- •Dan Brown Digital Fortress
- •Prologue
- •Chapter 1
- •Chapter 2
- •Chapter 3
- •National security agency (nsa) crypto facility authorized personnel only
- •Hl fkzc vd lds
- •Im glad we met
- •Chapter 4
- •Chapter 5
- •Employee carl austin terminated for inappropriate conduct.
- •Time elapsed: 15:09:33 awaiting key: ________
- •Chapter 6
- •Chapter 7
- •“Transltr?”
- •Chapter 8
- •Keep the change.
- •Chapter 9
- •Time elapsed: 15:17:21
- •Chapter 10
- •Chapter 11
- •Chapter 12
- •Chapter 13
- •Chapter 14
- •Chapter 15
- •Chapter 16
- •Chapter 17
- •Chapter 18
- •Chapter 19
- •Chapter 20
- •Chapter 21
- •Chapter 22
- •Chapter 23
- •Chapter 24
- •Chapter 25
- •Subject: p. Cloucharde‑terminated
- •Message sent chapter 26
- •Chapter 27
- •Dinner at alfredo’s? 8 pm?
- •Chapter 28
- •Chapter 29
- •Please accept this humble fax my love for you is without wax.
- •Tracer searching . . .
- •Tracer abort?
- •Chapter 30
- •Chapter 31
- •Chapter 32
- •Chapter 33
- •Chapter 34
- •Tracer aborted
- •Error code 22
- •Chapter 36
- •Tracer sent
- •Search for: “tracer”
- •No matches found
- •Search for: “screenlock”
- •Great progress! digital fortress is almost done. This thing will set the nsa back decades!
- •Rotating cleartext works! mutation strings are the trick!
- •Chapter 37
- •Chapter 38
- •Chapter 39
- •Chapter 40
- •Chapter 41
- •Subject: rocio eva granada‑terminated subject: hans huber‑terminated
- •Chapter 42
- •Chapter 43
- •Crypto‑production/expenditure
- •Chapter 44
- •Chapter 45
- •Chapter 46
- •Chapter 47
- •Chapter 48
- •Chapter 49
- •Chapter 50
- •Crypto sublevels authorized personnel only
- •Chapter 51
- •Chapter 52
- •Chapter 53
- •Chapter 54
- •Chapter 55
- •Chapter 56
- •Chapter 57
- •Chapter 58
- •Chapter 59
- •Chapter 60
- •Chapter 61
- •Chapter 62
- •Chapter 63
- •Chapter 64
- •Chapter 65
- •Chapter 66
- •Chapter 67
- •Chapter 68
- •Chapter 69
- •Chapter 70
- •Chapter 71
- •Chapter 72
- •Abort run
- •Chapter 73
- •Chapter 74
- •Chapter 75
- •Chapter 76
- •Chapter 77
- •Chapter 78
- •Chapter 79
- •Chapter 80
- •Chapter 81
- •Chapter 82
- •Chapter 83
- •Chapter 84
- •Chapter 85
- •Chapter 86
- •Sorry. Unable to abort. Sorry. Unable to abort. Sorry. Unable to abort.
- •Tell the world about transltr only the truth will save you now . . .
- •Only the truth will save you now
- •Enter pass‑key
- •Chapter 87
- •Chapter 88
- •Chapter 89
- •Chapter 90
- •Chapter 91
- •Chapter 92
- •Chapter 93
- •Chapter 94
- •Chapter 95
- •Chapter 96
- •Chapter 97
- •Chapter 98
- •Chapter 99
- •Chapter 100
- •Subject: david becker‑terminated
- •Chapter 101
- •Chapter 102
- •Chapter 103
- •Chapter 105
- •Chapter 106
- •Chapter 107
- •Chapter 108
- •Chapter 109
- •Only the truth will save you now enter pass‑key ______
- •Only the truth will save you now enter pass‑key ______
- •Chapter 110
- •Chapter 111
- •Chapter 112
- •Chapter 113
- •Chapter 114
- •Chapter 115
- •Chapter 116
- •Chapter 117
- •Only the truth will save you now
- •Chapter 118
- •Quiscustodietipsoscustodes
- •Chapter 119
- •Illegal entry. Numeric field only.
- •Chapter 120
- •Pfee sesn retm
- •Pfee sesn retm mfha irwe ooig meen nrma enet shas dcns iiaa ieer brnk fble lodi
- •Pfeesesnretmpfhairweooigmeennrmaenetshasdcnsiiaaieerbrnkfblelodi
- •Chapter 121
- •Chapter 122
- •Primedifferencebetweenelementsresponsibleforhiroshimaandnagasaki
- •Chapter 123
- •Prime difference between elements responsible for hiroshima and nagasaki
- •Chapter 124
- •Prime difference between elements responsible forhiroshima and nagasaki
- •Chapter 125
- •Chapter 126
- •Chapter 127
- •Enter pass‑key? 3
- •Kill code confirmed.
- •Chapter 128
- •Epilogue
Chapter 90
The Crypto sirens were blaring. Strathmore had no idea how long Susan had been gone. He sat alone in the shadows, the drone of TRANSLTR calling to him. You’re a survivor . . . you’re a survivor . . .
Yes, he thought. I’m a survivor‑but survival is nothing without honor. I’d rather die than live in the shadow of disgrace.
And disgrace was what was waiting for him. He had kept information from the director. He had sent a virus into the nation’s most secure computer. There was no doubt he would be hung out to dry. His intentions had been patriotic, but nothing had gone as he’d planned. There had been death and treachery. There would be trials, accusations, public outrage. He had served his country with honor and integrity for so many years, he couldn’t allow it to end this way.
I’m a survivor, he thought.
You’re a liar, his own thoughts replied.
It was true. He was a liar. There were people he hadn’t been honest with. Susan Fletcher was one of them. There were so many things he hadn’t told her‑things he was now desperately ashamed of. For years she’d been his illusion, his living fantasy. He dreamed of her at night; he cried out for her in his sleep. He couldn’t help it. She was as brilliant and as beautiful as any woman he could imagine. His wife had tried to be patient, but when she finally met Susan, she immediately lost hope. Bev Strathmore never blamed her husband for his feelings. She tried to endure the pain as long as possible, but recently it had become too much. She’d told him their marriage was ending; another woman’s shadow was no place to spend the rest of her life.
Gradually the sirens lifted Strathmore from his daze. His analytical powers searched for any way out. His mind reluctantly confirmed what his heart had suspected. There was only one true escape, only one solution.
Strathmore gazed down at the keyboard and began typing. He didn’t bother to turn the monitor so he could see it. His fingers pecked out the words slowly and decisively.
Dearest friends, I am taking my life today . . .
This way, no one would ever wonder. There would be no questions. There would be no accusations. He would spell out for the world what had happened. Many had died . . . but there was still one life to take.
Chapter 91
In a cathedral, it is always night. The warmth of the day turns to damp coolness. The traffic is silenced behind thick granite walls. No number of candelabras can illuminate the vast darkness overhead. Shadows fall everywhere. There’s only the stained glass, high above, filtering the ugliness of the outside world into rays of muted reds and blues.
The Seville Cathedral, like all great cathedrals of Europe, is laid out in the shape of a cross. The sanctuary and altar are located just above the midpoint and open downward onto the main sanctuary. Wooden pews fill the vertical axis, a staggering 113 yards from the altar to the base of the cross. To the left and right of the altar, the transept of the cross houses confessionals, sacred tombs, and additional seating.
Becker found himself wedged in the middle of a long pew about halfway back. Overhead, in the dizzying empty space, a silver censer the size of a refrigerator swung enormous arcs on a frayed rope, leaving a trail of frankincense. The bells of the Giralda kept ringing, sending low rumbling shock waves through the stone. Becker lowered his gaze to the gilded wall behind the altar. He had a lot to be thankful for. He was breathing. He was alive. It was a miracle.
As the priest prepared to give the opening prayer, Becker checked his side. There was a red stain on his shirt, but the bleeding had stopped. The wound was small, more of a laceration than a puncture. Becker tucked his shirt back in and craned his neck. Behind him, the doors were cranking shut. He knew if he’d been followed, he was now trapped. The Seville Cathedral had a single functional entrance, a design popularized in the days when churches were used as fortresses, a safe haven against Moorish invasion. With a single entrance, there was only one door to barricade. Now the single entrance had another function‑it ensured all tourists entering the cathedral had purchased a ticket.
The twenty‑two‑foot‑high, gilded doors slammed with a decisive crash. Becker was sealed in the house of God. He closed his eyes and slid low in his pew. He was the only one in the building not dressed in black. Somewhere voices began to chant.
* * *
Toward the back of the church, a figure moved slowly up the side aisle, keeping to the shadows. He had slipped in just before the doors closed. He smiled to himself. The hunt was getting interesting. Becker is here . . . I can feel it. He moved methodically, one row at a time. Overhead the frankincense decanter swung its long, lazy arcs. A fine place to die, Hulohot thought. I hope I do as well.
* * *
Becker knelt on the cold cathedral floor and ducked his head out of sight. The man seated next to him glared down‑it was most irregular behavior in the house of God.
“Enfermo,” Becker apologized. “Sick.”
Becker knew he had to stay low. He had glimpsed a familiar silhouette moving up the side aisle. It’s him! He’s here!
Despite being in the middle of an enormous congregation, Becker feared he was an easy target‑his khaki blazer was like a roadside flare in the crowd of black. He considered removing it, but the white oxford shirt underneath was no better. Instead he huddled lower.
The man beside him frowned. “Turista.” He grunted. Then he whispered, half sarcastically, “Llamo un medico? Shall I call a doctor?”
Becker looked up at the old man’s mole‑ridden face. “No, gracias. Estoy bien.”
The man gave him an angry look. “Pues sientate! Then sit down!” There were scattered shushes around them, and the old man bit his tongue and faced front.
Becker closed his eyes and huddled lower, wondering how long the service would last. Becker, raised Protestant, had always had the impression Catholics were long‑winded. He prayed it was true‑as soon as the service ended, he would be forced to stand and let the others out. In khaki he was dead.
Becker knew he had no choice at the moment. He simply knelt there on the cold stone floor of the great cathedral. Eventually, the old man lost interest. The congregation was standing now, singing a hymn. Becker stayed down. His legs were starting to cramp. There was no room to stretch them. Patience, he thought. Patience. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
It felt like only minutes later that Becker felt someone kicking him. He looked up. The mole‑faced man was standing to his right, waiting impatiently to leave the pew.
Becker panicked. He wants to leave already? I’ll have to stand up! Becker motioned for the man to step over him. The man could barely control his anger. He grabbed the tails of his black blazer, pulled them down in a huff, and leaned back to reveal the entire row of people waiting to leave. Becker looked left and saw that the woman who had been seated there was gone. The length of pew to his left was empty all the way to the center aisle.
The service can’t be over! It’s impossible! We just got here!
But when Becker saw the altar boy at the end of the row and the two single‑file lines moving up the center aisle toward the altar, he knew what was happening.
Communion. He groaned. The damn Spaniards do it first!