Author’s Note: I was working on something else this morning, and realized the topic might get me scooped up in some of the activity I was attempting to describe, not endorse. So, I thought this might fit better as a mildly amusing account of ordinary stuff that becomes extra-ordinary in the context of the times in which they occur. This is what I was thinking about before 9/11, when everything seemed a little less complex.

– Vic

06 July 2001

Witting

I started a new job this month, at a campus in Virginia. It is a nice neighborhood, nicest in the richest county in America. The kids at the local high school drive Jags and B’mmers. There are a lot of diplomatic tags, always a scary thing to see in the rear-view, since with diplomatic immunity the Dips have a certain air of casual mayhem behind the wheel.

The existence of the place isn’t secret. There is a big sign out on the parkway directing you right to it as you come out of the imperial city, passing old Civil War forts settling into the lush greenery. Beyond the parkway are gracious estates, manicured lawns, tidy shrubs. It is bucolic and beautiful. Within living memory it was as much horse-country as Leesburg, and you would not be surprised to see a hunt gallop out of the wisteria chasing a fox.

When you pull up to the light to turn into the access drive there are two little crosses on the median. They are not there to mark an automotive tragedy. They mark the site, where at this light, waiting for the light to turn green, that two employees where shot dead by a Pakistani man with an AK-47. He was angry about an old wrong he perceived this campus had perpetrated on his country, or his religion, or something.

They hunted him down and caught him on another continent. Then they brought him back and convicted him and threw away the key. This organization has a strong union.

There is a pale colorless aura to everything here at the campus. Entering under the ceremonial awning and passing into the echoing white marble foyer you are conscious of the image this place is projecting. Cool. Cerebral. The light is diffused from the glass on the entrance. It bathes the white marble wall where the constellation of stars is etched above a glass case that contains a book. The book contains some names of employees who are represented by the stars on the walls. There are names for the two crosses. Many lines do not have names. Just blank lines. The unacknowledged.

Across the wide expanse of marble is a bronze statue of a military officer, life sized, collar open, leaning forward. A man of action, the spiritual fountainhead for this organization. The virile potency seems to radiate from his brass eyes, which are directed over your shoulder to the stars.

I am not of this particular union, but I walk among them. There are old Spooks here, the ones in the club ties and the professorial demeanor. They look academic. They are a universe away from the fast-moving, tight-jawed action officers at the Pentagon. But there are also the kids to soften the mixture. A lot of kids, particularly in the summer when the interns come from colleges across the land. In summer you see a midriff here and there. The dress code is business casual. Docker pants and polo shirts for men and women. They look like they have come from a J. Crew catalog. They are impossibly young and unmistakably civilian. There are pert frocks. This is not the Department of Defense. The rare military officer is an object of curiosity here in the corridors, which glisten like the halls of a hospital.

I won’t trouble you with the preliminaries to assuming a position here on the campus. Trust me, they are strange and arcane. But there came a moment, some weeks on, when something came into perfect alignment in the heavens, and the campus deigned to recognize me. They admitted me to the presence of the Grail and gave me a Badge, which permits me to wander in and out of the building through automated turnstiles. They let me in and gave me access to the computer, which has been silent and dark under my desk. I am a person. I blend in among them. I’m like the Velveteen Rabbit, “real.”

I take advantage of my new status and go down to join the Credit Union. It’s name has nothing particular to do with the campus. It is an alias, of sorts. Odd for a credit union to fly a false flag. But it is part of the culture of this place. It carries over into everything. The way they answer the phone. They just say “Hello.” They don’t tell what office you have called, and rarely give their name. And if they do, it may not be the same name they use elsewhere. Some seem to have several names, and that isn’t just the people who are undercover. It includes the economists..

So a Credit Union with an alias is totally in keeping with the business of the campus. It is a useful thing to be able to cash a check out here in the suburbs. But this credit union is as strange as the rest of the building. The pretty receptionist hands me an application, which I obediently sit to complete. There are all the usual questions, which I fill in automatically. Then a question I have not seen before.

“Is Spouse Witting?” It provides two boxes for your answer, one for “yes” and one for “no.” I ponder the question, and realize what they are asking. Does your wife know what you really do for a living? That is a deeper question than I am normally accustomed to dealing with at the bank. I check off “yes.” I think.

I take the completed form back to the desk. The receptionist glances at it and looks up at me. “Overt or Covert?” she asks. I have to ponder that one, too. I catch the point. If I was living a secret life, the bank would have to know not to send statements to unwitting addresses. It was beginning to make sense- compelling sense. Even spies need reliable banking services. Maybe more than most. Excellent idea.

I take my completed paperwork to a teller to make a token deposit. She smiles at me and says: “Good morning. Covered or Uncovered?”

I was tempted to glance upward, since of course we were. But I knew what she was trying to say to me. I say uncovered, now that I am witting. But I must say I am liking the idea of going covert.

Copyright 2001 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com