Terminal Compromise Part 138

"Yeah? Who? Whooo?" He held the phone out to Scott and curled his lips. "It's for you. The White House." Scott glanced over at Doug who raised his bushy white eyebrows.

Scott picked up the phone on the end table by the leather couch; the one that Scott seemed to have made a second home. "h.e.l.lo?"

he asked hesitantly. "Yes? Well, I could be in Washington . . ." Scott looked over to Doug for advice. "The President?" Doug shook his head, yes. Whatever it is, go. "I'd be happy to," he said reading his watch. "A few hours?" He waited a few seconds. "Yes, I know the number. Off the record?

Fine. Thank you."

"Well?" asked Higgins.

"The President himself wants to have a little chat with me."

Friday, January 22 The White House

Only the President, Musgrave and Henry Kennedy were there to meet Scott. They did not want to overwhelm him, merely garner his cooperation. Scott rushed by cab to the White House from Nation- al Airport, and used the Press Gate even though he had an ap- pointment with The Man. He could have used the Visitor's En- trance. Scott was whisked by White House aides through a "Private" door in the press room to the surprise of the regular pool reporters who wondered who dared to so underdress. Defi- nitely not from Washington.

Scott was running on short notice, so he was only wearing his work clothes: torn blue jeans, a sweatshirt from the nude beach he and Sonja had visited and Reeboks that needed a wash. January was unusually warm, so he got away with wearing his denim jacket filled with a decade of patches reflecting Scott's evolving political and social att.i.tudes. He was going to have to bring a change of clothes to the office from now on.

Before he had a chance to apologize for his appearance, at least he was able to shave the three day old stubble on the train, the President apologized for the suddenness and hoped it wasn't too much of an inconvenience. Kennedy and Musgrave kept their smirks to themselves, knowing full well from the very complete dossier on Scott Mason, that he was having a significant intimate rela- tionship with one Sonja Lindstrom, here in Washington. Very convenient was more like it, they thought.

The President sat Scott down on the Queen Anne and complimented him on his series of articles on computer crime. He said that Scott was doing a fine job awakening the public to the problem, and that more people should care, and how brave he was to jump in front of flying bullets, and on and on and on. Due to Henry and Phil's political savvy and professional discipline, neither of their faces showed that they both wanted to throw up on the spot.

This was worse than kissing babies to get elected. But the President of the United States wanted a secret favor from a journalist, so some softening, some schmoozing was in order.

"Well, let me get right to the point," the President said a half hour later after two cups of coffee and endless small talk with Scott. He, too, had wondered what the President wanted so much that the extended foreplay was necessary. "I understand Scott, that you have developed quite a rapport with this Spook fellow."

He held up a copy of the New York paper headlines blaring:

Computer Terrorism - Exclusive.

Aha! So that's what they want! They want me to turn him in. "I consider myself to be very lucky, right place, right time and all. Yessir." Scott downplayed his position with convincing humility. "It seems as if he has selected me as his mouthpiece."

"All we want, in fact, all we can ask," Musgrave said, "is for you to give us information before it's printed." Scott's eyes shot up in defense, protest at the ready. "No, no," Mugrave added quickly. "Nothing confidential. We know that Miles Foster is the Spook, but we can't prove it without giving away away too many of our secrets." Scott knew they were referring to their own electronic eavesdropping habits that would be imprudent in a court. "Single handedly he is capable of bringing down half of the government's computers. We need to know as much as we can as fast as we can. So, whatever you print, we'd like an early copy of it. That's all."

Scott's mind immediately traveled back to the first and only time an article of his was pulled. At the AG's request. Of course it finally got printed, but why the niceties now? They can take what they want, but instead they ask? Maybe they don't want to get caught fiddling around with the Press too much. Such activi- ties snagged Nixon, not saying that the President was Nixon- esque, but politics is politics. What do I get in return? He could hear it now, the 'you'll be helping your country,'

speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the least.

So he proposed to Musgrave instead. "I want an exclusive inter- view with the President when this thing is over."

"Done!" said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet.

But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a dramatized account.

"And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . ."

Scott added another minor demand.

"Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk,"

joked Musgrave. "Scott, this is for internal use only. Every hour will help."

Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old [email protected] that any schmo with a PC could E-mail into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a White House souvenir pen.

"It went fine," Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure office in the White House bas.e.m.e.nt. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.

"Didn't matter," Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy like an apple. A juicy one.

"What do you mean, it didn't matter?"

"We're listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines anyway," Marvin said with neutrality.

"I don't know if I want to know about this . . ."

"It was just a back up plan," Jacobs said with a little laugh.

He wanted to defuse Kennedy's panic b.u.t.ton. For a National Security Advisor, Kennedy didn't know very much about how intel- ligence is gathered. "Just in case."

"Well, we don't need it anymore," Kennedy said. "Mason is coop- erating fully."

"I like to have alternatives. I expect you'll be telling the President about this."

"Not a chance. Not a chance." Kennedy sounded spooked.

Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin.

"I'll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let's keep him honest."

Friday, January 22 Reston, Virginia

"No, mom, I'm not going to become a spy," Scott calmly said into the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. "No, I can't tell you what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you." Scott mouthed the words, 'she's in heaven' to Sonja who enjoyed seeing the pleasure the woman received from her son's travels. "Yes, I'll be home in a couple of days," he paused as his mother interrupted again. "Yes, I'll be happy to reprogram your VCR.

I'm sorry it doesn't work . . ." He sat back to listen for a few seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror.

Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed to make herself beautiful despite Scott's claims that she was always beautiful. "Yes, mom, I'm paying attention. No ma'am, I won't. Yes, ma'am, I'll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you." He struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept talking. "Don't worry, mom. You'll meet her soon." Finally he was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner guests. Miles Foster.

Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far as the world was concerned, they were two different people with different goals, different motivations and different lives. The unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like Miles?

In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that Sonja was between jobs.

She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott, on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however, and if things between them got beyond the frenzied s.e.xual savage- ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.

The doorbell of Sonja's lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath, ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.

"Scott," Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck.

"Welcome back. It's good to see you." The three of them, Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. "Maybe Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us tonight," she said teasing Miles.

Miles ignored Perky's shot at him and brushed it aside without comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.

Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman's windbreaker and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha- nie went upstairs with her gla.s.s of wine to see Sonja and let the boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding gla.s.s doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.

"I won't ask," Scott said as soon as Stephanie's feet disappeared from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.

"Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn't need to hear too much about Amsterdam," Miles said with a mildly sinister touch.

"We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered.

"I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so f.u.c.king h.o.r.n.y, I swear the crack of dawn is in trouble."