From: fergp@sytex.com (Paul Ferguson)
Date: Sun, 29 Aug 93 13:43:31 PDT
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: The Hunt for Red Miata (humor)
Message-ID: <HoZ29B1w165w@sytex.com>
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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;
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pub  1024/1CC04D 1993/03/15  Paul Ferguson <fergp@sytex.com>
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