"Private?" Fontaine mused. It sounded like a Strathmore play-wisely keeping the NSA out of it.
"FTP filters failing!" a technician called out.
"We need the item," Fontaine pressed. "Where is Hulohot now?"
Smith looked over his shoulder. "Well… he's with us, sir."
Fontaine exhaled. "Where?" It was the best new she'd heard all day.
Smith reached toward the lens to make an adjustment. The camera swept across the inside of the van to reveal two limp bodies propped against the back wall. Both were motionless. One was a large man with twisted wire-rim glasses. The other was young with a shock of dark hair and a bloody shirt.
"Hulohot's the one on the left," Smith offered.
"Hulohot's dead?" the director demanded.
"Yes, sir."
Fontaine knew there would be time for explanations later. He glanced up at the thinning shields. "Agent Smith," he said slowly and clearly. "The item. I need it."
Smith looked sheepish. "Sir, we still have no idea what the item is. We're on a need-to-know."
Chapter 114
"Then look again!" Fontaine declared.
The director watched in dismay as the stilted image of the agents searched the two limp bodies in the van for a list of random numbers and letters.
Jabba was pale. "Oh my God, they can't find it. We're dead!"
"Losing FTP filters!" a voice yelled. "Third shield's exposed!" There was a new flurry of activity.
On the front screen, the agent with the buzz cut held out his arms in defeat. "Sir, the pass-key isn't here. We've searched both men. Pockets. Clothing. Wallets. No sign at all. Hulohot was wearing a Monocle computer, and we've checked that too. It doesn't look like he ever transmitted anything remotely resembling random characters-only a list of kills."
"Dammit!" Fontaine seethed, suddenly losing his cool. "It's got to be there! Keep looking!"
Jabba had apparently seen enough-Fontaine had gambled and lost. Jabba took over. The huge Sys-Sec descended from his pulpit like a storm off a mountain. He swept through his army of programmers calling out commands. "Access auxiliary kills! Start shutting it down! Do it now!"
"We'll never make it!" Soshi yelled. "We need a half hour! By the time we shut down, it will be too late!"
Jabba opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short by a scream of agony from the back of the room.
Everyone turned. Like an apparition, Susan Fletcher rose from her crouched position in the rear of the chamber. Her face was white, her eyes transfixed on the freeze-frame of David Becker, motionless and bloody, propped up on the floor of the van.
"You killed him!" she screamed. "You killed him!" She stumbled toward the image and reached out. "David…"
Everyone looked up in confusion. Susan advanced, still calling, her eyes never leaving the projection of David's body. "David." She gasped, staggering forward. "Oh, David… how could they-"
Fontaine seemed lost. "You know this man?"
Susan swayed unsteadily as she passed the podium. She stopped a few feet in front of the enormous projection and stared up, bewildered and numb, calling over and over to the man she loved.
Chapter 115
The emptiness in David Becker's mind was absolute. I am dead. And yet there was a sound. A distant voice…
"David."
There was a dizzying burning beneath his arm. His blood was filled with fire. My body is not my own. And yet there was a voice, calling to him. It was thin, distant. But it was part of him. There were other voices too-unfamiliar, unimportant. Calling out. He fought to block them out. There was only one voice that mattered. It faded in and out.
"David… I'm sorry…"
There was a mottled light. Faint at first, a single slit of grayness. Growing. Becker tried to move. Pain. He tried to speak. Silence. The voice kept calling.
Someone was near him, lifting him. Becker moved toward the voice. Or was he being moved? It was calling. He gazed absently at the illuminated image. He could see her on a small screen. It was a woman, staring up at him from another world. Is she watching me die?
"David…"
The voice was familiar. She was an angel. She had come for him. The angel spoke. "David, I love you."
Suddenly he knew.
Susan reached out toward the screen, crying, laughing, lost in a torrent of emotions. She wiped fiercely at her tears. "David, I-I thought…"
Field Agent Smith eased David Becker into the seat facing the monitor. "He's a little woozy, ma'am. Give him a second."
"B-but," Susan was stammering, "I saw a transmission. It said…"
Smith nodded. "We saw it too. Hulohot counted his chickens a little early."
"But the blood…"
"Flesh wound," Smith replied. "We slapped a gauze on it."
Susan couldn't speak.
Agent Coliander piped in from off camera. "We hit him with the new J23-long-acting stun gun. Probably hurt like hell, but we got him off the street."
"Don't worry, ma'am," Smith assured. "He'll be fine."
David Becker stared at the TV monitor in front of him. He was disoriented, light-headed. The image on the screen was of a room-a room filled with chaos. Susan was there. She was standing on an open patch of floor, gazing up at him.
She was crying and laughing. "David. Thank God! I thought I had lost you!"
He rubbed his temple. He moved in front of the screen and pulled the gooseneck microphone toward his mouth. "Susan?"
Susan gazed up in wonder. David's rugged features now filled the entire wall before her. His voice boomed.
"Susan, I need to ask you something." The resonance and volume of Becker's voice seemed to momentarily suspend the action in the databank. Everyone stopped midstride and turned.
"Susan Fletcher," the voice resonated, "will you marry me?"
A hush spread across the room. A clipboard clattered to the floor along with a mug of pencils. No one bent to pick them up. There was only the faint hum of the terminal fans and the sound of David Becker's steady breathing in his microphone.
"D-David…" Susan stammered, unaware that thirty-seven people stood riveted behind her. "You already asked me, remember? Five months ago. I said yes."
"I know." He smiled. "But this time"-he extended his left hand into the camera and displayed a golden band on his fourth finger-"this time I have a ring."
Chapter 116
"Read it, Mr. Becker!" Fontaine ordered.
Jabba sat sweating, hands poised over his keyboard. "Yes," he said, "read the blessed inscription!"
Susan Fletcher stood with them, weak-kneed and aglow. Everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing and stared up at the enormous projection of David Becker. The professor twisted the ring in his fingers and studied the engraving.
"And read carefully!" Jabba commanded. "One typo, and we're screwed!"
Fontaine gave Jabba a harsh look. If there was one thing the director of the NSA knew about, it was pressure situations; creating additional tension was never wise. "Relax, Mr. Becker. If we make a mistake, we'll reenter the code till we get it right."
"Bad advice, Mr. Becker," Jabba snapped. "Get it right the first time. Kill-codes usually have a penalty clause-to prevent trial-and-error guessing. Make an incorrect entry, and the cycle will probably accelerate. Make two incorrect entries, and it will lock us out permanently. Game over."