A Sales Call at Langley

My co-worker was disconsolate that she could not go to the meeting at the CIA. She was not a US citizen. I heard her arguing over the wall of her cubicle. "But we are your oldest ally," the Brit protested. I suspected she had set up the meeting simply so she could get inside Langley. She fought hard but, not surprisingly, couldn't get the CIA to change their rules. I wasn't surprised. About that. I was surprised I was going to the CIA in her place. 

I have to admit I got a kick out of stepping in to cover the meeting. I was probably feeling pretty excited as I headed from my DC apartment to Virginia on a warm, sunny morning. I was going to Langley. Langley. Spy movies. Spy novels. Spies. Langley. A word full of cachet. Maybe not good cachet. Could cachet be bad as well as good? If it could, the word Langley conjured both kinds.

I'd ridden by the CIA many times before a tragic shooting prompted the removal of overhead signs that said, CIA Two Left Lanes but, without those markers, I overshot on Route 123. I had to make a U-turn and keep an eye out for the entrance, which is what I would have expected of the driveway to an intelligence agency.

I wish I had written the details down as soon as I left the CIA but here is what I recall about getting onto the grounds of the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley in the 1980s.

They knew I was coming. I am sure I had to get some sort of pre-clearance. Otherwise, how would they have flagged my co-worker? I don't recall a thing about that. What I do recall is driving up to a camera that had a voice. The voice asked me a few questions. I apparently gave the camera the right answers because I was given clearance to drive up to a booth.

The booth had a man, a uniformed man. I can't recall if he was behind glass. I am inclined to say yes but somehow he provided me with three passes: one for me, one for my car and one for my escort.  And, a map.

Now, I am not a cartographer, but I do not believe that map represented the agency's finest work. I hope it did not represent the agency's finest work. Heaven help any operative in the field with drawings of equal quality. I held my map in my hand as I drove down the road, across the campus and right out the back entrance onto the George Washington Parkway.

(Sidebar:  My escort was growing concerned thinking I was roaming on the CIA grounds. I suspect they had procedures for such errant behavior.)

I headed south or east (whichever way it goes) on the GW Parkway looking for a spot to make a U-turn. I have no idea how long it took to find one, but it wasn't a short ride. After I exited and entered the highway again, I had to go beyond the CIA and make another U-turn to approach a "back" entrance from the highway. The guard took a quick look at my passes--"Don't worry about it. Happens all the time."--and waved me in. (Let me point out that this was decades ago and I am not giving away techniques for infiltrating the CIA. I am sure procedures are a lot tighter these days.)

From the back gate, I easily found the main building--at least what I think was the entrance to the main building. It's the one I'd seen in movies. My escort was pacing up and down in front. He understood my slow arrival. "Don't worry about it. Happens all the time." We went inside.

At the time a waist-high sallyport slashed the CIA lobby--but not wall to wall. There was space at the end. I was told to put my computer and other gear on a bench and go through the waist-high sallyport. I stepped in. The arm closed behind me. I have no recollection of what action opened the other side, but something did and the arm in front of me went up. I stepped out. I was safely on the inside, but then they told me to walk back out and get my computer. They kept an eye on me as I walked past the sallyport on my way out and back in, this time with my computer. Although I don't remember it, they must have checked my bag.

Once inside, I was disappointed to find the CIA was full of cubes that could have been in the insurance company office where I worked after high-school graduation. Nonetheless, I was not taking any chances. I didn't look at anyone. I was certain there was danger in recognizing anyone from within the CIA walls.

I have no idea what business I did at the CIA. It had something to do with speaking at a podium. Either that or we took my picture at a podium with the CIA seal as a goof.  How did that happen? It had to be a CIA camera. I wasn't carrying one. And, I am sure if I had arrived with one, it wouldn't have gotten past security. We were years from having a camera in our mobile phones. I was years from having a mobile phone at all. I have no idea where that photo is, but I am pretty sure I was given it as a memento. I am not really anxious to have it. Certainly, not online. I picture a kidnapper pulling up the photo and accusing me of being a spy. I can't imagine why anyone would pursue such an unprofitable endeavor as kidnapping me, but I've seen enough Jason Bourne movies to know anything is possible.

If I had to describe the most memorable moment of my visit, it would be my visit to the ladies' room. My escort walked me to the door but said he couldn't come in. He claimed there were cameras all over, but the bathrooms were not monitored. Really? I assumed they were watching and acted with appropriate modesty.

I am so glad I got to visit. I wish I remembered more. Writing this does, however, bring to mind two other interactions with the world of international intrigue. One in Monte Carlo and one in London. I'd better go write them down.

NOTE TO OLD SELF: Security was very different back then . . .

UPDATE: An article by Johannes Lichtman in the Paris Review 1/9/2024) provides an update on visiting Langley. They now have a gift shop with CIA merch. They give visitors commemorative photos with the CIA seal. Security has definitely been beefed up.

My Brief Friendship with JFK Jr.

Anyone who lived in New York City in the 1980s or 1990s ran into John F. Kennedy Jr. around town. Just about one of the most famous people in a city filled with famous people, he was easily the most noticeable--especially when he wasn't wearing a shirt.

When friends come to visit New Yorkers there is never a dearth of entertainment opportunities, but in those decades, getting a look at JFK Jr. was a highly valued one. I got to offer it to my guests a few times, always in Central Park where he biked and roller-bladed. Sometimes without his shirt, sometimes so bundled up he was hard to identify.

My only contribution to his history comes from an encounter I had with him on a summer Tuesday afternoon in the park--at the 85th Street entrance on the West Side to be precise. He was no longer living in the neighborhood. (For a while he lived behind me on the Upper West Side, but I am not sure if we were there at the same time. He moved down to 20 North Moore Street. The entire city knew his address.)

Our friendship began as I turned to step off the pavement and cross the roadway where JFK was sitting on his bike. He'd just finished adjusting his glove as I recall. Adjusting something. At any rate, he looked at me and I looked at him, making sure to hide any trace of recognition. (Which, when you think of it, is pretty dumb. The kid was on a stamp!)

I wanted to say:  It's Tuesday. Your mother owns a house on Martha's Vineyard. Your sister owns a house in the Hamptons. Your extended family owns a compound on the Cape.  Why are you wasting a beautiful Tuesday afternoon riding your bike around New York?

Instead, I said: You go.

JFK Jr. said: Thank you.

He biked away into the park and so ended our brief friendship. I don't think I watched him go. After all, there were so many years ahead when I'd be running into him around town. Or, so it seemed.

Clearly, we did not grow close during our thirty-second friendship, but the encounter did leave a favorable impression of him and convince me he was not so different. Why? I saw in that Friday's newspaper that he'd quit his job. When I ran into him, he had been doing what any of us would do: using up his vacation time.

I like that in a guy.

Note to Old Self:  He was truly that handsome, even without remarkable coloring.