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

admit being

hit by the virus that has created near hysteria over the last

month.”

Whatever the truth, it seems to be well hidden under the guise of

politics. There is mounting evidence and concern that computer

viruses and computer hackers are endangering the contents of our

computers. While the effects of the Columbus Day Virus may have

been mitigated by advance warnings and precautionary measures,

and the actual number of infection sites very limited, computer

professionals are paying increasing attention to the problem.

This is Scott Mason, safe, sound and uninfected.

Wednesday, October 14 J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters Washington, D.C.

The sweltering October heat wave of the late Indian summer pene-

trated the World War II government buildings that surrounded the

Mall and the tourist attractions. Window air conditioners didn’t

provide the kind of relief that modern workers were used to. So,

shirtsleeves were rolled up, the nylons came off, and ties were

loose if present at all.

The streets were worse. The climatic changes that graced much of

North America were exaggerated in Washington. The heat was hot-

ter, the humidity wetter. Sweat was no longer a five letter

word, it was a way of life.

Union Station, the grand old train station near the Capitol

Building provided little relief. The immense volume of air to be

cooled was too much for the central air conditioners. They were

no match for mother nature’s revenge on the planet for unforgiv-

ing hydrocarbon emissions. As soon as Tyrone Duncan detrained

from the elegant Metroliner he had ridden this morning from New

York’s Penn Station, he was drenched in perspiration. He discov-

ered, to his chagrin, that the cab he had hailed for his ride to

headquarters had no air conditioning. The stench of the city,

and the garbage and the traffic fumes reminded him of home. New

York.

Tyrone showed his identification at the J. Edgar Hoover Building

wishing he had the constitution to wear a seersucker suit. There

is no way on God’s earth a seersucker could show a few hours wear

as desperately as his $1200 Louis Boston did, he thought. Then,

there was the accompanying exhaustion from his exposure to the

dense Washington air. Duncan had not been pleased with the panic

call that forced him to Washington anyway. His reactions to the

effects of the temperature humidity index did not portend a good

meeting with Bob Burnson.

Bob had called Tyrone night before, at home. He said, we have a

situation here, and it requires some immediate attention. Would

you mind being here in the morning? Instead of a question, it

was an unissued order. Rather than fool around with hours of

delays at La Guardia and National Airport, Tyrone elected to take

the train and arrive in the nation’s capitol just after noon. It

took, altogether just about the same amount of time, yet he could

travel in relative luxury and peace. Burnson was waiting for

him.

Bob Burnson held the title of National Coordinator for Tactical

Response for the FBI. He was a little younger that Duncan, just

over 40, and appeared cool in his dark blue suit and tightly

collared shirt. Burnson had an unlikely pair of qualities. He

was both an extraordinarily well polished politician and a astute

investigator. Several years prior, though, he decided that the

bureaucratic life would suit him just fine, and at the expense of

his investigative skills, he attacked the political ladder with a

vengeance.

Despite the differences between them, Burnson a willing compatri-

ot of the Washington machine and Duncan preferring the rigors of

investigation, they had developed a long distance friendship that

survived over the years. Tyrone was most pleased that he had a

boss who would at least give his arguments a fair listen before

being told that for this or that political reason, the Bureau had

chosen a different line of reasoning. So be it, thought Duncan.

I’m not a policy maker, just a cop. Tyrone sank into one of the

government issue chairs in Burnson’s modern, yet modest office

ringed with large windows that can’t open.

“How ‘bout that Arctic Chill?” Burnson’s short lithe 150 pound

frame showed no wear from the heat. “Glad you could make it.”

“Shee . . .it man,” Tyrone exhaled as he wiped his shiny wet

black face and neck. He was wringing wet. “Like I had a choice.

If it weren’t for the company, I’d be at the beach getting a

tan.” He continued to wipe his neck and head with a monogrammed

handkerchief.

“Lose a few pounds, and it won’t hurt so bad. You know, I could

make an issue of it,” Bob poked fun.

“And I’m outta here so fast, Hoover’ll cheer from his grave,” he

sweated. The reference to the FBI founder’s legendary bigotry

was a common source of jokes in the modern bureau.

“No doubt. No doubt.” Burnson passed by the innuendo. “Maybe

we’d balance the scales, too.” He dug the knife deeper in refer-

ence to Tyrone’s weight.

“That’s two,” said Duncan.

“Ok, ok,” said Burnson feigning surrender. “How’s Arlene and the

rest of the sorority?” He referred to the house full of women

with whom Tyrone had spent a good deal of his life.

“Twenty degrees cooler.” He was half serious.

“Listen, since you’re hear, up for a bite?” Bob tried.

“Listen, how ‘bout we do business then grab a couple of cold

ones. Iced beer. At Camelot? That’s my idea of a quality

afternoon.” Camelot was the famous downtown strip joint on 18th

and M street that former Mayor Marion Berry had haunted and been

86’d from for unpublished reasons. It was dark and frequented by

government employees for lunch, noticeably the ones from Treas-

ury.

“Deal. If you accept.” Bob’s demeanor shifted to the officious.

“Accept what?” Tyrone asked suspiciously.

“My proposition.”

“Is this another one of your lame attempts to promote me to an

office job in Capitol City?”

“Well, yes and no. You’re being re-assigned.” No easy way to

say it.

“To what?” exclaimed Tyrone angrily.

“To ECCO.”

“What the hell is ECCO?”

“All in good time. To the point,” Bob said calmly. “How much do

you know about this blackmail thing?”

“Plenty. I read the reports, and I have my own local problems.

Not to mention that the papers have picked it up. If it weren’t

for the National Expos printing irresponsibly, the mainstream

press would have kept it quiet until there was some con-

firmation.”

“Agreed,” said Burnson. “They are being spoken to right now,

about that very subject, and as I hear it, they will have more

lawsuits on their doorstep than they can afford to defend. They

really blew it this time.”

“What else?” Bob was listening intently.

“Not much. Loose, unfounded innuendo, with nothing to follow up.

Reminds me of high school antics or mass hysteria. Just like UFO

flaps.” Tyrone Duncan dismissed the coincidences and the thought

of Scott’s conspiracy theory. “But it does make for a busy day

at the office.”

“Agreed, however, you only saw the reports that went on the wire.

Not the ones that didn’t go through channels.”

“What do you mean by that?” Duncan voiced concern at being out

of the loop.

“What’s on the wire is only the tip of the iceberg. There’s a

lot more.”

“What else?”

“Senators calling the Director personally, asking for favors.

Trying to keep their secrets secret. A junior Midwest senator

has some quirky sexual habits. A Southern anti-pornography ball-

breaker happens to like little boys. It goes on and one. They’ve

all received calls saying that their secrets will be in the news-

papers’ hands within days.”

“Unless?” Duncan awaited the resolved threat.

“No unless, which scares them all senseless. It’s the same story

everywhere. Highly influential people who manage many of our

countries’ strategic assets have called their senators, and asked

them to insure that their cases are solved in a quiet and expedi-

ent political manner. Sound familiar?” Burnson asked Duncan.

“More than vaguely,” Tyrone had to admit. “How many?”

“As of this morning we have 17 Senators asking the FBI to make

discreet investigations into a number of situations. 17! Not to

mention a couple hundred executive types with connections.

Within days of each other. They each, so far, believe that

theirs is an isolated incident and that they are the sole target

of such . . .threats is as good a word as any. Getting the

picture?”

Tyrone whistled to himself. “They’re all the same?”

“Yes, and there’s something else. To a man, each claimed that

there was no way the blackmailer could know what he knew. Impos-

sible.” Burnson scratched his head. “Strange. Same story

everywhere. That’s what got the Director and his cronies in on

this. And then me . . .and that’s why you’re here,” Burnson

said with finality.

“Why?” Tyrone was getting frustrated with the roundabout dia-

tribe.

“We’re pulling the blackmail thing to the national office and a

special task force will take over. A lot of folks upstairs want

to pull you in and stick you in charge of the whole operation,

but