Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">Airport Bar. Fliers were traveling on such tight schedules that

they had to run to the bar, grab two quick ones and dash to the

gate. The new security regulations placed additional premiums on

drinking time. The bar accommodated their hurried needs well.

Scott put down his baggage next to the luggage pile and stole a

bar seat from a patron rushing off to catch his flight. One

helluva chaotic day. He ordered a beer, and sucked down half of

it at once. The thirst quenching was a superior experience.

Brain dulling would take a little longer.

The clamorous rumble of the crowd and the television blaring from

behind the bar further anesthetized Scott’s racing mind. He

finally found himself engrossed in the television, blissfully

ignorant of all going on around him. Scott became so absorbed in

the local news that he didn’t notice the striking blonde sit next

to him. She ordered a white wine and made herself comfortable

on the oversized stool.

Scott turned to the bartender and asked for another beer during

the commercial. It was then he noticed the gorgeous woman next

to him and her golden shoulder length hair. Lightly tanned skin

with delicate crow’s feet at the edges of her penetrating blue

eyes gave no indication of her age. An old twenty to a remarka-

ble forty five. Stunning, he thought. Absolutely stunning. He

shook the thought off and returned his attention to the televi-

sion.

He heard the announcer from Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate.

“Topping tonight’s stories, Shooting at Senate Hearing.” The

picture changed from the anchorman to a live feed from outside

the New Senate Office Building, where Scott had just been.

“Bringing it to us live is Shauna Miller. Shauna?”

“Thank you Bill,” she said looking straight into the camera

holding the microphone close to her chin. Behind her was a bevy

of police and emergency vehicles and their personnel in a flurry

of activity.

“As we first reported an hour ago, Pierre Troubleaux, President

of dGraph, one of the nation’s leading software companies, was

critically injured while giving testimony to the Privacy and

Technology Containment subcommittee. At 3:15 Eastern Time, an

unidentified assailant, using a 9mm Barretta, shot Mr. Troubleaux

four times, from the visitor’s balcony which overlooks the hear-

ing room. Mr. Troubleaux was answering questions about . . . ”

Scott’s mind wandered back to the events of a few hours ago. He

still had no idea why he did it. The television replayed the

portion of the video tape where Pierre was testifying. While he

spoke, the shots rang out and the camera image suddenly blurred

in search of the source of the sound. Briefly the gunman is seen

and then the picture swings back to Pierre being pushed out of

his chair by a man in a blue sports jacket and white shirt. As

two more gun shots ring out the figure covers Pierre. Two more

shots and the camera finally settles on Pierre Troubleaux bleed-

ing profusely from the head, his eyes open and glazed.

Scott shuddered at the broadcast. It captured the essence of the

moment, and the terror that he and the hundreds of others at the

hearing had experienced. Shauna Miller reappeared.

“And we have here the man who dove to Mr. Troubleaux’s rescue

when the shooting began.” The camera angle pulled back and showed

Scott standing next to the newswoman.

“This is Scott Mason, a reporter from the New York City Times who

is attending the hearings on behalf of his paper. Scott,” she

turned away from the camera to speak directly to Scott. “How does

it feel being the news instead of reporting it?” She stuck the

microphone into his face.

“Uh,” Scott stammered. What an assinine question, he thought.

“It does give me a different perspective,” he said, his voice

hollow.

“Yes, I would think so,” Shauna added. “Can you tell us what

happened?”

More brilliance in broadcast journalism. “Sure, be happy to.”

Scott smiled at the camera. “One of the country’s finest soft-

ware executives just had part of his head blown off so his brains

could leak on my coat and the scumbag that shot him took a sayo-

nara swan dive that broke every bone in his body. How’s that?”

He said devilishly.

“Uh,” Shauna hesitated. “Very graphic.” This isn’t Geraldo she

thought, just the local news. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Yeah? I got to get some sleep.”

The camera zoomed into a closeup of Shauna Miller. “Thank you,

Mr. Mason.” She brightened up. “Mr. Troubleaux and the alleged

gunman have been taken to Walter Reed Medical Center where they

are undergoing surgery. Both are listed in critical condition

and Mr. Troubleaux is still in a coma.” Shauna droned on for

another 30 seconds with filler nonsense. How did she ever get on

the air, Scott thought. And, why does she remain?

“That was you.”

Scott started at the female voice. He turned to the left and

only saw salesmen and male lobbyists drinking heartily. He

pivoted in the other direction and came face to face with Sonja

Lindstrom. “Sorry?”

“That was you,” she said widening her smile to expose a perfect

Crest ad.

An electric tingle ran up Scott’s legs and through his torso.

The pit of his stomach felt suddenly empty. He gulped silently

and his face reddened. “What was me?”

She pointed at the television. “That was you at the hearing

today, where Troubleaux got shot.”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” he said.

“The camera treats you well. I was at the hearing, too, but I

just figured out who you were.” Her earnest compliment came as a

surprise to Scott. He raised his eyebrows in bewilderment.

“Who I am?” He questioned.

“Oh, sorry,” she extended her hand to Scott. “I’m Sonja Lind-

strom. I gather you’re Scott Mason.” He gently took her hand

and a rush of electricity rippled up his arm till the hairs on

the back of his neck stood on end.

“Guilty as charged,” he responded. He pointed his thumb at the

television. “Great interview, huh?”

“She epitomizes the stereotype of the dumb blond.” Sonja turned

her head slightly. “I hope you’re not prejudiced?”

“Prejudiced?

She picked up her wine glass and sipped gingerly. “Against

blondes.”

“No, no. I was married to one,” he admitted. “But, I won’t hold

that against you.” Scott wasn’t aggressive with women and his

remark surprised even him. Sonja laughed appreciatively.

“It must have been rough,” Sonja said empathetically. “I mean

the blood and all.”

“Not exactly my cup of tea. I don’t do the morgue shift.” Scott

shuddered. “I’ll stick to computers, not nearly so adventurous.”

“And hacker bashing.” she said firmly. She took another sip of

wine.

“How would you know that?” Scott asked.

She turned and smiled at Scott. “You’re famous. You’re known as

the Hacker Smacker by quite a few in the computer field. Not

everyone appreciates what you have to say.” Sonja, ever so

politely, challenged Scott.

“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” he smirked.

“That’s the spirit,” she encouraged. “Not that I agree with

everything you have to say.”

“I assume you have read my drivel upon occasion.”

“Upon occasion, yes,” she said with a coy sweetness.

“So, since you know so much about me, I stand at a clear disad-

vantage. I only know you as Sonja.”

“You’re right. That’s not fair at all.” She straightened her-

self on the bar stool. “Sonja Lindstrom, dual citizenship U.S.

and Denmark. Born May 11, 1964, Copenhagen. Moved here when I

was two. Studied political science at George Washington, minored

in sociology. Currently a public relations consultant to comput-

er jocks. I live in D.C. but I’m rarely here.”

“Lucky for me,” Scott ventured.

Sonja didn’t answer him as she slowly drained the bottom of her

wine glass. She glanced slyly at him, or was that his imagina-

tion?

“Can a girl buy a guy a drink?”

The clock said there was fifteen minutes before Scott’s flight

took off. No contest.

“I’d be honored,” Scott said as he nodded his head in gratitude.

Sonja Lindstrom bought the next two rounds and they talked. No

serious talk, just carefree, sometimes meaningless banter that

made them laugh and relish the moment. Scott didn’t know he had

missed his second flight until it was time for the 8:15 plane to

LaGuardia. It had been entirely too long. Longer than he cared

to remember since he had relaxed, disarmed himself near a woman.

There was an inherent distrust, fear of betrayal, that Scott had

not released, until now.

“So, about your wife,” she asked after a lull in their conversa-

tion.

“My wife?” Scott shrank back.

“Humor me,” she said.

“Nothing against her, it just didn’t work out.”

“What happened?” Sonja pursued.

“She was an artist, a sculptor. And if I say so myself, an awful

one. A three year old could do as well with stale Play-Dough.”

“You’re a critic, too?” Sonja bemused.

“Only of her art. She got into the social scene in New