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and Patel want to talk to us.” Kudrow’s chin rose a bit. “Nick, he sounded scared.”
    Kudrow’s brow collapsed slowly into a series of fleshy furrows. He stood, his imposing frame against the jarring colors of the Lichtenstein that hung behind his desk. It had cost a hundred thousand dollars. “Scared?”
    “I’ve never heard him like this,” Folger said. “The guy usually doesn’t take anything seriously.”
    But what would frighten Pedanski, or any of his animals, as Kudrow referred to the three all stars of his team of cryptographers? He did not know. But he did know that anything involving the trio in concert required attention. They were special, after all, not only for who they were, but for what they had created. “Let’s go.”
    The Z building was but one of three dozen buildings on the grounds of the National Security Agency, which was ringed concentrically by three fences, the outer two chain link and topped with razor wire and the inner one electrified. Marines with smart-looking German Shepherds walked the perimeter in an endless patrol, and from control points atop the U-shaped Headquarters-Operations building other Marines scanned the grounds zealously for any attempt at intrusion, rifles slung for quick access. The security was meant to be oppressive, and seemed more so considering that the entire NSA complex sat within the boundaries of the United States Army’s Fort George Meade, located halfway between Baltimore and the nation’s capital.
    The Z building, a hundred yards inside the triple fence and fifty yards from the nearest structure, was surrounded by its own combination of chain link, razor wire, and high voltage. Two Marines guarded the single portal through the barrier at all times. They had orders to shoot any who attempted unauthorized entry into the windowless brown building known colloquially as the Chocolate Box.
    They had done so twice in ten years. Neither incident had made the news.
    On the first floor of the Z building, G. Nicholas Kudrow left his office at a brisk walk with Brad Folger on his heels. He headed for the stairs to the basement and walked freely down one level.
    There was no security inside the Z building. If you were in and breathing, you were supposed to be there.
    At the bottom of the stairs Kudrow turned right and cruised down a hallway, passing three green doors, each opening to disheveled offices that he avoided religiously. No placards marked the spaces. At the end of the hall there was one more door. He opened it without breaking stride and entered what was called the Puzzle Center.
    It looked like a college dorm at finals.
    Leo Pedanski stood with a start and spilled the remnants of his soda on a layer of papers that covered one of the room’s two desks. “Mr. Kudrow. Hi.”
    Kudrow’s head twisted slowly as he surveyed the room. Dozens of empty red cans lay on the desks, on the floor next to overflowing wastebaskets, and atop equipment that had cost the taxpayers far more than they needed to pay. Stacks of paper rose to various heights almost everywhere that there was a surface to pile them. Both desks were littered with plastic wrappers. A third chair had been wedged into the room. The air smelled of sweat and junk food.
    “Gentlemen,” he said in greeting. Craig Dean, taller than the boss by an inch and sporting an unkempt ponytail that had seen hardly a trim in a year, rose from a cross-legged position and stood next to Pedanski, whose hair was a mess of reddish-brown tangles. Vikram Patel, pudgy and balding at twenty seven, did not trust his legs at the moment and remained on the floor, arms hugging both knees to his chest. ‘Scared’ was a good word, Kudrow thought. “Redecorating?”
    Leo Pedanski, the de-facto leader of the trio by virtue of his advanced age, ran a hand hard over his head and brought the other to meet it in a grasp behind his neck. He was to be the messenger. His caffeine-filled stomach roiled loudly. “No, but,