Still, Susan couldn't believe that Tankado would have allowed this to happen. He was a pacifist. He didn't want to wreak destruction; all he wanted was to set the record straight. This was about TRANSLTR. This was about everyone's right to keep a secret. This was about letting the world know that the NSA was listening. Deleting the NSA's databank was an act of aggression Susan could not imagine Ensei Tankado committing.

The sirens pulled her back to reality. Susan eyed the debilitated commander and knew what he was thinking. Not only were his plans for a back door in Digital Fortress shot, but his carelessness had put the NSA on the brink of what could turn out to be the worst security disaster in U.S. history.

"Commander, this is not your fault!" she insisted over the blare of the horns. "If Tankado hadn't died, we'd have bargaining power-we'd have options!"

But Commander Strathmore heard nothing. His life was over. He'd spent thirty years serving his country. This was supposed to be his moment of glory, his piece de resistance-aback door in the world encryption standard. But instead, he had sent a virus into the main databank of the National Security Agency. There was no way to stop it-not without killing power and erasing every last one of the billions of bytes of irretrievable data. Only the ring could save them, and if David hadn't found the ring by now…

"I need to shut down TRANSLTR!" Susan took control. "I'm going down to the sublevels to throw the circuit breaker."

Strathmore turned slowly to face her. He was a broken man. "I'll do it," he croaked. He stood up, stumbling as he tried to slide out from behind his desk.

Susan sat him back down. "No," she barked. "I'm going." Her tone left no room for debate.

Strathmore put his face in his hands. "Okay. Bottom floor. Beside the freon pumps."

Susan spun and headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned and looked back. "Commander," she yelled. "This is not over. We're not beaten yet. If David finds the ring in time, we can save the databank!"

Strathmore said nothing.

"Call the databank!" Susan ordered. "Warn them about the virus! You're the deputy director of the NSA. You're a survivor!"

In slow motion, Strathmore looked up. Like a man making the decision of a lifetime, he gave her a tragic nod.

Determined, Susan tore into the darkness.

Chapter 87

The Vespa lurched into the slow lane of the Carretera de Huelva. It was almost dawn, but there was plenty of traffic-young Sevillians returning from their all-night beach verbenas. A van of teenagers laid on its horn and flew by. Becker's motorcycle felt like a toy out there on the freeway.

A quarter of a mile back, a demolished taxi swerved out onto the freeway in a shower of sparks. As it accelerated, it sideswiped a Peugeot 504 and sent it careening onto the grassy median.

Becker passed a freeway marker: SEVILLA CENTRO-2 KM. If he could just reach the cover of downtown, he knew he might have a chance. His speedometer read 60 kilometers per hour. Two minutes to the exit. He knew he didn't have that long. Somewhere behind him, the taxi was gaining. Becker gazed out at the nearing lights of downtown Seville and prayed he would reach them alive.

He was only halfway to the exit when the sound of scraping metal loomed up behind him. He hunched on his bike, wrenching the throttle as far as it would go. There was a muffled gunshot, and a bullet sailed by. Becker cut left, weaving back and forth across the lanes in hopes of buying more time. It was no use. The exit ramp was still three hundred yards when the taxi roared to within a few car lengths behind him. Becker knew that in a matter of seconds he would be either shot or run down. He scanned ahead for any possible escape, but the highway was bounded on both sides by steep gravel slopes. Another shot rang out. Becker made his decision.

In a scream of rubber and sparks, he leaned violently to his right and swerved off the road. The bike's tires hit the bottom of the embankment. Becker strained to keep his balance as the Vespa threw up a cloud of gravel and began fish-tailing its way up the slope. The wheels spun wildly, clawing at the loose earth. The little engine whimpered pathetically as it tried to dig in. Becker urged it on, hoping it wouldn't stall. He didn't dare look behind him, certain at any moment the taxi would be skidding to a stop, bullets flying.

The bullets never came.

Becker's bike broke over the crest of the hill, and he saw it-the centro. The downtown lights spread out before him like a star-filled sky. He gunned his way through some underbrush and out over the curb. His Vespa suddenly felt faster. The Avenue Luis Montoto seemed to race beneath his tires. The soccer stadium zipped past on the left. He was in the clear.

It was then that Becker heard the familiar screech of metal on concrete. He looked up. A hundred yards ahead of him, the taxi came roaring up the exit ramp. It skidded out onto Luis Montoto and accelerated directly toward him.