Digital Fortress Part 9

"A diagnostic, my a.s.s!" Chartrukian muttered as hefumed back into the Sys-Sec lab.

"What kind of loopingfunction keeps three million processors busy for sixteenhours?" Chartrukian wondered if he should call the Sys-Sec supervisor.G.o.dd.a.m.n cryptographers, he thought. They just don'tunderstand security!

The oath Chartrukian had taken when he joined Sys-Sec beganrunning through his head. He had sworn to use his expertise,training, and instinct to protect the NSA'smultibillion-dollar investment.

"Instinct," he said defiantly. It doesn't takea psychic to know this isn't any G.o.dd.a.m.n diagnostic!

Defiantly, Chartrukian strode over to the terminal and fired upTRANSLTR's complete array of system a.s.sessment software.

"Your baby's in trouble, Commander," he grumbled."You don't trust instinct? I'll get youproof!"

CHAPTER 20

La Clinica de Salud Publica was actually a convertedelementary school and didn't much resemble a hospital at all.It was a long, one-story brick building with huge windows and arusted swing set out back. Becker headed up the crumblingsteps.

Inside, it was dark and noisy. The waiting room was a line offolding metal chairs that ran the entire length of a long narrowcorridor. A cardboard sign on a sawhorse read oficina with an arrowpointing down the hall.

Becker walked the dimly lit corridor. It was like some sort ofeerie set conjured up for a Hollywood horror flick. The air smelledof urine. The lights at the far end were blown out, and the lastforty or fifty feet revealed nothing but muted silhouettes.

Ableeding woman ... a young couple crying ... a little girlpraying ... Becker reached the end of the darkened hall. The doorto his left was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. It wasentirely empty except for an old, withered woman naked on a cotstruggling with her bedpan.

Lovely. Becker groaned. He closed the door. Where theh.e.l.l is the office?

Around a small dog-leg in the hall, Becker heard voices. Hefollowed the sound and arrived at a translucent gla.s.s door thatsounded as if a brawl were going on behind it.

Reluctantly, Beckerpushed the door open. The office. Mayhem. Just as he'dfeared. The line was about ten people deep, everyone pushing andshouting. Spain was not known for its efficiency, and Becker knewhe could be there all night waiting for discharge info on theCanadian. There was only one secretary behind the desk, and she wasfending off disgruntled patients. Becker stood in the doorway amoment and pondered his options. There was a better way.

"Con permiso!" an orderly shouted. A fast-rollinggurney sailed by.

Becker spun out of the way and called after the orderly"Donde esta el telefono?"

Without breaking stride, the man pointed to a set of doubledoors and disappeared around the corner. Becker walked over to thedoors and pushed his way through.

The room before him was enormous-an old gymnasium. Thefloor was a pale green and seemed to swim in and out of focus underthe hum of the fluorescent lights. On the wall, a basketball hoophung limply from its backboard. Scattered across the floor were afew dozen patients on low cots. In the far corner, just beneath aburned-out scoreboard, was an old pay phone. Becker hoped itworked.

As he strode across the floor, he fumbled in his pocket for acoin. He found 75 pesetas in cinco-duros coins, change from thetaxi-just enough for two local calls. He smiled politely to anexiting nurse and made his way to the phone. Scooping up thereceiver, Becker dialed Directory a.s.sistance. Thirty seconds laterhe had the number for the clinic's main office.

Regardless of the country, it seemed there was one universaltruth when it came to offices: n.o.body could stand the sound of anunanswered phone. It didn't matter how many customers werewaiting to be helped, the secretary would always drop what she wasdoing to pick up the phone.

Becker punched the six-digit exchange. In a moment he'dhave the clinic's office.

There would undoubtedly be only oneCanadian admitted today with a broken wrist and a concussion; hisfile would be easy to find. Becker knew the office would behesitant to give out the man's name and discharge address to atotal stranger, but he had a plan.

The phone began to ring. Becker guessed five rings was all itwould take. It took nineteen.

"Clinica de Salud Publica," barked thefrantic secretary.

Becker spoke in Spanish with a thick Franco-American accent."This is David Becker.

I'm with the Canadian Emba.s.sy. Oneof our citizens was treated by you today. I'd like hisinformation such that the emba.s.sy can arrange to pay hisfees."

"Fine," the woman said. "I'll send it to theemba.s.sy on Monday."

"Actually," Becker pressed, "it's importantI get it immediately."

"Impossible," the woman snapped. "We're verybusy." Becker sounded as official as possible. "It is an urgentmatter. The man had a broken wrist and a head injury. He wastreated sometime this morning. His file should be right ontop."

Becker thickened the accent in his Spanish-just clearenough to convey his needs, just confusing enough to beexasperating. People had a way of bending the rules when they wereexasperated.

Instead of bending the rules, however, the woman cursedself-important North Americans and slammed down the phone.

Becker frowned and hung up. Strikeout. The thought of waitinghours in line didn't thrill him; the clock wasticking-the old Canadian could be anywhere by now. Maybe hehad decided to go back to Canada. Maybe he would sell the ring.Becker didn't have hours to wait in line. With reneweddetermination, Becker s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver and redialed. Hepressed the phone to his ear and leaned back against the wall. Itbegan to ring. Becker gazed out into the room. One ring ... tworings ... three- A sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through his body.

Becker wheeled and slammed the receiver back down into itscradle. Then he turned and stared back into the room in stunnedsilence. There on a cot, directly in front of him, propped up on apile of old pillows, lay an elderly man with a clean white cast onhis right wrist.

CHAPTER 21

The American on Tokugen Numataka's private line soundedanxious.

"Mr. Numataka-I only have a moment."

"Fine. I trust you have both pa.s.s-keys."

"There will be a small delay," the Americananswered.

"Unacceptable," Numataka hissed. "You said Iwould have them by the end of today!"

"There is one loose end."

"Is Tankado dead?" "Yes," the voice said. "My man killed Mr.Tankado, but he failed to get the pa.s.s-key.

Tankado gave it awaybefore he died. To a tourist."

"Outrageous!" Numataka bellowed. "Then how canyou promise me exclusive-"

"Relax," the American soothed. "You will haveexclusive rights. That is my guarantee.

As soon as the missingpa.s.s-key is found, Digital Fortress will be yours."

"But the pa.s.s-key could be copied!"

"Anyone who has seen the key will be eliminated."

There was a long silence. Finally Numataka spoke. "Where isthe key now?"

"All you need to know is that it will befound."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I am not the only one looking for it. AmericanIntelligence has caught wind of the missing key. For obviousreasons they would like to prevent the release of Digital Fortress.They have sent a man to locate the key. His name is DavidBecker."

"How do you know this?"

"That is irrelevant."

Numataka paused. "And if Mr. Becker locates thekey?"

"My man will take it from him."

"And after that?"

"You needn't be concerned," the American saidcoldly. "When Mr. Becker finds the key, he will be properlyrewarded."

CHAPTER 22

David Becker strode over and stared down at the old man asleepon the cot. The man's right wrist was wrapped in a cast. Hewas between sixty and seventy years old. His snow-white hair wasparted neatly to the side, and in the center of his forehead was adeep purple welt that spread down into his right eye. A little b.u.mp? he thought, recalling thelieutenant's words. Becker checked the man's fingers.There was no gold ring anywhere. Becker reached down and touchedthe man's arm. "Sir?" He shook him lightly."Excuse me ... sir?"

The man didn't move.

Becker tried again, a little louder. "Sir?"

The man stirred. "Qu'est-ce ... quelle heureest-" He slowly opened his eyes and focused on Becker. Hescowled at having been disturbed. "Qu'est-ce-que vousvoulez?"

Yes, Becker thought, a French Canadian! Beckersmiled down at him. "Do you have a moment?"

Although Becker's French was perfect, he spoke in what hehoped would be the man's weaker language, English. Convincinga total stranger to hand over a gold ring might be a little tricky;Becker figured he could use any edge he could get.

There was a long silence as the man got his bearings. Hesurveyed his surroundings and lifted a long finger to smooth hislimp white mustache. Finally he spoke. "What do youwant?" His English carried a thin, nasal accent.

"Sir," Becker said, overp.r.o.nouncing his words as ifspeaking to a deaf person, "I need to ask you a fewquestions."

The man glared up at him with a strange look on his face."Do you have some sort of problem?"

Becker frowned; the man's English was impeccable. Heimmediately lost the condescending tone. "I'm sorry tobother you, sir, but were you by any chance at the Plaza deEspana today?"

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Are you from the CityCouncil?"

"No, actually I'm-"

"Bureau of Tourism?"

"No, I'm-"

"Look, I know why you're here!" The old manstruggled to sit up. "I'm not going to be intimidated! IfI've said it once, I've said it a thousandtimes-Pierre Cloucharde writes the world the way he lives the world. Some of your corporate guidebooks might sweepthis under the table for a free night on the town, but the Montreal Times is not for hire! I refuse!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't think youunder-" "Merde alors! I understand perfectly!" He wagged abony finger at Becker, and his voice echoed through the gymnasium."You're not the first! They tried the same thing at theMoulin Rouge, Brown's Palace, and the Golfigno in Lagos! Butwhat went to press? The truth! The worst WellingtonI've ever eaten! The filthiest tub I've ever seen! Andthe rockiest beach I've ever walked! My readers expect noless!"

Patients on nearby cots began sitting up to see what was goingon. Becker looked around nervously for a nurse. The last thing heneeded was to get kicked out.

Cloucharde was raging. "That miserable excuse for a policeofficer works for your city! He made me get on hismotorcycle! Look at me!" He tried to lift his wrist. "Now who's going to write my column?"

"Sir, I-"

"I've never been so uncomfortable in my forty-threeyears of travel! Look at this place! You know, my column issyndicated in over-"

"Sir!" Becker held up both hands urgently signalingtruce. "I'm not interested in your column; I'm fromthe Canadian Consulate. I'm here to make sure you'reokay!"

Suddenly there was a dead quiet in the gymnasium. The old manlooked up from his bed and eyed the intruder suspiciously.

Becker ventured on in almost a whisper. "I'm here tosee if there's anything I can do to help." Like bringyou a couple of Valium.

After a long pause, the Canadian spoke. "Theconsulate?" His tone softened considerably.

Becker nodded.

"So, you're not here about my column?"

"No, sir."

It was as if a giant bubble had burst for Pierre Cloucharde. Hesettled slowly back down onto his mound of pillows. He lookedheartbroken. "I thought you were from the city ... trying toget me to ..." He faded off and then looked up. "Ifit's not about my column, then why are youhere?"

It was a good question, Becker thought, picturing the SmokyMountains. "Just an informal diplomatic courtesy," helied.

The man looked surprised. "A diplomatic courtesy?"