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

could hear it now, the ‘you’ll be helping your country,‘

speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the

least.

So he proposed to Musgrave instead. “I want an exclusive inter-

view with the President when this thing is over.”

“Done!” said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated

himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true

Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet.

But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a

dramatized account.

“And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . .”

Scott added another minor demand.

“Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk,”

joked Musgrave. “Scott, this is for internal use only. Every

hour will help.”

Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone

would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old

PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail

into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a

White House souvenir pen.

“It went fine,” Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure

office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs

up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.

“Didn’t matter,” Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy

like an apple. A juicy one.

“What do you mean, it didn’t matter?”

“We’re listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines

anyway,” Marvin said with neutrality.

“I don’t know if I want to know about this . . .”

“It was just a back up plan,” Jacobs said with a little laugh.

He wanted to defuse Kennedy’s panic button. For a National

Security Advisor, Kennedy didn’t know very much about how intel-

ligence is gathered. “Just in case.”

“Well, we don’t need it anymore,” Kennedy said. “Mason is coop-

erating fully.”

“I like to have alternatives. I expect you’ll be telling the

President about this.”

“Not a chance. Not a chance.” Kennedy sounded spooked.

Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin.

“I’ll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let’s keep

him honest.”

* Friday, January 22 Reston, Virginia

“No, mom, I’m not going to become a spy,” Scott calmly said into

the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. “No, I can’t tell you

what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you.” Scott

mouthed the words, ‘she’s in heaven’ to Sonja who enjoyed seeing

the pleasure the woman received from her son’s travels. “Yes,

I’ll be home in a couple of days,” he paused as his mother

interrupted again. “Yes, I’ll be happy to reprogram your VCR.

I’m sorry it doesn’t work . . .” He sat back to listen for a few

seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror.

Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed

to make herself beautiful despite Scott’s claims that she was

always beautiful. “Yes, mom, I’m paying attention. No ma’am, I

won’t. Yes, ma’am, I’ll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you.” He

struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept

talking. “Don’t worry, mom. You’ll meet her soon.” Finally he

was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner

guests. Miles Foster.

Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far

as the world was concerned, they were two different people with

different goals, different motivations and different lives. The

unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles

Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles

or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of

Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like

Miles?

In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet

him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles

was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her

professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that

Sonja was between jobs.

She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but

that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott,

on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however,

and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage-

ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.

The doorbell of Sonja’s lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston

rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered

for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath,

ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.

“Scott,” Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck.

“Welcome back. It’s good to see you.” The three of them,

Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. “Maybe

Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us

tonight,” she said teasing Miles.

Miles ignored Perky’s shot at him and brushed it aside without

comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable

excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott

to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers

which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.

Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman’s windbreaker

and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen

either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha-

nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the

boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass

doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.

“I won’t ask,” Scott said as soon as Stephanie’s feet disappeared

from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.

“Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn’t need to hear

too much about Amsterdam,” Miles said with a mildly sinister

touch.

“We used to call it the rules of the road,” Scott remembered.

“I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I

swear the crack of dawn is in trouble.”

Scott’s mind played with the varied imagery of Miles’ creative

phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac-

ter was the same.

“You know,” Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in

hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. “I really don’t understand

you.”

“What’s to understand?” Miles’ gaze remained constant over the

moonlit water.

“I see that you weren’t overly detained the other evening.”

“No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me

confused with someone else.” Miles played dead pan.

“You know what I’m talking about,” urged Scott. “The Spook and

all that . . .”

“Fuck you!” Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed

the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin-

ger in Scott’s face. “You’re getting what you want, so back the

fuck off. Got it?”

Scott’s blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in

panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real

Spook? Had he blown it?

Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and

Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind.

Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an

obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with

no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles

was magically transformed into Miles the lover.

He had had no chance to respond to Miles’ outburst, so Scott was

caught with his jaw hung open.

“You boys finish shop yet?” Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles’

ear.

“We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the

annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann’s early years,” Miles

said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking

dimple filled smile. “We disagree on the exact date of his

second bris.”

Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon.

Gullibility was one of Stephanie’s long suits, so Sonja helped

out. “That’s right up there with the bathing habits of the

Jamaican bobsled team.”

“C’mon,” Stephanie said tugging at Miles. “It’s chilly out

here.”

Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren’t

looking. Whatever you want. It’s your game. Miles mouthed back

at Scott, ‘you’re fucking right it is.’

The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything.

Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk

that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined

elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar-

tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends.

Chapter 28 Sunday, January 24 New York City Times HARDWARE VIRUSES: A NEW TWIST By