"Sientate!" the driver yelled.

Becker was too dazed to hear.

"Sientate!" 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 felthis weight shift.

He reached for a seat back but missed. For aninstant, David Becker was airborne.

Then he landed hard on thegritty floor.

On Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. Headjusted his wire-rim gla.s.ses and peered after the departing bus.David Becker had escaped, but it would not be for long. Of all thebuses in Seville, Mr. Becker had just boarded the infamous number27.

Bus 27 had only one destination.

CHAPTER 46

Phil Chartrukian slammed down his receiver. Jabba's linewas busy; Jabba spurned call-waiting as an intrusive gimmick thatwas introduced by AT&T to increase profits by connecting everycall; the simple phrase "I'm on the other line, I'llcall you back"

made phone companies millions annually.Jabba's refusal of call-waiting was his own brand of silentobjection to the NSA's requirement that he carry an emergencycellular at all times.

Chartrukian turned and looked out at the deserted Crypto floor.The hum of the generators below sounded louder every minute. Hesensed that time was running out.

He knew he was supposed to leave,but from out of the rumble beneath Crypto, the Sys-Sec mantra beganplaying in his head: Act first, explain later.

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

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

The great decoding computer had a virus-of that, theSys-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 inhis office-out of the question. The other was the manualkill-switch located on one of the sublevels beneath the Cryptofloor.

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

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

Taking a deep breath, Chartrukian opened the seniorSys-Sec's metal locker. On a shelf of disa.s.sembled computerparts, hidden behind a media concentrator and LAN tester, was aStanford alumni mug. Without touching the rim, he reached insideand lifted out a single Medeco key.

"It's amazing," he grumbled, "whatSystem-Security officers don't know aboutsecurity."

CHAPTER 47

"A billion-dollar code?" Midge snickered, accompanyingBrinkerhoff back up the hallway. "That's a goodone."

"I swear it," he said.

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

"Midge, I would never-" he saidself-righteously.

"I know, Chad. Don't remind me."

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

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

Midge chuckled. "It does appear to be a touch on thehigh 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 thedata. "The MCD's calculated as a fraction-totalexpense divided by number of decryptions."

"Of course." Brinkerhoff nodded blankly and tried notto peer down the front of her dress.

"When the denominator's zero," Midge explained,"the quotient goes to infinity.

Computers hate infinity, sothey 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 atthe 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'sokay?"

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

"A break?" Brinkerhoff looked doubtful. He'd beenwith the director long enough to know that "breaks" werenot part of his preferred modus operandi-particularly withrespect to TRANSLTR. Fontaine had paid $2 billion for thecode-breaking behemoth, and he wanted his money's worth. Everysecond TRANSLTR sat idle was money down the toilet.

"Ah ... Midge?" Brinkerhoff said. "TRANSLTRdoesn't take any breaks. It runs day and night. You knowthat."

She shrugged. "Maybe Strathmore didn't feel likehanging out last night to prepare the weekend run. He probably knewFontaine 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 TrevorStrathmore. Strathmore had attempted a cunning maneuver rewritingSkipjack, but he'd been caught. Despite Strathmore's boldintentions, the NSA had paid dearly. The EFF had gained strength,Fontaine had lost credibility with Congress, and worst of all, theagency had lost a lot of its anonymity. There were suddenlyhousewives in Minnesota complaining to America Online and Prodigythat the NSA might be reading their E-mail-like the NSA gave ad.a.m.n about a secret recipe for candied yams.

Strathmore's blunder had cost the NSA, and Midge feltresponsible-not that she could have antic.i.p.ated thecommander's stunt, but the bottom line was that anunauthorized action had taken place behind Director Fontaine'sback, a back Midge was paid to cover. Fontaine's hands-offatt.i.tude made him susceptible; and it made Midge nervous. But thedirector had learned long ago to stand back and let smart people dotheir jobs; that's exactly how he handled TrevorStrathmore.

"Midge, you know d.a.m.n well Strathmore's notslacking," Brinkerhoff argued. "He runs TRANSLTR like afiend."

Midge nodded. Deep down, she knew that accusing Strathmore ofshirking was absurd. The commander was as dedicated as theycame-dedicated to a fault. He bore the evils of the world ashis own personal cross. The NSA's Skipjack plan had beenStrathmore's brainchild-a bold attempt to change theworld. Unfortunately, like so many divine quests, this crusadeended in crucifixion.

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

"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 wholeweekend."

"Okay, okay." Midge sighed. "My mistake."She furrowed her brow and puzzled why TRANSLTR hadn't brokenany codes all day. "Let me double-check something,"

shesaid, and began flipping through the report. She located what shewas looking for and scanned the figures. After a moment she nodded."You're right, Chad.

TRANSLTR's been running fullforce. Raw consumables are even a little on the high side;we're at over half a million kilowatt-hours since midnightlast night."

"So where does that leave us?"

Midge was puzzled. "I'm not sure. It'sodd."

"You want to rerun the data?"

She gave him a disapproving stare. There were two things onenever questioned about Midge Milken. One of them was her data.Brinkerhoff waited while Midge studied the figures.

"Huh." She finally grunted. "Yesterday'sstats look fine: 237 codes broken. MCD, $874. Average time percode, a little over six minutes. Raw consumables, average.

Lastcode entering TRANSLTR-" She stopped.

"What is it?"

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

"So, TRANSLTR breaks codes every six minutes or so. Thelast file of the day usually runs closer to midnight. It suredoesn't look like-" Midge suddenly stopped short andgasped.

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 was23:37:08-but it lists no decrypt time."

Midgefumbled with the sheets. "Yesterday or today!"

Brinkerhoff shrugged. "Maybe those guys are running a toughdiagnostic."

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

"At home?" Brinkerhoff swallowed. "On a Sat.u.r.daynight?"

"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 onenever questioned.

"Come on," she said, standing up."Let's see if I'm right."

Brinkerhoff followed Midge to her office, where she sat down andbegan to work Big Brother's keypads like a virtuoso pipeorganist.

Brinkerhoff gazed up at the array of closed-caption videomonitors on her wall, their screens all freeze frames of the NSAseal. "You're gonna snoop Crypto?" he askednervously.

"Nope," Midge replied. "Wish I could, butCrypto's a sealed deal. It's got no video.

No sound. Nonothing. Strathmore's orders. All I've got is approachstats and basic TRANSLTR stuff. We're lucky we've evengot that. Strathmore wanted total isolation, but Fontaineinsisted on the basics."

Brinkerhoff looked puzzled. "Crypto hasn't gotvideo?"

"Why?" she asked, without turning from her monitor."You and Carmen looking for a little more privacy?"

Brinkerhoff grumbled something inaudible.

Midge typed some more keys. "I'm pullingStrathmore's elevator log." She studied her monitor amoment and then rapped her knuckle on the desk. "He'shere," she said matter-of-factly. "He's in Cryptoright now. Look at this. Talk about long hours-he went inyesterday morning bright and early, and his elevator hasn'tbudged since. I'm showing no magno-card use for him on themain door. So he's definitely in there."

Brinkerhoff breathed a slight sigh of relief. "So, ifStrathmore's in there, everything's okay,right?"

Midge thought a moment. "Maybe," she finallydecided.

"Maybe?"

"We should call him and double-check."

Brinkerhoff groaned. "Midge, he's the deputy director.I'm sure he has everything under control. Let's notsecond-guess-"

"Oh, come on, Chad-don't be such a child.We're just doing our job. We've got a snag in the stats,and we're following up. Besides," she added,"I'd like to remind Strathmore that Big Brother'swatching. Make him think twice before planning any more of hishare-brained stunts to save the world." Midge picked up thephone and began dialing.

Brinkerhoff looked uneasy. "You really think you shouldbother him?"

"I'm not bothering him," Midge said, tossing himthe receiver. "You are."