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.

"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 . . .

<<<<<<AUTOCRYPT CONVERSATION>>>>>>

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.

<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

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.

<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

* * * * *

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."

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