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

the concrete

walk below.

The wounded and armed orderly refused to speak. At all. Noth-

ing. He made his one call and remained silent thereafter.

The dGraph management was acutely concerned that there might be

another attempt on Pierre’s life, so the secrecy surrounding his

faked death would be maintained until he was strong enough to

deal with the situation on his own. The investigation into both

the shooting and the meant-to-convince bombing was handled by the

District Police, and officially the FBI had nothing to do with

it.

Dr. Kelly continued, trying to speak in non-Medical terms.

“Basically, we don’t know enough to accurately predict the ef-

fects of trauma to the brain. We can generally say that motor

skills, or memory might be affected, but to what extent is un-

known. Then there are head injuries that we can’t fully explain,

and Pierre’s is one of them.”

Scott and Ty looked curiously at Dr. Kelly. “Pierre had a severe

trauma to the cranium, and some of the outer layers of brain

tissue were damaged when the skull was perforated.” Scott shud-

dered at the distinct memory of the gore. “Since he was in a

coma, we elected to do minimal repair work until he gained con-

sciousness and he could give us first hand reports on his memory

and other possible effects. That’s how we do it in the brain

business.”

“So, how is he?” Scott wanted a bottom line.

“He came out of a coma yesterday, and thus far, we can’t find any

problems that stem from the head injury.”

“That’s amazing,” said Scott. “I saw the . . .”

“It is amazing,” agreed Dr. Kelly, “but not all that rare.

There are many references in the literature where severe brain

damage was sustained without corresponding symptoms. I once saw

a half inch re-bar go through this poor guy’s forehead. He was

still awake! We operated, removed the bar, and when he woke up

he was hungry. He had a slight a headache. It was like nothing

ever happened. So, who knows? Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

“Can we see him?” Scott asked the Irish doctor assigned to

repair Pierre Troubleaux.

“He’s awake, but we have been keeping him sedated, more to let

the chest wound heal than his head,” Dr. Kelly replied.

Pierre was recuperating in a virtual prison, a private room deep

within the bowels of the Medical Center. There were 2 guards

outside the room and another that sat near the hospital bed.

Absolute identification was required every time someone entered

the room and it took two phone calls to verify the identities of

Scott and Tyrone despite the verbal affidavit from Kelly. The

groggy Pierre was awake when the three approached the bed. Dr.

Kelly introduced them and Pierre immediately tried to move to

thank Scott for saving his life.

Dr. Kelly laid down the rules; even though Pierre was in remarka-

bly good shape, still, no bouncing on the bed and don’t drink the

IV fluid. Pierre spoke quietly, but found at least a half dozen

ways to thank Scott for his ad hoc heroics. He also retained

much of his famed humor.

“I want to thank you,” Pierre said in jest, “for putting the

value of my life in proper perspective.”

Scott’s cheeks pushed up his glasses from the deep smile that

Pierre’s words caused. He hadn’t realized that Pierre had been

conscious. Tyrone looked confused.

“I begged him not to die,” laughed Scott, “because it wouldn’t

look good on my resume.”

“And I have had the common courtesy to honor your request.”

After suffering enough embarrassment by compliments, Scott asked

Pierre for a favor, to which he readily agreed. No long term

karmic debt here, thought Scott.

“I need to understand something,” said Scott. Pierre nodded,

what?

“You told me, in the midst of battle, that dGraph was sick. I

took that to mean that it contained a virus of some kind, but,

well, I guess that’s the question. What did you mean?”

“You’re right. Yes,” Pierre said softly but firmly. “That’s what

I was going to say at the hearings. I was going to confess.”

“Confess?” Tyrone asked. “To what?”

“To the viruses. About why I did it, or, really, why I let it

happen.”

“So you did infect your own software. Why?” Scott demanded.

Pierre shook his head back and forth. “No, I didn’t do it. I

had no control.”

“Then who did?”

“Homosoto and his people.”

“Homosoto? Chairman of OSO?” Scott shrieked. “You’re out of

your mind, no offense.”

“I wish I were. Homosoto took over my company and killed Max.”

* The New Senate Office Building Washington, D.C.

“The Senator will see you now,” said one of Senator Deere’s

aides. Scott and Tyrone entered her office which was decorated

more in line with a woman’s taste than the heavy furniture men

prefer. She stood to greet them.

“Gentlemen,” Nancy Deere said shaking their hands. “I know that

you’re with the New York City Times, Mr. Mason. I took the

liberty of reading some of your work. Interesting, controver-

sial. I like it.” She offered them chairs at an informal seat-

ing area on one end of the large office.

“And you are?” she said to Ty. He told her. “I take it this is

official?”

“At this point ma’am, we just need to talk, and get your reac-

tions,” Ty said.

“He’s having labor management troubles.” Scott thought that was

the perfect diplomatic description.

“I see,” Nancy said. “So right now this meeting isn’t

happening.”

“Kind of like that,” Ty said.

“And him?” She said cocking her head at Scott.

“It’s his story, I’m just his faithful sidekick with a few of the

pieces.”

“Well then,” Nancy said amused with the situation. “Please, I am

all ears.” She and Tyrone looked at Scott, waiting.

How the hell was he going to tell a U.S. Senator that an organ-

ized group of anarchistic hackers and fanatic Moslem Arabs were

working with a respected Japanese industrialist and building

computer viruses. He couldn’t figure out any eloquent way to

say it, so he just said it, straight, realizing that the summa-

tion sounded one step beyond absurd. All things considered, Scott

thought, she took it very well.

“I assume you have more than a headline?” Senator Deere said

after a brief, polite pause.

Scott proceeded to describe everything that he had learned, the

hackers, Kirk, Spook, the CMR equipment, his articles being

pulled, the First State and Sidneys situation. He told her about

the anonymous documents he had thus far been unable to use.

Except for one which he would use today. Scott also said that

computer viruses would fully explain the banking crisis.

Tyrone outlined the blackmail cases he suspected were diversion-

ary tactics for another as yet unknown crime, and that despite

more than $40 millions in payoffs had been arranged, no one had

showed to collect.

“Ma’am,” Tyrone said to Senator Deere. “I fought to get into the

Bureau, and I made it through the good and the bad. And, I

always knew where I stood. Akin, I guess to the political winds

that change every four years.” She nodded. “But now, there’s

something wrong.” Nancy tilted her head waiting for Ty to con-

tinue.

He spoke carefully and slowly. “I have never been the paranoid

type; I’m not conspiracy minded. But I do find it strange that I

get so much invisible pressure to lay off a case that appears to

be both global in its reach and dangerous in its effects. It’s

almost like I’m not supposed to find out what’s happening. I get

no cooperation from my upstairs, CI, the CIA. NSA has been

predictably obnoxious when I started asking questions.”

“So why come to me?” Nancy asked. “You’re the police.”

“Are you aware that Pierre Troubleaux is alive?” Scott asked

Nancy, accidentally cutting off Tyrone.

“Alive? How’s that possible?” She too, had heard the news.

They told her they had spoken to Pierre and that his death had

been a ruse to protect him. The reports on Pierre’s prognosis

brightened Nancy attitude.

“But, it’s not all good news. It appears, that every single copy

of dGraph, that’s a . . .”

“I know dGraph,” she said quickly. “It’s part of the job.

Couldn’t live without it.”

“Well, ma’am, it’s infected with computer viruses. Hundreds of

them. According to Pierre, the head of OSO Industries, Taki

Homosoto, had Max Jones, co-founder of dGraph killed and has

effectively held Pierre hostage since.”

The impact of such an overwhelming accusation defied response.

Nancy Deere’s jaw fell limp. “That is the most unbelievable,

incredible . . .I don’t know what to say.”

“I have no reason not to believe what Pierre is saying. Not yet,”

said Tyrone.

“There are a few friends of mine