"I have a copy of the Digital Fortress pa.s.s-key," theAmerican accent had said.

"Would you like to buy it?"

Numataka had almost laughed aloud. He knew it was a ploy.Numatech Corp. had bid generously for Ensei Tankado's newalgorithm, and now one of Numatech's compet.i.tors was playinggames, trying to find out the amount of the bid.

"You have the pa.s.s-key?" Numataka feignedinterest.

"I do. My name is North Dakota."

Numataka stifled a laugh. Everyone knew about North Dakota.Tankado had told the press about his secret partner. It had been awise move on Tankado's part to have a partner; even in j.a.pan,business practices had become dishonorable. Ensei Tankado was notsafe. But one false move by an overeager firm, and the pa.s.s-keywould be published; every software firm on the market wouldsuffer.

Numataka took a long pull on his Umami cigar and played alongwith the caller's pathetic charade. "So you'reselling your pa.s.s-key? Interesting. How does Ensei Tankado feelabout this?"

"I have no allegiance to Mr. Tankado. Mr. Tankado wasfoolish to trust me. The pa.s.s- key is worth hundreds of times whathe is paying me to handle it for him." "I'm sorry," Numataka said. "Your pa.s.s-keyalone is worth nothing to me. When Tankado finds out whatyou've done, he will simply publish his copy, and the marketwill be flooded."

"You will receive both pa.s.s-keys," the voice said."Mr. Tankado's and mine."

Numataka covered the receiver and laughed aloud. Hecouldn't help asking. "How much are you asking for bothkeys?"

"Twenty million U.S. dollars."

Twenty million was almost exactly what Numataka had bid."Twenty million?" He gasped in mock horror."That's outrageous!"

"I've seen the algorithm. I a.s.sure you it's wellworth it."

No s.h.i.t, thought Numataka. It's worth ten timesthat. "Unfortunately," he said, tiring of the game,"we both know Mr. Tankado would never stand for this. Think ofthe legal repercussions."

The caller paused ominously. "What if Mr. Tankado were nolonger a factor?"

Numataka wanted to laugh, but he noted an odd determination inthe voice. "If Tankado were no longer a factor?" Numatakaconsidered it. "Then you and I would have a deal."

"I'll be in touch," the voice said. The line wentdead.

CHAPTER 14

Becker gazed down at the cadaver. Even hours after death, theAsian's face radiated with a pinkish glow of a recent sunburn.The rest of him was a pale yellow-all except the small area ofpurplish bruising directly over his heart.

Probably from the CPR, Becker mused. Too bad itdidn't work.

He went back to studying the cadaver's hands. They werelike nothing Becker had ever seen. Each hand had only three digits,and they were twisted and askew. The disfigurement, however, wasnot what Becker was looking at. "Well, I'll be." The lieutenant grunted fromacross the room. "He's j.a.panese, not Chinese."

Becker looked up. The officer was thumbing through the deadman's pa.s.sport. "I'd rather you didn't look atthat," Becker requested. Touch nothing. Readnothing.

"Ensei Tankado ... born January-"

"Please," Becker said politely. "Put itback."

The officer stared at the pa.s.sport a moment longer and thentossed it back on the pile.

"This guy's got a cla.s.s-3visa. He could have stayed here for years."

Becker poked at the victim's hand with a pen. "Maybehe lived here."

"Nope. Date of entry was last week."

"Maybe he was moving here," Becker offeredcurtly.

"Yeah, maybe. Crummy first week. Sunstroke and a heartattack. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Becker ignored the officer and studied the hand."You're positive he wasn't wearing any jewelry whenhe died?"

The officer looked up, startled. "Jewelry?"

"Yeah. Take a look at this."

The officer crossed the room.

The skin on Tankado's left hand showed traces of sunburn,everywhere except a narrow band of flesh around the smallestfinger.

Becker pointed to the strip of pale flesh. "See how thisisn't sunburned here? Looks like he was wearing aring."

The officer seemed surprised. "A ring?" Hisvoice sounded suddenly perplexed. He studied the corpse'sfinger. Then he flushed sheepishly. "My G.o.d." Hechuckled. "The story was true?"

Becker had a sudden sinking feeling. "I beg yourpardon?"

The officer shook his head in disbelief. "I would havementioned it before ... but I thought the guy was nuts."

Becker was not smiling. "What guy?"

"The guy who phoned in the emergency. Some Canadiantourist. Kept talking about a ring. Babbling in the worst d.a.m.nSpanish I ever heard." "He said Mr. Tankado was wearing a ring?"

The officer nodded. He pulled out a Ducado cigarette, eyed theno fumar sign, and lit up anyway. "Guess I should have saidsomething, but the guy sounded totally loco."

Becker frowned. Strathmore's words echoed in his ears. Iwant everything Ensei Tankado had with him. Everything. Leavenothing. Not even a tiny sc.r.a.p of paper.

"Where is the ring now?" Becker asked.

The officer took a puff. "Long story."

Something told Becker this was not good news. "Tellme anyway."

CHAPTER 15

Susan Fletcher sat at her computer terminal inside Node 3. Node3 was the cryptographers' private, soundproofed chamber justoff the main floor. A two-inch sheet of curved one-way gla.s.s gavethe cryptographers a panorama of the Crypto floor while prohibitinganyone else from seeing inside.

At the back of the expansive Node 3 chamber, twelve terminalssat in a perfect circle.

The annular arrangement was intended toencourage intellectual exchange between cryptographers, to remindthem they were part of a larger team-something like acode-breaker's Knights of the Round Table. Ironically, secretswere frowned on inside Node 3.

Nicknamed the Playpen, Node 3 had none of the sterile feel ofthe rest of Crypto. It was designed to feel like home-plushcarpets, high-tech sound system, fully stocked fridge, kitchenette,a Nerf basketball hoop. The NSA had a philosophy about Crypto:Don't drop a couple billion bucks into a code-breakingcomputer without enticing the best of the best to stick around anduse it.

Susan slipped out of her Salvatore Ferragamo flats and dug herstockinged toes into the thick pile carpet. Well-paid governmentemployees were encouraged to refrain from lavish displays ofpersonal wealth. It was usually no problem for Susan-she wasperfectly happy with her modest duplex, Volvo sedan, andconservative wardrobe.

But shoes were another matter. Even whenSusan was in college, she'd budgeted for the best. You can't jump for the stars if your feet hurt, heraunt had once told her. And when you get where you'regoing, you darn well better look great!

Susan allowed herself a luxurious stretch and then settled downto business. She pulled up her tracer and prepared to configure it.She glanced at the E-mail address Strathmore had given her.

The man calling himself North Dakota had an anonymous account,but Susan knew it would not remain anonymous for long. The tracerwould pa.s.s through ARA, get forwarded to North Dakota, and thensend information back containing the man's real Internetaddress.

If all went well, it would locate North Dakota soon, andStrathmore could confiscate the pa.s.s-key. That would leave onlyDavid. When he found Tankado's copy, both pa.s.s-keys could bedestroyed; Tankado's little time bomb would be harmless, adeadly explosive without a detonator.

Susan double-checked the address on the sheet in front of herand entered the information in the correct datafield. She chuckledthat Strathmore had encountered difficulty sending the tracerhimself. Apparently he'd sent it twice, both times receivingTankado's address back rather than North Dakota's. It wasa simple mistake, Susan thought; Strathmore had probablyinterchanged the datafields, and the tracer had searched for thewrong account.

Susan finished configuring her tracer and queued it for release.Then she hit return.

The computer beeped once.

TRACER SENT.

Now came the waiting game.

Susan exhaled. She felt guilty for having been hard on thecommander. If there was anyone qualified to handle this threatsingle-handed, it was Trevor Strathmore. He had an uncanny way ofgetting the best of all those who challenged him.

Six months ago, when the EFF broke a story that an NSA submarinewas snooping underwater telephone cables, Strathmore calmly leakeda conflicting story that the submarine was actually illegallyburying toxic waste. The EFF and the oceanic environmentalistsspent so much time bickering over which version was true, the mediaeventually tired of the story and moved on.

Every move Strathmore made was meticulously planned. He dependedheavily on his computer when devising and revising his plans. Likemany NSA employees, Strathmore used NSA-developed software calledBrainStorm-a risk-free way to carry out "what-if"scenarios in the safety of a computer.

BrainStorm was an artificial intelligence experiment describedby its developers as a Cause & Effect Simulator. It originallyhad been intended for use in political campaigns as a way to createreal-time models of a given "political environment."

Fedby enormous amounts of data, the program created a relationaryweb-a hypothesized model of interaction between politicalvariables, including current prominent figures, their staffs, theirpersonal ties to each other, hot issues, individuals'motivations weighted by variables like s.e.x, ethnicity, money, andpower.

The user could then enter any hypothetical event andBrainStorm would predict the event's effect on "theenvironment."

Commander Strathmore worked religiously with BrainStorm-notfor political purposes, but as a TFM device; Time-Line, Flowchart,& Mapping software was a powerful tool for outlining complexstrategies and predicting weaknesses. Susan suspected there wereschemes hidden in Strathmore's computer that someday wouldchange the world.

Yes, Susan thought, I was too hard on him.

Her thoughts were jarred by the hiss of the Node 3 doors.

Strathmore burst in. "Susan," he said. "Davidjust called. There's been a setback."

CHAPTER 16

"A ring?" Susan looked doubtful. "Tankado'smissing a ring?"

"Yes. We're lucky David caught it. It was a realheads-up play."

"But you're after a pa.s.s-key, not jewelry."

"I know," Strathmore said, "but I think theymight be one and the same."

Susan looked lost.

"It's a long story."

She motioned to the tracer on her screen. "I'm notgoing anywhere."

Strathmore sighed heavily and began pacing. "Apparently,there were witnesses to Tankado's death. According to theofficer at the morgue, a Canadian tourist called the Guardia thismorning in a panic-he said a j.a.panese man was having a heartattack in the park. When the officer arrived, he found Tankado deadand the Canadian there with him, so he radioed the paramedics.While the paramedics took Tankado's body to the morgue, theofficer tried to get the Canadian to tell him what happened. Allthe old guy did was babble about some ring Tankado had given awayright before he died."

Susan eyed him skeptically. "Tankado gave away aring?"

"Yeah. Apparently he forced it in this old guy'sface-like he was begging him to take it. Sounds like the oldguy got a close look at it." Strathmore stopped pacing andturned. "He said the ring was engraved-with some sort oflettering."

"Lettering?"

"Yes, and according to him, it wasn't English."Strathmore raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"j.a.panese?"

Strathmore shook his head. "My first thought too. But getthis-the Canadian complained that the letters didn'tspell anything. j.a.panese characters could never be confused withour Roman lettering. He said the engraving looked like a cat hadgotten loose on a typewriter."

Susan laughed. "Commander, you don't reallythink-"