Becker crossed the concourse toward the rest room doors only to find the door marked CABALLEROS blocked by an orange pylon and a cleaning cart filled with detergent and mops. He eyed the other door. DAMAS. He strode over and rapped loudly.

“Hola?” he called, pushing the ladies’ room door open an inch. “Con permiso?”

Silence.

He went in.

The rest room was typical, Spanish institutional?perfectly square, white tile, one incandescent bulb overhead. As usual, there was one stall and one urinal. Whether the urinals were ever used in the women’s bathrooms was immaterial?adding them saved the contractors the expense of having to build the extra stall.

Becker peered into the rest room in disgust. It was filthy. The sink was clogged with murky brown water. Dirty paper towels were strewn everywhere. The floor was soaked. The old electric hand blower on the wall was smeared with greenish fingerprints.

Becker stepped in front of the mirror and sighed. The eyes that usually stared back with fierce clarity were not so clear tonight. How long have I been running around over here? he wondered. The math escaped him. Out of professorial habit, he shimmied his necktie’s Windsor knot up on his collar. Then he turned to the urinal behind him.

As he stood there, he found himself wondering if Susan was home yet. Where could she have gone? To Stone Manor without me?

“Hey!” a female voice behind him said angrily.

Becker jumped. “I?I’m . . .” he stammered, hurrying to zip up. “I’m sorry . . . I . . .”

Becker turned to face the girl who had just entered. She was a young sophisticate, right off the pages of Seventeen Magazine. She wore conservative plaid pants and a white sleeveless blouse. In her hand was a red L. L. Bean duffel. Her blond hair was perfectly blow?dried.

“I’m sorry.” Becker fumbled, buckling his belt. “The men’s room was . . . anyway . . . I’m leaving.”

“Fuckin' weirdo!”

Becker did a double?take. The profanity seemed inappropriate coming from her lips?like sewage flowing from a polished decanter. But as Becker studied her, he saw that she was not as polished as he’d first thought. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and her left forearm was swollen. Underneath the reddish irritation on her arm, the flesh was blue.

Jesus, Becker thought. Intravenous drugs. Who would have guessed?

“Get out!” she yelled. “Just get out!”

Becker momentarily forgot all about the ring, the NSA, all of it. His heart went out to the young girl. Her parents had probably sent her over here with some prep school study program and a VISA card?and she’d ended up all alone in a bathroom in the middle of the night doing drugs.

“Are you okay?” he asked, backing toward the door.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was haughty. “You can leave now!”

Becker turned to go. He shot her forearm a last sad glance. There’s nothing you can do, David. Leave it alone.

“Now!” she hollered.

Becker nodded. As he left he gave her a sad smile. “Be careful.”

He was sitting, one leg on either side of her, his full weight on her midsection. His tailbone ground painfully into her pubis through the thin fabric of her skirt. His nose was dripping blood all over her. She tasted vomit in the back of her throat. His hands were at her chest.

She felt nothing. Is he touching me? It took a moment for Susan to realize Hale was buttoning her top button and covering her up.

“Susan.” Hale gasped, breathless. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

Susan was in a daze. Nothing made sense.

“Susan, you’ve got to help me! Strathmore killed Chartrukian! I saw it!”

It took a moment for the words to register. Strathmore killed Chartrukian? Hale obviously had no idea Susan had seen him downstairs.

“Strathmore knows I saw him!” Hale spat. “He’ll kill me too!”

Had Susan not been breathless with fear, she would have laughed in his face. She recognized the divide?and?conquer mentality of an ex?Marine. Invent lies?pit your enemies against each other.

“It’s true!” he yelled. “We’ve got to call for help! I think we’re both in danger!”

She did not believe a word he said.

Hale’s muscular legs were cramping, and he rolled up on his haunches to shift his weight slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance.

As Hale’s body rose, Susan felt the circulation surge back into her legs. Before she knew what had happened, a reflex instinct jerked her left leg back hard into Hale’s crotch. She felt her kneecap crush the soft sac of tissue between his legs.

Hale whimpered in agony and instantly went limp. He rolled onto his side, clutching himself. Susan twisted out from under his deadweight. She staggered toward the door, knowing she’d never be strong enough to get out.

Making a split?second decision, Susan positioned herself behind the long maple meeting table and dug her feet into the carpet. Mercifully the table had casters. She strode with all her might toward the arched glass wall, pushing the table before her. The casters were good, and the table rolled well. Halfway across Node 3, she was at a full sprint.

Five feet from the glass wall, Susan heaved and let go. She leapt to one side and covered her eyes. After a sickening crack, the wall exploded in a shower of glass. The sounds of Crypto rushed into Node 3 for the first time since its construction.

Susan looked up. Through the jagged hole, she could see the table. It was still rolling. It spun wide circles out across the Crypto floor and eventually disappeared into the darkness.

Susan rammed her mangled Ferragamo’s back on her feet, shot a last glance at the still?writhing Greg Hale, and dashed across the sea of broken glass out onto the Crypto floor.

“Now wasn’t that easy?” Midge said with a sneer as Brinkerhoff handed over the key to Fontaine’s office.

Brinkerhoff looked beaten.

“I’ll erase it before I go,” Midge promised. “Unless you and your wife want it for your private collection.”

“Just get the damned printout,” he snapped. “And then get out!”

“Si, senor,” Midge cackled in a thick Puerto Rican accent. She winked and headed across the suite to Fontaine’s double doors.

Leland Fontaine’s private office looked nothing like the rest of the directorial suite. There were no paintings, no overstuffed chairs, no ficus plants, no antique clocks. His space was streamlined for efficiency. His glass?topped desk and black leather chair sat directly in front of his enormous picture window. Three file cabinets stood in the corner next to a small table with a French press coffeepot. The moon had risen high over Fort Meade, and the soft light filtering through the window accentuated the starkness of the director’s furnishings.

What the hell am I doing? Brinkerhoff wondered.

Midge strode to the printer and scooped up the queue list. She squinted in the darkness. “I can’t read the data,” she complained. “Turn on the lights.”

“You’re reading it outside. Now come on.”

But Midge was apparently having too much fun. She toyed with Brinkerhoff, walking to the window and angling the readout for a better view.

“Midge . . .”

She kept reading.

Brinkerhoff shifted anxiously in the doorway. “Midge . . . come on. These are the director’s private quarters.”

“It’s here somewhere,” she muttered, studying the printout. “Strathmore bypassed Gauntlet, I know it.” She moved closer to the window.

Brinkerhoff began to sweat. Midge kept reading.