Making a DSS Agent

In the intelligence and law enforcement community, getting "made" means that you did something that identified your agency affiliation to the general public, or to the bad guys. Getting into a Suburban with Department of Homeland Security plates would "make" you, for example, as working or being associated with DHS.

Cut to Sunday evening of this week. My girlfriend and I are in line at a Chipotle in Washington, having just finished watching the new Die Hard movie. Which is totally sweet, by the way. As a side note, without spoiling the movie, there's a moment in it, in which FBI agents stress about their inability to reach a secret federal facility in Woodlawn, Maryland. They can't find helicopters and the roads are blocked, so it'll take them a while. Here's the funny thing: Having been there, I know for a fact that the FBI's Baltimore field office is IN (drumroll) Woodlawn, Maryland. All they'd have to do, would be to walk down the street.

Okay, so, back to DSS. Actually, I should say "Bureau of Diplomatic Security," but they used to be the Diplomatic Security Service, so, I'm allowed. The Discovery Times channel did a big special about them. They're like the Secret Service, except they protect the Secretary of State, key foreign dignitaries (like in NYC at the UN) and provide security services abroad to State Department personnel. They're in the weird position of being federal law enforcement agents who are often assigned overseas.

Essentially, Diplomatic Security/DSS is the Secret Service working in semi- and non-permissive environments. The President does not go to Gaza. But the Secretary of State sure does. So DSS has to train with military special-ops types as well as all kinds of shadowy intelligence agencies to get the right cooperation and information. They're like an indie Secret Service, except all the more badass.

So when I saw a few black Suburbans and Crown Vics with U.S. government and D.C. tags outside the Chipotle, and a few late-20s, early-30s guys in suits with bright green pins and clear earpieces, I figured they had to be some kind of federal protective agents. They couldn't be Secret Service (wrong kind of lapel pins.) But a minimal motorcade, guys in suits, and federal tags on black law-enforcement-style cars? Probably DSS.

So my girlfriend and I made a plan (okay, she made it, I got onboard with it.) We walked across as they waited outside for their protectee, I assumed, and I strode up to one of them. They instantly turned and the lead one fixed me with the kind of probing, penetrating and unnerving stare that you apparently get issued at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia.

I tried not to wilt. "Okay, so my girlfriend and I have a bet going. She thinks you guys are Capitol Police, and I think you're Diplomatic Security." There was a pause just long enough to make me worry that they wouldn't tell me, but finally, the agent uncrossed his arms and pointed a finger at me.

"You're right," he said, not exactly wasting any words. I turned to my girlfriend, grinned, and slapped her five.

"Knew it!" I turned back to the agent and said, "Thanks," and she and I strode away without looking back.

Here's the thing. Very few people are familiar with DSS. Most of the ones who are, either worked for them or watched the Discovery Times special (which doesn't get many reruns.) I imagine- in fact, I am almost positive- that we made those DSS special agents say, "Uhh, that guy in the jeans and his girlfriend made us as DSS. Are we really obvious?"

And that's what I call fun.