"As we first reported an hour ago, Pierre Troubleaux, President of dGraph, one of the nation's leading software companies, was critically injured while giving testimony to the Privacy and Technology Containment subcommittee. At 3:15 Eastern Time, an unidentified assailant, using a 9mm Barretta, shot Mr. Troubleaux four times, from the visitor's balcony which overlooks the hear- ing room. Mr. Troubleaux was answering questions about . . . "
Scott's mind wandered back to the events of a few hours ago. He still had no idea why he did it. The television replayed the portion of the video tape where Pierre was testifying. While he spoke, the shots rang out and the camera image suddenly blurred in search of the source of the sound. Briefly the gunman is seen and then the picture swings back to Pierre being pushed out of his chair by a man in a blue sports jacket and white shirt. As two more gun shots ring out the figure covers Pierre. Two more shots and the camera finally settles on Pierre Troubleaux bleed- ing profusely from the head, his eyes open and glazed.
Scott shuddered at the broadcast. It captured the essence of the moment, and the terror that he and the hundreds of others at the hearing had experienced. Shauna Miller reappeared.
"And we have here the man who dove to Mr. Troubleaux's rescue when the shooting began." The camera angle pulled back and showed Scott standing next to the newswoman.
"This is Scott Mason, a reporter from the New York City Times who is attending the hearings on behalf of his paper. Scott," she turned away from the camera to speak directly to Scott. "How does it feel being the news instead of reporting it?" She stuck the microphone into his face.
"Uh," Scott stammered. What an assinine question, he thought. "It does give me a different perspective," he said, his voice hollow.
"Yes, I would think so," Shauna added. "Can you tell us what happened?"
More brilliance in broadcast journalism. "Sure, be happy to." Scott smiled at the camera. "One of the country's finest soft- ware executives just had part of his head blown off so his brains could leak on my coat and the scumbag that shot him took a sayo- nara swan dive that broke every bone in his body. How's that?" He said devilishly.
"Uh," Shauna hesitated. "Very graphic." This isn't Geraldo she thought, just the local news. "Do you have anything to add?"
"Yeah? I got to get some sleep."
The camera zoomed into a closeup of Shauna Miller. "Thank you, Mr. Mason." She brightened up. "Mr. Troubleaux and the alleged gunman have been taken to Walter Reed Medical Center where they are undergoing surgery. Both are listed in critical condition and Mr. Troubleaux is still in a coma." Shauna droned on for another 30 seconds with filler nonsense. How did she ever get on the air, Scott thought. And, why does she remain?
"That was you."
Scott started at the female voice. He turned to the left and only saw salesmen and male lobbyists drinking heartily. He pivoted in the other direction and came face to face with Sonja Lindstrom. "Sorry?"
"That was you," she said widening her smile to expose a perfect Crest ad.
An electric tingle ran up Scott's legs and through his torso. The pit of his stomach felt suddenly empty. He gulped silently and his face reddened. "What was me?"
She pointed at the television. "That was you at the hearing today, where Troubleaux got shot."
"Yeah, 'fraid so," he said.
"The camera treats you well. I was at the hearing, too, but I just figured out who you were." Her earnest compliment came as a surprise to Scott. He raised his eyebrows in bewilderment.
"Who I am?" He questioned.
"Oh, sorry," she extended her hand to Scott. "I'm Sonja Lind- strom. I gather you're Scott Mason." He gently took her hand and a rush of electricity rippled up his arm till the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
"Guilty as charged," he responded. He pointed his thumb at the television. "Great interview, huh?"
"She epitomizes the stereotype of the dumb blond." Sonja turned her head slightly. "I hope you're not prejudiced?"
"Prejudiced?
She picked up her wine glass and sipped gingerly. "Against blondes."
"No, no. I was married to one," he admitted. "But, I won't hold that against you." Scott wasn't aggressive with women and his remark surprised even him. Sonja laughed appreciatively.
"It must have been rough," Sonja said empathetically. "I mean the blood and all."
"Not exactly my cup of tea. I don't do the morgue shift." Scott shuddered. "I'll stick to computers, not nearly so adventurous."
"And hacker bashing." she said firmly. She took another sip of wine.
"How would you know that?" Scott asked.
She turned and smiled at Scott. "You're famous. You're known as the Hacker Smacker by quite a few in the computer field. Not everyone appreciates what you have to say." Sonja, ever so politely, challenged Scott.
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," he smirked.
"That's the spirit," she encouraged. "Not that I agree with everything you have to say."
"I assume you have read my drivel upon occasion."
"Upon occasion, yes," she said with a coy sweetness.
"So, since you know so much about me, I stand at a clear disad- vantage. I only know you as Sonja."
"You're right. That's not fair at all." She straightened her- self on the bar stool. "Sonja Lindstrom, dual citizenship U.S. and Denmark. Born May 11, 1964, Copenhagen. Moved here when I was two. Studied political science at George Washington, minored in sociology. Currently a public relations consultant to comput- er jocks. I live in D.C. but I'm rarely here."
"Lucky for me," Scott ventured.
Sonja didn't answer him as she slowly drained the bottom of her wine glass. She glanced slyly at him, or was that his imagina- tion?
"Can a girl buy a guy a drink?"
The clock said there was fifteen minutes before Scott's flight took off. No contest.
"I'd be honored," Scott said as he nodded his head in gratitude.
Sonja Lindstrom bought the next two rounds and they talked. No serious talk, just carefree, sometimes meaningless banter that made them laugh and relish the moment. Scott didn't know he had missed his second flight until it was time for the 8:15 plane to LaGuardia. It had been entirely too long. Longer than he cared to remember since he had relaxed, disarmed himself near a woman. There was an inherent distrust, fear of betrayal, that Scott had not released, until now.
"So, about your wife," she asked after a lull in their conversa- tion.
"My wife?" Scott shrank back.
"Humor me," she said.
"Nothing against her, it just didn't work out."
"What happened?" Sonja pursued.
"She was an artist, a sculptor. And if I say so myself, an awful one. A three year old could do as well with stale Play-Dough."
"You're a critic, too?" Sonja bemused.
"Only of her art. She got into the social scene in New York, gallery openings, the she-she sect. You know what I mean?" Sonja nodded. "So, when I decided to make a career shift, well, she wasn't in complete agreement with me. Even though in 8 years she had never sold one single piece of art, she was convinced, by her socialite pals, that her work was extraordinarily original and would become, without any doubt, the next Pet Rock of the elite."
"So?"
"So, she gets the bug to go to the Coast and make her mark. I think some of her Park Avenue pals went to Beverly Hills and wanted her to come out to be their entertainment. She expected me to follow her hallucinations, but I just couldn't play that part. She's a little left of the Milky Way for me."
"How long has it been?" Sonja asked with warmth.
"Three years now."
"So, what have these years been like?"
"Oh, fine," he said. Sonja gave him a disbelieving dirty look. "O.K., kinda lonely. I'm not complaining, mind you, but when she was there, no matter how inane our conversations were, not matter how far out in the stratosphere her mind was, at least she was someone to talk to, someone to come home to. She's a sweet girl,
I loved her, but she had needs that . . .well. It wasn't all bad, we had a great few years. I just couldn't let her madness, harmless though it was, run my life. We're still friends, we talk fairly often. I hope she becomes the next Dali."
"That's very gracious of you," Sonja said sincerely.
"Not really. I really feel that way. It's her life, and, she never wanted or tried to hurt me. She was just following her star."
"Has she sold any of her art?" Sonja asked.
"It's on perpetual display, she says," Scott said.
"Why don't you buy one? To make her feel good?"
"Ha! She feels fine. Beverly Hills is not the worst place in the world to be accepted." He lost himself in thought for a moment. "I think it has worked out for both of us."
"Except, you're lonely," she came back.
"I got into my work. A career shift at my age, you know, I had a lot to learn. So, I've really put myself into the job, and I've been getting a lot out of it." He stared at the gorgeous woman to whom he had been telling his personal feelings. "But, yes, I do miss the companionship," he hinted.
The clock over the bar announced it was quarter to ten. "Hey." Scott turned to face Sonja squarely. "I gotta go, you don't know how much I don't want to, but I gotta." He spoke with a pained sincerity.
"No you don't," she said exuberantly.
"Huh?"
Sonja's entire face glowed . "Have you ever done anything crazy?"
"Sure, of course," Scott nonchalantly said.
"No, I mean really crazy. Totally off the wall. Spontaneous." She grabbed Scott's shoulders. "Haven't you ever wanted to go off the deep end and not care what anybody thinks?" Scott felt himself getting captured by her exuberance. This absolutely stunning blonde bombshell exuded enough sexual enthusiasm for the entire NFL, and yet, he was playing it cool. He wondered why.
"I was a real hell raiser as a kid . . ."
"Listen, Scott." Her demeanor turned serious. "Are you willing to do something outrageous right now? And go through with it?"
Here was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen asking him to make a borderline insane promise. Her painted lips broke into a lush smile. Ten minutes to the last flight.
"I'm game. What is it?" Scott played along. He could always say no. Right?
"Wait here a minute." Sonja grabbed her purse and dashed out of the bar. Scott's eyes followed her in stunned amazement.
Scott finished his beer and the clock indicated that the last flight to New York had left. He wondered what was keeping Sonja so long, and then she suddenly whisked back into the bar.
"C'mon, we have to hurry." Sonja shuffled papers in and out of her purse. She threw enough money on the bar to cover their drinks.
Scott scooted off of his bar stool laughing. "Hurry? Where're we going?"
"Shhhh, get your bags," Sonja said urgently. "You do have a passport don't you?" She asked with concern.
"I just came from Europe, yeah." His bewilderment was clear while he retrieved his luggage.
"Good. Follow me."
Sonja dashed through the terminal to the security check with Scott struggling to keep up. The view of her exquisite figure was noticed by more than just Scott, but she left him little time to relish the view. She tossed her purse on the conveyor belt as a dazed Scott struggled with his own two bags. She darted from the security station leaving Mason to reorganize himself. His ability to run was encumbered by his luggage so he watched care- fully to see into which gate she was headed.
Gate, gate? Where am I going? And why? He would have laughed if he wasn't out of breath from wind sprinting through the airport. He followed Sonja into Gate 3.
She handed a couple of tickets to the attendant. "We're the last ones, hurry up, Mason," Sonja giggled.
"Where are we going . . .where did the tickets . . .how are you?" Scott stumbled through his thoughts.
"Just get on the plane. We'll talk." She held out her hand, beckoning him seductively.
The attractive flight attendant stared at Scott. His hesitancy was holding up the flight. He looked at Sonja. "This is insane," he said quietly.
"So it is."
"Where? I mean where is this plane headed?"
"Jamaica," she beamed.
"Oh, Sonja, come on, this isn't real." Why the hell was he trying to talk himself out of a fantasy in the making.
"I'm getting on. I need a weekend to cool out, and I know you do. After what happened." Sonja took the separated boarding pass and looked back once before she left. Scott stood still. He stared as Sonja disappeared down the tunnel to the plane.
The flight attendant appeared quite annoyed. "Well, are you or aren't you?"
Scott reasoned that if he reasoned out the pros and the cons the plane would be gone regardless of his decision. "Fuck it," he said and he walked briskly down the ramp.
He entered the Airbus behind the cockpit and turned right to find Sonja. It didn't take long. She was the only person sitting in first class. "Fancy running into you here," she said waving from the plush leather seat.
"Quite," he said in his well practiced West London accent. "Dare I guess how long it's been?" He placed his bags in the empty first class storage compartment.
"Too long. Much too long. You had me worried," Sonja said melo- dramatically.
"I still have me worried."
"I thought you might chicken out," she said.
"I still might."
The three hour flight was replete with champagne, brie and simi- lar delicacies. They munched and sipped to their heart's con- tent. One flight attendant, two passengers. Light talk, innocu- ous flirtations, not so innocuous flirtations, more chatting time passed, hours disguised as seconds.
Half Moon Bay is a one hour cab ride from the airport and, true to Jamaican hospitality, the hotel staff expected them. They were led to two adjoining rooms after being served the obligatory white rum punch with a yellow umbrella. It was nearly 3 AM. Scott was working on 60 hours with little or no sleep.
"Scott?" Sonja asked as they prepared to go into their respective rooms.
"Yes," he said.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For tomorrow night."
After four hours sleep, Sonja knocked on Scott's door. "Rise and shine! Beach time!"
Scott swore to himself, looked at the clock on the night stand, and then swore again. Ugh! Scott forced himself out of bed and opened the door. The vision of Sonja Lindstrom in a bathing suit that used no more than 4 square inches of material was instantly arousing. Despite 39 plus years of morning aversions, Scott readied himself at breakneck speed, thinking that reality and fantasy were often inseparable. The question was, what was this? Was he really in the Caribbean? No!, he thought. This is real! Holy shit, this is real. I wasn't as drunk as I thought. Intoxi- cation takes many forms, and this appears to be a delicious wine. During breakfast she managed to talk him into going to the nude beach, about a half mile down Half Moon Bay.
"God, you're uptight," she said as she shed her g-string on the isolated pristine coastline. She was a natural blond with a dancer's body where the legs and buttocks merge into one.
"I am not!" He defended.
"I bet you can't take them off. For personal reasons," she laughed out loud pointing at the baggy swim suit he borrowed from the resort. She lay down on her back, perfectly formed breasts pointing at the sky. Scott noticed only the faintest of tan lines several inches below her belly button. She patted the huge towel, inviting Scott to join her. There was room enough for three,
"Well," he agreed. "It might prove embarrassing. I thought my intentions were honorable."
"Bull. Neither are mine." She arched her back and patted the towel again.
"Fuck it," he said laughingly as he dropped his bathing suit and dropped quickly, facedown next to Sonja. "Ouch!" He yelled louder than the hurt was worth. "I hate it when that happens," he said checking to make sure that the pieces were still intact.
They spent the next
two days exploring Half Moon Bay, the lush green hills behind the resort and each other. Scott forgot about work, forgot about the hackers, forgot about Tyrone. He never thought about Kirk, Spook, or any of the blackmail schemes he was so caught up in investigating. And, he forgot, at least tempo- rarily about the incident with Pierre. The world consisted of only two people, mutually radiating a glow flush with passion; retreating into each other so totally that no imaginable distrac- tion could disturb their urgings.
They slept no more than an hour all Saturday night, "I told you I wanted to thank you for tomorrow night!" she said. They made it to the water's edge early Sunday morning. Scott's body was redder in some places than it had ever been, and Sonja's tan line all but disappeared. They both knew that the fantasy was going to be over in the morning, a 7:00 AM flight back to reality, but neither spoke of it. The Here and Now was the only reality that they wanted to face.
"I'm impressed," Sonja said turning to face Scott on the beach towel. No matter in which direction she turned, her body stood tall and firm.
"Impressed, with what?" Scott giggled.
"I had two days to loosen you up before you went back to that big bad city. I'm ahead of schedule."
"What schedule?"
"Scott, we need to talk." Sonja reached over and touched Scott's shoulder. He couldn't take his eyes off of her magnificent nude figure. "Did you ever work on something, for a very long time; really get yourself involved, dedicated, and then find out in was all for the wrong reasons? That's how I feel now."
* * * * *
Saturday, January 10
It is not uncommon for the day employees at the CIA in Langley to arrive at their desks before 6:00 AM. Even on a Saturday. Today, Martin Templer arrived early to prepare for an update meeting with the director. Nothing special, just the weekly report. He found that he could get more done early in the morning. He enjoyed the time alone in his quiet office so he could complete the report without constant interruption. Not fifteen minutes into his report, his phone rang. Damn, he thought, it's starting already.
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