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

>“It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents.

He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel,

oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So

sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you’ve

been through . . .”

“Mike, I have to go,” Pierre whispered. The tears were welling

up in his eyes.

“Wait, Pierre,” Mike said gingerly. “Of course we’re gonna put

off the offering until . . .”

“No. Don’t.” Pierre said emphatically.

“Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to

go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street

will be kind on this . . .”

“I’ll call you later. No changes. None.” Pierre hung up. He

hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions.

He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how

to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories,

stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course.

But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You

can’t do this to me.

His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang.

He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The

caller persisted.

“Yes,” he breathed into the phone.

“Mr. Troubleaux,” it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.

“What?”

“I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our

sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help

you in this time of personal grief.” Classic Japanese manners

oozed over the phone wire.

“Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have

been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self

gratification.” Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped

Royal British snobbery at their best.

“A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux,” Homosoto said dryly.

“I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot

help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don’t you

agree Mr. Troubleaux?” The condescension dripped from Homosoto’s

words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light

had been extinguished.

“Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as

scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?” The French

can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.

“That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business

about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation.”

“Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I

won’t do it.”

“That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your

decision.” There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled

threat.

“Why should I?”

“Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it

would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you

murdered your partner for profit.”

“Murdered? What in hell’s name are you talking about?” Crystal

clear visions scorched across Pierre’s mind; white hot fire

spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur-

dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.

“What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence,

enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you

murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your-

self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself

clear?”

“You bastard. Bastard,” Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only

does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like

the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now.

There’s no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not

ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?

“Fuck you all the way to Hell!” Pierre screamed at the phone in

abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the

impact resistant plastic cracked.

At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully

opened the door his door. “Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry.

What can I do?” She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a

great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her

drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked

with emotional distress.

“Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the

arrangements . . .?” The helpless look on his face brought out

the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.

“Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?”

“No, yes, whatever . . .that’s all right, just keep me

advised . . .”

“Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is

waiting. Should I get rid of him?”

“Who is it? Something I really care about right now?”

“I don’t know. He’s from personnel.”

“Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?”

“That’s all I know. Don’t worry I’ll have him come back next

week . . .” she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of

an unnecessary burden that could wait.

“Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it’ll get my mind off of this.”

“If you’re sure . . .” Scott nodded at her affirmatively. “Sure,

Pierre, I’ll send him in.”

An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about

30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was

applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He

looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than

a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he

grasped Pierre’s hand.

“Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why

don’t we sit for moment.” Their hands released as they sat

opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr.

Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. “I am a

software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD’s from

Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents

either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy-

rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages

fluently . . .”

Pierre interrupted, “I am impressed with your credentials, and

your clothes. What may I do for you.”

“Oh dear, I guess you don’t know. I am Max Jones’ replacement.

Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?”

The financial section of the New York City Times included two

pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents,

and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper-

cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci-

dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have

earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.

The article espoused the “such a shame for the company” tone on

the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true

loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max,

though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the

Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that

the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.

Wednesday, September 1 New York City

Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He

was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary

and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not

his strong point.

“I don’t do mornings,” Scott made clear to anyone who thought he

should function socially before noon. If they didn’t take the

hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his

aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.

Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It

must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged

America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but

proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been

going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.

Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO

of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott’s credentials as a re-

porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary

easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.

“Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like

to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger.” Scott

sounded officious.

“Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?” Robert Henson sounded

accommodating.

“We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most

useful and I am sure