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- 008: A Ghost for Halloween
008: A Ghost for Halloween
Spies, Lies & Cybercrime by Eric O'Neill
Happy Halloween! I love this holiday and always have. I was the kid that made his own costume every year. One year I spent weeks making a Frankenstein head out of paper mache. Another year I had my mother (who was a nurse) bring home yards of ace bandages so I could turn myself into a mummy. One of my best costumes took hours of work and bottles of spirit-glue to transform myself into a werewolf. No wonder that became my code-name in the FBI.
When I was working undercover, we moved when the target moved and worked whenever and wherever the need was greatest. That meant a lot of undercover operations on weekends, late nights, and on holidays. Including Halloween. Read on for a harrowing tale of working undercover on the one night of the year where reality is never what it seems.
Halloween in Washington, D.C. had its usual charm—an October breeze chilled the dark streets but hadn’t yet brought the cold of winter to the Nation’s Capital. Streetlights illuminated sparse leaves painting the streets in a riot of colors, and clusters of people in costume added a mysterious buzz to the air. But I wasn’t there to enjoy the festivities. Tonight, I was there to ghost a target, code-named Ghoul, who my surveillance team had been trailing for weeks. Hours of surveillance had painted him as a boring suburbanite, sticking to a predictable routine of office, home, and the occasional grocery store run.
But that Halloween night was different. If I’d learned anything in my FBI career, it was that strange things happen on Halloween.
The clock on the dashboard read 10:37 p.m. My partner and I were in the lead car, keeping the eye on the target. Ghoul had changed his routine, and the entire team was buzzing. Instead of heading home after a late night at the office, he pointed his black sedan downtown and slipped onto the streets of Adams Morgan. I took the lead, knowing the neighborhood like the back of my hand—I’d lived there in my early FBI days, sharing a group house just steps away from the legendary 18th Street with its eclectic bars, restaurants, and diversions.
Adams Morgan on Halloween (if you are a hallucinating A.I.)
Ghoul squeezed into a parking spot down a side street. I had to admire his parallel parking skills. Without hesitation, my partner and I drove past him, blending in as just another car hunting for a space. “You’ll have to go on foot,” she said.
I glanced into my side mirror and saw Ghoul step out, his black clothes blending into the night and a frightful mask in hand. The costume meant he wasn’t out for a stroll. “Pull over here,” I said.
As an FBI “ghost,” blending into any situation is part of the job, and tonight called for some improvisation. I rummaged through the car’s disguise bag and found a black hoodie and a roll of dark duct tape. Not exactly high fashion, but it would have to do. I slipped on the hoodie, wrapped duct tape around my wrists, and crossed two pieces over my chest. More punk than Halloween, but close enough.
I keyed my radio as I approached the buzz of Adams Morgan’s party street. “Target is in pocket,” I said softly. Ghoul continued down the block with purpose.
“I’ve got the eye,” I said.
As I trailed him, I spotted a drunken altercation between two twenty-something men about to ruin their night. One swing, and a mask went flying. I veered toward the brawl, scooped up the mask, and kept walking, leaving them shouting behind me. My FBI code name was Werewolf, but tonight, the skeleton mask would have to do. The hollow eyes transformed me into just another lost soul wandering in the dark.
Ghoul paused outside Club Heaven and Hell, where costumed revelers shuffled in and out, their laughter and shrieks muffled by the bass thumping inside. He glanced back, then disappeared past a bouncer who looked like he’d been plucked from a gothic rock band.
Inside, strobe lights flashed, and smoke machines added an eerie haze to the dimly lit room. The crowd surged around the bar, chatting, laughing, some shouting over the music. It was the easiest tracking job I’d had in years. No one batted an eye at a guy in a skeleton mask weaving through the crowd, eyes set firmly on one man—Ghoul—who was deep in conversation with a tall figure in a Phantom of the Opera mask. Their body language was tense. This wasn’t a friendly Halloween chat.
I edged closer but couldn’t hear anything over Thriller blasting from the speakers. I keyed my radio. “We have an UNSUB,” I said, using FBI jargon for an unknown subject. The Phantom had my full attention.
“Come again, Werewolf?” my partner’s voice crackled back, barely audible.
“Repeat, we have an…” I trailed off. The Phantom had vanished, and Ghoul was moving, heading straight toward me.
I spent years undercover. During that time, I boiled down the most important aspects of surveillance into four rules:
Know your target.
Know your environment.
Blend into every situation.
Remember Murphy’s law.
I’d followed the first three rules perfectly. I knew Ghoul’s habits and instantly picked up on his deviation. I knew Adams Morgan inside and out—I even hit this bar with friends most Thursdays for the legendary ’80s night. I’d blended in with a makeshift costume that turned me into just another reveler. But the fourth rule? Murphy’s law—whatever can go wrong, will.
Ghoul slipped past me without a glance, and I maneuvered in the opposite direction, scanning the dance floor for the Phantom. At the end of a narrow hall, a door marked Exit swung open, letting in a gust of cool night air. I caught it before it closed, counted to ten, then slipped down creaking stairs, chasing my target down into hell.
The door above shut, muffling the sounds of the party. I keyed my radio again, letting my team know to pick up Ghoul as he exited the front. “I’m chasing a new primary,” I whispered.
The Phantom moved through the dimly lit Club Hell on the bar’s lower level and toward the exit. I kept my distance, noting his cautious glances, a clear sign he was operational. He paused just before reaching the door and scanned the room, a classic trick to flush out a tail. I still had a beer in hand, so I pulled a chair next to a lively group of vampires and zombies, raised my glass, and cheered, “Trick or treat!” The entire table erupted in a toast, raising their glasses.
When I looked back, the Phantom was gone.
It took me a few frantic minutes to catch sight of him again, weaving through the crowd on 18th Street, heading away from where Ghoul had parked. A few blocks later, I watched him slip into a car with diplomatic plates—YR, the code for the Russian Federation. I snapped a few pictures with a small camera, capturing the full license plate.
The analysts were going to have a field day.
Halloween might blur the line between reality and costume, but tonight, Murphy’s Law had the last laugh. And I’d have to toast to it…maybe next Thursday at ’80s night.
Going undercover, surveilling targets, changing disguises and taking that perfect photo the moment a spy makes a drop…old school, traditional espionage will never die. I’m excited to keep bringing these stories to your mailbox every week. And I want to hear from you. Like, comment and share with a friend.
If you are out tonight for halloween, send me a picture of your costume. And if a guy in a skeleton mark raises a glass for a toast, raise yours in good cheer. He just might be undercover.
Eric
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