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

structure well

guarded mazes held the clues to the locations of an incredible

array of computing power, some of the world’s best analytical

tools, test equipment, forensic labs, communications facilities

and a staff of experts in hundreds of technical specialties

required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.

The most sensitive work was performed underground, protected by

the solid bedrock of Manhattan island. Eavesdropping was impos-

sible, almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed. Personal

privacy was another matter, though. Most of the office staff

worked out in an open office floorplan. The walls between the

guard stations and banks of elevators consisted solely of bullet-

proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass. Unnerving at first, no

privacy.

There was a self-imposed class structure between the “bugs”,

those who worked in the subterranean chambers and the “air-heads”

who worked where the daylight shone. There was near total sepa-

ration between the two groups out of necessity; maintain isola-

tion between those with differing need-to-know criteria. The

most visible form of self-imposed isolation, and unintended

competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at different

bars. A line that was rarely crossed.

Unlike the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where the higher

floors are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the power

brokers, at the FBI the farther down into the ground you worked,

the more important you were. To the “airheads”, “bugs” tried to

see how low they could sink in their acquisition of power while

rising up on the Government pay scale.

On level 5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat on the

edge of his large Government issue executive desk to answer his

ringing phone. It was Washington, Bob Burnsen, his Washington

based superior and family friend for years.

“No, really. Thanks,” Ty smiled. “Bob, we’ve been through this

before. It’s all very flattering, but no. I’m afraid not. And

you know why. We’ve been through this all . . .” He was being

cut off by his boss, so he shut up and listened.

“Bob . . .Bob . . .Bob,” Tyrone was laughing as he tried to

interrupt the other end of the conversation. “OK, I’ll give it

some more thought, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s just not in

my cards.” He listened again.

“Bob, I’ll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same way I

do. We’re both quite content and frankly, I don’t need the

headaches.” He looked around the room as he cocked the earpiece

away from his head. He was hearing the same argument again.

“Bob, I said I would. I’ll call you next week.” He paused.

“Right. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll call me. I understand.

Right. OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye.”

He hung up the phone in disbelief. They just won’t leave me

alone. Let me be! He clasped his hands in mock prayer at the

ceiling.

*

Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after graduat-

ing cum laude from Harvard Law. Statistically the odds were

against him ever being accepted into the elite National Police

Force. The virtually autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover had

created over 60 years and 12 presidents ago was very selective

about whom it admitted. Tyrone Duncan was black.

His distinguished pre-law training had him prepared to follow

into his father’s footsteps, as a partner with one of Boston’s

most prestigious law firms. Tyrone was a member of one of the

very few rich and influential black families in the North East.

His family was labeled “Liberal” when one wasn’t ashamed of the

moniker.

Then came Selma. At 19, he participated in several of the

marches in the South and it was then that he first hand saw

prejudice. But it was more than prejudice, though. It was hate,

it was ignorance and fear. It was so much more than prejudice.

It was one of the last vestiges left over from a society con-

quered over a century ago; one that wouldn’t let go of its mis-

guided myopic traditions.

Fear and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat and

humidity, decades of racial conflict, several ‘Jew Boy Nigger

Lovers’ were killed that summer in Alabama. The murder of the

civil rights workers made front page news. The country was out-

raged, at the murders most assuredly, but national outrage turned

quickly to divisional disgust when local residents dismissed the

crime as a prank, or even congratulated the perpetrators for

their actions.

The FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders, per se;

murder is not a federal crime. They were to solve the crime

because the murderers had violated the victims’ civil rights.

Tyrone thought that that approach was real slick, a nice legal

side step to get what you want. Put the lawyers on the case.

When he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local over-

worked, understaffed agents graciously accepted his offer and

Tyrone spent the remainder of the summer filing papers and per-

forming other mundane tasks while learning a great deal.

On the plane back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan decided that his

despite his father’s urging, after law school he would join the

FBI.

Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law School,

passed the Massachussettes Bar on the first try and sailed

through the written and physical tests for FBI admission. He was

over 100 pounds lighter than his current weight. His background

check was unassailable except for his family’s prominent liberal

bent. He had every basic qualification needed to become an FBI

Agent. He was turned down.

Thurman Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside himself,

blaming it on Hoover personally. But Tyrone decided to ‘investi-

gate’ and determine who or what was pulling the strings. He

called FBI personnel and asked why he had been rejected. They

mumbled something about ‘experience base’ and ‘fitting the mold’.

That was when he realized that he was turned down solely because

he was black. Tyrone was not about to let a racial issue stand

in his way.

He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked during

the last summer. After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them that

he was applying for a position as an assistant DA in Boston.

Would they mind writing a letter . . .

Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI Person-

nel Director. Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to Hoov-

er. The four letters of recommendation, which read more like

votes for sainthood were a little overdone, but, they were on FBI

stationary. Tyrone asked the Personnel Director if they would

reconsider his application, and that if necessary, he would

whitewash his skin.

The following day Tyrone received a call. Oh, it was a big mix-

up. We misfiled someone else’s charts in your files and, well,

you understand, I’m sure. It happens all the time. We’re sorry

for any inconvenience. Would you be available to come in on

Monday? Welcome to the FBI.

Tyrone paid his dues early. Got shot at some, chased long haired

left wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17 states

for some unfathomable reason, and then of course, he collected

dirt on imaginary enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia. He

tried, fairly successfully to stay away from that last kind of

work. In Tyrone’s not so humble opinion, there were a whole lot

more better things for FBI agents to be doing than worry about

George McGovern’s toilet habits or if some left wing high school

kids and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to the

Kremlin. Ah, but that was politics.

Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot-

ed to Section Chief in the New York City office. A prestigious

position. This was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau.

It was one that leaped over 4 intermediate levels. The Hoover

era was gone.

After hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone sat behind

his desk going over his morning reports. No planes hijacked, no

new counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping. What dogged him

though was the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims. He re-

read the digested version put out by Washington headquarters that

was faxed to him in the early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.

The apparent facts confounded his years of experience. Over 100

people, many of them highly placed leaders of American industry

had called their respective regional FBI offices for help. A call

into the FBI is handled in a procedural manner. The agent who

takes the call can identify the source of the call with a readout

on his special phone; a service that the FBI had had for years

but was only recently becoming available to the public. Thus, if

the caller had significant information, but refused to identify

himself, the agent