminated keypad controlled his private elevator. Strathmore and his high-powered guests used it to come and go from Crypto without advertising the fact to the rest of the staff. The personal lift dropped down fifty feet below the Crypto dome and then moved laterally 109 yards through a reinforced underground tunnel to the sublevels of the main NSA complex. The elevator connecting Crypto to the NSA was powered from the main complex; it was on-line despite Crypto's power outage.

　Strathmore had known all along it was on-line, but even as Susan had been pounding on the main exit downstairs, he hadn't mentioned it. He could not afford to let Susan out--not yet. He wondered how much he'd have to tell her to make her want to stay.

　Susan pushed past Strathmore and raced to the back wall. She jabbed furiously at the illuminated buttons.

　"Please," she begged. But the door did not open.

　"Susan," Strathmore said quietly. "The lift takes a password."

　"A password?" she repeated angrily. She glared at the controls. Below the main keypad was a second keypad--a smaller one, with tiny buttons. Each button was marked with a letter of the alphabet. Susan wheeled to him. "What is the password!" she demanded.

　Strathmore thought a moment and sighed heavily. "Susan, have a seat."

　Susan looked as if she could hardly believe her ears.

　"Have a seat," the commander repeated, his voice firm.

　"Let me out!" Susan shot an uneasy glance toward the commander's open office door.

　Strathmore eyed the panicked Susan Fletcher. Calmly he moved to his office door. He stepped out onto the landing and peered into the darkness. Hale was nowhere to be seen. The commander stepped back inside and pulled the door shut. Then he propped a chair in front to keep it closed, went to his desk, and removed something from a drawer. In the pale glow of the monitors Susan saw what he was holding. Her face went pale. It was a gun.

　Strathmore pulled two chairs into the middle of the room. He rotated them to face the closed office door. Then he sat. He lifted the glittering Beretta semi-automatic and aimed steadily at the slightly open door. After a moment he laid the gun back in his lap.

　He spoke solemnly. "Susan, we're safe here. We need to talk. If Greg Hale comes through that door..." He let it hang.

　Susan was speechless.

　Strathmore gazed at her in the dim light of his office. He patted the seat beside him. "Susan, sit. I have something to tell you." She did not move. "When I'm done, "he said, "I'll give you the password to the elevator. You can decide whether to leave or not."

　There was a long silence. In a daze, Susan moved across the office and sat next to Strathmore.

　"Susan," he began, "I haven't been entirely honest with you."

　CHAPTER?73

　David Becker felt as if his face had been doused in turpentine and ignited. He rolled over on the floor and squinted through bleary tunnel vision at the girl halfway to the revolving doors. She was running in short, terrified bursts, dragging her duffel behind her across the tile. Becker tried to pull himself to his feet, but he could not. He was blinded by red-hot fire. She can't get away!

　He tried to call out, but there was no air in his lungs, only a sickening pain. "No!" He coughed. The sound barely left his lips.

　Becker knew the second she went through the door, she would disappear forever. He tried to call out again, but his throat was searing.

　The girl had almost reached the revolving door. Becker staggered to his feet, gasping for breath. He stumbled after her. The girl dashed into the first compartment of the revolving door, dragging her duffel behind her. Twenty yards back, Becker was staggering blindly toward the door.

　"Wait!" He gasped. "Wait!"

　The girl pushed furiously on the inside of the door. The door began to rotate, but then it jammed. The blonde wheeled in terror and saw her duffel snagged in the opening. She knelt and pulled furiously to free it.

　Becker fixed his bleary vision on the fabric protruding through the door. As he dove, the red corner of nylon protruding from the crack was all he could see. He flew toward it, arms outstretched.

　As David Becker fell toward the door, his hands only inches away, the fabric slipped into the crack and disappeared. His fingers clutched empty air as the door lurched into motion. The girl and the duffel tumbled into the street outside.

　"Megan!" Becker wailed as hit the floor. White-hot needles shot through the back of his eye sockets. His vision tunneled to nothing, and a new wave of nausea rolled in. His own voice echoed in the blackness. Megan!

　* * *

　David Becker wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there before he became aware of the hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead. Everything else was still. Through the silence came a voice. Someone was calling. He tried to lift his head off the floor. The world was cockeyed, watery. Again the voice. He squinted down the concourse and saw a figure twenty yards away.

　"Mister?"

　Becker recognized the voice. It was the girl. She was standing at another entrance farther down the concourse, clutching her duffel to her chest. She looked more frightened now than she had before.

　"Mister?" she asked, her voice trembling. "I never told you my name. How come you know my name?"

　CHAPTER?74

　Director Leland Fontaine was a mountain of a man, sixty-three years old, with a close-cropped military haircut and a rigid demeanor. His jet-black eyes were like coal when he was irritated, which was almost always. He'd risen through the ranks of the NSA through hard work, good planning, and the well-earned respect of his predecessors. He was the first African American director of the National Security Agency, but nobody ever mentioned the distinction; Fontaine's politics were decidedly color-blind, and his staff wisely followed suit.

　Fontaine had kept Midge and Brinkerhoff standing as he went through the silent ritual of making himself a mug of Guatemalan java. Then he'd settled at his desk, left them standing, and questioned them like schoolchildren in the principal's office.

　Midge did the talking--explaining the unusual series of events that led them to violate the sanctity of Fontaine's office.

　"A virus?" the director asked coldly. "You two think we've got a virus?"

　Brinkerhoff winced.

　"Yes, sir," Midge snapped.

　"Because Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet?" Fontaine eyed the printout in front of him.

　"Yes," she said. "And there's a file that hasn't broken in over twenty hours!"

　Fontaine frowned. "Or so your data says."

　Midge was about to protest, but she held her tongue. Instead she went for the throat. "There's a blackout in Crypto."

　Fontaine looked up, apparently surprised.

　Midge confirmed with a curt nod. "All power's down. Jabba thought maybe--"

　"You called Jabba?"

　"Yes, sir, I--"

　"Jabba?" Fontaine stood up, furious. "Why the hell didn't you call Strathmore?"

　"We did!" Midge defended. "He said everything was fine."

　Fontaine stood, his chest heaving. "Then we have no reason to doubt him." There was closure in his voice. He took a sip of coffee. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

　Midge's jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon?"

　Brinkerhoff was already headed for the door, but Midge was cemented in place.

　"I said good night, Ms. Milken," Fontaine repeated. "You are excused."

　"But--but sir," she stammered, "I... I have to protest. I think--"

　"You protest?" the director demanded. He set down his coffee. "I protest! I protest to your presence in my office. I protest to your insinuations that the deputy director of this agency is lying. I protest--"

　"We have a virus, sir! My instincts tell me--"

　"Well, your instincts are wrong, Ms. Milken! For once, they're wrong!"

　Midge stood fast. "But, sir! Commander Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet!"

　Fontaine strode toward her, barely controlling his anger. "That is his prerogative! I pay you to watch analysts and service employees--not spy on the deputy director! If it weren't for him we'd still be breaking codes with pencil and paper! Now leave me!" He turned to Brinkerhoff, who stood in the doorway colorless and trembling. "Both of you."

　"With all due respect, sir," Midge said. "I'd like to recommend we send a Sys-Sec team to Crypto just to ensure--"

　"We will do no such thing!"

　After a tense beat, Midge nodded. "Very well. Goodnight." She turned and left. As she passed, Brinkerhoff could see in her eyes that she had no intention of letting this rest--not until her intuition was satisfied.

　Brinkerhoff gazed across the room at his boss, massive and seething behind his desk. This was not the director he knew. The director he knew was a stickler for detail, for neatly tied packages. He always encouraged his staff to examine and clarify any inconsistencies in daily procedure, no matter how minute. And yet here he was, asking them to turn their backs on a very bizarre series of coincidences.

　The director was obviously hiding something, but Brinkerhoff was paid to assist, not to question. Fontaine had proven over and over that he had everyone's best interests at heart; if assisting him now meant turning a blind eye, then so be it. Unfortunately, Midge was paid to question, and Brinkerhoff feared she was headed for Crypto to do just that.

　Time to get out the rйsumйs, Brinkerhoff thought as he turned to the door.

　"Chad!" Fontaine barked, from behind him. Fontaine had seen the look in Midge's eyes when she left. "Don't let her out of this suite."

　Brinkerhoff nodded and hustled after Midge.

　* * *

　Fontaine sighed and put his head in his hands. His sable eyes were heavy. It had been a long, unexpected trip home. The past month had been one of great anticipation for Leland Fontaine. There were things happening right now at the NSA that would change history, and ironically, Director Fontaine had found out about them only by chance.

　Three months ago, Fontaine had gotten news that Commander Strathmore's wife was leaving him. He'd also heard reports that Strathmore was working absurd hours and seemed about to crack under the pressure. Despite differences of opinion with Strathmore on many issues, Fontaine had always held his deputy director in the highest esteem; Strathmore was a brilliant man, maybe the best the NSA had. At the same time, ever since the Skipjack fiasco, Strathmore had been under tremendous stress. It made Fontaine uneasy; the commander held a lot of keys around the NSA--and Fontaine had an agency to protect.

　Fontaine needed someone to keep tabs on the wavering Strathmore and make sure he was 100 percent--but it was not that simple. Strathmore was a proud and powerful man; Fontaine needed a way to check up on the commander without undermining his confidence or authority.

　Fontaine decided, out of respect for Strathmore, to do the job himself. He had an invisible tap installed on Commander Strathmore's Crypto account--his E-mail, his interoffice correspondence, his brainstorms, all of it. If Strathmore was going to crack, the director would see warning signs in his work. But instead of signs of a breakdown, Fontaine uncovered the ground work for one of the most incredible intelligence schemes he'd ever encountered. It was no wonder Strathmore was busting his ass; if he could pull this plan off, it would make up for the Skipjack fiasco a hundred times over.