SPOOKING ME

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Recently I took a private tour of the CIA (thanks to Gayle Lynds) with a group of fellow writers. Here are some of the ideas and observations I took away with me.

The CIA is a vast complex. Think huge then keep quadrupling it in your mind. Thousands and thousands of people work there. Our agent would not tell us the exact number. In fact, our agent, a smart and charming man, told us very little.

The lobby was cold but impressive. The walls and floor are marble and granite in shades of back, white, and gray. The CIA emblem is carved on the floor. Sleek post modern black leather benches with chrome legs are there to sit on while musing what is real and what isn’t. A full size statue of General Donovan, the founder of the OSS which eventually became the CIA, stands proudly. Nearby a verse from the book of John is engraved on the wall: And ye shall know the truth and the truth will set you free.

Some of the writers expressed concern that this Bible verse crossed the line regarding the separation of church and state. We were informed that the CIA is in Langley, Virginia and is not on federal ground. This brought about a low skeptical muttering. I liked that verse up on that cold wall. I liked the agency’s obliviousness to the unintended irony. Surely they must know that in this day and age there are no truths that any of us can agree on.

On the opposite side of the lobby was a book listing the agents and special ops who have given their lives for their country. The names listed were from battles fought long ago. The newly dead were represented by gold stars, not their names. There were eighty-nine stars. Even in death these men and woman remain in the shadows.

The working areas, offices, hallways were light and airy, even inviting. It was more business-like than bureaucratic. There was nothing dark and sinister. The halls were bustling with busy people that were a mixture of all ages, gender, and races. I was sure I saw a few men who looked like old spies who had come in from the cold.

We were handed over to a very young pretty woman. She had long light brown hair and a trim sexy figure. The men in our group perked up. She had the upbeat personality of someone who is paid to spray perfume on shoppers at Saks Fifth Avenue. She guided us through one of the quaintest museums I’ve been in. It reminded me of one of those places you visit while traveling across country. Oh , let’s stop at the Alligator Museum or the Cotton Candy Museum. But there was a darkness and a sadness to the pieces collected here.

In one case stood a pair of unlaced boots. After the plane went down in the field in Pennsylvania on 9/11 a special op placed his boots at the bornbed out crater in honor of the bravery of the people on board. I was deeply touched by these scuffed much worn shoes now pristinely protected by Plexiglas. And the agent? Unnamed. Working in another field in another country. Or not. There are no clear answers.

In larger cases mannequins that looked like they were created in the thirties or forties wore gear from World War One and Two and the Cold War. A female mannequin was placed in a replica of an attic wearing a forties-type sweater and skirt. Ear phones are clamped over her wig as she listens in on a conversation taking place below her. It was intriguing to see the listening devices, tape machines, and cameras grew smaller and smaller with each new decade. Some even to the size of a dot.

There was row of poison pens, newspapers that hid weapons or when held up to be read can be seen through. Rings that held poison, and the obligatory invisible ink. Umbrellas that were used to inject deadly serums with their sharp tips — Oops, excuse me for bumping into you. Wild decoration on women’s hats hid cameras. Think Mata Hari. Large garish rhinestones pins reminiscent of the fifties were really microphones. One broach held the straps of an evening gown together. Speak into my cleavage, darling. This is what seemed old and quaint. We’ve read about these devices in books and seen them in old movies. They are no longer shocking or frightening. Yet they still hold their on mysteries, their own secrets.

There was a small trunk that an enemy can be folded up in and sent to another country and sometimes even survive the journey. This was a Middle East creation.

Pictures of special ops in Afghanistan were displayed. The men clung to their wooden saddles while guiding their horses along the edge of breathtakingly steep mountains. The special ops faces had been blurred out.

“Did many of them know who to ride?” I asked.

“No. But they learned quickly,” our guide answered with her sweet smile.

In the back of a truck, laundry hung to dry, two men and a dog looked at the camera. Again, their faces were blurred. Even the dog’s. He wasn’t just a pet, she told us sincerely. Or did her earnestness not take in CIA humor? Oddly, the erased identity of these men lent a sense of immediacy and danger to their pictures.

What fascinated me was the one connection I could make to my own work. The CIA hires makeup artists.

“From Hollywood? I asked.

“Oh, from everywhere,” she responded vaguely flipping back her hair.

They must get them from Hollywood, I thought to myself. Especially if they needed them to dress and make up an agent just as they would an actor playing a role. I wondered if one of these ex-agents, now back to putting make up on actors, had ever applied lip liner, eye liner, and powder to Sean Penn’s puss. I hoped so.

In another section was the development and the use of the hologram. And there was a very real looking insect, which in reality was a camera and directed by an agent to fly around outdoor meetings our enemies are having. But the creator of this insect forgot about wind drifts which kept blowing it away from the designated target. I was reminded of “help me, help me,” from the movie The Fly. The trout that really isn’t a trout, faired better. He swims and acts like a fish but can take pictures of our adversary who must be a fisherman, I assumed. This trout is the one that always gets away.


As I stood in this small unnerving and poignant museum, I was struck with how long the world has been at battle. And how little has changed except for the technology.

Being a woman our guide confided something personal. She told us that the CIA is a great dating service for those inside the agency She talked about how difficult it was to date someone on the outside. Someone who wanted more details than just, “I work for the government.” For those in the know that is code for working at the CIA. But for those who are not “witting” (aware that you are CIA) makes it difficult to develop a relationship with. I liked that word witting; it somehow went with the museum.

Next week I will regale you with the food court, the biggest I’ve ever seen. And a lecture from a CIA in-house historian and curmudgeon who didn’t like what writers were writing about the CIA. And the authors he did like. Oh yes, and the president who never read his daily CIA briefing reports. Can you guess who it is?