Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗
- Author: Winn Schwartau
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Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful
and highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so abruptly
resign a senior analyst position. While Miles was more than
willing to tell them his feelings, and the real reasons behind
his resignation, they wanted to make sure that there weren’t a
few little details he wasn’t telling them. Like, perhaps gam-
bling debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on the
wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual.
Had he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he get
it? Blackmail was considered a very real possibility when unex-
pected personnel changes occur.
The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma-
lies. Not that he knew he needed vindication. He owned a Potomac
condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort
Meade where he had worked for years, almost his entire profes-
sional life. He traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten-
tatious but in style, had a reasonable savings account, only used
2 credit cards and he owed no one anything significant. There was
nothing unusual about his file at all, unless you think that
living within ones means is odd. Miles Foster knew how to make
the most out of a dollar. Miles Foster was clean.
The walls of his drab 12 foot square prison room were a dirty
shade of government gray. There was an old map on the wall and
Miles noticed that the gray paint behind the it was 7 shades
lighter than the surrounding paint. Two of the four fluorescent
bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron bars
behind the drawer handles, insuring that no one, no one, was
getting into those file with permission. Also prominent on each
file cabinet was a tissue box sized padlock.
Miles was alone, again. When the IAS people questioned him, they
were hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was alone.
Miles paced the room during the prolonged waits. He poked here
and there, under this, over that; he found the clean paint behind
the map and smirked.
When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and exer-
cising his svelte 5′ 9″ physique to help relieve the boredom.
He was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40. Miles wasn’t a
fitness nut, but he enjoyed the results of staying in shape –
women, lots of women. He had a lightly tanned Mediterranean
skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on the longish side but immac-
ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance, even when he wore
torn jeans, and he knew it. It was merely another personal asset
that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage. Miles
was regularly proofed. He had a face that would permit him to
assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance,
he called it aloofness, most considered him the younger. None-
theless, women, of all ages went for it.
One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles irresistible.
He had an eerie but conscious muscular control over his dimples.
If he were angry, a frown could mean any number of things depend-
ing upon how he twitched his dimples. A frown could mean, “I’m
real angry, seriously”, or “I’m just giving you shit”, or “You
bore me, go away”, or more to Miles’ purpose, “You’re gorgeous, I
wanna fuck your brains out”. His dimples could pout with a
smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could accent
and augment his mood at will.
But now. he was severely bored. Getting even more disgusted with
the entire process. The IAS wasn’t going to find anything. He
had made sure of that. After all, he was the computer expert.
Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock. It was a heavy, ‘I
doubt an ax could even get through this’ door. The fourth IAS
man to question Miles entered the room as the door was relocked
from the other side.
“So, tell us again, why did you quit?” The IAS man abruptly
blurted out even before sitting in one of the old, World War II
vintage chairs by the wooden table.
“I’ve told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a hundred
times.” The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended. “I
really don’t want to go through it again.”
“Tough shit. I want to hear it. You haven’t told me yet.” This
guy was tougher, Miles thought.
“What are you looking for? For God’s sake, what do you want me
to say? You want a lie that you like better? Tell me what it is
and I’ll give it back to you, word for word. Is that what you
want?” Miles gave away something. He showed, for the first
time, real anger. The intellect in Miles saw what the emotion
was doing, so his brain quickly secreted a complex string of
amino acids to call him down. Miles decided that he should go
back to the naive, ‘what did I do?’ image and stick to the plan.
He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second. He
gently shook and looked up sideways. He was very convincing.
The IAS man thought that Miles might be weakening.
“I want the fucking truth,” the IAS man bellowed. “And I want it
now!”
Miles sighed. He was tired and wanted a cigarette so bad he
could shit, and that pleasure, too, he was being denied. But he
had prepared himself for this eventuality; serious interrogation.
“O.K., O.K.” Miles feigned resignation. He paused for another
heavy sigh. “I quit ‘cause I got sick of the shit. Pure and
simple. I like my work, I don’t like the bureaucracy that goes
with it. That’s it. After over 10 years here, I expected some
sort of recognition other than a cost of living increase like
every other G12. I want to go private where I’ll be appreciated.
Maybe even make some money.”
The IAS man didn’t look convinced. “What single event made you
quit? Why this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow, or the
next day, or next week. Why today?” The IAS man blew smoke at
Miles to annoy him and exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms. Miles
was exhausted and edgy.
“Like I said, I got back another ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’
response on my Public-Private key scheme. They said, ‘Not yet
practical’ and set it up for another review in 18 months. That
was it. Finis! The end, the proverbial straw that you’ve been
looking for. Is that what you want?” Miles tried desperately to
minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS man.
“What do you hope to do in the private sector? Most of your work
is classified.” The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.
“Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I
think the military call it the revolving door.” Miles’ dimpled
smugness did not sit well with IAS.
“Yeah, you’ll probably go to work for your wop friends in
Sicily.” The IAS man sarcastically accused.
“Hey – you already know about that!” That royally pissed off
Miles. He didn’t appreciate any dispersion on his heritage.
“They’re relatives, that’s it. Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and
a bunch of booze. And besides,” Miles paused and smiled,
“there’s no such thing as the Mafia.”
By early evening they let him relieve himself and then finally
leave the Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his personal
items, under guard, and then escorted to the front gate. All
identification was removed and his files were transferred into
the ‘Monitor’ section, where they would sit for at least one
year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that Miles
Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who had
had enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic
machine that moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end of
the interrogation. Just like I said, he thought, just like I
said.
There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the
Agency shrinks, that suggested Miles meant anything other than
what he claimed. Let him go, they said. Let him go. Nowhere in
the records did it show how much he hated his stupid, stupid
bosses, the bungling bureaucratic behemoths who didn’t have the
first idea of what he and his type did. Nowhere did Miles’
frustration and resultant build up of resentment and anger show
up in any file or on any chart or graph. His strong, almost
overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and importance
were relegated to a personality quirk common to superbright
ambitious engineering types. It fit the profile.
Nowhere, either, was it mentioned that in years at NSA, Miles
Foster had submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in
cryptographic and communications techniques to improve the secu-
rity of the United
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