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

thing up. Remember?” He approached Merrill Rickfield and

touched the Senator’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s a hoax? Just some

lucky guess by some scum bag who . . .”

“Bullshit.” The senator turned abruptly. “I want a tee off time

as soon as possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that

bastard Young is there. Alone. It’s a threesome.”

*

John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu-

sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los

Angeles. Even though it was Monday, he just wasn’t up to going

into the office. As Executive Vice President of California

National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could pick

and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose to read by the pool

and enjoy the warm and clear September California morning. The

view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his

normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly

two hours.

His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva-

cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a

social presence and his face, along with his wife’s, graced the

social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc-

curred. He craved his private time.

Faulkner’s standing instruction with his secretary was never to

call him at home unless “the bank is nuked, or I die” which

when translated meant, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” His wife

was the only other person with the private phone number he

changed every month to insure his solitude.

The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory.

He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls.

The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times

before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it, he thought. I just

got a new number last week. I’ll have to have it changed again.

“Hello?” he asked suspiciously.

“Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that

your secret is safe with me.” Faulkner itched to identify the

voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting

thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.

“Who is this? What secret?”

“Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring

to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover

your gambling losses last year. Don’t worry. I won’t tell a

soul.” The line went dead.

Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the

profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman.

Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. “Mr. Hugh Sidneys?

I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think

you have . . .”

Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day.

Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they

alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients

of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he

was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic

to him. But it didn’t take him long to realize that every call

was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in-

structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the

contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not

leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his

ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question.

If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by

secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes-

sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps

with a little prod, his call was put through.

At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster-

ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and

reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn’t been stuck in Athens

last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How

strange the world works, he thought. Damn lucky he became a Sir,

and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.

His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance

Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per-

mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the

eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume a

new identity. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal

existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff

upper lip. As a petty thief he had done ‘awright’, but one

score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is

when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.

He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled

Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected

his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was

that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth –

totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now

that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise

when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking

rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct

his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it

became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.

Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of

his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma

Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande

Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he

enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move,

as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed

gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.

“Sir George?” The visitor offered his hand.

George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no

reason whatsoever to know who he was.

“Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire,

Essex?” The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo-

politan. German? Dutch? It didn’t matter, Sir George had been

recognized.

George rose slightly. “Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was

lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course.

Please do be seated.”

The stranger said, “Sir George, would you be offended if I of-

fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your

valuable time?” The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across

from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.

“Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?” The man

nodded yes. “Garcon?” George waved two fingers at one of the

white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. “Metaxa,

parakalo!” Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness,

so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George

returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. “I don’t believe

I’ve had the pleasure . . .” he said in his most formal voice.

“Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well,

so unnecessary among men like us. Don’t you agree?”

George nodded assent. “Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I

assist you?”

“Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I

understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say,

extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?” The

Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma

notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.

George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was

it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn’t care. This stranger

had either keen insight into George’s current plight or had heard

of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on

Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical

scrutiny.

“Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or

can we do for each other?”

“An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each

other.” Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. “Simply

put Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken gentleman to

represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps more

if all goes well. Would that fit into your schedule?”

“I see no reason that I mightn’t be able to, take a sabbatical

from my sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put

this . . .”

” . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from

your valuable projects?”

“Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you

understand, it’s just that . . .”. Alex detected a slight

stutter as Sir George spoke.

Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. “No need

to continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize