Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖

“First of all, the assailant used a ceramic pistol. No way for

our security to detect it without a physical search and that

wouldn’t go over well with anyone.” The brilliant Musgrave was

making a case for calm rationality in the light of the live

assassination attempt. “Second, at this point there is no con-

nection between Troubleaux and his attacker. We’re not even 100%

sure that Troubleaux was the target.”

“That’s a crock Phil,” asserted the President. “It doesn’t take

a genius to figure out that there is an obvious connection be-

tween this computer crap and the Rickfield incident. I want to

know what it is, and I want to know fast.”

“Sir,” Chambers said quietly. “We have the FBI and the CIA

investigating, but until the perpetrator regains consciousness,

which may be doubtful because his spine was snapped in the fall,

we won’t know too much.”

The President frowned. “Does it seem odd to you that Mason, the

Times reporter was there with Troubleaux at the exact time he got

shot?”

“No sir, just a coincidence. It seems that computer crime has

been his hot button for a while,” Musgrave said. “I don’t think

he’s involved at all.”

“I’m not suggesting that,” the President interrupted. “But he

does seem to be where the action is. I think it would be prudent

if we knew a bit more of his activities. Do I need to say more?”

“No sir. Consider it done.”

Chapter 22 Friday, January 8 Washington, D.C.

It seemed that everyone in the world wanted to speak to Scott at

once. The FBI spent an hour asking him inane questions. “Why did

you help him?” “Do you know Troubleaux?” “Why were you at the

hearings?” “Why didn’t you sit with the rest of the press?”

“Where’s your camera?” “Can we read your notes?”

Scott was cooperative, but he had his limits. “You’re the one

who’s been writing those computer stories, aren’t you?” “What’s

in this for you?”

Scott excused himself, not so politely. If you want me for any-

thing else, please contact the paper, he told the FBI agents who

had learned nothing from anyone else either.

He escaped from other reporters who wanted his reporter’s in-

sight, thus learning what it was like to be hounded relentlessly

by the press. Damned pain in the ass, he thought, and damn

stupid questions. “How did you feel . . .?” “Were you

scared . . .?” “Why did you . . .?”

The exhausted Scott found the only available solace in a third

floor men’s room stall where he wrote a piece for the paper on

his GRiD laptop computer. Nearly falling asleep on the toilet

seat, he temporarily refreshed himself with ice cold water from

the tap and changed from his bloodsoaked clothes into fresh jeans

and a pullover from his hanging bag that still burdoned him. One

reporter from the Washington Post thought himself lucky to have

found Scott in the men’s room, but when Scott finished bombasting

him with his own verbal assault, the shell shocked reporter left

well enough alone.

After the Capital police were through questioning Scott, he

wanted to make a swift exit to the airport and get home. They

didn’t detain him very long, realizing Scott would always be

available. Especially since this was news. His pocket shuttle

schedule showed there was a 6:30 flight to Westchester Airport;

he could then grab a limo home and be in bed by ten, that is if

the exhaustion didn’t take over somewhere along the way.

Three days in Europe on next to no sleep. Rush back to public

Senate hearings that no one has ever heard about. Television

cameras appear, no one admits to calling the press, and then,

Pierre. He needed time to think, alone. Away from the conflict-

ing influences that were tearing at him.

On one hand his paper expected him to report and investigate the

news. On another, Tyrone wanted help on his investigation be-

cause official Washington had turned their backs on him. And

Spook. Spook. Why is that so familiar? Then he had to be honest

with his own feelings. What about this story had so captivated

him that he had let many of his other assignments go by the

wayside?

Doug was pleased with Scott’s progress, and after today, well,

what editor wouldn’t be pleased to have a potential star writer

on the National news. But Scott was drowning in the story.

There were too many pieces, from every conceivable direction,

with none too many of them fitting neatly together. He thought

of the ever determined Hurcule Poirot, Agatha Christie’s detec-

tive, recalling that the answers to a puzzle came infinitely

easier to the fictional sleuth than to him.

Scott called into Doug.

“Are you all right?” Doug asked with concern but didn’t wait for

an answer. “I got your message. Next time call me at home. I

thought you were going to be in Europe till Wednesday.”

“Hold your horses,” Scott said with agitation. Doug shut up and

listened to the distraught Scott. “I have the story all written

for you. Both of them are going into surgery and the Arab is in

pretty bad shape. The committee made itself scarce real fast and

there’s no one else to talk to. I’ve had to make a career out of

avoiding reporters. Seems like I’m the only one left with noth-

ing to say.” Doug heard the exhaustion in Scott’s voice.

“Listen,” Doug said with a supportive tone. “You’ve been doing a

bang up job, but I’m sending Ben down there to cover the assassi-

nation attempt. I want you to go to bed for 24 hours and that’s

an order. I don’t want to hear from you till Monday.”

Scott gratefully acknowledged Doug’s edict, and might have sug-

gested it himself if it weren’t for his dedication to the story

he had spent months on already. “O.K.,” Scott agreed. “I guess

not much will happen . . .”

“That’s right. I want you fresh anyway,” Doug said with vigor.

“If anything major comes up, I’ll see that we call you. Fair

enough?”

Scott checked his watch as his cab got caught up in the slow late

afternoon rush hour traffic on the George Washington Parkway. If

he missed this flight, he thought, there was another one in an

hour. The pandemonium of Friday afternoon National Airport had

become legendary. Despite extensive new construction, express

services and modernized terminals, the airport designers in their

infinite wisdom had neglected in any way to improve the flow of

automobile traffic in and out of the airport.

As they approached, Scott could see the American terminal several

hundred yards away from his cab. They were stuck behind an

interminable line of other taxis, limousines, cars and mini-

busses that had been stacking for ten minutes. Scott decided to

hike the last few yards and he paid the driver who tried to talk

him into remaining till the ride was over. Scott weaved through

the standstill traffic jam until he saw the problem. So typical.

A stretch Mercedes 560, was blocking the only two lanes that were

passable. Worse yet, there was no one in the car. No driver, no

passengers. Several airport police were discussing their options

when a tall, slender black man, dressed in an impeccably tailored

brown suit came rushing from the terminal doors.

“Diplomatic immunity!” He called out with a thick, overbearing

Cambridge accent.

The startled policemen saw the man push several people to the

side, almost knocking one elderly woman to the ground. Scott

reached the Mercedes and stayed to watch the upcoming encounter

“I said, Diplomatic immunity,” he said authoritatively. “Put

your tickets away.”

“Sir, are you aware that your car has been blocking other cars

from . . .”

“Take it up with the Embassy,” the man said as he roughly opened

the driver’s door. “This car belongs to the Ambassador and he is

immune from your laws.” He shut the door, revved the engine and

pulled out squealing his tires. Several pedestrians had to be

fleet of foot to miss being sideswiped.

“Fucking camel jockeys,” said one younger policeman.

“He’s from equatorial Africa, Einstein,” said another.

“It’s all the same to me. Foreigners telling us how to live our

lives,” the third policeman said angrily.

“You know, I can get 10 days for spitting on the ground, but

these assholes can commit murder and be sent home a hero. It’s a

fucking crime,” the younger one agreed.

“O.K., guys, leave the politics to the thieves on Capital Hill.

Let’s get this traffic moving,” the senior policeman said as they

started the process of untangling airport gridlock.

Another day in the nation’s capital, Scott thought. A melting

pot that echoed the days of Ellis Island. Scott carried his

briefcase, laptop computer and garment bag through the crowded

terminal and made a left to the men’s room next to the new blue

neon bar. Drinks were poured especially fast in the National