Terminal Compromise Part 3

"Anything?"

"No sir."

"Good. Close the file."

"Sir?"

"Close it. Forever."

September, 4 Years Ago Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications security consultant. He and half of those who lived within driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating t.i.tle given to those who make their living selling products or services to the Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres- sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry, Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange- ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient nature is probably no more evident than through the political circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to maximize his salability.

He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date women whom he knew he could f.u.c.k. He kept track of their men- strual cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he thought a particular female had extraordinary oral s.e.x skills, he would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the odds of good b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those who could help start his career in the private sector. "f.u.c.k the secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs, often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists, were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze with the influentia in the nation's capital. The better parties, the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni- taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company names.

Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a former emba.s.sy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern, comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the cla.s.sic formality.

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.

The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air conditioned indoors.

It was a straight c.o.c.ktail party, a stand-up affair, with a hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with her partner for the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.

9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he had set out to do - meet people, sell himself, play the game, talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured out how he was going to get laid tonight.

As he sipped his third Glen Fet.i.tch on the rocks, he spotted a woman whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French doors at the backyard flora.

Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Miles Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her b.r.e.a.s.t.s stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to Miles' apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky.

His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling, ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women, he did. It was just, well this one was different. He 'really'

liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after- glow. She snuggled up against him closer.

"Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her b.u.t.tocks. His eyes were still closed.

"In a minute stud, yes." She looked up rea.s.suringly at him.

"Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood for shop talk.

"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work for them?"

"Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so.

Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.

"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious.

I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone who can pay. That's all."

"I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands got the desired result.

"Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that could use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know if you cared."

"No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on that."

"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get together?" She didn't miss a beat.

"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about this later?" Miles begged.

Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo j.a.pan, first cla.s.s, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000 for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa- tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him, that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used.

Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not have liked him.

At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983 before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed that thought to remove any traces of worry.

The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large black marker.

"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.

Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.

MR. FOSTER WELCOME TO j.a.pAN.

YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.

ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

RESPECTFULLY

TAKI h.o.m.oSOTO

The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend- ant.

They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a member in good standing.