Chapter 5
Monday, September 14
New York City
Doug! Doug!" Scott hollered across the city room. As in most
newspaper offices, the constant scurry of people bumping into
each other while reading and walking gave the impression of more
activity than there really was. Desks were not in any particular
pattern, but it wasn't totally chaotic either. Every desk had at
least one computer on it. Some two or three. Scott pushed back
into place those that he dislodged while running to McGuire's
desk.
Doug McGuire noticed the early hour, 8:39 A.M. on the one wall
clock that gave Daylight Savings Time for the East Coast. The
other dozen or so clocks spanned the time zones of the globe. It
wasn't like Scott to be his energetic youthful self before noon.
"Doug, I need you." Scott shouted from 3 desks away. "It'll just
take a minute."
Scott nearly dragged the balding, overweight, sometimes harsh 60
year old Doug McGuire across the newsroom. They abruptly halted
in front of Scott's desk. Boxes full of files everywhere; on the
floor, piled 3 or 4 high, on his desk. "Will you look at this.
Just look at this!" He stuck a single sheet of paper too close
into Doug's face. Doug pushed it away to read it out loud.
McGuire read from the page. "A Message from a Fan. Thanks." Doug
looked perplexed. He motioned at the paper hurricane on Scott's
desk. "So, what is this mess? Where did it come from?"
Scott spoke excitedly. "I got another delivery, about an hour
ago. I think it's from the same guy who sent the McMillan
stuff." He perused the boxes.
"Why do you say that?" Doug asked curiously.
"Because of what's in here. I haven't been able to go through
much of it, obviously, but I scanned through a few of the boxes.
There's dirt on almost every company in the Fortune 1000. Copies
of memoranda, false figures, confidential position statements,
the truth behind a lot of PR scandals, it goes on and on.
There's even a copy of some of the shredded Ollie North papers.
Or so they say they are. Who knows. But, God! There are notes
about behind the scene plays on mergers, who's screwing who to
get deals done . . .it's all here. A hundred years of stories
right here . . .".
"Let's see what we've got here." Doug was immediately hooked by
the treasure trove of potential in from of them coupled with
Scott's enthusiasm. The best stories come from the least likely
places. No reporter ever forgets the 3rd rate burglary at the
Watergate that brought down a President.
By late afternoon, Scott and several of the paper's researchers
had set up a preliminary filing system. They categorized the
hundred of files and documents and computer printouts by company,
alphabetically. The contents were amazing. Over 150 of the top
American corporations were represented directly, and thousands of
other by reference. In every case, there was a revelation of one
or more particularly embarrassing or illegal activities. Some
were documented accounts and histories of past events and others
that were in progress. Many of the papers were prognostications
of future events of questionable ethics or legality. It reminded
Scott of Jeanne Dixon style predictions.
From Wall Street's ivory tower deals where payoffs are called
consulting fees, and in banking circles where delaying transfers
of funds can yield millions of dollars in interest daily, from
industrial secrets stolen or purchased from such and such a
source, the laundry list was long. Plans to effect such a busi-
ness plan and how to disguise its true purposes from the ITC and
SEC. Internal, very upper level policies which never reach the
company's Employee Handbook; policies of discrimination, atti-
tude, and protective corporate culture which not only transcend
the law but in many cases, morality. The false books, the jim-
mied numbers . . .they were in the boxes too, but that was almost
accepted accounting practice as long as you didn't get caught.
But the depth of some of the figures was amazing. Like how one
computer company brought in Toshiba parts and sold them to the
government despite the ban on Toshiba components because of their
sale of precision lathes to the Soviets.
"Jesus," said Scott after a lengthy silence of intent reading.
"This nails everyone, even the Government."
There were well documented dossiers on how the EPA made unique
exclusions hundred of times over based upon the financial lobby-
ing clout of the particular offender. Or how certain elected
officials in Washington had pocketed funds from their PAC monies
or how defense contractors were advised in advance of the con-
tents of an upcoming billion dollar RFP.
The cartons of files were absolute political dynamite. And, if
released, could have massive repercussions in the world financial
community.
There was a fundamental problem, though. Scott Mason was in
possession of unsupported, but not unreasonable accusations, they
were certainly believable. All he really had was leads, a thou-
sand leads in ten thousand different directions, with no apparent
coherency or theme, received from an anonymous and dubious donor.
And there was no way of immediately gauging the veracity of their
contents. He clearly remembered what is was like to be lawyered.
That held no appeal at the moment.
The next obvious question was, who would have the ability to
gather this amount of information, most of which was obviously
meant to be kept very, very private. Papers meant not for anyone
but only for a select group of insiders.
Lastly, and just as important to the reporter; why? What would
someone gain from telling all the nasty goings on inside of
Corporate America. There have been so many stories over the
years about this company or that screwing over the little guy.
How the IRS and the government operated substantially outside of
legal channels. The kinds of things that the Secretary of the
Treasury would prefer were kept under wraps. Sometimes stories
of this type made the news, maybe a trial or two, but not exactly
noteworthy in the big picture. White collar crime wasn't as good
as the Simpsons or Roseanne, so it went largely ignored.
Scott Mason needed to figure out what to do with his powder keg.
So, as any good investigative reporter would do, he decided to
pick a few key pieces and see if the old axiom was true. Where
there's smoke, there's fire.
* * * * *
Fire. That's exactly what Franklin Dobbs didn't want that Monday
morning. He and 50 other Corporate CEO's across the country
received their own unsolicited packages by courier. Each CEO
received a dossier on his own company. A very private dossier
containing information that technically didn't, or wasn't offi-
cially supposed to exist. Each one read their personalized file
cover to cover in absolute privacy. And shock set in.
Only a few of the CEO's in the New York area had ever heard of
Scott Mason before, and little did they know that he had the
complete collection of dossiers in his possession at the New York
City Times. Regardless, boardrooms shook to their very core.
Wall Street trading was untypically low for a Monday, less than
50,000,000 shares. But CNN and other financial observers at-
tributed the anomaly to random factors unconnected to the secret
panic that was spreading through Corporate America.
By 6 P.M., CEO's and key aides from 7 major corporations head-
quartered in the metropolitan New York area had agreed to meet.
Throughout the day, CEO's routinely talk to other corporate
leaders as friends, acquaintances, for brain picking and G2,
market probing in the course of business. Today, though, the
scurry of inter-Ivory-Tower calls was beyond routine.
Through a complicated ritual dance of non-committal consent,
questions never asked and answers never given, with a good dose
of Zieglerisms, a few of the CEO's communicated to each other
during the day that they were not happy with the morning mail. A
few agreed to talk together. Unofficially of course, just for a
couple of drinks with friends, and there's nothing wrong, we
admit nothing, of course not.
These are the rules strictly obeyed for a non-encounter that
isn't happening. So they didn't meet in a very private room,
upstairs at the Executive Club, where sensitive meetings often
never took place. One's presence in that room is as good as
being on in a black hole. You just weren't there, no matter what.
Perfect.
The room that wasn't there was heavily furnished and dark. The
mustiness lent to the feeling of intrigue and incredulity the 7
CEO's felt. Massive brown leather couches and matching oversized
chairs surrounded by stout mahogany tables were dimly lit by the
assortment of low wattage lamp fixtures. There was a huge round
dining table large enough for all of Camelot, surrounded by
mammoth chairs in a large ante-room. The brocade curtains
covered long windows that stretched from the floor to ornate
corner moldings of the 16 foot ceilings.
One tired old black waiter with short cropped white hair appeared
and disappeared skillfully and invisibly. He was so accustomed
to working with such distinguished gentlemen, and knew how impor-
tant their conversations were, that he took great pride in re-
filling a drink without being noticed. With his little game, he
made sure that drinks for everyone were always full. They spoke
openly around Lambert. Lambert had worked the room since he was
16 during World War II and he saw no reason to trade occupations;
he was treated decently, and he doubled as a bookie for some
members which added to his income. There was mutual trust.
"I don't know about you gentlemen," said Porter Henry, the ener-
getic and feisty leader of Morse Technologies, defense subcon-
tractor. "I personally call this blackmail." A few nods.
"I'm not about to admit to anything, but have you been threat-
ened?" demanded Ogden Roberts, Chairman of National First Inter-
state.
"No, I don't believe any of us have, in so many words. And no,
none of us have done anything wrong. We are merely trying to
keep sensitive corporate strategies private. That's all. But, I
do take the position that we are being intimidated. I think
Porter's right. This is tantamount to blackmail. Or the precursor
at a minimum."
They discussed, in the most circumlocutous manner, possibilities.
The why, how, and who's. Who would know so much, about so many,
supposedly sacrosanct secrets. Therefore there must have been a
lot of whos, mustn't there? They figured about 50 of their
kindred CEO's had received similar packages, so that meant a lot
of whos were behind the current crisis in privacy. Or maybe just
one big who. OK, that's narrowed down real far; either a lot of
whos, one big who, or somewhere in between.
Why? They all agreed that demands would be coming, so they
looked for synergy between their firms, any sort of connections
that spanned at first the seven of those present, to predict what
kinds of demands. But it is difficult to find hard business
connections between an insurance company, a bank, 2 defense
contractors, a conglomerate of every drug store product known to
man and a fast food company. The thread wasn't there.
How? That was the hardest. They certainly hadn't come up with
any answers on the other two questions, so this was asking the
impossible. CEO's are notorious for not knowing how their compa-
nies work on a day to day basis. Thus, after 4 or 5 drinks,
spurious and arcane ideas were seriously considered. UFO's were
responsible, I once saw one . . .my secretary, I never really
trusted her at all . . .the Feds! Must be the
IRS . . .(my/his/your) competitor is doing it to all of
us . . .the Moonies, maybe the Moonies . . .
"Why don't we just go to the Feds?" asked Franklin Dobbs who did
not participate in the conjecturing stream of consciousness free
for all. Silence cut through the room instantly. Lambert looked
up from his corner to make sure they were all still alive.
"I'm serious. The FBI is perfect. We all operate interstate,
and internationally. Would you prefer the NYPD?" he said dero-
gatorally waiting any voices of dissent.
"C'mon Frank. What are we going to tell them?" Ogden Roberts
the banker asked belligerently. The liquor was having an effect.
"Certainly not the truth . . ." he cut himself short, realizing
that he came dangerously close to admitting some indefinable
wrong he had committed. "You know what I mean," he quickly
added.
"We don't go into all of the detail. An abbreviated form of the
truth, all true, but maybe not everything. I am sure we all
agree that we want to keep this, ah, situation, as quiet as
possible." Rapid assent came from all around.
"All we need to say is that we have been contacted, in a threat-
ening manner. That no demands have been made yet, but we are
willing to cooperate with the authorities. That would give us
all a little time, to re-organize our priorities, if you see what
I mean?" Dobbs added. The seven CEO's were thoughtful.
"Now this doesn't mean that we all have to agree on this,"
Franklin Dobbs said. "But as for me, I have gone over this, in
limited detail, with my attorney, and he agrees with it on a
strategic level. If someone's after you, and you can't see 'em,
get the guys with the White Hats on your side. Then do some
housekeeping. I am going to the FBI. Anybody care to join me?"
It was going to be a lonesome trip.
* * * * *
September, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan.
OSO Industries maintained its world headquarters in the OSO World
Bank Building which towered 71 stories over downtown Tokyo. From
the executive offices on the 66th floor, on a clear day, the view
reached as far as the Pacific. It was from these lofty reaches
that Taki Homosoto commanded his $30 Billion empire which spread
across 5 continents, 112 countries, and employed almost a quarter
million people.
OSO Industries had diversified since it humble beginnings as a
used tire junkstore.
The Korean conflict had been a windfall. Taki Homosoto started
a tire retreading business in 1946, during the occupation of
Japan. The Americans were so smart, he thought. Bring over all
of your men, tanks, jeeps and doctors not telling us the truth
about radiation, and you forget spare tires. Good move, Yankee.
Taki gouged the Military on pricing so badly, and the Americans
didn't seem care, that the Pentagon didn't think twice about
paying $700 for toilet seats decades later. Taki did give great
service - after all his profits were so staggeringly high he
could afford it. Keep the American's happy, feed their ego, and
they'll come back for more. No sense of pride. Suckers.
When the Americans moved in for Korea, Tokyo was both a command
post for the war effort and the first choice of R&R by service-
men. OSO Industries was in a perfect position to take advantage
of the US Government's tire needs throughout the conflict. OSO
was already in place, doing a good job; Taki had bought some
friends in the US military, and a few arrangements were made to
keep business coming his way.
Taki accumulated millions quickly. Now he needed to diversify.
Realizing that the war would come to an end some day, Homosoto
begin making plans. OSO Radio sets appeared on the market before
the end of the Korean Police Action. Then, with the application
of the transistor, the portable radio market exploded. OSO
Industries made more transistor radios than all other Japanese
electronics firms combined. Then came black and white televi-
sions. The invention of the single beam color TV tube again
brought OSO billions in revenues every year.
Now, OSO was the model of a true global corporation. OSO owned
banks and investment companies. Their semiconductor and electron-
ics products were household words. They controlled a vast network
of companies; electronic game manufacturers, microwave and appli-
ance manufacturers, and notably, acres and acres of Manhattan
Island, California and Hawaii. They owned and operated communi-
cations companies, including their own geosynchronous satellite.
OSO positioned itself as a holding company with hundreds of
subsidiaries, each with their own specialty, operating under
thousands of names. Taki Homosoto wove an incredibly complex web
of corporate influence and intrigue.
OSO was one of the 10 largest corporations in the world. Reaga-
nomics had already assisted in making OSO and Homosoto himself
politically important to both Japan and the US. Exactly how
Homosoto wanted it. American leaders, Senators, Congressmen,
appointees, lobbyists, in fact much of Washington coddled up to
Homosoto. His empire planned years in advance. The US Govern-
ment, unofficially craved his insights, and in characteristic
Washington style, wanted to be near someone important. Homosoto
relished it. Ate it up. He was a most cordial, unassuming
humble guest. He played the game magnificently.
Almost the entire 66th floor of the OSO Bank Building was dedi-
cated to Homosoto and his immediate staff. Only a handful of the
more then 200,000 people that OSO Industries employed had access
to the pinnacle of the OSO tower which graced the Tokyo skyline.
The building was designed by Pei, and received international ac-
claim as an architectural statement. The atrium in the lobby
vaulted almost 700 feet skyward precursoring American hotel
design in the next decade. Plants, trees over 100 feet tall and
waterfalls graced the atria and the overhanging skylobbies. The
first floor lobby was designed around a miniature replica of the
Ging Sha forest, fashioned with thousands of Bonzai trees. The
mini forest was built to be viewed from various heights within
the atrium to simulate a flight above the earth at distances from
2 to 150 miles.
The lobby of OSO Industries was a veritable museum. The Van Gogh
collection was not only the largest private or public assemblage
in the world, but also represented over $100 Million spent in
Sothby and Christies auctions worldwide since 1975.
To get to the elevator to the 66th floor, a security check was
performed, including a complete but unobtrusive electronic scan
of the entire person and his belongings. To all appearances, the
procedure was no more than airport security. However to the
initiate or the suspect, it was evident from the accuracy with
which the guards targeted specific contraband on a person or in
his belongings that they knew more than they were telling. The
OSO guards had the girth of Sumo wrestlers, and considering their
sheer mass, they received little hassle. Very few deemed it
prudent to cross them.
The lobby for all of its grandeur, ceilings of nearly 700 feet,
was a fairly austere experience. But, the elevator to the 66th
floor altered that image at once. It was this glass walled
elevator, the size of a small office, with appropriately comfort-
able furnishings, that Miles Foster rode. From the comfort of
the living room setting in the elevator, he enjoyed a panorama of
the atrium as it disappeared beneath him. He looked at the
forest and imagined what astronauts saw when they catapulted into
orbit. The executive elevator was much slower than the others.
Either the residents in the penthouse relished the solitude and
view or they had motion sickness. Nonetheless, it was most
impressive.
"Ah, Mister Foster! Welcome to OSO. Please to step this way."
Miles Foster was expected at the terminus of the lift which
opened into an obscenely large waiting room that contained a
variety of severe and obviously uncomfortable furniture. Aha!
Miles, thought. That's exactly what this is. Another art gal-
lery, albeit a private one for the eyes of his host and no one
else. White walls, white ceilings, polished parquet floors, track
lighting, recessed lights, indirect lights. Miles noticed that
the room as pure as the driven snow didn't have any windows. He
didn't recognize much of the art, but given his host, it must
have represented a sizable investment.
Miles was ushered across the vast floor to a set of handsomely
carved, too tall wooden doors with almost garish gold hardware.
His slight Japanese host barely tapped on the door, almost inau-
dibly. He paused and stood at attention as he blurted an obedient
"Hai!"
The aide opened both doors from the middle, and in deference to
Mr. Foster, moved to one side to let the visitor be suitably
impressed. Homosoto's office was a total contrast to his gal-
lery. Miles first reaction was astonishment. It was slightly
dizzying. The ceiling slanted to a height of over 25 feet at the
outer walls, which were floor to ceiling glass. The immense room
provided not only a spectacular view of Tokyo and 50 miles be-
yond, but lent one the feeling of being outside.
Coming from the U.S. Government, such private opulence was not
common. It was to be expected in his family's places of business,
the gaming parlors of Las Vegas, but not in normal commerce. He
had been to Trump Tower in New York, but that was a public build-
ing, a place for tourists. This office, he used the word liber-
ally, was palatial.
It was decorated in spartan fashion with cherry wood walls.
Artwork, statues, figurines, all Japanese in style, sat wherever
there was an open surface. A few gilt shelves and marble display
tables were randomly scattered around the room. Not chaoticly;
just the opposite. The scattering was exquisitely planned.
There was a dining alcove, privatized by lavish rice paper panels
for eating in <MI>suhutahksi<D>. Eating on the floor was an
honored ritual. There was a small pit under the table for curl-
ing one's legs on the floor.
A conference table with 12 elegant wooden chairs sat at the
opposite end of the cavernous office. In the center of the room,
at the corner of the building, was Homosoto's desk, or work
surface if you prefer. It was large enough for four, yet Homoso-
to, as he stood to greet Foster, appeared to dwarf his environ-
ment and desk. Not in size, but in confidence. His personage
was in total command. The desk and its equipment were on a plat-
form some 6" above the rest of the room. The intended effect was
not lost on Foster.
The sides of the glossy cherrywood desk were slightly elevated to
make room for a range of video monitors, communications facili-
ties, and computers which accessed Homosoto's empire. A vast
telephone console provided tele-conferencing to OSO offices
worldwide. Dow Jones, CNN, Nippon TV were constantly displayed,
visible only to Homosoto. This was Homosoto's Command Central as
he liked to call it.
Foster gawked at the magnificent surroundings as he stood in
front of his assigned seat. A comfortable, plush, black leather
chair. It was one of several arranged in a sunken conversation
pit.
Homosoto acknowledged Foster's presence with the briefest of nods
as he stepped down off of his aerie. Homosoto wore expensive
clothes. A dark brown suit, matching solid tie and the omnipres-
ent solid white starched shirt. It didn't fit, like most Japa-
nese business uniforms.
He was short, no more than five foot six, Miles noticed, after
Homosoto got down to the same level as the rest of the room. On
the heavy side, he walked slowly and deliberately. Eyes forward
after the obligatory nod. His large head was sparsely covered
with little wisps of hair in nature's futile attempt to clothe
the top of his freckled skull. Even at 59 Homosoto's hair was
still pitch black. Miles wasn't sure if Grecian Formula was
available in Japan. The short crop accentuated the pronounced
ears.
A rounded face was peppered with spots, dark freckles perhaps, or
maybe carcinoma. His deep set black eyes stared through the
object of his attention. Homosoto was not the friendly type,
thought Miles.
Homosoto stood in front of Miles, extended his hand and bowed the
most perfunctory of bows. Miles took his hand, expecting a
strong grip. Instead he was greeted with a wet fish handshake
which wriggled quickly from his grasp. Homosoto didn't give the
slightest indication of a smile. The crow's feet around his eyes
were caused by pudginess, not happiness. When he sat opposite
Foster in a matching chair, he began without any pleasantries.
"I hear you are the best." Homosoto stared at Foster. It was a
statement that required a response.
Foster shifted his weight a little in the chair. What a way to
start. This guy must think he's hot shit. Well, maybe he is.
First class, all expense paid trip to Tokyo, plus consultation
fees. In advance. Just for one conversation, he was told, we
just want some advice. Then, last night, and the night before,
he was honored with sampling the finest Oriental women. His hot
button. All expenses paid, of course. Miles knew he was being
buttered up, for what he didn't know, but he took advantage of it
all.
"That's what's your people tell you."
Foster took the challenge and glared, albeit with a smirk dimpled
smile, politely, right back at Homosoto. Homosoto continued his
stare. He didn't relax his intensity.
"Mr. Foster," Homosoto continued, his face still emotionless.
"Are you as good as they say?" he demanded.
Miles Foster defiantly spat out the one word response. "Better."
Homosoto's eyes squinted. "Mr. Foster, if that is true, we can
do business. But first, I must be convinced. I can assure you
we know quite a bit about you already, otherwise you wouldn't be
here." Miles noticed that Homosoto spoke excellent English,
clipped in style, but Americanized. He occasionally stretched
his vowels, to the brink of a drawl.
"Yeah, so what do you know. Pulled up a few data bases? Big
Deal." Miles cocked his head at Homosoto's desk. "I would assume
that with that equipment, you can probably get whatever you
want."
Homosoto let a shimmer of a smile appear at the corners off his
mouth. "You are most perceptive, Mr. Foster." Homosoto paused
and leaned back in the well stuffed chair. "Mr. Foster, tell me
about your family."
Miles neck reddened. "Listen! You called me, I didn't call you.
All I ever knew about OSO was that you made ghetto blasters, TV's
and vibrators. So therefore, you wanted me, not my family. If
you had wanted them you would have called them." Miles said
loudly. "So, keep my family the fuck out of it."
"I do not mean to offend," Homosoto said offensively. "I just am
most curious why you didn't go to work for your family. They
have money, power. You would have been a very important man, and
a very rich one." Homosoto said matter of factly. "So, the
prudent man must wonder why you went to work for your Government?
Aren't your family and your government, how shall I say, on
opposite sides?"
"My family's got nothing to do with this or you. Clear?" Miles
was adamant. "But, out of courtesy for getting me laid last
night, I might as well tell you. I went to the feds cause they
have the best computers, the biggest equipment and the most
interesting work. Not much money, but I have a backup when I
need it. If I went to work for my family, as you put it, I would
have been a glorified beancounter. And that's not what I do. It
would have been no challenge. Boring, boring, boring!" Miles
smiled sarcastically at Homosoto. "Happy now?"
Homosoto didn't flinch. "Does that mean you do not disapprove of
your family's activities? How they make money?"
"I don't give a fuck!" Miles yelled. "How does that grab you? I
don't give a flying fuck. They were real good to me, paid a lot
of my way. I love my mother and she's not a hit man. My uncle
does I don't know what or care. They're family, that's it. How
much clearer do you want it?" Miles continued shouting.
Homosoto grinned and held up his hands. "My apologies Mr. Foster.
I mean no disrespect. I just like to know who works for me."
"Hey, I don't work for you yet."
"Of course, a simple slip of the tongue."
"Right." Miles snapped sarcastically.
Homosoto ignored this last comment. The insincere smile left his
face, replaced with a more serious countenance. "Why did you
leave your post with the National Security Agency, Mr. Foster?"
Another inquisition, thought Miles. What a crock. Make it good
for the gook.
"'Cause I was working for a bunch of bungling idiots who insured
their longevity by creating an invincible bureaucracy." Miles
decided that a calm beginning might be more appropriate. "They
had no real idea of what was going on. Their heads were so far
up their ass they had a tan line across their chests. Whenever
we had a good idea, it was either too novel, too expensive or
needed additional study. Or, it was relegated to a committee that
might react in 2 years. What a pile of bullshit, a waste of
time. We could have achieved a lot more without all the inter-
ference."
"Mr. Foster, you say, 'we'. Who is 'we'?" Homosoto pointedly
asked Miles.
"The analysts, the people who did the real work. There were
hundreds of us on the front lines. The guys who sweated weekends
and nights to make our country safe from the Communists. The
managers just never got with the program."
"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are
good?"
Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this. "Oh, I guess
I knew a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were pretty good.
She was probably the best, other than me," he bragged. "Some
chicken."
"Excuse me? Chicken?"
"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox, look-
er, sweet meat, gash, you know?"
"Do you mean she's very pretty?"
Miles suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's right. Real
pretty, but real smart, too. Odd combination, isn't it?" he
smiled a wicked smile.
Homosoto ignored the crudeness. "What are your politics, Mr.
Foster?"
"Huh? My politics? What the hell has that got to do with any-
thing?" Miles demanded.
"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto quietly
ordered.
Miles was getting incensed. "Republican, Democrat? What do you
mean? I vote who the fuck I want to vote for. Other than that,
I don't play."
"Don't play?" Homosoto briefly pondered the idiom. "Ah, so.
Don't play. Don't get involved. Is that so?"
"Right. They're all fucked. I vote for the stupidest assholes
running for office. Any office. With any luck he'll win and
really screw things up." Homosoto hit one of Miles hot buttons.
Politics. He listened attentively to Miles as he carried on.
"That's about the only way to fix anything. First fuck it up.
Real bad. Create a crisis. Since the Government ignores whoever
or whatever isn't squeaking that's the only way to get any atten-
tion. Make noise. Once you create a crisis, Jeez, just look at
Granada and Panama and Iraq to justify Star Wars, you get a lot
of people on for the ride. Just look at the national energy
debate. Great idea, 30 years and $5 trillion late. Then,
'ooooh!', they say. 'We got a big problem. We better fix it.'
Then they all want to be heroes and every podunk politico shoots
off his mouth about the latest threat to humanity. "
"That's your politics?"
"Sure. If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up so
bad that everyone notices and then they'll be crawling up your
ass trying to help you fix it."
"Very novel, Mr. Foster. Very novel and very cynical." Homosoto
looked mildly amused.
"Not meant to be. Just true."
"It seems to me that you hold no particular allegiance. Would
that be a fair observation?" Homosoto pressed the same line of
questioning.
"To me. That's my allegiance. And not much of anything else."
Miles sounded defensive.
"Then, Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer. I
am sure money isn't everything to a man like you." Homosoto
leaned back. All 10 of his fingers met in mirror image fashion
and performed push ups on each other.
Foster returned Homosoto's dare with a devastating stare-down
that looked beyond Homosoto's face. It looked right into his
mind. Foster used the knuckles from both hands for supports as
he leaned on the table between them. He began speaking deliber-
ately and coherently.
"My greatest pleasure? A challenge. A great challenge. Yes, the
money is nice, don't get me wrong, but the thrill is the chal-
lenge. I spent years with people ignoring my advice, refusing to
listen to me. And I was right so many times when they were
wrong. Then they would start blaming everyone else and another
committee is set up to find out what went wrong. Ecch! I would
love to teach them a lesson."
"How unfortunate for them that they failed to recognize your
abilities and let your skills serve them. Yes, indeed, how
unfortunate." Homosoto said somberly.
"So," Miles said arrogantly as he retreated back to his seat,
"you seem to be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot of
answers. It is your dime, so I owe you something. But, Mr.
Homosoto, I would like to know what you're looking for."
Homosoto stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are what I
have been looking for. And, if you do your job right, I am
making the assumption you will accept, you will become wealthier
than you ever hoped. Ever dreamed. Mr. Foster, your reputation
precedes you." He sincerely extended his hand to Foster. "I do
believe we can do business." Homosoto was beaming at Miles Fos-
ter.
"OK, ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as he again
shook Homosoto's weak hand.
"You, Mr. Foster, are going to lead an invasion of the United
States of America."
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