James Beatty of Denver Colorado, likely CIA

James Beatty of 

Denver, Colorado and 

Saint Petersburg, Russia.

James is likely CIA with his day job at property investment company Jensen Group, located at 32 Nevskiy Prospekt, as CFO, portrayed himself as my pal as part of his role in the complex and failed presidential assassination attempt of 2014 in which I was to play the role of patsy.

I had liked James.  James pretended to like me.  For years.   Imagine that.  So much so that in the fall of 2011 he hired me as a sales training for his staff in an off site in Egypt.  I think it was Sharm El Sheik and not Hurgada.

This led to him offering me the position  of vice president of sales for Jensen Group, a position to which I agreed and filled from January to June 2012.

James is also of note as he unexpectedly invited me to his wedding back in, I think it was 1998, although it might have been 1999.  James married a Russian girl named Viktoria who for a time had worked as a dancer.  Nice couple.  And at that wedding reception I recall James offering to myself and another American expat, named Christian Courbois (Christian enjoyed a birthday this past week, I sent him a text of congratulations as it seemed the polite thing to do, though he chose not to respond) who like James was then and likely remains now in the employ on some level of the CIA, 'Bolivian marching powder' in the rest room at the event.  I partook and enjoyed the day, not thinking much more of it until some years later.

And some years later, another expat I had met in Russia in those days, a Scotsman named Adrian Terris, him likely MI5, would brag to me how the intelligence agencies historically would be proud to take decades, even generations to work on a dastardly project of deception.

Adrian's example was from the Middle East and featured the Crusaders taking decades to deceptively tunnel under Muslim fortifications.

In this manner James and others I have mentioned gangstalked me for years as a targeted individual to subtly push me towards debauchery, sex and drugs.  All to create a back story that would stand up to investigators be they FBI or journalists in the event they had been successful and made me into in the words of Egish Khachatrian, "this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald", a presidential assassination patsy to be used in a failed plot against America's first black president.   This is 2014 though they worked to make it happen as early as 2012.

My Russian FSB trained honey pot trap sparrow wife Svetlana had earlier gotten me into group sex so that she might use that against me years later in divorce court and to display pornographic images of me from that time to our then 13 year old son (which is a felony in the US and likely a similar crime in Russia were my son to pursue that course of action).

This helped her mold my son, our son, Nicholas into something of a weapon when she sent him to me in New York in December of 2014 two years after our divorce.

These gangstalkers like James Beatty, Christian Courbois, Adrian Terris, Svetlana Macy, would ramp up their efforts in late 2011 and early 2012.  In retrospect with the benefit of time and experience I see it all more clearly now.  At the time it felt my world was twisting upside down, for such is the nature of what happens to one targeted by CIA as I was when they turn the heat up.  This akin to boiling a frog.

Four more individuals would reveal themselves in time as gangstalkers whose task it was was to introduce me to a variety of legal and less than legal stimulants and empathogens:  August Meyer, multimillionaire investor in Russian version of Amazon called Ulmart, Adam Stanhope, former owner of www.bangkok.com and online Silk Road drug dealer NAWLINS (and yes I reported him to the DEA, that was fall of 2014.  Within a week he was reported dead in Pembroke, MA, though I believe him to be alive in Thailand and the death a corrupt police assisted fraud), Mark Brady of Iron River, WI, and former working girl whom I met in a bordello, now young mother, Russian gal Albina Taptiga, now married with child living outside Moscow under the name Putilina.

Each of these folk would surreptitiously introduce me to bath salts, ecstasy, cocaine and amphetamine in concerted effort to lead me down a path from which others might not return.

I held my ground, learned what they were up to by using self as bait, a practice I was forced to engage in as a form of self protection after I left Virginia pursued by up to 40 undercover FBI vehicles in the July of 2014 for New York State.  This method of baiting, acting provocatively learned when younger reading the many Spenser novels of Robert B. Parker, an author now passed whom I once had the pleasure of meeting.  His Spenser a detective whose main form of detecting involved him hiding nothing and aggressively getting in the face of the bad guys.  This I would do in Russia, Virginia, New York and Colorado to learn the elephant in the room, my gangstalkers set upon me by CIA.  And yes I know how that sounds.

Let's go back to James Beatty.  As posted here I had left Russia under a fraudulent death threat in October of 2013.  This from Russians Alexander Tregubov and Egish Khachatrian yet only communicated to me via then ex wife Russian Svetlana and Russian lover Genya.   Another level of deception and deniability in  retrospect.  At the time I this did not know.

I returned to Russia in December of 2016 with the goal of reconciling with Sveta, having learned that which I had learned and hoped 3 years apart, the assassination attempt and related cover up both failing, might be enough to meet such a modest goal.

Upon my return to Russia, I contacted James as we had been such friends earlier, which I had by then learned was a sham though desired confirmation of a sort.  And that confirmation is what I received upon meeting with James in early 2017.

You see, James and I each own a Russian apartment within ten minutes walking distance of each other in the heart of Saint Petersburg, on an island called Petrogradskiy.

James and I met for a coffee at the nearby restaurant 'Ketchup Burger' on Lev Tolstoy Square.  I was pleased to see James, I am in that way human.  James could barely cover up his discomfort at seeing me.  I think part of him was curious, indeed fascinated to see me, as he knew much of what I had been put through for he played his role in that darkest of plots, a failed presidential assassination attempt.

His 'tells' were off the scale.  He kept reaching for and covering the lower part of his face with his hand.  This behavior, this quite visible attempt at self soothing, uncontrollable, would be repeated in a few days time when I later met with another American expat, Aaron Bogott, whom I had also met earlier in Russia.

Aaron, like James, is likely in some manner of employ with CIA.  Aaron disgusts me in a way that James does not, as Aaron puts on a great show of being a 'Christian' which thankfully James does not.

And so James and I had our coffee; I pushed his buttons inquiring as to what strip clubs he frequents these days as he used to portray himself as a fan of such places while we worked together at Jensen Group in that first half of 2012.

I offered that we meet again, as in days of old.  And as James clutched his chin in apparent discomfort he claimed to have no time as he was quite busy with work and had a new habit of going to the gym.  I complimented him on his fire hydrant like physique (James is rather short) and we parted ways.  I had gotten that for which I had come, which was confirmation of what I at no small expense to self had learned since my departure from Russia in October of 2013.

I should hate James.  Another man would.  Of this I have no doubt.  And yet I don't.  When I think about how he and others enjoyed the secret thrill of being deceptive, I admit a feeling of disgust, but it passes.  I had liked, even admired James.  James is brighter than average and more motivated than many, perhaps most.

This CIA hires right out of University.  And I wonder what it was like for him that day on campus when the CIA recruiter contacted him in some manner likely surreptitious.  For him.  For Christian Courbois.  For Stephen Gardner.  What was that like for them in those days, when I lived on a guided missile frigate in the Persian Gulf, supposedly defending their freedoms.  Funny old world.  Funny James Beatty.  Funny me.