Heroin, the CIA, a Mysterious Notre Dame-like Roof Fire on JFK's Birthday in 2009, Obama, Omar Gonzalez and Me
I was driving South.
Heading to Virginia Beach where I would be houseguest for some weeks at 313 Sage Road, home of Doug and Elena Boyce, him American, her Russian of Polish descent; people I had met in Russia in 1999.
Shortly after my arrival at their beach house, Doug made a bombshell revelation, that he had been in the employ of the CIA when we met in Russia. This unasked, surprising, and ultimately telling. This just the beginning of the most unusual of springs and summers in my life, those months from February to July 2014.
It started with Doug, a man I had mistakenly considered a friend, this senior NCIS agent, as described in the paragraph above, admitting unasked that he had been CIA when we met in Russia in 1999. It continued with another asmission, this one from my Russian ex-wife Svetlana who had come into my life as a prostitute uninvited knocking on my hotel room door on my second trip to Russia. I had never seen such beauty. I invited her in and we got 'acquainted' for $100. It was thrilling at the time. Her admission described further below in this text, in this blog post. Then the warping of my life into a bad spy movie, surveillance, targeting, gangstalking, the trifecta. Very frightening when one doesn't understand it. Unpleasant when one does understand it. Then fun, almost a game, when one just doesn't give a f***, This attitude made possible when one understands one's role in this world as I was fortunate to learn.
Not my fault CIA chose me. Not my fault the world is as corrupt as she is and people are as they are. With that understanding, that paradigm (explained very well and satisfyingly by Dane Ole Dammegard) embraced one finds freedom. Sounds weird? It is. It was. It will always likely be so for this is my world. There's no going back. Can't unlearn what was taught through these lessons most unexpected and bizarre.
Oddly I am grateful. Not for being targeted or gangstalked but to understand at least at a high level, why. That is something. I'm this way perhaps I am my parents revenge, for apparently, they knew.
On the way South, through Delaware, I learned on the radio that Philip Seymour Hoffman had been found dead of a heroin overdose. Needle still in his arm when found. Chilling imagery.
Little did I know then that in a few months time, and for very different reasons, I too would sample this opiate. Never had a desire to get into drugs as some do. After Virginia I had to dig deep, run risks, push myself in manner uncommon to find out why Doug admitted to me he was CIA, why cars had harassed me, why the high beams on the Hyundai Sonata I bought at the end of 2013 in Portland, Maine while staying with my brother John were adjusted so low.
So as to heroin why?
I was in my 40s, had no interest in and no need for opiates. What I had were questions to answer. A son missing to be located. A crime to be solved, this a thing personal, a death threat against me by two Russians.
As descibed in a snapshot above during my upcoming visit to Virginia, I would be chased, harassed, and gangstalked by up to 40 unmarked cars throughout Virginia, North Carolina, and all the way through Maryland, Pennsylvania to New York state past the Finger Lakes to the Rochester region.
I had a burning question. I wanted to know why.
Who was behind this harassment most frightening?
Was it somehow related to my problems in Russia, the death threat in 2013, my divorce in 2012, my poisoning in 2011?
Why had, in a relatively short period of time, four individuals,
1. August Meyer, a multimillionaire,
2. Albina Taptiga, a prostitute,
3. Adam Stanhope, a family friend, and
4. Mark Brady, an amatuer chemist
bring into my life respectively
1a. cocaine,
2a. amphetamine sulfate,
3a. MDPV, and
4a. MDMA?
Were these introductions connected, and if so had they been made with poor intent? Perhaps even evil?
Who stood behind my journey down the rabbit hole? Why had my world gone upside down?
A. Russian criminals?
Dmitry Nabokov, son of world famous Vladimir Nabokov, author of 'Lolita', planted this idea in my head when we had met in Russia a few years earlier.
Dmitry told me that Russian criminals had attempted a complex scam, a con, to steal his stuff. He resided in Switzerland. I recall our conversation still, this in Saint Petersburg's finest hotel, the Grand Hotel Europe.
Was this the proper direction in which to look, or was this what they call in the spy gig, a 'false foundation'?
or
B. Russian intelligence?
Had Doug Boyce, now a senior agent at NCIS, been turned by the FSB while in Russia?
Jason Smolek, also likely CIA, an American whom I met in Russia in the 2000s planted a 'false foundation' suggesting that Doug had crossed sides and gone to work for the Russians. This was my second and to date final gem of wisdom imparted me by Jason.
The other gem being the significance of the date May 29, 2009, now ten years gone. This date of a mysterious and unsolved Notre Dame-like roof fire at my home in Saint Petersburg, Russia in a prestigious downtown apartment building at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35 was JFK's birthday.
Jason told me this unasked, much like when Doug Boyce had told me he was CIA.
I didn't know. And perhaps my life and that of my 13 year old son Nicholas James Macy depended upon me learning the truth.
What to do?
What would you do?
I considered the police, but Russia was far out of their jurisdiction. I told Doug about Adam Stanhope selling drugs online and his advice seemed bizarre, not to be trusted or followed. Doug explained it best to clip words and letters individually from magazines and newspapers, glue them to a sheet of blank paper and send it unsigned with no return address to the Pembroke MA police. He said it with such knowing confidence and yet I knew it was wrong. The cognitive dissonance reverterbrating in my head. So I followed not his instructions and shortly after I arrived in Victor, NY, reported Adam Stanhope via the DEA online tip service, clearly identifying myself.
Within a week Adam was reported dead. This scared me. And to look at his Facebook page it seemed he hadn't returned from vacation in Thailand.
I recalled asking Adam Stanhope what would he do when someday the police came for him for the dark net was ultimately penetrable by police using their methodologies. Simply make some orders online and pull on that string and see where it goes. It seemed to me just a question of time. Adam responded without hesitation saying he'd fake his death and move to the house in Thailand he had bought in wife Wichan's name with the profits he had kept off shore from selling www.bangkok.com.
If Adam had faked his death, he had to have help, and to my mind likely corrupt police perhaps FBI. This would explain much.
I would therefore use self as bait, willingly push myself out of Virginia near midnight late in the month of July, pursued all night by those cars unknown into the darker bits of a Western New York city whose 'hay day' had come and gone, rising and falling largely on the coattails of Kodak: Rochester, NY.
And in the bowels of Rochester, in my odd version of detective mode, there I met a girl on Backpage.com named Tara Parsons.
Undercover Rick. Too funny.
Tara advertised herself as a girl who would do anything and she posed in a Batman t-shirt posing with another girl in lesbian poses. I chose Tara from all the others to check a few theories from what I had learned in Virginia.
Housemate John Pouliot Jr had often sported a Batman t-shirt, had superhero figures throughout his room from where he sold weed and pills to an apparently young clientele.
By the time I left Virginia I had nights of informal lessons from Doug Boyce as how American police agencies, foreign and domestic gangstalk targets using online and offline methodologies.
So I wanted to see who was watching and we're they connected to Doug in Virginia, to Adam in Massachusetts, to Chuck Jensen and to my brother John in Maine.
What will a man do to locate and rescue his son disappeared when dealt the deplorable hand I was holding?
So I dove into the deep end of the pool arranging a 'date' with Tara.
Tara introduced me to heroin. I recall that evening. Intellectually interesting, fortunately either not to my taste or I simply hadn't had enough to feel that which they tell us about as a warning, this stuff is addictive and can kill you.
Later that evening, Tara reported back using my cell to someone unknown that she had done this successfully. I saw this text message in the morning when I threw her out.
Another piece of the puzzle.
My strategy began to pay off quickly. I knew someone was watching and it seemed these things all connected. It was the FBI but not until Denver in late 2016 could I really and truly grasp that. Slow learner me.
I learned that Tara had apparently been a police informant.
I finally learned by late 2016 after moving to Denver that the FBI had me under surveillance the entire time I was in the US from October 2013 to December 2016.
Tara had been informing on me to FBI. Her goal? The same as that of August Meyer, Albina Taptiga, Adam Stanhope, Mark Brady, John Pouliot Jr to get me on drugs.
Wow. What a dark world.
It was a risky game using self as bait but through action provocative I got my son back and learned that which I needed to know.
Why try heroin? Why seek out a backpage.com girl like Tara in the first place?
My inspirations for such an approach were two, both imaginary figures from modern literature. Batman and Spenser.
Batman had an alter ego in addition to being Bruce Wayne, he would descend into the underworld as 'Matches Malone'.
Spenser, on the other hand, had been a fighter and spent his days as a Boston based detective in novels crafted by now passed Robert B. Parker.
Spenser always acted provocatively in his adventures to get the bad guys to react, to reveal themselves, this having such wonderfu, effect that by the end of each tersely written novel he could wrap things up to his favor and that of his client.
Batman also had his approach, his style. Batman went up against the Joker and even Superman.
Doug Boyce had threatened me in mid July, though carefully, while he told me how much I had misperceived in my life. He wanted me to stay put in Virginia. I wondered why and decided to risk all and retreat to New York.
Then Omar Gonzalez got in the White House and I understood why Doug had wanted to keep me in Virginia. Virginia close to DC. The president lived in DC. I was to be a presidential assassination patsy.
Egish Khachatrian told me in July 2014 while I was in Virginia, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!" I found his words impossible, unbelievable, until Omar. Then it clicked. And as NCIS agent Doug Boyce asked me several times while we discussed matters related to my departure from Russia, Anna Chapman, Adam Stanhope and more, "Rick what juice is worth the squeeze?"
In time I would view NCIS agent Doug Boyce as an evil bizarro Superman, invulnerable, and myself as Batman, quite vulnerable. And quite possibly the CIA had murdered my parents just as Bruce Wayne had lost his to an alleyway mugger. Wow.
And how in the world does Batman Rick Macy even have a chance to take on bizarro Superman Doug Boyce?
Preparation. And a willingness to go all out. I concluded I must make my approach unexpected, provocative in order to succeed against such an all powerful foe, such as thus bizarro Superman, him blessed and enabled by the state as illustrated in Frank Miller's classic 'Dark Knight Returns' series. Batman a fugitive. A loner. I didn't even have Robin. Or for that matter Alfred. I was truly alone. Though not really. Memories of my parents guided me. I was never alone. They had given me just enough to see me through these dark times. And I would be their revenge.
And as to the Joker, I recalled he'd poison Batman from time to time, and Batman would have to bear it out, maybe find an antidote, and in any case keep his head together until it cleared and he could then get on with his crime fighting gig.
I recall the great Neal Adams artwork of the 70s.
These analogies all helpful, for what a man believes so important. Belief translates directly into action, and action to results. And I'd think you'd agree, results mattter.
Results mattered to me. Why had I been told by two Russian women there was a death threat against me in Russia in October 2013?
Why had my car been broken into only a few weeks earlier in Levant, Maine, a place no one goes on the outskirts of Bangor? And why had the steering wheel and dashboard been coated with a strange white powder?
Where was my son Nicholas?
Where was my fraudster Russian ex-wife Svetlana?
Why had Svetlana twice tried to extort the remaining half of the Russian apartment I bought in 2006 from multimillionare August Meyer?
Why had Svetlana been so calm on JFK's birthday, May 29, 2009, as that roof fire raged over our heads, remaining in our apartment an additional 20 minutes after my then 9 year old son and I grabbed the cat, important documents and got the heck out of dodge?
In Virginia why had landlady, where I rented a room across from the ocean at 3205 Sandfiddler Road in Virginia Beach Shari Faller lied to me saying there were no narcotics on the property when she and other renter John Pouliot Jr were trading vicodins, Adderall and he was selling these things and more from his basement apartment in that same house?
Why had Adam Stanhope tried so hard to involve me in his online dark Web Silk Road drug business when I first returned to the US in October 2013?
Drugs a consistent theme. As was sex. In retrospect I understand now how CIA and FBI use these two tools to manipulate as they create mass shooters using gangstalking and psy ops. Back then I was in the dark needing clues, needing answers.
I needed answers. I could not go back to Russia for fear of the death threat. I held a miserable hand of cards. How best to play them?
As to heroin, I was careful enough, only snorting and not shooting this powdery substance. And in amounts quite small. Still, I felt the effect, and recall those lesssons.
Tara was less careful, shooting up, and within weeks of meeting her she would be dead. I still read her obituary from time to time online and feel a wave of sadness for a life cut so short.
And so the date of my drive South memorable forever; it was February 2nd 2014. RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman. I had liked him so much in 'Charlie Wilson's War' where he played the role Doug had played in real life, that of a CIA officer.
On my way from Levant, Maine to Virginia Beach I spent 2 nights in Manhattan as guest of a short brunette whom I had met in Russia. She fancied herself to resemble Audrey Hepburn. Her name? Caterina Innocente.
I had met Caterina, or Cat as she liked to be called, in Saint Petersburg, Russia in 1998. She claimed she was Italian and looked the part, dark hair and eyes. Pretty, more than most girls. She was one of those expats from whom I got a vibe that said 'warning', and as I did in those days, living overseas, priding myself on being open minded, wrote it off.
There were for me two kinds of expats I'd meet in Russia. Those like Doug Boyce who had a day job I knew and understood, his being general director of the reknowned Lomonosov Porcelain Factory of Saint Petersburg, Russia. Another example, Matt Igel, head of the Kelly Services office of Saint Petersburg.
Then there were the second kind of expats, seemingly dodgy, like Cat. Was never really sure what she did. She claimed a relationship with the local downtown hotel and restaurant, the Taleon Club, and somehow mysteriously supported herself in the art world.
Why bring up Cat here and now in this post? Simple, to illustrate how the bad guys use honeypot traps. I illustrated above how they use drugs to entrap targets, now let's move on to that other narcotic most human and needed, sex.
I was commited to finding my son then missing, and for his benefit, and thereby perhaps my own, to reconciling with his mother, put whatever had happened between us into the past, and focus on getting our teen son an education.
I was pleased to see Cat. Her apartment small, expensive at $4000/month in rent, but sith a view of the water, which in Manhattan as anywhere is desireable though clearly costly.
We walked in Central Park, took in museums, ate unbelievably pricey Japanese sushi, her suggestion, not mine, I simply picked up the $400 meal tab.
I slept on the couch. Cat invited me to her bedroom, where we spent time in our pajamas and she explained she had a collection of Christmas tree ornaments bought on ebay. She showed them to me carefully, one by one, drawing quite close, reminding me of the difference in our sexes, and that she was quite attractive.
What caught my attention as I passed on this bait, was the manner of her approach.
I had experienced the same thing, or a thing damn similar in Moscow as CEO of Yellow Pages Russia. Anna Chapman, Russian spy had walked into our head office, uninvited and unannounced, all of 24, amply breasted, and emitting a vibe I found peculiar. I kept my distance. That was 2008, 2 years before the FBI arrested her as a Russian spy in Manhattan.
Just after Anna's failed attempt I received a call from Siberia, from my first secretary in Russia, Svetlana Panfilova. Her daughter Polina had moved to Moscow, spoke English, and was looking for work. Could I help?
Polina Panfilova
The last time I had seen Polina was eleven years earlier in 1997. She must have been then ten, a brown eyed girl with attractive Slavic features.
Of course I'd help. As luck would have it, or more likely something else, the owners of Yellow Pages Russia, who had just bought our shares in Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages, making me a millionaire, had a senior executive Jonas Nordlander who needed an English speaking secretary.
The Swedes retained me as CEO of the new legal entity, this needing oversight to merge the two earlier competing Yellow Pages businesses.
In addition to making a play in the Russian directory business market, now dominated by Google, these Swedes, funded in part by the wealthy Swedish Lundin family, were creating a Russian ebay called Avito.ru. Jonas held shares in this company and served as COO. His boss and mine another Swede, Filip Engelbert, also held shares in Avito.ru.
Filip had just paid US $23M for our Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages shares and was not afraid to throw cash at the opportunity to build a Russian version of ebay.
Filip and Jonas were both rewarded with over US$200M each, as they exited their shareholding positions in Avito.ru. Wow. Capitalism in action. Their profits making the benefit I had received selling my Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages miniscule by comparison.
Jonas hired Polina. Polina now 21 had been an aerobics instructor, had the required English, was grateful for the work, and was quick to thank me for the introduction. I was pleased to have helped her for I had liked her mother Svetlana and wished her the best.
Things took as they did in my life an odd turn. Polina professed to Jonas that she was in need of housing, perhaps for a week as she was unexpectedly being thrown out of the apartment she was renting, and could she stay in our Moscow corporate flat for a few days?
The apartment had been rented so that senior Yellow Pages Russia executives, myself as CEO, my CFO Kirill Starsdubov, and two other men had a place to stay in Moscow as we bounced between cities managing 800 employees in 12 cities. The apartment two bedroom and located in the desireable Patriarch Ponds, this an affluent residential section of Moscow.
Polina agreed with Jonas to stay for a weekend when none of us senior executives were to be in Moscow.
Filip surprised me with an invite to spend that weekend in Moscow so as to meet the owner of LiveJournal in Russia, Andrew Paulson.
Jump forward to Cat in Manhattan in 2014, us in pajamas in her bedroom, in near intimate positions. Cat explaining her collection of Christmas ornaments, passing them one by one by hand, drawing close.
Jump back to Moscow in 2008, Polina and I in the same apartment for the weekend. By God these Swedes were progressive, so I took the matter in stride. I recall the apartment. Polina had transformed the place from a way station to a home. Her things everywhere, the smell of her perfume in the air. She had successfully made this way station into a home, a very female home.
I was careful to keep my distance that first night together. Polina invited me to her bedroom to show me her photo collection. Viewing her as family I agreed, though we were in pyjamas and I was aware of her beauty, all 21 years of it. And like Cat 6 years later with her collection of Christmas ornaments, Polina used the opportunity to pass photos of herself, each photo by hand, working her way up to nude photos of herself, these tasteful and in black and white. Good lord.
Polina unasked brought up that she had a taste for older more experienced men, and had had an affair with a Russian policeman twice her age while living in Siberia prior to her move to Moscow. Polina said she recalled her mother introducing us in their small apartment when she was ten, struck by me, this 30 something year old American in suit and tie, telling me for the first time in her young life she saw what a man must be.
I kept my head and soon called it a night and headed to my room, where I shut the door and forced myself not to consider the opportunity in the next bedroom, only a few meters away. 21. Nude photos. Taste for older men. Aerobics instructor. Perfume. OMG. I slept fitfully.
I had been careful in those days to limiting my cheating on Russian FSB trained honeypot trap wife Svetlana to bordellos, so as not to risk having an extramarital affair, and the potential mess that might create. I intended to stay married at least until.our son finished high school, turned 18, and not a day before.
So to my mind Polina forbidden fruit.
The next night, a Saturday, Filip invited me out again, this to a dinner with Andrew Poulson of LiveJournal.
We had conversation, dinner and drinks. A topic of conversation was the strange and unknown LiveJournal account of user 'Puzzloy' who had started a black PR campaign against Yellow Pages Russia, with particular venom against me. Andrew apologized and said he could about this do nothing. Andrew gave off a weird vibe as I recall, something about him , like Filip, something not to be trusted.
With a little alcohol buzz I returned to the corporate flat, was met at the door by Polina, embraced, and in a few short seconds were passionately kissing and undressing.
Oops.
So much for my policy of no affairs.
We made our way to her bedroom where we commenced an affair that lasted some months, terminated by me only upon the beginning of he world wide economic crisis with the excuse I could no longer afford to rent her a flat in Moscow. She accepted this, stole from me $15,000 and we both moved on.
Polina Panfilova, later met and had a daughter named Viktoria by an American Naval officer and currently resides in the US with her daughter though apparently divorced from the officer who was at that time a Lieutenant Commander and Black.
In this regard she is similar to another girl I had met in a Russian bordello earlier and with whom I had something resembling an affair, Ksenia Bezrukova Velasquez, now married to a US Marine and living in Las Vegas. Also with a daughter. Russian Honeypot traps, sparrows, everywhere I turned.
Svetlana Chuloshnikova Macy
Ksenia Bezrukova Velasquez
Anna Chapman
Polina Panfilova
Ekaterina Erokhina
Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva
I had taken the bait. Polina a honeypot trap of Russian origin, much like my wife, much like Anna Chapman who I had passed over. They knew which buttons to push. Though I navigated that relationship, closing it without divorce. This I believe had been the goal to add to my backstory, there to be found by FBI after Obama and I dead, and used to mindf*** the world just as they did in 1963 with JFK and LBJ, and again on 9/11 in 2001.
And Cat in 2014 using the same technique... Hmmm.... I passed, reflected, compared.
Only late on June 20, 2014 when Russian honeypot trap ex-wife Svetlana admitted to me:
1. She never loved me when we moved in together in Siberia in 1997,
2. Her Russian lover, the man who poisoned me in August 2011, Alexander Tregubov, was sterile and could not impregnate her while I could, (He enthusiastically admitted being sterile which was odd in our first meeting in August 2011 when he also poisoned me)
3. Svetlana remained with me only as I provided her and our son a lifestyle she desired having been raised dirt poor in the Soviet Union,
4. Svetlana and Tregubov had somehow monitored my whereabouts, my phone calls, my emails, my intenet access from 1997 to 2014. OMG FSB.
But why?
The day after her admission, the cars began to follow, harass, gangstalk. By year end 2014 Svetlana and my son had reappeared on my radar, after her attempt unsuccessful to move together with my son this unbeknownst to me to Malta, sent our son to me loaded as a weapon, his goal, to trigger me into law breaking behavior so his mother would do as Alexander Tregubov had told me in spring 2014, that Svetlana had a plan to gain my American assets.
I've blogged details of how that went in earlier posts.
I finally learned the cause of my problems was not Russian criminals nor Russian intelligence, at least not directly. No the elephant in the room was the CIA.
CIA had for my entire life been using MK ultra techniques upon me, when a child, in high school, in the Navy, and in my career leading to Russia, and to that gig as Yellow Pages Russia CEO. The money. The narcotics. The women.
Their intent darker than dark, to manipulate me into becoming a drug addled, sex crazed, formerly successful husband and manager sho had lost the plot with his mother's death in September 2011. This was to have positioned me as patsy in a presidential assassination attempt on Obama in 2014, though perhaps as early as 2012.
My provocative behavior in New York and later Colorado paid off. I had exposed them. My questions answered. My son found and returned to me. My fraudster ex-wife now again my wife. "Oh the places you'll go".
Kill Obama, install Biden, blame me. OMG.
Heading to Virginia Beach where I would be houseguest for some weeks at 313 Sage Road, home of Doug and Elena Boyce, him American, her Russian of Polish descent; people I had met in Russia in 1999.
Shortly after my arrival at their beach house, Doug made a bombshell revelation, that he had been in the employ of the CIA when we met in Russia. This unasked, surprising, and ultimately telling. This just the beginning of the most unusual of springs and summers in my life, those months from February to July 2014.
It started with Doug, a man I had mistakenly considered a friend, this senior NCIS agent, as described in the paragraph above, admitting unasked that he had been CIA when we met in Russia in 1999. It continued with another asmission, this one from my Russian ex-wife Svetlana who had come into my life as a prostitute uninvited knocking on my hotel room door on my second trip to Russia. I had never seen such beauty. I invited her in and we got 'acquainted' for $100. It was thrilling at the time. Her admission described further below in this text, in this blog post. Then the warping of my life into a bad spy movie, surveillance, targeting, gangstalking, the trifecta. Very frightening when one doesn't understand it. Unpleasant when one does understand it. Then fun, almost a game, when one just doesn't give a f***, This attitude made possible when one understands one's role in this world as I was fortunate to learn.
Not my fault CIA chose me. Not my fault the world is as corrupt as she is and people are as they are. With that understanding, that paradigm (explained very well and satisfyingly by Dane Ole Dammegard) embraced one finds freedom. Sounds weird? It is. It was. It will always likely be so for this is my world. There's no going back. Can't unlearn what was taught through these lessons most unexpected and bizarre.
Oddly I am grateful. Not for being targeted or gangstalked but to understand at least at a high level, why. That is something. I'm this way perhaps I am my parents revenge, for apparently, they knew.
On the way South, through Delaware, I learned on the radio that Philip Seymour Hoffman had been found dead of a heroin overdose. Needle still in his arm when found. Chilling imagery.
Philip Seymour Hoffman,
Dead on February 2, 2014 of a Heroin Overdose
Little did I know then that in a few months time, and for very different reasons, I too would sample this opiate. Never had a desire to get into drugs as some do. After Virginia I had to dig deep, run risks, push myself in manner uncommon to find out why Doug admitted to me he was CIA, why cars had harassed me, why the high beams on the Hyundai Sonata I bought at the end of 2013 in Portland, Maine while staying with my brother John were adjusted so low.
So as to heroin why?
I was in my 40s, had no interest in and no need for opiates. What I had were questions to answer. A son missing to be located. A crime to be solved, this a thing personal, a death threat against me by two Russians.
As descibed in a snapshot above during my upcoming visit to Virginia, I would be chased, harassed, and gangstalked by up to 40 unmarked cars throughout Virginia, North Carolina, and all the way through Maryland, Pennsylvania to New York state past the Finger Lakes to the Rochester region.
I had a burning question. I wanted to know why.
Who was behind this harassment most frightening?
Was it somehow related to my problems in Russia, the death threat in 2013, my divorce in 2012, my poisoning in 2011?
Why had, in a relatively short period of time, four individuals,
1. August Meyer, a multimillionaire,
2. Albina Taptiga, a prostitute,
3. Adam Stanhope, a family friend, and
4. Mark Brady, an amatuer chemist
bring into my life respectively
1a. cocaine,
2a. amphetamine sulfate,
3a. MDPV, and
4a. MDMA?
Were these introductions connected, and if so had they been made with poor intent? Perhaps even evil?
Who stood behind my journey down the rabbit hole? Why had my world gone upside down?
A. Russian criminals?
Dmitry Nabokov, son of world famous Vladimir Nabokov, author of 'Lolita', planted this idea in my head when we had met in Russia a few years earlier.
Dmitry told me that Russian criminals had attempted a complex scam, a con, to steal his stuff. He resided in Switzerland. I recall our conversation still, this in Saint Petersburg's finest hotel, the Grand Hotel Europe.
Was this the proper direction in which to look, or was this what they call in the spy gig, a 'false foundation'?
or
B. Russian intelligence?
Had Doug Boyce, now a senior agent at NCIS, been turned by the FSB while in Russia?
Jason Smolek, also likely CIA, an American whom I met in Russia in the 2000s planted a 'false foundation' suggesting that Doug had crossed sides and gone to work for the Russians. This was my second and to date final gem of wisdom imparted me by Jason.
The other gem being the significance of the date May 29, 2009, now ten years gone. This date of a mysterious and unsolved Notre Dame-like roof fire at my home in Saint Petersburg, Russia in a prestigious downtown apartment building at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35 was JFK's birthday.
Jason told me this unasked, much like when Doug Boyce had told me he was CIA.
I didn't know. And perhaps my life and that of my 13 year old son Nicholas James Macy depended upon me learning the truth.
What to do?
What would you do?
I considered the police, but Russia was far out of their jurisdiction. I told Doug about Adam Stanhope selling drugs online and his advice seemed bizarre, not to be trusted or followed. Doug explained it best to clip words and letters individually from magazines and newspapers, glue them to a sheet of blank paper and send it unsigned with no return address to the Pembroke MA police. He said it with such knowing confidence and yet I knew it was wrong. The cognitive dissonance reverterbrating in my head. So I followed not his instructions and shortly after I arrived in Victor, NY, reported Adam Stanhope via the DEA online tip service, clearly identifying myself.
Within a week Adam was reported dead. This scared me. And to look at his Facebook page it seemed he hadn't returned from vacation in Thailand.
I recalled asking Adam Stanhope what would he do when someday the police came for him for the dark net was ultimately penetrable by police using their methodologies. Simply make some orders online and pull on that string and see where it goes. It seemed to me just a question of time. Adam responded without hesitation saying he'd fake his death and move to the house in Thailand he had bought in wife Wichan's name with the profits he had kept off shore from selling www.bangkok.com.
If Adam had faked his death, he had to have help, and to my mind likely corrupt police perhaps FBI. This would explain much.
I would therefore use self as bait, willingly push myself out of Virginia near midnight late in the month of July, pursued all night by those cars unknown into the darker bits of a Western New York city whose 'hay day' had come and gone, rising and falling largely on the coattails of Kodak: Rochester, NY.
And in the bowels of Rochester, in my odd version of detective mode, there I met a girl on Backpage.com named Tara Parsons.
Undercover Rick. Too funny.
Tara advertised herself as a girl who would do anything and she posed in a Batman t-shirt posing with another girl in lesbian poses. I chose Tara from all the others to check a few theories from what I had learned in Virginia.
Housemate John Pouliot Jr had often sported a Batman t-shirt, had superhero figures throughout his room from where he sold weed and pills to an apparently young clientele.
By the time I left Virginia I had nights of informal lessons from Doug Boyce as how American police agencies, foreign and domestic gangstalk targets using online and offline methodologies.
So I wanted to see who was watching and we're they connected to Doug in Virginia, to Adam in Massachusetts, to Chuck Jensen and to my brother John in Maine.
What will a man do to locate and rescue his son disappeared when dealt the deplorable hand I was holding?
So I dove into the deep end of the pool arranging a 'date' with Tara.
Tara introduced me to heroin. I recall that evening. Intellectually interesting, fortunately either not to my taste or I simply hadn't had enough to feel that which they tell us about as a warning, this stuff is addictive and can kill you.
Later that evening, Tara reported back using my cell to someone unknown that she had done this successfully. I saw this text message in the morning when I threw her out.
Another piece of the puzzle.
My strategy began to pay off quickly. I knew someone was watching and it seemed these things all connected. It was the FBI but not until Denver in late 2016 could I really and truly grasp that. Slow learner me.
I learned that Tara had apparently been a police informant.
I finally learned by late 2016 after moving to Denver that the FBI had me under surveillance the entire time I was in the US from October 2013 to December 2016.
Tara had been informing on me to FBI. Her goal? The same as that of August Meyer, Albina Taptiga, Adam Stanhope, Mark Brady, John Pouliot Jr to get me on drugs.
Wow. What a dark world.
It was a risky game using self as bait but through action provocative I got my son back and learned that which I needed to know.
Why try heroin? Why seek out a backpage.com girl like Tara in the first place?
My inspirations for such an approach were two, both imaginary figures from modern literature. Batman and Spenser.
Batman had an alter ego in addition to being Bruce Wayne, he would descend into the underworld as 'Matches Malone'.
Spenser, on the other hand, had been a fighter and spent his days as a Boston based detective in novels crafted by now passed Robert B. Parker.
Spenser always acted provocatively in his adventures to get the bad guys to react, to reveal themselves, this having such wonderfu, effect that by the end of each tersely written novel he could wrap things up to his favor and that of his client.
Batman also had his approach, his style. Batman went up against the Joker and even Superman.
Doug Boyce had threatened me in mid July, though carefully, while he told me how much I had misperceived in my life. He wanted me to stay put in Virginia. I wondered why and decided to risk all and retreat to New York.
Then Omar Gonzalez got in the White House and I understood why Doug had wanted to keep me in Virginia. Virginia close to DC. The president lived in DC. I was to be a presidential assassination patsy.
Egish Khachatrian told me in July 2014 while I was in Virginia, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!" I found his words impossible, unbelievable, until Omar. Then it clicked. And as NCIS agent Doug Boyce asked me several times while we discussed matters related to my departure from Russia, Anna Chapman, Adam Stanhope and more, "Rick what juice is worth the squeeze?"
In time I would view NCIS agent Doug Boyce as an evil bizarro Superman, invulnerable, and myself as Batman, quite vulnerable. And quite possibly the CIA had murdered my parents just as Bruce Wayne had lost his to an alleyway mugger. Wow.
And how in the world does Batman Rick Macy even have a chance to take on bizarro Superman Doug Boyce?
Preparation. And a willingness to go all out. I concluded I must make my approach unexpected, provocative in order to succeed against such an all powerful foe, such as thus bizarro Superman, him blessed and enabled by the state as illustrated in Frank Miller's classic 'Dark Knight Returns' series. Batman a fugitive. A loner. I didn't even have Robin. Or for that matter Alfred. I was truly alone. Though not really. Memories of my parents guided me. I was never alone. They had given me just enough to see me through these dark times. And I would be their revenge.
And as to the Joker, I recalled he'd poison Batman from time to time, and Batman would have to bear it out, maybe find an antidote, and in any case keep his head together until it cleared and he could then get on with his crime fighting gig.
I recall the great Neal Adams artwork of the 70s.
These analogies all helpful, for what a man believes so important. Belief translates directly into action, and action to results. And I'd think you'd agree, results mattter.
Results mattered to me. Why had I been told by two Russian women there was a death threat against me in Russia in October 2013?
Why had my car been broken into only a few weeks earlier in Levant, Maine, a place no one goes on the outskirts of Bangor? And why had the steering wheel and dashboard been coated with a strange white powder?
Where was my son Nicholas?
Where was my fraudster Russian ex-wife Svetlana?
Why had Svetlana twice tried to extort the remaining half of the Russian apartment I bought in 2006 from multimillionare August Meyer?
Why had Svetlana been so calm on JFK's birthday, May 29, 2009, as that roof fire raged over our heads, remaining in our apartment an additional 20 minutes after my then 9 year old son and I grabbed the cat, important documents and got the heck out of dodge?
In Virginia why had landlady, where I rented a room across from the ocean at 3205 Sandfiddler Road in Virginia Beach Shari Faller lied to me saying there were no narcotics on the property when she and other renter John Pouliot Jr were trading vicodins, Adderall and he was selling these things and more from his basement apartment in that same house?
Why had Adam Stanhope tried so hard to involve me in his online dark Web Silk Road drug business when I first returned to the US in October 2013?
Drugs a consistent theme. As was sex. In retrospect I understand now how CIA and FBI use these two tools to manipulate as they create mass shooters using gangstalking and psy ops. Back then I was in the dark needing clues, needing answers.
I needed answers. I could not go back to Russia for fear of the death threat. I held a miserable hand of cards. How best to play them?
As to heroin, I was careful enough, only snorting and not shooting this powdery substance. And in amounts quite small. Still, I felt the effect, and recall those lesssons.
Tara was less careful, shooting up, and within weeks of meeting her she would be dead. I still read her obituary from time to time online and feel a wave of sadness for a life cut so short.
And so the date of my drive South memorable forever; it was February 2nd 2014. RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman. I had liked him so much in 'Charlie Wilson's War' where he played the role Doug had played in real life, that of a CIA officer.
On my way from Levant, Maine to Virginia Beach I spent 2 nights in Manhattan as guest of a short brunette whom I had met in Russia. She fancied herself to resemble Audrey Hepburn. Her name? Caterina Innocente.
I had met Caterina, or Cat as she liked to be called, in Saint Petersburg, Russia in 1998. She claimed she was Italian and looked the part, dark hair and eyes. Pretty, more than most girls. She was one of those expats from whom I got a vibe that said 'warning', and as I did in those days, living overseas, priding myself on being open minded, wrote it off.
There were for me two kinds of expats I'd meet in Russia. Those like Doug Boyce who had a day job I knew and understood, his being general director of the reknowned Lomonosov Porcelain Factory of Saint Petersburg, Russia. Another example, Matt Igel, head of the Kelly Services office of Saint Petersburg.
Then there were the second kind of expats, seemingly dodgy, like Cat. Was never really sure what she did. She claimed a relationship with the local downtown hotel and restaurant, the Taleon Club, and somehow mysteriously supported herself in the art world.
Why bring up Cat here and now in this post? Simple, to illustrate how the bad guys use honeypot traps. I illustrated above how they use drugs to entrap targets, now let's move on to that other narcotic most human and needed, sex.
I was commited to finding my son then missing, and for his benefit, and thereby perhaps my own, to reconciling with his mother, put whatever had happened between us into the past, and focus on getting our teen son an education.
I was pleased to see Cat. Her apartment small, expensive at $4000/month in rent, but sith a view of the water, which in Manhattan as anywhere is desireable though clearly costly.
We walked in Central Park, took in museums, ate unbelievably pricey Japanese sushi, her suggestion, not mine, I simply picked up the $400 meal tab.
I slept on the couch. Cat invited me to her bedroom, where we spent time in our pajamas and she explained she had a collection of Christmas tree ornaments bought on ebay. She showed them to me carefully, one by one, drawing quite close, reminding me of the difference in our sexes, and that she was quite attractive.
What caught my attention as I passed on this bait, was the manner of her approach.
I had experienced the same thing, or a thing damn similar in Moscow as CEO of Yellow Pages Russia. Anna Chapman, Russian spy had walked into our head office, uninvited and unannounced, all of 24, amply breasted, and emitting a vibe I found peculiar. I kept my distance. That was 2008, 2 years before the FBI arrested her as a Russian spy in Manhattan.
Just after Anna's failed attempt I received a call from Siberia, from my first secretary in Russia, Svetlana Panfilova. Her daughter Polina had moved to Moscow, spoke English, and was looking for work. Could I help?
The last time I had seen Polina was eleven years earlier in 1997. She must have been then ten, a brown eyed girl with attractive Slavic features.
Of course I'd help. As luck would have it, or more likely something else, the owners of Yellow Pages Russia, who had just bought our shares in Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages, making me a millionaire, had a senior executive Jonas Nordlander who needed an English speaking secretary.
Filip Engelbert and Jonas Nordlander,
Founders of Avito.ru
Founders of Avito.ru
The Swedes retained me as CEO of the new legal entity, this needing oversight to merge the two earlier competing Yellow Pages businesses.
In addition to making a play in the Russian directory business market, now dominated by Google, these Swedes, funded in part by the wealthy Swedish Lundin family, were creating a Russian ebay called Avito.ru. Jonas held shares in this company and served as COO. His boss and mine another Swede, Filip Engelbert, also held shares in Avito.ru.
Filip had just paid US $23M for our Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages shares and was not afraid to throw cash at the opportunity to build a Russian version of ebay.
Filip and Jonas were both rewarded with over US$200M each, as they exited their shareholding positions in Avito.ru. Wow. Capitalism in action. Their profits making the benefit I had received selling my Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages miniscule by comparison.
Jonas hired Polina. Polina now 21 had been an aerobics instructor, had the required English, was grateful for the work, and was quick to thank me for the introduction. I was pleased to have helped her for I had liked her mother Svetlana and wished her the best.
Things took as they did in my life an odd turn. Polina professed to Jonas that she was in need of housing, perhaps for a week as she was unexpectedly being thrown out of the apartment she was renting, and could she stay in our Moscow corporate flat for a few days?
The apartment had been rented so that senior Yellow Pages Russia executives, myself as CEO, my CFO Kirill Starsdubov, and two other men had a place to stay in Moscow as we bounced between cities managing 800 employees in 12 cities. The apartment two bedroom and located in the desireable Patriarch Ponds, this an affluent residential section of Moscow.
Polina agreed with Jonas to stay for a weekend when none of us senior executives were to be in Moscow.
Filip surprised me with an invite to spend that weekend in Moscow so as to meet the owner of LiveJournal in Russia, Andrew Paulson.
Andrew Paulson,
LiveJournal Russia
Jump forward to Cat in Manhattan in 2014, us in pajamas in her bedroom, in near intimate positions. Cat explaining her collection of Christmas ornaments, passing them one by one by hand, drawing close.
Jump back to Moscow in 2008, Polina and I in the same apartment for the weekend. By God these Swedes were progressive, so I took the matter in stride. I recall the apartment. Polina had transformed the place from a way station to a home. Her things everywhere, the smell of her perfume in the air. She had successfully made this way station into a home, a very female home.
I was careful to keep my distance that first night together. Polina invited me to her bedroom to show me her photo collection. Viewing her as family I agreed, though we were in pyjamas and I was aware of her beauty, all 21 years of it. And like Cat 6 years later with her collection of Christmas ornaments, Polina used the opportunity to pass photos of herself, each photo by hand, working her way up to nude photos of herself, these tasteful and in black and white. Good lord.
Polina unasked brought up that she had a taste for older more experienced men, and had had an affair with a Russian policeman twice her age while living in Siberia prior to her move to Moscow. Polina said she recalled her mother introducing us in their small apartment when she was ten, struck by me, this 30 something year old American in suit and tie, telling me for the first time in her young life she saw what a man must be.
I kept my head and soon called it a night and headed to my room, where I shut the door and forced myself not to consider the opportunity in the next bedroom, only a few meters away. 21. Nude photos. Taste for older men. Aerobics instructor. Perfume. OMG. I slept fitfully.
I had been careful in those days to limiting my cheating on Russian FSB trained honeypot trap wife Svetlana to bordellos, so as not to risk having an extramarital affair, and the potential mess that might create. I intended to stay married at least until.our son finished high school, turned 18, and not a day before.
So to my mind Polina forbidden fruit.
The next night, a Saturday, Filip invited me out again, this to a dinner with Andrew Poulson of LiveJournal.
We had conversation, dinner and drinks. A topic of conversation was the strange and unknown LiveJournal account of user 'Puzzloy' who had started a black PR campaign against Yellow Pages Russia, with particular venom against me. Andrew apologized and said he could about this do nothing. Andrew gave off a weird vibe as I recall, something about him , like Filip, something not to be trusted.
With a little alcohol buzz I returned to the corporate flat, was met at the door by Polina, embraced, and in a few short seconds were passionately kissing and undressing.
Oops.
So much for my policy of no affairs.
We made our way to her bedroom where we commenced an affair that lasted some months, terminated by me only upon the beginning of he world wide economic crisis with the excuse I could no longer afford to rent her a flat in Moscow. She accepted this, stole from me $15,000 and we both moved on.
Polina Panfilova, later met and had a daughter named Viktoria by an American Naval officer and currently resides in the US with her daughter though apparently divorced from the officer who was at that time a Lieutenant Commander and Black.
In this regard she is similar to another girl I had met in a Russian bordello earlier and with whom I had something resembling an affair, Ksenia Bezrukova Velasquez, now married to a US Marine and living in Las Vegas. Also with a daughter. Russian Honeypot traps, sparrows, everywhere I turned.
Svetlana Chuloshnikova Macy
Ksenia Bezrukova Velasquez
Anna Chapman
Polina Panfilova
Ekaterina Erokhina
Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva
I had taken the bait. Polina a honeypot trap of Russian origin, much like my wife, much like Anna Chapman who I had passed over. They knew which buttons to push. Though I navigated that relationship, closing it without divorce. This I believe had been the goal to add to my backstory, there to be found by FBI after Obama and I dead, and used to mindf*** the world just as they did in 1963 with JFK and LBJ, and again on 9/11 in 2001.
And Cat in 2014 using the same technique... Hmmm.... I passed, reflected, compared.
Only late on June 20, 2014 when Russian honeypot trap ex-wife Svetlana admitted to me:
1. She never loved me when we moved in together in Siberia in 1997,
2. Her Russian lover, the man who poisoned me in August 2011, Alexander Tregubov, was sterile and could not impregnate her while I could, (He enthusiastically admitted being sterile which was odd in our first meeting in August 2011 when he also poisoned me)
3. Svetlana remained with me only as I provided her and our son a lifestyle she desired having been raised dirt poor in the Soviet Union,
4. Svetlana and Tregubov had somehow monitored my whereabouts, my phone calls, my emails, my intenet access from 1997 to 2014. OMG FSB.
But why?
The day after her admission, the cars began to follow, harass, gangstalk. By year end 2014 Svetlana and my son had reappeared on my radar, after her attempt unsuccessful to move together with my son this unbeknownst to me to Malta, sent our son to me loaded as a weapon, his goal, to trigger me into law breaking behavior so his mother would do as Alexander Tregubov had told me in spring 2014, that Svetlana had a plan to gain my American assets.
I've blogged details of how that went in earlier posts.
I finally learned the cause of my problems was not Russian criminals nor Russian intelligence, at least not directly. No the elephant in the room was the CIA.
CIA had for my entire life been using MK ultra techniques upon me, when a child, in high school, in the Navy, and in my career leading to Russia, and to that gig as Yellow Pages Russia CEO. The money. The narcotics. The women.
Their intent darker than dark, to manipulate me into becoming a drug addled, sex crazed, formerly successful husband and manager sho had lost the plot with his mother's death in September 2011. This was to have positioned me as patsy in a presidential assassination attempt on Obama in 2014, though perhaps as early as 2012.
My provocative behavior in New York and later Colorado paid off. I had exposed them. My questions answered. My son found and returned to me. My fraudster ex-wife now again my wife. "Oh the places you'll go".
Kill Obama, install Biden, blame me. OMG.
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