A jaunty forty-five, Chad Brinkerhoff was well-pressed,well-groomed, and well-informed. His summer-weight suit, like histan skin, showed not a wrinkle or hint of wear. His hair was thick,sandy blond, and most importantly—all his own. His eyes were abrilliant blue—subtly enhanced by the miracle of tintedcontact lenses.

He surveyed the wood-paneled office around him and knew he hadrisen as far as he would rise in the NSA. He was on the ninthfloor—Mahogany Row. Office 9A197. The Directorial Suite.

It was a Saturday night, and Mahogany Row was all but deserted,its executives long gone—off enjoying whatever pastimesinfluential men enjoyed in their leisure. Although Brinkerhoff hadalways dreamed of a "real" post with the agency, he hadsomehow ended up as a "personal aide"—the officialcul de sac of the political rat race. The fact that he worked sideby side with the single most powerful man in American intelligencewas little consolation. Brinkerhoff had graduated with honors fromAndover and Williams, and yet here he was, middle-aged, with noreal power—no real stake. He spent his days arranging someoneelse's calendar.

There were definite benefits to being the director'spersonal aide—Brinkerhoff had a plush office in thedirectorial suite, full access to all the NSA departments, and acertain level of distinction that came from the company he kept. Heran errands for the highest echelons of power. Deep downBrinkerhoff knew he was born to be a PA—smart enough to takenotes, handsome enough to give press conferences, and lazy enoughto be content with it.

The sticky-sweet chime of his mantel clock accented the end ofanother day of his pathetic existence. Shit, he thought. Five o'clock on a Saturday. What the hell am I doinghere?

"Chad?" A woman appeared in his doorway.

Brinkerhoff looked up. It was Midge Milken, Fontaine'sinternal security analyst. She was sixty, slightly heavy, and, muchto the puzzlement of Brinkerhoff, quite appealing. A consummateflirt and an ex-wife three times over, Midge prowled the six-roomdirectorial suite with a saucy authority. She was sharp, intuitive,worked ungodly hours, and was rumored to know more about theNSA's inner workings than God himself.

Damn, Brinkerhoff thought, eyeing her in her graycashmere-dress. Either I'm getting older, or she'slooking younger.

"Weekly reports." She smiled, waving a fanfold ofpaper. "You need to check the figures."

Brinkerhoff eyed her body. "Figures look good fromhere."

"Really Chad," she laughed. "I'm old enoughto be your mother."

Don't remind me, he thought.

Midge strode in and sidled up to his desk. "I'm on myway out, but the director wants these compiled by the time he getsback from South America. That's Monday, bright andearly." She dropped the printouts in front of him.

"What am I, an accountant?"

"No, hon, you're a cruise director. Thought you knewthat."

"So what am I doing crunching numbers?"

She ruffled his hair. "You wanted more responsibility. Hereit is."

He looked up at her sadly. "Midge… I have nolife."

She tapped her finger on the paper. "This is yourlife, Chad Brinkerhoff." She looked down at him and softened."Anything I can get you before I go?"

He eyed her pleadingly and rolled his aching neck. "Myshoulders are tight."

Midge didn't bite. "Take an aspirin."

He pouted. "No back rub?"

She shook her head. "Cosmopolitan says two-thirds ofbackrubs end in sex."

Brinkerhoff looked indignant. "Ours neverdo!"

"Precisely." She winked. "That's theproblem."

"Midge—"

"Night, Chad." She headed for the door.

"You're leaving?"

"You know I'd stay," Midge said, pausing in thedoorway, "but I do have some pride. I just can'tsee playing second fiddle—particularly to ateenager."

"My wife's not a teenager," Brinkerhoffdefended. "She just acts like one."

Midge gave him a surprised look. "I wasn't talkingabout your wife." She battered her eyes innocently. "Iwas talking about Carmen." She spoke the name with athick Puerto Rican accent.

Brinkerhoff's voice cracked slightly. "Who?"

"Carmen? In food services?"

Brinkerhoff felt himself flush. Carmen Huerta was atwenty-seven-year-old pastry chef who worked in the NSA commissary.Brinkerhoff had enjoyed a number of presumably secret after-hoursflings with her in the stockroom.

She gave him a wicked wink. "Remember, Chad… BigBrother knows all."

Big Brother? Brinkerhoff gulped in disbelief. BigBrother watches the STOCKROOMS too?

Big Brother, or "Brother" as Midge often called it,was a Centrex 333 that sat in a small closetlike space off thesuite's central room. Brother was Midge's whole world. Itreceived data from 148 closed circuit video cameras, 399 electronicdoors, 377 phones taps, and 212 free-standing bugs in the NSAcomplex.

The directors of the NSA had learned the hard way that 26,000employees were not only a great asset but a great liability. Everymajor security breach in the NSA's history had come fromwithin. It was Midge's job as internal security analyst, towatch everything that went on within the walls of the NSA…including, apparently, the commissary stockroom.

Brinkerhoff stood to defend himself, but Midge was already onher way out.

"Hands above the desk," she called over hershoulder. "No funny stuff after I go. The walls haveeyes."

Brinkerhoff sat and listened to the sound of her heels fadingdown the corridor. At least he knew Midge would never tell. She wasnot without her weaknesses. Midge had indulged in a fewindiscretions of her own—mostly wandering back rubs withBrinkerhoff.

His thoughts turned back to Carmen. He pictured her lissomebody, those dark thighs, that AM radio she played fullblast—hot San Juan salsa. He smiled. Maybe I'll dropby for a snack when I'm done.

He opened the first printout.

CRYPTO—PRODUCTION/EXPENDITURE

His mood immediately lightened. Midge had given him a freebie;the Crypto report was always a piece of cake. Technically he wassupposed to compile the whole thing, but the only figure thedirector ever asked for was the MCD—the mean cost perdecryption. The MCD represented the estimated amount it costTRANSLTR to break a single code. As long as the figure was below$1,000 per code, Fontaine didn't flinch. A grand a pop.Brinkerhoff chuckled. Our tax dollars at work.

As he began plowing through the document and checking the dailyMCDs, images of Carmen Huerta smearing herself with honey andconfectioner's sugar began playing in his head. Thirty secondslater he was almost done. The Crypto data was perfect—asalways.

But just before moving on to the next report, something caughthis eye. At the bottom of the sheet, the last MCD was off. Thefigure was so large that it had carried over into the next columnand made a mess of the page. Brinkerhoff stared at the figure inshock.

999,999,999? He gasped. A billion dollars? Theimages of Carmen vanished. A billion-dollar code?

Brinkerhoff sat there a minute, paralyzed. Then in a burst ofpanic, he raced out into the hallway. "Midge! Comeback!"