Chapter 3

Tuesday, September 8,

New York City

But they told me they wouldn't tell! They promised." Hugh Sidneys

pleaded into his side of the phone. "How did you find out?" At

first, Scott thought the cartoon voice was a joke perpetrated by

one of his friends, or more probably, his ex-wife. Even she,

though, coudn't possibly think crank a phone call was a twisted

form of art. No, it had to be real.

"I'm sorry Mr. Sidneys. We can't give out our sources. That's

confidential. But are you saying that you confirm the story?

That it is true?"

"Yes, no. Well ," the pleading slid into near sobbing. "If this

gets out, I'm ruined. Ruined. Everything, my family . . .how

could you have found out? They promised!" The noise from the

busy metro room at the New York City Times made it difficult to

hear Sidneys.

"Can I quote you, sir? Are you confirming the story?" Scott

pressed on for that last requisite piece of every journalistic

puzzle confirmation of a story that stood to wreck havoc in

portions of the financial community. And Washington. It was a

story with meat, but Scott Mason needed the confirmation to

complete it.

"I don't know. . .if I tell what I know now, then maybe . . .that

would mean I was being helpful . . .maybe I should get a

lawyer . . ." The call from Scott Mason to First State Savings

and Loan on Madison Avenue had been devastating. Hugh Sidneys was

just doing what he was told to do. Following orders.

"Maybe, Hugh. Maybe." Scott softened toward Sidneys, thinking

the first name approach might work. "But, is it true, Hugh? Is

the story true?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. Do what you want." Hugh Sidneys

hung up on Mason. It was as close to a confirmation as he need-

ed. He wrote the story.

* * * * *

At 39, Scott Byron Mason was already into his second career.

Despite the objections of his overbearing father, he had avoided

the family destiny of becoming a longshoreman. "If it's good

enough for me, it's good enough for my kids." Scott was an only

child, but his father had wanted more despite his mother's ina-

bility to carry another baby to full term.

Scott caught the resentment of his father and the doting protec-

tion of his mother. Marie Elizabeth Mason wanted her son to have

more of a future than to merely live another generation in the

lower middle class doldrums of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Not

that Scott was aware of his predicament; he was a dreamer.

Her son showed aptitude. By the age of six Scott knew two words

his father never learned - how and why. His childhood curiosity

led to more than a few mishaps and spankings by the hot tempered

Louis Horace Mason. Scott took apart everything in the house in

an attempt to see what made it tick. Sometimes, not often

enough, Scott could reassemble what he broken down to its small-

est components. Despite his failings and bruised bottom Scott

wasn't satisfied with, "that's just the way it is," as an answer

to anything.

Behind his father's back, Marie had Scott take tests and be

accepted to the elite Bronx High School of Science, an hour and a

half train ride from Brooklyn. To Scott it wasn't an escape from

Brooklyn, it was a chance to learn why and how machines worked.

Horace gave Marie and Scott a three day silent treatment until

his mother finally put an end to it. "Horace Stipton Mason,"

Evelyn Mason said with maternal command. "Our son has a gift,

and you will not, I repeat, you will not interfere with his

happiness."

"Yes dear."

"The boy is thirteen and he has plenty of time to decide what

he's going to do with himself. Is that clear?"

"Yes dear."

"Good." She would say as she finished setting the table. "Dinner

is ready. Wash your hands boys." And the subject was closed.

But throughout his four years at the best damn high school in the

country, Horace found ample opportunity to pressure Scott about

how it was the right thing to follow in the family tradition, and

work at the docks, like the three generations before him.

The issue was never settled during Scott's rebellious teenage

years. The War, demonstrating on the White House lawn, getting

gassed at George Washington, writing for the New York Free Press,

Scott was even arrested once or twice or three times for peaceful

civil disobedience. Scott Mason was seeing the world in a new

way. He was rapidly growing up, as did much of the class of

1970.

Scott's grades weren't good enough for scholorships, but adequate

to be accepted at several reasonable schools.

"I already paid for his education," screamed Horace upon hearing

that Scott chose City College to keep costs down. He would live

at home. "He broke every damn thing I ever bought, radios, TV's,

washers. He can go to work like a man."

With his mother's blessing and understanding, Scott moved out of

the house and in with three roommates who also attended City

College, where all New Yorkers can get a free education. Scott

played very hard, studied very little and let his left of center

politics guide his social life. His engineering professors

remarked that he was underutilizing his God-given talents and

that he spent more time protesting and objecting that paying

attention. It was an unpredictable piece of luck that Scott

Mason would never have to make a living as an engineer. He would

be able to remain the itinerate tinkerer; designing and building

the most inane creations that regularly had little purpose beyond

satisfying technical creativity.

"Can we go with it?" Scott asked City Editor Douglas McQuire and

John Higgins, the City Times' staff attorney whose job it was to

answer just such questions. McQuire and Mason had been asked to

join Higgins and publisher Anne Manchester to review the paper's

position on running Mason's story. Scott was being lawyered, the

relatively impersonal cross examination by a so-called friendly

in-house attorney. It was the single biggest pain in the ass of

Scott's job, and since he had a knack for finding sensitive sub-

jects, he was lawyered fairly frequently. Not that it made him

feel any less like being called to the principal's office every

time.

Scott's boyish enthusiasm for his work, and his youthful appear-

ance allowed some to underestimate his ability. He looked much

younger than his years, measuring a slender 6 foot tall and shy

of 160 pounds. His longish thin sandy hair and a timeless all

about Beach Boy face made him a good catch on his better days-

he was back in circulation at almost 40. The round wire rimmed

glasses he donned for an extreme case of myopia were a visible

stylized reminder of his early rebel days, conveying a sophisti-

cated air of radicalism. Basically clean cut, he preferred shav-

ing every two or three, or occasionally four days. He blamed his

poor shaving habits on his transparent and sensitive skin 'just

like Dick Nixon's'.

The four sat in Higgins' comfortable dark paneled office. With 2

walls full of books and generous seating, the ample office resem-

bled an elegant and subdued law library. Higgins chaired the

meeting from behind his leather trimmed desk. Scott brought a

tall stack of files and put them on the glass topped coffee

table.

"We need to go over every bit, from the beginning. OK?" Higgins

made it sound more like and order than responsible journalistic

double checking. Higgins didn't interfere in the news end of the

business; he kept his opinions to himself. But it was his respon-

sibility to insure that the City Times' was kept out of the re-

ceiving end of any litigation. That meant that as long as a

story was properly researched, sourced, and confirmed, the con-

tents were immaterial to him. That was the Publisher's choice,

not his.

Mason had come to trust Higgins in his role as aggravating media-

tor between news and business. Scott might not like what he had

to say, but he respected his opinion and didn't argue too much.

Higgins was never purposefully adversarial. He merely wanted to

know that both the writers and the newspaper had all their ducks

in a row. Just in case. Libel suits can be such a pain, and

expensive.

"Why don't you tell me, again, about how you found out about the

McMillan scams." Higgins turned on a small micro-cassette re-

corder. "I hope you don't mind," he said as he tested it. "Keeps

better notes than I do," he offhandedly said. Nobody objected.

There would have been no point in objecting even if anyone cared.

It was an unspoken truism that Higgins and other good attorneys

taped many of their unofficial depositions to protect themselves

in case anything went terribly wrong. With a newspaper as your

sole client, the First Amendment was always at stake.

"OK," Scott began. His reporter's notebook sat atop files full

of computer printouts. "A few days ago, on September 4, that's

a Friday, I got an anonymous call. The guy said, 'You want some

dirt on McMillan and First State S&L?' I said sure, what do you

have and who is this?"

"So then you knew who Francis McMillan was?" Higgins looked up

surprised.

"Of course," Mason said. "He's the squeaky clean bank President

from White Plains. Says he knows how to clean up the S&L mess,

gets lots of air time. Probably making a play for Washington.

Big time political ambitions. Pretty well connected at Treasury.

I guess they listen to him."

"In a nutshell." Higgins agreed. "And . . .then?"

Mason sped through a couple of pages of scribbled notes from his

pad. "My notes start here. 'Who I am don't matter but what I

gotta say does. You interested'. Heavy Brooklyn accent, docks,

Italian, who knows. I said something like, 'I'm listening' and

he says that McMillan is the dirtiest of them all. He's been

socking more money away than the rest and he's been doing it real

smart. So I go, 'so?' and he says he can prove it and I say

'how' and he says 'read your morning mail'." Mason stopped

abruptly.

"That's it?" Higgins asked.

"He hung up. So I forgot about it till the next morning."

"And that's when you got these?" Higgins said pointing at the

stack of computer printouts in front of Mason. "How were they

delivered?"

"By messenger. No receipt, nothing. Just my name and the pa-

per's." Mason showed Higgins the envelop in which the files came.

"Then you read them?"

"Well not all of them, but enough." Scott glanced at his editor.

"That's when I let Doug know what I had."

"And what did he say?" Higgins was keeping furious notes to back

up the tape recording.

"'Holy shit', as I remember." Everyone laughed. Ice breakers,

good for the soul, thought Mason. People are too uptight.

Higgins indicated that Scott should continue.

"Then he said 'we gotta go slow on this one,' then he whistled

and Holy Shat some more." Once the giggles died down, Mason got

serious. "I borrowed a bean counter from the basement, told him

I'd put his name in the paper if anything came of it, and I

picked his brain. Ran through the numbers on the printouts, and

ran through them again. I really worked that poor guy, but

that's the price of fame. By the next morning we knew that there

were two sets of books on First State." Mason turned a couple

pages in his files.

"It appears," Scott said remembering that he was selling the

importance of the story to legal and the publisher, "that a

substantial portion of the bank's assets are located in numbered

bank accounts all over the world." Scott said with finality.

Higgins interrupted here. "So what's wrong with that?" he chal-

lenged.

"They've effectively stolen a sandbagged and inflated reserve ac-

count with over $750 Million it. Almost 10% of stated assets.

It appears from these papers," Scott waved his hand over them,

"that the total of the reserve accounts will be taken, as a loss,

in their next SEC reporting." Mason stopped and looked at Hig-

gins as though Higgins would understand everything.

Higgins snorted as he made more notes.

"That next morning," Mason politely ignored Higgins, "I got a

call again, from what sounded like the same guy."

"Why do you say that? How did you know?" Higgins inquired.

Mason sighed. "Cause he said, 'it's me remember?' and spoke like

Archie Bunker. Good enough for you?" Mason grinned wide. Mason

had the accent down to a tee. Higgins gave in to another round

of snickers.

"He said, 'you like, eh?'" Mason spoke with an exaggerated New

York accent and used the appropriate Italian hand gesture for

'eh!'. "I said, 'I like, but so what?' I still wasn't sure

what he wanted. He said, 'they never took a loss, yet. Look for

Friday. This Friday. They're gonna lose a bunch.' I said, 'how

much' and he said, 'youse already know.'" Mason's imitation of a

Brooklyn accent was good enough for a laugh.

"He then said, 'enjoy the next installment', and that was the

last time I spoke to him. At any rate, the next package con-

tained a history of financial transactions, primarily overseas;

Luxembourg, Lietchenstein, Switzerland, Austria, Hong Kong,

Sidney, Macao, Caymans and such. They show a history of bad

loans and write downs on First State revenues.

"Well, I grabbed the Beanie from the Basement and said, help me

with these now, and I got research to come up with the 10K's on

First State since 1980 when McMillan took over. And the results

were incredible." Mason held out a couple of charts and some

graphs.

"We compared both sets of books. The bottom lines on both are

the same. First State has been doing very well. McMillan has

grown the company from $1 Billion to $12 Billion in 8 years.

Quite a job, and the envy of hundreds of every other S&L knee

deep in their own shit." Higgins cringed. He thought Ms. Man-

chester should be shielded from such language. "The problem is

that, according to one set of books, First State is losing money

on some investments merely by wishing them away. They disappear

altogether from one report to the next. Not a lot of money, but

a few million here and there."

"What have you got then?" Higgins pressed.

"Nobody notices cause the losses are all within the limits of the

loss projections and reserve accounts. Sweet and neat! Million

dollar embezzlement scam with the SEC's approval."

"How much follow up did you do?" Higgins asked as his pen fly

across the legal pad.

"Due to superior reporting ability," Scott puffed up his chest in

jest, "I found that a good many account numbers listed in the

package I received are non-existent. But, with a little prod-

ding, I did get someone to admit that one of them was recently

closed and the funds moved elsewhere.

"Then, this is the clincher, as the caller promised, today, I

looked for the First State SEC reports, and damned if the numbers

didn't jive. The books with the overseas accounts are the ones

with the real losses and where they occur. The 'real' books

don't."

"The bottom line, please."

"Someone has been embezzling from First State, and when they're

through it'll be $3 Billion worth." Scott was proud of himself.

In only a few days he had penetrated a huge scam in the works.

"You can't prove it!" Higgins declared. "Where's the proof? All

you have is some unsolicited papers where someone has been play-

ing a very unusual and admittedly questionable game of 'what if'.

You have a voice on the end of a phone with no name, no nothing,

and a so-called confirmation from some mid-level accountant at

the bank who dribbles on about 'having to do it' but never saying

what 'it' is. So what does that prove?"

"It proves that McMillan is a fraud, a rip-off," Scott retorted

confidently.

"It does not!"

"But I have the papers to prove it," Scott shuffled through the

folders.

"Let me explain something, Scott." Higgins put down his pen and

adapted a friendlier tone. "There's a little legal issue called

right to privacy. Let me ask you this. If I came to you and

said that Doug here was a crook, what would you do?"

"Ask you to prove it," Scott said.

"Exactly. It's the same here."

"But I have the papers to prove it, it's in black and white."

"No Scott, you don't. What you have is some papers with accusa-

tions. They're unsubstantiated. They could have easily been

phonied. You know what computers can do better than I do. Now

here's the key point. Everybody in this country is due privacy.

You don't know where these came from, or how they were obtained,

do you?"

"No," Scott hesitantly admitted.

"So, someone's privacy has been compromised, in this case McMil-

lan's. If, and I'm saying, if, these reports are accurate, I

would take the position that they are stolen, obtained illegally.

If we publish with what we have now, the paper could be on the

receiving end of a slander and libel suit that could put us out

of business. We even could be named as a co-conspirator in a

criminal suit. I can't let that happen. It's our obligation to

guarantee responsible journalism."

"I see." Scott didn't agree.

"Scott, you're good, real good, but you have to see it from the

paper's perspective." Higgins' tone was now conciliatory. "This

is hard stuff, and there's just not enough here, not to go with

it yet. Maybe in a few days when you can get a little more to

tie it up. Not now. I'm sorry."

Case closed.

Shit, shit shit, thought Scott. Back to square one.

Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close. At

five foot five with wisps of brown scattered over his balding

pate, he only lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the image.

His bargain basement suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather

than walked down the hallways at First State Savings and Loan

where he had been employed since graduating from SUNY with a

degree in accounting twenty four years ago.

His large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out of

place on the subways at New York rush hour. His loyalty to First

State was known throughout the financial departments; he was

almost a fixture. His accounting skills were extremely strong,

even remarkable if you will, but his personality and appearance,

and that preposterous cartoon voice, held him back from advancing

up the official corporate ladder.

Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.

He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind

of predicament before . . .he thought about the

lawyer . . .hiring one like he told that reporter . . .but could

he afford that . . .and he wasn't sure what to do . . .was he in

trouble? Yes, he was . . .he knew that. That reporter . . .he

sounded like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he was

just asking questions . . .what was his name . . .?

"Ah, Mr. Mason?" Scott heard the timid man's Road Runner voice

spoke gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his desk

from Higgins' office. It was after 6P.M. and time to catch a

train back home to Westchester.

"This is Scott Mason."

"Do you remember me?"

Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.

"We spoke earlier about First State, and I

just . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . . .apologize . . .for the

way I acted."

Scott's confirmation. Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman sounding

beancounter from First State. What did he want?

"Yes, of course, Mr. Sidneys. How can I help you?" He opened

his notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to

go home. But Sidneys . . .maybe . . .

"It's just that, well, I'm nervous about this . . ."

"No need to apologize, Hugh." Scott smiled into the phone to

convey sincerity. "I understand, it happens all the time. What

can I do for you tonight?"

"Well, I, ah, thought that we might, maybe you could, well I

don't know about help, help, it's so much and I didn't really

know, no I shouldn't have called . . .I'm sorry . . ." The pitch

of Sidneys' voice rose as rambled on.

"Wait! Don't hang up. Mr. Sidneys. Mr. Sidneys?"

"Yes," the whisper came over the earpiece.

"Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?" The fear, the

sound of fear that every good reporter is attuned to came over

loud and clear. This man was terrified.

"Yes, I'm OK, so far."

"Good. Now, tell me, what's wrong. Slowly and calmly." He

eased Sidneys off his panic perch.

Scott heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the nerve to

speak.

"Isn't there some sorta rule," he stuttered, "a law, that says if

I talk to you, you're a reporter, and if I say that I don't want

you to tell anybody, then you can't?" Sidneys was scared, but

wanted to talk to someone. Maybe this was the time for Scott to

back off a little. He stretched out and put his feet up on his

desk, making him feel and sound more relaxed, less pressured.

According to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in his brain

and if wanted to convey calm on the phone, he merely had to

assume the position.

"That's called off the record, Hugh. And it's not a law." Scott

was amused at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys showed. "It's a

gentleman's agreement, a code of ethics in journalism. You can

be off the record, on the record, or for background, not for

attribution, for confirmation, there's a whole bunch of 'em."

Scott realized that Hugh knew nothing about the press so he

explained the options slowly. "Which one would you like?" Scott

wanted it to seem that Sidneys was in control and making the

rules.

"How about we just talk, and you tell me what I should

do . . .what you think . . .and . . .I don't want anything in the

paper. You have one for that?" Hugh was feeling easier on the

phone with Scott.

"Sure do. We'll just call it off the record for now. Everything

you tell me, I promise not to use it without your permission.

Will that do?" Scott smiled broadly. If you speak loudly with a

big smile on your face, people on the other end of the phone

think you're honest and that you mean what you say. That's how

game show hosts do it.

"OK." Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. "Those papers you say

you have? Remember?"

"Sure do. Got them right here." Scott patted them on his clut-

tered desk.

"Well, you can't have them. Or you shouldn't have them. I mean

it's impossible." Hugh was getting nervous again. His voice

nearly squeaked.

"Hugh, I do have them, and you all but confirmed that for me

yesterday. A weak confirmation, but I think you know more than

you let on . . ."

"Mr. Mason . . ."

"Please, call me Scott!"

"OK . . .Scott. What I'm trying to say is that what you say you

have, you can't have cause it never existed."

"What do you mean never existed?" Scott was confused, terribly

confused all of sudden. He raised his voice. "Listen, I have

reams of paper here that say someone at First State is a big

crook. Then you say, 'sure it's real' and now you don't. What's

your game, Mister?" Playing good-cop bad-cop alone was diffi-

cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to reality.

"Obviously you have them, that's not the point." Sidneys reacted

submissively to Scott's ersatz domineering personality. "The

only place that those figures ever existed was in my mind and in

my computer. I never made a printout. They were never put on

paper." Hugh said resolutely.

Scott's mind whirred. Something is wrong with this picture. He

has papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose sta-

bility is currently in question. The contents would have far

reaching effects on the S&L issue. A highly visible tip of the

iceberg. McMillan, involved in that kind of thing? Never, not

Mr. Clean. What was Sidneys getting at?

"Mr. Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a cup of

coffee somewhere. It might be easier if we sat face to face.

Get to know each other."

Rosie's Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson

River docks on Manhattan's West Side. The silver interior and

exterior was not a cliche when this diner was built. Rosie, all

280 pounds of her, kept the UPS truckers coming back for over

thirty years. A lot of the staff at the paper ate here, too.

For the best tasting cholesterol in New York, saturated fats,

bacon and sausage grease flavored starches, Rosie's was the

place. Once a month at Rosie's would guarantee a reading of over

300.

Scott recognized Hugh from a distance. No one came in there

dressed. Had to be an accountant. Hugh hugged his briefcase

while nervously looking around the diner. Scott called the short

pale man over to the faded white formica and dull chrome booth.

Hugh ordered a glass of water, while Scott tried to make a light

dinner of it.

"So, Hugh, please continue with what you were telling me on the

phone." Scott tried to sound empathetic.

"It's like I said, I don't know how you got them or they found

out. It's impossible." The voice was uncannily like Pebbles

Flintstone in person.

"Who found out? Does someone else know . . .?"

"OK," Hugh sighed. "I work for First State, right? I work right

with McMillan although nobody except a few people know it. They

think I do market analysis and research. What I'm really doing

is helping shelter money in offshore investment accounts. There

are some tax benefits, I'm not a tax accountant so I don't know

the reasons, but I manage the offshore investments."

"Did you think that was illegal?"

"Only a little. Until recently that is."

"Sorry, continue." Scott nibbled from the sandwich on his plate.

"Well there was only one set of books to track the offshore

investments. They wanted them to be kept secret for various

reasons. McMillan and the others made the deals, not me. I just

moved the money for them." Again Hugh was feeling paranoid.

"Hugh, you moved some money around illegally, maybe. So what?

What's the big deal?" Scott gulped some hot black coffee to

chase the pastrami that almost went down the wrong pipe.

Sidneys continued after sipping his water and wetting his lips.

"Four days ago I got this call, from some Englishman who I'd

never spoken to before. He said he has all the same figures and

facts you said you have. He starts reading enough to me and I

know he's got what he says he got. Then he says he wants me to

cooperate or he'll go public with everything and blow it right

out of the water." Hugh was perspiring with tension. His fists

were clenched and knuckles white.

"And then, I called you and you came unglued. Right?" Scott was

trying to emotionally console Hugh, at least enough to get some-

thing more. "Do you think you were being blackmailed? Did he,

the English guy, demand anything? Money? Bribes? Sex?" Scott

grinned. Hugh obviously did not appreciate the attempt at levi-

ty.

"No, nothing. He just said that I would hear from him shortly.

That was it. Then, nothing, until you called. Then I figured I

missed his call." Hugh was working himself into another nervous

frenzy.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No. Not directly. Just said that it would be in my best inter-

est to cooperate."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? I mumbled something about doing nothing wrong

but he said that didn't matter and I would be blamed for every-

thing and that he could prove it."

"Could he prove it?" Hugh was scribbling furiously in his note-

book.

"If he had the files in my computer I guess I would look pretty

guilty, but there's no way anyone could get in there. I'm the

only one, other than McMillan who can get at that stuff. It's

always been a big secret. We don't even make any printouts of

it. It's never on paper, just in the computer." Hugh fell back

in the thinly stuffed torn red Naugahyde bench seat and gulped

from his water glass.

Scott shook his head as he scanned the notes he had been making.

This didn't make any sense at all. Here was this little nerdy

man, with a convoluted tale of embezzlement and blackmail, off

shore money and he was scared. "Hugh," Scott began slowly. "Let

me see if I've got this right. You were part of a scheme to

shift investments overseas, falsify reports, yet the investments

always made a reasonable return in investment." Hugh nodded in

agreement silently.

"Then, after how many, eight years of this, creating a secret

little world that only you and McMillan know about . . ."

"A few others knew, I have the names, but only McMillan could get

the information from the computer. No one else could. I set it

up that way on purpose." Hugh interrupted.

"OK, then you receive a call from some Englishman who says he's

got the numbers you say are so safe and then I get a copy. And

the numbers agree with the results that First State reported. Is

that about it?" Scott asked, almost mocking the apparent absurd-

ity.

"Yeah, that's it. That's what happened." Hugh Sidneys was

such a meek man.

"That leaves me with a couple of possible conclusions. One, you

got yourself in over your head, finally decided to cut your

losses and make up this incredible story. Maybe make a deal

with the cops or the Feds and try to be hero. Maybe you're the

embezzler and want out before it's too late. Born again bean-

counter. It's a real possibility." Hugh's face grimaced; no,

that's not what happened, it's just as I told you.

"Or, two, McMillan is behind the disclosures and is now effec-

tively sabotaging his own plans. For what reasons I could hardly

venture a guess now. But, if what you are saying is true, it's

either you or McMillan." Scott liked the analysis. It was sound

and took into account all available information, omitting any

speculation.

"Then why would someone want to threaten me?

"Either you never got the call," the implication was obvious, "or

McMillan is trying, quite effectively to spook you." Scott put a

few dollars on the table next to the check.

"That's it? You won't say anything, will you? You promised!"

Hugh leaned into Scott, very close.

Scott consoled Hugh with a pat on his wrinkled suit sleeve. "Not

without speaking to you first. No, that wouldn't be cricket.

Don't worry, I'll call you in a couple of days."

His editor, Doug McGuire agreed that Scott should keep on it.

There might be a story there, somewhere. Go find it. But don't

forget about the viruses.

* * * * *

The headline of the National Expos

, a weekly tabloid caught

Scott's attention on his way home that evening in Grand Central

Station.

EXCLUSIVE! S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!

Scott's entire story, the one he wasn't permitted to print was

being read by millions of mid-American supermarket shopping

housewives. In its typically sensationalistic manner, the arti-

cle claimed that the Expose was in exclusive possession of

documents that proved McMillan was stealing 10's of millions from

First State S&L. It even printed a fuzzy picture of the same

papers that Scott had received. How the hell?

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