Becker nodded apologetically. "It's important."A matter of national security.

The concierge shook his head. "Impossible. Perhaps if youleft a-"

"It will only take a moment. Is she in the diningroom?"

The concierge shook his head. "Our dining room closed halfan hour ago. I'm afraid Rocio and her guest have retiredfor the evening. If you'd like to leave me a message, I cangive it to her in the morning." He motioned to the bank ofnumbered message boxes behind him.

"If I could just call her room and-"

"I'm sorry," the concierge said, his politenessevaporating. "The Alfonso XIII has strict policies regardingclient privacy." Becker had no intention of waiting ten hours for a fat man and aprost.i.tute to wander down for breakfast.

"I understand," Becker said. "Sorry to botheryou." He turned and walked back into the lobby. He strodedirectly to a cherry roll-top desk that had caught his eye on hisway in. It held a generous supply of Alfonso XIII postcards andstationery as well as pens and envelopes. Becker sealed a blankpiece of paper in an envelope and wrote one word on theenvelope.

ROCiO.

Then he went back to the concierge.

"I'm sorry to trouble you again," Becker saidapproaching sheepishly. "I'm being a bit of a fool, Iknow. I was hoping to tell Rocio personally how much I enjoyedour time together the other day. But I'm leaving town tonight.Perhaps I'll just leave her a note after all." Beckerlaid the envelope on the counter.

The concierge looked down at the envelope and clucked sadly tohimself. Another lovesick heteros.e.xual, he thought. Whata waste. He looked up and smiled. "But of course, Mr.... ?"

"Buisan," Becker said. "MiguelBuisan."

"Of course. I'll be sure Rocio gets this in themorning."

"Thank you." Becker smiled and turned to go.

The concierge, after discreetly checking out Becker'sbackside, scooped up the envelope off the counter and turned to thebank of numbered slots on the wall behind him. Just as the manslipped the envelope into one of the slots, Becker spun with onefinal inquiry.

"Where might I call a taxi?"

The concierge turned from the wall of cubbyholes and answered.But Becker did not hear his response. The timing had been perfect.The concierge's hand was just emerging from a box marked Suite301.

Becker thanked the concierge and slowly wandered off looking forthe elevator.

In and out, he repeated to himself.

CHAPTER 31

Susan returned to Node 3. Her conversation with Strathmore hadmade her increasingly anxious about David's safety. Herimagination was running wild.

"So," Hale spouted from his terminal. "What didStrathmore want? A romantic evening alone with his headcryptographer?"

Susan ignored the comment and settled in at her terminal. Shetyped her privacy code and the screen came to life. The tracerprogram came into view; it still had not returned any informationon North Dakota.

d.a.m.n, Susan thought. What's taking solong?

"You seem uptight," Hale said innocently. "Havingtrouble with your diagnostic?"

"Nothing serious," she replied. But Susan wasn'tso sure. The tracer was overdue. She wondered if maybe she'dmade a mistake while writing it. She began scanning the long linesof LIMBO programming on her screen, searching for anything thatcould be holding things up.

Hale observed her smugly. "Hey, I meant to ask you,"he ventured. "What do you make of that unbreakable algorithmEnsei Tankado said he was writing?"

Susan's stomach did a flip. She looked up."Unbreakable algorithm?" She caught herself. "Oh,yeah ... I think I read something about that."

"Pretty incredible claim."

"Yeah," Susan replied, wondering why Hale had suddenlybrought it up. "I don't buy it, though. Everyone knows anunbreakable algorithm is a mathematical impossibility."

Hale smiled. "Oh, yeah ... the BergofskyPrinciple."

"And common sense," she snapped.

"Who knows ..." Hale sighed dramatically."There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt ofin your philosophy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Shakespeare," Hale offered."Hamlet."

"Read a lot while you were in jail?" Hale chuckled. "Seriously, Susan, did you ever think thatmaybe it is possible, that maybe Tankado really didwrite an unbreakable algorithm?"

This conversation was making Susan uneasy. "Well, wecouldn't do it."

"Maybe Tankado's better than we are."

"Maybe." Susan shrugged, feigning disinterest.

"We corresponded for a while," Hale offered casually."Tankado and me. Did you know that?"

Susan looked up, attempting to hide her shock."Really?"

"Yeah. After I uncovered the Skipjack algorithm, he wroteme-said we were brothers in the global fight for digitalprivacy."

Susan could barely contain her disbelief. Hale knows Tankadopersonally! She did her best to look uninterested.

Hale went on. "He congratulated me for proving thatSkipjack had a back door-called it a coup for privacy rightsof civilians all over the world. You gotta admit, Susan, the backdoor in Skipjack was an underhanded play. Reading the world'sE-mail? If you ask me, Strathmore deserved to getcaught."

"Greg," Susan snapped, fighting her anger, "thatback door was so the NSA could decode E-mail that threatened thisnation's security."

"Oh, really?" Hale sighed innocently. "Andsnooping the average citizen was just a lucky by-product?"

"We don't snoop average citizens, and you know it. TheFBI can tap telephones, but that doesn't mean they listen toevery call that's ever made."

"If they had the manpower, they would."

Susan ignored the remark. "Governments should have theright to gather information that threatens the commongood."

"Jesus Christ"-Hale sighed-"you soundlike you've been brainwashed by Strathmore. You know d.a.m.n wellthe FBI can't listen in whenever they want- they'vegot to get a warrant. A spiked encryption standard would mean theNSA could listen in to anyone, anytime, anywhere."

"You're right-as we should be ableto!" Susan's voice was suddenly harsh. "If youhadn't uncovered the back door in Skipjack, we'd haveaccess to every code we need to break, instead of just whatTRANSLTR can handle." "If I hadn't found the back door," Hale argued,"someone else would have. I saved your a.s.ses by uncovering itwhen I did. Can you imagine the fallout if Skipjack had been incirculation when the news broke?"

"Either way," Susan shot back, "now we'vegot a paranoid EFF who think we put back doors in all ouralgorithms."

Hale asked smugly, "Well, don't we?"

Susan eyed him coldly.

"Hey," he said, backing off, "the point is mootnow anyway. You built TRANSLTR.

You've got your instantinformation source. You can read what you want, whenyou want-no questions asked. You win."

"Don't you mean we win? Last I heard, youworked for the NSA."

"Not for long," Hale chirped.

"Don't make promises."

"I'm serious. Someday I'm getting out ofhere."

"I'll be crushed."

In that moment, Susan found herself wanting to curse Hale foreverything that wasn't going right. She wanted to curse himfor Digital Fortress, for her troubles with David, for the factthat she wasn't in the Smokys-but none of it was hisfault. Hale's only fault was that he was obnoxious. Susanneeded to be the bigger person. It was her responsibility as headcryptographer to keep the peace, to educate. Hale was young andnaive.

Susan looked over at him. It was frustrating, she thought, thatHale had the talent to be an a.s.set in Crypto, but he stillhadn't grasped the importance of what the NSA did.

"Greg," Susan said, her voice quiet and controlled,"I'm under a lot of pressure today.

I just get upset whenyou talk about the NSA like we're some kind of high- techpeeping Tom. This organization was founded for one purpose-toprotect the security of this nation. That may involve shaking a fewtrees and looking for the bad apples from time to time. I thinkmost citizens would gladly sacrifice some privacy to know that thebad guys can't maneuver unchecked."

Hale said nothing.

"Sooner or later," Susan argued, "the people ofthis nation need to put their trust somewhere. There's a lotof good out there-but there's also a lot of bad mixed in.Someone has to have access to all of it and separate the right fromwrong. That's our job. That's our duty. Whether we likeit or not, there is a frail gate separating democracy from anarchy.The NSA guards that gate." Hale nodded thoughtfully. "Quis custodiet ipsoscustodes?"

Susan looked puzzled.

"It's Latin," Hale said. "From Satires of Juvenal. It means 'Who will guard theguards?' "

"I don't get it," Susan said. " 'Whowill guard the guards?' "

"Yeah. If we're the guards of society, then whowill watch us and make sure that we're notdangerous?"

Susan nodded, unsure how to respond.

Hale smiled. "It's how Tankado signed all his lettersto me. It was his favorite saying."

CHAPTER 32

David Becker stood in the hallway outside suite 301. He knewthat somewhere behind the ornately carved door was the ring. Amatter of national security.

Becker could hear movement inside the room. Faint talking. Heknocked. A deep German accent called out.

"Ja?"

Becker remained silent.

"Ja?"

The door opened a crack, and a rotund Germanic face gazed downat him.

Becker smiled politely. He did not know the man's name."Deutscher, ja?" he asked.

"German, right?"

The man nodded, uncertain.

Becker continued in perfect German. "May I speak to you amoment?"

The man looked uneasy. "Was willst du? What do youwant?" Becker realized he should have rehea.r.s.ed this before brazenlyknocking on a stranger's door. He searched for the rightwords. "You have something I need."

These were apparently not the right words. The German'seyes narrowed.

"Ein ring," Becker said. "Du hast einen Ring. Youhave a ring."

"Go away," the German growled. He started to close thedoor. Without thinking, Becker slid his foot into the crack andjammed the door open. He immediately regretted the action.

The German's eyes went wide. "Was tust du?" hedemanded. "What are you doing?"

Becker knew he was in over his head. He glanced nervously up anddown the hall.

He'd already been thrown out of the clinic; hehad no intention of going two for two.

"Nimm deinen Fu weg!" the German bellowed."Remove your foot!"

Becker scanned the man's pudgy fingers for a ring. Nothing.I'm so close, he thought.