Tell Me Your Dream by Sidney Sheldon

BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Someone was following her. She had read about stalkers, but they belonged
in a different, violent world. She had no idea who it could be, who
would want to harm her. She was trying desperately hard not to panic, but
lately her sleep had been filled with unbearable nightmares, and she had
awakened each morning with a feeling of impending doom. Perhaps it's all in
my imagination, Ashley Patterson thought. I'm working too hard. I need a
vacation.
She turned to study herself in her bedroom mirror. She was looking at
the image of a woman in her late twenties, neatly dressed, with patrician
features, a slim figure and intelligent, anxious brown eyes. There was a
quiet elegance about her, a subtle attractiveness. Her dark hair fell softly
to her shoulders. I hate my looks, Ashley thought. I'm too thin. I must
start eating more. She walked into the kitchen and began to fix breakfast,
forcing her mind to forget about the frightening thing that was happening,
and concentrating on preparing a fluffy omelette. She turned on the
coffeemaker and put a slice of bread in the toaster. Ten minutes later,
everything was ready. Ashley placed the dishes on the table and sat down.
She picked up a fork, stared at the food for a moment, then shook her
head in despair. Fear had taken away her appetite.
This can't go on, she thought angrily. Whoever he is, I won't let him do
this to me. I won't.
Ashley glanced at her watch. It was time to leave for work. She looked
around the familiar apartment, as though seeking some kind of reassurance

from it. It was an attractively furnished third-floor apartment on Via
Camino Court, with a living room, bedroom and den, bathroom, kitchen and
guest powder room. She had lived here in Cupertino, California, for three
years. Until two weeks ago, Ashley had thought of it as a comfortable nest,
a haven. Now it had turned into a fortress, a place where no one could get
in to harm her. Ashley walked to the front door and examined the lock. I'll
have a dead bolt put in, she thought. Tomorrow. She turned off all the
lights, checked to make sure the door was firmly locked behind her and
took the elevator to the basement garage.
The garage was deserted. Her car was twenty feet from the elevator. She
looked around carefully, then ran to the car, slid inside and locked the
doors, her heart pounding. She headed downtown, under a sky the color of
malice, dark and foreboding. The weather report had said rain. But it's not
going to rain, Ashley thought. The sun is going to come out. I'll make a deal
with you, God. If it doesn't rain, it means that everything is all right, that
I've been imagining things.
Ten minutes later, Ashley Patterson was driving through downtown Cupertino.
She was still awed by the miracle of what this once sleepy little corner
of Santa Clara Valley had become. Located fifty miles south of San
Francisco, it was where the computer revolution had started, and it had
been appropriately nicknamed Silicon Valley.
Ashley was employed at Global Computer Graphics Corporation, a successful,
fast-growing young company with two hundred employees.
As Ashley turned the car onto Silverado Street, she had the uneasy feeling
that he was behind her, following her. But who? And why? She looked
into her rearview mirror. Everything seemed normal. Every instinct told her
otherwise. Ahead of Ashley was the sprawling, modem-looking building that
housed Global Computer Graphics. She turned into the parking lot, showed
the guard her identification and pulled into her parking space. She felt safe
here. As she got out of the car, it began to rain.
At nine o'clock in the morning, Global Computer Graphics was already
humming with activity. There were eighty modular cubicles, occupied by
computer whizzes, all young, busily building Web sites, creating logos for
new companies, doing artwork for record and book publishing companies and
composing illustrations for magazines. The work floor was divided into several
divisions: administration, sales, marketing and technical support. The
atmosphere was casual. The employees walked around in jeans, tank tops
and sweaters.
As Ashley headed toward her desk, her supervisor, Shane Miller, approached her.
"Morning, Ashley."
Shane Miller was in his early thirties, a burly, earnest man with a pleasant
personality. In the beginning, he had tried to persuade Ashley to go to bed
with him, but he had finally given up, and they had become good friends.
He handed Ashley a copy of the latest Time magazine. "Seen this?"
Ashley looked at the cover. It featured a picture of a distinguishedlooking
man in his fifties, with silver hair. The caption read "Dr. Steven
Patterson, Father of Mini Heart Surgery."
"I've seen it."
"How does it feel to have a famous father?"
Ashley smiled. "Wonderful."
"He's a great man."
"I'll tell him you said so. We're having lunch."
"Good. By the way..." Shane Miller showed Ashley a photograph of a movie
star who was going to be used in an ad for a client. "We have a little problem
here. Desiree has gained about ten pounds, and it shows. Look at those
dark circles under her eyes. And even with makeup, her skin is splotchy. Do
you think you can help this?"
Ashley studied the picture. "I can fix her eyes by applying the blur filter.
I could try to thin her face by using the distort tool, but—No. That would
probably end up making her look odd." She studied the picture again. "I'll
have to airbrush or use the clone tool in some areas."
"Thanks. Are we on for Saturday night?"
"Yes."
Shane Miller nodded toward the photograph. "There's no hurry on this.
They want it last month." Ashley smiled. "What else is new?"
She went to work. Ashley was an expert in advertising and graphic design,
creating layouts with text and images.
Half an hour later, as Ashley was working on the photograph, she sensed
someone watching her. She looked up. It was Dennis Tibble. "Morning,
honey."
His voice grated on her nerves. Tibble was the company's computer genius.
He was known around the plant as "The Fixer." Whenever a computer
crashed, Tibble was sent for. He was in his early thirties, thin and bald with
an unpleasant, arrogant attitude. He had an obsessive personality, and the
word around the plant was that he was fixated on Ashley.
"Need any help?"
"No, thank you."
"Hey, what about us having a little dinner Saturday night?"

"Thank you. I'm busy."
"Going out with the boss again?"
Ashley turned to look at him, angry. "Look, it's none of your—"
"I don't know what you see in him, anyway. He's a nerd, cubed. I can give
you a better time." He winked. "You know what I mean?"
Ashley was trying to control her temper. "I have work to do, Dennis."
Tibble leaned close to her and whispered, "There's something you're going
to learn about me, honey. I don't give up. Ever."
She watched him walk away, and wondered: Could he be the one?
At 12:30, Ashley put her computer in suspend mode and headed for Margherita
di Roma, where she was joining her father for lunch.
She sat at a corner table in the crowded restaurant, watching her father
come toward her. She had to admit that he was handsome. People were
turning to stare at him as he walked to Ashley's table. "How does it feel to
have a famous father?"
Years earlier, Dr. Steven Patterson had pioneered a breakthrough in
minimally invasive heart surgery. He was constantly invited to lecture at
major hospitals around the world. Ashley's mother had died when Ashley
was twelve, and she had no one but her father.
"Sorry I'm late, Ashley." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
"That's all right. I just got here."
He sat down. "Have you seen Time magazine?"
"Yes. Shane showed it to me."
He frowned. "Shane? Your boss?"
"He's not my boss. He's—he's one of the supervisors."
"It's never good to mix business with pleasure, Ashley. You're seeing him
socially, aren't you? That's a mistake."
"Father, we're just good—"
A waiter came up to the table. "Would you like to see a menu?"
Dr. Patterson turned to him and snapped, "Can't you see we're in the middle
of a conversation? Go away until you're sent for."
"I—I'm sorry." The waiter turned and hurried off. Ashley cringed with
embarrassment. She had forgotten how savage her father's temper was.
He had once punched an intern during an operation for making an error in
judgment. Ashley remembered the screaming arguments between her
mother and father when she was a little girl. They had terrified her. Her
parents had always fought about the same thing, but try as she might, Ashley
could not remember what it was. She had blocked it from her mind.
Her father went on, as though there had been no interruption. "Where

were we? Oh, yes. Going out with Shane Miller is a mistake. A big mistake."
And his words brought back another terrible memory.
She could hear her father's voice saying, "Going out with Jim Cleary is a
mistake. A big mistake..." Ashley had just turned eighteen and was living in
Bedford, Pennsylvania, where she was born. Jim Cleary was the most popular
boy in Bedford Area High School. He was on the football team, was
handsome and amusing and had a killer smile. It seemed to Ashley that
every girl in school wanted to sleep with him. And most of them probably
have, she had thought, wryly. When Jim Cleary started asking Ashley out,
she was determined not to go to bed with him. She was sure he was interested
in her only for sex, but as time went on, she changed her mind. She
liked being with him, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company.
That winter, the senior class went for a weekend skiing trip in the mountains.
Jim Cleary loved to ski.
"We'll have a great time," he assured Ashley.
"I'm not going."
He looked at her in astonishment. "Why?"
"I hate cold weather. Even with gloves, my fingers get numb."
"But it will be fun to—"
"I'm not going."
And he had stayed in Bedford to be with her.
They shared the same interests and had the same ideals, and they always
had a wonderful time together.
When Jim Cleary had said to Ashley, "Someone asked me this morning if
you're my girlfriend. What shall I tell him?" Ashley had smiled and said,
"Tell him yes."
Dr. Patterson was worried. "You're seeing too much of that Cleary boy."
"Father, he's very decent, and I love him."
"How can you love him? He's a goddamned football player. I'm not going to
let you marry a football player. He's not good enough for you, Ashley."
He had said that about every boy she had gone out with.
Her father kept making disparaging remarks about Jim Cleary, but the
explosion occurred on the night of the high school graduation. Jim Cleary
was taking Ashley to an evening graduation party. When he came to pick her
up, she was sobbing.
"What's the matter? What's happened?"
"My—my father told me he's taking me away to London. He's registered
me in—in a college there."
Jim Cleary looked at her, stunned. "He's doing this because of us, isn't

he?"
Ashley nodded, miserable.
"When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow."
"No! Ashley, for God's sake, don't let him do this to us. Listen to me. I
want to marry you. My uncle offered me a really good job in Chicago with
his advertising agency. We'll run away. Meet me tomorrow morning at the
railroad station. There's a train leaving for Chicago at seven A.M. Will you
come with me?"
She looked at him a long moment and said softly, "Yes."
Thinking about it later, Ashley could not remember what the graduation
party was like. She and Jim had spent the entire evening excitedly discussing
their plans.
"Why don't we fly to Chicago?" Ashley asked.
"Because we would have to give our names to the airline. If we go by train,
nobody will know where we've gone."
As they were leaving the party, Jim Cleary asked softly, "Would you like
to stop off at my place? My folks are out of town for the weekend."
Ashley hesitated, torn. "Jim... we've waited this long. A few more days
won't matter."
"You're right." He grinned. "I may be the only man on this continent marrying
a virgin."
When Jim Cleary brought Ashley home from the party, Dr. Patterson was
waiting, in a rage. "Do you have any idea how late it is?"
"I'm sorry, sir. The party—"
"Don't give me any of your goddamn excuses, Cleary. Who the hell do you
think you're fooling?"
"I'm not—"
"From now on, you keep your goddamned hands off my daughter, do you
understand?"
"Father—"
"You keep out of this." He was screaming now. "Cleary, I want you to get
the hell out of here and stay out."
"Sir, your daughter and I—"
"Jim—"
"Get up to your room."
"Sir—"
"If I ever see you around here again, I'll break every bone in your body."
Ashley had never seen him so furious. It had ended

with everyone yelling. When it was over, Jim was gone and Ashley was in
tears.
I'm not going to let my father do this to me, Ashley thought, determinedly.
He's trying to ruin my life. She sat on her bed for a long time. Jim
is my future. I want to be with him. I don't belong here anymore. She rose
and began to pack an overnight bag. Thirty minutes later, Ashley slipped out
the back door and started toward Jim Cleary's home, a dozen blocks away.
I'll stay with him tonight, and we'll take the morning train to Chicago. But
as she got nearer to his house, Ashley thought. No. This is wrong. I don't
want to spoil everything. I'll meet lam at the station.
And she turned and headed back home.
Ashley was up the rest of that night thinking about her life with Jim and
how wonderful it was going to be. At 5:30, she picked up her suitcase and
moved silently past the closed door of her father's bedroom. She crept out
of the house and took a bus to the railroad station. When she reached the
station, Jim had not arrived. She was early. The train was not due for another
hour. Ashley sat on a bench eagerly waiting. She thought about her
father awakening and finding her gone. He would be furious.
But I can't let him live my life. One day he'll really get to know Jim, and
he'll see how lucky I am. 6:30... 6:40... 6:45... 6:50... There was still no sign
of Jim. Ashley was beginning to panic. What could have happened? She decided
to telephone him. There was no answer. 6:55...He'll be coming at any
moment. She heard the train whistle in the distance, and she looked at her
watch. 6:59. The train was pulling into the station. She rose to her feet and
looked around frantically. Something terrible has happened to him. He's
had an accident. He's in the hospital. A few minutes later, Ashley stood
there watching the train to Chicago pull out of the station, taking all her
dreams with it. She waited another half hour and tried to telephone Jim
again. When there was still no answer, she slowly headed home, desolate.
At noon, Ashley and her father were on a plane to London....

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Dan Brown Digital Fortress

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 chainsmoker
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.”

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