Terminal Compromise Read online

It was a good living. No guns, no danger, just information.

  His latest client guaranteed Alex three years of work for a flat fee in the millions of Deutch Marks. It was the intelligence assignment of a lifetime, one that insured a peaceful and pros- perous retirement for Alex. He wasn't the perennial spy, politi- cally or dogmatically motivated. Alex wanted the money.

  After he had completed his computer classes and purchased the equipment from the list, Sir George dialed the number he had been given. He half expected a live person to congratulate him, but also realized that that was a foolish wish. There was no reason to expect anything other than the same sexy voice dictating orders to him.

  "Ah, Sir George. How good of you to call. How were your class- es?" George nearly answered the alluring telephone personality again, but he caught himself.

  "Very good," the voice came back in anticipated response. "Please get a pencil and paper. I have a message for you in 15 seconds." That damned infernal patronization. Of course I have a bleeding pen. Not a pencil. Idiot.

  "Are you ready?" she asked. George made an obscene gesture at the phone.

  "Catch a flight to San Francisco tonight. Bring all of the com- puter equipment you have purchased. Take a taxi to 14 Sutherland Place on Knob Hill. Under the mat to Apartment 12G you will find two keys. They will let you into your new living quarters. Make yourself at home. It is yours, and the rent is taken care of as is the phone bill. Your new phone number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-6-3-6-1. When you get settled, dial the following number from your comput- er. You should be well acquainted with how to do that by now. The number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-0-0-1-5. Your password is A-G-O-R-A. Under the mattress in the bedroom is a PRG, Password Response Generator. It looks like a credit card, but has an eight digit display. Whenever you call Alex, he will ask you for a response to your password. Quickly enter whatever the PRG says. If you lose the PRG, you will be terminated." The voice paused for a few seconds to George's relief.

  "You will receive full instructions at that point. Good Bye." A dial tone replaced the voice he had come to both love and hate. Bloody hell, he thought. I'm down to less than $5000 and now I'm going back to San Francisco? What kind of bleedin' game is this?

  Apartment 12G was a lavish 2 bedroom condominium with a drop dead view of San Francisco and bodies of water water in 3 directions. Furnished in high tech modern, it offered every possible amenity; bar, jacuzzi, telephone in the bathroom and full channel cable. Some job. But, he kept wondering to himself, when does the free ride end? Maybe he's been strung along so far that he can't let go. One more call, just to see how the next chapter begins.

  George installed his computer in the second bedroom on a table that fit his equipment like a glove.

  C:cd XTALK

  C:XTALKxtalk

  His hard disk whirred for a few seconds. He chose the Dial option and entered the phone number from the keyboard and then asked the computer to remember it for future use. He omitted the area code. Why had he been given an area code if he was dialing from the same one? George didn't pursue the question; if he had he would have realized he wasn't alone.

  The modem dialed the number for him. His screen went momentarily blank and then suddenly came to life again.

  [[[CONNECT 2400 BAUD]]]

  DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ALEX? (Y/N?)

  George entered a "Y"

  PASSWORD:

  George entered AGORA. The letters did not echo to the screen. He hoped he had typed then correctly. Apparently he did, for the screen then prompted him for his RESPONSE.

  He copied the 8 characters from the PRG into the computer. There was a pause and then the screen filled.

  SIR GEORGE,

  WELCOME TO ALEX. IT IS SO GOOD TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.

  OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS YOU WILL BE GIVEN NAMES AND NUMBERS TO CALL. THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC QUESTIONS AND STATEMENTS TO BE MADE TO EACH PERSON YOU CALL. THERE IS TO BE NO DEVIATION WHAT- SOEVER. I REPEAT, NO DEVIATION WHATSOEVER. IF THERE IS, YOUR SERVICES WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED. WE HOPE THAT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY.

  EACH MORNING YOU ARE TO DIAL ALEX AND REQUEST THE FILE CALLED SG.DAT. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ACCESS OR DOWNLOAD ANY OTHER FILES, OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED AT ONCE.

  FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN EACH FILE, EXACTLY. KEEP AN EXACT LOG OF THE EVENTS AS THEY TRANSPIRE ON EACH CALL.

  [PUSH SPACE BAR FOR MORE]

  George pushed the space bar. The screen was again filled.

  ALEX REQUIRES PRECISE INFORMATION. WHATEVER YOU ARE TOLD BY THE PEOPLE YOU CALL MUST BE RELAYED , TO THE LETTER.

  AT THE END OF EACH DAY, YOU ARE TO UPLOAD YOUR FILE, CALLED SG.TOD. YOUR COMPUTER WILL AUTOMATICALLY PUT A DATE AND TIME STAMP ON IT.

  THEN, USING NORTON UTILITY, ERASE THE SG.DAT FILE FROM THAT DAY. IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO REACH ANYONE ON THE LISTS, JUST INDICATE THAT IN YOUR DAILY REPORTS. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT TRY TO CALL THE SAME PERSON THE NEXT DAY. IS THAT CLEAR?

  The screen was awaiting a response. George typed in "Y".

  GOOD. THIS IS QUITE SIMPLE, IS IT NOT?

  Y

  DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THE JOB?

  Y

  WHAT KIND OF PRINTER DO YOU HAVE?

  None

  ARE YOU SURE?

  Y

  WILL YOU BUY ONE?

  N

  GOOD. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN MONEY?

  Finally, thought Sir George, the reason for my existence.

  Y

  AN ACCOUNT HAS BEEN OPENED IN YOUR NAME AT THE BANK OF AMERICA, REDMOND BRANCH 3 BLOCKS FROM YOU. THERE IS $25,000 IN IT. EACH MONTH OF SUCCESSFUL WORK FOR ALEX WILL BE REWARDED WITH ANOTHER PAYMENT. U.S. TAXES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. IS THAT A PROBLEM?

  N

  WILL YOU DISCUSS YOUR JOB OR ITS NATURE WITH ANYONE? ANYONE AT ALL?

  N

  EVEN UNDER FORCE?

  Force, what the hell does that mean? I guess the answer is No, thought George.

  N

  I HOPE SO, FOR YOUR SAKE. GOOD LUCK SIR GEORGE. YOU START MONDAY.

  [[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]]]

  Sir George was a little confused, maybe a lot confused. He was the proud owner of a remote control job, a cushy one as far as he could tell, but the tone of the conversation he just had with the computer was worrisome. Was he being threatened? What was the difference between 'Services Terminated' and 'Terminated' anyway. Maybe he shouldn't ask. Keep his mouth shut and do a good job.

  Hey, he thought, dismissing the possible unpleasant consequences of failure. This is San Francisco, and I have a three days off in a new city. Might as well find my way around the town to- night. According to the guide books I should start at Pier 39.

  Chapter 3 Tuesday, September 8,

  New York City

  But they told me they wouldn't tell! They promised." Hugh Sidneys pleaded into his side of the phone. "How did you find out?" At first, Scott thought the cartoon voice was a joke perpetrated by one of his friends, or more probably, his ex-wife. Even she, though, coudn't possibly think crank a phone call was a twisted form of art. No, it had to be real.

  "I'm sorry Mr. Sidneys. We can't give out our sources. That's confidential. But are you saying that you confirm the story? That it is true?"

  "Yes, no. Well ," the pleading slid into near sobbing. "If this gets out, I'm ruined. Ruined. Everything, my family . . .how could you have found out? They promised!" The noise from the busy metro room at the New York City Times made it difficult to hear Sidneys.

  "Can I quote you, sir? Are you confirming the story?" Scott pressed on for that last requisite piece of every journalistic puzzle confirmation of a story that stood to wreck havoc in portions of the financial community. And Washington. It was a story with meat, but Scott Mason needed the confirmation to complete it.

  "I don't know. . .if I tell what I know now, then maybe . . .that would mean I was being helpful . . .maybe I should get a lawyer . . ." The call from Scott Mason to First State Savings and Loan on Madison Avenue had been devastating. Hugh Sidneys was just doing
what he was told to do. Following orders.

  "Maybe, Hugh. Maybe." Scott softened toward Sidneys, thinking the first name approach might work. "But, is it true, Hugh? Is the story true?"

  "It doesn't matter anymore. Do what you want." Hugh Sidneys hung up on Mason. It was as close to a confirmation as he need- ed. He wrote the story.

  * * * * *

  At 39, Scott Byron Mason was already into his second career. Despite the objections of his overbearing father, he had avoided the family destiny of becoming a longshoreman. "If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for my kids." Scott was an only child, but his father had wanted more despite his mother's ina- bility to carry another baby to full term.

  Scott caught the resentment of his father and the doting protec- tion of his mother. Marie Elizabeth Mason wanted her son to have more of a future than to merely live another generation in the lower middle class doldrums of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Not that Scott was aware of his predicament; he was a dreamer.

  Her son showed aptitude. By the age of six Scott knew two words his father never learned how and why. His childhood curiosity led to more than a few mishaps and spankings by the hot tempered Louis Horace Mason. Scott took apart everything in the house in an attempt to see what made it tick. Sometimes, not often enough, Scott could reassemble what he broken down to its small- est components. Despite his failings and bruised bottom Scott wasn't satisfied with, "that's just the way it is," as an answer to anything.

  Behind his father's back, Marie had Scott take tests and be accepted to the elite Bronx High School of Science, an hour and a half train ride from Brooklyn. To Scott it wasn't an escape from Brooklyn, it was a chance to learn why and how machines worked.

  Horace gave Marie and Scott a three day silent treatment until his mother finally put an end to it. "Horace Stipton Mason," Evelyn Mason said with maternal command. "Our son has a gift, and you will not, I repeat, you will not interfere with his happiness."

  "Yes dear."

  "The boy is thirteen and he has plenty of time to decide what he's going to do with himself. Is that clear?"

  "Yes dear."

  "Good." She would say as she finished setting the table. "Dinner is ready. Wash your hands boys." And the subject was closed.

  But throughout his four years at the best damn high school in the country, Horace found ample opportunity to pressure Scott about how it was the right thing to follow in the family tradition, and work at the docks, like the three generations before him.

  The issue was never settled during Scott's rebellious teenage years. The War, demonstrating on the White House lawn, getting gassed at George Washington, writing for the New York Free Press, Scott was even arrested once or twice or three times for peaceful civil disobedience. Scott Mason was seeing the world in a new way. He was rapidly growing up, as did much of the class of 1970.

  Scott's grades weren't good enough for scholorships, but adequate to be accepted at several reasonable schools.

  "I already paid for his education," screamed Horace upon hearing that Scott chose City College to keep costs down. He would live at home. "He broke every damn thing I ever bought, radios, TV's, washers. He can go to work like a man."

  With his mother's blessing and understanding, Scott moved out of the house and in with three roommates who also attended City College, where all New Yorkers can get a free education. Scott played very hard, studied very little and let his left of center politics guide his social life. His engineering professors remarked that he was underutilizing his God-given talents and that he spent more time protesting and objecting that paying attention. It was an unpredictable piece of luck that Scott Mason would never have to make a living as an engineer. He would be able to remain the itinerate tinkerer; designing and building the most inane creations that regularly had little purpose beyond satisfying technical creativity.

  "Can we go with it?" Scott asked City Editor Douglas McQuire and John Higgins, the City Times' staff attorney whose job it was to answer just such questions. McQuire and Mason had been asked to join Higgins and publisher Anne Manchester to review the paper's position on running Mason's story. Scott was being lawyered, the relatively impersonal cross examination by a so-called friendly in-house attorney. It was the single biggest pain in the ass of Scott's job, and since he had a knack for finding sensitive sub- jects, he was lawyered fairly frequently. Not that it made him feel any less like being called to the principal's office every time.

  Scott's boyish enthusiasm for his work, and his youthful appear- ance allowed some to underestimate his ability. He looked much younger than his years, measuring a slender 6 foot tall and shy of 160 pounds. His longish thin sandy hair and a timeless all about Beach Boy face made him a good catch on his better days he was back in circulation at almost 40. The round wire rimmed glasses he donned for an extreme case of myopia were a visible stylized reminder of his early rebel days, conveying a sophisti- cated air of radicalism. Basically clean cut, he preferred shav- ing every two or three, or occasionally four days. He blamed his poor shaving habits on his transparent and sensitive skin 'just like Dick Nixon's'.

  The four sat in Higgins' comfortable dark paneled office. With 2 walls full of books and generous seating, the ample office resem- bled an elegant and subdued law library. Higgins chaired the meeting from behind his leather trimmed desk. Scott brought a tall stack of files and put them on the glass topped coffee table.

  "We need to go over every bit, from the beginning. OK?" Higgins made it sound more like and order than responsible journalistic double checking. Higgins didn't interfere in the news end of the business; he kept his opinions to himself. But it was his respon- sibility to insure that the City Times' was kept out of the re- ceiving end of any litigation. That meant that as long as a story was properly researched, sourced, and confirmed, the con- tents were immaterial to him. That was the Publisher's choice, not his.

  Mason had come to trust Higgins in his role as aggravating media- tor between news and business. Scott might not like what he had to say, but he respected his opinion and didn't argue too much. Higgins was never purposefully adversarial. He merely wanted to know that both the writers and the newspaper had all their ducks in a row. Just in case. Libel suits can be such a pain, and expensive.

  "Why don't you tell me, again, about how you found out about the McMillan scams." Higgins turned on a small micro-cassette re- corder. "I hope you don't mind," he said as he tested it. "Keeps better notes than I do," he offhandedly said. Nobody objected. There would have been no point in objecting even if anyone cared. It was an unspoken truism that Higgins and other good attorneys taped many of their unofficial depositions to protect themselves in case anything went terribly wrong. With a newspaper as your sole client, the First Amendment was always at stake.

  "OK," Scott began. His reporter's notebook sat atop files full of computer printouts. "A few days ago, on September 4, that's a Friday, I got an anonymous call. The guy said, 'You want some dirt on McMillan and First State S&L?' I said sure, what do you have and who is this?"

  "So then you knew who Francis McMillan was?" Higgins looked up surprised.

  "Of course," Mason said. "He's the squeaky clean bank President from White Plains. Says he knows how to clean up the S&L mess, gets lots of air time. Probably making a play for Washington. Big time political ambitions. Pretty well connected at Treasury. I guess they listen to him."

  "In a nutshell." Higgins agreed. "And . . .then?"

  Mason sped through a couple of pages of scribbled notes from his pad. "My notes start here. 'Who I am don't matter but what I gotta say does. You interested'. Heavy Brooklyn accent, docks, Italian, who knows. I said something like, 'I'm listening' and he says that McMillan is the dirtiest of them all. He's been socking more money away than the rest and he's been doing it real smart. So I go, 'so?' and he says he can prove it and I say 'how' and he says 'read your morning mail'." Mason stopped abruptly.

  "That's it?" Higgins asked.

  "He hung up. So I forgot
about it till the next morning."

  "And that's when you got these?" Higgins said pointing at the stack of computer printouts in front of Mason. "How were they delivered?"

  "By messenger. No receipt, nothing. Just my name and the pa- per's." Mason showed Higgins the envelop in which the files came.

  "Then you read them?"

  "Well not all of them, but enough." Scott glanced at his editor. "That's when I let Doug know what I had."

  "And what did he say?" Higgins was keeping furious notes to back up the tape recording.

  "'Holy shit', as I remember." Everyone laughed. Ice breakers, good for the soul, thought Mason. People are too uptight. Higgins indicated that Scott should continue.

  "Then he said 'we gotta go slow on this one,' then he whistled and Holy Shat some more." Once the giggles died down, Mason got serious. "I borrowed a bean counter from the basement, told him I'd put his name in the paper if anything came of it, and I picked his brain. Ran through the numbers on the printouts, and ran through them again. I really worked that poor guy, but that's the price of fame. By the next morning we knew that there were two sets of books on First State." Mason turned a couple pages in his files.

  "It appears," Scott said remembering that he was selling the importance of the story to legal and the publisher, "that a substantial portion of the bank's assets are located in numbered bank accounts all over the world." Scott said with finality.

  Higgins interrupted here. "So what's wrong with that?" he chal- lenged.

  "They've effectively stolen a sandbagged and inflated reserve ac- count with over $750 Million it. Almost 10% of stated assets. It appears from these papers," Scott waved his hand over them, "that the total of the reserve accounts will be taken, as a loss, in their next SEC reporting." Mason stopped and looked at Hig- gins as though Higgins would understand everything.

  Higgins snorted as he made more notes.

  "That next morning," Mason politely ignored Higgins, "I got a call again, from what sounded like the same guy."