“What is it?”

“That’s funny,” she said. “Last file on yesterday’s queue log ran at 11:37 p.m.”

“So?”

“So, TRANSLTR breaks codes every six minutes or so. The last file of the day usually runs closer to midnight. It sure doesn’t look like—” Midge suddenly stopped short and gasped.

Brinkerhoff jumped. “What!”

Midge was staring at the readout in disbelief. “This file? The one that entered TRANSLTR last night?”

“Yeah?”

“It hasn’t broken yet. It’s queue time was 23:37:08?but it lists no decrypt time.” Midge fumbled with the sheets. “Yesterday or today!”

Brinkerhoff shrugged. “Maybe those guys are running a tough diagnostic.”

Midge shook her head. “Eighteen hours tough?” She paused. “Not likely. Besides, the queue data says it’s an outside file. We should call Strathmore.”

“At home?” Brinkerhoff swallowed. “On a Saturday night?”

“No,” Midge said. “If I know Strathmore, he’s on top of this. I’ll bet good money he’s here. Just a hunch.” Midge’s hunches were the other thing one never questioned. “Come on,” she said, standing up. “Let’s see if I’m right.”

* * *

Brinkerhoff followed Midge to her office, where she sat down and began to work Big Brother’s keypads like a virtuoso pipe organist.

Brinkerhoff gazed up at the array of closed?caption video monitors on her wall, their screens all freeze frames of the NSA seal. “You’re gonna snoop Crypto?” he asked nervously.

“Nope,” Midge replied. “Wish I could, but Crypto’s a sealed deal. It’s got no video. No sound. No nothing. Strathmore’s orders. All I’ve got is approach stats and basic TRANSLTR stuff. We’re lucky we’ve even got that. Strathmore wanted total isolation, but Fontaine insisted on the basics.”

Brinkerhoff looked puzzled. “Crypto hasn’t got video?”

“Why?” she asked, without turning from her monitor. “You and Carmen looking for a little more privacy?”

Brinkerhoff grumbled something inaudible.

Midge typed some more keys. “I’m pulling Strathmore’s elevator log.” She studied her monitor a moment and then rapped her knuckle on the desk. “He’s here,” she said matter?of?factly. “He’s in Crypto right now. Look at this. Talk about long hours?he went in yesterday morning bright and early, and his elevator hasn’t budged since. I’m showing no magno?card use for him on the main door. So he’s definitely in there.”

Brinkerhoff breathed a slight sigh of relief. “So, if Strathmore’s in there, everything’s okay, right?”

Midge thought a moment. “Maybe,” she finally decided.

“Maybe?”

“We should call him and double?check.”

Brinkerhoff groaned. “Midge, he’s the deputy director. I’m sure he has everything under control. Let’s not second?guess—”

“Oh, come on, Chad?don’t be such a child. We’re just doing our job. We’ve got a snag in the stats, and we’re following up. Besides,” she added, “I’d like to remind Strathmore that Big Brother’s watching. Make him think twice before planning any more of his hare?brained stunts to save the world.” Midge picked up the phone and began dialing.

Brinkerhoff looked uneasy. “You really think you should bother him?”

“I’m not bothering him,” Midge said, tossing him the receiver. “You are.”

“What?” Midge sputtered in disbelief. “Strathmore claims our data is wrong?”

Brinkerhoff nodded and hung up the phone.

“Strathmore denied that TRANSLTR’s been stuck on one file for eighteen hours?”

“He was quite pleasant about the whole thing.” Brinkerhoff beamed, pleased with himself for surviving the phone call. “He assured me TRANSLTR was working fine. Said it was breaking codes every six minutes even as we speak. Thanked me for checking up on him.”

“He’s lying,” Midge snapped. “I’ve been running these Crypto stats for two years. The data is never wrong.”

“First time for everything,” he said casually.

She shot him a disapproving look. “I run all data twice.”

“Well . . . you know what they say about computers. When they screw up, at least they’re consistent about it.”

Midge spun and faced him. “This isn’t funny, Chad! The DDO just told a blatant lie to the director’s office. I want to know why!”

Brinkerhoff suddenly wished he hadn’t called her back in. Strathmore’s phone call had set her off. Ever since Skipjack, whenever Midge had a sense that something suspicious was going on, she made an eerie transition from flirt to fiend. There was no stopping her until she sorted it out.

“Midge, it is possible our data is off,” Brinkerhoff said firmly. “I mean, think about it?a file that ties up TRANSLTR for eighteen hours? It’s unheard of. Go home. It’s late.”

She gave him a haughty look and tossed the report on the counter. “I trust the data. Instinct says it’s right.”

Brinkerhoff frowned. Not even the director questioned Midge Milken’s instincts anymore?she had an uncanny habit of always being right.

“Something’s up,” she declared. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

Becker dragged himself off the floor of the bus and collapsed in an empty seat.

“Nice move, dipshit.” The kid with the three spikes sneered. Becker squinted in the stark lighting. It was the kid he’d chased onto the bus. He glumly surveyed the sea of red, white, and blue coiffures.

“What’s with the hair?” Becker moaned, motioning to the others. “It’s all . . .”

“Red, white, and blue?” the kid offered.

Becker nodded, trying not to stare at the infected perforation in the kid’s upper lip.

“Judas Taboo,” the kid said matter?of?factly.

Becker looked bewildered.

The punk spit in the aisle, obviously disgusted with Becker’s ignorance. “Judas Taboo? Greatest punk since Sid Vicious? Blew his head off here a year ago today. It’s his anniversary.”

Becker nodded vaguely, obviously missing the connection.

“Taboo did his hair this way the day he signed off.” The kid spit again. “Every fan worth his weight in piss has got red, white, and blue hair today.”

For a long moment, Becker said nothing. Slowly, as if he had been shot with a tranquilizer, he turned and faced front. Becker surveyed the group on the bus. Every last one was a punk. Most were staring at him.

Every fan has red, white, and blue hair today.

Becker reached up and pulled the driver?alert cord on the wall. It was time to get off. He pulled again. Nothing happened. He pulled a third time, more frantically. Nothing.

“They disconnect 'em on bus 27.” The kid spat again. “So we don’t fuck with 'em.”

Becker turned. “You mean, I can’t get off?”

The kid laughed. “Not till the end of the line.”

Five minutes later, the bus was barreling along an unlit Spanish country road. Becker turned to the kid behind him. “Is this thing ever going to stop?”

The kid nodded. “Few more miles.”

“Where are we going?”

He broke into a sudden wide grin. “You mean you don’t know?”

Becker shrugged.

The kid started laughing hysterically. “Oh, shit. You’re gonna love it.”