Terminal Compromise Part 120

"The sooner the better," Scott said with obvious relief that he hadn't had to sell her.

"How's . . .ah, four tomorrow? My office?"

"That's fine, perfect. We'll see you tomorrow then."

"We?" Nancy picked up the plural reference.

"Yes, I am working with someone else. It helps if I'm not crazy alone."

FBI, New York

"I'll be in Washington tomorrow, we can talk about it then,"

Tyrone Duncan said emphatically into his desk telephone.

"Ty, I've been on your side and defended you since I came on board, you know that." Bob Burnson was pleading with Ty. "But on this one, I have no control. You've been poking into areas that don't concern you, and I'm catching heat."

"I'm working on one d.a.m.n case, Bob. One. Computer crime. But it keeps on touching this f.u.c.king blackmail fiasco and it's getting on everyone's nerves. There's a lot more to this than ransoms and hackers and I've been having some luck. I'll show you what I have tomorrow. Sixish. Ebbets."

"I'll be there. Ty," Burnson said kindly. "I don't know the specifics, but you've been shaking the tree. I hope it's worth it."

"It is, Bob. I'd bet my a.s.s on in."

"You are."

Thursday, January 14 Walter Reed Medical Center

"How is he doing?" Scott asked.

"He's not out of the woods yet," said Dr. Sean Kelly, one of Walter Reed's hundreds of Marcus Welby look-alike staff physi- cians. "In cases like this, we operate in the dark. The chest wound is nasty, but that's not the danger; it's the head wound.

The brain is a real funny area."

Tyrone's FBI identification was required to get him and Scott in to see Dr. Kelly. As far as anybody knew, Pierre Troubleaux had been killed over the weekend in an explosion in his hospital room. The explosion was faked at the suggestion of the manage- ment of dGraph, Inc. after Pierre's most recent a.s.sailant was murdered, despite the police a.s.signed to guard his room. Two of Ahmed's elite army had disguised themselves as orderlies so well that they weren't suspected when one went in the room and the other occupied the guard. The media was having a field day.

All would have gone as planned but for the fact that one of the D.C. policeman on guard was of Lebanese decent. One ersatz orderly emerged from the room and spoke to his confederate in Arabic. "It's done. Let's get out of here."

The guard understood enough Farsi and instantly drew his gun on the pair. One of Ahmed's men tried to pull his gun but was shot and wounded before he could draw. The other orderly started to run down the hallway pushing nurses and patients out of his way.

He slid as he turned left down another corridor that ended with a huge picture window overlooking the lush hospital grounds. He never slowed, shouting "Allah, I am yours!" as he dove through the plate gla.s.s window plummeting five floors to the concrete walk below.

The wounded and armed orderly refused to speak. At all. Noth- ing. He made his one call and remained silent thereafter.

The dGraph management was acutely concerned that there might be another attempt on Pierre's life, so the secrecy surrounding his faked death would be maintained until he was strong enough to deal with the situation on his own. The investigation into both the shooting and the meant-to-convince bombing was handled by the District Police, and officially the FBI had nothing to do with it.

Dr. Kelly continued, trying to speak in non-Medical terms.

"Basically, we don't know enough to accurately predict the ef- fects of trauma to the brain. We can generally say that motor skills, or memory might be affected, but to what extent is un- known. Then there are head injuries that we can't fully explain, and Pierre's is one of them."

Scott and Ty looked curiously at Dr. Kelly. "Pierre had a severe trauma to the cranium, and some of the outer layers of brain tissue were damaged when the skull was perforated." Scott shud- dered at the distinct memory of the gore. "Since he was in a coma, we elected to do minimal repair work until he gained con- sciousness and he could give us first hand reports on his memory and other possible effects. That's how we do it in the brain business."

"So, how is he?" Scott wanted a bottom line.

"He came out of a coma yesterday, and thus far, we can't find any problems that stem from the head injury."

"That's amazing," said Scott. "I saw the . . ."

"It is amazing," agreed Dr. Kelly, "but not all that rare.

There are many references in the literature where severe brain damage was sustained without corresponding symptoms. I once saw a half inch re-bar go through this poor guy's forehead. He was still awake! We operated, removed the bar, and when he woke up he was hungry. He had a slight a headache. It was like nothing ever happened. So, who knows? Maybe we'll be lucky."

"Can we see him?" Scott asked the Irish doctor a.s.signed to repair Pierre Troubleaux.

"He's awake, but we have been keeping him sedated, more to let the chest wound heal than his head," Dr. Kelly replied.

Pierre was recuperating in a virtual prison, a private room deep within the bowels of the Medical Center. There were 2 guards outside the room and another that sat near the hospital bed.

Absolute identification was required every time someone entered the room and it took two phone calls to verify the ident.i.ties of Scott and Tyrone despite the verbal affidavit from Kelly. The groggy Pierre was awake when the three approached the bed. Dr.

Kelly introduced them and Pierre immediately tried to move to thank Scott for saving his life.

Dr. Kelly laid down the rules; even though Pierre was in remarka- bly good shape, still, no bouncing on the bed and don't drink the IV fluid. Pierre spoke quietly, but found at least a half dozen ways to thank Scott for his ad hoc heroics. He also retained much of his famed humor.

"I want to thank you," Pierre said in jest, "for putting the value of my life in proper perspective."

Scott's cheeks pushed up his gla.s.ses from the deep smile that Pierre's words caused. He hadn't realized that Pierre had been conscious. Tyrone looked confused.

"I begged him not to die," laughed Scott, "because it wouldn't look good on my resume."

"And I have had the common courtesy to honor your request."

After suffering enough embarra.s.sment by compliments, Scott asked Pierre for a favor, to which he readily agreed. No long term karmic debt here, thought Scott.

"I need to understand something," said Scott. Pierre nodded, what?

"You told me, in the midst of battle, that dGraph was sick. I took that to mean that it contained a virus of some kind, but, well, I guess that's the question. What did you mean?"

"You're right. Yes," Pierre said softly but firmly. "That's what I was going to say at the hearings. I was going to confess."

"Confess?" Tyrone asked. "To what?"

"To the viruses. About why I did it, or, really, why I let it happen."

"So you did infect your own software. Why?" Scott demanded.

Pierre shook his head back and forth. "No, I didn't do it. I had no control."

"Then who did?"

"h.o.m.osoto and his people."

"h.o.m.osoto? Chairman of OSO?" Scott shrieked. "You're out of your mind, no offense."