After clearing the empty beer bottles from his table, Becker laid his head in his hands. Just for a few minutes, he thought.

***

Five miles away, the man in wire-rim glasses sat in the back of a Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down a country road.

"Embrujo," he grunted, reminding the driver of their destination.

The driver nodded, eyeing his curious new fare in the rearview mirror. "Embrujo," he grumbled to himself. "Weirder crowd every night."

Chapter 53

Tokugen Numataka lay naked on the massage table in his penthouse office. His personal masseuse worked out the kinks in his neck. She ground her palms into the fleshy pockets surrounding his shoulder blades, slowly working her way down to the towel covering his backside. Her hands slipped lower… beneath his towel. Numataka barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. He had been waiting for his private line to ring. It had not.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Numataka grunted.

The masseuse quickly pulled her hands from beneath the towel.

The switchboard operator entered and bowed. "Honored chairman?"

"Speak."

The operator bowed a second time. "I spoke to the phone exchange. The call originated from country code 1-the United States."

Numataka nodded. This was good news. The call came from the States. He smiled. It was genuine.

"Where in the U.S.?" he demanded.

"They're working on it, sir."

"Very well. Tell me when you have more."

The operator bowed again and left.

Numataka felt his muscles relax. Country code 1. Good news indeed.

Chapter 54

Susan Fletcher paced impatiently in the Crypto bathroom and counted slowly to fifty. Her head was throbbing. Just a little longer, she told herself. Hale is North Dakota!

Susan wondered what Hale's plans were. Would he announce the pass-key? Would he be greedy and try to sell the algorithm? Susan couldn't bear to wait any longer. It was time. She had to get to Strathmore.

Cautiously she cracked the door and peered out at the reflective wall on the far side of Crypto. There was no way to know if Hale was still watching. She'd have to move quickly to Strathmore's office. Not too quickly, of course-she could not let Hale suspect she was on to him. She reached for the door and was about to pull it open when she heard something. Voices. Men's voices.

The voices were coming through the ventilation shaft near the floor. She released the door and moved toward the vent. The words were muffled by the dull hum of the generators below. The conversation sounded like it was coming up from the sublevel catwalks. One voice was shrill, angry. It sounded like Phil Chartrukian.

"You don't believe me?"

The sound of more arguing rose.

"We have a virus!"

Then the sound of harsh yelling.

"We need to call Jabba!"

Then there were sounds of a struggle.

"Let me go!"

The noise that followed was barely human. It was a long wailing cry of horror, like a tortured animal about to die. Susan froze beside the vent. The noise ended as abruptly as it had begun. Then there was a silence.

An instant later, as if choreographed for some cheap horror matinee, the lights in the bathroom slowly dimmed. Then they flickered and went out. Susan Fletcher found herself standing in total blackness.

Chapter 55

"You're in my seat, asshole."

Becker lifted his head off his arms. Doesn't anyone speak Spanish in this damn country?

Glaring down at him was a short, pimple-faced teenager with a shaved head. Half of his scalp was red and half was purple. He looked like an Easter egg. "I said you're in my seat, asshole."

"I heard you the first time," Becker said, standing up. He was in no mood for a fight. It was time to go.

"Where'd you put my bottles?" the kid snarled. There was a safety pin in his nose.

Becker pointed to the beer bottles he'd set on the ground. "They were empty."

"They were my fuckin' empties!"

"My apologies," Becker said, and turned to go.

The punk blocked his way. "Pick 'em up!"

Becker blinked, not amused. "You're kidding, right?" He was a full foot taller and outweighed the kid by about fifty pounds.

"Do I fuckin' look like I'm kidding?"

Becker said nothing.

"Pick 'em up!" The kid's voice cracked.

Becker attempted to step around him, but the teenager blocked his way. "I said, fuckin' pick 'em up!"

Stoned punks at nearby tables began turning to watch the excitement.

"You don't want to do this, kid," Becker said quietly.

"I'm warning you!" The kid seethed. "This is my table! I come here every night. Now pick 'em up!"

Becker's patience ran out. Wasn't he supposed to be in the Smokys with Susan? What was he doing in Spain arguing with a psychotic adolescent?

Without warning, Becker caught the kid under the armpits, lifted him up, and slammed his rear end down on the table. "Look, you runny-nosed little runt. You're going to back off right now, or I'm going to rip that safety pin out of your nose and pin your mouth shut."

The kid's face went pale.