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

had a reliable method to track down the call-

er. Very few people who called the FBI realized that a phone

inquiry to an FBI office triggered a sequence of automatic events

that was complete before the call was over.

The phone call was of course monitored and taped. And the phone

number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed to

the agent. Then the number was crosschecked against files from

the phone company. What was the exact location of the caller?

To whom was the phone registered? A calling and billing history

was made instantly available if required.

If the call originated from a phone registered to an individual,

his social security number was retrieved and within seconds of

the receipt of the call, the agent knew a plethora of information

about the caller. Criminal activities, bad credit records; the

type of data that would permit the agent to gauge the validity of

the call. For business phones, a cross check determined any and

all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a determina-

tion.

Thus, the profile that emerged from the vast number of callers

who intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation.

They all, to a call, originated from the office or home of major

corporate movers and shakers. Top American businessmen who,

while not beyond the reach of the law, were from the FBI’s view,

upstanding citizens. Not pristine, but certainly not mad men

with a record of making outlandish capricious claims. It was not

in their interest to bring attention to themselves.

What puzzled Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden influx of

such calls. Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified

cases of blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan out

into legitimate and solvable cases. Generally, veiled vague

threats do not materialize into prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan

sat back thoughtfully.

What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or

on April Fools Day? Do these guys all play golf together? Is it

a joke? Not likely, but a remote possibility. What enemies have

they made? Undoubtedly they haven’t befriended everyone with

whom they have had contact, but what’s the connection? Tyrone’s

mind reeled through a maze of unlikelihoods. Until, the only

common element he could think of stared at him right in the

face. There was a single dimension of commonality between all of

the callers. They had, to a company, to a man, all dealt with

the same organization for years. The U.S. Government.

The thought alone caused a spasm to his system. His body liter-

ally leapt from his chair for a split second as he caught his

breath. The government. No way. Is it possible? I must be

missing something, surely. This is crazy. Or is it? Doesn’t

the IRS have records on everyone? Then the ultimate paranoid

thought hit him square in the cerebellum. He playfully pounded

his forehead for missing the connection.

Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G-

9 bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that he could

sell to another overworked, underpaid civil servant; his boss.

The G-9 says, ‘I got a way to make sure the tax evaders pay their

share, and it won’t cost Uncle Sam a dime!’. His boss says, ‘I

got a congressional hearing today, I’m too busy. Do some re-

search and let me see a report.’

So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other government

computers and determines that the companies on his hit list

aren’t necessarily functioning on the up and up. What better way

to get them to pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the

big We, Big Brother know, and they’d better shape up.

He calls a few of them, after all he knows where the skeletons

and the phone numbers are buried, and says something like, ‘Big

Brother is listening and he doesn’t like what he hears.’ And he

says, ‘we’ll call you back soon, real soon, so get your ducks in

a row’ and that scares the shit out of the corporate muckity-

mucks.

Tyrone smiled to himself. What an outlandish theory. Absurd, he

admitted, but it was the only one he could say fit the facts.

Still, is it possible? The government was certainly capable of

some pretty bizarre things. He recalled the Phoenix program in

Viet Nam where suspected Viet Cong and innocent civilians were

tossed out of helicopters at 2000 feet to their deaths in the

distorted hope of making another one talk.

Wasn’t Daniel Ellsburg a government target? And the Democrats

were in 1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the

President. And the Aquarius project used psychics to locate

Soviet Boomers and UFO’s. Didn’t we give LSD to unsuspecting

soldiers to see if they could function adequately under the

influence? The horror stories swirled through his mind. And they

became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true. Maybe

it was possible. The United States government had actually

instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to increase

tax revenues. Christ, I hope I’m wrong. But, I’m probably not.

The buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone from his

daydream speculations.

“Yes?” He answered into space.

“Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o’clock appoint-

ment. Saunderson is out and so you’re elected.” Duncan’s secre-

tary was too damned efficient, he thought. Why not give it to

someone else. He pushed his intercom button.

“Gimme a second, I gotta primp.” That was Tyrone’s code that he

needed a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics and

return to Earth to deal with real life problems. As usual,

Gloria obliged him. In exactly 3 minutes, his door opened.

“Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National

Pulp. Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director.” She waited for

the two men to acknowledge each other before she shut the door

behind her.

“Mr. Duncan?” Dobbs held his hand out to the huge FBI agent.

Duncan accepted and pointed at a vacant chair. Dobbs sat obedi-

ently.

“How can I help you, Mr. Dobbs?”

“I am being blackmailed, and I need help.” Dobbs looked straight

into Duncan’s coal black eyes.

The IRS, thought Duncan. “By whom?” he asked casually.

“I don’t know.” Dobbs was firm.

“Then how do you know you are being blackmailed?” Duncan wanted

to conceal his interest. Keep it low profile.

“Let me tell you what happened.”

Good start, thought Duncan. If only half of us would start in

such a logical place.

“Two days ago I received a package by messenger. It contained

the most sensitive information my company has. Strategic posi-

tions, contingency plans, competitive information and so on.

There are only a half dozen people in my company that have access

to that kind of information. And they all own enough stock to

make sure that they aren’t the culprits.”

“So who is?” interjected Tyrone as he made notes.

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“What did they ask for?” Duncan looked directly into Dobbs’

eyes. To both force an answer and look for signs of deceit. All

he saw was honesty and real fear.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. All I got was the package and a brief

message.”

“What was the message?” Tyrone asked.

“We’ll be in touch. That’s it.”

“So where’s the threat? The blackmail. This hardly seems like a

case for the FBI.” Tyrone was baiting the hook. See if the fish

is real.

“None, not yet. But that’s not the point. What they sent me

were copies, yet they looked more like the originals, of informa-

tion that would negatively affect my company. It’s the sort of

information that we would not want made public. If you know what

I mean.”

Tyrone thought, you bet I know. You’re up to and you want us to

protect you. Fat chance. “I know what you mean,” he agreed.

“I need to stop it. Before it’s too late?”

“Too late?” asked Duncan.

“Too late. Before it gets out.”

“What gets out, Mr. Dobbs?” Duncan stared right into and beyond

Dobbs’ eyes.

“Secrets. Just secrets.” Dobbs paused to recompose himself.

“Isn’t there a law . . .?”

“Yes, there is Mr. Dobbs. And if what you say is true, you are

entitled to protection.” Duncan decided to bait Dobbs a bit more.

“Even if the information is illegal in nature.” Wait for the

fish to bite.

“I grant you I’m no Mother Teresa. I’m a businessman, and I have

to make money for my investors. But in the files that I received

were exact copies of my personal files that no one, and I mean

no one has access to. They were my own notes, ideas in progress.

Nothing concrete, just work in progress. But someone, somehow

has gotten a hold of it all. And, by my thinking, there’s no way

to have gotten it without first killing me, and I’m here. So how

did they get it? That’s what I need to know.” Dobbs paused.

“And then, I need to stop them.” His soliloquy was over.

“Who else is