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

pleaded. “It’s not worth the paperwork.”

Scott choked through his laughter. “I’m watching a Honeymooner

rerun. This better be good.”

“We need to talk.”

Thursday, October 15 Washington, D.C.

The stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold front

that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed change

from the brutal Indian Summer. His condo commanded a vista of

lights that reflected the power to manipulate the world. Miles

reveled in it. He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor balcony

after a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed. For every

action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sex in a water-

bed meant the expenditure of the least energy for the maximum

pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.

Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a

periodically regular basis. She was a little more than one of

Miles’ sexual release valves. She was a semi-sorta-kinda girl

friend, but wouldn’t have been if Miles had known that she re-

ported their liaisons back to her boss. Alex was not interested

in how she got her information. He only wanted to know if there

were any digressions in Miles mission.

They sipped Grande Fine from oversized brandy glasses. The

afterglow was magnificent and they saw no reason to detract from

it with meaningless conversation. Her robe barely covered her

firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her

legs. She wasn’t ashamed of her nakedness, job or no job. She

enjoyed her time with Miles. He asked for nothing from her but

the obvious. Unlike the others who often asked her for solici-

tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further

their own particular lobby. Miles was honest, at least. He even

let her spend the night upon occasion.

At 2 A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in the Potomac,

Miles’ phone warbled. He ignored the first 5 rings to Perky’s

annoyance.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Her unspoken thoughts said, do

whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top.

“Expecting a call?” Miles asked. His eyes were closed, convey-

ing his internal peace. The phone rang again.

“Miles, at least get a machine.” The phone rang a seventh time.

“Fuck.” He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him

as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through

the open glass doors. He put down his glass and answered on the

8th ring.

“It’s late,” he answered. His ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude

was evident.

“Mr. Foster, I am most displeased.” It was Homosoto. Miles

curled his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from her balcony

vantage.

Miles breathed heavily into the phone. “What’s wrong now?” Miles

was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.

“Our plans were explicit. Why have you deviated?” Homosoto was

controlled but forthright.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Miles sipped loudly from

the brandy glass.

“I have read about the virus, the computer virus. The whole

world in talking about it. Mr. Foster, you are early. I thought

we had an understanding.”

“Hey!” Foster yelled into the phone. “I don’t know where you get

off calling me at 2 in the morning, but you’ve got your head up

your ass.”

“Excuse me Mr. Foster, I do not and could not execute such a

motion. However, do not forget we did have an agreement.”

Homosoto was insistent.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Miles was adamant.

“Since you insist on these games, Mr. Foster. I have read with

great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus. I believe

you have made a great error in judgment.”

Miles had just had about enough of this. “If you’ve got something

to say, say it.” he snorted into the phone.

“Mr. Foster. Did we not agree that the first major strike was

not to occur until next year?”

“Yeah,” Miles said offhandedly. He saw Perky open her eyes and

look at him quizzically. He made a fist with his right hand and

made an obscene motion near his crotch.

“Then, what is this premature event?” Homosoto persisted.

“Not mine.” Miles looked out the balcony. Perky was invitingly

licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.

“Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi-

ble.”

“Tough shit.”

“Excuse me?” Homosoto was taken aback.

“Simple. You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only

person who has chosen to build viruses or destructive computer

programs. We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to its

logical conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry. This

one’s not mine nor yours. It’s someone elses.”

The phone was silent for a few seconds. “You are saying there

are others?” The childlike naivete was coming through over

12,000 miles of phone wire.

“Of course there are. This will probably help us.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are a hundreds of viruses, but none as effective as the

ones which we use. A lot of amateurs use them to build their

egos. Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all

have names. They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement.

So, we will be seeing more and more viruses appear that have

nothing to do with our efforts. I do hope you will not call

every time you hear of one. You know our dates. ”

“Is there no chance for error?”

“Oh yes! There is, but it will be very isolated if it occurs.

Most viruses do not receive as much attention as this one, and

probably won’t until we are ready. And, as I recall we are not

ready.” Miles was tired of the timing for the hand holding

session. Ms. Perkins was beckoning.

“I hope you are right. My plans must not be interfered with.”

“Our plans,” Miles corrected. “my ass is on the line, too. I

don’t need you freaking every time the press reports a computer

going on the fritz. It’s gonna happen a lot.”

“What will happen, Mr. Foster?” Homosoto was able to convey

disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.

“We’ve been through this before.”

“Then go through it again,” Homosoto ordered.

Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where

he was sure he could speak in privacy. “Listen here Homo,”

Miles scowled. “In the last couple of years viruses have been

become techno-yuppie amusements. The game has intensified as the

stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I’m sure you’re

not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost

every local area network in the country is infected with a virus

of one type or another. Did you know that?”

“No, Mr. Foster, I didn’t. How do you know that?” Homosoto

sounded unconvinced.

“It’s my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?”

“Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for

me.” Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles

found unsettling.

“For now, I do.”

“You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr.

Foster? You have much to lose.”

Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim-

ples. He wanted to convey boredom. “I a job. You an empire.”

“Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster.”

Homosoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles.

He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled

mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder

things to concern him.

October 31, 1989 Falls Church, Virginia.

“What do you mean gone?”

“Gone. Gone. It’s just gone.” Fred Porter sounded panicked.

Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank

did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer

Department in New York. “Would you be kind enough to explain?”

he said with disdain.

“Yessir, of course.” Porter took a deep breath. “We were running

a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they

balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every-

thing. When we ran them last night, they didn’t add up. We’re

missing a quarter billion dollars.”

“A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation,

son.”

“I wish I did,” Porter sighed.

“All right, let’s go through it top to bottom.” Ferguson knew

that it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really miss-

ing.

“It’s just as I told you.”

“Then tell me again!” Ferguson bellowed.

“Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know.”

“Of course I know.”

“During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account

and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it

belongs. We do that because . . .”

“I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold

for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we