Any chance he'sfighting a virus?"

Jabba laughed. "Strathmore's been in there forthirty-six hours? Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. His wife probably said hecan't come home. I hear she's bagging his a.s.s." Midge thought a moment. She'd heard that too. She wonderedif maybe she was being paranoid.

"Midge." Jabba wheezed and took another long drink."If Strathmore's toy had a virus, he would have calledme. Strathmore's sharp, but he doesn't know s.h.i.t aboutviruses.

TRANSLTR's all he's got. First sign of trouble,he would have pressed the panic b.u.t.ton-and around here, thatmeans me." Jabba sucked in a long strand of mozzarella."Besides, there's no way in h.e.l.l TRANSLTR has a virus.Gauntlet's the best set of package filters I've everwritten. Nothing gets through."

After a long silence, Midge sighed. "Any otherthoughts?"

"Yup. Your data's fried."

"You already said that."

"Exactly."

She frowned. "You haven't caught wind of anything?Anything at all?"

Jabba laughed harshly. "Midge ... listen up. Skipjacksucked. Strathmore blew it. But move on-it's over."There was a long silence on the line, and Jabba realized he'dgone too far. "Sorry, Midge. I know you took heat over thatwhole mess.

Strathmore was wrong. I know how you feel abouthim."

"This has nothing to do with Skipjack," she saidfirmly.

Yeah, sure, Jabba thought. "Listen, Midge, Idon't have feelings for Strathmore one way or another. I mean,the guy's a cryptographer. They're basically allself-centered a.s.sholes. They need their data yesterday. Every d.a.m.nfile is the one that could save the world."

"So what are you saying?"

Jabba sighed. "I'm saying Strathmore's a psycholike the rest of them. But I'm also saying he loves TRANSLTRmore than his own G.o.dd.a.m.n wife. If there were a problem, he wouldhave called me."

Midge was quiet a long time. Finally she let out a reluctantsigh. "So you're saying my data's fried?"

Jabba chuckled. "Is there an echo in here?"

She laughed.

"Look, Midge. Drop me a work order. I'll be up onMonday to double-check your machine. In the meantime, get the h.e.l.lout of here. It's Sat.u.r.day night. Go get yourself laid orsomething."

She sighed. "I'm trying, Jabba. Believe me, I'mtrying."

CHAPTER 52

Club Embrujo-"Warlock" in English-wa.s.situated in the suburbs at the end of the number 27 bus line.Looking more like a fortification than a dance club, it wa.s.surrounded on all sides by high stucco walls into which wereembedded shards of shattered beer bottles-a crude securitysystem preventing anyone from entering illegally without leavingbehind a good portion of flesh.

During the ride, Becker had resolved himself to the fact thathe'd failed. It was time to call Strathmore with the badnews-the search was hopeless. He had done the best he could;now it was time to go home.

But now, gazing out at the mob of patrons pushing their waythrough the club's entrance, Becker was not so sure hisconscience would allow him to give up the search. He was staring atthe biggest crowd of punks he'd ever seen; there werecoiffures of red, white, and blue everywhere.

Becker sighed, weighing his options. He scanned the crowd andshrugged. Where else would she be on a Sat.u.r.day night?Cursing his good fortune, Becker climbed off the bus.

The access to Club Embrujo was a narrow stone corridor. AsBecker entered he immediately felt himself caught up in the inwardsurge of eager patrons.

"Outta my way, f.a.ggot!" A human pincushion pawed pasthim, giving Becker an elbow in the side.

"Nice tie." Someone gave Becker's necktie a hardyank.

"Wanna f.u.c.k?" A teenage girl stared up at him lookinglike something out of Dawn of the Dead.

The darkness of the corridor spilled out into a huge cementchamber that wreaked of alcohol and body odor. The scene wa.s.surreal-a deep mountain grotto in which hundreds of bodiesmoved as one. They surged up and down, hands pressed firmly totheir sides, heads bobbing like lifeless bulbs on top of rigidspines. Crazed souls took running dives off a stage and landed on asea of human limbs. Bodies were pa.s.sed back and forth like humanbeach b.a.l.l.s. Overhead, the pulsating strobes gave the whole thingthe look of an old, silent movie. On the far wall, speakers the size of minivans shook so deeplythat not even the most dedicated dancers could get closer thanthirty feet from the pounding woofers.

Becker plugged his ears and searched the crowd. Everywhere helooked was another red, white, and blue head. The bodies werepacked so closely together that he couldn't see what they werewearing. He saw no hint of a British flag anywhere. It was obvioushe'd never be able to enter the crowd without gettingtrampled. Someone nearby started vomiting.

Lovely. Becker groaned. He moved off down a spray-paintedhallway.

The hall turned into a narrow mirrored tunnel, which opened toan outdoor patio scattered with tables and chairs. The patio wascrowded with punk rockers, but to Becker it was like the gateway toShangri-La-the summer sky opened up above him and the musicfaded away.

Ignoring the curious stares, Becker walked out into the crowd.He loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair at the nearestunoccupied table. It seemed like a lifetime since Strathmore'searly-morning call.

After clearing the empty beer bottles from his table, Beckerlaid his head in his hands.

Just for a few minutes, hethought.

Five miles away, the man in wire-rim gla.s.ses sat in the back ofa Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down a country road.

"Embrujo," he grunted, reminding the driver of theirdestination.

The driver nodded, eyeing his curious new fare in the rearviewmirror. "Embrujo," he grumbled to himself. "Weirdercrowd every night."

CHAPTER 53

Tokugen Numataka lay naked on the ma.s.sage table in his penthouseoffice. His personal ma.s.seuse worked out the kinks in his neck. Sheground her palms into the fleshy pockets surrounding his shoulderblades, slowly working her way down to the towel covering hisbackside. Her hands slipped lower ... beneath his towel.

Numatakabarely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. He had been waiting for hisprivate line to ring. It had not. There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Numataka grunted.

The ma.s.seuse quickly pulled her hands from beneath thetowel.

The switchboard operator entered and bowed. "Honoredchairman?"

"Speak."

The operator bowed a second time. "I spoke to the phoneexchange. The call originated from country code 1-the UnitedStates."

Numataka nodded. This was good news. The call came from theStates. He smiled. It was genuine.

"Where in the U.S.?" he demanded.

"They're working on it, sir."

"Very well. Tell me when you have more."

The operator bowed again and left.

Numataka felt his muscles relax. Country code 1. Good newsindeed.

CHAPTER 54

Susan Fletcher paced impatiently in the Crypto bathroom andcounted slowly to fifty.

Her head was throbbing. Just a littlelonger, she told herself. Hale is North Dakota!

Susan wondered what Hale's plans were. Would he announcethe pa.s.s-key? Would he be greedy and try to sell the algorithm?Susan couldn't bear to wait any longer. It was time. She hadto get to Strathmore.

Cautiously she cracked the door and peered out at the reflectivewall on the far side of Crypto. There was no way to know if Halewas still watching. She'd have to move quickly toStrathmore's office. Not too quickly, of course-she couldnot let Hale suspect she was on to him. She reached for the doorand was about to pull it open when she heard something. Voices.Men's voices. The voices were coming through the ventilation shaft near thefloor. She released the door and moved toward the vent. The wordswere m.u.f.fled by the dull hum of the generators below. Theconversation sounded like it was coming up from the sublevelcatwalks. One voice was shrill, angry. It sounded like PhilChartrukian.

"You don't believe me?"

The sound of more arguing rose.

"We have a virus!"

Then the sound of harsh yelling.

"We need to call Jabba!"

Then there were sounds of a struggle.

"Let me go!"

The noise that followed was barely human. It was a long wailingcry of horror, like a tortured animal about to die. Susan frozebeside the vent. The noise ended as abruptly as it had begun. Thenthere was a silence.

An instant later, as if ch.o.r.eographed for some cheap horrormatinee, the lights in the bathroom slowly dimmed. Then theyflickered and went out. Susan Fletcher found herself standing intotal blackness.

CHAPTER 55

"You're in my seat, a.s.shole."

Becker lifted his head off his arms. Doesn't anyonespeak Spanish in this d.a.m.n country?

Glaring down at him was a short, pimple-faced teenager with ashaved head. Half of his scalp was red and half was purple. Helooked like an Easter egg. "I said you're in my seat,a.s.shole."

"I heard you the first time," Becker said, standingup. He was in no mood for a fight. It was time to go. "Where'd you put my bottles?" the kid snarled.There was a safety pin in his nose.

Becker pointed to the beer bottles he'd set on the ground."They were empty."

"They were my f.u.c.kin' empties!"

"My apologies," Becker said, and turned to go.

The punk blocked his way. "Pick 'em up!"

Becker blinked, not amused. "You're kidding,right?" He was a full foot taller and outweighed the kid byabout fifty pounds.

"Do I f.u.c.kin' look like I'mkidding?"

Becker said nothing.

"Pick 'em up!" The kid's voice cracked.

Becker attempted to step around him, but the teenager blockedhis way. "I said, f.u.c.kin' pick 'em up!"

Stoned punks at nearby tables began turning to watch theexcitement.

"You don't want to do this, kid," Becker saidquietly.

"I'm warning you!" The kid seethed. "This ismy table! I come here every night. Now pick 'emup!"