As a law enforcement officer, I carried many objects.  Some things like my badge or FBI credentials I carried every day, everywhere I went; they sometimes helped open doors, or got conversations started.  The small gold FBI Special Agent badge depicts an icon from Roman times, a blind lady justice, carrying a sword and balanced scales, emblazoned with an eagle, which I wore in a leather holder clipped to my belt or worn around my neck with dog tags emblazoned with name, agency, and blood type.  I carried my credentials or “creds” - the photo ID issued the day I was sworn in by the FBI Director - in a well-worn leather case, and like most Agents I would pat, rather OCD-like, the creds in my pocket repeatedly throughout the day to make sure they were still there.  Losing your creds was an Agent’s worst nightmare, and a 30-day suspension without pay was almost guaranteed for this transgression.  With my creds I carried my driver’s license; photos of my wife and kids; a hundred-dollar bill; a copy of my favorite poem called the “Golden Journey to Samarkand” by James Elroy Flecker; and a prayer card from the wake of a friend and colleague killed in the line of duty.  I always carried a firearm in a leather holster on my right hip, spare ammunition on the left side, and often I wore a second smaller handgun in an ankle holster as a backup.  I also carried a folding knife clipped in my front pants pocket, a small bright flashlight, handcuffs on my belt behind my back, and often body armor with more gear in pockets. If I fell into deep water, I would sink like a stone.  In my SWAT truck I carried enough equipment to outfit a small army, additional weapons, photography equipment; body armor, night vision goggles, helmet, ballistic shield, evidence collection kit, a myriad of government forms, and breaching tools to open the most hardened structure.  In my equipment cage at the office, more issued gear was stored in carefully packed and labeled bags containing specialized equipment to operate in cold weather, rural operations, climbing gear, and specialized military chemical and biological protective gear - all these objects were issued to me to help keep me safe when working in the field.

 

March 1996 – Amman, Jordan

 

Barely looking at my passport the sleepy border guard with heavy-lidded eyes, violently stamped a random page inside with an exit stamp and handed it back to me with a curt “good day sir”.  The black colored United States “Diplomatic” passport was obtained from the Department of State, and at the time it felt like another piece of protective gear issued to me by the government to help keep me safe when operating overseas on behalf of the FBI.  I carried the black “Dip” passport on many occasions, and as we used to say about working overseas, “it’s not a problem until it becomes a problem.”

 

Boarding the late-night flight departing Queen Alia International Airport on Royal Jordanian Airlines flight #01, I shook my head as I stowed my backpack in the overhead storage bin.  The smoking section was the entire right side of the airplane, and the non-smoking section was the entire left side of the aircraft – strange, I thought.  Our flight was bound for Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, and then I’d connect onto a flight to the U.S. I was going home after a number of weeks working closely with colleagues from another three-letter agency, and the Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate (GID).  Sitting ahead of me also in Business Class was Jeff Michaels, then the head of the Counterterrorism Division at the Agency, as the CIA is called.  

The FBI in those days had a love-hate relationship with the Central Intelligence Agency.  In Washington, D.C. the bureaucratic infighting, distrust and competition often soured the relationship; however, in the field their operators were like ours – experienced, field-tested, hardened, like-minded in getting the bad guys and staying alive when backup was not a radio or cell phone call away.  Jeff was one of those seasoned operators. His brother was a cop in the Midwest where he grew up like me, he seemed to like the FBI, so we were a good fit working together, and I learned a ton from him on how to recruit and operate human sources overseas.  Operating overseas on hard targets and in dangerous spots takes a lot of thought and planning.  What is the appropriate cover story or legend justifying an outsider’s presence?  Who speaks and understands the language and local dialect? Who can get access and make the introductions needed?  Will there be physical surveillance or technical coverage of the target or meeting?  What about counter-surveillance or security? What is the emergency action plan if things go sideways, and communications fail?  Working overseas as an FBI Agent is very different from working in the U.S., with unique challenges, risks, and reward.

 

I instinctively touched the black diplomatic passport stowed in my shirt breast pocket. Pulling it out, I looked at the colorful border stamps from various Middle Eastern and African countries I’d traveled over the past few years.  I reflected on working overseas without all the tools, objects and safety gear an Agent carries on the streets of America.  Working overseas, you mostly carried your wits, common sense, and a sober understanding that backup was not minutes away like back home, and often there is no backup.  Still, carrying that black passport felt like a large piece of armor for me at the time.

 

As our flight leveled out heading West, the lights of Amman receded into the clouds, I settled into my large comfortable seat for the almost five-hour flight to Amsterdam.  Shortly into the flight however, the captain announced we would be making a short stop in Damascus, and passengers could deplane for twenty minutes before continuing on to the Netherlands.  I had never been to Syria, but knew it had a beautiful Souk market, it borders Iraq and Lebanon, the State Department considered Syria a state sponsor of terrorism, and the FBI was not allowed to travel there on official business.  I got up to use the restroom at the front of the plane. As I came out Jeff was waiting for me in the galley area, he appeared agitated and shaken.  “We can’t get off the plane in Damascus,” Jeff whispered. “Hezbollah has my photograph at the airport, and it could be a real problem.”  “Hide your Dip passport,” were his last words as I returned to my seat. Now I was also shaken having just seen for the first time my senior and much more experienced partner obviously worried.

 

We landed at approximately 2:00 a.m. at the Damascus International Airport. Looking out the plane’s window it was pitch black as far as the eye could see.  The flight attendant announced we would be stopping for twenty minutes, and passengers could deplane, if passengers remained in the terminal area.  Folks got up and started getting off the plane, while me, Jeff and a few others remained on board.  I looked around and began to think about what to do with my Dip passport as Jeff had instructed me to hide it. I thought to myself was this Dip passport which I thought was my shield going to instead be a sword that does me in?  Feeling a little flustered, I hid my Dip passport under the bright yellow pouch holding the life vest beneath my seat.  I waited on the nearly empty plane for what felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life. Then passengers started filing back onto the plane; many carried an odd assortment of packages, groceries and bundles they had purchased at airport shops.  Even the flight attendants had gotten off to buy lots of stuff, and finally one explained the airport shops in Syria were much cheaper than in Amman or Amsterdam.  Now I understood the purpose of the unscheduled stop - it was a shopping trip so people could buy stuff, objects they needed or wanted at a discounted price.

 

The aircraft doors closed and as we taxied back onto the dark runway, I quietly retrieved my Diplomatic passport from under my seat and secured it back in my shirt pocket, as it appeared Hezbollah would not be taking me and Jeff hostage.