Digital Fortess

CHAPTER 111

An earsplitting yell cut through the control room. “Sharks!” It was Soshi.

Jabba spun toward the VR. Two thin lines had appeared outside the concentric circles. They looked like sperm trying to breach a reluctant egg.

“Blood’s in the water, folks!” Jabba turned back to the director. “I need a decision. Either we start shutting down, or we’ll never make it. As soon as these two intruders see the Bastion Host is down, they’ll send up a war cry.”

Fontaine did not respond. He was deep in thought. Susan Fletcher’s news of the pass‑key in Spain seemed promising to him. He shot a glance toward Susan in the back of the room. She appeared to be in her own world, collapsed in a chair, her head buried in her hands. Fontaine was unsure exactly what had triggered the reaction, but whatever it was, he had no time for it now.

“I need a decision!” Jabba demanded. “Now!”

Fontaine looked up. He spoke calmly. “Okay, you’ve got one. We are not shutting down. We’re going to wait.”

Jabba’s jaw dropped. “What? But that’s—”

“A gamble,” Fontaine interrupted. “A gamble we just might win.” He took Jabba’s cellular and punched a few keys. “Midge,” he said. “It’s Leland Fontaine. Listen carefully . . .”

CHAPTER 112

“You better know what the hell you’re doing, Director,” Jabba hissed. “We’re about to lose shut‑down capability.”

Fontaine did not respond.

As if on cue, the door at the back of the control room opened, and Midge came dashing in. She arrived breathless at the podium. “Director! The switchboard is patching it through right now!”

Fontaine turned expectantly toward the screen on the front wall. Fifteen seconds later the screen crackled to life.

The image on screen was snowy and stilted at first, and gradually grew sharper. It was a QuickTime digital transmission‑only five frames per second. The image revealed two men. One was pale with a buzz cut, the other a blond all‑American. They were seated facing the camera like two newscasters waiting to go on the air.

“What the hell is this?” Jabba demanded.

“Sit tight,” Fontaine ordered.

The men appeared to be inside a van of some sort. Electronic cabling hung all around them. The audio co

“Inbound audio,” a technician called from behind them. “Five seconds till two‑way.”

“Who are they?” Brinkerhoff asked, uneasily.

“Eye in the sky,” Fontaine replied, gazing up at the two men he had sent to Spain. It had been a necessary precaution. Fontaine had believed in almost every aspect of Strathmore’s plan‑the regrettable but necessary removal of Ensei Tankado, rewriting Digital Fortress‑it was all solid. But there was one thing that made Fontaine nervous: the use of Hulohot. Hulohot was skilled, but he was a mercenary. Was he trustworthy? Would he take the pass‑key for himself? Fontaine wanted Hulohot covered, just incase, and he had taken the requisite measures.

CHAPTER 113

“Absolutely not!” The man with the buzz cut yelled into the camera. “We have orders! We report to Director Leland Fontaine and Leland Fontaine only!”

Fontaine looked mildly amused. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” the blond fired hotly.

“Let me explain,” Fontaine interjected. “Let me explain something right now.”

Seconds later, the two men were red‑faced, spilling their guts to the director of the National Security Agency. “D‑director,” the blond stammered, “I’m Agent Coliander. This is Agent Smith.”

“Fine,” Fontaine said. “Just brief us.”

* * *

At the back of the room, Susan Fletcher sat and fought the suffocating loneliness that pressed down around her. Eyes closed, and ears ringing, she wept. Her body had gone numb. The mayhem in the control room faded to a dull murmur.

The gathering on the podium listened, restless, as Agent Smith began his briefing.

“On your orders, Director,” Smith began, “we’ve been here in Seville for two days, trailing Mr. Ensei Tankado.”

“Tell me about the kill,” Fontaine said impatiently.

Smith nodded. “We observed from inside the van at about fifty meters. The kill was smooth. Hulohot was obviously a pro. But afterward his directive went awry. Company arrived. Hulohot never got the item.”

Fontaine nodded. The agents had contacted him in South America with news that something had gone wrong, so Fontaine had cut his trip short.

Coliander took over. “We stayed with Hulohot as you ordered. But he never made a move for the morgue. Instead, he picked up the trail of some other guy. Looked private. Coat and tie.”

“Private?” Fontaine mused. It sounded like a Strathmore play‑wisely keeping the NSA out of it.

“FTP filters failing!” a technician called out.

“We need the item,” Fontaine pressed. “Where is Hulohot now?”

Smith looked over his shoulder. “Well . . . he’s with us, sir.”

Fontaine exhaled. “Where?” It was the best new she’d heard all day.

Smith reached toward the lens to make an adjustment. The camera swept across the inside of the van to reveal two limp bodies propped against the back wall. Both were motionless. One was a large man with twisted wire‑rim glasses. The other was young with a shock of dark hair and a bloody shirt.

“Hulohot’s the one on the left,” Smith offered.

“Hulohot’s dead?” the director demanded.

“Yes, sir.”

Fontaine knew there would be time for explanations later. He glanced up at the thi

Smith looked sheepish. “Sir, we still have no idea what the item is. We’re on a need‑to‑know.”

CHAPTER 114

“Then look again!” Fontaine declared.

The director watched in dismay as the stilted image of the agents searched the two limp bodies in the van for a list of random numbers and letters.

Jabba was pale. “Oh my God, they can’t find it. We’re dead!”

“Losing FTP filters!” a voice yelled. “Third shield’s exposed!” There was a new flurry of activity.

On the front screen, the agent with the buzz cut held out his arms in defeat. “Sir, the pass‑key isn’t here. We’ve searched both men. Pockets. Clothing. Wallets. No sign at all. Hulohot was wearing a Monocle computer, and we’ve checked that too. It doesn’t look like he ever transmitted anything remotely resembling random characters‑only a list of kills.”

“Dammit!” Fontaine seethed, suddenly losing his cool. “It’s got to be there! Keep looking!”

Jabba had apparently seen enough‑Fontaine had gambled and lost. Jabba took over. The huge Sys‑Sec descended from his pulpit like a storm off a mountain. He swept through his army of programmers calling out commands. “Access auxiliary kills! Start shutting it down! Do it now!”

“We’ll never make it!” Soshi yelled. “We need a half hour! By the time we shut down, it will be too late!”

Jabba opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short by a scream of agony from the back of the room.

Everyone turned. Like an apparition, Susan Fletcher rose from her crouched position in the rear of the chamber. Her face was white, her eyes transfixed on the freeze‑frame of David Becker, motionless and bloody, propped up on the floor of the van.

“You killed him!” she screamed. “You killed him!” She stumbled toward the image and reached out. “David . . .”

Everyone looked up in confusion. Susan advanced, still calling, her eyes never leaving the projection of David’s body. “David.” She gasped, staggering forward. “Oh, David . . . how could they—”