“Greg,” Susan snapped, fighting her anger, “that back door was so the NSA could decode E?mail that threatened this nation’s security.”

“Oh, really?” Hale sighed innocently. “And snooping the average citizen was just a lucky by?product?”

“We don’t snoop average citizens, and you know it. The FBI can tap telephones, but that doesn’t mean they listen to every call that’s ever made.”

“If they had the manpower, they would.”

Susan ignored the remark. “Governments should have the right to gather information that threatens the common good.”

“Jesus Christ"?Hale sighed?"you sound like you’ve been brainwashed by Strathmore. You know damn well the FBI can’t listen in whenever they want?they’ve got to get a warrant. A spiked encryption standard would mean the NSA could listen in to anyone, anytime, anywhere.”

“You’re right?as we should be able to!” Susan’s voice was suddenly harsh. “If you hadn’t uncovered the back door in Skipjack, we’d have access to every code we need to break, instead of just what TRANSLTR can handle.”

“If I hadn’t found the back door,” Hale argued, “someone else would have. I saved your asses by uncovering it when I did. Can you imagine the fallout if Skipjack had been in circulation when the news broke?”

“Either way,” Susan shot back, “now we’ve got a paranoid EFF who think we put back doors in all our algorithms.”

Hale asked smugly, “Well, don’t we?”

Susan eyed him coldly.

“Hey,” he said, backing off, “the point is moot now anyway. You built TRANSLTR. You’ve got your instant information source. You can read what you want, when you want?no questions asked. You win.”

“Don’t you mean we win? Last I heard, you worked for the NSA.”

“Not for long,” Hale chirped.

“Don’t make promises.”

“I’m serious. Someday I’m getting out of here.”

“I’ll be crushed.”

In that moment, Susan found herself wanting to curse Hale for everything that wasn’t going right. She wanted to curse him for Digital Fortress, for her troubles with David, for the fact that she wasn’t in the Smokys?but none of it was his fault. Hale’s only fault was that he was obnoxious. Susan needed to be the bigger person. It was her responsibility as head cryptographer to keep the peace, to educate. Hale was young and naive.

Susan looked over at him. It was frustrating, she thought, that Hale had the talent to be an asset in Crypto, but he still hadn’t grasped the importance of what the NSA did.

“Greg,” Susan said, her voice quiet and controlled, “I’m under a lot of pressure today. I just get upset when you talk about the NSA like we’re some kind of high?tech peeping Tom. This organization was founded for one purpose?to protect the security of this nation. That may involve shaking a few trees and looking for the bad apples from time to time. I think most citizens would gladly sacrifice some privacy to know that the bad guys can’t maneuver unchecked.”

Hale said nothing.

“Sooner or later,” Susan argued, “the people of this nation need to put their trust somewhere. There’s a lot of good out there?but there’s also a lot of bad mixed in. Someone has to have access to all of it and separate the right from wrong. That’s our job. That’s our duty. Whether we like it or not, there is a frail gate separating democracy from anarchy. The NSA guards that gate.”

Hale nodded thoughtfully. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

Susan looked puzzled.

“It’s Latin,” Hale said. “From Satires of Juvenal. It means 'Who will guard the guards?'”

“I don’t get it,” Susan said. “'Who will guard the guards?'”

“Yeah. If we’re the guards of society, then who will watch us and make sure that we’re not dangerous?”

Susan nodded, unsure how to respond.

Hale smiled. “It’s how Tankado signed all his letters to me. It was his favorite saying.”

David Becker stood in the hallway outside suite 301. He knew that somewhere behind the ornately carved door was the ring. A matter of national security.

Becker could hear movement inside the room. Faint talking. He knocked. A deep German accent called out.

“Ja?”

Becker remained silent.

“Ja?”

The door opened a crack, and a rotund Germanic face gazed down at him.

Becker smiled politely. He did not know the man’s name. “Deutscher, ja?” he asked. “German, right?”

The man nodded, uncertain.

Becker continued in perfect German. “May I speak to you a moment?”

The man looked uneasy. “Was willst du? What do you want?”

Becker realized he should have rehearsed this before brazenly knocking on a stranger’s door. He searched for the right words. “You have something I need.”

These were apparently not the right words. The German’s eyes narrowed.

“Ein ring,” Becker said. “Du hast einen Ring. You have a ring.”

“Go away,” the German growled. He started to close the door. Without thinking, Becker slid his foot into the crack and jammed the door open. He immediately regretted the action.

The German’s eyes went wide. “Was tust du?” he demanded. “What are you doing?”

Becker knew he was in over his head. He glanced nervously up and down the hall. He’d already been thrown out of the clinic; he had no intention of going two for two.

“Nimm deinen Fu? weg!” the German bellowed. “Remove your foot!”

Becker scanned the man’s pudgy fingers for a ring. Nothing. I’m so close, he thought. “Ein Ring!” Becker repeated as the door slammed shut.

* * *

David Becker stood a long moment in the well?furnished hallway. A replica of a Salvador Dali hung nearby. “Fitting.” Becker groaned. Surrealism. I’m trapped in an absurd dream. He’d woken up that morning in his own bed but had somehow ended up in Spain breaking into a stranger’s hotel room on a quest for some magical ring.

Strathmore’s stern voice pulled him back to reality: You must find that ring.

Becker took a deep breath and blocked out the words. He wanted to go home. He looked back to the door marked 301. His ticket home was just on the other side?a gold ring. All he had to do was get it.

He exhaled purposefully. Then he strode back to suite 301 and knocked loudly on the door. It was time to play hardball.

* * *

The German yanked open the door and was about to protest, but Becker cut him off. He flashed his Maryland squash club ID and barked, “Polizei!” Then Becker pushed his way into the room and threw on the lights.

Wheeling, the German squinted in shock. “Was machst—”

“Silence!” Becker switched to English. “Do you have a prostitute in this room?” Becker peered around the room. It was as plush as any hotel room he’d ever seen. Roses, champagne, a huge canopy bed. Rocio was nowhere to be seen. The bathroom door was closed.

“Prostituiert?” The German glanced uneasily at the closed bathroom door. He was larger than Becker had imagined. His hairy chest began right under his triple chin and sloped outward to his colossal gut. The drawstring of his white terry?cloth Alfonso XIII bathrobe barely reached around his waist.

Becker stared up at the giant with his most intimidating look. “What is your name?”

A look of panic rippled across the German’s corpulent face. “Was willst du? What do you want?”

“I am with the tourist relations branch of the Spanish Guardia here in Seville. Do you have a prostitute in this room?”

The German glanced nervously at the bathroom door. He hesitated. “Ja,” he finally admitted.

“Do you know this is illegal in Spain?”

“Nein,” the German lied. “I did not know. I’ll send her home right now.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Becker said with authority. He strolled casually into the room. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Ein Vorschlag?” The German gasped. “A proposition?”

“Yes. I can take you to headquarters right now . . .” Becker paused dramatically and cracked his knuckles.