by Jack Bowie
For communications equipment, the approved levels of encryption were further specified by Suite B, an encryption classification system developed by the NSA.
Passage of Potterfield’s Bill was threatened by these two substantial constraints. Both doves and hawks were reticent to allow export of critical defense technologies even in the name of democracy.
That was the bad news. The good news was that the ITAR restrictions were enforced by the State Department. His State Department. They approved munition shipments. If the Bill could be passed, Potterfield could see that State toed the line.
“A concern you presented eloquently this morning,” Potterfield finally offered. “Do you have any suggestions on how these obstacles could be removed?”
“Actually, not at all, Senator,” Greystone replied calmly. “I believe we should embrace them.”
Potterfield felt blood rushing to his face. Why is this lunatic wasting my time?
“What I mean, Senator,” the executive continued with a conspiratorial grin, “is that we should use them to our advantage. Don’t change the rules but add to them. Amend Part 121 to allow a new class of equipment to be exported while still limiting distribution of our most advanced technology. Our international friends get the assistance they need, and your political colleagues get the protection they demand.”
Potterfield leaned back in his chair. So the shark really does have something to offer. It was a tempting idea. Use the existing policy structure to support his objectives. But could it really work?
“An interesting idea, son. But the issues involved are quite complex. Legally and technically. Involving difficult areas such as encryption methods and verifications.” Potterfield paused and placed his hands on his desk. “Or so I understand. My office certainly doesn’t have the expertise to dictate to the NSA on technology, or the State Department on verification and enforcement.”
Greystone leaned forward and met Potterfield’s cold stare. His voice was tense as he continued. “Let me be clear, Senator. I would not be here if I didn’t have a specific proposal. It uses existing NSA evaluations and industry-standard protocols. It all depends on the way the pieces are put together.
“It is possible to define a new class of command-and-control equipment that relies on specific communication protocols. Protocols that are complementary to those DoD uses, but are not quite as advanced. The new equipment would still be far superior to anything our partners, or their enemies, have currently available.”
Potterfield had been sitting quietly as the executive made his pitch. It was an arrogant proposal, but one that might resolve the deadlock in his Committee. He wondered how far Greystone had taken his thinking.
“So the modified equipment is exported and we keep the really good stuff, right Mr. Greystone?”
“I don’t know that I would have quite phrased it that way, Senator, but yes. I believe such an amendment might appease some of your colleagues.”
One of Potterfield’s gifts was his ability to read people. It had served him well throughout his career in this snake pit of a city. Greystone was holding something back. And he thought he knew exactly what is was.
“And might that allow us to . . . perhaps monitor these pieces of equipment for proper operation?”
“An interesting observation, Senator.” Potterfield saw the executive relax. He had guessed right. “I will need to check with my designers, but that might be possible. It would certainly assist us in supporting our allies.”
And eavesdrop on their operations, Potterfield thought excitedly.
“There has been some discussion of new munition classes in the Committee, Mr. Greystone. But I will not wait for endless engineering studies and prototype development before we proceed. Y’all know that your beltway friends would bleed us dry in proposals and prototypes before one piece of equipment ever made it to our friends.”
“We must protect democracy today, Mr. Greystone.” Potterfield slapped his hands on the desk. His voice had lost it lazy twang. “Before these damn terrorists take over everything we hold dear.”
The executive sat motionless, seemingly shocked by Potterfield’s outburst. He finally took a breath and replied. “I understand Senator. You are right, of course. That is why Theater has invested in some, ah, preliminary research. I wanted to meet with you today to discuss our results. I must ask, however, that this be kept in confidence until appropriate arrangements can be made for its disclosure. Is that satisfactory?”
Well, the weasel does have something to sell. Potterfield sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “This office will keep any such information private, Mr. Greystone. As long as it breaks no laws, of course.”
“Certainly not, Senator.” Greystone leaned forward and lowered his voice, apparently hoping to heighten the importance of his disclosure. “Over the past few months, I have built a coalition of companies to prototype a set of advanced command-and-control components. These components are built on a new architecture, implementing the vision we have been discussing.
“The results have been quite extraordinary. I can without any doubt confirm the viability of the specifications we have developed. Should a similar set of specifications become law, we will be able to deploy production units within the year. As permitted by your legislation, of course.”
Potterfield sat poker-faced. Greystone was saying that he had already developed military-grade products based on a set of almost-state-of the-art specifications. If those specifications suddenly became law, he and his partners had an insurmountable lead in the market. The business potential was staggering.
“What other companies are involved in this coalition, son?”
“I’m not at liberty to give their names at this time, Senator. As I’m sure you’re aware, this has been an expensive undertaking that no one company was able to take on themselves. Full production will incur even more cost. We would like to create a separate company to license the new technology and manufacture the product. We cannot take this step without legislative clarity around the details of the implementation strategy. Our risk would be too high. If that clarity could be secured, then there would be significant opportunities for forward-thinking investors.”
So we finally get to the bottom line. But why would he have ever embarked on such a risky investment?
“You paint a very positive picture, Mr. Greystone. Perhaps we should re-evaluate our position on creating a new equipment class. As they say, ‘the devil is in the details’. I would like to have a member of my staff review your technical specifications. It could be that we would need to make some changes before presenting to my committee. Would that be agreeable?”
“Certainly, Senator. I would be happy to work with your representative. We only want what is best for the country after all.”
Of course you do, son. Potterfield was momentarily distracted by a flashing on his small computer screen. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Greystone, I have a message in my private email account. It will only take a minute.” He turned to the screen and his keyboard.
“Of course, Senator. I had no idea you were so familiar with the technology.”
“Oh, it’s really nothin’” Potterfield said with a plaster smile. “I do try to keep up with all the latest gadgets.”
Actually, it had taken Potterfield’s Chief of Staff three weeks to train him on the PC’s operation and he could still only read his mail. But he liked showing off his expertise to visitors from the computer industry. It supported his image as a knowledgeable, progressive Senator.
Potterfield carefully clicked through the menus with his mouse. He stared transfixed as the message filled the screen, trying to stay calm despite the knife of fear slicing through his gut. Thankfully, the screen-saver finally blanked the image and he slowly turned back to his visitor. As he repositioned the chair, his finger slid along the bottom edge of his desk and touched a small button.
“Nothing urgent, Mr. Greystone. Now, you were saying?”
Chapter
17
The Russell Building, Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, 1:00 p.m.
BARCLAY “NICK” NICHOLSON heard the buzzer and again prepared to save his boss from the latest national emergency. Last week it had been an incredibly boring constituent from Charlottesville who had wanted a noise ban on the fraternities at the University. Such were the duties of a Senator’s Chief of Staff.
Nicholson stood up and deftly slid two fingers down the crease on each pants leg. Then he unhooked his jacket from behind the door, slipped it on, and peered into the small mirror mounted there for such occasions. The silk Armani suit hung lightly from his broad shoulders. Only five foot ten, he kept in good physical condition thanks to almost daily workouts at The Iron Body in Crystal City. His features were what most would call ordinary, but he had never had any trouble attracting the women he wanted. And one look from his steel gray eyes was usually enough to discourage any other suitors.
Satisfied with the result of his preparations, he grabbed his iPad and headed for the door.
* * *
Potterfield turned on hearing a knock on his door and watched as an elegantly-dressed black man entered from the waiting room. The man gave a quick glance toward the visitor and walked directly to the desk.
“Excuse me, Senator,” Nicholson said, “but you are due for lunch with Representative Kantor. He’s waiting for you now.”
Looking surprised, Potterfield glanced at his watch then quickly rose from his chair and moved toward Greystone.
“Mr. Greystone, this is my Chief of Staff, Barclay Nicholson. I’m afraid I simply must bring our conversation to a close. My counterpart in the House wants to discuss the progress of the Bill. Your ideas are quite interesting and I would definitely like to learn more. Please schedule some time with Barclay to bring him up to date. Camille can help with the details.” He paused and then added, “I trust these new developments will remain between us for the moment?”
“Of course, Senator.” Greystone rose and shook Potterfield’s hand, then the newcomer’s. “Mr. Nicholson. Pleased to meet you. Until next time, gentlemen.” A slight nod and he disappeared out the door.
Nicholson pulled a more comfortable chair from the sitting area and sat down. “How did the meeting go, David? Did he have anything new to say?”
Potterfield winced at the use of his first name. Nicholson always used “Senator” in public but when they were alone he reverted to a familiarity Potterfield forbade with the rest of his staff. Unfortunately, he and his Chief of Staff shared too much history and he had given up trying to change his friend.
Potterfield had pulled Nicholson off the streets in Richmond almost forty-five years before. As a successful young lawyer, Potterfield had seen politics in his future and realized he needed someone who could work behind the scenes. Someone who could act as part bodyguard, part investigator, and part middleman. Nicholson had been a wise-talking street punk who had been picked up for numbers running. His mother had a friend, who had a sister, who knew Potterfield’s aunt and the young lawyer had been talked into taking the case. He had gotten the kid off with probation, his fee set at one year’s servitude to the lawyer.
The teenager had been a real problem at first, but had eventually adapted and become an asset to the practice. Potterfield had seen something of himself in the youth and eventually mentored his advancement through high school, and then a prominent university.
Nicholson was now an irreplaceable asset. He managed the campaigns, prepared background material, and ran the Senator’s three offices. His degree was in Management but he was knowledgeable in technology and was surprisingly conversant in computers. Much of the wording for the Potterfield Bill had come from his Chief of Staff.
The association had been equally valuable to Nicholson. He owned an elegant townhouse in Alexandria and was seen as one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors. His affluence surprised even Potterfield, given the paltry salary the Senator conferred on his staff. Potterfield knew better than to question his Chief of Staff too closely, however. Good help was hard to find and he knew everyone needed to keep a few secrets.
“Greystone did have something quite interesting that I want you to follow up on later. But what I need most is for you to explain this.” Potterfield’s tone was undeniably accusatory.
He spun the monitor around, hit a key, and let Nicholson read the message.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Senator Lynch
Senator Potterfield,
Your ruin of Senator Lynch can no longer be tolerated. We have evidence of your complicity in his death. You can no longer be allowed to represent the people of Virginia. If you do not wish to have further information on your activities released to the public, you must resign in the next 60 days. We will contact you again in the near future.
Citizens for Responsible Government
“What’s this about, Nick? What information could they have? You said we buried everything about the Lynch affair.”
“We did, David. We destroyed all the police reports. It all went away twenty years ago.”
“Apparently not far enough away! You’re the computer expert, who is this from? And who the hell is this ‘Citizens for Responsible Government’?”
“It’s from a remailer, David,” Nicholson replied calmly. “There’s no way of telling who sent it.”
Nicholson’s attitude was driving Potterfield crazy. “What do you mean there’s no way of telling? I know everybody else that sends me shit on this damn computer. It’s government issue!”
Nicholson closed his eyes and shook his head. A gesture that only made Potterfield madder.
“I know, David. But this came from a special system designed to give anonymity to individuals. You send it a mail message and a forwarding address. It strips off your return address and substitutes an ID, a kind of pseudonym, like this ‘an6845’. Then it forwards the original message. If we reply, the remailer might send it on to the originator but we can’t find out who he is.”
“What the hell good is that?”
“Well it does have its uses,” Nicholson continued as if he was lecturing to a class of high school students. “Unfortunately whistle blowing and blackmail are among them. Remember that sexual harassment suit against Senator Gillingham last year? It all got started after some anonymous emails.”
“Can’t you trace it? Can the FBI trace it? It ought to be illegal!”
“They’re not illegal, although most countries have put a lot of pressure on the owners. Theoretically, you can get a warrant to determine the sender’s identity, but that’s pretty hard to do here. And you don’t really want to get the authorities involved, do you?”
Potterfield was about to explode. He shook his head.
“Okay,” Nicolson held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll see what I can do. Most of the original remailer sites were shut down years ago, but new ones pop up all the time. See this ‘ua’ in the address? This remailer is in the Ukraine. I doubt they have a very active cyber-crime unit.
“If the remailer’s not encrypted I should be able to trace the message. Give me a couple of days.
“This ‘Citizens for Responsible Government’ is likely just a front for some frustrated citizen. Who do you think might be behind this?”
“I don’t have a goddamn idea,” Potterfield spit back. “And how did they get my private mail address? I can’t have this coming up again, Nick. Use your contacts and figure out who sent this. If all they have is hearsay we can probably ride it out. But if you missed anything else . . .”
“I didn’t miss anything, David,” Nicholson replied firmly. “I’ll forward the message to my account and get started.” He pulled the keyboard over and typed some commands. “And I’ll delete your copy just to be safe. Anything else?”
“That seems to be enough don’t you think? Just make this problem go away. For good.”
He waved for Nicholso
n to leave and dropped his head in his hands. No one had ever threatened him directly in his forty years in office. Now someone was doing it in a goddamn electronic mail message.
Certainly there had been a few attacks on his reputation at election time, but the sources of the trouble had been easily identified and the innuendoes put to rest, so to speak. This was different. His attacker was unknown and had access to information no one should have.
He felt the fear of the threat as deeply as he had in ‘74 when he had brought charges against a white cop that beat one of his neighbors to death. “Stay out of this nigger. It’s none of your business,” they had warned him. Then they beat him unconscious just to be sure he didn’t miss the point.
But this wasn’t another frustrated constituent. This was a threat to him and his dream. His afro was shorter and grayer than when he started in practice, but his mind was just as quick and his instincts just as sharp. He’d find a way to respond to this threat as he had the many others in his life.
After Potterfield had gotten the conviction, the cop had been gang raped then killed in a predominantly black prison.
* * *
Nicholson sat at his desk and reread the message. He couldn’t imagine who could have sent it. It had to be from someone Internet-savvy, certainly not a typical government employee. They had to have knowledge of the remailer environment and the ability to find Potterfield’s private account name. As well as having access to the Lynch history.
He had spent all of his adult life saving the Senator’s butt. And he was good at that job. Over the past two decades he had been privy to more national secrets than he cared to remember. He had even played a role in a number of them. But lately he was feeling tired. The game held less passion; he was simply going through the motions.
It was ironic being on the defensive. It might be interesting for a change.
He turned to his desk and started typing.
