Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗
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could hear it now, the ‘you’ll be helping your country,‘
speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the
least.
So he proposed to Musgrave instead. “I want an exclusive inter-
view with the President when this thing is over.”
“Done!” said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated
himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true
Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet.
But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a
dramatized account.
“And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . .”
Scott added another minor demand.
“Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk,”
joked Musgrave. “Scott, this is for internal use only. Every
hour will help.”
Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone
would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old
PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail
into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a
White House souvenir pen.
“It went fine,” Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure
office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs
up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.
“Didn’t matter,” Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy
like an apple. A juicy one.
“What do you mean, it didn’t matter?”
“We’re listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines
anyway,” Marvin said with neutrality.
“I don’t know if I want to know about this . . .”
“It was just a back up plan,” Jacobs said with a little laugh.
He wanted to defuse Kennedy’s panic button. For a National
Security Advisor, Kennedy didn’t know very much about how intel-
ligence is gathered. “Just in case.”
“Well, we don’t need it anymore,” Kennedy said. “Mason is coop-
erating fully.”
“I like to have alternatives. I expect you’ll be telling the
President about this.”
“Not a chance. Not a chance.” Kennedy sounded spooked.
Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin.
“I’ll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let’s keep
him honest.”
* Friday, January 22 Reston, Virginia“No, mom, I’m not going to become a spy,” Scott calmly said into
the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. “No, I can’t tell you
what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you.” Scott
mouthed the words, ‘she’s in heaven’ to Sonja who enjoyed seeing
the pleasure the woman received from her son’s travels. “Yes,
I’ll be home in a couple of days,” he paused as his mother
interrupted again. “Yes, I’ll be happy to reprogram your VCR.
I’m sorry it doesn’t work . . .” He sat back to listen for a few
seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror.
Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed
to make herself beautiful despite Scott’s claims that she was
always beautiful. “Yes, mom, I’m paying attention. No ma’am, I
won’t. Yes, ma’am, I’ll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you.” He
struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept
talking. “Don’t worry, mom. You’ll meet her soon.” Finally he
was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner
guests. Miles Foster.
Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far
as the world was concerned, they were two different people with
different goals, different motivations and different lives. The
unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles
Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles
or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of
Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like
Miles?
In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet
him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles
was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her
professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that
Sonja was between jobs.
She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but
that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott,
on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however,
and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage-
ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.
The doorbell of Sonja’s lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston
rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered
for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath,
ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.
“Scott,” Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck.
“Welcome back. It’s good to see you.” The three of them,
Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. “Maybe
Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us
tonight,” she said teasing Miles.
Miles ignored Perky’s shot at him and brushed it aside without
comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable
excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott
to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers
which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.
Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman’s windbreaker
and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen
either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha-
nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the
boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass
doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.
“I won’t ask,” Scott said as soon as Stephanie’s feet disappeared
from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.
“Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn’t need to hear
too much about Amsterdam,” Miles said with a mildly sinister
touch.
“We used to call it the rules of the road,” Scott remembered.
“I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I
swear the crack of dawn is in trouble.”
Scott’s mind played with the varied imagery of Miles’ creative
phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac-
ter was the same.
“You know,” Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in
hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. “I really don’t understand
you.”
“What’s to understand?” Miles’ gaze remained constant over the
moonlit water.
“I see that you weren’t overly detained the other evening.”
“No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me
confused with someone else.” Miles played dead pan.
“You know what I’m talking about,” urged Scott. “The Spook and
all that . . .”
“Fuck you!” Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed
the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin-
ger in Scott’s face. “You’re getting what you want, so back the
fuck off. Got it?”
Scott’s blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in
panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real
Spook? Had he blown it?
Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and
Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind.
Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an
obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with
no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles
was magically transformed into Miles the lover.
He had had no chance to respond to Miles’ outburst, so Scott was
caught with his jaw hung open.
“You boys finish shop yet?” Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles’
ear.
“We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the
annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann’s early years,” Miles
said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking
dimple filled smile. “We disagree on the exact date of his
second bris.”
Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon.
Gullibility was one of Stephanie’s long suits, so Sonja helped
out. “That’s right up there with the bathing habits of the
Jamaican bobsled team.”
“C’mon,” Stephanie said tugging at Miles. “It’s chilly out
here.”
Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren’t
looking. Whatever you want. It’s your game. Miles mouthed back
at Scott, ‘you’re fucking right it is.’
The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything.
Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk
that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined
elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar-
tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends.
Chapter 28 Sunday, January 24 New York City Times HARDWARE VIRUSES: A NEW TWIST By
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