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ur in his car to ensure he wasn't being followed； then headed for the dead drop。 And the information would be there。 Spelled out in block letters on the back of an empty； torn cigarette pack would be the file name he was to photograph； the classified puter codes necessary to gain access and a telephone number to call the evening he was ready to transfer the disks； when the whole sequence would begin again。 No one saw him； he saw no one； all very slick。
He chuckled。 The cigarette packs on which he received his instructions were always Marlboro Gold 100s； and it had occurred to Terry Franklin that someone had a subtle sense of humor。 As he worked now and thought about the money； he savored that sardonic twist。
They must be watching the house to see when he was home alone。 Of course someone was servicing the drops。 But how were they getting the puter codes and file names？ Oh well； he was getting his piece of the pie and he wasn't greedy。
〃Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies；〃 Terry Franklin muttered as he removed the final disk from its slot and tucked it into its own little envelope。 He grinned at the monitor screen； then tapped keys to exit the file。
Now came the tricky part。 Three years ago； when he had first been told by the Soviets that they wanted copies of documents from the puter system； he had written a trapdoor program for the software of the main puter。 The job had taken him six months； it had to be right the first time…he would get no second chance。 This program acplished several things； it allowed Franklin to access any file in central memory from this terminal here in the repair shop； a permanent secret 〃doorway；〃 thereby defeating the built…in safeguards that gave access to classified files only from certain specific terminals； it erased the record of his access from the 3…W file； which was a security program that automatically recorded who； what and when； and finally； it allowed him to access the 3…W file to see that his footprints were indeed not there。
This trapdoor program was his crowning achievement。 He had once seen a written promise from the software designer that unrecorded access was an impossibility。 What a load！ It had been damn tough…he would give them that…but he had figured out a way in the end。 There's always a way if you know enough。 That contractor； he really sold the brass a sow's ear when he told that fib。 Ah well； the contractor had gotten his and now Terry Franklin was making his own score。
He had loaded the trapdoor program in the main puter one day while fifteen technicians loafed and sipped coffee and watched him work on a sticky tape drive。 Not a one of them saw what he was doing。 Nor； he told himself with glee； would they have understood what he was doing even if they had noticed。 Most of them were as ignorant as they were trusting。
Tonight the 3…W file looked clean as a virgin's conscience。 Franklin exited the program and turned off his terminal。 He stood and stretched。 He felt good。 Very； very good。 The adrenal excitement was almost like a cocaine high； but better since there was no edown。 He was living on the edge and it felt terrific。
After straightening up the office； he turned off the coffeepot and put on his coat。 With a last glance around； he snapped off the tights and locked the door behind him。
Getting past the guards at the building exits carrying the disks was a risk； though a small one。 The civilian guards occasionally selected people for a spot search and sooner or later he would be chosen。 He knew several of the guards on sight and made it a habit to speak to them； but inevitably； sooner or later。。。 It didn't happen this evening； but he was clean just now anyway。 The disks were still back in the office； carefully hidden。 He would bring them out some evening next week at the height of the rush…hour exodus when the probability of being searched was the smallest。 Minimize the risk； maximize the gain。
As he rode the escalator up to the bus stop for Virginia suburban buses； Terry Franklin buttoned his coat tightly and turned the collar up behind his neck。 From a pocket he extracted his white Bailor's cap and placed it carefully on his head； exactly one finger width above his eyebrows。
The cold； wet wind at the top of the mechanical stairs nude him cringe。 He quickly climbed aboard the Annandale bus and made his way to an empty window seat。 He stared through the gathering dusk at the looming building。 People in uniform and civilian clothes kept pouring from the escalator exit； trying to hide their faces from the wind； scurrying for buses。 These poor snooks。 What they didn't know！
Vastly content； Terry Franklin pursed his lips and began to whistle silently。
As the bus bearing Terry Franklin pulled away from the loading area； a senior naval officer； a captain； leaned into the wind as he crossed the lighted parking lot。 He paid no attention to the buses queued for the freeway entrance and it was probable no one of that buses paid any attention to him。 Terry Franklin was opening the sports section of a newspaper he had purchased during his lunch break。 Franklin wouldn't have recognized the captain out there in the rapidly emptying parking lot anyway； not even if they had passed in a corridor。 They had never met。 But Franklin would have recognized the officer's puter security access password； for he had just finished using it。
Tonight the captain grimaced as the wind tore at his unprotected face and took the time to open the hatchback of his Toyota Corolla and toss his attaché case in。 Then he fumbled with the key to the driver's door。 Snuggled in with the engine running and waiting for the heater to warm up； Captain Harold Strong tried to relax。 It had been another long week； as each and every one of them were in this gargantuan paper factory by the Potomac。 He cast a bleak eye on the cars creeping toward the exit。 Not too many now； well after quitting time。 And he had wanted to get an early start this evening！ God； he was tired。
He put the car in gear and threaded it toward the exit。 He checked his watch。 It was twenty…two minutes past six。 At least the timing was right。 He would reach the interstate just as the car pool restrictions ended。
On the freeway he headed north along the river； past the Arlington Memorial Bridge； under the ramps of the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and out into the traffic snarl on 1…66 westbound。 Here at the tail end of rush hour the traffic moved along fairly well at about forty miles per hour； only occasionally ing to a plete stop。 Captain Strong listened carefully to an airborne traffic reporter tally the evening's casualties。 1…66 westbound wasn't mentioned。
Nearing Falls Church he stopped beside the road for a moment and removed his bridge coat。 With the car back in motion and the radio tuned to a soft…rock FM station； Strong chewed over the week's frustrations and disasters again。 Oh crap； he thought； it's Friday night and you have the cabin all to yourself for an entire weekend； so forget it。 It'll all keep until Monday； God knows。
Since the divorce he had spent most of his weekends in the cabin。 His son was a junior in college this year； busy with school and girls。 The captain wasn't interested