“Mr. Howard?” The CBP manager is a woman, about my age, east Asian. “Would you mind coming with me?”
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
She looks at me, assessing and evaluating. “Hopefully not, but you must appreciate we need to ensure that only people entitled to use the diplomatic channel do so”—she takes my passport from Goon #1—“so if you’d come this way, please?”
I don’t have any alternatives unless I want to escalate drastically, and they haven’t actually done anything that amounts to good cause yet. I fall in behind her, and try not to pay attention to Goon #3, who is trailing us at a distance, his belt clanking under the weight of handcuffs, pepper spray, and a sidearm.
The office is spartan, bare-walled and furnished with a desk, two chairs, a computer, and a telephone. The CBP manager waves me to the seat opposite the desk, then sits down and starts mousing around on her computer. I pointedly don’t glance at the door—I’m pretty sure Goon #3 is standing outside. Presently she looks up. “Mr. Howard, I believe that these documents are genuine, and I recognize your diplomatic immunity. However, you’re identified by our records as being a covert asset. I must warn you that failing to register as an agent of a foreign government is a felony, and potential grounds for denying you entry to the United States. Do you have anything to say?”
Her body language clearly adds:
“I’m not in your Big Book of Registered Spies? Is that the problem?”
She looks down her nose at me. “One of them.”
“Well.” I roll my eyes. “That’s a nice Catch-22 you’ve got there, isn’t it?
(I blame the Russians for spoiling everything. Time was when a spy could just breeze through US immigration and be about their business—but the CBP have been pissed ever since the FBI caught a battalion of barely competent FSB agents who waltzed in behind a brass band and set up shop in Manhattan. And this is, of course, a representative of the NYC local chapter of the Cantankerous Bastards Patrol that I’m dealing with, not the State Department.)
“Let me see: I think in the next five minutes you’re going to”—I notice her neck muscles and shoulders tensing—“call DC and talk to State. Who will in turn talk to an officer from one of your government’s black agencies which do not exist, and then State will tell you what you need to know, which is that they’ve heard of me and you are to let me go.
It’s only about twenty-five percent bluff. I
(
In the event, Ms. Smarty-Pants glares at me and calls my non-existent bluff. “Okay, that’s your choice.” Then she reaches out and picks up the phone and dials.
I am jet-lagged, tired, and—I will admit—a bit scared. I wait, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to simply let them declare me PNG and stick me on the next plane home. But it’s too late for that: someone answers the phone. “Sir, I’ve just taken custody of a traveler on the DSR watch list…yes, I’ll hold…hello? Yes, I have a traveler on the DSR watch list, he’s flagged as a POI to AGATE STAR…thank you, sir, yes, his name is Howard, Robert Oscar Foxtrot Howard, record number 908…”
She stops talking and listens for a couple of minutes, nodding from time to time. Her eyebrows furrow slightly. Then whoever’s at the other end of the line hangs up on her. She stares at the handset for a few seconds, almost angrily, then puts it down. “That makes
“You’ve got my passport,” I say helpfully.
“I—” She blinks rapidly, then looks at the offending document, sitting on the desk. “Oh.” She looks unhappy about something: probably me. She pulls open a desk drawer, withdraws a stamp, and whacks away at a blank page in the passport. “Get out.”
“Am I free to enter?” I ask.
“Yes! You’re free to enter.” She’s angry—and clearly frightened.
Interesting; things have definitely changed since I was last here. “Aren’t you required to register me as an agent of a foreign power?”
Her pupils dilate. “No! Just go! You weren’t here, I’m not here, this never happened, nobody stopped you, go away!” She stands up and yanks the door open. “Nick! Escort Mr. Howard to baggage claim and see he gets through Customs without any delays! He has a flight to catch!”
Nick—Goon #3—looks puzzled. “Isn’t he under arrest?”
“No! His papers are all in order. Just get him out of here!”
Her concern is contagious. Nick looks at me and gestures. “This way, sir.”
And so I enter the United States with a Border Patrol escort—desperate to see me on my way as fast as is humanly possible.
What strange times we live in…
7. COMMUNION
PERSEPHONE HAZARD AND JOHNNY MCTAVISH ENTERED THE United States on Wednesday, twenty-four hours ahead of me. Their reception was somewhat different. Flying into JFK on the pin-stripe express from London City Airport, they bypassed the Immigration queue entirely: they had their passports stamped by an obsequious immigration officer during the refueling stop at Shannon, along with a dozen bankers and discreetly ultra-rich fellow-travelers.
At the arrivals terminal, they checked their bags onto a flight bound for Denver, paused long enough to shower and freshen up after the trans-atlantic leg of their journey, then headed to the gate for their five-hour onward connection.
