Digital Fortress Chapter 88-93

Chapter 88The headlight of Beckers genus Vespa threw stark shadows on the w exclusivelys of the narrow passage steerings. He struggled with the gear shift and roa going surrounded by the whitewash buildings, giving the inhabitants of Santa Cruz an early wake-up c all(prenominal) this Sunday morning.It had been less than xxx minutes since Beckers escape from the airport. Hed been on the run ever since, his mind wrestling with endless questions Whos trying to scratch off me? Whats so special ab give away this palisade? Where is the NSA jet? He thought of Megan fallen in the stall, and the nausea crept spur.Becker had wishd to turf tabu directly across the barrio and exit on the other stead, al whiz Santa Cruz was a bewildering labyrinth of passways. It was peppered with false starts and dead ends. Becker quickly became disoriented. He looked up for the lift of the Giralda to occur his bearings, besides the surrounding walls were so high he could bring start aught ex cept a thin slit of breaking finish off above him.Becker wondered where the military macrocosm in wire-rim glasses was he knew better than to teleph atomic number 53 the assailant had given up. The killer probably was after him on hind end. Becker struggled to engineer his Vespa rough tight corners. The sp expressing of the engine echoed up and everywherecome the bridle-paths. Becker knew he was an easy target in the silence of Santa Cruz. At this point, all he had in his favor was speed. Got to get to the other side later on a long series of turns and straightaways, Becker skidded into a three-way intersection mark Esquina de los R look. He knew he was in trouble-he had been at that place already. As he stood straddling the idleness pedal, trying to decide which way to turn, the engine sputtered to a stop. The gas think read vacio. As if on cue, a shadow appeared cumulus an lane on his left field field(a).The human mind is the fastest computer in existence. In th e next fraction of a second, Beckers mind registered the shape of the mans glasses, searched his memory for a match, found matchless, registered riskiness, and requested a decision. He got one. He dropped the useless bike and took off at a full sprint.Unfortunately for Becker, Hulohot was now on solid ground rather than in a lurching taxi. He sedately raised(a) his weapon and fired.The bullet caught Becker in the side honourable as he stumbled around the corner kayoed of range. He took five or half a dozen strides to begin with the sensation began to register. At first it mat akin a muscle pull, just above the pelvic arch. Then it turned to a warm tingling. When Becker power saw the blood, he knew. in that respect was no hassle, no pain whatsoeverwhere, just a headlong race through the winding labyrinth of Santa Cruz.Hulohot dashed after his quarry. He had been tempted to hit Becker in the head, but he was a professional he played the betting odds. Becker was a mov ing target, and aiming at his midsection provided the greatest margin of error both vertically and horizontally. The odds had paid off. Becker had shifted at the last instant, and rather than missing his head, Hulohot had caught a piece of music of his side. Although he knew the bullet had barely grazed Becker and would do no unchanging damage, the dead reckoning had served its purpose. Contact had been made. The prey had been touched by death. It was a consentient new game.Becker raced forward blindly. Turning. Winding. Staying pop out of the straightaways. The footsteps behind him seemed relentless. Beckers mind was blank. Blank to everything-where he was, who was chasing him-all that was left was instinct, self preservation, no pain, but fear, and raw energy.A shot exploded against the azulejo tile behind him. Shards of glass s craveed across the substantiate of his neck. He stumbled left, into a nonher alley. He heard himself call for help, but except for the exit of foo tsteps and strained breathing, the morning air remained deathly still.Beckers side was burning now. He feared he was going a crimson shack on the whitewashed walks. He searched everywhere for an open door, an open gate, any escape from the smothering canyons. Nothing. The walkway narrowed.Socorro Beckers voice was barely audible. HelpThe walls grew closer on each side. The walkway curved. Becker searched for an intersection, a tributary, any way out. The passageway narrowed. Locked doors. Narrowing. Locked gate. The footsteps were closing. He was in a straightaway, and suddenly the alley began to slope upward. Steeper. Becker matte his legs straining. He was die awaying.And so(prenominal) he was on that point.Like a justifyway that had run out of funding, the alley just stopped. thither was a high wall, a wooden bench, and nonhing else. No escape. Becker looked up three stories to the top of the building and then spun and started back round the long alley, but he had only taken a few steps soonerhand he stopped short.At the foot of the inclined straightaway, a prototype appeared. The man moved toward Becker with a careful determination. In his hand, a gun glinted in the early morning sun.Becker felt a sudden lucidity as he backed up toward the wall. The pain in his side suddenly registered. He touched the deal and looked down. there was blood smeared across his fingers and across Ensei Tankados golden ring. He felt dizzy. He stared at the engraved band, puzzled. Hed forgotten he was wearing it. Hed forgotten why he had come to Seville. He looked up at the figure approaching. He looked down at the ring. Was this why Megan had give awayd? Was this why he would die?The shadow advanced up the inclined passageway. Becker saw walls on all sides-a dead end behind him. A few gated entryways between them, but it was too late to call for help.Becker pressed his back against the dead end. abruptly he could feel every piece of grit beneath the soles of his shoes, every bump in the stucco wall behind him. His mind was reeling backward, his childhood, his parents Susan.Oh, theology Susan.For the first time since he was a kid, Becker prayed. He did not pray for deliverance from death he did not believe in miracles. or else he prayed that the woman he left behind would find strength, that she would get laid without a doubt that she had been relishd. He closed his eyes. The memories came give care a torrent. They were not memories of department meetings, university business, and the things that made up 90 percent of his life they were memories of her. simpleton memories teaching her to use chopsticks, sailing on Cape Cod. I love you, he thought. Know that forever.It was as if every defense, every facade, every hazardous exaggeration of his life had been stripped away. He was associationing naked-flesh and bones before immortal. I am a man, he thought. And in a morsel of irony he thought, A man without wax. He stood, eyes close d, as the man in wire-rim glasses drew nearer. some give nearby, a price began to toll. Becker waited in darkness, for the sound that would end his life.Chapter 89The morning sun was just breaking over the Seville rooftops and shining down into the canyons below. The bells atop the Giralda cried out for morn mass. This was the moment inhabitants had all been time lag for. Everywhere in the ancient barrio, gates opened and families poured into the alleyways. Like lifeblood through the veins of old Santa Cruz, they coursed toward the heart of their pueblo, toward the core of their history, toward their God, their shrine, their cathedral.somewhere in Beckers mind, a bell was tolling. Am I dead? well-nigh reluctantly, he opened his eyes and squinted into the first rays of sunlight. He knew exactly where he was. He leveled his gaze and searched the alley for his assailant. But the man in wire-rims was not there. alternatively, there were others. Spanish families, in their finest c pu sh-down stackhes, stepping from their gated portals into the alleyways, talking, laughing.At the bottom of the alley, hidden from Beckers view, Hulohot ill-omened in frustration. At first there had been only a oneness couple separating him from his quarry. Hulohot had been certain they would leave. But the sound of the bells kept reverberating down the alley, drawing others from their homes. A second couple, with children. They greeted each another. Talking, laughing, kissing three propagation on the cheek. Another group appeared, and Hulohot could no longer see his prey. Now, in a boiling rage, he raced into the quickly growing press. He had to get to David BeckerThe killer fought his way toward the end of the alley. He found himself momentarily lost in a sea of bodies-coats and ties, black dresses, lace mantles over hunch over women. They all seemed oblivious to Hulohots presence they strolled casually, all in black, shuffling, moving as one, blocking his way. Hulohot dug hi s way through the crowd and dashed up the alley into the dead end, his weapon raised. Then he let out a muted, inhuman scream. David Becker was gone.Becker stumbled and sidestepped his way through the crowd. Follow the crowd, he thought. They receive the way out. He cut right at the intersection and the alley widened. Everywhere gates were opening and great deal were pouring out. The pealing of the bells grew louder.Beckers side was still burning, but he sense impressiond the bleeding had stopped. He raced on. Somewhere behind him, closing fast, was a man with a gun.Becker ducked in and out of the groups of performgoers and tried to keep his head down. It was not much farther. He could sense it. The crowd had thickened. The alley had widened. They were no longer in a short tributary, this was the main river. As he rounded a bend, Becker suddenly saw it, rising before them-the cathedral and Giralda tower.The bells were deafening, the reverberations trapped in the high-walled plaz a. The crowds converged, everyone in black, displace across the square toward the gaping doors of the Seville Cathedral. Becker tried to break away toward Mateus Gago, but he was trapped. He was shoulder to shoulder, heel to toe with the shoving throngs. The Spaniards had always had a different thinker of closeness than the rest of the world. Becker was wedged between ii heavyset women, both with their eyes closed, letting the crowd carry them. They mumbled prayers to themselves and clutched prayer beads beads in their fingers.As the crowd closed on the marvellous stone structure, Becker tried to cut left again, but the current was stronger now. The anticipation, the force and shoving, the blind, mumbled prayers. He turned into the crowd, trying to fight backward against the eager throngs. It was inconceivable, equal swimming upstream in a mile-deep river. He turned. The cathedral doors loomed before him-like the opening to some dark carnival ride he wished he hadnt taken. D avid Becker suddenly realized he was going to church.Chapter 90The Crypto sirens were blaring. Strathmore had no idea how long Susan had been gone. He sat alone in the shadows, the drone of TRANSLTR occupational group to him. Youre a survivor youre a survivor.Yes, he thought. Im a survivor-but survival of the fittest is nothing without note. Id rather die than live in the shadow of violate.And disgrace was what was waiting for him. He had kept information from the director. He had sent a virus into the nations most secure computer. thither was no doubt he would be hung out to dry. His intentions had been patriotic, but nothing had gone as hed planned. There had been death and treachery. There would be trials, accusations, public outrage. He had served his country with honor and integrity for so many years, he couldnt allow it to end this way.Im a survivor, he thought.Youre a liar, his own thoughts replied.It was true. He was a liar. There were people he hadnt been honest with. Su san Fletcher was one of them. There were so many things he hadnt told her-things he was now desperately ashamed of. For years shed been his illusion, his living fantasy. He dreamed of her at night he cried out for her in his sleep. He couldnt help it. She was as brilliant and as beautiful as any woman he could imagine. His wife had tried to be patient, but when she at last met Susan, she immediately lost hope. Bev Strathmore never blamed her husband for his feelings. She tried to scat the pain as long as possible, but recently it had drive too much. Shed told him their marriage was ending another womans shadow was no place to spend the rest of her life.Gradually the sirens lifted Strathmore from his daze. His analytical powers searched for any way out. His mind reluctantly confirmed what his heart had suspected. There was only one true escape, only one solution.Strathmore gazed down at the keyboard and began typing. He didnt bustle to turn the monitor so he could see it. His fin gers pecked out the wrangle slowly and decisively.Dearest friends, I am taking my life directlyThis way, no one would ever wonder. There would be no questions. There would be no accusations. He would spell out for the world what had happened. umteen had died but there was still one life to take.Chapter 91In a cathedral, it is always night. The warmth of the day turns to damp coolness. The traffic is suppress behind thick granite walls. No number of candelabras can illuminate the extensive darkness overhead. Shadows fall everywhere. Theres only the stained glass, high above, filtering the ugliness of the away(p) world into rays of muted reds and blues.The Seville Cathedral, like all great cathedrals of Europe, is laid out in the shape of a cross. The sanctuary and altar are set just above the midpoint and open downward onto the main sanctuary. wooden pews fill the vertical axis, a staggering 113 yards from the altar to the base of the cross. To the left and right of the altar, the transept of the cross houses confessionals, sacred tombs, and additional seating.Becker found himself wedged in the middle of a long pew about halfway back. Overhead, in the dizzying muster out space, a silver censer the size of a refrigerator swung enormous arcs on a frayed rope, leaving a trail of olibanum. The bells of the Giralda kept ringing, sending low rumbling shock waves through the stone. Becker move his gaze to the gilded wall behind the altar. He had a lot to be thankful for. He was breathing. He was alive. It was a miracle.As the priest prepared to give the opening prayer, Becker checked his side. There was a red stain on his shirt, but the bleeding had stopped. The wound was small, more of a laceration than a puncture. Becker tucked his shirt back in and craned his neck. Behind him, the doors were cranking shut. He knew if hed been followed, he was now trapped. The Seville Cathedral had a wholeness functional entrance, a design popularized in the days when c hurches were used as fortresses, a unassailable haven against Moorish invasion. With a single entrance, there was only one door to barricade. Now the single entrance had another function-it ensured all tourists move into the cathedral had purchased a ticket.The twenty-two-foot-high, gilded doors slammed with a decisive crash. Becker was sealed in the house of God. He closed his eyes and slid low in his pew. He was the only one in the building not dressed in black. Somewhere voices began to chant.Toward the back of the church, a figure moved slowly up the side gangplank, keeping to the shadows. He had slipped in just before the doors closed. He smiled to himself. The hunt was getting interesting. Becker is here I can feel it. He moved methodically, one row at a time. Overhead the frankincense decanter swung its long, lazy arcs. A fine place to die, Hulohot thought. I hope I do as well.Becker knelt on the cold cathedral theme and ducked his head out of sight. The man seated next t o him glared down-it was most secondment behavior in the house of God.Enfermo, Becker apologized. Sick.Becker knew he had to stay low. He had glimpsed a familiar silhouette moving up the side aisle. Its him Hes here condescension being in the middle of an enormous congregation, Becker feared he was an easy target-his chromatic sports coat was like a roadside flare in the crowd of black. He considered removing it, but the white oxford shirt underneath was no better. Instead he huddled lower.The man beside him frowned. Turista. He grunted. Then he whispered, half sarcastically, Llamo un medico? Shall I call a doctor?Becker looked up at the old mans mole-ridden face. No, gracias. Estoy bien.The man gave him an angry look. Pues sientate Then sit down There were scattered shushes around them, and the old man bit his tongue and approach front.Becker closed his eyes and huddled lower, wondering how long the service would last. Becker, raised Protestant, had always had the impression Ca tholics were long-winded. He prayed it was true-as soon as the service ended, he would be forced to stand and let the others out. In khaki he was dead.Becker knew he had no choice at the moment. He simply knelt there on the cold stone grade of the great cathedral. Eventually, the old man lost interest. The congregation was standing now, singing a hymn. Becker stayed down. His legs were starting to cramp. There was no room to stretch them. Patience, he thought. Patience. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.It felt like only minutes later that Becker felt someone kicking him. He looked up. The mole-faced man was standing to his right, waiting impatiently to leave the pew.Becker panicked. He wants to leave already? Ill have to stand up Becker motioned for the man to step over him. The man could barely control condition his anger. He grabbed the tails of his black blazer, pulled them down in a huff, and leaned back to reveal the entire row of people waiting to leave. Becker look ed left and saw that the woman who had been seated there was gone. The length of pew to his left was empty all the way to the center aisle.The service cant be over Its impossible We just got hereBut when Becker saw the altar boy at the end of the row and the two single-file lines moving up the center aisle toward the altar, he knew what was happening.Communion. He groaned. The damn Spaniards do it firstChapter 92Susan climbed down the ladder into the sublevels. Thick steam was now boiling up around TRANSLTRs hull. The catwalks were wet with condensation. She closely flatten, her flats providing very little traction. She wondered how much longer TRANSLTR would survive. The sirens go along their intermittent warning. The emergency lights spun in two-second intervals. Three stories below, the aux generators shook in a taxed whine. Susan knew somewhere at the bottom in the foggy dimness there was a circuit breaker. She sensed time was running out.Upstairs, Strathmore held the Beretta in his hand. He reread his note and laid it on the floor of the room where he was standing. What he was about to do was a cowardly act, there was no doubt. Im a survivor, he thought. He thought of the virus in the NSA databank, he thought of David Becker in Spain, he thought of his plans for a back door. He had told so many lies. He was guilty of so much. He knew this was the only way to avoid accountability the only way to avoid the shame. guardedly he aimed the gun. Then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.Susan had only descended six flights when she heard the muffled shot. It was far off, barely audible over the generators. She had never heard a gunshot except on television, but she had no doubt what it was.She stopped short, the sound resounding in her ears. In a wave of horror, she feared the worst. She pictured the commanders dreams-the back door in Digital Fortress, the incredulous coup it would have been. She pictured the virus in the databank, his failing marriage , that supernatural nod he had given her. Her footing faltered. She spun on the landing, grappling for the banister. air force officer NoSusan was momentarily frozen, her mind blank. The echo of the gunshot seemed to drown out the chaos around her. Her mind told her to keep on going, but her legs refused. commander An instant later she found herself stumbling back up the stairs, entirely forgetting the danger around her.She ran blindly, slipping on the slick metal. Above her the humidity fell like rain. When she reached the ladder and began climbing, she felt herself lifted from below by a tremendous surge of steam that practically jettisoned her through the trapdoor. She rolled onto the Crypto floor and felt the cool air wash over her. Her white blouse clung to her body, pixilated through.It was dark. Susan paused, trying to get her bearings. The sound of the gunshot was on endless lace in her head. Hot steam billowed up through the trapdoor like gases from a volcano about to e xplode.Susan cursed herself for leaving the Beretta with Strathmore. She had left it with him, hadnt she? Or was it in Node 3? As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she glanced toward the gaping spate in the Node 3 wall. The glow from the monitors was faint, but in the distance she could see Hale lying motionless on the floor where shed left him. There was no sign of Strathmore. Terrified of what shed find, she turned toward the commanders office.But as she began to move, something registered as strange. She backpedaled a few steps and peered into Node 3 again. In the soft light she could see Hales arm. It was not at his side. He was no longer tied like a mummy. His arm was up over his head. He was sprawled backward on the floor. Had he gotten free? There was no movement. Hale was deathly still.Susan gazed up at Strathmores workstation perched high on the wall. commanding officer?Silence.Tentatively she moved toward Node 3. There was an object in Hales hand. It glimmered in the light of the monitors. Susan moved closer closer. Suddenly she could see what Hale was holding. It was the Beretta.Susan gasped. chase the arch of Hales arm, her eyes moved to his face. What she saw was grotesque. Half of Greg Hales head was strong in blood. The dark stain had spread out across the carpet.Oh my God Susan staggered backward. It wasnt the commanders shot shed heard, it was HalesAs if in a trance, Susan moved toward the body. Apparently, Hale had managed to free himself. The printer cables were piled on the floor beside him. I must have left the gun on the couch, she thought. The blood flowing through the hole in his skull looked black in the bluish light.On the floor beside Hale was a piece of paper. Susan went over unsteadily, and picked it up. It was a letter.Dearest friends, I am taking my life today in penance for the following sinsIn utter disbelief, Susan stared at the suicide note in her hand. She read slowly. It was surreal-so unlike Hale-a lavation list of crim es. He was admitting to everything-figuring out that NDAKOTA was a hoax, hiring a mercenary to kill Ensei Tankado and take the ring, pushing Phil Chartrukian, planning to sell Digital Fortress.Susan reached the final line. She was not prepared for what she read. The letters final words delivered a numbing blow.Above all, Im sincerely yours sorry about David Becker. Forgive me, I was blinded by ambition.As Susan stood trembling over Hales body, the sound of running footsteps approached behind her. In slow motion, she turned.Strathmore appeared in the broken window, pale and out of breath. He stared down at Hales body in apparent shock.Oh my God he said. What happened?Chapter 93Communion.Hulohot espy Becker immediately. The khaki blazer was impossible to miss, particularly with the small bloodstain on one side. The jacket was moving up the center aisle in a sea of black. He must not know Im here. Hulohot smiled. Hes a dead man.He fanned the tiny metal contacts on his fingertips, eag er to arrange his American contact the good news. Soon, he thought, very soon.Like a predator moving downwind, Hulohot moved to the back of the church. Then he began his approach-straight up the center aisle. Hulohot was in no mood to track Becker through the crowds leaving the church. His quarry was trapped, a fortunate turn of events. Hulohot just needed a way to eliminate him quietly. His silencer, the best money could buy, emitted no more than a tiny spitting cough. That would be fine.As Hulohot closed on the khaki blazer, he was unaware of the quiet murmurs coming from those he was passing. The congregation could record this mans excitement to receive the blessing of God, but nevertheless, there were strict rules of protocol-two lines, single file.Hulohot kept moving. He was closing quickly. He thumbed the revolver in his jacket pocket. The moment had arrived. David Becker had been exceptionally fortunate so far there was no need to tempt fortune any further.The khaki blazer was only ten people ahead, facing front, head down. Hulohot rehearsed the kill in his mind. The image was clear-cutting in behind Becker, keeping the gun low and out of sight, firing two shots into Beckers back, Becker slumping, Hulohot catching him and helping him into a pew like a concerned friend. Then Hulohot would move quickly to the back of the church as if going for help. In the confusion, he would disappear before anyone knew what had happened.tail fin people. Four. Three.Hulohot fingered the gun in his pocket, keeping it low. He would fire from hip level upward into Beckers goad. That way the bullet would hit either the spine or a lung before finding the heart. Even if the bullet confused the heart, Becker would die. A punctured lung was fatal, maybe not in more medically advanced parts of the world, but in Spain, it was fatal. cardinal people one. And then Hulohot was there. Like a dancer performing a well-rehearsed move, he turned to his right. He laid his hand on the s houlder of the khaki blazer, aimed the gun, and fired. Two muffled spats.Instantly the body was rigid. Then it was falling. Hulohot caught his victim under the armpits. In a single motion, he swung the body into a pew before any bloodstains spread across his back. Nearby, people turned. Hulohot paid no heed-he would be gone in an instant.He groped the mans lifeless fingers for the ring. Nothing. He felt again. The fingers were bare. Hulohot spun the man around angrily. The horror was instantaneous. The face was not David Beckers.Rafael de la Maza, a banker from the suburbs of Seville, had died almost instantly. He was still clutching the 50,000 pesetas the strange American had paid him for a squalid black blazer.