Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

W >> Winn Schwartau >> Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

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When the first shot rang out their stunned confusion echoed the
camera's erratic framing. As the second shot came across the TV,
Perky sprang up and shouted, "No!" Tears dripped from the cor-
ners of her eyes.

"Miles! What's happening? They're shooting him . . ."

"I don't know ." A third shot and then the image of Scott and
Pierre crumbling. "Holy shit, it's an assassination!"

"Miles, what's going on here?" Stephanie cried.

"This is fucking nuts . . .he's killing him . . ." Miles stared
at the screen and spoke in a dull monotone. "I can't believe
this is happening, it's not part of the plan . . ."

"Miles, Miles!" She screamed, desperately trying to get his
attention. "Who? Miles! Who's killing him? What plan?"

"Fucking Homosoto, that yellow skinned prick . . ."

"Homosoto?" She stopped upon hearing the name.

Miles leapt up from the couch and raced over to the corner of the
room with his computers. He pounced on the keyboard of the
NipCom computer and told it to dial Homosoto's number in Japan.
That son of a bitch better be there. Answer, damn it.

<<<<<>>>>>

Homosoto!!!!!

The delay seemed interminable as Miles waited for him to get on
line. Perky followed him over to the computer and watched as he
made contact. She knew that Miles and Homosoto spoke often over
the computer, too often for Miles' taste. Homosoto whined to
Miles almost every day, about one thing or another, and Miles
complained to her about how irritating his childish interference
was. But throughout it all, Perky had never been privy to their
conversations. She had stayed her distance, until this time.

Miles had been in rages before; she had become unwillingly accus-
tomed to his furious outbursts. Generally they were unfocused
eruptions; a sophomoric way of releasing pent up energy and frus-
tration. But this time, Miles' face clearly showed fear. Steph-
anie saw the dread. "Miles! What does Homosoto have to do with
this? Miles, please!" She pleaded with him to include her. The
screen finally responded.

MR. FOSTER. AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE.

You imperial mother fucker.

EXPLAINATION, PLEASE.

You're a fucking murderer.

I TAKE EXCEPTION TO THAT.

Take exception to this, Jack! What the hell did you kill him
for?

I ASSUME YOU HAVE BEEN WATCHING TELEVISION.

Aren't we the Einstein of Sushi land.

YOUR MANNERS.

You killed him! Why?

Stephanie read the monitor and wept quietly as the conversation
scrolled before her. She placed her hands on Miles' shoulders in
an effort to feel less alone.

IT WAS A NECESSARY EVIL. HE COULD NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK.
NOT YET.

So you killed him?

ONE OF MY PEOPLE GOT A LITTLE OVER ZEALOUS. IT IS REGRETTABLE,
BUT NECESSARY.

It is not necessary to kill anyone. Nowhere in the plan does it
call for murder! That was part of our deal.

THE WINDS BLOW. CONDITIONS CHANGE.

The wind blows up your ass!

THAT DOES NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT HE WAS GOING TO TELL WHAT HE
KNEW.

What the hell does he know?

DGRAPH. THAT'S THE PROGRAM WE INFECTED.

DGraph? That's impossible. That's the most popular program in
the world. How did you infect it?

I BOUGHT IT.

You own dGraph? I thought that Data Tech owned them.

OSO OWNS DATA TECH. YOU DID NOT LISTEN TO YOUR OWN ADVICE. I
BOUGHT IT AFTER YOU VISITED ME FOR THE SECOND TIME. IT SEEMED
PRUDENT. WE ALSO BOUGHT A HALF DOZEN OTHER SMALL, PROMISING
SOFTWARE COMPANIES, JUST AS YOU SUGGESTED. VERY GOOD PLAN.

And Troubleaux knows?

OF COURSE. HE HAD INCENTIVE.

So you try to kill him?

HE LOST HIS INCENTIVE. IT WAS NECESSARY. HE WAS GOING TO TELL
AND, AS YOU SAID, SECRECY IS PARAMOUNT. YOUR WORDS.

Yes, secrecy, but not murder. I can't be part of that.

BUT YOU ARE MR. FOSTER. I HOPE THAT THIS IS AN ISOLATED INCIDENT
THAT WILL NOT BE REPEATED.

It had damn well better be.

DO NOT FORGET MR. FOSTER THAT YOU HAVE A SIZABLE PAYMENT COMING.
I WOULD HATE TO SEE YOU LOSE THAT WHEN THINGS ARE SO CLOSE.

<<<<<>>>>>

"Son of a bitch," Miles said out loud. "Son of a bitch."

"What's going on? Miles?" Perky followed him back to the couch
in front of the TV and sat close with her arm around him. She
was still crying softly.

"It's gonna start. That's amazing." He blankly stared forward.

"What's gonna start? Miles, did you kill someone?"

"Oh, no!" He turned to her in sincerity. "That bastard Homosoto
did. Jesus, I can't believe it."

"What are you involved in? I thought you were a consultant."

"I was. Tomorrow I will be a very rich retired consultant." He
pulled her hands into his and spoke warmly. "Listen, it's better
that your don't know what's going on, much better. But I promise
you, I promise you, that Homosoto is behind it, not me. I
couldn't ever kill anyone. You need to believe that."

"Miles, I do, but you seem to know more than . . ."

"I do, and I can't say anything. Trust me," he said as he
brought her close to him. "This will all work out for the best.
I promise you. Look at me," he said and pulled up her chin so she
gazed directly into his eyes. "I have a lot invested in you,
and this project. More than you could ever know, and now that it
is nearly over, I can put more time into you. After all, you
bear some of the responsibility." Miles' loving attitude was a
contradiction from his usual self centered pre-occupation.

"Me?" She asked.

"Who got me involved with Homosoto in the first place?" he said
glaring at her.

"I guess I did, but . . ."

"I know, I'm kidding," he said squeezing her closer. "I'm not
blaming you for anything. I didn't know he could resort to
murder, and if I did, I never would have gotten involved in the
first place."

"Miles, I love you." That was the first time in their years of
on-again off-again contact that she told him how she felt. Now
she had to decide if she would tell him that he was just another
assignment, and that in all likelihood she had just lost her job,
too. "I really do love you."

* * * * *

"The last goddamned time this happened was in the 1950's when
Puerto Rican revolutionaries started a shoot-em-up in the old
gallery," the President shouted.

Phil Musgrave and Quinton Chambers listened to the angry Presi-
dent. His tirade began minutes after he summoned them both to
his office. They were as frustrated and upset as he was, but it
was their job to listen until the President had blown off enough
steam.

"I am well aware a democracy, a true democracy is subject to
extremist activists, but," the President sighed, "this is getting
entirely out of hand. What is it about this computer stuff that
stirs up so much emotion?" He waited for an answer.

"I'm not sure that computers are to blame, sir," said Phil.
"First of all, the assailant used a ceramic pistol. No way for
our security to detect it without a physical search and that
wouldn't go over well with anyone." The brilliant Musgrave was
making a case for calm rationality in the light of the live
assassination attempt. "Second, at this point there is no con-
nection between Troubleaux and his attacker. We're not even 100%
sure that Troubleaux was the target."

"That's a crock Phil," asserted the President. "It doesn't take
a genius to figure out that there is an obvious connection be-
tween this computer crap and the Rickfield incident. I want to
know what it is, and I want to know fast."

"Sir," Chambers said quietly. "We have the FBI and the CIA
investigating, but until the perpetrator regains consciousness,
which may be doubtful because his spine was snapped in the fall,
we won't know too much."

The President frowned. "Does it seem odd to you that Mason, the
Times reporter was there with Troubleaux at the exact time he got
shot?"

"No sir, just a coincidence. It seems that computer crime has
been his hot button for a while," Musgrave said. "I don't think
he's involved at all."

"I'm not suggesting that," the President interrupted. "But he
does seem to be where the action is. I think it would be prudent
if we knew a bit more of his activities. Do I need to say more?"

"No sir. Consider it done."

****************************************************************

Chapter 22

Friday, January 8
Washington, D.C.

It seemed that everyone in the world wanted to speak to Scott at
once. The FBI spent an hour asking him inane questions. "Why did
you help him?" "Do you know Troubleaux?" "Why were you at the
hearings?" "Why didn't you sit with the rest of the press?"
"Where's your camera?" "Can we read your notes?"

Scott was cooperative, but he had his limits. "You're the one
who's been writing those computer stories, aren't you?" "What's
in this for you?"

Scott excused himself, not so politely. If you want me for any-
thing else, please contact the paper, he told the FBI agents who
had learned nothing from anyone else either.

He escaped from other reporters who wanted his reporter's in-
sight, thus learning what it was like to be hounded relentlessly
by the press. Damned pain in the ass, he thought, and damn
stupid questions. "How did you feel . . .?" "Were you
scared . . .?" "Why did you . . .?"

The exhausted Scott found the only available solace in a third
floor men's room stall where he wrote a piece for the paper on
his GRiD laptop computer. Nearly falling asleep on the toilet
seat, he temporarily refreshed himself with ice cold water from
the tap and changed from his bloodsoaked clothes into fresh jeans
and a pullover from his hanging bag that still burdoned him. One
reporter from the Washington Post thought himself lucky to have
found Scott in the men's room, but when Scott finished bombasting
him with his own verbal assault, the shell shocked reporter left
well enough alone.

After the Capital police were through questioning Scott, he
wanted to make a swift exit to the airport and get home. They
didn't detain him very long, realizing Scott would always be
available. Especially since this was news. His pocket shuttle
schedule showed there was a 6:30 flight to Westchester Airport;
he could then grab a limo home and be in bed by ten, that is if
the exhaustion didn't take over somewhere along the way.

Three days in Europe on next to no sleep. Rush back to public
Senate hearings that no one has ever heard about. Television
cameras appear, no one admits to calling the press, and then,
Pierre. He needed time to think, alone. Away from the conflict-
ing influences that were tearing at him.

On one hand his paper expected him to report and investigate the
news. On another, Tyrone wanted help on his investigation be-
cause official Washington had turned their backs on him. And
Spook. Spook. Why is that so familiar? Then he had to be honest
with his own feelings. What about this story had so captivated
him that he had let many of his other assignments go by the
wayside?

Doug was pleased with Scott's progress, and after today, well,
what editor wouldn't be pleased to have a potential star writer
on the National news. But Scott was drowning in the story.
There were too many pieces, from every conceivable direction,
with none too many of them fitting neatly together. He thought
of the ever determined Hurcule Poirot, Agatha Christie's detec-
tive, recalling that the answers to a puzzle came infinitely
easier to the fictional sleuth than to him.

Scott called into Doug.

"Are you all right?" Doug asked with concern but didn't wait for
an answer. "I got your message. Next time call me at home. I
thought you were going to be in Europe till Wednesday."

"Hold your horses," Scott said with agitation. Doug shut up and
listened to the distraught Scott. "I have the story all written
for you. Both of them are going into surgery and the Arab is in
pretty bad shape. The committee made itself scarce real fast and
there's no one else to talk to. I've had to make a career out of
avoiding reporters. Seems like I'm the only one left with noth-
ing to say." Doug heard the exhaustion in Scott's voice.

"Listen," Doug said with a supportive tone. "You've been doing a
bang up job, but I'm sending Ben down there to cover the assassi-
nation attempt. I want you to go to bed for 24 hours and that's
an order. I don't want to hear from you till Monday."

Scott gratefully acknowledged Doug's edict, and might have sug-
gested it himself if it weren't for his dedication to the story
he had spent months on already. "O.K.," Scott agreed. "I guess
not much will happen . . ."

"That's right. I want you fresh anyway," Doug said with vigor.
"If anything major comes up, I'll see that we call you. Fair
enough?"

Scott checked his watch as his cab got caught up in the slow late
afternoon rush hour traffic on the George Washington Parkway. If
he missed this flight, he thought, there was another one in an
hour. The pandemonium of Friday afternoon National Airport had
become legendary. Despite extensive new construction, express
services and modernized terminals, the airport designers in their
infinite wisdom had neglected in any way to improve the flow of
automobile traffic in and out of the airport.

As they approached, Scott could see the American terminal several
hundred yards away from his cab. They were stuck behind an
interminable line of other taxis, limousines, cars and mini-
busses that had been stacking for ten minutes. Scott decided to
hike the last few yards and he paid the driver who tried to talk
him into remaining till the ride was over. Scott weaved through
the standstill traffic jam until he saw the problem. So typical.
A stretch Mercedes 560, was blocking the only two lanes that were
passable. Worse yet, there was no one in the car. No driver, no
passengers. Several airport police were discussing their options
when a tall, slender black man, dressed in an impeccably tailored
brown suit came rushing from the terminal doors.

"Diplomatic immunity!" He called out with a thick, overbearing
Cambridge accent.

The startled policemen saw the man push several people to the
side, almost knocking one elderly woman to the ground. Scott
reached the Mercedes and stayed to watch the upcoming encounter

"I said, Diplomatic immunity," he said authoritatively. "Put
your tickets away."

"Sir, are you aware that your car has been blocking other cars
from . . ."

"Take it up with the Embassy," the man said as he roughly opened
the driver's door. "This car belongs to the Ambassador and he is
immune from your laws." He shut the door, revved the engine and
pulled out squealing his tires. Several pedestrians had to be
fleet of foot to miss being sideswiped.

"Fucking camel jockeys," said one younger policeman.

"He's from equatorial Africa, Einstein," said another.

"It's all the same to me. Foreigners telling us how to live our
lives," the third policeman said angrily.

"You know, I can get 10 days for spitting on the ground, but
these assholes can commit murder and be sent home a hero. It's a
fucking crime," the younger one agreed.

"O.K., guys, leave the politics to the thieves on Capital Hill.
Let's get this traffic moving," the senior policeman said as they
started the process of untangling airport gridlock.

Another day in the nation's capital, Scott thought. A melting
pot that echoed the days of Ellis Island. Scott carried his
briefcase, laptop computer and garment bag through the crowded
terminal and made a left to the men's room next to the new blue
neon bar. Drinks were poured especially fast in the National
Airport Bar. Fliers were traveling on such tight schedules that
they had to run to the bar, grab two quick ones and dash to the
gate. The new security regulations placed additional premiums on
drinking time. The bar accommodated their hurried needs well.
Scott put down his baggage next to the luggage pile and stole a
bar seat from a patron rushing off to catch his flight. One
helluva chaotic day. He ordered a beer, and sucked down half of
it at once. The thirst quenching was a superior experience.
Brain dulling would take a little longer.

The clamorous rumble of the crowd and the television blaring from
behind the bar further anesthetized Scott's racing mind. He
finally found himself engrossed in the television, blissfully
ignorant of all going on around him. Scott became so absorbed in
the local news that he didn't notice the striking blonde sit next
to him. She ordered a white wine and made herself comfortable
on the oversized stool.

Scott turned to the bartender and asked for another beer during
the commercial. It was then he noticed the gorgeous woman next
to him and her golden shoulder length hair. Lightly tanned skin
with delicate crow's feet at the edges of her penetrating blue
eyes gave no indication of her age. An old twenty to a remarka-
ble forty five. Stunning, he thought. Absolutely stunning. He
shook the thought off and returned his attention to the televi-
sion.

He heard the announcer from Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate.
"Topping tonight's stories, Shooting at Senate Hearing." The
picture changed from the anchorman to a live feed from outside
the New Senate Office Building, where Scott had just been.
"Bringing it to us live is Shauna Miller. Shauna?"

"Thank you Bill," she said looking straight into the camera
holding the microphone close to her chin. Behind her was a bevy
of police and emergency vehicles and their personnel in a flurry
of activity.

"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.