Digital Fortress: A Thriller
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When the NSA's invincible code-breaking machine encounters a mysterious code it cannot break, the agency calls its head cryptographer, Susan Fletcher, a brilliant, beautiful mathematician. What she uncovers sends shock waves through the corridors of power. The NSA is being held hostage--not by guns or bombs -- but by a code so complex that if released would cripple U.S. intelligence. Caught in an accelerating tempest of secrecy and lies, Fletcher battles to save the agency she believes in. Betrayed on all sides, she finds herself fighting not only for her country but for her life, and in the end, for the life of the man she loves.
gone. Within the hour, all five shields will follow. After that, the world pours in. Every byte of NSA data becomes public domain.” Fontaine studied the VR, his eyes smoldering. Brinkerhoff let out a weak whimper. “This worm can open our databank to the world?” “Child’s play for Tankado,” Jabba snapped. “Gauntlet was our fail-safe. Strathmore blew it.” “It’s an act of war,” Fontaine whispered, an edge in his voice. Jabba shook his head. “I really doubt Tankado ever meant for it to go this
life. Suddenly there was background noise. “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
ballistic missile. If someone in this room thinks he’s got a better candidate for a kill code than this ring, I’m all ears.” The director waited. No one spoke. He returned his gaze to Jabba and locked eyes. “Tankado dumped that ring for a reason, Jabba. Whether he was trying to bury it, or whether he thought the fat guy would run to a pay phone and call us with the information, I really don’t care. But I’ve made the decision. We’re entering that quote. Now.” Jabba took a long breath. He knew
professional. Becker stood up and walked aimlessly down Calle Delicias pondering his options. The cobblestone sidewalk blurred beneath his gaze. Night was falling fast. Dewdrop. There was something about that absurd name that nagged at the back of his mind. Dewdrop. The slick voice of Señor Roldán at Escortes Belén was on endless loop in his head. “We only have two redheads… Two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocío … Rocío … Rocío…” Becker stopped short. He suddenly knew. And I call myself a
morning? In the park? It was an assassination—Ermordung.” Becker loved the German word for assassination. Ermordung. It was so chilling. “Ermordung? He… he was…?” “Yes.” “But… but that’s impossible,” the German choked. “I was there. He had a heart attack. I saw it. No blood. No bullets.” Becker shook his head condescendingly. “Things are not always as they seem.” The German went whiter still. Becker gave an inward smile. The lie had served its purpose. The poor German was sweating