Eavesdroppers signal a new era in EU openness

Date: 07/12/1995

By Geoff Meade

ALLEGATIONS that United States agents have eavesdropped on European officials and ministers have sent shock waves through Brussels. The Menwith Hills US base, otherwise known as Field Station F-38, in North Yorkshire, is said to be part of the US National Security Agency's surveillance network. It was used, allegedly, to plug into a critical phase of the GATT negotiations to give the yanks a negotiating edge. And yet the Council of Ministers insists it has no competence to investigate and is ignoring the claims. It shouldn't.

Far below Boulevard du Régent, in a bunker known only to a handful of staff at the US Mission to the European Union, Walter J. Pipestem III surveyed his dedicated team of operatives. Another busy day was just getting under way in the air-conditioned windowless vault known as F-15, America's front-line intercept headquarters.

Dozens of fresh-faced men and women, the cream of the crop from the fast track at the European Spy Training Centre in Langley, Virginia, silently monitored incoming signals from every nook and cranny of Euro-land.

They picked up coffee and bagels from a stacked buffet in a corner of the ops room, then settled into high-backed swivel chairs, and clamped on their headphones. Ahead was a short, but concentrated work stint - two hours maximum for Council of Ministers code-breakers, 90 minutes for those on European Parliament committee watch. Operatives following committees on rules and petitions got special treament, clocking off after 45 minutes - any more, stipulated the Mission's in-house stress medic, and they could crack.

Walter surveyed his domain with quiet satisfaction. In so far as any operation like this could ever be said to be perfect, this one was. There were always problems in a fast-moving high-tech world like spying, but basically a bug was a bug and with the right technicians and a large dose of chutzpah, you could get in anywhere and bug anything.

He chuckled as he thought of his team even at this minute draping the entire Berlaymont in an elegant white cotton nightie: half that scaffolding squad had detectable American accents, but who takes much notice of a grimy workman? Competent in French and Flemish, they took orders and kept themselves to themselves. They just chewed gum and got on with the job. Correction: jobs.

The first was to get rid of that asbestos and make the place fit for the return of Europe's elite civil service. The second was the installation of literally hundreds of listening devices, exactly where F-15 specified. No spy task force had ever had it so easy.

Another of Walter's teams had been crawling over the Espace Leopold for the last 18 months. They had recently signalled that the place was just about ready, every meeting room bugged to the eyeballs. All it needed now, Walter mused, was for some meetings to be held there. Still, there were always glitches and his job was not to worry about the quality of the intelligence, just the quality of the intelligence-gathering. It was all part of what Walter and his team liked to call the 'special relationship'.

Just then, Hiram P. Fetlock IV greased silently into the room, carrying the overnight reports and assessments for Walter's approval. It had been a busy evening shift, with meetings of EP committees on budgetary control, social affairs and transport, not to mention meetings of EU agriculture and foreign ministers, and a very late session of Jacques Santer and his Commissioners on transatlantic trade. Top of the pile was a Commission transcript marked “Action Immediate, Priority One”.

Kate P. Gertleberger II, who had been CO on Commission Surveillance Team A last night, had ringed interventions by Trade Commissioner Sir Leon Brittan in heavy red pen. One read: “United States industry wants two bites at the cherry and this is simply unacceptable.”

Walter read it twice, frowned and waved it at Hiram. “What d'ya think this means Fetlock, what's he trying to say? Have you broken the code?”

Hiram took off his wire-rimmed glasses and began polishing them vigorously: “We've run this through the lab again this morning, sir. The voice matches Brittan's speech patterns, there's no doubt it's him. As to the code, we've spent much of the night working on it. We think it means: United States industry wants two bites at the cherry and this is simply unacceptable.”

Walter thought for a minute. His frown became deeper. “A double bluff you mean? We decode the thing and all along he means what he says?”

Hiram nodded enthusiastically: “We're sure of it sir, as sure as we can be. They've got a new code and the code is...there isn't one!”

“Hot damn!” exploded Walter. He hurried over to the European Parliament surveillance station and pulled Hector T. Goodbuddy V to one side.

“Hector, the Commission changed codes. I want a sweep by your team to see if its a multi-institutional phasing operation or if we're dealing with an autonomous anti-intercept initiative from within the Breydel.”

Hector nodded. “I'm on to it sir!” he yelled.

While he waited, Walter thumbed through transcripts of sticky negotiations on “strawberry jam” import quotas from the foreign ministers' meeting and another secret debate on minimum sizes for cages containing “battery hens”. It wouldn't take his backroom boys much time to crack “strawberry jam”, but he was more worried about the re-emergence of “battery hens”. It had to mean something, but not even his most experienced code-breakers had been able to decipher it since it first appeared three or four years ago.

Within ten minutes, Hector was reporting back. “Initial sweep, sir, suggests the same codification peramaters are in use at all levels within the EP, sir!” he bellowed.

He proffered the latest incoming intelligence. “We just got this from a public hearing of the environment committee, sir, demanding an immediate halt to imports of fur from leghold traps, sir.”

Walter grinned; “You're right. They're still using the same antiquated code system, the poor fools. Do they think we don't know what they're talking about?”

Hector said: “We don't, sir.”

Walter tutted. “I know that. You know that. My point is do they know that?”

Hector shook his head. “Difficult to say, sir, but may I ask why we are bugging public hearings when we could simply send someone along to listen?”

Walter looked exasperated: “We are living in an era of openness and transparency, Hector, or hadn't you heard? If we don't bug the public meetings, we might as well pack up and go home!”

As Hector retreated, Hiram leant towards Walter's ear. “He's got a point, sir. But don't worry. We just picked up a fresh signal from an A-grade toilet in the Justus Lipsius building. Word is that hell will freeze over before Council ministerials open their doors to scrutiny. Male voices. Unidentified. Sounded authoritative.”

Walter freshened his coffee and gazed paternally at every bugger in the room.

“Then we're in business for a while longer yet, Hiram. You'd better get back to work and find out everything you can about hell freezing over ... and I want answers by lunch-time on battery hens and leghold traps.”