Hale sat at his terminal. "Stress is a killer, Sue. Something you want to get off your chest?"

Susan forced herself to sit. She had thought Strathmore would be off the phone by now and return to speak to her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Susan tried to keep calm. She gazed at her computer screen. The tracer was still running-for the second time. It was immaterial now. Susan knew whose address it would return: GHALE@crypto.nsa.gov.

Susan gazed up toward Strathmore's workstation and knew she couldn't wait any longer. It was time to interrupt the commander's phone call. She stood and headed for the door.

Hale seemed suddenly uneasy, apparently noticing Susan's odd behavior. He strode quickly across the room and beat her to the door. He folded his arms and blocked her exit.

"Tell me what's going on," he demanded. "There's something going on here today. What is it?"

"Let me out," Susan said as evenly as possible, feeling a sudden twinge of danger.

"Come on," Hale pressed. "Strathmore practically fired Chartrukian for doing his job. What's going on inside TRANSLTR? We don't have any diagnostics that run eighteen hours. That's bullshit, and you know it. Tell me what's going on."

Susan's eyes narrowed. You know damn well what's going on! "Back off, Greg," she demanded. "I need to use the bathroom."

Hale smirked. He waited a long moment and then stepped aside. "Sorry Sue. Just flirting."

Susan pushed by him and left Node 3. As she passed the glass wall, she sensed Hale's eyes boring into her from the other side.

Reluctantly, she circled toward the bathrooms. She would have to make a detour before visiting the Commander. Greg Hale could suspect nothing.

Chapter 43

A jaunty forty-five, Chad Brinkerhoff was well-pressed, well-groomed, and well-informed. His summer-weight suit, like his tan skin, showed not a wrinkle or hint of wear. His hair was thick, sandy blond, and most importantly-all his own. His eyes were a brilliant blue-subtly enhanced by the miracle of tinted contact lenses.

He surveyed the wood-paneled office around him and knew he had risen as far as he would rise in the NSA. He was on the ninth floor-Mahogany Row. Office 9A197. The Directorial Suite.

It was a Saturday night, and Mahogany Row was all but deserted, its executives long gone-off enjoying whatever pastimes influential men enjoyed in their leisure. Although Brinkerhoff had always dreamed of a "real" post with the agency, he had somehow ended up as a "personal aide"-the official cul de sac of the political rat race. The fact that he worked side by side with the single most powerful man in American intelligence was little consolation. Brinkerhoff had graduated with honors from Andover and Williams, and yet here he was, middle-aged, with no real power-no real stake. He spent his days arranging someone else's calendar.

***

There were definite benefits to being the director's personal aide-Brinkerhoff had a plush office in the directorial suite, full access to all the NSA departments, and a certain level of distinction that came from the company he kept. He ran errands for the highest echelons of power. Deep down Brinkerhoff knew he was born to be a PA-smart enough to take notes, handsome enough to give press conferences, and lazy enough to be content with it.

The sticky-sweet chime of his mantel clock accented the end of another day of his pathetic existence. Shit, he thought. Five o'clock on a Saturday. What the hell am I doing here?

"Chad?" A woman appeared in his doorway.

Brinkerhoff looked up. It was Midge Milken, Fontaine's internal security analyst. She was sixty, slightly heavy, and, much to the puzzlement of Brinkerhoff, quite appealing. A consummate flirt and an ex-wife three times over, Midge prowled the six-room directorial suite with a saucy authority. She was sharp, intuitive, worked ungodly hours, and was rumored to know more about the NSA's inner workings than God himself.

Damn, Brinkerhoff thought, eyeing her in her gray cashmere-dress. Either I'm getting older, or she's looking younger.

"Weekly reports." She smiled, waving a fanfold of paper. "You need to check the figures."

Brinkerhoff eyed her body. "Figures look good from here."

"Really Chad," she laughed. "I'm old enough to be your mother."

Don't remind me, he thought.

Midge strode in and sidled up to his desk. "I'm on my way out, but the director wants these compiled by the time he gets back from South America. That's Monday, bright and early." She dropped the printouts in front of him.

"What am I, an accountant?"

"No, hon, you're a cruise director. Thought you knew that."

"So what am I doing crunching numbers?"

She ruffled his hair. "You wanted more responsibility. Here it is."

He looked up at her sadly. "Midge… I have no life."

She tapped her finger on the paper. "This is your life, Chad Brinkerhoff." She looked down at him and softened. "Anything I can get you before I go?"

He eyed her pleadingly and rolled his aching neck. "My shoulders are tight."

Midge didn't bite. "Take an aspirin."