Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗

Until recently that is.”

“Sorry, continue.” Scott nibbled from the sandwich on his plate.

“Well there was only one set of books to track the offshore

investments. They wanted them to be kept secret for various

reasons. McMillan and the others made the deals, not me. I just

moved the money for them.” Again Hugh was feeling paranoid.

“Hugh, you moved some money around illegally, maybe. So what?

What’s the big deal?” Scott gulped some hot black coffee to

chase the pastrami that almost went down the wrong pipe.

Sidneys continued after sipping his water and wetting his lips.

“Four days ago I got this call, from some Englishman who I’d

never spoken to before. He said he has all the same figures and

facts you said you have. He starts reading enough to me and I

know he’s got what he says he got. Then he says he wants me to

cooperate or he’ll go public with everything and blow it right

out of the water.” Hugh was perspiring with tension. His fists

were clenched and knuckles white.

“And then, I called you and you came unglued. Right?” Scott was

trying to emotionally console Hugh, at least enough to get some-

thing more. “Do you think you were being blackmailed? Did he,

the English guy, demand anything? Money? Bribes? Sex?” Scott

grinned. Hugh obviously did not appreciate the attempt at levi-

ty.

“No, nothing. He just said that I would hear from him shortly.

That was it. Then, nothing, until you called. Then I figured I

missed his call.” Hugh was working himself into another nervous

frenzy.

“Did he threaten you?”

“No. Not directly. Just said that it would be in my best inter-

est to cooperate.”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I mumbled something about doing nothing wrong

but he said that didn’t matter and I would be blamed for every-

thing and that he could prove it.”

“Could he prove it?” Hugh was scribbling furiously in his note-

book.

“If he had the files in my computer I guess I would look pretty

guilty, but there’s no way anyone could get in there. I’m the

only one, other than McMillan who can get at that stuff. It’s

always been a big secret. We don’t even make any printouts of

it. It’s never on paper, just in the computer.” Hugh fell back

in the thinly stuffed torn red Naugahyde bench seat and gulped

from his water glass.

Scott shook his head as he scanned the notes he had been making.

This didn’t make any sense at all. Here was this little nerdy

man, with a convoluted tale of embezzlement and blackmail, off

shore money and he was scared. “Hugh,” Scott began slowly. “Let

me see if I’ve got this right. You were part of a scheme to

shift investments overseas, falsify reports, yet the investments

always made a reasonable return in investment.” Hugh nodded in

agreement silently.

“Then, after how many, eight years of this, creating a secret

little world that only you and McMillan know about . . .”

“A few others knew, I have the names, but only McMillan could get

the information from the computer. No one else could. I set it

up that way on purpose.” Hugh interrupted.

“OK, then you receive a call from some Englishman who says he’s

got the numbers you say are so safe and then I get a copy. And

the numbers agree with the results that First State reported. Is

that about it?” Scott asked, almost mocking the apparent absurd-

ity.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s what happened.” Hugh Sidneys was

such a meek man.

“That leaves me with a couple of possible conclusions. One, you

got yourself in over your head, finally decided to cut your

losses and make up this incredible story. Maybe make a deal

with the cops or the Feds and try to be hero. Maybe you’re the

embezzler and want out before it’s too late. Born again bean-

counter. It’s a real possibility.” Hugh’s face grimaced; no,

that’s not what happened, it’s just as I told you.

“Or, two, McMillan is behind the disclosures and is now effec-

tively sabotaging his own plans. For what reasons I could hardly

venture a guess now. But, if what you are saying is true, it’s

either you or McMillan.” Scott liked the analysis. It was sound

and took into account all available information, omitting any

speculation.

“Then why would someone want to threaten me?

“Either you never got the call,” the implication was obvious, “or

McMillan is trying, quite effectively to spook you.” Scott put a

few dollars on the table next to the check.

“That’s it? You won’t say anything, will you? You promised!”

Hugh leaned into Scott, very close.

Scott consoled Hugh with a pat on his wrinkled suit sleeve. “Not

without speaking to you first. No, that wouldn’t be cricket.

Don’t worry, I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

His editor, Doug McGuire agreed that Scott should keep on it.

There might be a story there, somewhere. Go find it. But don’t

forget about the viruses.

The headline of the National Expos, a weekly tabloid caught

Scott’s attention on his way home that evening in Grand Central

Station.

EXCLUSIVE! S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!

Scott’s entire story, the one he wasn’t permitted to print was

being read by millions of mid-American supermarket shopping

housewives. In its typically sensationalistic manner, the arti-

cle claimed that the Expose was in exclusive possession of

documents that proved McMillan was stealing 10’s of millions from

First State S&L. It even printed a fuzzy picture of the same

papers that Scott had received. How the hell?

Chapter 4 Thursday, September 10 Houston, Texas.

Angela Steinem dialed extension 4343, Network Administration for

MIS at the Treadline Oil Company in Houston, Texas. It rang

three times before Joan Appleby answered. Joan was the daytime

network administrator for Building 4. Hundreds of IBM personal

computers were connected together so they could share information

over a Novell local area network.

“Joan, I don’t bug you much, right?” Angela said hesitantly.

“Angela, how about a good morning girl?” They were good friends

outside of work but had very little business contact.

“Sorry, mornin’. Joan, I gotta problem.”

“What’s troubling ya hon.” Joan Texas spoke with a distinct

Texas twang.

“A little bird just ate my computer.”

“Well, then I guess I’d be lookin’ out for Big Bird’s data dump.”

Joan laughed in appreciation of the comedy.

“No really. A little bird flew all over my computer and ate up

all the letters and words on the screen. Seriously.”

“Y’all are putting me on, right?” Maggie’s voice lilted.

“No. No, I’m serious. It was like a simple video game, Pac-Man

or something, ate up the screen. I couldn’t get it to come back

so I turned my computer off and now it won’t do anything. All it

says is COMMAND.COM cannot be found. Now, what the hell does that

mean.”

Joan Appleby now took Angela seriously. “It may mean that we

have some mighty sick computers. I’ll be right there.”

By the end of work, the Treadline Oil Company was essentially at

a standstill. Over 4,000 of their internal microcomputers,

mainly IBM and Compaq’s were out of commission. The virus had

successfully struck.

Angela Steinem and her technicians shut down the more than 50

local area networks and gateways that connected the various

business units. They contacted the National Computer Virus

Association in San Mateo, California, NIST’s National Computer

Center Laboratories and a dozen or so other watchdog groups who

monitor computer viruses.

This was a new virus. No one had seen it before. Sorry, they

said. If you can send us you hard disk, we may be able find out

what’s going on . . .otherwise, your best bet is to dismantle the

entire computer system, all 4,000 plus of them, and start from

scratch.

Angela informed the Vice President of Information Systems that it

would be at least a week, maybe ten days before Treadline would

be fully operational again.

Mary Wallstone, secretary to Larry Gompers, Junior democratic

representative from South Carolina was stymied.

Every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 AM she opened her boss’s

office and made coffee. Most mornings she brought in Dunkin’

Donuts. It was the only way she knew to insure that her weight

would never ebb below 200 pounds. Her pleasant silken skin did

not match the plumpness below. At 28 she should have known that

meeting Washington’s best and brightest required a more slender

physique.

This morning she jovially sat down at her Apple Macintosh comput-

er with 3 creme filled donuts and a mug of black coffee with 4

sugars. She turned on the power switch and waited as the hour-

glass icon indicated