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

young man in his twenties. What would he have done

then? He realized the answer was easier found now that he was a

man of experience: Do Something About It.

Far from a rebel looking for a cause, the cause jumped all over

Tyrone with a vengeance and the tenacity of a barnacle.

All at once Scott knew that Tyrone was serious and that he would

be a better friend if he congratulated instead of castigated.

“You know, I kind of understand a little. Same thing with my ex-

wife.”

“Hey, that’s not fair, man,” Tyrone vigorously objected. “Maggie

was a dingbat . . .”

“I know that and she knew that,” Scott agreed, “but that was what

made her Maggie.” Tyrone nodded, remembering her antics. “And

in some ways we still love each other. After ten years of fun,

great fun, she wanted to get off of the planet more than I did,

so she went to California.” The softness in Scott’s voice said

he still cared about Maggie, that she was a cherished part of his

life, that was and would remain in the past.

Scott shook off the melancholy and continued. “It’s the same for

you. You’re married to the FBI, and while you still love it, you

need to let it go to move on with your life.”

“Y’know, I don’t know why everyone says you’re so stupid,” Tyrone

said with respect. “UFO’s aside, you can actually make sense.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Doesn’t really matter. But I’m doing exactly

what I want to do. And the day it stops being fun, I’m outta

here.”

“Isn’t that the arrogance of wealth speaking?” Tyrone asked.

“And you’re any different? The 22 room Tudor shack you live in

is not exactly my vision of poverty. As I see it, it’s one of

the benefits,” Scott said unembarrassed by his financial securi-

ty. “Before I made my money, I swore that when I got rich, I

would give something back. You know, to the planet or society or

something. Do something useful and not for the money.” Scott

spoke with honest enthusiasm. “But I don’t believe there’s a

rule that says I have to be miserable. I love what I do, and

well, I don’t know. The concept of career is different for me.

I like the idea of doing a little bit of everything for the

experience. You know, I drove a cab for one night. Glad I did,

but never again.”

“So?” asked Tyrone.

“So, do what you want to do and enjoy it. Period. As a friend of

a friend says, live long and prosper.”

Scott let Tyrone sit in contemplative silence as the waiter

brought them two more. They were doing a good job of sticking to

the plan of getting ‘shiffaced’.

“You know,” Tyrone opined, “INTERNET is only the tip of the

iceberg. NASA is having ECCO and CERT look into over $12 Million

in unaccounted-for telephone calls. The Justice Department sold

old computers containing the names and other details of the

Witness Protection Program to a junk dealer in Kentucky and

they’re suing him to get them back. The Secret Service is rede-

signing its protection techniques for the President since someone

got into their computers and copied the plans. The computers at

Mitre have been used by hackers for years to get at classified

information. The public hears less than 1% of the computer

problems in the government. And still, no one will do anything.

There’s even talk that the missing Plutonium that the Israelis

theoretically stole in 1981 was actually a computer error.”

“What do you want to do about it?” Scott was asking as a friend,

not a reporter.

“First,” said a newly determined Tyrone, “I’m gonna nail me some

of these mothers, and I’ll do it with your help. Then, after

that?” Tyrone’s old smile was suddenly back. “I think I’m gonna

kick myself some government ass.” Tyrone roared with laughter

and Scott joined the contagious behavior. “In the meantime, I

want to take a look at some blackmail. I think you may be

right.”

“About what? I don’t listen to what I tell you.”

“Remember you said that the blackmail scheme wasn’t really

blackmail.” Tyrone shifted his weight in the chair and he

reached for the words through is fogged mind. “You said it might

be a way to make us too busy to see our own shadow. That it was

a cover up for another dissociated crime.”

“Yeah? It might be,” Scott said.

Tyrone’s body heaved while he snickered. “We finally have a lead.

Demands have been made.”

“What kind? Who? What do they want?” Scott’s journalist mind

clicked into gear. “What about the computer virus crap?”

“I’m kind of looking into both, but this morning my interest was

renewed. A corporate type I met says not only he, but another 25

or more of his corporate brethren are getting the same treatment.

If he’s right, someone is demanding over $30 Million in ransoms.”

“Jesus Christ! Is that confirmed?” Scott probed.

“Yes. That’s why I said you were right.”

The implications were tremendous, even to Scott’s clouded mind.

While the legal system might not be convinced that computer

radiation was responsible for an obviously well coordinated

criminal venture, he, as an engineer, realized how vulnerable

anyone – everyone was. The questions raced through his mind all

at once.

Over a few dozen oysters and not as many drinks, Scott and Ty

proceeded to share their findings. Scott had documents up the

ying-yang, documents he couldn’t use in a journalistic sense, but

might be valuable to the recent developments in Ty’s case. He

had moved the files to his home; they were simply taking too much

space around his desk at the office. They were an added attrac-

tion to the disaster he called his study. Scott agreed to show

Ty some of them. After the meeting with Franklin Dobbs, and

knowing there might be others in similar situations, Ty wanted an

informal look at Scott’s cache.

“I’ve been holding back, Ty,” Scott said during a lull in their

conversation.

“How do you mean?”

“I got a call from a guy I had spoken to a few months ago; I

assume he sent me those files, and he said that key executives

throughout the country were being blackmailed. Some were borrow-

ing money from the mob to pay them off.”

“Do you have names? Who?” Tyrone’s took an immediate interest.

“Let me see if I have’m here,” he said as he reached for his

small notebook in the sports jacket draped over the back of his

chair. “Yeah, he only gave me three, not much to go on. A

Faulkner, some banker from L.A., a Wall Street tycoon named

Henson and another guy Dobbs, Franklin Dobbs.”

“Dobbs! How the hell do you know about Dobbs?” Tyrone yelled so

loud several remaining bar patrons looked over to see what the

ruckus was.

Scott was taken aback by the outburst. “What’re you hollering

about?”

“Shit, goddamned shit, I don’t need this.” Tyrone finished one

and ordered another drink. He was keeping his promise; well on

the way to getting severely intoxicated. “Dobbs. Dobbs is the

poor fucker that came into my office.”

“You saw Dobbs? He admitted it?” Scott’s heart raced at the

prospect of a connection. Finally.

“Scott,” Tyrone asked quietly, “I have no right to ask you this,

but I will anyway. If you find anything, on Dobbs, can you hold

back? Just for a while?” A slight pleading on Tyrone’s part.

“Why?” Was this part of the unofficial trade with Ty for earlier

information?

The waiter returned with the credit card. Tyrone signed the

slip, giving the waiter entirely too much of a tip. “I’ll tell

you on the train. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To your house. You have a computer, don’t you?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Well, let’s see if we can find out who the other 25 are.”

They took a cab from the Scarsdale station to Scott’s house. No

point in ending up in the clink for a DUI, even with a Federal

Agent in tow. Scott’s study was in such disarray that he liter-

ally scraped off books and papers from the couch onto the floor

to find Ty a place to sit and he piled up bigger piles of files

to make room for their beers on one of his desks.

Scott and Tyrone hadn’t by any means sobered up on the train, but

their thinking was still eminently clear. During the hour ride,

they reviewed what they knew.

Several prominent businessmen were being actively blackmailed.

In addition, the blackmailer, or a confederate, was feeding

information to the media. At a minimum the Times, and probably

the Expos. Perhaps other media as well were in receipt of simi-

lar information, but legitimate news organizations couldn’t have

much to do with it in its current form.

Presumably then, like Scott, other reporters were calling names

in the files. Tyrone reasoned that such an exercise might be a

well planned maneuver on the part of the perpetrators.

“Think