"La Guia Telefonica-yellow pages." "Yes, sir, that's because we are an escortservice."

"Yes. I want escort." Becker sensed something waswrong.

"Sir, Escortes Belen is a service providing escorts tobusinessmen for luncheons and dinners. This is why we are listed inthe phone book. What we do is legal. What you are looking for is aprost.i.tute." The word slid off his tongue like a viledisease.

"But my brother ..."

"Sir, if your brother spent the day kissing a girl in thepark, she was not one of ours.

We have strict regulations aboutclient-escort contact."

"But ..."

"You have us confused with someone else. We only have tworedheads, Inmaculada and Rocio, and neither would allow a manto sleep with them for money. That is called prost.i.tution, and itis illegal in Spain. Good night, sir."

"But-"

CLICK.

Becker swore under his breath and dropped the phone back intoits cradle. Strike three.

He was certain Cloucharde had said theGerman had hired the girl for the entire weekend.

Becker stepped out of the phone booth at the intersection ofCalle Salado and Avenida Asuncion. Despite the traffic, thesweet scent of Seville oranges hung all around him.

It wastwilight-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 Clinica de Salud Publica, visiting hourswere over. The gymnasium lights had been turned out. PierreCloucharde was fast asleep. He did not see the figure hunched overhim. The needle of a stolen syringe glinted in the dark. Then itdisappeared into the IV tube just above Cloucharde's wrist.The hypodermic contained 30 cc of cleaning fluid stolen from ajanitor's cart. With great force, a strong thumb rammed theplunger down and forced the bluish liquid into the old man'sveins.

Cloucharde was awake only for a few seconds. He might havescreamed in pain had a strong hand not been clamped across hismouth. He lay trapped on his cot, pinned beneath a seeminglyimmovable weight. He could feel the pocket of fire searing its wayup his arm. There was an excruciating pain traveling through hisarmpit, his chest, and then, like a million shattering pieces ofgla.s.s, it hit his brain. Cloucharde saw a brilliant flash of light... and then nothing.

The visitor released his grip and peered through the darkness atthe name on the medical chart. Then he slipped silently out.

On the street, the man in wire-rim gla.s.ses reached to a tinydevice attached to his belt.

The rectangular pack was about thesize of a credit card. It was a prototype of the new Monoclecomputer. Developed by the U.S. Navy to help technicians recordbattery voltages in cramped quarters on submarines, the miniaturecomputer packed a cellular modem and the newest advances inmicrotechnology. Its visual monitor was a transparent liquidcrystal display, mounted in the left lens of a pair of eyegla.s.ses.The Monocle reflected a whole new age in personal computing; theuser could now look through his data and still interact withthe world around him.

The Monocle's real coup, though, was not its miniaturedisplay but rather its data entry system. A user enteredinformation via tiny contacts fixed to his fingertips; touching thecontacts together in sequence mimicked a shorthand similar to courtstenography.

The computer would then translate the shorthand intoEnglish.

The killer pressed a tiny switch, and his gla.s.ses flickered tolife. His hands inconspicuously at his sides, he began touchingdifferent fingertips together in rapid succession. A messageappeared before his eyes.

SUBJECT: P. CLOUCHARDE-TERMINATED He smiled. Transmitting notification of kills was part of hisa.s.signment. But including victim's names ... that, to theman in the wire-rim gla.s.ses, was elegance. His fingers flashedagain, and his cellular modem activated.

MESSAGE SENT

CHAPTER 26 Sitting on the bench across from the public clinic, Beckerwondered what he was supposed to do now. His calls to the escortagencies had turned up nothing. The commander, uneasy aboutcommunication over unsecured public phones, had asked David not tocall again until he had the ring. Becker considered going to thelocal police for help-maybe they had a record of a red-headedhooker-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-outdistrict of Triana in search of this mystery woman. Or maybe he wa.s.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 matterof national security ... you must find that ring.

A voice in the back of Becker's head told him he'dmissed something-something crucial-but for the life ofhim, he couldn't think what it would be. I'm ateacher, not a d.a.m.ned secret agent! He was beginning to wonderwhy Strathmore hadn't sent a professional.

Becker stood up and walked aimlessly down Calle Deliciaspondering his options. The cobblestone sidewalk blurred beneath hisgaze. Night was falling fast.

Dewdrop.

There was something about that absurd name that nagged at theback of his mind.

Dewdrop. The slick voice of SenorRoldan at Escortes Belen was on endless loop in his head."We only have two redheads ... Two redheads, Inmaculadaand Rocio ...

Rocio ... Rocio . .."

Becker stopped short. He suddenly knew. And I call myself alanguage specialist? He couldn't believe he'd missedit.

Rocio was one of the most popular girl's names inSpain. It carried all the right implications for a young Catholicgirl-purity, virginity, natural beauty. The connotations ofpurity all stemmed from the name's literalmeaning-Drop of Dew!

The old Canadian's voice rang in Becker's ears. Dewdrop. Rocio had translated her name to the onlylanguage she and her client had in common-English.

Excited,Becker hurried off to find a phone.

Across the street, a man in wire-rim gla.s.ses followed just outof 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 hertracer. It was taking longer than expected.

Her mind had been wandering-missing David and willing GregHale to go home.

Although Hale hadn't budged, thankfullyhe'd been silent, engrossed in whatever he was doing at histerminal. Susan couldn't care less what Hale was doing, aslong as he didn't access the Run-Monitor. He obviouslyhadn't-sixteen hours would have brought an audible yelpof disbelief.

Susan was sipping her third cup of tea when it finallyhappened-her terminal beeped once. Her pulse quickened. Aflashing envelope icon appeared on her monitor announcing thearrival of E-mail. Susan shot a quick glance toward Hale. He wasabsorbed in his work. She held her breath and double-clicked theenvelope.

"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. Andthen she read it again.

DINNER AT ALFREDO'S? 8 PM?

Across the room, Hale m.u.f.fled a chuckle. Susan checked themessage header.

FROM: Susan felt a surge of anger but fought it off. She deleted themessage. "Very mature, Greg."

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

"Forget it."

"Sn.o.b." Hale sighed and turned back to his terminal.That was strike eighty-nine with Susan Fletcher. The brilliantfemale cryptographer was a constant frustration to him.

Hale hadoften fantasized about having s.e.x with her-pinning her againstTRANSLTR's curved hull and taking her right there against thewarm black tile. But Susan would have nothing to do with him. InHale's mind, what made things worse was that she was in lovewith some university teacher who slaved for hours on end forpeanuts. It would be a pity for Susan to dilute her superior genepool procreating with some geek-particularly when she couldhave Greg. We'd have perfect children, he thought.

"What are you working on?" Hale asked, trying adifferent approach. Susan said nothing.

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

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

Hale stopped in his tracks. "Diagnostic?" He soundeddoubtful. "You're spending Sat.u.r.day running a diagnosticinstead of playing with the prof?"

"His name is David."

"Whatever."

Susan glared at him. "Haven't you got anything betterto 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 onewho'd ever used it.

"Why don't I help you?" Hale offered. He wa.s.suddenly circling toward her again.

"I'm great withdiagnostics. Besides, I'm dying to see what diagnostic couldmake the mighty Susan Fletcher come to work on aSat.u.r.day."

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

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

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

Hale c.o.c.ked his head, apparently intrigued by her odd display ofsecrecy. He playfully stepped closer. Greg Hale was not ready forwhat happened next.

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

Hale halted and stepped back in shock. Apparently Susan Fletcherwas serious; she had never touched him before, ever. Itwasn't quite what Hale had had in mind for their firstcontact, but it was a start. He gave her a long puzzled look andslowly returned to his terminal. As he sat back down, one thingbecame perfectly clear: The lovely Susan Fletcher was working onsomething important, and it sure as h.e.l.l wasn't anydiagnostic.

CHAPTER 28

Senor Roldan was sitting behind his desk at EscortesBelen congratulating himself for deftly sidestepping theGuardia's newest pathetic attempt to trap him. Having anofficer fake a German accent and request a girl for thenight-it was entrapment; what would they think of next?

The phone on his desk buzzed loudly. Senor Roldanscooped up the receiver with a confident flair. "Buenasnoches, Escortes Belen."

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

"No, sir. What number are you dialing?" SenorRoldan was not going to fall for any more tricks thisevening.

"34-62-10," the voice said.

Roldan frowned. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Hetried to place the accent- Burgos, maybe? "You'vedialed the correct number," Roldan offered cautiously,"but this is an escort service."

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

"Espere! Wait!" Senor Roldancouldn't help himself; he was a salesman at heart. Was this areferral? A new client from up north? He wasn't going to let alittle paranoia blow a potential sale.

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

"I sell jewelry. Majorica pearls."

"Majoricas, reeaally! You must travel quite abit." The voice coughed sickly. "Well, yes, I do."