Digital Fortess - Brown Dan - Страница 39

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She sighed. “I’m trying, Jabba. Believe me, I’m trying.”

Club Embrujo?"Warlock” in English?was situated in the suburbs at the end of the number 27 bus line. Looking more like a fortification than a dance club, it was surrounded on all sides by high stucco walls into which were embedded shards of shattered beer bottles?a crude security system preventing anyone from entering illegally without leaving behind a good portion of flesh.

During the ride, Becker had resolved himself to the fact that he’d failed. It was time to call Strathmore with the bad news?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 way through the club’s entrance, Becker was not so sure his conscience would allow him to give up the search. He was staring at the biggest crowd of punks he’d ever seen; there were coiffures of red, white, and blue everywhere.

Becker sighed, weighing his options. He scanned the crowd and shrugged. Where else would she be on a Saturday night? Cursing his good fortune, Becker climbed off the bus.

The access to Club Embrujo was a narrow stone corridor. As Becker entered he immediately felt himself caught up in the inward surge of eager patrons.

“Outta my way, faggot!” A human pincushion pawed past him, giving Becker an elbow in the side.

“Nice tie.” Someone gave Becker’s necktie a hard yank.

“Wanna fuck?” A teenage girl stared up at him looking like something out of Dawn of the Dead.

The darkness of the corridor spilled out into a huge cement chamber that reeked of alcohol and body odor. The scene was surreal?a deep mountain grotto in which hundreds of bodies moved as one. They surged up and down, hands pressed firmly to their sides, heads bobbing like lifeless bulbs on top of rigid spines. Crazed souls took running dives off a stage and landed on a sea of human limbs. Bodies were passed back and forth like human beach balls. Overhead, the pulsating strobes gave the whole thing the look of an old, silent movie.

On the far wall, speakers the size of minivans shook so deeply that not even the most dedicated dancers could get closer than thirty feet from the pounding woofers.

Becker plugged his ears and searched the crowd. Everywhere he looked was another red, white, and blue head. The bodies were packed so closely together that he couldn’t see what they were wearing. He saw no hint of a British flag anywhere. It was obvious he’d never be able to enter the crowd without getting trampled. Someone nearby started vomiting.

Lovely. Becker groaned. He moved off down a spray?painted hallway.

The hall turned into a narrow mirrored tunnel, which opened to an outdoor patio scattered with tables and chairs. The patio was crowded with punk rockers, but to Becker it was like the gateway to Shangri?La?the summer sky opened up above him and the music faded away.

Ignoring the curious stares, Becker walked out into the crowd. He loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair at the nearest unoccupied table. It seemed like a lifetime since Strathmore’s early?morning call.

After clearing the empty beer bottles from his table, Becker laid his head in his hands. Just for a few minutes, he thought.

* * *

Five miles away, the man in wire?rim glasses sat in the back of a Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down a country road.

“Embrujo,” he grunted, reminding the driver of their destination.

The driver nodded, eyeing his curious new fare in the rearview mirror. “Embrujo,” he grumbled to himself. “Weirder crowd every night.”

Tokugen Numataka lay naked on the massage table in his penthouse office. His personal masseuse worked out the kinks in his neck. She ground her palms into the fleshy pockets surrounding his shoulder blades, slowly working her way down to the towel covering his backside. Her hands slipped lower . . . beneath his towel. Numataka barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. He had been waiting for his private line to ring. It had not.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Numataka grunted.

The masseuse quickly pulled her hands from beneath the towel.

The switchboard operator entered and bowed. “Honored chairman?”

“Speak.”

The operator bowed a second time. “I spoke to the phone exchange. The call originated from country code 1?the United States.”

Numataka nodded. This was good news. The call came from the States. 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 news indeed.

Susan Fletcher paced impatiently in the Crypto bathroom and counted slowly to fifty. Her head was throbbing. Just a little longer, she told herself. Hale is North Dakota!

Susan wondered what Hale’s plans were. Would he announce the pass?key? Would he be greedy and try to sell the algorithm? Susan couldn’t bear to wait any longer. It was time. She had to get to Strathmore.

Cautiously she cracked the door and peered out at the reflective wall on the far side of Crypto. There was no way to know if Hale was still watching. She’d have to move quickly to Strathmore’s office. Not too quickly, of course?she could not let Hale suspect she was on to him. She reached for the door and was about to pull it open when she heard something. Voices. Men’s voices.

The voices were coming through the ventilation shaft near the floor. She released the door and moved toward the vent. The words were muffled by the dull hum of the generators below. The conversation sounded like it was coming up from the sublevel catwalks. One voice was shrill, angry. It sounded like Phil Chartrukian.

“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 wailing cry of horror, like a tortured animal about to die. Susan froze beside the vent. The noise ended as abruptly as it had begun. Then there was a silence.

An instant later, as if choreographed for some cheap horror matinee, the lights in the bathroom slowly dimmed. Then they flickered and went out. Susan Fletcher found herself standing in total blackness.

“You’re in my seat, asshole.”

Becker lifted his head off his arms. Doesn’t anyone speak Spanish in this damn country?

Glaring down at him was a short, pimple?faced teenager with a shaved head. Half of his scalp was red and half was purple. He looked like an Easter egg. “I said you’re in my seat, asshole.”

“I heard you the first time,” Becker said, standing up. 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 fuckin' 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 by about fifty pounds.

“Do I fuckin' look like I’m kidding?”

Becker said nothing.

“Pick 'em up!” The kid’s voice cracked.

Becker attempted to step around him, but the teenager blocked his way. “I said, fuckin' pick 'em up!”

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