Mission Compromised (36 page)

“Do you mind if I bring Stan Marat with me?” asked Korman.

“Not at all.”

Korman hung up with a sense of euphoria. This was the break he had been waiting for. Harrod was clearly fully on board. The money Korman had been throwing around Washington was paying off. Harrod had already made it possible for SCTI to begin replacing the outmoded older EncryptionLok units with the new GPS—command/destruct model, the EL-3. Then Harrod had helped SCTI acquire contracts to produce them for the UN Security Council's
military Special Force. As always, the contracts had avoided congressional scrutiny by simply keeping Senator James Waggoner “in the loop.”

The UN deal was typical. When some bureaucrat at Commerce raised a stink about turning the devices over to the UN, Harrod and then Waggoner had landed on the man like a ton of bricks.

“This is not a matter for the Commerce people,” Harrod had declared. “It's a national security matter.” He'd reasoned that with seventy-five hundred of the new EncryptionLok-3 devices, mainly to equip UN peacekeeping troops around the world, maintaining world order and peace was a higher law than some archaic commercial regulation. For good measure, Harrod told the secretary of commerce that he had discussed the matter with the President and he had concurred: they would permit the sale on grounds of national security. Two simple phone calls—one from Harrod and another from Waggoner—had made it possible to bypass any internal or external controls, including Congress and the Pentagon, which kept the sale a matter of utmost secrecy. If all went well, there would be another order of 7,500 devices for the rest of the UN force during the next year.

And to show his gratitude, throughout 1994 Korman had kept the huge checks coming, and Harrod had promised to introduce SCTI to NATO leaders who would probably order (again, secretly) at least fifteen thousand total units. SCTI would be in business through 2006—giving Korman plenty of time to explore the possibility of selling some variation of the device to commercial civilian markets.

But Korman wanted to get started on the other overseas markets now, and that's why he had run into trouble with Commerce. Storey had poisoned the well with his whistle-blowing. Korman was coming to realize that there were three types of people in Washington:
(1) those who had come into town with the President and his administration; (2) people like Senator Waggoner who could be bought no matter who ran the White House; and (3) career government employees—some of whom apparently took their jobs very seriously. For this third group, even the hint of impropriety was the kiss of death to a project or politician.

Korman buzzed Marat on the intercom and yelled, “Meet me at the car in two minutes; we're going on a little trip!” He pushed the
Off
button before Marat could answer.

He then grabbed his briefcase and buzzed his driver to meet him in front of the building for a race up Jamboree Road to John Wayne Airport and into the SCTI hangar he had left less than twelve hours ago. An hour and twenty minutes later, Korman was airborne. He slept in the Gulfstream's comfortable leather seat all the way to Colorado. Marat spent the trip looking out the window, wondering how much longer all this could last.

 

Municipal Airport

________________________________________

Colorado Springs, CO

Friday, 17 February 1995

1400 Hours, Local

 

Harrod's limo picked up Korman and Marat at a little after 2:00 P.M. local time and brought them to Peterson Air Force Base to the north of the commercial airport. Korman jumped from the limousine and trotted over to where Harrod was talking on his cell phone. The porcine National Security Advisor concluded his conversation, smiled, and extended his hand. “The President sends his best wishes,” he said to Korman.

Korman laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said. “My old buddy … what'd he want … to get together for poker tomorrow night?”

Harrod's face turned red and his expression was serious. “No, really. That was the President, and he recalls the time last fall when he invited you and Stan to the Oval Office to congratulate SCTI on delivery of the first three thousand EncryptionLok-3 devices to the UN.”

“Well, I'll be … he really did remember me, eh?”

“I'm sure that he did. If not, he sure remembers that check you wrote out to the President's reelection campaign on the spot. Yes, Marty,
he remembers.”

Korman remembered too. Afterward, in Harrod's office, the two SCTI executives had sat through one of Harrod's little speeches about how pleased he was that they were involved in the progress of something that he called “a new world order” and had said that the President and his administration would be remembered in history as the one that opened the door to a new era of world peace and harmony.

“Well, the thing is, Dr. Harrod,” Korman had said softly, using the National Security Advisor's title rather than the more casual first-name basis, “Stan and I really appreciate how you broke the logjam at the Commerce Department. I mean, Stan tried pushing our request through last year and didn't get anywhere. They really held onto that foreign licensing policy that restricts us from selling high-tech computer stuff overseas. They told me that our technology fell into that category. But apparently you found a way around it.”

“It's better if we don't talk about it,” Harrod had said. “Just let me take care of it. Let's just say that I've found a way to get around your Commerce Department problem, and leave it at that.”

Now here they were with another problem at Commerce. Korman knew better than to try and make himself look good—Harrod would see through it.

“I screwed up, Dr. Harrod,” Marat told him. “First, I got a call from Commerce that they were going to sic the FBI on us because we were trying to circumvent the export license on selling our devices overseas. I told you about that when you saved our butts with the UN orders. I suppose we got a little impatient trying to build something similar to the EncryptionLok-3 for the commercial market. We talked about that too.”

“Yes … I recall that we did. What's wrong?”

At this point Korman cut in. “One of my lobbyists suddenly became patriotic and felt that America needs to keep anything related to the EncryptionLok-3 solely for the military and not overseas sales, and especially not any commercial venues. I fired him this morning,” Korman added.

Harrod laughed. “You always have been the impetuous one, Marty. I don't know how you and Stan ever teamed up. Opposites attract, I guess.”

“Well, I suppose I am impetuous. But I want to be careful and not expose this administration to anything that might get fuzzy. I need your advice.”

Harrod stretched his neck and moved his head around to relieve the tension. Then he spoke. “Marty, just leave it alone. Be patient. Give me time to grease the skids. Don't jump in and make things messy. Call your guy at Commerce and tell him you appreciate what he told you and that you think it's so important that you've gotta revisit your proposal—that you'll get back to him later when you feel it'll pass their scrutiny. Meanwhile, we try another avenue altogether.”

The three men went to the Officer's Mess on the base and were given the VIP treatment for lunch. During the meal, Korman and Harrod worked out a strategy for keeping the SCTI pipeline full of
contracts and orders for the foreseeable future. Marat ate silently while the other two schemed. In less time than it took them to eat, they had a plan. And as evidence of their gratitude, Korman and SCTI would see to it that the President's reelection campaign fund would be kept healthy with some serious contributions.

 

Andrews Air Force Base

________________________________________

Washington, D.C.

Friday, 17 February 1995

2335 Hours, Local

When the Special Air Mission Gulfstream, with
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
emblazoned above its windows, taxied toward the VIP terminal at Andrews Air Force Base, it was dark and Harrod felt drained. He'd begun the day with two meetings and flew to Colorado for three more, including the one with Marty Korman and Stan Marat. When the plane stopped, Harrod stood up, put on his jacket, and grabbed his attaché case.

The Air Force lieutenant who served as an aide to Harrod for the flight handed him his black cashmere topcoat and beaver hat, which he carried instead of wearing despite the damp chill in the air. He ambled clumsily down the steps of the plane's exit stairs and walked across the rain-dampened tarmac.

As he strode into the building, his driver reached for Harrod's coat, hat, and attaché case. Harrod nodded to him but said nothing. He was glad that his White House limo was outside and ready—he hated waiting around at these military installations when his limo got stuck in rush-hour traffic or delayed in some other way.

The driver led the way to the curb where the limo was parked, opened the door for Harrod, and closed the trunk since the National
Security Advisor had no luggage. As Harrod was preparing to compress his enormous girth into the open rear door at curbside, he heard someone call his name. He turned to see General Dimitri Komulakov walking briskly toward the car. Harrod waited.

“How'd you know I was on this plane?” Harrod asked.

“Your deputy gave me your schedule. I told him it was urgent that I meet with you today. There's an important development that we must discuss.”

“Ride with me back to the White House—we can have a snack sent up to my office from the White House Mess.”

Komulakov shook his head. “I'm sorry, Simon. As soon as I brief you on what's happening, I must fly back to New York. My plane is parked over there.” He pointed to a smaller twenty-passenger jet nearby. “Can you delay your trip back to the city by twenty minutes, Simon? It would help me a great deal.”

Harrod nodded, then gestured for Komulakov to get into the backseat of his limo. “We can talk here. My car's secure,” Harrod said as he climbed into the back of the limo with the Russian. The White House driver got out and returned to the terminal.

Komulakov leaned across the seat and lowered his voice. “Last week, the Mossad passed along an unsubstantiated rumor of plans for a major defection from Iraq,” he began.

“Yes, the CIA briefed me about it on the weekend. Seems that Saddam's son-in-law Hussein Kamil wants to get out of Iraq.”

“When I heard about it, I put one of my former comrades on the case just to see whether it is true or not. It
is!”
the Russian exclaimed. “Kamil sent some feelers through one of the German pharmaceutical corporations that make his chemical weapons. Kamil wanted the Germans to bring him to the West.”

“Boy, I'll bet the German was happy—closing the door to one of his company's most lucrative contracts, having to give up those million-dollar commissions. What'd he say?”

The Russian shook his head, “Their conversations were not recorded, but the Mossad has information that the German turned him down. If he helped Kamil, he'd be a marked man. He felt that Saddam would send someone to assassinate them both.”

Harrod laughed. “Saddam's so dirty that he'll probably terminate the German just for listening to what Kamil wants to do.” Then he added, “Does anyone in Iraq know anything about this plan?”

“I don't think so. Kamil seems like a bright guy, but there's a story going around that he's had a brain tumor or something. One thing is for sure, he's a survivor, and he's moved up the ladder over there after every purge. There's no doubt he's been around long enough to know his way around. Maybe because he's a relative he's not under suspicion.”

Harrod laughed again. “Are you kidding? Saddam couldn't care less about that. He'd butcher his own mother and invite all of Baghdad to watch if he thought she wasn't loyal.”

“So far there is no evidence of Kamil's plans. But if the Mossad, the CIA, and my operatives know about it, it will be leaked eventually,” General Komulakov said, adding, “Here is what I think we should do. My agent is in Baghdad—”

“A double agent?” Harrod interrupted. “This could be a setup.”

“Yes, my man is a double agent, but no, it is not a setup. He is to be trusted as much as you and I trust each other.” Harrod wasn't sure that the Russian's assurance was worth much, but he knew that this game of intrigue had certain conventions, and he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt—for now.

The Russian continued. “My man has been working with Kamil for more than two years to try and sell him three nuclear artillery warheads that he claims to have in the Ukraine. It's not true, of course, but he is able to keep Kamil's interest and the pretense of working on the matter while he has a chance to gain some rather decent intelligence.

“I told my man to not let Kamil know that his message to the Germans was turned down and to say that they had contacted my man to get Kamil to the West. It's a dangerous move—Kamil could kill him for knowing too much. But my guy thinks he can string it along for awhile, simply because he knows that Kamil won't kill him until he knows
who else knows.”

Harrod thought for a moment and wondered what his role in all of this should be. A Hussein Kamil defection would make for an interesting press conference, and he might earn some points for the President, who certainly hated Saddam more than Kamil ever could. Harrod made a proposal. “How soon can you find out if this Kamil guy has something to offer the West in exchange for getting him safely out of Iraq? I'd guess he figures that he's a pretty big fish and could ask for some serious cash and other perks in exchange for some state secrets.”

Komulakov reminded Harrod, “Well, he is the head of their internal state security apparatus, he's the one buying all the parts for their nuclear programs, and he's the guy in charge of their weapons of mass destruction. Yes, I'd say that he could tell us a thing or two.”

“I mean things that we don't already know,” Harrod said.