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

said. “Their idea of a little high is

catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican shit we

smoke? They’d give it to the dogs.”

“You sold me,” Scott said holding his hands up in surrender.

“Just a little high is fine by me. Two grams, please,” he said

to Chris pointing at the less potent bag. “Thanks for the warn-

ing,” he said to the American. “Where you from?” Scott asked.

“Oh, around. I guess you could call Washington my home.”

“D.C.?”

“Yeah,” the American nodded. “And you?” He leaned over the back

of his chair to face Scott.

“Big Apple. The ‘burbs.”

“What brings you here?”

“To Europe?” Scott asked.

“Amsterdam. Sin City. Diamonds?”

“No, I wish,” Scott laughed. “News. A story brought me here for

a couple of days.”

Chris finished weighing Scott’s purchase on a sensitive digital

scale that measured the goods down to the nearest hundredth of a

gram. Scott handed Chris $10 in Guilders and pocketed the pot.

“Um, where can I get some papers?” Scott asked. Chris pointed

to a glass on the bar with a complete selection of assorted

paraphernalia.

“Hey, why don’t you join me,” the American asked. “I’ve been to

Amsterdam before.”

“Is it all right to smoke in here?” Scott asked looking around.

“Sure, that’s what coffee shops are. The only other thing you

can buy in here is sodas. No booze.” The American spoke confi-

dently as he lit up a joint and passed it to Scott.

“Thanks,” Scott coughed as he handed it back. “Oh, I don’t think

I caught your name.

“Oh, just call me Spook.”

THE Spook? thought Scott. What incredible synchronicity.

Scott’s body instantly tensed up and he felt the adrenaline rush

with an associated rise in pulse rate. Was this really the leg-

endary Spook?

Is it possible that he fell into a chance meeting with the hacker

that Kirk and his friends refer to as the king of hackers?

Spook? Gotta stay cool. Could he be that lucky? Was there more

than one spook? Scott momentarily daydreamed, remembering how

fifteen years before, in Athens, Greece he had opened a taxi door

right into the face a lady who turned out to be an ex-high-school

girl friend. It is a small world, Scott thought tritely.

“Spook? Are you a spy?” Scott comically asked, careful to dis-

guise his real interest.

“If I answer that I’ll have to kill you,” the Spook laughed out

loud in the quiet establishment. “Spy? Hardly. It’s just a

handle.” Spook said guardedly. “What’s yours?”

“Mine? Oh, my handle. They call me Repo Man, but it’s really

Scott Mason. Glad to meet you. Spook,” he added handing back the

intoxicating cigarette.

BINGO! Scott Mason in hand without even a search. Landing right

in his lap. Keep your cool. Dead pan poker face. What unbe-

lievable luck. Don’t blow it, let’s play this for all that it’s

worth. Your life just got very simple. Give both Homosoto and

Mason exactly what they want with no output of energy.

“You said you’re a reporter,” Spook said inhaling deeply again.

“What’s the story?” At least he gets high, Spook thought. Mason

could have been a real dip-shit nerd. Thank God for small fa-

vors.

“There’s a hacker conference that I was invited to,” Scott said

unabashedly. “I’m trying to show the hacker’s side of the story.

Why they do what they do. How they legitimize it to themselves.”

Scott’s mouth was rapidly drying out so he ordered a Pepsi. “I

assume you’re a hacker, too,” Scott broached the issue carefully.

Spook smiled widely. “Yup. And proud of it.”

“You don’t care who knows?” Scott asked looking around to see if

anyone was paying attention to their conversation. Instead the

other patrons were engrossed in chess or huddled conversation.

Only Chris, the proprietor listened from behind the bar.

“The Spook is all anyone knows. I like to keep it that way,”

Spook said as he laid the roach end of the joint in the ashtray.

“Not bad, huh?” He asked Scott.

“Christ, no. Kinda hits you between the eyes.” Scott rubbed them

to clear off the invading fog.

“After a couple of days it won’t get you so bad,” Spook said.

“You said you wanted to do a fair story on hackers, right?”

“Fair? A fair story? I can only try. If hackers act and talk

like assholes then they’ll come across like assholes, no matter

what I do. However, if they make a decent case, hold a rational,

albeit arguable position, then maybe someone may listen.”

“You sound like you don’t approve of our activities.” The Spook

grinned devilishly.

“Honestly, and I shouldn’t say this cause this is your grass,”

Scott said lighting the joint again. “No, I don’t approve, but I

figure there’s at least 10 sides to a story, and I’m here to find

that story and present all sides. Hopefully I can even line up a

debate or two. Convincing me is not the point; my readers make

up their own minds.”

The word ‘readers’ momentarily jolted the Spook until he realized

Scott meant newspaper readers, not his team of Van-Ecking eaves-

droppers. Spook took the joint from Scott. “You sound like you

don’t want to approve.”

“Having a hard time with all the crap going down with computers

these days,” Scott agreed. “I guess my attitude comes through in

my articles.”

“I’ve never read your stuff,” Spook lied.

“Mainly in New York.”

“That explains it. Ever been to Amsterdam?”

“No, I was going to get a map and truck around . . .”

“How about I show you around, and try to convince you about the

honor of our profession?” Spook asked.

“Great!” Scott agreed. “But what about . . .” He made a motion

to his lips as if he was holding a cigarette.

“Legal on the streets.”

“You sure?”

“C’mon,” Spook said rising from his chair. “Chris, see you

later,” he promised. Chris reciprocated and invited his two new

friends to return any time.

Scott followed Spook up the alley named Bakkerstraat and into the

Rembrandt Plein, a huge open square with cafes and street people

and hotels. “At night,” Spook said, “Rembrandt and another 4 or

5 pleins are the social hub of activity for the younger genera-

tion. Wished I had had this when I was a kid. How are your

legs?” The Spook amorously ogled the throngs of young women

twenty years his junior.

“Fine, why?”

“I’m going to show you Amsterdam.”

Scott and the Spook began walking. The Spook knew his way around

and described much of the history and heritage of the city, the

country and its culture. This kind of educated hacker was not

what Scott had expected. He had thought that today’s hackers

were nerds, the propeller heads of his day, but he was discover-

ing through the Spook, that he may have been wrong. Scott remem-

bered Clifford Stoll’s Hanover Hacker was a well positioned and

seemingly upstanding individual who was selling stolen computer

information to the KGB. How many nerds would have the gumption

to play in that league?

They walked to the outer edge of Old Amsterdam, on the Singel-

gracht at the Leidseplein. Without a map or the Spook, Scott

would have been totally lost. The streets and canals were all so

similar that, as the old phrase goes, you can’t tell the players

without a scorecard. Scott followed the Spook onto an electric

street car. It headed down the Leidsestraat, one of the few

heavily commercial streets and across the Amstel again.

The street car proceeded up the Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal, a wide

boulevard with masses of activities on both sides. This was

tourist madness, thought Scott.

“This is freedom,” said the Spook.

“Freedom?” The word instantly conjured his memory of the Freedom

League, the BBS he suspected was up to no-good. The Spook and

Freedom?

“At the end of this street is the Train Station. Thousands of

people come through this plaza every day to experience Amsterdam.

Get whatever it is out of their system. The drugs, the women,

the anarchy of a country that relies upon the integrity of its

population to work. Can’t you feel it?” The Spook positively

glowed as he basked in the aura of the city.

Scott had indeed felt it during their several hours together. An

intense sense of independence that came from a generation of

democratic socialism. Government regulated drugs, a welfare

system that permitted the idle to live nearly as well as the

working. Class structures blurred by taxes so extraordinarily

high that most everyone lived in similarly comfortable condi-

tions. Poverty is almost non-existent.

Yet, as the Spook explained to Scott, “This is not the world for

an entrepreneur. That distinction still belongs to the ol’ Red,

White and Blue. It’s almost impossible to make any real money

here.”

The sun was setting behind the western part of the city, over the

church steeples and endless rows of townhouses.

“Hungry yet?” Spook grinned at Scott.

“Hungry? I got a case of the munchies that won’t quit. Let’s

eat.” Scott’s taste buds were entering panic mode.

“Good,” the Spook said as he lit up another joint on the street

car.