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

station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about,

many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.

With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate

forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what

was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid

of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine,

take it. It’s yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers

ours asses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging

Feds.

*

Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington’s

National Airport. The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express

by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo-

mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They

wanted to get to D.C. before the cocktail parties began and

found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan

was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read

‘Burnson’.

He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on

“P” Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse

looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent

Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not

only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he

worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far

from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.

An older, matronly lady answered the door.

“May I help you?” She went through the formality for the few

accidental tourists who rang the bell.

“I’m here to see Mr. Merriweather. He’s expecting me.” Merri-

weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this

location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room,

where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double-

checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The

marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he assumed, but

nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He

looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber,

formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain

portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone

pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.

An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a

dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge

provided by the opened bookcase.

The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he

entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over-

sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The

room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a

Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz

cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was

simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript

modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black

trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit-

ted.

His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.

The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40’s as near

as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue

suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their

hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded

Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only

afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a

decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck

to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the

men that flanked Burnson, which wasn’t unusual. He was a New

Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli-

tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to

secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.

“Thanks for making it on such short notice,” Burnson solicitous-

ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others

present.

“Yes sir. Glad to help.” Duncan groaned through the lie. He

had been ordered to this command performance.

“This is,” Burnson gestured to his right, “Martin Templer, our

CIA liaison, and,” pointing to his left, “Charlie Sorenson,

assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort.” They all shook hands perfunc-

torily. “Care for a drink?” Burnson asked. “We’re not on

Government time.”

Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than

Coke. The bar behind them showed recent use. “Absolut on the

rocks. If you have it.” It was Duncan’s first time to ‘P

Street’ as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose

and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed

the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement

in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost

on time. Enough of the niceties.

“We don’t want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you

were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat-

ters.” Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched

Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was

called down here, pronto. Since I’m here, my ass.

“No problem sir.” He carried the charade forward.

“We need to know more about your report. This morning’s report.”

Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. “It was most intriguing. Can you

fill us in?” He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact

with Duncan.

“Well, there’s not much to say beyond what I put in.” Suspicion

was evident in Duncan’s voice. “I think that it’s a real possi-

bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced

computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools.

A massive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my

report.”

“You did Tyrone,” Bob agreed. “It’s just that there may be

additional considerations that you’re not aware of. Things I

wasn’t even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?” Bob looked

at the NSA man in deference.

“Thanks, Bob, be glad to.” Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned

spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. “Basically,

we’re following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the

alleged equipment it held.” He scanned the folder in front of

him. “It says here,” he perused, “that you discovered that indi-

viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to

the computer users.” He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation.

Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. “Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Duncan replied. “From the information we’ve received,

it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia-

tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to

compromise computer privacy . . .”

“We know what it is Mr. Duncan.” The NSA man cut him off abrupt-

ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. “What we

want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR

radiation is?” There was no smile or sense of warmth from the

inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious

beginning of this evening.

“CMR?” Tyrone wasn’t familiar with the term.

“Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?”

“There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago.”

Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to

take. “I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment

that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance.”

“What cases are you working on that relate to this?” Again the

NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.

“I have been working on a blackmail case,” Duncan said. “Now

I’m the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the

INTERNET problems.”

The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA

shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.

“Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation-

al security?” Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.

Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. “I

would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then

there is a potential national security issue. But I can assure

you, it was brought to my attention through other means.” Duncan

tried to sound confident of his position.

“Mr. Duncan,” Sorenson began, “I will tell you something, and I

will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared.” He waited

for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a

sublimation. Cleared my ass. Fucking spooks. Duncan had the

common sense to censor himself effectively.

“CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our

computers today. Do you know what that means?” Sorenson was

being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.

“From what