Juicy Fruits - what does the green mean?

They were so innocuous-looking. A young man, Caucasian, in his twenties. A middle-aged woman, African-American, in her forties. One seated to the left of me. One seated to my right. They never acknowledged each other.  Or did they?

I was spending the day in the Charlotte, North Carolina airport. I suspect I missed a connection from Charleston, West Virginia to Philadelphia. I wouldn't plan to spend six hours in the Charlotte airport.  But since I had a layover, I filled the time as I normally would. Eating.

I found a restaurant in the concourse and was seated in a row of tables for two. I sat with my back to the wall facing into the restaurant. When I arrived,  there was a young man seated at the table to my left. I am not sure how much time passed before a woman was seated at the table to my right. They in no way acknowledged each other's presence.

I noticed the man do it first. He took out a box of Juicy Fruits and pulled out a green one. He laid it on the table in front of him.

A few minutes passed, not sure how many, before the woman on my right got out her box of Juicy Fruits. She also pulled out a green one and laid it on the table in front of her. 

First, let me say, that to my knowledge, I had not been in close proximity to any box of Juicy Fruits in years, but when I had been, they had never been positioned as an appetizer. I mean, really. Who eats Juicy Fruits before a meal? Let alone, one Juicy Fruit. Let alone, one green Juicy Fruit.  Even if green, a Juicy Fruit can not be considered a salad.

The three of us ate our meals with zero interaction as far as I could tell. I do not recall if any other Juicy Fruits came into play. I didn't want to know too much (and this was before I watched The Americans). I left first and began a complete tour of the terminal looking for a Juicy Fruit promotion. Someone had to be giving away free boxes of Juicy Fruits. If they were, I couldn't find them.

I told myself I was being silly. They were probably playing an elaborate game. This was not a real brush with espionage. Or was it?  I  posted about this odd little incident on Facebook but no agents--from the good guys or the bad guys--showed up at my door. Still, I find this a little suspicious. Especially after I watched The Americans.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

Mingling with spies in DC

During the late Cold War years when I lived there, the thing about residing and working in the District of Columbia was, even if you couldn't watch The Americans for another twenty-five years, you knew that spycraft was going on all around you. You knew because some of that spycraft was obvious and clumsy. I probably would have - and should have - been frightened by the spies I didn't see. (Ref: The Americans) But, I wasn't. Spies were a fact of life. A humorous fact of life.

Everyone knew there was a man sitting in a top-floor window across from the Soviet Embassy. I don't think I am misremembering when I say that he was visible. The way I recall it, he would sit on the window ledge of an open window with a long-lens camera in his hand. I don't think that is accurate except as a visual metaphor - although that technique would certainly have kept spies from going in and out of the embassy’s front door.

What do I mean by clumsy spycraft? My favorite incident involved a laundry truck. One Sunday night I was taking relatives on a tour of DC at an hour when the streets were not usually crowded with laundry trucks. Nonetheless, we seemed to be encountering the same one repeatedly circling Georgetown but never stopping to deliver laundry. At one point, we were behind the van and as it made a left turn at a speed that allowed the curtains on the back windows to swing open. We could see inside easily. What we saw in the well-lit area was not rows of hanging cleaning or stacks of boxed shirts, but a wall of electronic equipment and a team of men monitoring it. Okay, it might have been an American spy vehicle. I hope it wasn't. I would not want my safety to rely on a bureaucracy sophisticated enough to design state-of-art electronics, but too dumb to install a rod at the bottom of the window in order to keep the curtains from falling open.

Of course, it was possible for one's imagination to run amok. After the Russians killed one of their enemies on the streets of London with a poisoned umbrella tip, waiting on the corner for the light to change became a harrowing experience although I knew of no enemy - foreign or domestic - that wanted me dead. 

I may have overreacted once on a Sunday stroll through the Kalorama neighborhood, home to many bigwigs and diplomats. As I walked down the street a mailman in uniform came down the path from an impressive house - as I recall the only kind in the area - after making a delivery. He gave me a hello along with a big smile. I returned the greeting and passed as he hopped into his truck. I had not even walked another block before it occurred to me that there was no Sunday mail service. I picked up the pace and headed for home along an illogical route all the while keeping an eye out for the mail truck and its assassin driver. He knew I had seen him. He had no choice. He had to kill me.

When I went to work on Monday, I found out that perhaps I had over-reacted. The Post Office had started Sunday delivery of Express Mail.

Okay, I saw spies where there were none, but I bet I didn't spot spies where they were. I wish I had seen The Americans before I moved to DC. I would have seen spies everywhere.

NOTE TO SELF: You had other brushes with espionage in Monte Carlo, Charlotte and London. They are written up separately.

UPDATE:

Years later I got to know a man who worked with Georgi Markov, a defector from communist Bulgaria, who worked at the BBC and left work early one day because he didn't feel good. He had been poked by an umbrella on London street corner and later died, assassinated. Two degrees of separation. Well, two degrees and forty years.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

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.