Terminal Compromise Part 108

"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 gla.s.s 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 d.a.m.n," he smirked.

"That's the spirit," she encouraged. "Not that I agree with everything you have to say."

"I a.s.sume 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 gla.s.s. 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 grat.i.tude.

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."