Digital Fortress Part 19

Although Brinkerhoff hadalways dreamed of a "real" post with the agency, he hadsomehow ended up as a "personal aide"-the officialcul de sac of the political rat race. The fact that he worked sideby side with the single most powerful man in American intelligencewas little consolation. Brinkerhoff had graduated with honors fromAndover and Williams, and yet here he was, middle-aged, with noreal power- no real stake. He spent his days arranging someoneelse's calendar.

There were definite benefits to being the director'spersonal aide-Brinkerhoff had a plush office in thedirectorial suite, full access to all the NSA departments, and acertain level of distinction that came from the company he kept. Heran errands for the highest echelons of power. Deep downBrinkerhoff knew he was born to be a PA-smart enough to takenotes, handsome enough to give press conferences, and lazy enoughto be content with it.

The sticky-sweet chime of his mantel clock accented the end ofanother day of his pathetic existence. s.h.i.t, he thought. Five o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day. What the h.e.l.l am I doinghere?

"Chad?" A woman appeared in his doorway.

Brinkerhoff looked up. It was Midge Milken, Fontaine'sinternal security a.n.a.lyst. She was sixty, slightly heavy, and, muchto the puzzlement of Brinkerhoff, quite appealing.

A consummateflirt and an ex-wife three times over, Midge prowled the six- roomdirectorial suite with a saucy authority. She was sharp, intuitive,worked unG.o.dly hours, and was rumored to know more about theNSA's inner workings than G.o.d himself.

d.a.m.n, Brinkerhoff thought, eyeing her in her graycashmere-dress. Either I'm getting older, or she'slooking younger.

"Weekly reports." She smiled, waving a fanfold ofpaper. "You need to check the figures."

Brinkerhoff eyed her body. "Figures look good fromhere."

"Really Chad," she laughed. "I'm old enoughto be your mother."

Don't remind me, he thought.

Midge strode in and sidled up to his desk. "I'm on myway out, but the director wants these compiled by the time he getsback from South America. That's Monday, bright andearly." She dropped the printouts in front of him.

"What am I, an accountant?"

"No, hon, you're a cruise director. Thought you knewthat."

"So what am I doing crunching numbers?"

She ruffled his hair. "You wanted more responsibility. Hereit is." He looked up at her sadly. "Midge ... I have nolife."

She tapped her finger on the paper. "This is yourlife, Chad Brinkerhoff." She looked down at him and softened."Anything I can get you before I go?"

He eyed her pleadingly and rolled his aching neck. "Myshoulders are tight."

Midge didn't bite. "Take an aspirin."

He pouted. "No back rub?"

She shook her head. "Cosmopolitan says two-thirds...o...b..ckrubs end in s.e.x."

Brinkerhoff looked indignant. "Ours neverdo!"

"Precisely." She winked. "That's theproblem."

"Midge-"

"Night, Chad." She headed for the door.

"You're leaving?"

"You know I'd stay," Midge said, pausing in thedoorway, "but I do have some pride. I just can'tsee playing second fiddle-particularly to ateenager."

"My wife's not a teenager," Brinkerhoffdefended. "She just acts like one."

Midge gave him a surprised look. "I wasn't talkingabout your wife." She battered her eyes innocently. "Iwas talking about Carmen." She spoke the name with athick Puerto Rican accent.

Brinkerhoff's voice cracked slightly. "Who?"

"Carmen? In food services?"

Brinkerhoff felt himself flush. Carmen Huerta was atwenty-seven-year-old pastry chef who worked in the NSA commissary.Brinkerhoff had enjoyed a number of presumably secret after-hoursflings with her in the stockroom.

She gave him a wicked wink. "Remember, Chad ... BigBrother knows all."

Big Brother? Brinkerhoff gulped in disbelief. BigBrother watches the STOCKROOMS too?

Big Brother, or "Brother" as Midge often called it,was a Centrex 333 that sat in a small closetlike s.p.a.ce off thesuite's central room. Brother was Midge's whole world.

Itreceived data from 148 closed circuit video cameras, 399 electronicdoors, 377 phones taps, and 212 free-standing bugs in the NSAcomplex. The directors of the NSA had learned the hard way that 26,000employees were not only a great a.s.set but a great liability. Everymajor security breach in the NSA's history had come fromwithin. It was Midge's job as internal security a.n.a.lyst, towatch everything that went on within the walls of the NSA ...including, apparently, the commissary stockroom.

Brinkerhoff stood to defend himself, but Midge was already onher way out.

"Hands above the desk," she called over hershoulder. "No funny stuff after I go. The walls haveeyes."

Brinkerhoff sat and listened to the sound of her heels fadingdown the corridor. At least he knew Midge would never tell. She wasnot without her weaknesses. Midge had indulged in a fewindiscretions of her own-mostly wandering back rubs withBrinkerhoff.

His thoughts turned back to Carmen. He pictured her lissomebody, those dark thighs, that AM radio she played fullblast-hot San Juan salsa. He smiled. Maybe I'll dropby for a snack when I'm done.

He opened the first printout.

CRYPTO-PRODUCTION/EXPENDITURE His mood immediately lightened. Midge had given him a freebie;the Crypto report was always a piece of cake. Technically he wa.s.supposed to compile the whole thing, but the only figure thedirector ever asked for was the MCD-the mean cost perdecryption. The MCD represented the estimated amount it costTRANSLTR to break a single code. As long as the figure was below$1,000 per code, Fontaine didn't flinch. A grand a pop.Brinkerhoff chuckled. Our tax dollars at work.

As he began plowing through the doc.u.ment and checking the dailyMCDs, images of Carmen Huerta smearing herself with honey andconfectioner's sugar began playing in his head. Thirty secondslater he was almost done. The Crypto data was perfect- asalways.

But just before moving on to the next report, something caughthis eye. At the bottom of the sheet, the last MCD was off. Thefigure was so large that it had carried over into the next columnand made a mess of the page. Brinkerhoff stared at the figure inshock.

999,999,999? He gasped. A billion dollars? Theimages of Carmen vanished. A billion-dollar code?

Brinkerhoff sat there a minute, paralyzed. Then in a burst ofpanic, he raced out into the hallway. "Midge! Comeback!"

CHAPTER 44

Phil Chartrukian stood fuming in the Sys-Sec lab.Strathmore's words echoed in his head: Leave now!That's an order! He kicked the trash can and swore in theempty lab.

"Diagnostic, my a.s.s! Since when does the deputy directorbypa.s.s Gauntlet's filters!?"

The Sys-Secs were well paid to protect the computer systems atthe NSA, and Chartrukian had learned that there were only two jobrequirements: be utterly brilliant and exhaustively paranoid.

h.e.l.l, he cursed, this isn't paranoia! The f.u.c.kingRun-Monitor's reading eighteen hours!

It was a virus. Chartrukian could feel it. There was littledoubt in his mind what was going on: Strathmore had made a mistakeby bypa.s.sing Gauntlet's filters, and now he was trying tocover it up with some half-baked story about a diagnostic.

Chartrukian wouldn't have been quite so edgy had TRANSLTRbeen the only concern. But it wasn't. Despite its appearance,the great decoding beast was by no means an island. Although thecryptographers believed Gauntlet was constructed for the solepurpose of protecting their code-breaking masterpiece, the Sys- Secsunderstood the truth. The Gauntlet filters served a much higherG.o.d. The NSA's main databank.

The history behind the databank's construction had alwaysfascinated Chartrukian.

Despite the efforts of the Department ofDefense to keep the Internet to themselves in the late 1970s, itwas too useful a tool not to attract the public-sector.

Eventuallyuniversities pried their way on. Shortly after that came thecommercial servers. The floodgates opened, and the public pouredin. By the early 90's, the government's once-secure"Internet" was a congested wasteland of public E-mail andcyberp.o.r.n.

Following a number of unpublicized, yet highly damaging computerinfiltrations at the Office of Naval Intelligence, it becameincreasingly clear that government secrets were no longer safe oncomputers connected to the burgeoning Internet. The President, inconjunction with the Department of Defense, pa.s.sed a cla.s.sifieddecree that would fund a new, totally secure government network toreplace the tainted Internet and function as a link between U.S.intelligence agencies. To prevent further computer pilfering ofgovernment secrets, all sensitive data was relocated to one, highlysecure location-the newly constructed NSA databank-theFort Knox of U.S. intelligence data.

Literally millions of the country's most cla.s.sified photos,tapes, doc.u.ments, and videos were digitized and transferred to theimmense storage facility and then the hard copies were destroyed.The databank was protected by a triple-layer power relay and atiered digital backup system. It was also 214 feet underground toshield it from magnetic fields and possible explosions. Activitieswithin the control room were designated Top Secret Umbra . .. the country's highest level of security.

The secrets of the country had never been safer. Thisimpregnable databank now housed blueprints for advanced weaponry,witness protection lists, aliases of field agents, detaileda.n.a.lyses and proposals for covert operations. The list was endless.There would be no more black-bag jobs damaging U.S.intelligence.

Of course, the officers of the NSA realized that stored data hadvalue only if it was accessible. The real coup of the databank wasnot getting the cla.s.sified data off the streets, it was making itaccessible only to the correct people. All stored information had asecurity rating and, depending on the level of secrecy, wasaccessible to government officials on a compartmentalized basis. Asubmarine commander could dial in and check the NSA's mostrecent satellite photos of Russian ports, but he would not haveaccess to the plans for an antidrug mission in South America. CIAa.n.a.lysts could access histories of known a.s.sa.s.sins but could notaccess launch codes reserved for the President.

Sys-Secs, of course, had no clearance for the information in thedatabank, but they were responsible for its safety. Like all largedatabanks-from insurance companies to universities-theNSA facility was constantly under attack by computer hackers tryingto sneak a peek at the secrets waiting inside. But the NSA securityprogrammers were the best in the world. No one had ever come closeto infiltrating the NSA databank-and the NSA had no reason tothink anybody ever would.

Inside the Sys-Sec lab, Chartrukian broke into a sweat trying todecide whether to leave. Trouble in TRANSLTR meant trouble in thedatabank too. Strathmore's lack of concern wasbewildering.

Everyone knew that TRANSLTR and the NSA main databank wereinextricably linked. Each new code, once broken, was fired fromCrypto through 450 yards of fiber-optic cable to the NSA databankfor safe keeping. The sacred storage facility had limited points ofentry-and TRANSLTR was one of them. Gauntlet was supposed tobe the impregnable threshold guardian. And Strathmore had bypa.s.sedit.

Chartrukian could hear his own heart pounding. TRANSLTR's been stuck eighteen hours! The thought of acomputer virus entering TRANSLTR and then running wild in thebas.e.m.e.nt of the NSA proved too much. "I've got to reportthis," he blurted aloud.

In a situation like this, Chartrukian knew there was only oneperson to call: the NSA's senior Sys-Sec officer, theshort-fused, 400-pound computer guru who had built Gauntlet. Hisnickname was Jabba. He was a demiG.o.d at the NSA-roaming thehalls, putting out virtual fires, and cursing the feeblemindednessof the inept and the ignorant. Chartrukian knew that as soon asJabba heard Strathmore had bypa.s.sed Gauntlet's filters, allh.e.l.l would break loose. Too bad, he thought, I'vegot a job to do.

He grabbed the phone and dialed Jabba'stwenty-four-hour cellular.

CHAPTER 45

David Becker wandered aimlessly down Avenida del Cid and triedto collect his thoughts. Muted shadows played on the cobblestonesbeneath his feet. The vodka was still with him. Nothing about hislife seemed in focus at the moment. His mind drifted back to Susan,wondering if she'd gotten his phone message yet.

Up ahead, a Seville Transit Bus screeched to a halt in front ofa bus stop. Becker looked up. The bus's doors cranked open,but no one disembarked. The diesel engine roared back to life, butjust as the bus was pulling out, three teenagers appeared out of abar up the street and ran after it, yelling and waving. The engineswound down again, and the kids hurried to catch up.

Thirty yards behind them, Becker stared in utter incredulity.His vision was suddenly focused, but he knew what he was seeing wasimpossible. It was a one-in-a-million chance.

I'm hallucinating.

But as the bus doors opened, the kids crowded around to board.Becker saw it again.

This time he was certain. Clearly illuminatedin the haze of the corner streetlight, he'd seen her.

The pa.s.sengers climbed on, and the bus's engines revved upagain. Becker suddenly found himself at a full sprint, the bizarreimage fixed in his mind-black lipstick, wild eye shadow, andthat hair ... spiked straight up in three distinctive spires.Red, white, and blue.

As the bus started to move, Becker dashed up the street into awake of carbon monoxide.

"Espera!" he called, running behind the bus.

Becker's cordovan loafers skimmed the pavement. His usualsquash agility was not with him, though; he felt off balance. Hisbrain was having trouble keeping track of his feet. He cursed thebartender and his jet lag.

The bus was one of Seville's older diesels, and fortunatelyfor Becker, first gear was a long, arduous climb. Becker felt thegap closing. He knew he had to reach the bus before itdownshifted. The twin tailpipes choked out a cloud of thick smoke as thedriver prepared to drop the bus into second gear. Becker strainedfor more speed. As he surged even with the rear b.u.mper, Beckermoved right, racing up beside the bus. He could see the reardoors- and as on all Seville buses, it was propped wide open:cheap air-conditioning.

Becker fixed his sights on the opening and ignored the burningsensation in his legs.

The tires were beside him, shoulder high,humming at a higher and higher pitch every second. He surged towardthe door, missing the handle and almost losing his balance.

Hepushed harder. Underneath the bus, the clutch clicked as the driverprepared to change gears.

He's shifting! I won't make it!

But as the engine cogs disengaged to align the larger gears, thebus let up ever so slightly. Becker lunged. The engine reengagedjust as his fingertips curled around the door handle. Becker'sshoulder almost ripped from its socket as the engine dug in,catapulting him up onto the landing.

David Becker lay collapsed just inside the vehicle'sdoorway. The pavement raced by only inches away. He was now sober.His legs and shoulder ached. Wavering, he stood, steadied himself,and climbed into the darkened bus. In the crowd of silhouettes,only a few seats away, were the three distinctive spikes ofhair.

Red, white, and blue! I made it!

Becker's mind filled with images of the ring, the waitingLearjet 60, and at the end of it all, Susan.

As Becker came even with the girl's seat wondering what tosay to her, the bus pa.s.sed beneath a streetlight. The punk'sface was momentarily illuminated.

Becker stared in horror. The makeup on her face was smearedacross a thick stubble.

She was not a girl at all, but a young man.He wore a silver stud in his upper lip, a black leather jacket, andno shirt.

"What the f.u.c.k do you want?" the hoa.r.s.e voiceasked. His accent was New York.

With the disorientated nausea of a slow-motion free fall, Beckergazed at the busload of pa.s.sengers staring back at him. They wereall punks. At least half of them had red, white, and blue hair.