Reflections on Corrupt Law Enforcement, Entrapment, and More

Reflections on Corrupt Law Enforcement, Entrapment, and More

I recall that night sitting in my 2006 Hyundai Sonata, in the driveway of NCIS agent Doug Boyce at his comfortable home at 313 Sage Road, in the upscale Sandbridge subdivision of Virginia Beach.  It was the only place where the FBI who was gangstalking me would leave me alone.

Sound weird?

It should.

It was.

I had been being gangstalked by the FBI, though at that time I this did not know.  A few days earlier, on June 20th, 2014, my the ex-wife, Russian gal, Svetlana Borisovna Macy, had admitted to me on an international phone call that I initiated, that she had never loved me, that her earlier lover, a man, also a Russian, named Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, who had poisoned me in August of 2011, as what is termed in the spy biz, an active measure, part of a psy op, meant to convince me, or better said to con me into taking actions not in my best interest, that he was unable to impregnate her due to an accident sustained in the Chechen wars, and so she had slept with me at first as a prostitute, and later as a Russian government sponsored honeypot trap, her goal to become pregnant, as that was her desire fueled by hormones as only a woman can feel.  She also told me the reason she stayed with me is tbat I was on a good salary, some might consider excellent at $14,000 a month, and could afford her to spoil our child in ways she could only imagine having grown up poor in the Soviet Union in the closed city of Gorkiy.

As a result of my feeling her betrayal all those years together from 1997 to at that point 2014, through our divorce most heinous, dramatic, and set up, I had cheated madly from bordello to bordello, these places common in Russia due to her inferior economics.  I was careful never to have a proper girlfriend on the side, preferring to pay my way at 2000 rubles an hour (approximately $80) as we had a son, the sham of a marriage, and I had committed myself to surviving this, once again, sham of a marriage until he was 18, when my legal responsibility to him would finish.  Boys need fathers, I had needed mine, he would need his, and regardless of the dishonesty, the betrayal then felt more than known, I would stand my post, and take care of this beautiful boy, my son.

That June 20th phone call was unusual, for in it her admission answered all my questions as to why our relationship had been as awful as it was, why I had strayed as I had, and why she to me, always seemed so selfish and self centered.  I had thought it a psychological deficiency of a sort with whjch I was unfamiliar.  I hadnt considered that she had had a lover of the sort of tbjs Tregubov, like her raised Soviet poor, and like her, with appetite for much more, regardless of who might get hurt in the process.

I recall after I moved to Siberia, abandoning a promising career in the American defense industry at Harris Corp, now L3Harris, sitting in our kitchen together, in the flat provided to me at no cost by my then employer Millicom International Cellular, her telling me of her whoring, servicing 75 clients, of which I was supposedly the last, how she had earned $15,000, traveled to Tenerife, sold bananas for a time in Nizhniy Novgorod to make ends meet before she succumbed to the promise of the world's oldest profession, and another story much more foul and indicative of the sort of people she and Treghbov were.

Svetlana told me of being in a gang whose purpose was to identify alchoholics, and to trade them vodka foe their newly privatized flats.  These folk, at huge disadvantage from both their habits of drinking to excess, and unfamiliarity with the notion of private property, signed over their apartments, took their drink, and froze to death on the street in unforgiving Russian winters.

My point is that unlike me, middle class New England boy, all empathic, trained to be considerate of others, believing in sin, and trying as a human can to avoid the most egregious of these, she, Svetlana and her Tregubov, were cold in ways I still struggle to understand.

As stated above, Alexander Tregubov poisoned me in August 2011, this confirmed in 2014 by NCIS agent Doug Boyce, via his fellow veteran Daniel Mead, then as now, Head of Security for the London office of Marsh and McClellan.  Dan had contacts with the Saint Petersburg, Russia police department, and had, as Doug told me, used these to ascertain that Tregubov, in offering me a beer upon our initial meeting, had spiked it with poison, still unknown to me, causing me to lose 40 pounds in a month.

I later learned this was a psy op.  The next month, specifically on September 19, 2011, my mother passed at the age of 79 with me holding her hand in that Massachusetts ICU, for the four hours it took her to leave this mortal coil.

The combination of being present and so involved in her death, plus my mysterious weight loss, pushed me psychologically in manner unsuspected by me, though apparently planned for by Doug Boyce's earlier employer, the CIA.

I did not know then, but learned through experiences painful and horrifying, I was being pushed, seasoned, to become either, and yes I know how this sounds (read my other blog posts for how and why it is I make this conclusion and stand firmly behind it), to become in the words of Russian Armenian Egish Kharchatrian 'this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald', that is to say, patsy for a presidential assassination attempt on Barack Obama, this heinous assault planned to occur between 2011 and 2014, and failing that, a mass shooter.

Sounds unbelievable.  I know.  It was unbelievable to me as well, until I connected the dots, and understood, I was then and always had been that which is described in our mass media, a Manchurian candidate.

The call with Svetlana was unusual for another reason, I had been calling her each day for weeks and she would not answer the phone.  Why not?  I had learned that she had taken part, was one of the conspirators in the false death threat that caused me to leave Russia in October of 2013.  I might guess she was embarrassed to have been found out for she had played her part so well, oh so well in all our years together, especially whe  things got dramatic after my August 2011 poisoning, the death of my mother the moth thereafter and my desperate pursuit of another whore, younger than Svetlana, a girl I had met in a bordello, less than half my age, a brunette named Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva.

Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva 

Kosheleva, Tregubov, Kharchatrian, and Svetlana Macy had conspired in a complex plot to make me think that I was rescuing a young mother, Evgeniya, from life in a bordello.  This my emotional response to my mother's passing, my unexpected weight loss, and my horrible relationship with then wife Svetlana.  I can say this in retrospect, the CIA knows its' s***.

Egish Kharchatrian 

Alexander Valerievich Tregubov 

So on that June 20th, Svetlana answered the phone, and shared with me these answers so unexpected, and so perfect in answering the questions I had had towards her unseemly behavior in our years of failed marriage.  And in that call I forgave her, and she forgave me.  I recall the tone of her voice, some regret, some sadness.  The next few days I learned why.

The next day ten FBI vehicles began to follow and harrass me.  The following day, twenty, and the day after an unbelievable forty.  Such are the resources of the FBI when you are, as I was, targeted.

I was full of misunderstanding and fear.  Why was this happening?  Surely it must be related to the consiracy that I had uncovered that led to my divorce in the fall of 2012.  I shared all that I had learned with my dear friend and perceived saviour, NCIS agent Doug Boyce.  In retrospect he knew all about that which I was enduring and was part of the nefarious forces targeting me and attempting to entrap me.

Doug posed the question repeatedly, "What juices is worth the squeeze?'

This in response to all that I had uncovered, discovered, and was undergoing to that time.  The only upside was that Svetlana might receive the half of the Russian apartment I had purchased in 2006 from billionaire fraudster and likely CIA tool, August Meyer,  that half she had not been awarded in the fraudulent divorce that she, Tregubov, and Kosheleva, had led me to in 2012.  The only other upside was she might somehow gain with my passing the approximately $800,000 in stock I then owned.  Should I die, my then 13 year old son would inherit and she as his guardian would take control of those assets.




Two American expats I had met in Russisa reached out offering their services as I had taken to facebook to express in form of posts what I had learned about Svetlana, our fraudulent divorce, her relationship with Tregubov, and the disappearance of Svetlana and our son Nicholas.  These two men were Jason Smolek and Jeff Letino.  I had met Jason as he worked in a Moscow based telecoms consulting company J'son and Partners, set up years earleir by Swedish acquaintance Karl Johannson.  I had met Jeff Letino as he worked for a small private investment company, today notable for having built online ad trading platform Advark.  Both Jason and Jeff likely CIA.

Why do I draw this conclusion?  Reasonable question.  As I sat in Virginia Beach, having been told a few weeks earlier by NCIS agent Doug Boyce that he had been an American spy in Russia where and when we had met in 1999, Jason unasked, informed me the relevance of the date of May 29, 2009.  This was the date of a mysterious unsolved roof fire, a la Notre Dame, at my residence in Saint Petersburg, Russia at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35.  This was, as Jason told me, JFK's birthday.

OMG.

JFK's birthday.

That damn fire on the roof of our building that forced me to spend $70,000 in repair bills as our flat was then as now, uninsured.

A few weeks later I initiated abother call to Russia, as I intended to return, use my resources such as they were to put Alexander Tregubov and Svetlana Macy in jail, having learned of their criminal conspiracy against me, and having been given a supposed offer by the Russian police to pursue the matter for the sum of $3000, this offer relayed to me by NCIS agent Doug Boyce and his pal at Marsh and McClellan's London office, Daniel Mead.

I called to the woman I believed to be the common law wife of Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, Irina Klimova.  The phone was answered not by her, but by Alexander's pal and associate, supposed human trafficker, Egish Kharchatrian.  He, as I had been told had organized Evgeniya Kosheleva's exodus from Angren, Uzbekistan to Saint Petersburg, Russia, to ply her trade at a Russian whorehouse near the Sennaya metro station in a small second floor apartment, this place where we had for 2000 rubles become intimately acquainted in the summer of 2010.

As Egish answered my call, he roared into the phone, "Rick we will turn you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald.  We will get you and Obama too!"

My world upset as it was, was in the process, unknown to me then, understood more fully now, of being turned upside down.

Svetlana had made her admission as she thought I was done, my goose cooked, my balls in a vice, never to be freed.  She expected me to die.  And who would I tell about her admission who would matter, who might effect some positive change in my life, who indeed?  No one.  This she knew.  And this I learned.

The other American, Jeff Letino, described briefly above, likely also CIA, had baited me with his purported ability to locate Svetlana and our son via his serving on the board of directors of a Russian security company.  And I gratefully swallowed that bait, and the hook, line and sinker.  Jeff offered that we meet in Asheville, NC, some hundreds of miles away from Virginia Beach in a few days, this being late June, early July of 2014.

I accepted and began my drive to Asheville, all the while followed by and harassed by FBI undercover vehicles.  I had reported my days in Virginia Beach being followed and harassed to NCIS agent Doug Boyce, thinking him, incorrectly, my saviour.  His advice?  Drive fast.  Take lots of left turns.  Take pictures of the suspected vehicles and email them to him for his 'analysis'.

I made my way to Asheville, I arrived a day early, and took refuge in a motel called the Mountaineer Inn, a two story facility, where one could park one's car directly in front of one's room, which I did.

And about midnight a pale van drive up, parked and two yuppie looking individuals in their late 2ps, early 30s, stepped out and began to approach me in a straight line.  I had been sitting in front of my motel room in a cheap plastic chair, alertly watching for more gangstalkers.  I was not to be disappointed.

The girl produced a rag and a bottle, doused the rag with the contents of the bottle and passed the rag, now wet to her male counterpart, and producing another rag, repeated the dousing.  The space between us shortened.  I reacted fearfully, withdrawing to my room, thinking OMG, packing my few things, and hastily getting into my car, to drive away, off into the dark night.  My goal?  Putting as much distance as possible between me and those two rag carrying individuals from the van.

I drove away, followed by those 40 FBI undercover vehicles.  They harassed me, often filling the lines at gas stations in my path, so as to not allow me to refuel, or to gain any respite, such are the psychological games those bastards play.

I returned to 3205 Sandfiddler Road in Virginia beach after leading those 40 FBI cars up through Springfield Virgina where I once resided, and knowing those roads, and incorrectly thinking my pursuers were of Russian origin, that I might gain some tactical advantage.  I took them to the DC beltway, and past that up route 270 into Maryland.  And there in Maryland, after the sun had risen after my long night's drive in the dark North, I paused for a respite in a supermarket parking lot.  I messaged NCIS agent Doug Boyce about my predicament as I watched this fleet of vehicles simply go round and rou d that parking lot, encircling me.

With no help from Doug on the way (I confess to having imagined him organizing some sort of law enforcement cavalry to save tbe day) I departed that supermarket parking lot unknown, and headed back to Virginia Beach, hoping against hope that Doug would retur  from his brief vacation and rescue me.

This led me to the only place these vehicles didn't harass me, Doug's driveway at 313 Sage Road.  That night in that oh so quiet suburb of Virginia Beach, cars roared by his driveway in the darkness, and a I recall a black man, younger than I strolling back and forth in front of my haven, this driveway, on his cellphone.

I understood intuitively by then I was being baited to run again.  Later when I learned the terminology of government led gangstalking and the paradigm of the targeted individual, I understood these cars, and people on foot to be gangstalkers engaged in 'street theater' intent on baiting me into doing something ill advised, stupid, even illegal.

In tbe morning NCIS agent Doug Boyce text messaged me, saying he had an urge to call, and had a funny story to tell me.

At about 8 a.m. agent Boyce called, telling me he was a policeman, that none of the photos of the cars pursuing me matched, that this was all in my head, and that I had misperceived much of my life.

And so my world turned upside down, only to be righted in two years time when I finally learned and understood that I was and remain, and have always been a targeted individual.  Our government corrupt, using the FBI, CIA and other national security services to mindf*** the general population with events like the assassinations of JFK, RFK, MLK, the Oklahoma bombing, 9/11 and all the terror events, mass shootings that our mass media lies to us about.  Our world so corrupt, and yet there is hope.  Truth will out.  Patience a virtue.  Life a gift.

And as I consider these folk so corrupt, so greedy, so foul, I drink a big cup of f*** you every morning and will not be intimidated, recalling all the lessons my gangstalking provided.

Stay strong and stay tuned.

I know you will.  ))