Digital Fortress

"Unfortunately," Strathmore said quietly, "it turns out the director is in South America meeting with the President of Colombia. Because there's absolutely nothing he could do from down there, I had two options-request he cut his meeting short and return, or handle this myself." There was along silence. Strathmore finally looked up, and his tired eyes met Susan'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 to find 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 back tonight."

Susan thought about everything the commander was going through-the pressure of overseeing TRANSLTR, the endless hours and meetings. It was rumored his wife of thirty years was leaving him. Then on top of it, there was Digital Fortress-the biggest intelligence threat in the history of the NSA, and the poor guy was flying solo. No wonder he looked about to crack.

"Considering the circumstances," Susan said, "I think 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 safety or risk a leak by contacting him about a major crisis he can do nothing about."

Susan knew he was right. Even in moments like these, Strathmore was clear-headed. "Have you considered calling the President?"

Strathmore nodded. "Yes. I've decided against it."

Susan had figured as much. Senior NSA officials had the right to handle verifiable intelligence emergencies without executive knowledge. The NSA was the only U.S. intelligence organization that enjoyed total immunity from federal accountability of any sort. Strathmore often availed himself of this right; he preferred to work his magic in isolation.

"Commander," she argued, "this is too big to be handled alone. You've got to let somebody else in on it."

"Susan, the existence of Digital Fortress has major implications for the future of this organization. I have no intention of informing the President behind the director's back. We have a crisis, and I'm handling it." He eyed her thoughtfully. "I am the deputy director of operations." A weary smile crept across his face. "And besides, I'm not alone. I've got Susan Fletcher on my team."

In that instant, Susan realized what she respected so much about Trevor Strathmore. For ten years, through thick and thin, he had always led the way for her. Steadfast. Unwavering. It was his dedication that amazed her-his unshakable allegiance to his principles, his country, and his ideals. Come what may, Commander Trevor Strathmore was a guiding light in a world of impossible decisions.

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

Susan smiled. "Yes, sir, I am. One hundred percent."

"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. It was not an immaculately groomed corpse resting in a silk-lined coffin. This body had been stripped naked and dumped unceremoniously on an aluminum table. The eyes had not yet found their vacant, lifeless gaze. Instead they were twisted upward toward the ceiling in an eerie freeze-frame of terror and regret.

"?Donde estan sus efectos?" Becker asked in fluent Castillian Spanish. "Where are his belongings?"

"Alli," replied the yellow-toothed lieutenant. He pointed 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 to find one.

It was Saturday evening, and the Seville morgue was technically closed. The young lieutenant had let Becker in under direct orders from the head of the Seville Guardia-it seemed the visiting American had powerful friends.

Becker eyed the pile of clothes. There was a passport, wallet, and glasses stuffed in one of the shoes. There was also a small duffel 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 NSA possibly want with this junk?

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

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

"No idea."

"Looks Chinese."

Japanese, Becker thought.

"Poor bastard. Heart attack, huh?"

Becker nodded absently. "That's what they told me."

The lieutenant sighed and shook his head sympathetically. "The Seville sun can be cruel. Be careful out there tomorrow."

"Thanks," Becker said. "But I'm headed home."

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

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

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