Terminal Compromise Part 110

"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 s.h.i.t, 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.

"G.o.d, 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 b.u.t.tocks 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s pointing at the sky. Scott noticed only the faintest of tan lines several inches below her belly b.u.t.ton. She patted the huge towel, inviting Scott to join her. There was room enough for three,

"Well," he agreed. "It might prove embarra.s.sing. I thought my intentions were honorable."

"Bull. Neither are mine." She arched her back and patted the towel again.

"f.u.c.k 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 pa.s.sion; retreating into each other so totally that no imaginable distrac- tion could disturb their urgings.

They slept no more than an hour all Sat.u.r.day 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."

Sat.u.r.day, 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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. d.a.m.n, 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. n.o.body 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 a.s.sistance 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 h.o.m.osoto with radically different emotions. He had to deal with them both immediately.

DIALING . . .

I AM NOT PLEASED.

Ahmed Shah heard his communications computer beep at him. He pushed the joystick control on his wheelchair and steered over to read h.o.m.osoto'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.