Mission Compromised (27 page)

 

 

By the end of 1992, SCTI had contracted for or sold the government just about all the EncryptionLok-3s they could use, and future sales orders dropped to a fraction of what they had been in prior years. Though the money was rolling in, Korman and Marat could see the handwriting on the wall. Unless they found a wider market for their only product, the future would be bleak indeed for SCTI and the company's founders.

Marat went to friends he had made in the FBI and NSA and convinced them that with a few minor modifications SCTI could make another device—a somewhat less sophisticated version of the EL-3. But with the defense cuts that were already happening, they sold fewer than six thousand of the little devices—a fraction of sales in prior years.

The drop in sales drove Korman nuts. SCTI had the only product of its kind in the world, but the U.S. government was his only customer. And his only customer wanted to keep his invention as its own toy. The bigwigs in Washington had made Korman, Marat, and their three hundred employees profligately rich, but Korman knew he was not as rich as he could be if he could sell his EncryptionLok-3
commercially.
Businesses would love to have a virtually unbreakable encryption method for keeping their communications secret. And of course, there was NATO and the UN. Sales to these two organizations could even surpass everything that SCTI had done with the American government to date.

When a new administration came to Washington in 1993, Korman made sure that he was introduced to the new National Security Advisor, Dr. Simon Harrod, at a defense symposium in January '93, shortly after the inauguration. Korman found Harrod to be a kindred spirit, and while he had never paid much attention to politics, Korman found the things he heard about a “new era of international cooperation” and talk about “eliminating barriers to trading our technology around the globe” as music to his ears. At a “meet and greet” after the speeches, Korman introduced himself to Harrod and quickly told the National Security Advisor that he had warmed the hearts of everyone in the room with his comments about opening the doors to sell American products overseas. He then boldly asked, “How can I tell the President directly about what a great idea this is?”

Harrod responded just as boldly. “Were you a contributor to the President's campaign?”

Korman said, “No,” and hastened to add, “I didn't give to anyone's campaign.”

“Well, it's never too late,” replied Harrod.

Korman took out his checkbook. “To whom do I make the check out?”

“Why don't you make it out to ‘Scientists for World Trade,'” said Harrod. “It's a political action committee, so you can give only ten thousand dollars for now.”

Korman wrote the check and handed it to Harrod, who looked impressed. “I'll see what we can do about getting you an appointment this week. Stay in touch.”

The President saw Korman the next day for forty-five minutes in the Oval Office. On his way out the door, Korman gave him a check for $100,000 made out to the President's political party—just as Harrod had instructed.

After that, Korman was a regular at White House functions. He was invited to state dinners, receptions in the residence, and one time, for a flight on Air Force One.

And it wasn't only the President he was with. After a meeting in Harrod's office one afternoon, the National Security Advisor walked Korman down the hallway and introduced him to the Vice President. They also hit it off immediately, and before he left, Korman presented the Veep with a check for his reelection campaign. By the end of 1993, Korman had donated almost a million dollars to the President's party.

But despite papering Washington with his checks, Korman was no closer to getting any new contracts for his products. Finally, in near desperation, he invited Harrod to visit the SCTI plant while the
National Security Advisor was on a trip to California. Harrod took up the invitation, and after walking through the facility wearing an extra-large hospital gown that made him look like a green snowman, he retired to Korman's office for a drink.

“Marty, I hear you,” said Harrod after listening to Korman's complaint about not being able to sell his EncryptionLok-3 more broadly. “What you've got to do is make some contacts on the other side of the aisle. I suggest that you go see Senator James Waggoner.”

“Who's he?”

“He's the chairman of the Defense Programs Subcommittee. That's the Senate subcommittee that regulates what can and can't be sold to our allies and others.”

“But isn't he in the other party?” asked Korman incredulously.

“Yes, but we can work with him. So can you. If you know what I mean.”

Korman knew exactly what Harrod meant. He made an appointment the following week to meet with the slow-talking, white-maned, aristocratic James Waggoner, the “senior senator” of the Eastern seaboard state he represented. Korman brought with him a check for $100,000 made out to the “Waggoner Science Foundation,” an entity describing itself as “an educational charitable trust to benefit the peaceful uses of defense technology.”

In a matter of hours, Waggoner had appointed himself Korman's political mentor. It was Waggoner who tutored the Californian on the ways of Washington. Waggoner and his aides taught the heretofore apolitical computer-scientist-turned-businessman on the subtleties of campaign finance—and how vast sums of money could be contributed to a candidate, a campaign, a cause, and a political party with minimal risk of getting caught violating federal election laws.

The senator had said, “Son, here's how it works. Every American is allowed to contribute one thousand dollars each time a candidate runs for federal office. That means you can write me a check for one thousand dollars for my primary campaign, and another grand for my general election. And every American is allowed to give five thousand dollars every two years to a political action committee. Now you're a bright young man—that means, in round numbers, you can write three five-thousand-dollar checks for my PAC and two one-thousand-dollar checks for my reelection.”

“That's me personally,” said Korman. “But can't SCTI contribute as a company?”

The senior senator's deeply lined face broke into a cadaverous grin. “No, son, that would be wrong.” And a mirthless chuckle came from deep within his wrinkled throat. “But, there is nothing to stop all of the
employees
of your company from contributing, just like you do. And all of your family, and all of your friends, and all of
their
friends, and all of your friends' friends …” The senator checked himself to see if Korman was getting his drift and concluded with the obvious, “If you know what I mean.”

The light had indeed gone on. Marty Korman nodded his head. The computer-scientist-turned-businessman, now turned major political player said, “Yes, Senator, I know what you mean. You can count on me and my employees and my friends—and I know we can count on you.”

Marty Korman wrote checks that afternoon totaling seventeen thousand dollars to the senator's reelection campaign and his political action committee. Just to be on the safe side, he wrote an equal amount to the presidential and vice-presidential reelection campaigns and their PACs. And within a week of returning to California, checks for similar
amounts began to pour in from the employees of SCTI—all three hundred of them. By the end of 1993, the “SCTI Club,” as the donors were called at the White House, had contributed almost $5 million to the President's campaigns. Marty Korman was a regular on Capitol Hill and at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. And top-secret Encryption Lok-3 devices were being sold to customers who hadn't even known they existed the year before.

 

CHAPTER NINE

Special Projects Office

________________________________________

Old Executive Office Building

Washington, D.C.

Monday, 5 December 1994

2120 Hours, Local

 

I
t was late when Newman flew back from New York to Washington National Airport. He had left his car at the airport and shivered as he turned the key to start it up. It took almost ten minutes before the heater began working. He was finally beginning to feel comfortable when he pulled the Tahoe into his parking place on West Executive Drive. Then he became chilled again as he left his car and walked down the sidewalk and into the OEOB.

Newman plugged the codes into the various locks and performed the retinal scan as he flicked on the lights and opened the sliding door
into his office. Once inside, Newman threw his overcoat on a nearby chair and checked his messages. Extremely fatigued, he sensed its source was more emotional than physical. He walked over to the huge fireplace and stood in front of it, debating whether to make a fire or not. Actually, he wasn't even sure the fireplace had ever worked. The logs were ceramic fakes placed atop a wrought-iron grate. He decided not to bother. Then he sighed and put his arms on the mantel to support his weight while he did some stretching exercises. Newman had missed his usual three-mile run that morning because of his trip to the UN, and he felt stiff.

With his hands still on the mantel, Newman stepped back a little from the fireplace and leaned into it with his torso. He felt the muscles in his arms and chest flex as he pushed. He was a little off balance in this position, so he shifted his arms a few inches farther out on each side. He did sort of a vertical push-up and stretched his back muscles as he leaned in. Suddenly he felt the mantel move. It slid into the masonry that supported it by nearly three inches. Newman nearly lost his balance but recovered quickly. He was perplexed; at first, he was afraid that he had broken something. But it didn't seem like the mantel had shifted because of faulty workmanship or wear. He stood up straight to look at the mantel more closely. Then he saw something that told him that the movement had occurred because of parts that were
engineered
to move.

When the mantel slid backward into the masonry, the firebricks that made up the rear of the fireplace also slid open, parting in the middle and leaving an opening in the rear of the fireplace that looked almost square, about two feet by two feet. Newman looked down and saw something in the hole, but his view was blocked by the grate with its fake logs. Newman quickly lifted them onto the floor in front of him.

He stepped to his left to let more light into the fireplace. Then, looking into the hole in the back of the fireplace more carefully this time, he saw a single-drawer GI field safe, complete with built-in combination dial and unlocking handle.

Then he remembered the office's former occupant—Oliver North.
This must be left over from North's days here
, he thought.

Newman tried the handle of the safe. Incredibly it turned. It wasn't locked.
That makes sense
—
you don't lock an empty safe
, was the next thought that came to him.

He pulled open the drawer and it nearly filled the fireplace. Then he reached inside to feel if something was there. His hand felt something, and he moved it around, feeling for an edge to grasp. When he had it, he brought it up and out into the light.

It was a dark-brown file pouch, tied around the middle. Newman opened it. Inside were several file folders. He took them out and laid them on his desk. They were all marked
TOP SECRET
and, as he looked them over, he discovered that the files contained dozens of memos and interoffice correspondence from the 1980s, more than a hundred pages in all. And as Newman read the documents, his eyes widened. Some of the memos were signed or initialed by former President Reagan and his national security advisors.

After a half hour of perusing the papers, it was clear to Newman that these documents were a bombshell. Some of the pages were authorizations for travel. Others were transcripts of conversations with foreign officials. Some of the papers pertained to the activities of others. One, a document initialed by the President, authorized a trip to Beijing (North had spelled it
Peking
)
and directed the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to ask the Chinese to provide shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles for the Nicaraguan Resistance. He also found
documents he didn't understand, memos pertaining to the diversion of a Soviet munitions train in Poland and the subsequent delivery of its contents to the Contras. The papers Newman found stunned him.
Why hasn't anyone discovered these before
?
he wondered.