Digital Fortress

Regardless of the country, it seemed there was one universal truth when it came to offices: Nobody could stand the sound of an unanswered phone. It didn't matter how many customers were waiting to be helped, the secretary would always drop what she was doing to pick up the phone.

Becker punched the six-digit exchange. In a moment he'd have the clinic's office. There would undoubtedly be only one Canadian admitted today with a broken wrist and a concussion; his file would be easy to find. Becker knew the office would be hesitant to give out the man's name and discharge address to a total stranger, but he had a plan.

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

"Clinica de Salud Publica," barked the frantic secretary.

Becker spoke in Spanish with a thick Franco-American accent. "This is David Becker. I'm with the Canadian Embassy. One of our citizens was treated by you today. I'd like his information such that the embassy can arrange to pay his fees."

"Fine," the woman said. "I'll send it to the embassy on Monday."

"Actually," Becker pressed, "it's important I get it immediately."

"Impossible," the woman snapped. "We're very busy."

Becker sounded as official as possible. "It is an urgent matter. The man had a broken wrist and a head injury. He was treated sometime this morning. His file should be right on top."

Becker thickened the accent in his Spanish-just clear enough to convey his needs, just confusing enough to be exasperating. People had a way of bending the rules when they were exasperated.

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

Becker frowned and hung up. Strikeout. The thought of waiting hours in line didn't thrill him; the clock was ticking-the old Canadian could be anywhere by now. Maybe he had decided to go back to Canada. Maybe he would sell the ring. Becker didn't have hours to wait in line. With renewed determination, Becker snatched up the receiver and redialed. He pressed the phone to his ear and leaned back against the wall. It began to ring. Becker gazed out into the room. One ring… two rings… three– A sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through his body.

Becker wheeled and slammed the receiver back down into its cradle. Then he turned and stared back into the room in stunned silence. There on a cot, directly in front of him, propped up on a pile of old pillows, lay an elderly man with a clean white cast on his right wrist.

Chapter 21

The American on Tokugen Numataka's private line sounded anxious.

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

"Fine. I trust you have both pass-keys."

"There will be a small delay," the American answered.

"Unacceptable," Numataka hissed. "You said I would 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 pass-key. Tankado gave it away before he died. To a tourist."

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

"Relax," the American soothed. "You will have exclusive rights. That is my guarantee. As soon as the missing pass-key is found, Digital Fortress will be yours."

"But the pass-key could be copied!"

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

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

"All you need to know is that it will be found."

"How can you be so certain?"

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

"How do you know this?"

"That is irrelevant."

Numataka paused. "And if Mr. Becker locates the key?"

"My man will take it from him."

"And after that?"

"You needn't be concerned," the American said coldly. "When Mr. Becker finds the key, he will be properly rewarded."

Chapter 22

David Becker strode over and stared down at the old man asleep on the cot. The man's right wrist was wrapped in a cast. He was between sixty and seventy years old. His snow-white hair was parted neatly to the side, and in the center of his forehead was a deep purple welt that spread down into his right eye.

A little bump? he thought, recalling the lieutenant's words. Becker checked the man's fingers. There was no gold ring anywhere. Becker reached down and touched the 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 heure est-" He slowly opened his eyes and focused on Becker. He scowled at having been disturbed. "Qu'est-ce-que vous voulez?"

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