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

morning. He and 50 other Corporate CEO’s across the country

received their own unsolicited packages by courier. Each CEO

received a dossier on his own company. A very private dossier

containing information that technically didn’t, or wasn’t offi-

cially supposed to exist. Each one read their personalized file

cover to cover in absolute privacy. And shock set in.

Only a few of the CEO’s in the New York area had ever heard of

Scott Mason before, and little did they know that he had the

complete collection of dossiers in his possession at the New York

City Times. Regardless, boardrooms shook to their very core.

Wall Street trading was untypically low for a Monday, less than

50,000,000 shares. But CNN and other financial observers at-

tributed the anomaly to random factors unconnected to the secret

panic that was spreading through Corporate America.

By 6 P.M., CEO’s and key aides from 7 major corporations head-

quartered in the metropolitan New York area had agreed to meet.

Throughout the day, CEO’s routinely talk to other corporate

leaders as friends, acquaintances, for brain picking and G2,

market probing in the course of business. Today, though, the

scurry of inter-Ivory-Tower calls was beyond routine.

Through a complicated ritual dance of non-committal consent,

questions never asked and answers never given, with a good dose

of Zieglerisms, a few of the CEO’s communicated to each other

during the day that they were not happy with the morning mail. A

few agreed to talk together. Unofficially of course, just for a

couple of drinks with friends, and there’s nothing wrong, we

admit nothing, of course not.

These are the rules strictly obeyed for a non-encounter that

isn’t happening. So they didn’t meet in a very private room,

upstairs at the Executive Club, where sensitive meetings often

never took place. One’s presence in that room is as good as

being on in a black hole. You just weren’t there, no matter what.

Perfect.

The room that wasn’t there was heavily furnished and dark. The

mustiness lent to the feeling of intrigue and incredulity the 7

CEO’s felt. Massive brown leather couches and matching oversized

chairs surrounded by stout mahogany tables were dimly lit by the

assortment of low wattage lamp fixtures. There was a huge round

dining table large enough for all of Camelot, surrounded by

mammoth chairs in a large ante-room. The brocade curtains

covered long windows that stretched from the floor to ornate

corner moldings of the 16 foot ceilings.

One tired old black waiter with short cropped white hair appeared

and disappeared skillfully and invisibly. He was so accustomed

to working with such distinguished gentlemen, and knew how impor-

tant their conversations were, that he took great pride in re-

filling a drink without being noticed. With his little game, he

made sure that drinks for everyone were always full. They spoke

openly around Lambert. Lambert had worked the room since he was

16 during World War II and he saw no reason to trade occupations;

he was treated decently, and he doubled as a bookie for some

members which added to his income. There was mutual trust.

“I don’t know about you gentlemen,” said Porter Henry, the ener-

getic and feisty leader of Morse Technologies, defense subcon-

tractor. “I personally call this blackmail.” A few nods.

“I’m not about to admit to anything, but have you been threat-

ened?” demanded Ogden Roberts, Chairman of National First Inter-

state.

“No, I don’t believe any of us have, in so many words. And no,

none of us have done anything wrong. We are merely trying to

keep sensitive corporate strategies private. That’s all. But, I

do take the position that we are being intimidated. I think

Porter’s right. This is tantamount to blackmail. Or the precursor

at a minimum.”

They discussed, in the most circumlocutous manner, possibilities.

The why, how, and who’s. Who would know so much, about so many,

supposedly sacrosanct secrets. Therefore there must have been a

lot of whos, mustn’t there? They figured about 50 of their

kindred CEO’s had received similar packages, so that meant a lot

of whos were behind the current crisis in privacy. Or maybe just

one big who. OK, that’s narrowed down real far; either a lot of

whos, one big who, or somewhere in between.

Why? They all agreed that demands would be coming, so they

looked for synergy between their firms, any sort of connections

that spanned at first the seven of those present, to predict what

kinds of demands. But it is difficult to find hard business

connections between an insurance company, a bank, 2 defense

contractors, a conglomerate of every drug store product known to

man and a fast food company. The thread wasn’t there.

How? That was the hardest. They certainly hadn’t come up with

any answers on the other two questions, so this was asking the

impossible. CEO’s are notorious for not knowing how their compa-

nies work on a day to day basis. Thus, after 4 or 5 drinks,

spurious and arcane ideas were seriously considered. UFO’s were

responsible, I once saw one . . .my secretary, I never really

trusted her at all . . .the Feds! Must be the

IRS . . .(my/his/your) competitor is doing it to all of

us . . .the Moonies, maybe the Moonies . . .

“Why don’t we just go to the Feds?” asked Franklin Dobbs who did

not participate in the conjecturing stream of consciousness free

for all. Silence cut through the room instantly. Lambert looked

up from his corner to make sure they were all still alive.

“I’m serious. The FBI is perfect. We all operate interstate,

and internationally. Would you prefer the NYPD?” he said dero-

gatorally waiting any voices of dissent.

“C’mon Frank. What are we going to tell them?” Ogden Roberts

the banker asked belligerently. The liquor was having an effect.

“Certainly not the truth . . .” he cut himself short, realizing

that he came dangerously close to admitting some indefinable

wrong he had committed. “You know what I mean,” he quickly

added.

“We don’t go into all of the detail. An abbreviated form of the

truth, all true, but maybe not everything. I am sure we all

agree that we want to keep this, ah, situation, as quiet as

possible.” Rapid assent came from all around.

“All we need to say is that we have been contacted, in a threat-

ening manner. That no demands have been made yet, but we are

willing to cooperate with the authorities. That would give us

all a little time, to re-organize our priorities, if you see what

I mean?” Dobbs added. The seven CEO’s were thoughtful.

“Now this doesn’t mean that we all have to agree on this,”

Franklin Dobbs said. “But as for me, I have gone over this, in

limited detail, with my attorney, and he agrees with it on a

strategic level. If someone’s after you, and you can’t see ‘em,

get the guys with the White Hats on your side. Then do some

housekeeping. I am going to the FBI. Anybody care to join me?”

It was going to be a lonesome trip.

* September, 4 Years Ago Tokyo, Japan.

OSO Industries maintained its world headquarters in the OSO World

Bank Building which towered 71 stories over downtown Tokyo. From

the executive offices on the 66th floor, on a clear day, the view

reached as far as the Pacific. It was from these lofty reaches

that Taki Homosoto commanded his $30 Billion empire which spread

across 5 continents, 112 countries, and employed almost a quarter

million people.

OSO Industries had diversified since it humble beginnings as a

used tire junkstore.

The Korean conflict had been a windfall. Taki Homosoto started

a tire retreading business in 1946, during the occupation of

Japan. The Americans were so smart, he thought. Bring over all

of your men, tanks, jeeps and doctors not telling us the truth

about radiation, and you forget spare tires. Good move, Yankee.

Taki gouged the Military on pricing so badly, and the Americans

didn’t seem care, that the Pentagon didn’t think twice about

paying $700 for toilet seats decades later. Taki did give great

service – after all his profits were so staggeringly high he

could afford it. Keep the American’s happy, feed their ego, and

they’ll come back for more. No sense of pride. Suckers.

When the Americans moved in for Korea, Tokyo was both a command

post for the war effort and the first choice of R&R by service-

men. OSO Industries was in a perfect position to take advantage

of the US Government’s tire needs throughout the conflict. OSO

was already in place, doing a good job; Taki had bought some