Martha Denny Peterson - The Widow Spy

Before I left for work that balmy spring morning in McLean, Virginia, I placed my casually worded note on the kitchen counter where my kids couldnt miss it. It was April 1997. Tyler was seventeen and Lora was fifteen. They had the day off from school with no plans, so I didnt have to compete with more interesting options. Who knew what made me decide to tell them on this particular day, wondering how they would react to my secret. Maybe this wouldnt be a big deal to them, but I was apprehensive.

Friends at work warned me, if I waited too long for this true confession, my children would be angry that I had not trusted them. I always stressed to my children that their only choice was to tell the truth. Now I had to admit that I had lied to them.

Lora called me around 10:00 a.m., having been awakened by her voracious hunger pangs. Sleepily, she asked me what was up and why we had to meet for lunch. I knew her immediate focus was on the meal at hand, breakfast. As a toddler, she had climbed out of her crib with a thump, then padded her pajamad feet down the hall, shimmied up on her chair, expecting me to instantly produce her cereal. Then the only noise was the clink of her spoon as she shoveled fuel into her little empty tank. When she finished, her happy countenance awakened as she climbed into my lap for cuddles. Her morning craving for food had not changed, except now she had to fix her own cereal.

I replied that I wanted to meet them for lunch because they had a day off for Good Friday. I sensed this aroused her curiosity because I never met them for lunch. She agreed to get Tyler up in time to arrive in McLean by noon. I assured her that Tyler knew where the Roy Rogers was.

I had been parked for fifteen minutes when Tyler wheeled his Chevy Blazer into the spot next to mine. Tumbling into my car, Lora in front and Tyler in back, they asked, So whats up? Funny, after all the roles I had played in my life, I had not devised a suitable preamble for what I was about to tell them. So, I just blurted out: I work for CIA. Lora looked puzzled. Tyler replied quickly, which amazed me. Yet again, how knowledgeable he was: Shes a spy. We all laughed together at how absurd this sounded: Mom a spy.

I filled the unsettled silence by explaining why lying had been my only option. I worried about telling them this secret when they were younger because children dont fully understand why being exposed as a CIA officer could pose a real danger to a family living abroad. When we went overseas in 1992 right after the Gulf War, I had to be certain that, if their school bus were hijacked and they were confronted by terrorists, they didnt have in their brain the fact that I worked for CIA. They could tell the truth as they knew it. But now, in their teens, I told them I trusted them with my secret. And besides, we were in the States with no enemy lurking at the corner to ambush their school bus.

They sensed I was uneasy admitting my lie. I looked at both of them wondering whether I had waited too long to tell them. My daughters next question, tinged with a hint of resentment, confirmed that I probably had. What else arent you telling us, Mammi? But then, I saw a faint smile bloom on her lips, almost enjoying the fact that she had caught me in a lie. Tyler smiled too. Relieved that they werent offended, I knew they were curious about who I really was. I decided to tell them the whole story, even though I have always found it difficult to tell, not wanting to sound like I was bragging.

We drove to CIA Headquarters (HQS) about a mile down the road where I suggested we have lunch in the cafeteria. I included the fact that we could visit the gift shop, which snagged their immediate interest in addition to the food. As we turned into the main CIA entrance drive, seeing it through their eyes, I realized the guard house ahead appeared disappointingly unimpressive. I had registered them as official guests earlier that day. When I came to a stop at the security gate, the guard asked for their photo IDs. Their eyes revealed their shock at this guard addressing them directly. He seriously scrutinized their IDs, leaning close to my window to compare their faces to the photos. He handed back their IDs along with a red government V badge indicating they were visitors labeled Escort Required. They were impressed by the formality of entering CIA. To this day, they recall how awed they were at this official attention.