Digital Fortess - Brown Dan - Страница 33

• Предыдущая
• 33/80
• Следующая

“With all due respect, sir,” Chartrukian pressed, “I’ve never heard of a diagnostic that employs mutation—”

“Commander,” Susan interjected, not able to wait another moment. “I really need to—”

This time her words were cut short by the sharp ring of Strathmore’s cellular phone. The commander snatched up the receiver. “What is it!” he barked. Then he fell silent and listened to the caller.

Susan forgot about Hale for an instant. She prayed the caller was David. Tell me he’s okay, she thought. Tell me he found the ring! But Strathmore caught her eye and he gave her a frown. It was not David.

Susan felt her breath grow short. All she wanted to know was that the man she loved was safe. Strathmore, Susan knew, was impatient for other reasons; if David took much longer, the commander would have to send backup?NSA field agents. It was a gamble he had hoped to avoid.

“Commander?” Chartrukian urged. “I really think we should check—”

“Hold on,” Strathmore said, apologizing to his caller. He covered his mouthpiece and leveled a fiery stare at his young Sys?Sec. “Mr. Chartrukian,” he growled, “this discussion is over. You are to leave Crypto. Now. That’s an order.”

Chartrukian stood stunned. “But, sir, mutation str—”

“NOW!” Strathmore bellowed.

Chartrukian stared a moment, speechless. Then he stormed off toward the Sys?Sec lab.

Strathmore turned and eyed Hale with a puzzled look. Susan understood the commander’s mystification. Hale had been quiet?too quiet. Hale knew very well there was no such thing as a diagnostic that used mutation strings, much less one that could keep TRANSLTR busy eighteen hours. And yet Hale hadn’t said a word. He appeared indifferent to the entire commotion. Strathmore was obviously wondering why. Susan had the answer.

“Commander,” she said insistently, “if I could just speak—”

“In a minute,” he interjected, still eyeing Hale quizzically. “I need to take this call.” With that, Strathmore turned on his heel and headed for his office.

Susan opened her mouth, but the words stalled on the tip of her tongue. Hale is North Dakota! She stood rigid, unable to breathe. She felt Hale staring at her. Susan turned. Hale stepped aside and swung his arm graciously toward the Node 3 door. “After you, Sue.”

In a linen closet on the third floor of the Alfonso XIII, a maid lay unconscious on the floor. The man with wire?rim glasses was replacing a hotel master key in her pocket. He had not sensed her scream when he struck her, but he had no way of knowing for sure?he had been deaf since he was twelve.

He reached to the battery pack on his belt with a certain kind of reverence; a gift from a client, the machine had given him new life. He could now receive his contracts anywhere in the world. All communications arrived instantaneously and untraceably.

He was eager as he touched the switch. His glasses flickered to life. Once again his fingers carved into the empty air and began clicking together. As always, he had recorded the names of his victims?a simple matter of searching a wallet or purse. The contacts on his fingers connected, and the letters appeared in the lens of his glasses like ghosts in the air.

SUBJECT: ROCIO EVA GRANADA?TERMINATED

SUBJECT: HANS HUBER?TERMINATED

Three stories below David Becker paid his tab and wandered across the lobby, his half?finished drink in hand. He headed toward the hotel’s open terrace for some fresh air. In and out, he mused. Things hadn’t panned out quite as he expected. He had a decision to make. Should he just give up and go back to the airport? A matter of national security. He swore under his breath. So why the hell had they sent a schoolteacher?

Becker moved out of sight of the bartender and dumped the remaining drink in a potted jasmine. The vodka had made him light?headed. Cheapest drunk in history, Susan often called him. After refilling the heavy crystal glass from a water fountain, Becker took a long swallow.

He stretched a few times trying to shake off the light haze that had settled over him. Then he set down his glass and walked across the lobby.

As he passed the elevator, the doors slid opened. There was a man inside. All Becker saw were thick wire?rim glasses. The man raised a handkerchief to blow his nose. Becker smiled politely and moved on . . . out into the stifling Sevillian night.

Inside Node 3, Susan caught herself pacing frantically. She wished she’d exposed Hale when she’d had the chance.

Hale sat at his terminal. “Stress is a killer, Sue. Something you want to get off your chest?”

Susan forced herself to sit. She had thought Strathmore would be off the phone by now and return to speak to her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Susan tried to keep calm. She gazed at her computer screen. The tracer was still running?for the second time. It was immaterial now. Susan knew whose address it would return: [email protected]

Susan gazed up toward Strathmore’s workstation and knew she couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to interrupt the commander’s phone call. She stood and headed for the door.

Hale seemed suddenly uneasy, apparently noticing Susan’s odd behavior. He strode quickly across the room and beat her to the door. He folded his arms and blocked her exit.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded. “There’s something going on here today. What is it?”

“Let me out,” Susan said as evenly as possible, feeling a sudden twinge of danger.

“Come on,” Hale pressed. “Strathmore practically fired Chartrukian for doing his job. What’s going on inside TRANSLTR? We don’t have any diagnostics that run eighteen hours. That’s bullshit, and you know it. Tell me what’s going on.”

Susan’s eyes narrowed. You know damn well what’s going on! “Back off, Greg,” she demanded. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Hale smirked. He waited a long moment and then stepped aside. “Sorry Sue. Just flirting.”

Susan pushed by him and left Node 3. As she passed the glass wall, she sensed Hale’s eyes boring into her from the other side.

Reluctantly, she circled toward the bathrooms. She would have to make a detour before visiting the Commander. Greg Hale could suspect nothing.

A jaunty forty?five, Chad Brinkerhoff was well?pressed, well?groomed, and well?informed. His summer?weight suit, like his tan skin, showed not a wrinkle or hint of wear. His hair was thick, sandy blond, and most importantly?all his own. His eyes were a brilliant blue?subtly enhanced by the miracle of tinted contact lenses.

He surveyed the wood?paneled office around him and knew he had risen as far as he would rise in the NSA. He was on the ninth floor?Mahogany Row. Office 9A197. The Directorial Suite.

It was a Saturday night, and Mahogany Row was all but deserted, its executives long gone?off enjoying whatever pastimes influential men enjoyed in their leisure. Although Brinkerhoff had always dreamed of a “real” post with the agency, he had somehow ended up as a “personal aide"?the official cul de sac of the political rat race. The fact that he worked side by side with the single most powerful man in American intelligence was little consolation. Brinkerhoff had graduated with honors from Andover and Williams, and yet here he was, middle?aged, with no real power?no real stake. He spent his days arranging someone else’s calendar.

* * *

There were definite benefits to being the director’s personal aide?Brinkerhoff had a plush office in the directorial suite, full access to all the NSA departments, and a certain level of distinction that came from the company he kept. He ran errands for the highest echelons of power. Deep down Brinkerhoff knew he was born to be a PA?smart enough to take notes, handsome enough to give press conferences, and lazy enough to be content with it.

• Предыдущая
• 33/80
• Следующая