Susan began to make an angry rebuttal, but Strathmore beat her to it. "Young man! You don't know me! I take risks for a living. If you're looking to play hardball, let's play!" He started punching keys on his phone. "You misjudged me, son! Nobody threatens the lives of my employees and walks out!" He raised the phone and barked into the receiver, "Switchboard! Get me Security!"

Hale began to torque Susan's neck. "I-I'll kill her. I swear it!"

"You'll do no such thing!" Strathmore proclaimed. "Killing Susan will just make things wor-" He broke off and rammed the phone against his mouth. "Security! This is Commander Trevor Strathmore. We've got a hostage situation in Crypto! Get some men in here! Yes, now, goddamn it! We also have a generator failure. I want power routed from all available external sources. I want all systems on-line in five minutes! Greg Hale killed one of my junior Sys-Secs. He's holding my senior cryptographer hostage. You're cleared to use tear gas on all of us if necessary! If Mr. Hale doesn't cooperate, have snipers shoot him dead. I'll take full responsibility. Do it now!"

Hale stood motionless-apparently limp in disbelief. His grip on Susan eased.

Strathmore snapped his phone shut and shoved it back onto his belt. "Your move, Greg."

Chapter 81

Becker stood bleary-eyed beside the telephone booth on the terminal concourse. Despite his burning face and a vague nausea, his spirits were soaring. It was over. Truly over. He was on his way home. The ring on his finger was the grail he'd been seeking. He held his hand up in the light and squinted at the gold band. He couldn't focus well enough to read, but the inscription didn't appear to be in English. The first symbol was either a Q, an O, or a zero, his eyes hurt too much to tell. Becker studied the first few characters. They made no sense. This was a matter of national security?

Becker stepped into the phone booth and dialed Strathmore. Before he had finished the international prefix, he got a recording. "Todos los circuitos estan ocupados," the voice said. "Please hang up and try your call later." Becker frowned and hung up. He'd forgotten: Getting an international connection from Spain was like roulette, all a matter of timing and luck. He'd have to try again in a few minutes.

Becker fought to ignore the waning sting of the pepper in his eyes. Megan had told him rubbing his eyes would only make them worse; he couldn't imagine. Impatient, he tried the phone again. Still no circuits. Becker couldn't wait any longer-his eyes were on fire; he had to flush them with water. Strathmore would have to wait a minute or two. Half blind, Becker made his way toward the bathrooms.

The blurry image of the cleaning cart was still in front of the men's room, so Becker turned again toward the door marked damas. He thought he heard sounds inside. He knocked. "Hola?"

Silence.

Probably Megan, he thought. She had five hours to kill before her flight and had said she was going to scrub her arm till it was clean.

"Megan?" he called. He knocked again. There was no reply. Becker pushed the door open. "Hello?" He went in. The bathroom appeared empty. He shrugged and walked to the sink.

The sink was still filthy, but the water was cold. Becker felt his pores tighten as he splashed the water in his eyes. The pain began to ease, and the fog gradually lifted. Becker eyed himself in the mirror. He looked like he'd been crying for days.

He dried his face on the sleeve of his jacket, and then it suddenly occurred to him. In all the excitement, he'd forgotten where he was. He was at the airport! Somewhere out thereon the tarmac, in one of the Seville airport's three private hangars, there was a Learjet 60 waiting to take him home. The pilot had stated very clearly, I have orders to stay here until you return.

It was hard to believe, Becker thought, that after all this, he had ended up right back where he'd started. What am I waiting for? he laughed. I'm sure the pilot can radio a message to Strathmore!

Chuckling to himself, Becker glanced in the mirror and straightened his tie. He was about to go when the reflection of something behind him caught his eye. He turned. It appeared to be one end of Megan's duffel, protruding from under a partially open stall door.

"Megan?" he called. There was no reply. "Megan?"

Becker walked over. He rapped loudly on the side of the stall. No answer. He gently pushed the door. It swung open.

Becker fought back a cry of horror. Megan was on the toilet, her eyes rolled skyward. Dead center of her forehead, a bullet hole oozed bloody liquid down her face.

"Oh, Jesus!" Becker cried in shock.

"Esta muerta," a barely human voice croaked behind him. "She's dead."

It was like a dream. Becker turned.

"Senor Becker?" the eerie voice asked.

Dazed, Becker studied the man stepping into the rest room. He looked oddly familiar.