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

enough here, not to go with

it yet. Maybe in a few days when you can get a little more to

tie it up. Not now. I’m sorry.”

Case closed.

Shit, shit shit, thought Scott. Back to square one.

Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close. At

five foot five with wisps of brown scattered over his balding

pate, he only lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the image.

His bargain basement suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather

than walked down the hallways at First State Savings and Loan

where he had been employed since graduating from SUNY with a

degree in accounting twenty four years ago.

His large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out of

place on the subways at New York rush hour. His loyalty to First

State was known throughout the financial departments; he was

almost a fixture. His accounting skills were extremely strong,

even remarkable if you will, but his personality and appearance,

and that preposterous cartoon voice, held him back from advancing

up the official corporate ladder.

Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.

He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind

of predicament before . . .he thought about the

lawyer . . .hiring one like he told that reporter . . .but could

he afford that . . .and he wasn’t sure what to do . . .was he in

trouble? Yes, he was . . .he knew that. That reporter . . .he

sounded like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he was

just asking questions . . .what was his name . . .?

“Ah, Mr. Mason?” Scott heard the timid man’s Road Runner voice

spoke gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his desk

from Higgins’ office. It was after 6P.M. and time to catch a

train back home to Westchester.

“This is Scott Mason.”

“Do you remember me?”

Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.

“We spoke earlier about First State, and I

just . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . . .apologize . . .for the

way I acted.”

Scott’s confirmation. Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman sounding

beancounter from First State. What did he want?

“Yes, of course, Mr. Sidneys. How can I help you?” He opened

his notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to

go home. But Sidneys . . .maybe . . .

“It’s just that, well, I’m nervous about this . . .”

“No need to apologize, Hugh.” Scott smiled into the phone to

convey sincerity. “I understand, it happens all the time. What

can I do for you tonight?”

“Well, I, ah, thought that we might, maybe you could, well I

don’t know about help, help, it’s so much and I didn’t really

know, no I shouldn’t have called . . .I’m sorry . . .” The pitch

of Sidneys’ voice rose as rambled on.

“Wait! Don’t hang up. Mr. Sidneys. Mr. Sidneys?”

“Yes,” the whisper came over the earpiece.

“Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?” The fear, the

sound of fear that every good reporter is attuned to came over

loud and clear. This man was terrified.

“Yes, I’m OK, so far.”

“Good. Now, tell me, what’s wrong. Slowly and calmly.” He

eased Sidneys off his panic perch.

Scott heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the nerve to

speak.

“Isn’t there some sorta rule,” he stuttered, “a law, that says if

I talk to you, you’re a reporter, and if I say that I don’t want

you to tell anybody, then you can’t?” Sidneys was scared, but

wanted to talk to someone. Maybe this was the time for Scott to

back off a little. He stretched out and put his feet up on his

desk, making him feel and sound more relaxed, less pressured.

According to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in his brain

and if wanted to convey calm on the phone, he merely had to

assume the position.

“That’s called off the record, Hugh. And it’s not a law.” Scott

was amused at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys showed. “It’s a

gentleman’s agreement, a code of ethics in journalism. You can

be off the record, on the record, or for background, not for

attribution, for confirmation, there’s a whole bunch of ‘em.”

Scott realized that Hugh knew nothing about the press so he

explained the options slowly. “Which one would you like?” Scott

wanted it to seem that Sidneys was in control and making the

rules.

“How about we just talk, and you tell me what I should

do . . .what you think . . .and . . .I don’t want anything in the

paper. You have one for that?” Hugh was feeling easier on the

phone with Scott.

“Sure do. We’ll just call it off the record for now. Everything

you tell me, I promise not to use it without your permission.

Will that do?” Scott smiled broadly. If you speak loudly with a

big smile on your face, people on the other end of the phone

think you’re honest and that you mean what you say. That’s how

game show hosts do it.

“OK.” Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. “Those papers you say

you have? Remember?”

“Sure do. Got them right here.” Scott patted them on his clut-

tered desk.

“Well, you can’t have them. Or you shouldn’t have them. I mean

it’s impossible.” Hugh was getting nervous again. His voice

nearly squeaked.

“Hugh, I do have them, and you all but confirmed that for me

yesterday. A weak confirmation, but I think you know more than

you let on . . .”

“Mr. Mason . . .”

“Please, call me Scott!”

“OK . . .Scott. What I’m trying to say is that what you say you

have, you can’t have cause it never existed.”

“What do you mean never existed?” Scott was confused, terribly

confused all of sudden. He raised his voice. “Listen, I have

reams of paper here that say someone at First State is a big

crook. Then you say, ‘sure it’s real’ and now you don’t. What’s

your game, Mister?” Playing good-cop bad-cop alone was diffi-

cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to reality.

“Obviously you have them, that’s not the point.” Sidneys reacted

submissively to Scott’s ersatz domineering personality. “The

only place that those figures ever existed was in my mind and in

my computer. I never made a printout. They were never put on

paper.” Hugh said resolutely.

Scott’s mind whirred. Something is wrong with this picture. He

has papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose sta-

bility is currently in question. The contents would have far

reaching effects on the S&L issue. A highly visible tip of the

iceberg. McMillan, involved in that kind of thing? Never, not

Mr. Clean. What was Sidneys getting at?

“Mr. Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a cup of

coffee somewhere. It might be easier if we sat face to face.

Get to know each other.”

Rosie’s Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson

River docks on Manhattan’s West Side. The silver interior and

exterior was not a cliche when this diner was built. Rosie, all

280 pounds of her, kept the UPS truckers coming back for over

thirty years. A lot of the staff at the paper ate here, too.

For the best tasting cholesterol in New York, saturated fats,

bacon and sausage grease flavored starches, Rosie’s was the

place. Once a month at Rosie’s would guarantee a reading of over

300.

Scott recognized Hugh from a distance. No one came in there

dressed. Had to be an accountant. Hugh hugged his briefcase

while nervously looking around the diner. Scott called the short

pale man over to the faded white formica and dull chrome booth.

Hugh ordered a glass of water, while Scott tried to make a light

dinner of it.

“So, Hugh, please continue with what you were telling me on the

phone.” Scott tried to sound empathetic.

“It’s like I said, I don’t know how you got them or they found

out. It’s impossible.” The voice was uncannily like Pebbles

Flintstone in person.

“Who found out? Does someone else know . . .?”

“OK,” Hugh sighed. “I work for First State, right? I work right

with McMillan although nobody except a few people know it. They

think I do market analysis and research. What I’m really doing

is helping shelter money in offshore investment accounts. There

are some tax benefits, I’m not a tax accountant so I don’t know

the reasons, but I manage the offshore investments.”

“Did you think that was illegal?”

“Only a little.