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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"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.

"Yeah?" Templer said gruffly into the mouthpiece.

"Martin?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Alex."

Templer had almost forgotten about their meeting. "Will small
wonders never cease. Where have you been?"

"Still in Europe. I've been looking for some answers as we dis-
cussed."

"Great! What have you got?" Templer grabbed a legal pad.

"Nothing," Alex said with finality. "Nothing. Nobody knows of
any such operation, not even a hint." Alex had mastered the art
of lying twenty years ago. "But I'll tell you," he added, "I
think that you may be on to something."

"If there's nothing, how can there be something?" asked Martin
Templer.

This was Alex's opportunity to throw the CIA further off the
track. Since he and Martin were friends, as much as is possible
in this line of work, Alex counted on being believed, at least
for a while. "Everybody denies any activity and that in itself
is unusual. Even if nothing is happening, enough of the snitches
on the street will claim to be involved to bolster their own
credibility. However, my friend, I doubt a handful even know
about your radiation, but it has gotten a lot of people thinking.
I get the feeling that if they didn't know about your problems,
they will soon enough. I wish I could be of further help, but it
was all dead ends."

"I understand. It happens; besides it was a long shot," Martin
sighed. "Do me a favor, and keep your eyes and ears open."

"I will, and this one is on the house," said Alex.

After he hung up something struck Martin as terribly wrong. In
twenty years Alex had never, ever, done anything for free. Being
a true mercenary, it wasn't in his character to offer assistance
to anyone without sufficient motivation, and that meant money.
Martin noted the event, and reminded himself to include that in
his report to the Director.

* * * * *

The television coverage of the Senate hearings left Taki Homosoto
with radically different emotions. He had to deal with them both
immediately.

DIALING . . .
<<<<<>>>>>

I AM NOT PLEASED.

Ahmed Shah heard his communications computer beep at him. He
pushed the joystick control on his wheelchair and steered over to
read Homosoto's message.

Greetings

THAT WAS A MOST SLOPPY JOB.

Some things cannot be helped.

WHY IS HE NOT DEAD?

It was a difficult hit.

IS THAT WHAT YOU TELL ARAFAT WHEN YOU MISS?

I do not work for Arafat.

YOUR MAN IS ALIVE TOO.

Yes, fortunately.

NO, THAT IS UNFORTUNATE. ELIMINATE HIM. AND MAKE SURE THAT
TROUBLEAUX IS TAKEN CARE OF. HE MUST NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE.

He is in a coma.

PEOPLE WAKE UP. I DO NOT WANT HIM TO WAKE UP.

It will be done. I promise you.

I DO NOT WANT PROMISES. I WANT THEM BOTH DEAD. TROUBLEAUX MUST
NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK TO ANYONE. IS THAT CLEAR?

Yes, it will be done.

FOR YOUR SAKE I HOPE SO. I DO NOT TOLERATE SLOPPINESS.

<<<<<>>>>>

Homosoto dialed his computer again, to a number inside Germany.
The encryption and privacy keys were automatically set before
Alex Spiradon's computer answered. To Homosoto's surprise, Alex
was there.

MR ALEX.

Yes.

CONGRATULATIONS. RICKFIELD IS BEING MOST COOPERATIVE.

He has many reasons to.

MILLIONS OF REASONS.

We merely gave him the incentive to cooperate. I do not expect
that he will maintain his position for very long.

YOUR HANDLING OF HIM HAS BEEN EXCELLENT. I HAVE NOT SEEN A U.S.
NEWSPAPER. HOW DO THEY REACT TO HIS COMMITTEE?

He took a small beating from a couple of papers, but nothing
damaging. It's the way Washington works.

WHO IS SENATOR DEERE? SHE COULD PRESENT A PROBLEM.

I don't think so. Between her and Rickfield, the sum total will
be a big zero. There will be confusion and dissension. I think
it works in our favor.

I WILL FOLLOW THE PROGRESS WITH INTEREST. WHEN ARE THE HEARINGS
TO CONTINUE?

Next week. One other thing. You asked that I get to Scott.
Consider it done. You found a most attractive weakness and he
succumbed instantly. But, I should say, I don't think it was
necessary. He is doing fine on his own.

I THINK IT IS NECESSARY. IT IS DONE?

We have a conduit.

KEEP THE PIPELINE FULL.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

Sunday, January 10
New York City Times

What's wrong with Ford?
by Scott Mason

Ford is facing the worst public relations disaster for an automo-
bile manufacturer since the Audi acceleration problem made inter-
national news.

Last month in Los Angeles alone, over 1200 Ford Taurus and Mer-
cury Sable cars experienced a total breakdown of the electrical
system. Radios as well as anti-skid braking controls and all
other computer controlled functions in the automobiles ceased
working.

To date, no deaths have been attributed to the car's epidemic
failures.

Due to the notoriety and questions regarding the safety of the
cars, sales of Taurus's have plummeted by almost 80%. Unlike the
similar Audi situation where the alleged problem was found in
only a few isolated cases, the Taurus failures have been wide-
spread and catastrophically sudden.

According to Ford, "There has never been a problem with the
Taurus electronics' system. We are examining all possibilities
in determining the real cause of the apparant failures."

What else can Ford say?

* * * * *

Chrysler Struck by Ford Failures
by Scott Mason

Chrysler cars and mini-vans have been experiencing sudden elec-
trical malfunctions . . .

* * * * *

Mercedes Electrical Systems Follow Ford
by Scott Mason

Mercedes owners have already organized a legal entity to force
the manufacturer to find answers as to why so many Mercedes are
having sudden electrical failures. Following in the footsteps of
Ford and Chrysler, this is the first time that Mercedes has not
issued an immediate 'Fix' to its dealer. Three deaths were
reported when . . .

* * * * *

Sunday January 10
National Security Agency

"What do you make of this Mason piece?"

"I'd like to know where the hell he gets his information," said
the aide. "That's what I make of it."

"Someone's obviously leaking it to him," Marvin Jacobs, Director
of the National Security Agency, said to his senior aid. "Some-
one with access to a great deal of sensitive data." The disdain
in his voice was unmistakable.

Even though it was Sunday, it was not unusual for him to be at
his office. His more private endeavors could be more discreetly
pursued. A three decade career at the Agency had culminated in
his appointment to the Directorship, a position he had eyed for
years.

"We have specialists who use HERF technology," the aide said.
"It's more or less a highly focused computer-gun. An RF field on
the order of 200 volts per meter is sufficient to destroy most
electrical circuits. Literally blow them up from the inside
out."

"Spare me the details."

"Sir, we can stop a car from a thousand yards by pointing elec-
tricity at it."

"I don't really care about the details."

"You should, sir. There's a point to this . . ."

"Well, get on with it." Jacobs was clearly annoyed.

"Unlike the EMP-T technology which is very expensive and on the
absolute edge of our capabilities . . ."

"And someone elses . . ."

"Granted," the aide said, sounding irritated with the constant
interruptions. "But HERF can be generated cheaply by anyone with
an elementary knowledge of electronics. The government even
sells surplus radio equipment that will do the job quite nicely."

Jacobs smiled briefly.

"You look pleased," the aide said with surprise.

Jacobs hid his pleasure behind a more serious countenance. "Oh,
no, it's just the irony of it all. We've been warning them for
years and now it's happening."

"Who, sir?"

"Never mind," Jacobs said, dismissing the thought momentarily.
"Go on."

Jacobs arrogantly leaned back in his executive chair, closed his
eyes and folded his hands over his barrel chest. This was his
way of telling subordinates to talk, spill their guts.

"The real worry about cheap HERF is what it can do in the wrong
hands." The aide obliged the ritual. "One transmitter and
antenna in a small truck can wipe out every computer on main
street during a leisurely drive. Cash registers, electric type-
writers, alarms, phones, traffic lights . . .anything electronic
a HERF is pointed at, Poof! Good as dead. What if someone used a
HERF gun at an airport, pointing up? Or at the tower? From up to
a distance of over a kilometer, too. Ten kilometers with better
equipment."

"So it works," muttered Jacobs so softly under his breath his
aide didn't hear.

"It's reminiscent of drive-by shootings by organized crime. In
this case, though, the target is slightly different."

"I see." Jacobs kept his eyes closed as the aide patiently
waited for his boss to say something or allow him to return to
his family. "I gather we use similar tools ourselves?"

"Yessir. Very popular technique. Better kept quiet."

"Not any more. Not any more."

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

Chapter 23

Monday, January 11
Washington, D.C.

I don't think you're gonna be pleased," Phil Musgrave said at
their early morning conclave, before the President's busy day
began.

"What else is new?" asked the President acerbically. "Why should
I have an easy today any more than any other day?" His dry wit
often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had
been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre-
coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from
the silver service. "What is it?"

"Computers."

The President groaned. "Don't you ever long for the old days
when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a
hundred beads on rods?"

Musgrave ignored his boss's frustration. "Over the weekend, sir,
we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered
non-random in nature," Musgrave said cautiously.

"In English, Phil," insisted the President.

"MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon
has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command
and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET."

The President sighed. "Damage report?"

"About a month. We didn't lose anything too sensitive, but
that's not the embarrassing part."

"If that's not, then what is?"

"The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data
Network?" The President indicated to continue. "The Central
Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over
100,000 records erased. Gone."

"And?" The President said wearily.

"The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports
of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings." The
President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to.
"It appears that we'll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion
in revenues."

"Christ! That's it!" The President shouted. "Enough is enough.
The two weeks is up as of this moment." He shook his head with
his eyes closed in disbelief. "How the hell can this
happen . . .?" he asked rhetorically.

"Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press.
We need plausible deniability . . ."

"Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No
leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is
for the public to think that we can't protect our own computers
and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I
will personally behead the offender," the President said with
intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade
meant what he said.

"Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows
about this?"

"Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this
completely out of the public eye."

"Isolate them."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them
it'll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you
want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge."

"Yessir."

"Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on."

* * * * *

Monday, January 11
Approaching New York City

Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings
were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after
dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart
from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they
had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were
rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash.
While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man
could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going
on next to no rest.