Digital Fortress

Becker turned and immediately felt himself flush. He eyed the ID card on the woman's blouse. The head of the NSA's Cryptography Division was not only a woman, but an attractive woman at that.

"No," Becker fumbled. "I just…"

"Susan Fletcher." The woman smiled, holding out her slender hand.

Becker took it. "David Becker."

"Congratulations, Mr. Becker. I hear you did a fine job today. Might I chat with you about it?"

Becker hesitated. "Actually, I'm in a bit of a rush at the moment." He hoped spurning the world's most powerful intelligence agency wasn't a foolish act, but his squash match started in forty-five minutes, and he had a reputation to uphold: David Becker was never late for squash… class maybe, but never squash.

"I'll be brief." Susan Fletcher smiled. "Right this way, please."

Ten minutes later, Becker was in the NSA's commissary enjoying a popover and cranberry juice with the NSA's lovely head cryptographer, Susan Fletcher. It quickly became evident to David that the thirty-eight-year-old's high-ranking position at the NSA was no fluke-she was one of the brightest women he had ever met. As they discussed codes and code-breaking, Becker found himself struggling to keep up-a new and exciting experience for him.

An hour later, after Becker had obviously missed his squash match and Susan had blatantly ignored three pages on the intercom, both of them had to laugh. There they were, two highly analytical minds, presumably immune to irrational infatuations-but somehow, while they sat there discussing linguistic morphology and pseudo-random number generators, they felt like a couple of teenagers-everything was fireworks.

Susan never did get around to the real reason she'd wanted to speak to David Becker-to offer him a trial post in their Asiatic Cryptography Division. It was clear from the passion with which the young professor spoke about teaching that he would never leave the university. Susan decided not to ruin the mood by talking business. She felt like a schoolgirl all over again; nothing was going to spoil it. And nothing did.

***

Their courtship was slow and romantic-stolen escapes whenever their schedules permitted, long walks through the Georgetown campus, late-night cappuccinos at Merlutti's, occasional lectures and concerts. Susan found herself laughing more than she'd ever thought possible. It seemed there was nothing David couldn't twist into a joke. It was a welcome release from the intensity of her post at the NSA.

One crisp, autumn afternoon they sat in the bleachers watching Georgetown soccer get pummeled by Rutgers.

"What sport did you say you play?" Susan teased. "Zucchini?"

Becker groaned. "It's called squash."

She gave him a dumb look.

"It's like zucchini," he explained, "but the court's smaller."

Susan pushed him.

Georgetown's left wing sent a corner-kick sailing out of bounds, and a boo went up from the crowd. The defensemen hurried back downfield.

"How about you?" Becker asked. "Play any sports?"

"I'm a black belt in Stairmaster."

Becker cringed. "I prefer sports you can win."

Susan smiled. "Overachiever, are we?"

Georgetown's star defenseman blocked a pass, and there was a communal cheer in the stands. Susan leaned over and whispered in David's ear. "Doctor."

He turned and eyed her, lost.

"Doctor," she repeated. "Say the first thing that comes to mind."

Becker looked doubtful. "Word associations?"

"Standard NSA procedure. I need to know who I'm with." She eyed him sternly. "Doctor."

Becker shrugged. "Seuss."

Susan gave him a frown. "Okay, try this one… 'kitchen.' "

He didn't hesitate. "Bedroom."

Susan arched her eyebrows coyly. "Okay, how about this… 'cat.' "

"Gut," Becker fired back.

"Gut?"

"Yeah. Catgut. Squash racquet string of champions."

"That's pleasant." She groaned.

"Your diagnosis?" Becker inquired.

Susan thought a minute. "You're a childish, sexually frustrated squash fiend."

Becker shrugged. "Sounds about right."

***

It went on like that for weeks. Over dessert at all-night diners Becker would ask endless questions.

Where had she learned mathematics?

How did she end up at the NSA?

How did she get so captivating?

Susan blushed and admitted she'd been a late bloomer. Lanky and awkward with braces through her late teens, Susan said her Aunt Clara had once told her God's apology for Susan's plainness was to give her brains. A premature apology, Becker thought.