Her thoughts wheeled back five months to the night the presidentof Georgetown University had offered David a promotion to thelanguage department chair. The president had warned him that histeaching hours would be cut back and that there would be increasedpaperwork, but there was also a substantial raise in salary.

Susanhad wanted to cry out David, don't do it! You'll bemiserable. We have plenty of money-who cares which one of usearns it? But it was not her place. In the end, she stood byhis decision to accept. As they fell asleep that night, Susan triedto be happy for him, but something inside kept telling her it wouldbe a disaster. She'd been right-but she'd nevercounted on being so right. "You paid him ten thousand dollars?" she demanded."That's a dirty trick!"

Strathmore was fuming now. "Trick? It wasn't anyG.o.dd.a.m.n trick! I didn't even tell him about the money. I askedhim as a personal favor. He agreed to go."

"Of course he agreed! You're my boss! You're thedeputy director of the NSA! He couldn't say no!"

"You're right," Strathmore snapped. "Whichis why I called him. I didn't have the luxuryof-"

"Does the director know you sent a civilian?"

"Susan," Strathmore said, his patience obviouslywearing thin, "the director is not involved. He knows nothingabout this."

Susan stared at Strathmore in disbelief. It was as if she nolonger knew the man she was talking to. He had sent herfiance-a teacher-on an NSA mission and then failedto notify the director about the biggest crisis in the history ofthe organization.

"Leland Fontaine hasn't beennotified?"

Strathmore had reached the end of his rope. He exploded."Susan, now listen here! I called you in here because I needan ally, not an inquiry! I've had one h.e.l.l of morning.

Idownloaded Tankado's file last night and sat here by theoutput printer for hours praying TRANSLTR could break it. At dawn Iswallowed my pride and dialed the director-and let me tellyou, that was a conversation I was really lookingforward to.

Good morning, sir. I'm sorry to wake you. Why am Icalling? I just found out TRANSLTR is obsolete. It's becauseof an algorithm my entire top-dollar Crypto team couldn't comeclose to writing!" Strathmore slammed his fist on thedesk.

Susan stood frozen. She didn't make a sound. In ten years,she had seen Strathmore lose his cool only a handful of times, andnever once with her.

Ten seconds later neither one of them had spoken. FinallyStrathmore sat back down, and Susan could hear his breathingslowing to normal. When he finally spoke, his voice was eerily calmand controlled.

"Unfortunately," Strathmore said quietly, "itturns out the director is in South America meeting with thePresident of Colombia. Because there's absolutely nothing hecould do from down there, I had two options-request he cut hismeeting short and return, or handle this myself." There was along silence. Strathmore finally looked up, and his tired eyes metSusan's. His expression softened immediately. "Susan,I'm sorry. I'm exhausted. This is a nightmare come true.I know you're upset about David. I didn't mean for you tofind out this way. I thought you knew."

Susan felt a wave of guilt. "I overreacted. I'm sorry.David is a good choice."

Strathmore nodded absently. "He'll be backtonight." Susan thought about everything the commander was goingthrough-the pressure of overseeing TRANSLTR, the endless hoursand meetings. It was rumored his wife of thirty years was leavinghim. Then on top of it, there was Digital Fortress-the biggestintelligence threat in the history of the NSA, and the poor guy wasflying solo.

No wonder he looked about to crack.

"Considering the circ.u.mstances," Susan said, "Ithink you should probably call the director."

Strathmore shook his head, a bead of sweat dripping on his desk."I'm not about to compromise the director's safetyor risk a leak by contacting him about a major crisis he can donothing about."

Susan knew he was right. Even in moments like these, Strathmorewas clear-headed.

"Have you considered calling thePresident?"

Strathmore nodded. "Yes. I've decided against.i.t."

Susan had figured as much. Senior NSA officials had the right tohandle verifiable intelligence emergencies without executiveknowledge. The NSA was the only U.S.

intelligence organization thatenjoyed total immunity from federal accountability of any sort.Strathmore often availed himself of this right; he preferred towork his magic in isolation.

"Commander," she argued, "this is too big to behandled alone. You've got to let somebody else in onit."

"Susan, the existence of Digital Fortress has majorimplications for the future of this organization. I have nointention of informing the President behind the director'sback.

We have a crisis, and I'm handling it." He eyed herthoughtfully. "I am the deputy director ofoperations." A weary smile crept across his face. "Andbesides, I'm not alone. I've got Susan Fletcher on myteam."

In that instant, Susan realized what she respected so much aboutTrevor Strathmore.

For ten years, through thick and thin, he hadalways led the way for her. Steadfast.

Unwavering. It was hisdedication that amazed her-his unshakable allegiance to hisprinciples, his country, and his ideals. Come what may, CommanderTrevor Strathmore was a guiding light in a world of impossibledecisions.

"You are on my team, aren't you?" heasked.

Susan smiled. "Yes, sir, I am. One hundredpercent."

"Good. Now can we get back to work?"

CHAPTER 12

David Becker had been to funerals and seen dead bodies before,but there was something particularly unnerving about this one. Itwas not an immaculately groomed corpse resting in a silk-linedcoffin. This body had been stripped naked and dumpedunceremoniously on an aluminum table. The eyes had not yet foundtheir vacant, lifeless gaze. Instead they were twisted upwardtoward the ceiling in an eerie freeze-frame of terror andregret.

"Donde estan sus efectos?" Beckerasked in fluent Castillian Spanish. "Where are hisbelongings?"

"Alli," replied the yellow-toothed lieutenant. Hepointed to a counter of clothing and other personal items.

"Es todo? Is that all?"

"Si."

Becker asked for a cardboard box. The lieutenant hurried off tofind one.

It was Sat.u.r.day evening, and the Seville morgue was technicallyclosed. The young lieutenant had let Becker in under direct ordersfrom the head of the Seville Guardia- it seemed the visitingAmerican had powerful friends.

Becker eyed the pile of clothes. There was a pa.s.sport, wallet,and gla.s.ses stuffed in one of the shoes. There was also a smallduffel the Guardia had taken from the man's hotel.Becker's directions were clear: Touch nothing. Read nothing.Just bring it all back. Everything. Don't miss anything.

Becker surveyed the pile and frowned. What could the NSApossible want with this junk?

The lieutenant returned with a small box, and Becker beganputting the clothes inside.

The officer poked at the cadaver's leg. "Quienes? Who is he?"

"No idea."

"Looks Chinese."

j.a.panese, Becker thought.

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Heart attack, huh?"

Becker nodded absently. "That's what they toldme." The lieutenant sighed and shook his head sympathetically."The Seville sun can be cruel. Be careful out theretomorrow."

"Thanks," Becker said. "But I'm headedhome."

The officer looked shocked. "You just got here!"

"I know, but the guy paying my airfare is waiting for theseitems."

The lieutenant looked offended in the way only a Spaniard can beoffended. "You mean you're not going to experienceSeville?"

"I was here years ago. Beautiful city. I'd love tostay."

"So you've seen La Giralda?"

Becker nodded. He'd never actually climbed the ancientMoorish tower, but he'd seen it.

"How about the Alcazar?"

Becker nodded again, remembering the night he'd heard Pacode Lucia play guitar in the courtyard-Flamenco under the starsin a fifteenth-century fortress. He wished he'd known Susanback then.

"And of course there's Christopher Columbus." Theofficer beamed. "He's buried in our cathedral."

Becker looked up. "Really? I thought Columbus was buried inthe Dominican Republic."

"h.e.l.l no! Who starts these rumors? Columbus's body ishere in Spain! I thought you said you went to college."

Becker shrugged. "I must have missed that day."

"The Spanish church is very proud to own hisrelics."

The Spanish church. Becker knew here was only one churchin Spain-the Roman Catholic church. Catholicism was biggerhere than in Vatican City.

"We don't, of course, have his entire body," thelieutenant added. "Solo el escroto."

Becker stopped packing and stared at the lieutenant. Solo elescroto? He fought off a grin. "Just hiss.c.r.o.t.u.m?"

The officer nodded proudly. "Yes. When the church obtainsthe remains of a great man, they saint him and spread the relics todifferent cathedrals so everyone can enjoy theirsplendor." "And you got the ..." Becker stifled a laugh.

"Oye! It's a pretty important part!" the officerdefended. "It's not like we got a rib or a knuckle likethose churches in Galicia! You should really stay and seeit."

Becker nodded politely. "Maybe I'll drop in on my wayout of town."

"Mala suerte." The officer sighed. "Bad luck. Thecathedral's closed till sunrise ma.s.s."

"Another time then." Becker smiled, hoisting the box."I should probably get going.

My flight's waiting."He made a final glance around the room.

"You want a ride to the airport?" the officer asked."I've got a MotoGuzzi out front."

"No thanks. I'll catch a cab." Becker had drivena motorcycle once in college and nearly killed himself on it. Hehad no intention of getting on one again, regardless of who wasdriving.

"Whatever you say," the officer said, heading for thedoor. "I'll get the lights."

Becker tucked the box under his arm. Have I goteverything? He took a last look at the body on the table. Thefigure was stark naked, faceup under fluorescent lights, clearlyhiding nothing. Becker found his eyes drawn again to the strangelydeformed hands. He gazed a minute, focusing more intently.

The officer killed the lights, and the room went dark.

"Hold on," Becker said. "Turn those backon."

The lights flickered back on.

Becker set his box on the floor walked over to the corpse. Heleaned down and squinted at the man's left hand.

The officer followed Becker's gaze. "Pretty ugly,huh?"

But the deformity was not what had caught Becker's eye.He'd seen something else.

He turned to the officer."You're sure everything's in this box?"

The officer nodded. "Yeah. That's it."

Becker stood for moment with his hands on his hips. Then hepicked up the box, carried it back over to the counter, and dumpedit out. Carefully, piece by piece, he shook out the clothing. Thenhe emptied the shoes and tapped them as if trying to remove apebble. After going over everything a second time, he stepped backand frowned.

"Problem?" asked the lieutenant.

"Yeah," Becker said. "We're missingsomething."

CHAPTER 13

Tokugen Numataka stood in his plush, penthouse office and gazedout at the Tokyo skyline. His employees and compet.i.tors knew him asakuta same-the deadly shark.

For three decadeshe'd outguessed, outbid, and outadvertised all the j.a.panesecompet.i.tion; now he was on the brink of becoming a giant in theworld market as well.

He was about to close the biggest deal of his life-a dealthat would make his Numatech Corp. the Microsoft of the future. Hisblood was alive with the cool rush of adrenaline. Business waswar-and war was exciting.

Although Tokugen Numataka had been suspicious when the call hadcome three days ago, he now knew the truth. He was blessed with myouri-good fortune. The G.o.ds had chosen him.