Mapping a CIA Plot to Kill Obama
Illusions.
We all have them.
Think about it a bit, well, more than a bit. We create constructs in our heads, in our imaginations, maps of a sort that represent reality. The only completely accurate map of any terrain is that terrain itself. Wise words perhaps, but inconvenient as we can’t fold up the reality of a terrain and put it in our pocket. And so maps are inherently inaccurate, they lack detail. Sometimes this matters. Sometimes this does not. It depends on the situation.
Our realities are similarly constructed. We can’t know all of reality, we are limited by our five senses, our experiences, our training, formal and not. We can also misperceive and thereby unwillingly create a map that is quite inaccurate and misleading.
In the summer of 2014 after being pursued, harassed, and gangstalked by approximately 40 FBI undercover vehicles, I spent an evening, an entire night in my car in the driveway of a man I had incorrectly perceived as friend, a senior agent at the NCIS. Why had I spent a night in my car in his driveway? It’s a fair question. This driveway, this place was the only place where I was safe from the aforementioned vehicular harassment. And this NCIS agent friend, Douglas Boyce, had told me only a few weeks earlier in the warmth of this home in whose driveway I sat until dawn, that he had been in the employ of the CIA when we had met in Russia years earlier, in 1999.
I was in contact with Douglas that entire night in his driveway by text messages. I recall two texts from Douglas most of all. One in which he claimed he was resisting the urge to call me, and a later text just about the time of dawn wherein he told me he would soon call with a funny story.
And in that next morning, Douglas called, told me he was a policeman, told me that none of the cars whose photos at his direction I had laboriously sent him for his ‘analysis’, those cars which had been following me, harassing me, even encircling me aggressively in a supermarket parking lot, he told me I had misperceived and further how much I had misperceived in my life. My world turned upside down.
I had incorrectly thought the cars chasing me had some sort of relationship with the man who had poisoned me in Russia in August of 2011, Alexander Tregubov, my exwife, also Russian, Svetlana Macy who I had only some days earlier learned had conspired with Alexander to con me into believing I was under a death threat resulting in my leaving Russia in October 2013. In my head I had an incorrect map of the terrain, wildly incorrect, though with each day I was removing errors, refining important details, and correcting my map.
I wondered at the dollar cost of having these vehicles pursue me for all those days. They had harassed me from the day following Svetlana’s admission, June 21st in Virginia. They had harassed me all the way deep into North Carolina for a meeting with an American I had met in Russia, Jeff Letino, who unknown to me then and realized now, he, like Douglas was CIA. Jeff had promised help in locating my missing 13 year old son Nicholas and Russian fraudster ex wife Svetlana.
They had frightened me in the parking lot of the Mountaineer motel in Asheville, North Carolina and had pursued me again to Virginia and up into Maryland, past Woodbridge where I had once lived, past Springfield where I had been employed nearly a year at General Electric while waiting for a top secret clearance, past Gaithersburg where I had worked for some years as a trainer, tech writer, and salesman before being hired by Harris Corp and into a supermarket parking lot in some town I don’t recall. And in that parking lot I was incredibly circled by these unmarked cars. I was unbelieving as this was the stuff of film, and bad ones at that. And yet the late model sedans simply circled me like vultures over a corpse rotting in the desert.
It didn’t make sense, these cars, their drivers, that expense.
All that FSB trained honeypot trap exwife Svetlana and her lover Alexander Tregubov could realize in benefit would be the 50% of the Russian apartment I retained after our fraudulent divorce in the fall of 2012. At that time in 2014, just before sanctions due to the Crimean adventure of Russia, that might have been worth $300,000 to in the best case $400,000. And the cost for 40 cars for all those days hot on my tail in rapturous pursuit would eat up an awful lot of cash simply in salaries not including the purchase even pro rated of so many vehicles.
NCIS agent Douglas Boyce, as he worked his way deeper into my confidence, posed the question time and time again, “What juice is worth the squeeze?”
My map, still incorrect, though improving, caused me to conclude that Svetlana was FSB trained as a honeypot trap. This was correct and supported by her own admission on June 20th, 2014, the day before the cars began their furious pursuit of me, this middle class American boy, returned to the land of my birth after 15 years as an expat in Russia. I began to consider other Russian women with whom I had had affairs.
Two of them, Ksenia Bezrukova and Polina Panfilova had gone on to become impregnated by US servicemen and had parlayed those events into marriages, Ksenia to a US Marine enlisted man and Polina to a black US Navy officer. My conclusion seemed harebrained and far fetched, the stuff of spy novels. Had I unwittingly become aware of a Russian spy program to form a next generation spy network of children of US military and exmilitary men. And this I told to Doug. He must have laughed.
Not until a few days later chasdd back by these cars to Virginia Beach, after realizing that my landlady Shari Faller was gangstalking me and had made a surreptitious attempt to entrap me in the dark crime of arson by stuffing a rag into kitchen stove exhaust. She had asked me to disconnect said stove and then to reconnect it as it had a malfunction. The malfunction I would learn in time had been placed there on purpose by the FBI in that beachfront home at 3205 Sandfiddler Road in Virginia Beach, as had many other defects, TV with a dull screen, AC ducts that would not close, windows that were oddly fogged. Each of these defects like so much FBI does when e trapping a victim, a target, deniable. Every little defect done on purpose, made specifically to keep the target, me, off balance and to thereby keep my map inaccurate.
I then left Virginia near midnight, unannounced as I realized for whatever reason, my landlady Shari Faller was working to entrap me, my roommate John Pouliot Jr was working to involve me in narcotics and similarly entrap me, and my buddy pal Dougie Boyce, the NCIS agent, had just told me he had been CIA and that I had misperceived much in my life up to and including the recent events of being chased, harassed and gangstalked by approximately 40 undercover FBI vehicles. Damn.
The trifecta.
So I took my map still inaccurate and traveled by night to the home I had owned in the farmlands of Victor, NY. The evening, that night most memorable, for most of the trip was traveled on secondary roads at 1, 2, 3, and 4 in the morning. I think I arrived at my destination sometime after 7 a.m. and all that night and on those roads, 40 cars, with high beams just a little too bright and their resultant traffic just far too much, too heavy, to be statistically probable. I mean these were Pennsylvania back roads, and there I was pursued by 40 FBI vehicles. At most there might have been a car or two from time to time. But no, in my mirrors, a cavalry of cars, so many, again all with high beams just that much too bright.
I had chosen to head North for reasons both tactical and strategic. There would be no rational explanation for 40 cars sitting on the rural roads of Victor, NY. In Virginia Beach there had been a far denser population and so these cars, so many could go unnoticed by all but for me, the target.
Then in a few weeks time, my map, now less distracted by direct harassment than what I had experienced in Virginia, became more accurate. How? After a few more shenanigans, these also the result of the attention I was given by a corrupt FBI, I listened and watched the CNN report about Omar Gonzalez, disturbed veteran, climbing the fence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and somehow arriving into the White House with a pocket knife.
And then I had my map corrected, in the form of an answer to the question NCIS agent Douglas Boyce had proposed, «WHAT JUICE IS WORTH THE SQUEEZE?»
A PRESIDENTIAL ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT IN WHICH I WAS TO PLAY THE ROLE OF PATSY.
I knew why a fire had been set in the roof of my home in Russia on JFK's birthday in 2009.
I knew why Russian spy Anna Chapman had come on to me in Moscow in 2008.
I knew why NCIS agent Douglas Boyce admitted to me in 2014 that he had been CIA in Russia in 1999 when we met.
I knew why Egish Khachatrian told me on an international call, “Rick we will make you into this generation’s Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too”.
And I had dodged, weaved, escaped, and lived to share with you this tale. My map of this terrain now more accurate. My earlier unwieldy conclusions thrown out, replaced by a conclusion that however unexpected, however improbable, however unbelievable, fit these events, experiences, facts.
The question remains, what to do next…
We all have them.
Think about it a bit, well, more than a bit. We create constructs in our heads, in our imaginations, maps of a sort that represent reality. The only completely accurate map of any terrain is that terrain itself. Wise words perhaps, but inconvenient as we can’t fold up the reality of a terrain and put it in our pocket. And so maps are inherently inaccurate, they lack detail. Sometimes this matters. Sometimes this does not. It depends on the situation.
Our realities are similarly constructed. We can’t know all of reality, we are limited by our five senses, our experiences, our training, formal and not. We can also misperceive and thereby unwillingly create a map that is quite inaccurate and misleading.
In the summer of 2014 after being pursued, harassed, and gangstalked by approximately 40 FBI undercover vehicles, I spent an evening, an entire night in my car in the driveway of a man I had incorrectly perceived as friend, a senior agent at the NCIS. Why had I spent a night in my car in his driveway? It’s a fair question. This driveway, this place was the only place where I was safe from the aforementioned vehicular harassment. And this NCIS agent friend, Douglas Boyce, had told me only a few weeks earlier in the warmth of this home in whose driveway I sat until dawn, that he had been in the employ of the CIA when we had met in Russia years earlier, in 1999.
I was in contact with Douglas that entire night in his driveway by text messages. I recall two texts from Douglas most of all. One in which he claimed he was resisting the urge to call me, and a later text just about the time of dawn wherein he told me he would soon call with a funny story.
And in that next morning, Douglas called, told me he was a policeman, told me that none of the cars whose photos at his direction I had laboriously sent him for his ‘analysis’, those cars which had been following me, harassing me, even encircling me aggressively in a supermarket parking lot, he told me I had misperceived and further how much I had misperceived in my life. My world turned upside down.
I had incorrectly thought the cars chasing me had some sort of relationship with the man who had poisoned me in Russia in August of 2011, Alexander Tregubov, my exwife, also Russian, Svetlana Macy who I had only some days earlier learned had conspired with Alexander to con me into believing I was under a death threat resulting in my leaving Russia in October 2013. In my head I had an incorrect map of the terrain, wildly incorrect, though with each day I was removing errors, refining important details, and correcting my map.
I wondered at the dollar cost of having these vehicles pursue me for all those days. They had harassed me from the day following Svetlana’s admission, June 21st in Virginia. They had harassed me all the way deep into North Carolina for a meeting with an American I had met in Russia, Jeff Letino, who unknown to me then and realized now, he, like Douglas was CIA. Jeff had promised help in locating my missing 13 year old son Nicholas and Russian fraudster ex wife Svetlana.
They had frightened me in the parking lot of the Mountaineer motel in Asheville, North Carolina and had pursued me again to Virginia and up into Maryland, past Woodbridge where I had once lived, past Springfield where I had been employed nearly a year at General Electric while waiting for a top secret clearance, past Gaithersburg where I had worked for some years as a trainer, tech writer, and salesman before being hired by Harris Corp and into a supermarket parking lot in some town I don’t recall. And in that parking lot I was incredibly circled by these unmarked cars. I was unbelieving as this was the stuff of film, and bad ones at that. And yet the late model sedans simply circled me like vultures over a corpse rotting in the desert.
It didn’t make sense, these cars, their drivers, that expense.
All that FSB trained honeypot trap exwife Svetlana and her lover Alexander Tregubov could realize in benefit would be the 50% of the Russian apartment I retained after our fraudulent divorce in the fall of 2012. At that time in 2014, just before sanctions due to the Crimean adventure of Russia, that might have been worth $300,000 to in the best case $400,000. And the cost for 40 cars for all those days hot on my tail in rapturous pursuit would eat up an awful lot of cash simply in salaries not including the purchase even pro rated of so many vehicles.
NCIS agent Douglas Boyce, as he worked his way deeper into my confidence, posed the question time and time again, “What juice is worth the squeeze?”
My map, still incorrect, though improving, caused me to conclude that Svetlana was FSB trained as a honeypot trap. This was correct and supported by her own admission on June 20th, 2014, the day before the cars began their furious pursuit of me, this middle class American boy, returned to the land of my birth after 15 years as an expat in Russia. I began to consider other Russian women with whom I had had affairs.
Two of them, Ksenia Bezrukova and Polina Panfilova had gone on to become impregnated by US servicemen and had parlayed those events into marriages, Ksenia to a US Marine enlisted man and Polina to a black US Navy officer. My conclusion seemed harebrained and far fetched, the stuff of spy novels. Had I unwittingly become aware of a Russian spy program to form a next generation spy network of children of US military and exmilitary men. And this I told to Doug. He must have laughed.
Not until a few days later chasdd back by these cars to Virginia Beach, after realizing that my landlady Shari Faller was gangstalking me and had made a surreptitious attempt to entrap me in the dark crime of arson by stuffing a rag into kitchen stove exhaust. She had asked me to disconnect said stove and then to reconnect it as it had a malfunction. The malfunction I would learn in time had been placed there on purpose by the FBI in that beachfront home at 3205 Sandfiddler Road in Virginia Beach, as had many other defects, TV with a dull screen, AC ducts that would not close, windows that were oddly fogged. Each of these defects like so much FBI does when e trapping a victim, a target, deniable. Every little defect done on purpose, made specifically to keep the target, me, off balance and to thereby keep my map inaccurate.
I then left Virginia near midnight, unannounced as I realized for whatever reason, my landlady Shari Faller was working to entrap me, my roommate John Pouliot Jr was working to involve me in narcotics and similarly entrap me, and my buddy pal Dougie Boyce, the NCIS agent, had just told me he had been CIA and that I had misperceived much in my life up to and including the recent events of being chased, harassed and gangstalked by approximately 40 undercover FBI vehicles. Damn.
The trifecta.
So I took my map still inaccurate and traveled by night to the home I had owned in the farmlands of Victor, NY. The evening, that night most memorable, for most of the trip was traveled on secondary roads at 1, 2, 3, and 4 in the morning. I think I arrived at my destination sometime after 7 a.m. and all that night and on those roads, 40 cars, with high beams just a little too bright and their resultant traffic just far too much, too heavy, to be statistically probable. I mean these were Pennsylvania back roads, and there I was pursued by 40 FBI vehicles. At most there might have been a car or two from time to time. But no, in my mirrors, a cavalry of cars, so many, again all with high beams just that much too bright.
I had chosen to head North for reasons both tactical and strategic. There would be no rational explanation for 40 cars sitting on the rural roads of Victor, NY. In Virginia Beach there had been a far denser population and so these cars, so many could go unnoticed by all but for me, the target.
Then in a few weeks time, my map, now less distracted by direct harassment than what I had experienced in Virginia, became more accurate. How? After a few more shenanigans, these also the result of the attention I was given by a corrupt FBI, I listened and watched the CNN report about Omar Gonzalez, disturbed veteran, climbing the fence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and somehow arriving into the White House with a pocket knife.
And then I had my map corrected, in the form of an answer to the question NCIS agent Douglas Boyce had proposed, «WHAT JUICE IS WORTH THE SQUEEZE?»
A PRESIDENTIAL ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT IN WHICH I WAS TO PLAY THE ROLE OF PATSY.
I knew why a fire had been set in the roof of my home in Russia on JFK's birthday in 2009.
I knew why Russian spy Anna Chapman had come on to me in Moscow in 2008.
I knew why NCIS agent Douglas Boyce admitted to me in 2014 that he had been CIA in Russia in 1999 when we met.
I knew why Egish Khachatrian told me on an international call, “Rick we will make you into this generation’s Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too”.
And I had dodged, weaved, escaped, and lived to share with you this tale. My map of this terrain now more accurate. My earlier unwieldy conclusions thrown out, replaced by a conclusion that however unexpected, however improbable, however unbelievable, fit these events, experiences, facts.
The question remains, what to do next…
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