A conversation with my son and a June 20, 2014 to remember
I had been poisoned, lied to, and conned into believing I was under a death threat.
I left Russia. 14 months on my own lay ahead in America, a land that was evolving into a police state, hastened by the false narrative of 9/11, this joke most cruel played upon the masses by those in power, who intended to keep it that way, damn the consequences. There is something dark in the human spirit just as there is light, and in my experience humans when organized tend to promote those most psychotic, those most willing to lie, cheat and steal to run humanity.
Upon completing those 14 months in the wild so to speak on a mad end zone run from Massachusetts to Maine to Manhattan to Virginia Beach and a mountainous town called Asheville, North Carolina, and to a home I once knew and owned in western New York state, I would take guardianship of my then 14 year old son. And he like me had abandoned Russia for America though for altogether different reasons. For two years I played the role of single parent, and as compared to earlier roles in my life, son, brother, husband, lover, employee, and boss, there would be no other role I would treasure so much. This I would learn over time as a result, a response to my own childhood and limitations placed on my old man from likely from an event in the middle east just after the war. A murder unintended.
My son and I had candid conversations over those two years. As his Russian mother had threatened extortion that was to have resulted in my never seeing my son again, I had a hard choice, perhaps hard choices to make. She had conned me I to leaving Russia and shortly after my departure in October 2013, took it upon herself to provide our son, my son a thumb drive with pornographic images of me, his father. He was 13. This a felony in most civilized countries.
There is of course humor to be found surrounding that most heinous act, she had been the one to welcome me into a world of multiple partner sex, of orgies and more. I hadnt minded, for she was the stuff of fantasy then. Dangerous fantasy. And once given the nudge on that wild ride of a slide, I kept going, while she made a u-turn into motherhood, which I would learn in perhaps our most honest conversation ever, a long distance call from Virginia Beach to Saint Petersburg, Russia was always her goal, her only goal in that which she had hoped for, had intended to achieve in any relationship with me, a foolish American boy. A boy in far over his head unknowingly.
And in these deep waters, swirling and frothing, circling about, I kept pace, swimming this way and that, taking time to look into the dark sky for a star that might point my way out of the all embracing waves. Honestly, and in retrospect, I really had no idea where I was, jousting at phantoms, windmills and more. Back then I had no idea of the term gaslighting, nor what it meant. The tool I would use to my advantage was that unwieldy invention of Al Gore, the Internet. This gave me access to information and to people. Like the printing press before it this Internet was a heady thing and for a time my only means of contact with my son, so far away.
I was forced to make the most terrible of decisions; reality was cruel, his mother crueler, were I never to see him again, did I not owe him something, father to son, one generation to the next, did I not owe him the truth of how his parents met, and indeed how he came to be? And I thought long, I thought hard on that one. I assumed after age 18 in 5 years time he would likely try to come find me as I was his father and he was my son. 5 years. What might she do to our boy in those five years. Would I leave him in the darkness on his own left to learn that which I already knew? At 13 his disadvantages were many chief among them being busy moving to adulthood with divorced and estranged parents.
And so I drafted that email and described that which I thought I'd take to my grave, for she was a woman in Soviet time, hard scrapple poor, and she had if she is to be believed prostitutes herself during those difficult Yeltsin years when salaries were not paid, lines were long, and Russia quivered forward in manner darker has inhumane.
So I told me son how his parents met, and about the drama surrounding his birth. Not until half a year later on June 20th 2014 would I learn why it had been so. For years I perceived, that is to say I misperceived Svetlana. I had thought her selfish, a greedy girl, lazy, and of course a beauty beyond compare.
She had told me that I was the last of her 75 clients. She of this kept track. There had been an older Banker from Spain whose touch had repulsed her and an over controlling Russian policeman who brought her to the Police station and took her on his desk late one night. I admit I thrilled to these stories in our early years, living as we did in far away Siberia. I had abandoned my wife, career, and life to have this time with her. She was the stuff of fantasy unimaginable, far beyond the pale. And me, raised in part on musical theater, by a loving mother, wondered later on the effects of the two plays that most often came to mind. My Fair Lady. Man of LA Mancha. The recurring theme of both these spectacles were men saving women for reasons vibrant though perhaps poorly understood. And I having slept with this 21 year old goddess could not fathom the idea of abandoning her to that cold post Soviet landscape. I still recall the Boston production of My Fair Lady. Rex Harrison, long passed, was reprising his role as the lead, Henry Higgins. And the soundtrack of Man of La Mancha still plays in my head all these years later. Ah Dulcinea.
In that call of June 2014, she told me that she had never loved me when we met and later when we moved in together after my exodus from America on the last day of July 1996. She told me that she had loved another man, Alexander Tregubov, he who had poisoned me in a banya in the summer of 2011 on Petrogradskay Island, in the hear of old Saint Petersburg, he who she claimed had made a death threat against me that October of 2013. She claimed that he could not give her that which I could, a child. She told me that which he had in manner, over excited, told me in that banya based meeting, he was infertile. I still recall how odd it seemed, how odd it felt when he told me this in that first meeting of ours. Why on earth would someone you just met tell you he was sterile? And why would he tell you how easy it is to kill a man. And why did he ask me if I would swing with him? For the reason of our meeting was a woman, another woman, another Svetlana, though this one's name was Evgeniya, or Genya in the affectionate. That is a long story. Genya. No less than the story of Svetlana. Each woman a novel. A novelty.
Further on that fateful June day with the sun high above and me outside on the street hearing these things long awaited, but never expected, she told me the only reason she remained with me after the birth of our son was that I earned a good salary and could afford her the lifestyle her parents could never afford her.
And like that so much was clear. Why had she told me these things, then at that moment? I had finally linked her to Tregubov on my own, two witnesses reported to me seeing her and him together, in our Russian apartment where I had deviously bedded so many other women during our sham of a marriage, and the witnesses, a man and a woman described her at those moments of demonstrating affection for him, this Alexander Tregubov. Other clues laid about. Alexander had told me in a Skype conversation that Svetlana had a plan to gain my US based assets, for she had only taken half of my Russian apartment in our fraudulent 2012 divorce. Alexander had also in December of 2013 told me that indeed I had been poisoned in August 2011, though not by him, but by waif like Genya, then 20. A misdirect. Alexander had liked those.
In the summer of 2014 NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce via Head of Security of Marsh and McClellan London, Dan Mead through his contacts in the Russian police confirmed that
I had indeed been poisoned that August 2011, but not by Genya, but by Alexander himself. I recall the effects of that poisoned beer. Defecating myself into oblivion, losing weight at a rate unimaginable. Over the course of a month I lost 40 pounds. This had the effect of conning me into believing I was dying, and if I was what to do then with the time remaining? This poisoning was meant to keep me on a dire schedule. Obama would only be president for so long, and unknown to me we were planned to meet in manner most horrific. I had heard in my youth the term 'Manchurian Candidate', an old film I never saw. I had not an inkling that apparently I had been targeted from birth, this a result I would discover linked to an an unintended murder so long ago, so far away.
Svetlana had let the prideful part of her nature escape a bit. How could she not? Playing all those years as a sort of Mata Macy, or Sveta Hari. How patient could one be in these matters of great deception? She told me more in that phone call, she said that she and Tregubov had access to all my phone calls, emails, Internet activities, and more from 1997, the year we moved in together in that coal Capitol of the Siberian Kuzbass region, Kemerovo. My mind was both blown and relieved. So many questions answered in a moment. Why had our relationship such as it was been doomed to fail? She had known of my bordello hopping ways, and on that matter remained mum. Oh the hate that must have welled up within her over those years. I recall tastes of it from time to time, especially from the time of the mysterious and to date unsolved roof fire on May 29, 2009, JFK's birthday at our home in Russia, Kamennoostrovskiy Prospect 35 in Saint Petersburg. Only in 2014 when two American expats whom I had met in Russia in the 2000s over eagerly reached out to offer their assistance to locate my then missing son would I learn the significance of May 29.
Jason Smolek, then a researcher at Moscow based J'son and Partners consulting firm offered to go to Saint Petersburg to look for my son should I agree to pay his expenses. Jason, in manner most unexpected informed me that the date of that roof fire, May 29, was JFK's birthday. I passed on his offer, though thanked him.
Another American man, Jeff Letino, these days as then part of EPEG, an investment group focused on Russia and currently general manager of Advark, a video advertising platform intended to compete with Google also reached out, offered to use his role on the board of a Russian security company to locate my son, in the case that I would travel to Asheville North Carolina to meet him in some days time.
In December 2015, Svetlana told me with not a small bit of joy in our first Skype video call in quite some time that didn't I know that 80% of my expat friends in Russia had been in the employ of various intelligence agencies?
Jason and Jeff, like Douglas Boyce, CIA in Russia. Great. The unimaginable.
I left Russia. 14 months on my own lay ahead in America, a land that was evolving into a police state, hastened by the false narrative of 9/11, this joke most cruel played upon the masses by those in power, who intended to keep it that way, damn the consequences. There is something dark in the human spirit just as there is light, and in my experience humans when organized tend to promote those most psychotic, those most willing to lie, cheat and steal to run humanity.
Upon completing those 14 months in the wild so to speak on a mad end zone run from Massachusetts to Maine to Manhattan to Virginia Beach and a mountainous town called Asheville, North Carolina, and to a home I once knew and owned in western New York state, I would take guardianship of my then 14 year old son. And he like me had abandoned Russia for America though for altogether different reasons. For two years I played the role of single parent, and as compared to earlier roles in my life, son, brother, husband, lover, employee, and boss, there would be no other role I would treasure so much. This I would learn over time as a result, a response to my own childhood and limitations placed on my old man from likely from an event in the middle east just after the war. A murder unintended.
My son and I had candid conversations over those two years. As his Russian mother had threatened extortion that was to have resulted in my never seeing my son again, I had a hard choice, perhaps hard choices to make. She had conned me I to leaving Russia and shortly after my departure in October 2013, took it upon herself to provide our son, my son a thumb drive with pornographic images of me, his father. He was 13. This a felony in most civilized countries.
There is of course humor to be found surrounding that most heinous act, she had been the one to welcome me into a world of multiple partner sex, of orgies and more. I hadnt minded, for she was the stuff of fantasy then. Dangerous fantasy. And once given the nudge on that wild ride of a slide, I kept going, while she made a u-turn into motherhood, which I would learn in perhaps our most honest conversation ever, a long distance call from Virginia Beach to Saint Petersburg, Russia was always her goal, her only goal in that which she had hoped for, had intended to achieve in any relationship with me, a foolish American boy. A boy in far over his head unknowingly.
And in these deep waters, swirling and frothing, circling about, I kept pace, swimming this way and that, taking time to look into the dark sky for a star that might point my way out of the all embracing waves. Honestly, and in retrospect, I really had no idea where I was, jousting at phantoms, windmills and more. Back then I had no idea of the term gaslighting, nor what it meant. The tool I would use to my advantage was that unwieldy invention of Al Gore, the Internet. This gave me access to information and to people. Like the printing press before it this Internet was a heady thing and for a time my only means of contact with my son, so far away.
I was forced to make the most terrible of decisions; reality was cruel, his mother crueler, were I never to see him again, did I not owe him something, father to son, one generation to the next, did I not owe him the truth of how his parents met, and indeed how he came to be? And I thought long, I thought hard on that one. I assumed after age 18 in 5 years time he would likely try to come find me as I was his father and he was my son. 5 years. What might she do to our boy in those five years. Would I leave him in the darkness on his own left to learn that which I already knew? At 13 his disadvantages were many chief among them being busy moving to adulthood with divorced and estranged parents.
And so I drafted that email and described that which I thought I'd take to my grave, for she was a woman in Soviet time, hard scrapple poor, and she had if she is to be believed prostitutes herself during those difficult Yeltsin years when salaries were not paid, lines were long, and Russia quivered forward in manner darker has inhumane.
So I told me son how his parents met, and about the drama surrounding his birth. Not until half a year later on June 20th 2014 would I learn why it had been so. For years I perceived, that is to say I misperceived Svetlana. I had thought her selfish, a greedy girl, lazy, and of course a beauty beyond compare.
She had told me that I was the last of her 75 clients. She of this kept track. There had been an older Banker from Spain whose touch had repulsed her and an over controlling Russian policeman who brought her to the Police station and took her on his desk late one night. I admit I thrilled to these stories in our early years, living as we did in far away Siberia. I had abandoned my wife, career, and life to have this time with her. She was the stuff of fantasy unimaginable, far beyond the pale. And me, raised in part on musical theater, by a loving mother, wondered later on the effects of the two plays that most often came to mind. My Fair Lady. Man of LA Mancha. The recurring theme of both these spectacles were men saving women for reasons vibrant though perhaps poorly understood. And I having slept with this 21 year old goddess could not fathom the idea of abandoning her to that cold post Soviet landscape. I still recall the Boston production of My Fair Lady. Rex Harrison, long passed, was reprising his role as the lead, Henry Higgins. And the soundtrack of Man of La Mancha still plays in my head all these years later. Ah Dulcinea.
In that call of June 2014, she told me that she had never loved me when we met and later when we moved in together after my exodus from America on the last day of July 1996. She told me that she had loved another man, Alexander Tregubov, he who had poisoned me in a banya in the summer of 2011 on Petrogradskay Island, in the hear of old Saint Petersburg, he who she claimed had made a death threat against me that October of 2013. She claimed that he could not give her that which I could, a child. She told me that which he had in manner, over excited, told me in that banya based meeting, he was infertile. I still recall how odd it seemed, how odd it felt when he told me this in that first meeting of ours. Why on earth would someone you just met tell you he was sterile? And why would he tell you how easy it is to kill a man. And why did he ask me if I would swing with him? For the reason of our meeting was a woman, another woman, another Svetlana, though this one's name was Evgeniya, or Genya in the affectionate. That is a long story. Genya. No less than the story of Svetlana. Each woman a novel. A novelty.
Further on that fateful June day with the sun high above and me outside on the street hearing these things long awaited, but never expected, she told me the only reason she remained with me after the birth of our son was that I earned a good salary and could afford her the lifestyle her parents could never afford her.
And like that so much was clear. Why had she told me these things, then at that moment? I had finally linked her to Tregubov on my own, two witnesses reported to me seeing her and him together, in our Russian apartment where I had deviously bedded so many other women during our sham of a marriage, and the witnesses, a man and a woman described her at those moments of demonstrating affection for him, this Alexander Tregubov. Other clues laid about. Alexander had told me in a Skype conversation that Svetlana had a plan to gain my US based assets, for she had only taken half of my Russian apartment in our fraudulent 2012 divorce. Alexander had also in December of 2013 told me that indeed I had been poisoned in August 2011, though not by him, but by waif like Genya, then 20. A misdirect. Alexander had liked those.
In the summer of 2014 NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce via Head of Security of Marsh and McClellan London, Dan Mead through his contacts in the Russian police confirmed that
Svetlana had let the prideful part of her nature escape a bit. How could she not? Playing all those years as a sort of Mata Macy, or Sveta Hari. How patient could one be in these matters of great deception? She told me more in that phone call, she said that she and Tregubov had access to all my phone calls, emails, Internet activities, and more from 1997, the year we moved in together in that coal Capitol of the Siberian Kuzbass region, Kemerovo. My mind was both blown and relieved. So many questions answered in a moment. Why had our relationship such as it was been doomed to fail? She had known of my bordello hopping ways, and on that matter remained mum. Oh the hate that must have welled up within her over those years. I recall tastes of it from time to time, especially from the time of the mysterious and to date unsolved roof fire on May 29, 2009, JFK's birthday at our home in Russia, Kamennoostrovskiy Prospect 35 in Saint Petersburg. Only in 2014 when two American expats whom I had met in Russia in the 2000s over eagerly reached out to offer their assistance to locate my then missing son would I learn the significance of May 29.
Jason Smolek, then a researcher at Moscow based J'son and Partners consulting firm offered to go to Saint Petersburg to look for my son should I agree to pay his expenses. Jason, in manner most unexpected informed me that the date of that roof fire, May 29, was JFK's birthday. I passed on his offer, though thanked him.
Another American man, Jeff Letino, these days as then part of EPEG, an investment group focused on Russia and currently general manager of Advark, a video advertising platform intended to compete with Google also reached out, offered to use his role on the board of a Russian security company to locate my son, in the case that I would travel to Asheville North Carolina to meet him in some days time.
In December 2015, Svetlana told me with not a small bit of joy in our first Skype video call in quite some time that didn't I know that 80% of my expat friends in Russia had been in the employ of various intelligence agencies?
Jason and Jeff, like Douglas Boyce, CIA in Russia. Great. The unimaginable.
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