Mission Compromised (35 page)

But now Storey was becoming a pain in the neck himself. Storey
was asking questions—questions about the leading-edge technology SCTI was developing, questions about who was using the hardware and software that SCTI had developed,
and
whether the selling of this technology was truly in “the national interest of America” or even legal under the restrictions that Congress had placed on high-end computer technology earlier in the nineties.

Korman had just finished a humiliating hour meeting with high-level bureaucrats at the Commerce Department. And right now he was furious. They had turned down an export license for his nonmilitary SCTI software for the nations of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. What galled him most from the meeting was not so much the denial of the license but that during the meeting, the Commerce Department weenies had produced a memo showing that his own General Storey
had recommended against granting the license.
The loss of a multimillion-dollar sale to a couple of Middle Eastern countries wasn't that important to Korman. What was important was that his trusted employee suddenly got a case of conscience.

Korman exited from his meeting at the Commerce Department and all but ran down the stairs from the building. He had called ahead to have his company jet file an earlier flight plan back to California, now that his trip to Washington was fruitless. As he sped down Constitution Avenue in the backseat of the Cadillac that had picked him up at Dulles, waited for him, and was now taking him back to the airport, Korman swore loudly to no one in particular, adding, “Who does this guy Storey think he is?”

The limo driver responded, “What was that, sir?”

“Shut up—just hurry up and get me back to where you picked me up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Korman grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through the tiny directory. When he got to his office number, he punched the
Call
icon. “Sally get me Storey's personnel file and have it out on my desk when I get back to Los Angeles.” While she had him on the phone, Sally Pearson, his personal assistant, quickly briefed him on other matters he needed to attend to when he returned to the West Coast. Korman dictated a few memos, asking Sally to cancel an appointment that he had forgotten about when he left the night before on his Gulfstream IV for the flight to his early morning meeting. “See if Jerry can reschedule for next Thursday at the same time,” he told Sally, wrapping up the last of the urgent matters.

Marty Korman wasn't used to being told that he had a bureaucratic problem with an export license—or anything else for that matter. Korman liked to tell people that he could do anything, even the impossible. After all, he'd boast, hadn't he personally started SCTI in his garage after he left Los Alamos National Laboratories? That wasn't entirely true—he had a partner who deserved at least half the credit. But Korman had spent countless, thankless hours, two wives, and incredible sums of other people's money building his company, and now he had succeeded beyond even his own great expectations. It seemed ludicrous that a simple matter like government licensing should now control his opportunities for success. He made a note to call his “friends,” Simon Harrod at the White House and Senator James Waggoner up on Capitol Hill, again on Monday. For a few seconds, Korman toyed with the idea of calling the President or the Vice President, but he had never done that before. The obese National Security Advisor was his access to all things at the White House. And he figured that POTUS and VPOTUS, as Harrod
referred to them, were his silver bullets. He didn't want to fire those shots until he had to.

And then in disgust, he thought,
What good are the best politicians money can buy if you can't get hold of them when you need them?
As the car sped west on the Dulles Access Road, he swore again—but this time to himself.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Corporate Headquarters

________________________________________

Silicon Cyber Technologies International, Inc.

Newport Beach, CA

Friday, 17 February 1995

0745 Hours, Local

 

A
fter his disastrous meeting with the Commerce Department the day before, Korman had gone directly to his office. The SCTI Gulfstream IV had landed back at John Wayne Airport in Orange County shortly after 8:00 P.M., and Korman jumped into his red Jaguar convertible. He sped to the SCTI headquarters in Newport Beach, making the trip down Jamboree Road in record time. The security guard waved him in, and Korman headed straight for the office down the hall from his, the one labeled
HUMAN RESOURCES.
He used his master key to let himself in and went to the locked file titled
EXECUTIVE.
Another key on his ring opened the lock. Thumbing through the files, he pulled the one with a plastic tab that read
Storey, Robert A, BG, USAF (Ret.)
, sat down at a nearby desk, and opened the file.

Fifteen minutes later he closed the general's file and stood up. He'd made his decision. Korman returned the file to its drawer, closed and locked it, shut off the lights in the personnel director's office, and closed and locked the door. He then walked down the expansive, well-appointed hallway to his own office and called the head of security.

“Fred, this is Marty.” Korman had a company-wide policy that everyone was on a first-name basis. He had read in some management book written by another Silicon Valley whiz kid that this kind of informality was good for morale and helped instill “team building.” Korman didn't give a whit about building teams. All he wanted to do was to build and sell EncryptionLok-3s, but if other Southern California megamillionaires were using first names, he would too.

“Fred, I want you to call the night security people and have them change the locks on General Storey's office. I want it done before dawn. Got it?” Korman paused, said, “Good, I'll depend on you,” and hung up the phone.

Korman then left the building, waved to the security guard at the gate, and went home. He grabbed a good bottle of wine, a glass, and a Cuban cigar and went out on the deck to watch the surf and the stars and drink the bottle of wine. It was after 1:00 A.M. when the wine ran out. Korman checked his watch and wobbled into the house. He called Storey at home, got him out of bed, and told him to meet him in his office at 7:30 in the morning.

Korman then called Marat, told him what he was going to do to Storey, and after listening for a minute or two, hung up and went to bed. The man who could “make electrons dance” slept for only a few
hours before he got up. After showering and eating a bowl of cereal with a banana, as he did every morning, he roared off to his office. He was sitting at his desk when the general arrived, promptly at 7:30.

First, Korman flew into a well-rehearsed rage about how the general's disloyalty was costing the company and how everyone who worked there faced the possibility of unemployment and ruin. He also ranted about his betrayal of Korman's trust and the company itself.

Finally, at the end of the fifteen minutes, Korman called the general a traitor and said that he was no longer an active employee of SCTI. He knew that the wily general would either want to argue his way back into the company's good graces or threaten to go public and really raise a stink. So to ensure his cooperation, Korman presented Storey with a letter that made his “retirement” from SCTI effective that day
and
made his continued receipt of retirement benefits dependent on a total nondisclosure of any of SCTI's activities. That had been Marat's suggestion on the phone the night before. The nondisclosure agreement had more teeth than an alligator—but allowed the general to keep his retirement package of $300,000 annual compensation plus insurance. The general would, however, have to give up all of the perks that he had enjoyed as an active employee: credit cards for his unlimited expense account, a company car, and a luxurious $400,000 condo in Cabo San Lucas. On Korman's desk the general put the credit cards, car keys, and the special ID card that gave him access to all of the SCTI empire.

The chastised General Storey had a choice: either keep his mouth shut or risk losing his pension from SCTI. Marat was convinced that the general would play ball in order to keep the money coming in. But if he didn't, they'd cut the compensation in a heartbeat. As an added incentive for Storey to go quietly, Korman alluded darkly to the possibility
of “evidence” of wrongdoing on the general's computer that might have to be turned over to Jules Wilson's Comm Hawks, or even better, to the FBI, pointing to the possibility that Storey was a security risk or even a spy. If convicted he might even go to prison. But if the general did as he was told, the pension would continue “for life.”

And as insurance, Korman leaned over the man's chair and hissed, “But listen to me, you jerk, if you mess with me, your life may not be
that long.
I'll agree to this deal, and you can keep your pension
conditionally.
For all intents and purposes, General, I'm buying your silence. Now you can run to somebody thinking that it's in the ‘best interests of the country' to cause me grief. But remember, letting you keep your pension is costing me a lot more money than it would if I just arranged an ‘accident' and had one of our armed security guards put a nine-millimeter hole in your head while ‘mistaking' you as an intruder. So don't think of messing with me, or your ‘lifetime' pension may be worthless. Your family will have nothing if the money stops. And
you'll
be in even worse shape!” Korman then launched into another tirade of curses as the general squirmed in his chair.

“If I were you, General—if I were you, I'd take my retirement package and leave the country. You never know when some kind of ‘accident' might happen. It might be better if you retired to someplace
safe
, don't you think?” Korman told General Storey. The words were quiet and his tone was even, but the real meaning of the threat was explicit.

General Storey signed the letter and other documents and hurriedly left Korman's office. He stopped at his old office to pick up his things, but when he couldn't get in, he called his wife from his mobile phone and told her to come and pick him up at the main gate. And then he was gone.

After the general left, Korman decided that Monday was too long to wait for a callback from Dr. Simon Harrod. He called the National Security Advisor's West Wing office and told Harrod's secretary, “It's extremely urgent that I speak with the National Security Advisor.”

Less than two minutes later, the White House Situation Room senior watch officer called Korman's private line and said, “Sir, the National Security Advisor will be calling you in five minutes. Do you have an EncryptionLok-3?”

“Of course,” snarled Korman. “I make 'em, don't I?”

“Very well, sir. The National Security Advisor will be using encryption algorithm X-Ray Papa, Juliet, Two, Kilo, Seven, One, Lima, Niner. He should be calling in less than four minutes.” Then the line went dead.

Korman reached into his briefcase, pulled out the EL-3 he always carried with him, and punched in the encryption code that had been read to him over the phone. He then disconnected the handset cord from the base of the phone on his desk, plugged it into the EL-3, and connected the other end of the device to the phone instrument. Two minutes later the phone rang. It was Simon Harrod.

“Marty, it's Simon Harrod. My secretary called and told me that you have an international crisis or something. What's going on?”

“Simon,” Korman said, “thank you for calling. I need to meet with you about something important. Can you fit me in later today?”

“I'm on my way to Andrews Air Force Base—heading for Colorado as we speak, Marty. Can it wait?”

“Are you going to the ‘Mountain' by any chance?” Korman asked, referring to the North American Air Defense Command Center buried deep in the Cheyenne Mountains outside the city.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I'm meeting with a few Air Force generals to see why, among other things, NORAD is dragging its feet on converting their EncryptionLok-3s. That ought to be of interest to you. Would you care to join me, in case they ask some technical questions?” Harrod proposed.

“That's perfect. Stan Marat was planning on going there next week to build a fire under them. I'll call my pilot and have him file a flight plan to Colorado Springs instead of Washington. That ought to save a few gallons of aviation fuel,” Korman said with a smile. “What's your ETA?”

“Now you're sounding like the brass hats,” Harrod laughed. “I should be at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs—it adjoins the municipal airport—by 2:00 P.M. their time. I guess the ‘stripes and stars set' would call that ‘1400 local,'” he chuckled.

“Yes, I know where it is. How should we connect? I expect it's too late for me to get clearances to land at Peterson, so I'll have our jet land at Colorado Springs Airport.”

“Yes. Good. Have your pilot radio our plane and give your time of arrival. I'll have someone pick you up at the airport and bring you to me. We can have a late lunch and head for the Mountain.”