Digital Fortress

Brinkerhoff looked beaten.

"I’ll erase it before I go," Midge promised. "Unless you and your wife want it for your private collection."

"Just get the damned printout," he snapped. "And then get out!"

"Si, senor," Midge cackled in a thick Puerto Rican accent. She winked and headed across the suite to Fontaine’s double doors.

Leland Fontaine’s private office looked nothing like the rest of the directorial suite. There were no paintings, no overstuffed chairs, no ficus plants, no antique clocks. His space was streamlined for efficiency. His glass-topped desk and black leather chair sat directly in front of his enormous picture window. Three file cabinets stood in the corner next to a small table with a French press coffeepot. The moon had risen high over Fort Meade, and the soft light filtering through the window accentuated the starkness of the director’s furnishings.

What the hell am I doing? Brinkerhoff wondered.

Midge strode to the printer and scooped up the queue list. She squinted in the darkness. "I can’t read the data," she complained. "Turn on the lights."

"You’re reading it outside. Now come on."

But Midge was apparently having too much fun. She toyed with Brinkerhoff, walking to the window and angling the readout for a better view.

"Midge…"

She kept reading.

Brinkerhoff shifted anxiously in the doorway. "Midge… come on. These are the director’s private quarters."

"It’s here somewhere," she muttered, studying the printout. "Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet, I know it." She moved closer to the window.

Brinkerhoff began to sweat. Midge kept reading.

After a few moments, she gasped. "I knew it! Strathmore did it! He really did! The idiot!" She held up the paper and shook it. "He bypassed Gauntlet! Have a look!"

Brinkerhoff stared dumbfounded a moment and then raced across the director’s office. He crowded in next to Midge in front of the window. She pointed to the end of the readout.

Brinkerhoff read in disbelief. "What the…?"

The printout contained a list of the last thirty-six files that had entered TRANSLTR. After each file was a four-digit Gauntlet clearance code. However, the last file on the sheet had no clearance code-it simply read: manual bypass.

Jesus, Brinkerhoff thought. Midge strikes again.

"The idiot!" Midge sputtered, seething. "Look at this! Gauntlet rejected the file twice! Mutation strings! And he still bypassed! What the hell was he thinking?"

Brinkerhoff felt weak-kneed. He wondered why Midge was always right. Neither of them noticed the reflection that had appeared in the window beside them. A massive figure was standing in Fontaine’s open doorway.

"Jeez," Brinkerhoff choked. "You think we have a virus?"

Midge sighed. "Nothing else it could be."

"Could be none of your damn business!" the deep voice boomed from behind them.

Midge knocked her head against the window. Brinkerhoff tipped over the director’s chair and wheeled toward the voice. He immediately knew the silhouette.

"Director!" Brinkerhoff gasped. He strode over and extended his hand. "Welcome home, sir."

The huge man ignored it.

"I-I thought," Brinkerhoff stammered, retracting his hand, "I thought you were in South America."

Leland Fontaine glared down at his aide with eyes like bullets. "Yes… and now I’m back."

Chapter 69

"Hey, mister!"

Becker had been walking across the concourse toward a bank of pay phones. He stopped and turned. Coming up behind him was the girl he’d just surprised in the bathroom. She waved for him to wait. "Mister, wait!"

Now what? Becker groaned. She wants to press invasion-of-privacy charges?

The girl dragged her duffel toward him. When she arrived, she was now wearing a huge smile. "Sorry to yell at you back there. You just kind of startled me."

"No problem," Becker assured, somewhat puzzled. "I was in the wrong place."

"This will sound crazy," she said, batting her bloodshot eyes. "But you wouldn’t happen to have some money you can lend me, would you?"

Becker stared at her in disbelief. "Money for what?" he demanded. I’m not funding your drug habit if that’s what you’re asking.

"I’m trying to get back home," the blonde said. "Can you help?"

"Miss your flight?"

She nodded. "Lost my ticket. They wouldn’t let me get on. Airlines can be such assholes. I don’t have the cash to buy another."

"Where are your parents?" Becker asked.

"States."

"Can you reach them?"

"Nope. Already tried. I think they’re weekending on somebody’s yacht."

Becker scanned the girl’s expensive clothing. "You don’t have a credit card?"

"Yeah, but my dad canceled it. He thinks I’m on drugs."

"Are you on drugs?" Becker asked, deadpan, eyeing her swollen forearm.

The girl glared, indignant. "Of course not!" She gave Becker an innocent huff, and he suddenly got the feeling he was being played.

"Come on," she said. "You look like a rich guy. Can’t you spot me some cash to get home? I could send it to you later."

Becker figured any cash he gave this girl would end up in the hands of some drug dealer in Triana. "First of all," he said, "I’m not a rich guy-I’m a teacher. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do…" I’ll call your bluff, that’s what I’ll do. "Why don’t I charge the ticket for you?"

The blonde stared at him in utter shock. "You’d do that?" she stammered, eyes wide with hope. "You’d buy me a ticket home? Oh, God, thank you!"

Becker was speechless. He had apparently misjudged the moment.

The girl threw her arms around him. "It’s been a shitty summer," she choked, almost bursting into tears. "Oh, thank you! I’ve got to get out of here!"

Becker returned her embrace halfheartedly. The girl let go of him, and he eyed her forearm again.

She followed his gaze to the bluish rash. "Gross, huh?"

Becker nodded. "I thought you said you weren’t on drugs."

The girl laughed. "It’s Magic Marker! I took off half my skin trying to scrub it off. The ink smeared."

Becker looked closer. In the fluorescent light, he could see, blurred beneath the reddish swelling on her arm, the faint outline of writing-words scrawled on flesh.

"But… but your eyes," Becker said, feeling dumb. "They’re all red."

She laughed. "I was crying. I told you, I missed my flight."

Becker looked back at the words on her arm.

She frowned, embarrassed. "Oops, you can still kind of read it, can’t you?"

Becker leaned closer. He could read it all right. The message was crystal clear. As he read the four faint words, the last twelve hours flashed before his eyes.

David Becker found himself back in the Alfonso XIII hotel room. The obese German was touching his own forearm and speaking broken English: Fock off und die.

"You okay?" the girl asked, eyeing the dazed Becker.

Becker did not look up from her arm. He was dizzy. The four words smeared across the girl’s flesh carried a very simple message: FUCK OFF AND DIE.

The blonde looked down at it, embarrassed. "This friend of mine wrote it… pretty stupid, huh?"

Becker couldn’t speak. Fock off und die. He couldn’t believe it. The German hadn’t been insulting him, he’d been trying to help. Becker lifted his gaze to the girl’s face. In the fluorescent light of the concourse, he could see faint traces of red and blue in the girl’s blond hair.