by Eric O'neill
“Eyes on the road,” I said. My white-knuckled grip on the dashboard matched my voice. “You’ll wreck my car.”
Her eyes flattened—hint of danger. “You mean our car.”
“It won’t be our car for long if you don’t slow down.”
Juliana sighed. “How do you ride with anyone at your job?”
“I’m usually the driver,” I said. “Plus if someone else crashes an FBI car, I don’t have to pay the bills.”
“I won’t crash.”
Juliana knew that my aversion to riding as a passenger bordered on obsession. Much of my perhaps unhealthy conviction in my own driving ability stemmed from my FBI training. After graduating from the FBI’s Tactical Emergency Vehicle Operations course, and then refining that intense training against Russian spies on their way to drop sites, known terrorists priming their courage for an impending attack, and some of the best foreign operatives using the DC metro area as an espionage playground, I held every other driver to an impossible standard.
But Juliana had learned to drive from precise German instructors. When we first started dating, I’d asked her if she wanted to learn to drive stick. Desperate to impress her, I took her to a quiet alley and spent a good ten minutes lecturing her on using a clutch and shifting, finding the friction point with the left foot as the right slowly came off the gas, and shifting smoothly to avoid stalling the car. She listened to each explanation with the seriousness of an eager student and yielded to my multiple demonstrations of shifting into first. When I finally switched places with her, we barely had our seat belts on before she charged off like a drag racer seeing green lights. Juliana laughed away my shock and shifted from second to third so smoothly I had to watch to see it happen.
“Don’t you know anything about Germany?” she said. “All the cars are stick shifts there.”
Ever since that moment, Juliana has never missed an opportunity to insist she take the wheel. We could be like gasoline on fire that way sometimes. When both people want to be in control, neither can be happy until someone yields.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What’s mine is yours.”
“Better.”
“Do you know the turn for my parents’ house?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, why?”
“I’m going to close my eyes and not look at the street.”
I stepped out of the car onto my parents’ driveway and looked up at the home where I’d spent six years before heading south in a packed Volkswagen van to attend college at Auburn University. The Victorian house had the kind of character that only comes from weathering countless families and numerous additions. But in 1987, during my freshman year of high school, it had been gutted by a fire. We had spent a year renting a tiny house a few blocks over while contractors repaired and remodeled this one. That lost year meant that the blue-painted shingles and solemn swing hanging under a decorative porch felt comfortable, but never quite like home to me.
My dad answered the front door and ushered us in with his usual bear hug. Dad grew up on a farm in Hartford County, Maryland, and built a lifetime’s worth of muscle throwing hay bales into the back of tractor-pulled carts. He’d joined the Navy not only to follow a family tradition but also to escape the horrible hay fever that he’d generously passed on to me—there aren’t many hay fields in submarines.
We found my mother in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta sauce. The smells of garden tomatoes, mushrooms, and fresh basil mingling with her secret ingredient, a cup of wine, finally made me feel at home. The kitchen had always been my mother’s favorite part of the house, which may have had something to do with the house she grew up in, a split-level town house in Jamaica, Queens. When I say split-level, I mean that the family who lived upstairs walked through my mother’s kitchen to leave through the front door. Mom had escaped those cramped circumstances by attending Hunter College in Manhattan and becoming a nurse. This evening, my mother’s dark eyes flashed with intrigue. “Tell me about your promotion.”
I frowned. The twinge in my stomach had nothing to do with my itch to grab a bowl and race to the kitchen table. I hated the thought of lying to my mother. My parents knew I worked for the FBI, but I had never told them about the ghosts.
“It’s a computer job,” I said, forcing the words out. “I’ll be working in a new division, but they haven’t told me all the details yet.”
My father brandished a bottle of wine. “You don’t tell us much about what you did before, so…” The cork came away with a pop. “Any excuse to celebrate!”
Juliana helped my mother smother bowls of pasta in sauce. “For once, Eric is being modest,” she said. “His boss came by our house personally to tell him about the promotion.” She paused for effect. “On a Sunday.”
Dad looked up from where he filled our wineglasses. “Couldn’t wait until Monday?”
I took two bowls from Juliana and avoided her eyes. I could already feel the lies piling up, so I simply shrugged. I could only think back to my first polygraph exam and how, once again, I was lying to someone who loved me.
“How is law school?” My mom changed the subject.
Speaking about my legal studies placed me on solid ground. I hadn’t followed my father’s footsteps into a navy career, but I had followed him into a second family tradition in the practice of law. After three years ghosting targets, I realized that if I wanted to move up within the FBI, I would need an advanced degree. I dreamed of graduating from George Washington University Law School and applying to the Special Agents Program, or trading in my disguise kit for a position at the Justice Department. I had started law school at night uncertain about where exactly it would take me, but I’d always felt drawn to the sanctuary of rules and laws. I hoped attending law school would allow me to continue to serve my country, but as the person calling the plays rather than the one in the field.
“The new job will help,” I said. “I’ll be working a nine-to-five desk at headquarters, so no more missed classes when I have to work nights.”
We migrated to the table and took our seats. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my mother’s laborious walk from stove to table and ground my teeth as she fell more than sat into her chair. My parents had first told me about her Parkinson’s disease in a tearful phone call during my third year at Auburn University. Years later, the disease had progressed enough to slur her speech and make walking more difficult. It also affected her facial expressions. My temperamental mother, who could switch from an angry shout to a beatific smile in a second, now struggled to lift her cheeks.
“Do you have a title for this new job?” Dad asked.
“Not yet.” I took a sip of wine. Avoided eye contact. “They really haven’t told me anything.”
“Do you have time for it?” Dad refreshed half-full wineglasses. “You’ve got a lot on your plate.”
My father’s understatement sent a needless shot of adrenaline through me. A few words shouldn’t kick me into fight or flight, but when your life is an arena, it’s hard to lay down your sword. Each day felt more and more about surviving to the next, not living the one before me. Survival didn’t mean patience with those I loved, or time for friends or family. Nor did it mean careless moments free of the pressing concerns that orbited me. I wanted to build on my new marriage, not scour law books late at night, chase spies during the day, and worry about my mother’s decline during the few hours I should be sleeping. Even before the Hanssen investigation swept apart the house of cards I’d built of my life, I’d already set it on fire.
My parents exchanged a look. Finally my mother shrugged in that very Italian way that means: Whattaya gonna do?
Dad raised his glass. “To Eric and Juliana. New beginnings and new opportunities.”
I made sure to meet Juliana’s eyes as we clinked glasses—one of her few superstitions. “Prost.”
We said our goodbye
s, and Juliana graciously let me drive home. We opened the door into our tiny combination kitchen/living room. As tight a squeeze as it was, I felt more at home there than in all my years in Maryland. Juliana and I had hung photos from our shared lives in clever spaces. The old couch we’d inherited from my uncle Ralph proudly wore a slipcover Juliana had sewed during the long, boring month she spent waiting for her student visa. A television wobbled precariously on top of a corner cabinet that we’d picked out together from IKEA and assembled, cursing playfully as we followed the complex instructions. Our short lives together so far surrounded us with promise. Better days would come.
As soon as we walked in the door, we heard an elderly voice echoing from upstairs: “Hello! Hello!”
We both glanced at the ceiling and laughed. We’d heard the Hello Lady since we moved in, night after night for about an hour. The first time we had heard the repeated greeting, we had tried to answer back. If the woman in the apartment above us heard, she gave no sign. Instead, she—or someone, anyway—would continue saying hello in a singsong voice over and over. It was the great mystery of 626 E Street.
Juliana grinned. “It has to be a bird.”
“Or she’s just talking to herself.”
“It’s a bird.” Juliana pulled me into an embrace. “I just know.”
I glanced at the old clock that squatted on the mantel of our non-functioning fireplace. “At least she’s consistent. Every night at eight p.m. on the dot.”
“Every place has a story.”
I looked around us. Thought of my parents’ home. “Do you ever want more than this?”
“More than what?” Juliana teased.
“It’s cold and drafty. The heater barely works. We had to save for months to buy the TV….”
She drew back just enough for me to see her face. Her green eyes, flecked with gold, sparkled. “My mom had a saying, something she told my dad when they were first married and moved into my grandfather’s house together. Mom didn’t even speak German. She had to learn my father’s language before they could have a conversation.” She smiled. “We will just live on love and air.”
“Air doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Hello. Hello.” Juliana breathed in my ear until I finally smiled. Then she pulled me back through another tiny hallway and through the door to our bedroom.
“Hello yourself.”
CHAPTER 4
MOUSETRAP
December 20, 2000—Wednesday
I followed Gene through the maze of FBI headquarters. Gray hallway yielded to gray hallway, illuminated by fluorescent lights and the occasional hint of sunlight through an open office door. Multicolored strips—like hieroglyphics—on the walls hinted at directions to cryptic locations. I couldn’t break the code and was soon lost, trailing Gene like a faithful hound.
Before that moment, I had only set foot in headquarters once, when I was in training at Quantico. Many of the future ghosts in my class had never toured the nation’s capital and had declared me tour guide over a free weekend. After exploring monuments and museums, we had stopped in FBI HQ to raid the gift shop. Christmas was right around the corner, and my little brothers delighted in wearing official FBI gear. This visit had none of the laughter and camaraderie of my former one. Instead, I marched at a sober pace toward a meeting that could make or break my career.
“Through here,” Gene said. “Be polite. Make me proud.”
Gene ushered me through an office of administrative workstations. A smartly dressed woman in her thirties looked up from her monitor as Gene approached, scrutinized him, and then waved us past. She barely glanced at me before returning to her work.
I looked past Gene to the door at the far side of the room, and my heart kicked up a notch. The placard beside the door read ASSISTANT DIRECTOR BOB DIES.
I quietly thanked Juliana. Over the New Year’s holiday, she had insisted that we buy a new suit for my new job. After a few hours in Macy’s, we’d emerged with a navy-blue suit, two ties, and a few trim white shirts that didn’t require me to twist in front of a mirror to stuff away the excess cloth. As a ghost, you have to be able to blend into any situation, and my standard outfit of light pants with useful cargo pockets and a collared shirt fit most of them. I could walk unnoticed across a college campus; transform myself into a Washington, DC, tourist; and stroll into the majority of restaurants, bars, shops, and malls without anyone turning an eye. Sometimes I would exchange trousers for biker shorts and a backpack; in the years before the terrorist actions of September 11, bike messengers could walk into any building. Very rarely would I shrug into my only suit in order to chase a target into an elegant restaurant or stodgy office building. Before Juliana took me to Macy’s, that suit was the same black one I wore to funerals.
She had also turned her nose up at my battered but highly trusted backpack. I had cut a pinhole in the front pocket to hide a small concealment camera, and if you looked closely, you could see tiny marks on the shoulder straps that allowed me to hide radio wires. Juliana argued that the backpack wasn’t professional and had insisted I buy a shiny leather briefcase. We’d compromised on a black-and-gray Timberland messenger bag that now hung off my shoulder. While I didn’t wear a suit and tie as effortlessly as Gene, I felt confident that I at least wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of the assistant director.
I had stuffed a few items into the messenger bag: a legal pad and pen to take notes, my FBI credentials that told others in law enforcement whom I worked for and the golden badge that proved it, and a letter that Gene had handed me at the field office to make my part in the Hanssen investigation official. The letter had come from Assistant Director Dies’s office and had assigned me to his office for temporary duty (TDY, in FBI-speak) of one year. I would report directly to Section Chief Richard Garcia and would be assigned to the Information Assurance/Security Team. The carefully drafted letter created my cover for the assignment to Hanssen:
AD Dies requested Investigative Specialist O’Neill be TDY’d to FBIHQ IRD Information Assurance/Security Team (IAST) based on O’Neill’s computer expertise and familiarity with National Security Division and counterintelligence matters as they relate to computer hardware, software, and systems. AD Dies also noted his desire for a field office perspective to the envisioned work of the IAST.
Reading the TDY letter, I could almost believe that the FBI had truly promoted me. To fool Hanssen, I’d have to sell the story to everyone, including myself.
“Speak little, nod in the right places,” Gene said. Then he opened the door.
AD Dies looked up from his desk and motioned for us to take a seat. I eased into a comfortable leather chair and resisted the urge to sink backward. The assistant director had his shirtsleeves rolled up and looked slightly frazzled behind the array of papers spread across his desk. He swiped a pair of wireframe glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes.
“Assistant Director Dies, sir.” Gene’s voice took on a formal tone I hadn’t heard before. “This is IS O’Neill.”
An open IBM ThinkPad to one side of the desk drew my envy. The model was top of the line, complete with a track pad and the little nub mouse embedded in the keyboard that everyone called an eraser. Totally out of bounds for the FBI rank and file, but entirely appropriate for a man with Dies’s pedigree.
After thirty years at IBM, where he’d last served as a vice president and general manager for the company’s network and personal computer division, Dies had been about to retire when FBI Director Louis Freeh convinced him to take on what he called “the toughest job in the FBI today.” Dies would lead the FBI’s Information Research Division (IRD) as an assistant director and member of the director’s senior staff.
In the late 1990s, the newly interconnected world had left the FBI behind. IRD was responsible for drafting a modernization plan that would wake the FBI up to the new networked reality. Under Dies’s leadership,
IRD would upgrade computer systems and networks and invest in new hardware and software platforms that would enhance the FBI’s mission. The new assistant director had a steep hill to climb.
Dies caught me staring at his laptop. “I’d like one of those on the desk of every agent,” he said.
I glanced at Gene, but he kept his expression neutral. Was this a test? “They would be just as useful in the field, sir,” I said.
The assistant director slid his glasses back over his eyes and looked at me over folded hands. “I heard about your computer program.”
It wasn’t a question. I followed Gene’s instructions and kept silent despite the thrill that squared my shoulders. Dies sifted through a few sheets of paper. “Your squad has some of the latest computer systems and even a few laptops.” He looked at Gene. “This is left over from a pilot program?”
“The idea was to allow specialists to upload surveillance logs directly into a database that would then coordinate the information.” Gene paused. “IS O’Neill could explain this better. He wrote the program.”
I had organized and led the effort to computerize our squad ahead of most of the FBI, even to the point of sending ghost teams out with laptops. Lengthy periods of downtime during molasses-paced surveillance operations leave a lot of time to type up a log. The ghost with log duty could then upload the electronic file directly into the target database on the same day as the surveillance. Prior to computerization, it might be days before a ghost would cycle out of the field for an administrative day of typing up logs, training, car and equipment maintenance, weightlifting, and practical jokes played on other teams.
Dies looked at me. I tried not to squirm. “I…sir…I had the idea after following Russians….” I looked at Gene. Could I say any of this? He nodded.
“Russians usually work based on a series of points in time. They prearrange their signals and dead drops and whatever ahead of time so that they rarely have to communicate in person or over the phone with an asset.” I wished I could use a whiteboard, but Dies’s stare made me go on. “I got the idea that if we catalog all those dates over time, we would see a pattern.”
