Digital Fortress

Becker could hear her checking the books. There would be no Klaus listed, but Becker figured clients seldom used their real names.

"Hmm, I'm sorry," she apologized. "I don't see him here. What was the girl's name your brother was with?"

"Had red hair," Becker said, avoiding the question.

"Red hair?" she repeated. There was a pause. "This is Servicio Social de Sevilla. Are you sure your brother comes here?"

"Sure, yes."

"Senor, we have no redheads. We have only pure Andalusian beauties."

"Red hair," Becker repeated, feeling stupid.

"I'm sorry, we have no redheads at all, but if you-"

"Name is Dewdrop," Becker blurted, feeling even stupider.

The ridiculous name apparently meant nothing to the woman. She apologized, suggested Becker was confusing her with another agency, and politely hung up.

Strike one.

***

Becker frowned and dialed the next number. It connected immediately.

"Buenas noches, Mujeres Espana. May I help you?"

Becker launched into his same spiel, a German tourist who was willing to pay top dollar for the red-haired girl who was out with his brother today.

This time the response was in polite German, but again no redheads. "Keine Rotkopfe, I'm sorry." The woman hung up.

Strike two.

Becker looked down at the phone book. There was only one number left. The end of the rope already.

He dialed.

***

"Escortes Belen," a man answered in a very slick tone.

Again Becker told his story.

"Si, si, senor. My name is Senor Roldan. I would be pleased to help. We have two redheads. Lovely girls."

Becker's heart leapt. "Very beautiful?" he repeated in his German accent. "Red hair?"

"Yes, what is your brother's name? I will tell you who was his escort today. And we can send her to you tomorrow."

"Klaus Schmidt." Becker blurted a name recalled from an old textbook.

A long pause. "Well, sir… I don't see a Klaus Schmidt on our registry, but perhaps your brother chose to be discreet-perhaps a wife at home?" He laughed inappropriately.

"Yes, Klaus married. But he very fat. His wife no lie with him." Becker rolled his eyes at himself reflected in the booth. If Susan could hear me now, he thought. "I fat and lonely too. I want lie with her. Pay lots of money."

Becker was giving an impressive performance, but he'd gone too far. Prostitution was illegal in Spain, and Senor Roldan was a careful man. He'd been burned before by Guardia officials posing as eager tourists. I want lie with her. Roldan knew it was a setup. If he said yes, he would be heavily fined and, as always, forced to provide one of his most talented escorts to the police commissioner free of charge for an entire weekend.

When Roldan spoke, his voice not quite as friendly. "Sir, this is Escortes Belen. May I ask who's calling?"

"Aah… Sigmund Schmidt," Becker invented weakly.

"Where did you get our number?"

"La Guia Telefonica-yellow pages."

"Yes, sir, that's because we are an escort service."

"Yes. I want escort." Becker sensed something was wrong.

"Sir, Escortes Belen is a service providing escorts to businessmen for luncheons and dinners. This is why we are listed in the phone book. What we do is legal. What you are looking for is a prostitute." The word slid off his tongue like a vile disease.

"But my brother…"

"Sir, if your brother spent the day kissing a girl in the park, she was not one of ours. We have strict regulations about client-escort contact."

"But…"

"You have us confused with someone else. We only have two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocio, and neither would allow a man to sleep with them for money. That is called prostitution, and it is illegal in Spain. Good night, sir."

"But-"

CLICK.

Becker swore under his breath and dropped the phone back into its cradle. Strike three. He was certain Cloucharde had said the German had hired the girl for the entire weekend.

***

Becker stepped out of the phone booth at the intersection of Calle Salado and Avenida Asuncion. Despite the traffic, the sweet scent of Seville oranges hung all around him. It was twilight-the most romantic hour. He thought of Susan. Strathmore's words invaded his mind: Find the ring. Becker flopped miserably on a bench and pondered his next move.

What move?

Chapter 25

Inside the Clinica de Salud Publica, visiting hours were over. The gymnasium lights had been turned out. Pierre Cloucharde was fast asleep. He did not see the figure hunched over him. The needle of a stolen syringe glinted in the dark. Then it disappeared into the IV tube just above Cloucharde's wrist. The hypodermic contained 30 cc of cleaning fluid stolen from a janitor's cart. With great force, a strong thumb rammed the plunger down and forced the bluish liquid into the old man's veins.