Dan Brown - Digital Fortress

DIGITAL FORTRESS

Dan Brown

For my parents... my mentors and heroes

A debt of gratitude: to my editors at St. Martin's Press, Thomas Dunne and the exceptionally talented

Melissa Jacobs. To my agents in New York, George Wieser, Olga Wieser, and Jake Elwell. To all those

who read and contributed to the manuscript along the way. And especially to my wife, Blythe, for her

enthusiasm and patience.

Also... a quiet thank you to the two faceless ex-NSA cryptographers who made invaluable contributions

via anonymous remailers. Without them this book would not have been written.

PROLOGUE

PLAZA DE ESPAÑA

SEVILLE, SPAIN

11:00 A.M.

It is said that in death, all things become clear; Ensei Tankado now knew it was true. As he clutched his

chest and fell to the ground in pain, he realized the horror of his mistake.

People appeared, hovering over him, trying to help. But Tankado did not want help--it was too late for

that.

Trembling, he raised his left hand and held his fingers outward. Look at my hand! The faces around him

stared, but he could tell they did not understand.

On his finger was an engraved golden ring. For an instant, the markings glimmered in the Andalusian sun.

Ensei Tankado knew it was the last light he would ever see.

CHAPTER 1

They were in the smoky mountains at their favorite bed-and-breakfast. David was smiling down at her.

"What do you say, gorgeous? Marry me?"

Looking up from their canopy bed, she knew he was the one. Forever. As she stared into his

deep-green eyes, somewhere in the distance a deafening bell began to ring. It was pulling him away. She

reached for him, but her arms clutched empty air.

It was the sound of the phone that fully awoke Susan Fletcher from her dream. She gasped, sat up in

bed, and fumbled for the receiver. "Hello?"

"Susan, it's David. Did I wake you?"

She smiled, rolling over in bed. "I was just dreaming of you. Come over and play."

He laughed. "It's still dark out."

"Mmm." She moaned sensuously. "Then definitely come over and play. We can sleep in before we head

north."

David let out a frustrated sigh. "That's why I'm calling. It's about our trip. I've got to postpone."

Susan was suddenly wide awake. "What!"

"I'm sorry. I've got to leave town. I'll be back by tomorrow. We can head up first thing in the morning.

We'll still have two days."

"But I made reservations," Susan said, hurt. "I got our old room at Stone Manor."

"I know, but--"

"Tonight was supposed to be special--to celebrate six months. You do remember we're engaged, don't

you?"

"Susan." He sighed. "I really can't go into it now, they've got a car waiting. I'll call you from the plane and

explain everything."

"Plane?" she repeated. "What's going on? Why would the university...?"

"It's not the university. I'll phone and explain later. I've really got to go; they're calling for me. I'll be in

touch. I promise."

"David!" she cried. "What's--"

But it was too late. David had hung up.

Susan Fletcher lay awake for hours waiting for him to call back. The phone never rang.

* * *

Later that afternoon Susan sat dejected in the tub. She submerged herself in the soapy water and tried to

forget Stone Manor and the Smoky Mountains. Where could he be? she wondered. Why hasn't he

called?

Gradually the water around her went from hot to lukewarm and finally to cold. She was about to get out

when her cordless phone buzzed to life. Susan bolted upright, sloshing water on the floor as she grappled

for the receiver she'd left on the sink.

"David?"

"It's Strathmore," the voice replied.

Susan slumped. "Oh." She was unable to hide her disappointment. "Good afternoon, Commander."

"Hoping for a younger man?" The voice chuckled.

"No, sir," Susan said, embarrassed. "It's not how it--"

"Sure it is." He laughed. "David Becker's a good man. Don't ever lose him."

"Thank you, sir."

The commander's voice turned suddenly stern. "Susan, I'm calling because I need you in here. Pronto."

She tried to focus. "It's Saturday, sir. We don't usually--"

"I know," he said calmly. "It's an emergency."

Susan sat up. Emergency? She had never heard the word cross Commander Strathmore's lips. An

emergency? In Crypto? She couldn't imagine. "Y-yes, sir." She paused. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Make it sooner." Strathmore hung up.

* * *

Susan Fletcher stood wrapped in a towel and dripped on the neatly folded clothes she'd set out the night

before--hiking shorts, a sweater for the cool mountain evenings, and the new lingerie she'd bought for the

nights. Depressed, she went to her closet for a clean blouse and skirt. An emergency? In Crypto?

As she went downstairs, Susan wondered how the day could get much worse.

She was about to find out.

CHAPTER 2

Thirty thousand feet above a dead-calm ocean, David Becker stared miserably from the Learjet 60's

small, oval window. He'd been told the phone on board was out of order, and he'd never had a chance

to call Susan.

"What am I doing here?" he grumbled to himself. But the answer was simple--there were men to whom

you just didn't say no.

"Mr. Becker," the loudspeaker crackled. "We'll be arriving in half an hour."

Becker nodded gloomily to the invisible voice. Wonderful. He pulled the shade and tried to sleep. But he

could only think of her.

CHAPTER 3

Susan's Volvo sedan rolled to a stop in the shadow of the ten-foot-high, barbed Cyclone fence. A young

guard placed his hand on the roof.

"ID, please."

Susan obliged and settled in for the usual half-minute wait. The officer ran her card through a

computerized scanner. Finally he looked up. "Thank you, Ms. Fletcher." He gave an imperceptible sign,

and the gate swung open.

Half a mile ahead Susan repeated the entire procedure at an equally imposing electrified fence. Come

on, guys... I've only been through here a million times.

As she approached the final checkpoint, a stocky sentry with two attack dogs and a machine gun

glanced down at her license plate and waved her through. She followed Canine Road for another 250

yards and pulled into Employee Lot C. Unbelievable, she thought. Twenty-six thousand employees and a

twelve-billion-dollar budget; you'd think they could make it through the weekend without me. Susan

gunned the car into her reserved spot and killed the engine.

After crossing the landscaped terrace and entering the main building, she cleared two more internal

checkpoints and finally arrived at the windowless tunnel that led to the new wing. A voice-scan booth

blocked her entry.

NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY (NSA)

CRYPTO FACILITY

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

The armed guard looked up. "Afternoon, Ms. Fletcher."

Susan smiled tiredly. "Hi, John."

"Didn't expect you today."

"Yeah, me neither." She leaned toward the parabolic microphone. "Susan Fletcher," she stated clearly.

The computer instantly confirmed the frequency concentrations in her voice, and the gate clicked open.

She stepped through.

* * *

The guard admired Susan as she began her walk down the cement causeway. He noticed that her strong

hazel eyes seemed distant today, but her cheeks had a flushed freshness, and her shoulder-length, auburn

hair looked newly blown dry. Trailing her was the faint scent of Johnson's Baby Powder. His eyes fell the

length of her slender torso--to her white blouse with the bra barely visible beneath, to her knee-length

khaki skirt, and finally to her legs... Susan Fletcher's legs.

Hard to imagine they support a 170 IQ, he mused to himself.

He stared after her a long time. Finally he shook his head as she disappeared in the distance.

* * *

As Susan reached the end of the tunnel, a circular, vaultlike door blocked her way. The enormous letters

read: crypto.

Sighing, she placed her hand inside the recessed cipher box and entered her five-digit PIN. Seconds

later the twelve-ton slab of steel began to revolve. She tried to focus, but her thoughts reeled back to

him.

David Becker. The only man she'd ever loved. The youngest full professor at Georgetown University

and a brilliant foreign-language specialist, he was practically a celebrity in the world of academia. Born

with an eidetic memory and a love of languages, he'd mastered six Asian dialects as well as Spanish,

French, and Italian. His university lectures on etymology and linguistics were standing-room only, and he

invariably stayed late to answer a barrage of questions. He spoke with authority and enthusiasm,

apparently oblivious to the adoring gazes of his star-struck coeds.

Becker was dark--a rugged, youthful thirty-five with sharp green eyes and a wit to match. His strong

jaw and taut features reminded Susan of carved marble. Over six feet tall, Becker moved across a

squash court faster than any of his colleagues could comprehend. After soundly beating his opponent, he

would cool off by dousing his head in a drinking fountain and soaking his tuft of thick, black hair. Then,

still dripping, he'd treat his opponent to a fruit shake and a bagel.

As with all young professors, David's university salary was modest. From time to time, when he needed

to renew his squash club membership or restring his old Dunlop with gut, he earned extra money by

doing translating work for government agencies in and around Washington. It was on one of those jobs

that he'd met Susan.

It was a crisp morning during fall break when Becker returned from a morning jog to his three-room

faculty apartment to find his answering machine blinking. He downed a quart of orange juice as he

listened to the playback. The message was like many he received--a government agency requesting his

translating services for a few hours later that morning. The only strange thing was that Becker had never

heard of the organization.

"They're called the National Security Agency," Becker said, calling a few of his colleagues for

background.

The reply was always the same. "You mean the National Security Council?"

Becker checked the message. "No. They said Agency. The NSA."

"Never heard of 'em."

Becker checked the GAO Directory, and it showed no listing either. Puzzled, Becker called one of his

old squash buddies, an ex-political analyst turned research clerk at the Library of Congress. David was

shocked by his friend's explanation.

Apparently, not only did the NSA exist, but it was considered one of the most influential government

organizations in the world. It had been gathering global electronic intelligence data and protecting U.S.

classified information for over half a century. Only 3 percent of Americans were even aware it existed.

"NSA," his buddy joked, "stands for 'No Such Agency.' "

With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, Becker accepted the mysterious agency's offer. He drove

the thirty-seven miles to their eighty-six-acre headquarters hidden discreetly in the wooded hills of Fort

Meade, Maryland. After passing through endless security checks and being issued a six-hour,

holographic guest pass, he was escorted to a plush research facility where he was told he would spend

the afternoon providing "blind support" to the Cryptography Division--an elite group of mathematical

brainiacs known as the code-breakers.

For the first hour, the cryptographers seemed unaware Becker was even there. They hovered around an

enormous table and spoke a language Becker had never heard. They spoke of stream ciphers,

self-decimated generators, knapsack variants, zero knowledge protocols, unicity points. Becker

observed, lost. They scrawled symbols on graph paper, pored over computer printouts, and continuously

referred to the jumble of text on the overhead projector.

JHdja3jKHDhmado/ertwtjlw+jgj328

5jhalsfnHKhhhfafOhhdfgaf/fj37we

ohi93450s9djfd2h/HHrtyFHLf89303

95jspjf2j0890Ihj98yhfi080ewrt03

jojr845h0roq+jt0eu4tqefqe//oujw

08UY0IH0934jtpwfiajer09qu4jr9gu

ivjP$duw4h95pe8rtugvjw3p4e/ikkc

mffuerhfgv0q394ikjrmg+unhvs9oer

irk/0956y7u0poikIOjp9f8760qwerqi

Eventually one of them explained what Becker had already surmised. The scrambled text was a code--a

"cipher text"--groups of numbers and letters representing encrypted words. The cryptographers' job was

to study the code and extract from it the original message, or "cleartext." The NSA had called Becker

because they suspected the original message was written in Mandarin Chinese; he was to translate the

symbols as the cryptographers decrypted them.

For two hours, Becker interpreted an endless stream of Mandarin symbols. But each time he gave them

a translation, the cryptographers shook their heads in despair. Apparently the code was not making

sense. Eager to help, Becker pointed out that all the characters they'd shown him had a common

trait--they were also part of the Kanji language. Instantly the bustle in the room fell silent. The man in

charge, a lanky chain-smoker named Morante, turned to Becker in disbelief.

"You mean these symbols have multiple meanings?"

Becker nodded. He explained that Kanji was a Japanese writing system based on modified Chinese

characters. He'd been giving Mandarin translations because that's what they'd asked for.

"Jesus Christ." Morante coughed. "Let's try the Kanji."

Like magic, everything fell into place.

The cryptographers were duly impressed, but nonetheless, they still made Becker work on the

characters out of sequence. "It's for your own safety," Morante said. "This way, you won't know what

you're translating."

Becker laughed. Then he noticed nobody else was laughing.

When the code finally broke, Becker had no idea what dark secrets he'd helped reveal, but one thing

was for certain--the NSA took code-breaking seriously; the check in Becker's pocket was more than an

entire month's university salary.

On his way back out through the series of security check points in the main corridor, Becker's exit was

blocked by a guard hanging up a phone. "Mr. Becker, wait here, please."

"What's the problem?" Becker had not expected the meeting to take so long, and he was running late for

his standing Saturday afternoon squash match.

The guard shrugged. "Head of Crypto wants a word. She's on her way out now."

"She?" Becker laughed. He had yet to see a female inside the NSA.

"Is that a problem for you?" a woman's voice asked from behind him.

Becker turned and immediately felt himself flush. He eyed the ID card on the woman's blouse. The head

of the NSA's Cryptography Division was not only a woman, but an attractive woman at that.

"No," Becker fumbled. "I just..."

"Susan Fletcher." The woman smiled, holding out her slender hand.

Becker took it. "David Becker."

"Congratulations, Mr. Becker. I hear you did a fine job today. Might I chat with you about it?"

Becker hesitated. "Actually, I'm in a bit of a rush at the moment." He hoped spurning the world's most

powerful intelligence agency wasn't a foolish act, but his squash match started in forty-five minutes, and

he had a reputation to uphold: David Becker was never late for squash... class maybe, but never squash.

"I'll be brief." Susan Fletcher smiled. "Right this way, please."

Ten minutes later, Becker was in the NSA's commissary enjoying a popover and cranberry juice with

the NSA's lovely head cryptographer, Susan Fletcher. It quickly became evident to David that the

thirty-eight-year-old's high-ranking position at the NSA was no fluke--she was one of the brightest

women he had ever met. As they discussed codes and code-breaking, Becker found himself struggling to

keep up--a new and exciting experience for him.

An hour later, after Becker had obviously missed his squash match and Susan had blatantly ignored

three pages on the intercom, both of them had to laugh. There they were, two highly analytical minds,

presumably immune to irrational infatuations--but somehow, while they sat there discussing linguistic

morphology and pseudo–random number generators, they felt like a couple of teenagers--everything was

fireworks.

Susan never did get around to the real reason she'd wanted to speak to David Becker--to offer him a

trial post in their Asiatic Cryptography Division. It was clear from the passion with which the young

professor spoke about teaching that he would never leave the university. Susan decided not to ruin the

mood by talking business. She felt like a schoolgirl all over again; nothing was going to spoil it. And

nothing did.

* * *

Their courtship was slow and romantic--stolen escapes whenever their schedules permitted, long walks

through the Georgetown campus, late-night cappuccinos at Merlutti's, occasional lectures and concerts.

Susan found herself laughing more than she'd ever thought possible. It seemed there was nothing David

couldn't twist into a joke. It was a welcome release from the intensity of her post at the NSA.

One crisp, autumn afternoon they sat in the bleachers watching Georgetown soccer get pummeled by

Rutgers.

"What sport did you say you play?" Susan teased. "Zucchini?"

Becker groaned. "It's called squash."

She gave him a dumb look.

"It's like zucchini," he explained, "but the court's smaller."

Susan pushed him.

Georgetown's left wing sent a corner-kick sailing out of bounds, and a boo went up from the crowd.

The defensemen hurried back downfield.

"How about you?" Becker asked. "Play any sports?"

"I'm a black belt in Stairmaster."

Becker cringed. "I prefer sports you can win."

Susan smiled. "Overachiever, are we?"

Georgetown's star defenseman blocked a pass, and there was a communal cheer in the stands. Susan

leaned over and whispered in David's ear. "Doctor."

He turned and eyed her, lost.

"Doctor," she repeated. "Say the first thing that comes to mind."

Becker looked doubtful. "Word associations?"

"Standard NSA procedure. I need to know who I'm with." She eyed him sternly. "Doctor."

Becker shrugged. "Seuss."

Susan gave him a frown. "Okay, try this one... 'kitchen.' "

He didn't hesitate. "Bedroom."

Susan arched her eyebrows coyly. "Okay, how about this... 'cat.' "

"Gut," Becker fired back.

"Gut?"

"Yeah. Catgut. Squash racquet string of champions."

"That's pleasant." She groaned.

"Your diagnosis?" Becker inquired.

Susan thought a minute. "You're a childish, sexually frustrated squash fiend."

Becker shrugged. "Sounds about right."

* * *

It went on like that for weeks. Over dessert at all-night diners Becker would ask endless questions.

Where had she learned mathematics?

How did she end up at the NSA?

How did she get so captivating?

Susan blushed and admitted she'd been a late bloomer. Lanky and awkward with braces through her

late teens, Susan said her Aunt Clara had once told her God's apology for Susan's plainness was to give

her brains. A premature apology, Becker thought.

Susan explained that her interest in cryptography had started in junior high school. The president of the

computer club, a towering eighth grader named Frank Gutmann, typed her a love poem and encrypted it

with a number-substitution scheme. Susan begged to know what it said. Frank flirtatiously refused. Susan

took the code home and stayed up all night with a flashlight under her covers until she figured out the

secret--every number represented a letter. She carefully deciphered the code and watched in wonder as

the seemingly random digits turned magically into beautiful poetry. In that instant, she knew she'd fallen in

love--codes and cryptography would become her life.

Almost twenty years later, after getting her master's in mathematics from Johns Hopkins and studying

number theory on a full scholarship from MIT, she submitted her doctoral thesis, Cryptographic

Methods, Protocols, and Algorithms for Manual Applications. Apparently her professor was not the only

one who read it; shortly afterward, Susan received a phone call and a plane ticket from the NSA.

Everyone in cryptography knew about the NSA; it was home to the best cryptographic minds on the

planet. Each spring, as the private-sector firms descended on the brightest new minds in the workforce

and offered obscene salaries and stock options, the NSA watched carefully, selected their targets, and

then simply stepped in and doubled the best standing offer. What the NSA wanted, the NSA bought.

Trembling with anticipation, Susan flew to Washington's Dulles International Airport where she was met

by an NSA driver, who whisked her off to Fort Meade.

There were forty-one others who had received the same phone call that year. At twenty-eight, Susan

was the youngest. She was also the only female. The visit turned out to be more of a public relations

bonanza and a barrage of intelligence testing than an informational session. In the week that followed,

Susan and six others where invited back. Although hesitant, Susan returned. The group was immediately

separated. They underwent individual polygraph tests, background searches, handwriting analyses, and

endless hours of interviews, including taped inquiries into their sexual orientations and practices. When

the interviewer asked Susan if she'd ever engaged in sex with animals, she almost walked out, but

somehow the mystery carried her through--the prospect of working on the cutting edge of code theory,

entering "The Puzzle Palace," and becoming a member of the most secretive club in the world--the

National Security Agency.

Becker sat riveted by her stories. "They actually asked you if you'd had sex with animals?"

Susan shrugged. "Part of the routine background check."

"Well..." Becker fought off a grin. "What did you say?"

She kicked him under the table. "I told them no!" Then she added, "And until last night, it was true."

* * *

In Susan's eyes, David was as close to perfect as she could imagine. He only had one unfortunate

quality; every time they went out, he insisted on picking up the check. Susan hated seeing him lay down a

full day's salary on dinner for two, but Becker was immovable. Susan learned not to protest, but it still

bothered her. I make more money than I know what to do with, she thought. I should be paying.

Nonetheless, Susan decided that aside from David's outdated sense of chivalry, he was ideal. He was

compassionate, smart, funny, and best of all, he had a sincere interest in her work. Whether it was during

trips to the Smithsonian, bike rides, or burning spaghetti in Susan's kitchen, David was perpetually

curious. Susan answered what questions she could and gave David the general, unclassified overview of

the National Security Agency. What David heard enthralled him.

Founded by President Truman at 12:01 a.m. on November 4, 1952, the NSA had been the most

clandestine intelligence agency in the world for almost fifty years. The NSA's seven-page inception

doctrine laid out a very concise agenda: to protect U.S. government communications and to intercept the

communications of foreign powers.

Dan Brown - Digital Fortress

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: