Interrogated by the FBI

Richard McAuley and I were the only male Caucasians in the large 'Holding Room'. The rest of the people, men and women of all ages and a scattering of children, were mostly dark skinned. The majority of them looked like Arabs, or what you would imagine Arabs might look like. Richard and I were taken out of the line at the Passport control. Once our passports are put into the computer it lights up like the Christmas tree at Belfast City Hall. So over the last decade or so, we have come to know Holding Rooms from Los Angeles to San Francisco and all the points of entry in between.

Lots of times by arrangement with the State Department our entry is eased and an official will take us out off the line and – Open Sesame – before we know it we are in the land of Uncle Sam to be whisked off to whatever event we are attending.

Lots of times it isn't so straightforward. Once the computer lights up – sin é. In the Holding Room it can be a matter of form. It depends who is about the place. Invariably there is an Irish American somewhere. I pity our Arab friends. Somehow I don't imagine they would have such pull.

"Hey guys I'm sorry about this. Let me see if I can speed things up".

Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the FBI is about the place. That can be a bit of a pain. Most of the FBI people at airports are young fellas.

"Have you a schedule sir?"

"Yup," I say with the patience of a man who has spent up to four or five hours at the side of an Irish road in the company of the British Armys Parachute Regiment in the days when British army roadblocks were a daily rite of passage. I hand the FBI young gun a copy of the schedule which has been in the possession of the US State Department for the last month or so.

"Huh" he says "Why are you going to the White House? Sir"

"To see the President."

"Huh. Why?"

"He asked me", I say evenly.

My deadpan delivery is wasted on him. Maybe he is used to dealing with wise guys.

"Why? Sir"

"I can't discuss that with you. Security… you know what I mean."

"Huh" he says, looking me straight in the eyes. I return his gaze with the practice of a man who spend a number interrogations in Palace Barracks where they beat you for the hell of it and even more, seven day long, sessions in Castlereagh where they had to stop beating you, eventually.

Mind games replaced the batterings. So playing at blinking first with the FBI apprentice and letting him win was no problem. No sir.

Anyway all of this is about setting a context for the recent much publicised delay inflicted on Richard McAuley and myself as we were leaving Washington. Such delays are par for the course. This time the hold up caused us to miss a number of engagements. That is the first time that happened, though we have missed a flight before. A flight home it was too.

Its called Homeland Security. Among other security measures they have a procedure of selecting travellers for secondary screening. This is usually a random selection. We are told it sometimes includes diplomats, US government officials and the like. At random. It also includes Richard McAuley and me. All the time. The legend SSSS is stamped on our tickets. The Holding Room soujourn outlined above was before September 11. It was usually only at the point of entry. Now it is everywhere. On all domestic flights. And there is nothing the security people at the airports can do about it. SSSS rules. The first delay is at the check-in desk. Then at the security section. Then just before boarding. Sometimes our bags are checked twice and we have been body searched three times. A couple of times our bags were taken off the plane for another search.

That's why we always leave lots of time for checking in. When we were leaving Washington after St Patrick's Day, we arrived at Dulles Airport not long after 3.30 for a 5.20 flight. That morning we went from the White House to the State Department to a lunchtime engagement to the airport. Dulles was busy. The four Ss made it even busier. I settled down with my book and took it easy. There is no point in not taking it easy. Later when we missed our flight we joined a queue of mostly Arab looking people looking to retrieve their luggage. Some of them were elderly. A few were quite distraught. They could not speak English and they were obviously distressed at the way they were being treated. The man behind the desk was friendly.

"You must be Irish," he said. "You look like that guy Adams."

"I know," I said, "he is always getting me into trouble".

"Happy Saint Patrick's Day," he smiled. "We will forward your bag to you".

"Happy Paddy's Day to you too," I said.

Footnote: I am still waiting for my bag.