Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

  "And, I may need some discretionary funds." Duncan was making a mental list of those things he thought he needed. His sources of information were the most valuable. Without them, it would be a bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their ground.

  "Yes to the money. Ouch, but yes to hands off your promotion. Maybe, to the reporter. It's my ass, too, you know."

  "You called me," Tyrone said calmly. "Remember?"

  I can't win this one, thought Bob. He's never screwed up yet. Not big time. As they say, with enough rope you either bring in the gang or hang yourself. "I want results." That's all Bob had to say. "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn what you do," Bob resigned.

  "One more thing," Tyrone slipped in.

  "What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated.

  "It happens out of New York, not here."

  "But . . ."

  "No buts. Period."

  "Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably. "Deal?"

  "Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours. Agreed?"

  "Whatever," Tyrone told Bob.

  * * * * *

  From his hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott Mason at his home. It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain after several hours of drinking and slipping $10 bills into garter belts at Camelot.

  "RCA, Russian Division," Scott Mason answered his phone.

  "Don't do that," Tyrone slurred. "That'll trigger the monitors."

  "Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth Bom- ber . . ."

  "C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork."

  Scott choked through his laughter. "I'm watching a Honeymooner rerun. This better be good."

  "We need to talk."

  * * * * *

  Thursday, October 15

  Washington, D.C.

  The stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold front that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed change from the brutal Indian Summer. His condo commanded a vista of lights that reflected the power to manipulate the world. Miles reveled in it. He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor balcony after a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sex in a water- bed meant the expenditure of the least energy for the maximum pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.

  Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a periodically regular basis. She was a little more than one of Miles' sexual release valves. She was a semi-sorta-kinda girl friend, but wouldn't have been if Miles had known that she re- ported their liaisons back to her boss. Alex was not interested in how she got her information. He only wanted to know if there were any digressions in Miles mission.

  They sipped Grande Fine from oversized brandy glasses. The afterglow was magnificent and they saw no reason to detract from it with meaningless conversation. Her robe barely covered her firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her legs. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, job or no job. She enjoyed her time with Miles. He asked for nothing from her but the obvious. Unlike the others who often asked her for solici- tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further their own particular lobby. Miles was honest, at least. He even let her spend the night upon occasion.

  At 2 A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in the Potomac, Miles' phone warbled. He ignored the first 5 rings to Perky's annoyance.

  "Aren't you going to answer?" Her unspoken thoughts said[]] do whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top[]]

  "Expecting a call?" Miles asked. His eyes were closed, convey- ing his internal peace. The phone rang again.

  "Miles, at least get a machine." The phone rang a seventh time.

  "Fuck." He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through the open glass doors. He put down his glass and answered on the 8th ring.

  "It's late," he answered. His 'I don't give a shit' attitude was evident.

  "Mr. Foster, I am most displeased." It was Homosoto. Miles curled his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from her balcony vantage.

  Miles breathed heavily into the phone. "What's wrong now?" Miles was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.

  "Our plans were explicit. Why have you deviated?" Homosoto was controlled but forthright.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Miles sipped loudly from the brandy glass.

  "I have read about the virus, the computer virus. The whole world in talking about it. Mr. Foster, you are early. I thought we had an understanding."

  "Hey!" Foster yelled into the phone. "I don't know where you get off calling me at 2 in the morning, but you've got your head up your ass."

  "Excuse me Mr. Foster, I do not and could not execute such a motion. However, do not forget we did have an agreement." Homosoto was insistent.

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Miles was adamant.

  "Since you insist on these games, Mr. Foster. I have read with great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus. I believe you have made a great error in judgment."

  Miles had just had about enough of this. "If you've got something to say, say it." he snorted into the phone.

  "Mr. Foster. Did we not agree that the first major strike was not to occur until next year?"

  "Yeah," Miles said offhandedly. He saw Perky open her eyes and look at him quizzically. He made a fist with his right hand and made an obscene motion near his crotch.

  "Then, what is this premature event?" Homosoto persisted.

  "Not mine." Miles looked out the balcony. Perky was invitingly licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.

  "Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi- ble."

  "Tough shit."

  "Excuse me?" Homosoto was taken aback.

  "Simple. You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only person who has chosen to build viruses or destructive computer programs. We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to its logical conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry. This one's not mine nor yours. It's someone elses."

  The phone was silent for a few seconds. "You are saying there are others?" The childlike naivete was coming through over 12,000 miles of phone wire.

  "Of course there are. This will probably help us."

  "How do you mean?"

  "There are a hundreds of viruses, but none as effective as the ones which we use. A lot of amateurs use them to build their egos. Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all have names. They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement. So, we will be seeing more and more viruses appear that have nothing to do with our efforts. I do hope you will not call every time you hear of one. You know our dates. "

  "Is there no chance for error?"

  "Oh yes! There is, but it will be very isolated if it occurs. Most viruses do not receive as much attention as this one, and probably won't until we are ready. And, as I recall we are not ready." Miles was tired of the timing for the hand holding session. Ms. Perkins was beckoning.

  "I hope you are right. My plans must not be interfered with."

  "Our plans," Miles corrected. "my ass is on the line, too. I don't need you freaking every time the press reports a computer going on the fritz. It's gonna happen a lot."

  "What will happen, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto was able to convey disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.

  "We've been through this before."

  "Then go through it again," Homosoto ordered.

  Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where he was sure he could speak in privacy. "Listen here Homo," Miles scowled. "In the last couple of years viruses have been become techno-yuppie amusements. The game has intensified as the stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I'm sure you're not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost every loc
al area network in the country is infected with a virus of one type or another. Did you know that?"

  "No, Mr. Foster, I didn't. How do you know that?" Homosoto sounded unconvinced.

  "It's my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?"

  "Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for me." Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles found unsettling.

  "For now, I do."

  "You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr. Foster? You have much to lose."

  Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim- ples. He wanted to convey boredom. "I a job. You an empire."

  "Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."

  Homosoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles. He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder things to concern him.

  * * * * *

  October 31, 1989

  Falls Church, Virginia.

  "What do you mean gone?"

  "Gone. Gone. It's just gone." Fred Porter sounded panicked.

  Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer Department in New York. "Would you be kind enough to explain?" he said with disdain.

  "Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath. "We were running a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every- thing. When we ran them last night, they didn't add up. We're missing a quarter billion dollars."

  "A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation, son."

  "I wish I did," Porter sighed.

  "All right, let's go through it top to bottom." Ferguson knew that it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really miss- ing.

  "It's just as I told you."

  "Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.

  "Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know."

  "Of course I know."

  "During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it belongs. We do that because . . ."

  "I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to pay out."

  "Yessir, but that's not official . . ."

  "Of course it's not you idiot . . ."

  "I'm sorry sir."

  "As you were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had moved the psychological stress to his underling.

  "When we got to the account, about 9:00 A.M., it was empty. That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."

  "And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.

  "We don't know. It was supposed to have been transferred to hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad. There's no audit of what happened."

  "Do you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw up Porter?" Templeton demanded.

  "Yessir."

  "How long?"

  "A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.

  "Longer. A lot longer." Ferguson really knew that Porter would- n't pay any price. As long as the computer records showed he wasn't at fault, he would continue to be a valued employee. Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.

  "What do you want me to do, sir?" Porter asked.

  "You've done enough. Just wire me the records. I need them yesterday. I have to talk to Weinhauser." Ferguson hung up in disgust. It was not going to be a good day.

  Chapter 11 Wednesday, November 4

  The Stock Exchange, New York

  Wall Street becomes a ghost town by early evening with the night population largely consisting of guards, cleaning and maintenance people. Tightly packed skyscrapers with their lighted windows create random geometric patterns in the moonless cityscape and hover ominously over dimly lit streets.

  Joe Patchok and Tony Romano worked as private guards on the four to midnight shift at the Stock Exchange on Cortland Street in lower Manhattan. For a couple of young college guys this was the ideal job. They could study in peace and quiet, nothing ever happened, no one bothered them, and the pay was decent.

  They were responsible for the 17th. and 18th. floors which had a sole entrance and exit; controlled access. This was where the central computers for the Stock Exchange tried to maintain sanity in the market. The abuses of computer trading resulting in the minicrash of 1987 forced a re-examination of the practice and the subsequent installation of computer brakes to dampen severe market fluctuations.

  Hundreds of millions of shares exchanged every day are recorded in the computers as are the international, futures and commodi- ties trades. The dossiers on thousands upon thousands of compa- nies stored in the memory banks and extensive libraries were used to track investors, ownership, offerings, filings and provide required information to the government.

  Tony sat at the front guard desk while Joe made the next hourly check through the offices and computer rooms. Joe strolled down the halls, brilliantly lit from recessed ceiling fixtures. The corridor walls were all solid glass, giving the impression of more openness than was really provided by the windowless, climate controlled, 40% sterile environment. There was no privacy working in the computer rooms.

  The temperature and humidity were optimized; the electricity content of air was neutralized both electrostatically and by nuclear ionization, and the air cycled and purified once an hour. In the event of a catastrophic power failure, which is not un- known in New York, almost 10,000 square feet was dedicated to power redundancy and battery backup. In case of fire, heat sensors trigger the release of halon gas and suck all of the oxygen from the room in seconds. The Stock Exchange computers received the best care.

  Joe tested the handle on the door of each darkened room through the myriad glass hallways. Without the computers behind the glass walls, it might as well have been a House of Mirrors. He noticed that the computer operators who work through the night were crowded together at the end of a hall next to the only computer rooms with activity. He heard them muttering about the cleaning staff.

  "Hey guys, problem?" Joe asked.

  "Nah, we escaped," a young bearded man in a white lab coat said pointing into the room. "His vacuum cleaner made one God awful noise, so we came out here til' he was done."

  "New cleaning service," Joe said offhandedly.

  The dark complexioned cleaning man wore a starchy white uniform with Mohammed's Cleaning Service emblazoned across the back in bold red letters. They watched him, rather than clean the room, fiddle with the large barrel sized vacuum cleaner.

  "What's he doing?"

  "Fixing that noise, I hope."

  "What's he doing now?"

  "He's looking at us and, saying something . . ."

  "It looks like he's praying . . ."

  "Why the hell would he . . ."

  The entire 46 story building instantly went dark and the force of the explosion rocked Tony from his seat fifty yards away. He reached for the flashlight on his belt and pressed a series of alarms on the control panel even though the video monitors were black and the emergency power had not come on. Nothing. He ran towards the sound of the blast and yelled.

  "Hello? Hey?" he yelled nervously into the darkness.

  "Over here, hurry," a distant pained voice begged.

  Tony slid into a wall and stopped. He pointed his flashlight down one hall. Nothing.

  "Over here."

  He jumped sideways and pointed the beam onto a twisted maze of bodies, some with blood geysering into the air from their necks and arms and legs. Tony saw that the explosion had shattered the glass walls into thousands of high velocity razor sharp projec- tiles. The corpses had been pierced, stabbed, severed and muti- lated by the deadly shards. Tony felt nauseous; he was going to be sick right then.

  "Tony." A shrapnelled Joe squeaked from the mass of torn flesh ahead of him.


  "Holy shit . . ." Tony's legs to turned to jelly as he bent over and gagged.

  "Help me!"

  The force of the blast had destroyed the glass partitions as far as his light beam would travel. He pointed the light into the room that exploded. The computer equipment was in shambles, and then he saw what was left of the cleaning man. His severed head had no recognizable features and pieces of his body were strewn about. Tony suddenly vomited onto the river of blood that was flowing his way down the hallway.

  "I gotta go get help," Tony said choking. He pushed against the wall to give him the momentum to overcome the paralysis his body felt and ran.

  "No, help me . . ."

  He ran down the halls with his flashlight waving madly. The ele- vators. They were out, too. Maybe the phone on the console. Dead. He picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button. Nothing. He banged the two way radio several times on the coun- ter in the futile hope that violence was an electronic cure-all. Dead. Tony panicked and threw it violently into the blackness.

  Neither the small TV, nor his portable radio worked.

  * * * * *

  "I know it's almost midnight," Ben Shellhorne said into the cellular phone. He cupped his other ear to hear over the commo- tion at the Stock Exchange building.

  "Quit your bitching. Look at it this way; you might see dawn for the first time in your life." Ben joked. All time was equal to Ben but he knew that Scott said he didn't do mornings. "Sure, I'll wait," Ben said in disgust and waited with agitation until Scott came back to the phone. "Good. But don't forget that beer isn't just for breakfast."

  He craned his neck to see that the NYPD Bomb Squad had just left and gave the forensics team the go ahead. No danger.

  "Listen," Ben said hurriedly. "I gotta make it quick, I'm going in for some pictures." He paused and then said, "Yes, of course after the bodies are gone. God, you can be gross." He paused again. "I'll meet you in the lobby. One hour."

  Ben Shellhorn, a denizen of the streets, reported stories that sometimes didn't fit within the all-the-news-that's-fit-to-print maxim. Many barely bordered on the decent, but they were all well done. For some reason, unknown even to Ben, he attracted news whose repulsiveness made them that much more magnetic to readers. Gruesome lot we are, he thought.