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

scared the living shit out of her . . .and I

have my doubts.”

“Relax,” Scott said calmly. “It’s just her way of keeping busy.

Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . .”

“And your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her husband

from the dead,” said Scott with exaperation. “I don’t care what

you say, that’s not normal. I like your mother, but, well,

Arlene has put her foot down.” Tyrone shuddered at the thought

of that evening. No one could explain how the wooden shutters

blew open or the table wobbled. Tyrone preferred, just as his

wife did, to pretend it never happened.

“Hey,” Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper. “I

see you’re making a name for yourself elsewhere, too.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asked.

“Don’t give me that innocent shit. I’m a trained professional,”

Tyrone joked. He held up the New York City Times turned to

Scott’s Christopher Columbus article. “Your computer crime pieces

have been raising a few eyebrows down at the office. Seems you

have better sources than we do. Our Computer Fraud division has

been going nuts recently.”

“Glad you can read.” Scott enjoyed the compliment. “Just a job,

but I gotta story much more interesting. I can’t publish it yet,

though.”

“Why?”

“Damn lawyers want us to have our facts straight. Can you be-

lieve it?” Scott teased Tyrone. “Besides, blackmail is so, so

personal.”

Tyrone stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee. “What blackmail?”

The frozen visage caught Scott off guard. They rarely spoke of

their respective jobs in any detail, preferring to remain at a

measured professional distance. The years of dedication invested

in their friendship, even after to everyones’ surprise, Maggie up

and left for California were not to be put in jeoprady unneces-

sarily. Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped

to be of concern.

“It’s a story, that, well, doesn’t have enough to go into print,

but, it’s there, I know it. Off the record, ok?” Scott wanted to

talk.

“Mums the word.”

“A few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on a

certain company. I can’t say which one.” He looked at Tyrone for

approval.

“Whatever,” Tyrone urged anxiously.

Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and what

Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of

the apparently purloined information. Tyrone listened in fasci-

nation as Scott outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which he

was privy.

Tyrone got a shiver up his spine. He tried to disguise it.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tyrone quietly asked.

“Sure. Go for it.”

“Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?”

Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.

“How did you know?” Scott asked suspiciously.

“And would another be First Federated or State National Bank?”

Tyrone tried to subdue his concern. All he needed was the press

on this.

Scott could not hide his surprise. “Yeah! And a bunch of others.

How’d you know?”

Tyrone retreated back into his professional FBI persona. “Lucky

guess.”

“Bullshit. What’s up?” Scott’s reporter mindset replaced that of

the lazy commuter.

“Nothing, just a coincidence.” Tyrone picked up a newspaper and

buried his face behind it.

“Hey, Ty. Talk ol’ buddy.”

“I can’t and you know it.” Tyrone sounded adamant.

“As a friend? I’ll buy you a lollipop?” Scott joked.

Ty snickered. “You know the rules, I can’t talk about a case in

progress.”

“So there is a case? What is it?” Scott probed.

“I didn’t say that there was a case,” Ty countered.

“Yes you did. Case in progress were your words, not mine. C’mon

what’s up?”

“Shit, you media types.” Tyrone gave himself a few seconds to

think. “I’ll never know why you became a reporter. You used to

be a much nicer pain in the ass before you became so nosy.”

Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty’s awkwardness.

Tyrone hated to compromise the sanctity of his position, but he

realized that he, too, needed some help. Since he hadn’t read

any of this in the papers, there had to be journalistic responsi-

bility from both Scott and the paper. “Off, off, off the record.

Clear?” He was serious.

“Done.”

The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of Manhat-

tan. They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but that

meant they couldn’t be heard either.

“As near as I can tell,” Tyrone hesitantly began. “There’s a

well coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress. As

of yesterday, we have received almost a hundred cases of alleged

blackmail. From Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami, Atlanta,

Chicago, LA, the works. Small towns to the metros. It’s an

epidemic and the local and state cops are absolutely buried.

They can’t handle it, and besides it’s way out of their league.

So who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right? There’s

no way we can handle this many cases at once. No way. Washing-

ton’s going berserk.”

“Who’s behind it?” Scott asked knowing he wouldn’t get a real

answer.

“That’s the rub. Don’t have a clue. Not a clue. There’s no

pattern, none at all. We assumed it was organized crime, but our

informants say they’re baffled. Not the mob, they swear. They

knew about it before we did. Figures.” Tyrone’s voice echoed a

professional frustration.

“Motives?”

“None. We’re stuck.”

“Sounds like we’re both on the same hunt.”

The train slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop at Grand

Central. Thousands of commuters lunged at the doors to make

their escape to the streets of New York above them. Scott won-

dered if any of them were part of Duncan’s problems.

“Scott?” Tyrone queried on the escalator.

“Yeah?”

“Not a word, ok?”

Scott held up his right hand with three fingers. “Scott’s

honor!” That was good enough for Tyrone.

They walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught both

of their eyes instantly. The National Expose had another sensa-

tionalistic headline:

FBI POWERLESS IN NATIONAL BLACKMAIL SCHEME

They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled

tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.

“Jesus,” Tyrone said more breathing than actually saying the

word. “They’re going to make a weekly event of printing every

innuendo.”

“They have the papers, too,” muttered Scott. “The whole blasted

lot. And they’re printing them.” Scott put down the paper.

“This makes it a brand new ball game . . .”

“Just what I need,” Tyrone said with disgust.

“That’s the answer,” exclaimed Scott. “The motive. Who’s been

affected so far?”

“That’s the mystery. No one seems to have been affected. What’s

the answer?” Tyrone demanded loud enough to attract attention.

“What’s the answer?” he whispered up close.

“It’s you.” Scott noted.

Tyrone expressed surprise. “What do you mean, me.”

“I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone

else. You said you’re overloaded, and that you can’t pay atten-

tion to other crimes.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.” Tyrone didn’t follow Scott’s

reasoning and cocked his head quizzically.

“What if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork the

FBI, so overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators

really have other crimes in mind. Maybe they have already hit

their real targets. Isn’t it possible that the FBI is an unwill-

ing dupe, a decoy in a much larger scheme that isn’t obvious

yet?” Scott liked the sound of his thinking and he saw that

Tyrone wasn’t buying his argument.

“It’s possible, I guess . . .but . . .” Tyrone didn’t have the

words to finish his foggy thoughts. It was too far left field

for his linear thinking. “No this is crazy as the time you

though that UFO’s were invading Westchester in ‘85. Then there

was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put cocaine in

the water supply . . .”

“That wasn’t my fault . . .”

” . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other 500 wild

ass conspiracies you come up with.”

Scott dismissed Tyrone’s friendly criticism by ignoring the

derisions. “As I see it,” Scott continued, “the only victim is

the FBI. None of the alleged victims have been harmed, other

than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe the FBI was the target

all along. Scott suggested, “it’s as good a theory as any

other.”

“With what goal?” Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.

“So when the real thing hits, you guys are too fucked up to

react.”

* The Federal Bureau of Investigation Federal Square, Manhattan.

The flat white and glass square building, designed in the ‘60’s,

built shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the

level of technical sophistication hidden behind the drab exteri-

or. The building had no personality, no character, nothing

memorable about it, and that was exactly the way the tenants

wanted it.

The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the congested

streets of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire