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

hour

pedestrians huddled from the cold winds, tromping through the

grimy snow on the streets and sidewalks.

The traffic on 42nd street was at a near standstill and the

intersection at Broadway and 7th Avenues where the Dow Chemical

Building stood was unusually bad. Taxis and busses and trucks

and cars all fought for space to move.

As the southbound light on 7th turned green, a dark blue Ford

Econoline van screeched forward and cut off two taxis to make a

highly illegal left turn. It curved too quickly and too sharply

for the dangerously icy conditions and began to slide sideways.

The driver turned the wheel hard to the left, against the slide,

compensating in the wrong direction and then he slammed on the

brakes. The van continued to slide to the right as it careened

toward the sidewalk. The van rotated and headed backwards at the

throngs of pedestrians. They didn’t notice until it was too

late.

The van spun around again and crashed through a McDonald’s window

into the dense breakfast crowds. As it crushed several patrons

into the counter, the van stopped, suddenly propelling the driver

through the windshield into the side of the yogurt machine. His

neck was broken instantly.

Getting emergency vehicles to Times Square during the A.M. rush

hour is in itself a lesson in futility. Given that 17 were

pronounced dead on the scene and another 50 or more were injured,

the task this Monday morning was damned near impossible.

City-ites come together in a crisis, and until enough paramedics

arrived, people from all walks of life tended to the wounded and

respectfully covered those beyond help. Executives in 3 piece

suits worked with 7th avenue delivery boys in harmony. Secre-

taries lay their expensive furs on the slushy street as pallets

for the victims.

It was over two hours before all the wounded were transferred to

local hospitals and the morgue was close to finishing its clean

up efforts. Lt. Mel Kavitz, 53rd. Precinct, Midtown South NYPD

made it to the scene as the more grisly pieces were put away. He

spoke to a couple of officers who had interviewed witnesses and

survivors. The media were already there adding to the frigid

chaos. Two of the local New York TV stations were broadcasting

live, searching out sound-bytes for the evening news and all 3

dailies had reporters looking for quotable quotes. Out of the

necessity created by such disasters, the police had developed

immunity to the media circus.

“That’s it lieutenant. Seems the van made a screwball turn and

lost control.” The young clean-shaven patrolman shrugged his

shoulders. Only 27, he had still been on the streets long enough

not to let much bother him.

“Who’s the driver?” Lt. Kavitz scanned the scene.

“It’s a foreign national, one . . .ah . . .Jesef Mumballa. Second

year engineering student at Columbia.” The young cop looked down

and spoke quietly. “He didn’t make it.”

“I’m not surprised. Look at this mess.” The Lieutenant took it

in stride. “Just what McDonalds needs. Another massacre. Any-

thing on him?” Kavitz asked half suspecting, half hoping.

“Clean. As clean as rag head can be.”

“Ok, that’s enough. What about the van?”

“The van?”

“The van!” Kavitz said pointedly at the patrolman. “The van!

What’s in it? Has anybody looked?”

“Uh . . .no sir. We’ve been working with the injured . . .I’m

sure you . . .”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Kavitz waved off the explanation. “Must

have been pretty rough.” He looked around and shook his head.

“Anything else officer?”

“No sir, that’s about it. We still don’t have an exact count

though.”

“It’ll come soon enough. Soon enough.” Kavitz left the young

patrolman and walked into the bloodbath, pausing only briefly

before opening the driver’s side door. “Let’s see what’s in this

thing.”

*

“D’y’hear about the mess over at Times Square?” Ben Shellhorne

walked up to Scott Mason’s desk at the City Times.

“Yeah, pretty gruesome. The Exchange . . .McDonald’s. You

really scrape the bottom, don’t you?” Scott grinned devilishly

at Ben.

“Maybe some guys do, not me.” Ben sat down next to Scott’s desk.

“But that’s not the point. There’s something else.”

“What’s that?” Scott turned to Ben.

“The van.”

“The van?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, the van. The van that busted up the McBreakfast crowd.”

“What about it?”

Ben hurried. “Well, it was some sort of high tech lab on wheels.

Computers and radios and stuff. Pretty wild.”

“Why’s that so unusual? Phone company, computer repair place,

EPA monitors, could be anything.” Scott seemed disinterested.

“If that were true, you’re right. But this was a private van,

and there’s no indication of what company it worked for. And the

driver’s dead. Personal ID only. No company, no numbers, no

nothing, except this.”

He handed a sheaf of computer printouts to Scott. “Look

familiar?”

Scott took the papers and perused them. They were the same kind

that Scott had received from Vito, his unknown donor. These were

new documents as far as Scott could tell – he didn’t recognize

them as part of his library. They only contained some stock tips

and insider trading information from a leading Wall Street bro-

kerage house. Pretty tame stuff.

“These,” Scott pointed at the papers, “these were in the van?”

“That’s what I said,” Ben said triumphantly.

“How did you get them?” Scott pushed.

“I have a few friends on the force and, well, this is my beat you

know. Crime, disaster, murder, violence, crisis, death and de-

struction on the streets. Good promo stuff for the Big Apple.”

“Are there any more?” Scott ignored Ben’s self pity.

“My guy said there were so many that a few wouldn’t make any

difference.”

“Holy Christ!” Scott said aloud as he sat back in thought.

“What is it? Scott? Does this mean something?”

“Can I have these, Ben? Do you need them?”

“Nah! There’s no blood on ‘em? Not my kinda story. I just

remembered that secret papers and computers are your thing, so

they’re yours.” Ben stood up. “Just remember, next time you hear

about a serial killer, it’s mine.”

“Deal. And, hey, thanks a lot. Drinks on me.” Scott caught Ben

before he left. “Ben, one more thing.”

“Yeah?” Ben stopped.

“Can you get me into that van. Just to look around? Not to

touch, just to look?” Scott would have given himself a vasectomy

with a weed eater to have a look. This was his first solid lead

on the source of the mysterious and valuable documents that he

had stymied him for so long. He had been unable to publish

anything significant due to lack of confirming evidence. Any

lead was good lead, he thought.

“It may cost another favor, but sure what the fuck. I’ll set it

up. Call you.” Ben waved as he walked off leaving Scott to

ponder the latest developments.

The interior of the dark blue Ford Econoline van was not in bad

shape since the equipment was bolted into place. The exterior

though was thoroughly trashed, with too many blood stains for

Scott to stomach. It was a bad wreak, even for the Police Im-

pound.

While Ben kept his cooperative keeper of the peace occupied, he

signaled to Scott that he would only have a minute, so please,

make it quick.

Scott entered the van with all his senses peaked. He wanted to

take mental pictures and get as much detail as he could. Both

sides of the van contained steel shelving, with an array of

equipment bolted firmly in place. It was an odd assortment of

electronics, noticed Scott. There were 2 IBM personal computers

with large WYSIWYG monitors. What You See Is What You Get moni-

tors were generally used for intensive word processing or desktop

publishing. In a van? Odd.

A digital oscilloscope and waveform monitor were stacked over one

of the computers. Test equipment and no hand tools? No answer.

Over the other computer sat a small black and white television

and a larger color television monitor. Two cellular phones were

mounted behind the drivers seat. Strange combination. Then he

noticed what appeared to be a miniature satellite dish, only 8 or

so inches across. He recognized it as a parabolic microphone.

Aha! That’s it. Some sort of spy type surveillance vehicle.

Tracking drug dealers and assorted low lifes. But, a privately

registered vehicle, no sign of any official affiliations to known

enforcement agencies?

Scott felt his minute was gone in a only few seconds.

“Well, you find what you’re looking for?” Ben asked Scott after

they had left the police garage grounds overlooking the Hudson

River.

Scott looked puzzled. “It’s more like by not finding anything I

eliminated what it’s not.”

Ben scowled. “Hey riddle man, back to earth. Was it a waste or

what?”

“Far from it.” Scott’s far away glaze disappeared as his personal

Eureka! set in. “I think I may have stumbled, sorry, you, stum-

bled