excerpted from the notorious, left-wing publication: The Washington Post Sunday, 29 August 1993 Page C5; Outlook Commentary and Opinion The Hunt for Red Miata A Glimpse at the New Indutrial-Espionage CIA, by David Corn "Economic intelligence is the hottest current topic in intelligence poilcy." - CIA Director R. James Woolsey The President slammed the files down on the desk and glared across the Oval Office to his national security advisors. "Intelligence reports from the NSA," he huffed, "tell us that Volkswagen is about to introduce a sports coupe with room for passengers in the back, air bags in front and rear, zero to 60 in 6.8, over 50 mpg, retailing for less than $12,000, due to a new employee profit-sharing arrangement. This is intolerable. Detroit could be driven to its knees. And what's worse is those damn ... uh, competitors ... are stealing secrets from our companies. Thank God, one of their design specialists used an unsecured cellular phone. What are we going to do?" Woolsey finished cleaning his glasses with his tie. "Well, Mr. President," he said, "our sources tell us that all they really got was GM's plans to market luxury sedans in Japan -- a lot of good that will do them. But we realize this threat is serious. We are putting our best officer on the case ..." James Ryan was waiting in the hallway outside the Oval Office. He was still nursing a bad case of eye strain and a touch of R.S.I from the last operation -- the Toshiba HDTV case. It had ended badly. Two hackers dead. A Cray was down. And the disks were at the bottom of the Sea of Japan. As he entered the president's office, Ryan silently cursed Woolsey for making him attend this damn dog-and-pony show. The president stared at Ryan, a 25-year veteran of the service. Was this the agency's best man? He wore thick glasses; a plastic pocket-protector protruded from his shirt pocket. The end of his belt dangled. "Mr. President," Woolsey explained," he's undercover." The president clasped his hands together. "Very convincing, Director," he said. "Just wanted to meet the man upon whom our economic future as a nation rests. Now that I have, I feel very comfortable. Make us proud, Mr. Ryan. Get us their secret plans. By the way, if anyone ever asks, I will disavow any knowledge of your actions." Ryan nodded. "I will erase it." First stop was Dusseldorf, an auto trade show. Ryan was following a marketing exec out of a beerhall -- her gray suit flattered her long legs -- when the personal fax in his briefcase rang. He ducked into an alley and read the noncurling document: Go to the HiTek Cafe in Berlin -- damnit, he hated that smoke-free, non-alcohol pub -- and await your contact, who will carry a copy of HyperText Life magazine. Ryan was playing with his slide rule when she walked in the HiTek. Nice, he thought. She sat down next to him and gave the code signal: "Don't you hate to run out of memory?" "With some data," he replied, "you just have to learn to let go." Victoria Goodlog, she introduced herself. An American grad student in design engineering who had received a fellowship to work in the new, restricted Fahrvergnugen Research Facility. "But we're on the same team," she added. "You worked with Daddy on the Greece business, didn't you?" "Dirty business, that was," he said. "But we won the Cold War." "It killed Daddy." "Yes, but he died knowing that the U.S. gold supply was safe and that he had thwarted another communist plot to rule the world." "But now we know Moscow was not even capable of ruling its own country." "Well, sure, hindsight is 20/20 .... So tell me, what's a girl like you doing in a job like this?" Ryan put his hand on her thigh and rubbed the corduroy. "Make that 'woman'," she said. "And you don't have to seduce me. I'm on your side. Let's go back to my hotel. I have condoms." Nothing is the same anymore, Ryan thought. After a lengthy discussion of their sexual pasts and then moderately passionate lovemaking, the two ordered Evian from room service and plotted. "I'll create a power surge to knock out the computer security system. You'll have a few minutes to copy the encrypted data file," Goolog said. Ryan like the plan. "What's your favorite algorithm?" he asked. "Later," she said with a smile. The next morning, everything fell into place. Ryan, posing as a workplace facilitator, gained entry into the lab and cracked the computer locks. He downloaded the file into his laptop and copied the plans onto super-high-density diskettes designed by Langley's techies to look like cough drops. On the way out, he dumped the computer in a garbage can. It would be untraceable. He rendezvoused with Goodlog at a virtual-reality arcade. As they walked down the Kurfurstendamm, Ryan stopped to fix the penny in his loafer. "Look at this," Goodlog said as she walked on. "Somebody must have dropped an experimental Hexium-25050 advance microprocessor chip." She bent doen to pick it up. "Don't!" bellowed Ryan. The chip exploded. It was too late. He held her in his arms, stroked her short hair, removed her black-frame glasses. But when he heard the sirens, he dropped her body to the cold pavement and ran. He didn't look back. His satellite-signal beeper souded. He ignored it. He walked past the Brandenburg Gate. It all used to be much easier. Back then, he was fighting the Evil Empire to save the Free World. That was worth taking a bullet for. But why should he have to face the diabolical security chief of BMW or the goons of Honda to benefit the dinosaurs of Detroit? He hated the Ford he owned. No pick-up, lousy handling. He thought of Goodlog. Who in Grosse Point would mourn her? Rather than use the plans to build a better, cheaper car, GM would probably find a way to sabotage the new VW model. That might even be his next assignment. Ryan tossed the diskettes into a sewer. What would he tell Woolsey? He looked at the spot where Checkpoint Charlie once stood. It began to rain. "I know," Ryan muttered to himself. "I'll say that I ran out of fax paper." -------------------------- David Corn is Washington editor of the Nation magazine. Paul Ferguson | privacy \'pri-va-see\ n, pl, -cies; Mindbank Consulting Group | 1: the quality or state of being apart Fairfax, Virginia USA | from others 2: secrecy fergp@sytex.com | ferguson@icp.net | Privacy -- Use it or lose it. Type bits/keyID Date User ID pub 1024/1CC04D 1993/03/15 Paul Ferguson <fergp@sytex.com> Key fingerprint = EE D2 93 7D 04 6D C6 05 AC 36 AD 9D 8E 4F 41 58