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

York

“Scott Mason,” Scott said answering the phone with his mouth full

of hot pastrami on rye with pickles and mayonnaise.

“Scott? It’s Tyrone.” Tyrone’s voice was quiet, just about a

whisper.

“Oh, hi.” Scott continued to chew. Scott was unsuccessfully

trying not to sound angry.

Other than following Scott’s articles in the paper, they had had

no contact since that eventful phone call a month ago. Since

then, Scott had made sure that they rode on different cars during

their daily commute into the city. It was painful for both of

them since they had been close friends, but Scott was morally

obligated, so he thought, to cut off their association after

Tyrone broke the cardinal rule of all journalists; keep your

sources protected. And, Tyrone had broken that maxim. Scott had

not yet learned that the Bureau made their own rules, and that

the gentleman’s agreement of off-the-record didn’t carry weight

in their venue.

“How have you been?” Tyrone said cordially. “Good bit of work

you been doing.”

“Yeah, thanks, thanks,” Scott said stiffly.

Tyrone had already determined that he needed Scott if his own

agency wouldn’t help him. At least Scott wasn’t bound by idiotic

governmental regulations that stifled rather than helped the

cause. Maybe there was hope for cooperation yet, if his little

faux pas could be forgiven.

“We need to talk. I’ve been meaning to call you.” Though Tyrone

meant it, Scott thought it was a pile of warmed up FBI shit.

“Sure, let’s talk.” Scott’s apparent indifference bothered

Tyrone.

“Scott, I mean it,” he said sincerely. “I have an apology to

make, and I want to do it in person. Also, I think that we both

need each other . . .you’ll understand when I tell you what’s

been going on.” Tyrone’s deep baritone voice conveyed honesty

and a little bit of urgency. If nothing else, he had never known

or had any reason to suspect Tyrone of purposely misleading or

lying to him. And their friendship had been a good one. Plus,

the tease of a secret further enticed Scott into agreeing.

“Yeah, what the hell. It’s Christmas.” Scott’s aloofness came

across as phony, but Tyrone understood the awkwardness and let it

pass.

“How ‘bout we meet at The Oyster Bar, Grand Central, and get shit

faced. Merry Christmas from the Bureau.”

The Oyster Bar resides on the second lower level of Grand Cen-

tral Station, located eighty feet beneath Park Avenue and 42nd.

Street. It had become a fairly chic restaurant bar in the ‘80’s;

the seafood was fresh, and occasionally excellent. The patronage

of the bar ranged from the commuter who desperately quaffed down

two or three martinis to those who enjoyed the seafaring ambi-

ence. The weathered hardwood walls were decorated with huge

stuffed crabs, swordfish, lifesavers and a pot pourri of fishing

accouterments. The ceilings were bathed in worn fishing nets

that occasionally dragged too low for anyone taller than 6 feet.

Away from the bar patrons could dine or drink in privacy, with

dim ten watt lamps on each table to cut through the darkness.

Tyrone was sitting at such a table, drink in hand when Scott

craned his neck from the door to find his friend through the

crowd. He ambled over, and Tyrone stood to greet him. Scott was

cool, but willing to give it a try. As usual Tyrone was elegant-

ly attired, in a custom tailored dark gray pin stripe suit, a

fitted designer shirt and a stylish silk tie of the proper width.

Scott was dressed just fine as far as he was concerned. His

sneakers were clean, his jeans didn’t have holes and the sweater

would have gained him admission to the most private ski parties

in Vermont. Maybe they were too different and their friendship

had been an unexplainable social aberration; an accident.

Scott’s stomach tightened. His body memory recalled the time the

principal had suspended him from high school for spreading liquid

banana peel on the hall floors and then ringing the fire drill

alarm. The picture of 3000 kids and 200 teachers slipping and

sliding and crawling out of the school still made Scott smile.

“What’ll you have?” Tyrone gestured at a waiter while asking

Scott for his preference.

“Corona, please.”

Tyrone took charge. “Waiter, another double and a Corona.” He

waved the waiter away. “That’s better.” Tyrone was already

slightly inebriated. “I guess you think I’m a real shit hole,

huh?”

“Sort of,” Scott agreed. “I guess you could put it that way.”

Scott was impressed with Ty’s forthright manner. “I can think of

a bunch more words that fit the bill.” At least Tyrone admitted

it. That was a step in the right direction.

Ty laughed. “Yeah, I bet you could, and you might be right.”

Scott’s drink came. He took a thirsty gulp from the long neck

bottle.”

“Ease on down the road!” Ty held his half empty drink in the

air. It was peace offering. Scott slowly lifted his and their

drinks met briefly. They both sipped again, and an awkward

silence followed.

“Well, I guess it’s up to me to explain, isn’t it?” Tyrone ven-

tured.

“You don’t have to explain anything. I understand,” Scott said

caustically.

“I don’t think you do, my friend. May I at least have my last

words before you shoot?” Tyrone’s joviality was not as effective

when nervous.

Scott remembered that he used the same argument with Doug only

days before. He eased up. “Sure, ready and aimed, though.”

“I’m quitting.” Tyrone’s face showed disappointment, resigna-

tion.

The beer bottle at Scott’s lips was abruptly laid on the table.

“Quitting? The FBI?” Tyrone nodded. “Why? What happened?”

For one moment Scott completely forgot how angry he was.

The din of the Oyster Bar made for excellent cover. They could

speak freely with minimal worry of being overheard.

“It’s a long story, but it began when they pulled your article.

God, I’m sorry, man,” Tyrone said with empathy. The furrows on

his forehead deepened as he searched for a reaction from Scott.

Nothing.

Ty finished off his drink and started on the refill. “Unlike

what you probably believe, or want to believe, when you called me

that morning, I had no idea what you were talking about. It was

several hours before I realized what had happened. If I had any

idea . . .”

Scott stared blankly at Tyrone. You haven’t convinced me of

anything, Scott thought.

“As far as I knew, you were writing an article that had no par-

ticular consequence . . .”

“Thanks a shitload,” Scott quipped.

“No, I mean, I had no idea of the national security implica-

tions, and besides, it was going to be in the paper the next day

anyway.” Tyrone shrugged with his hands in the air for added

emphasis. “Tempest meant nothing to me. All I said was that you

and I had been talking. I promise you, that’s it. As a friend,

that was the extent of it. They took it from there.” Tyrone

extended his hands in an open gesture of conciliation. “All I

knew was that what you’d said about CMR shook some people up in

D.C.. ECCO has been quite educational. Now I know why, and

that’s why I have to leave.”

The genuineness from Tyrone softened Scott’s attitude some. “I

thought you spooks stuck together. Spy and die together.”

Tyrone contorted his face to show disgust with that thought.

“That’ll be the day. In fact it’s the opposite. A third of our

budgets are meant to keep other agencies in the dark about what

we’re doing.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I was.” Tyrone looked disheartened, betrayed.

“At any rate,” Tyrone continued, “I got spooked by the stunt with

your paper and the Attorney General. I just couldn’t call you,

you’ll see why. The Agency is supposed to enforce the law, not

make it and they have absolutely no business screwing with the

press. Uh-uh.” Tyrone took a healthy sip of his drink. “Reminds

me of times that are supposed to be gone. Dead in the past. Did

you know that I am a constitutional lawyer?”

Scott ordered another beer and shook his head, no. Just a regular

lawyer. Will wonders never cease?

“Back in the early 60’s the South was not a good place for

blacks. Or Negroes as we were called back then.” Tyrone said

the word Negro with disdain. He pulled his tie from the stiff

collar and opened a button. “I went on some marches in Alabama,

God, that was a hot summer. A couple of civil rights workers were

killed.”

Scott remembered. More from the movie Mississippi Burning than

from memory.

Civil rights wasn’t a black-white issue, Tyrone insisted. It was

about man’s peaceful co-existence with government. A legal

issue. “I thought that was an important distinction and most

people were missing the point. I thought I