Watching Bridges of Madison County and Uncovering a CIA Plot So Horrific
Watching this Clint Eastwood / Meryl Streep movie with my son. I forgot how good it is.
I recall leaving my first wife Christine for the Russian goddess I perceived, Svetlana Borisovna.
And unlike that moment in the film when Francesca grabs the truck's door handle, which if turned, would change her life, and she relents, stays with husband Richard and their two teen children, I pulled the handle, opened the door, crossed an ocean, for a girl I knew not, but for in the sense most would describe as physical, landed in Siberia, and convinced her to join me. That was 1997, over 20 years ago.
We have a son, now 19, and all that I perhaps ever wanted in a son.
And Svetlana, I knew she didn't love me, not as I loved her. Men and women are perhaps different in this regard, of that I am not sure, my data set too small to matter. I recall thinking if she just got to know me she would love me. Perhaps she does as she can; we grew up so differently, me a middle class New England boy, and her poor in the closed Soviet city of Gorkiy, now Nizhniy Novgorod, home of Boris Nemtsov, murdered five years ago today as a dog on the street. Still makes me want to weep, such cruelty.
I digress.
Our marriage, a sham, though this I did not know until over a year after our divorce in the fall of 2012. The phone call unforgettable, the date burned into my mind, June 20, 2014. I had departed Russia in October of 2013 as the result of a death threat, fraudulent, though this then, I did not know. By May 2014 I had learned that Svetlana along with at least three Russians, Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, Egish Kharchatrian, and Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva had conspired in manner most dramatic and unbelievable in setting that stage, from which I exited stage left, thinking I had endangered my little family, when the opposite was true.
And in that call Svetlana admitted she had never loved me, that Mr. Tregubov due to a war wound suffered in Chechnya was unable to father any children, which Svetlana, in her early 20s had so furiously desired, hormones and nature being what they are, and I was able to impregnate her, further I could offer her the materialistic lifestyle denied her by Soviet privations, divorced parents, life in a communal apartment, alcoholic father and overweight mother. Then she dropped on me the bombshell which like those revelations revertebrates today, that she and Tregubov had monitored my phone calls, internet access, emails, and whereabouts...
Continuation of previous post...
This monitoring commencing in 1997. Individuals don't have that ability of course, the expense too much for any one or two people to bear. This level of surveillance, requiring the resources of an organization, a corporation or a state.
Soon after I connected dots, understood Svetlana, whom I choose to love regardless, though regret we will never enjoy intimacy as other couples do, was a honeypot trap, set upon me by Russian intelligence. This in cooperation with the American CIA.
Other data points that connected were Russian spy Anna Chapman coming on to me in Moscow in 2008 while I was CEO of the Yellow Pages of Russia, two years prior to her arrest by the FBI for spying in New York City.
NCIS agent Doug Boyce admitting to me unasked in his Virginia Beach home in the spring of 2014 that he had been an American spy in Russia when we met and became 'friends' in 1999.
A mysterious unsolved roof fire a la Notre Dame, at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35, Saint Petersburg Russia on May 29, 2009, JFK's birthday. This nugget of detail shared with me by likely CIA agent Jason Smolek. The fire to be blamed on me posthumously as I would only later understand after being pursued by at first ten, then twenty, and finally forty FBI undercover vehicles, this commencing the day after Svetlana's revelations, June 21, 2014.
A phone call I initiated to the common law wife of Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, Irina Klimova, answered unexpectedly by Egish Kharchatrian, an Armenian Russian, whom I had been led to believe was a human trafficker, bringing to Saint Petersburg a fresh supply of young women to prostitute themselves from the desperate city, formerly on the edge of the Soviet empire, Angren, Uzbekistan, located in the historic Fergana Valley. Egish shouted into the phone, "We will turn you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald! We will get you and Obama too!" I was of course stunned as the purpose of my call had been to inform Irina I would return to Russia and using my contacts Doug Boyce and Dan Mead, to use local Russian law enforcement to arrest and prosecute her common law husband Alexander Valerievich Tregubov for his poisoning of me in August 2011, and his death threat of October 2013. As stated previously Doug was a senior NCIS agent with strong law enforcement contacts, while Dan Mead was and remains Head of Security for the London office of Marsh and McClellan.
What a buffoon was I.
To be continued...
Continuation of previous two posts
I was a buffoon.
I had succeeded in getting guardianship of our son, him arriving at JFK airport on December 4, 2014. Then in September of 2015 Svetlana sent to him a furious email saying he would be contacted by a Meghan from Child Protective Services and would be forced to choose to live with a foster family. Two days later I was arrested by corrupt cops on the trumped up charge of child endangerment, a misdemeanor. The court offered a year of parole, I refused, demanding a jury trial, having by then connected so much, and believed my defense, while perhaps ultimately unsuccessful would make front pages. The prosecutor relented and offered improved terms to resolve my arrest, get a few weeks of counseling and not get arrested again for 12 months. Realizing I was up against a number of corrupt cops, and not understanding the depth of corruption, decided to call it a day amd accepted these terms. In 12 months the charge was discharged and my record remains clean.
In December 2015, in our first call in some months, a Skype video call with then ex-wife Svetlana, she with a broad grin asked me, "Rick didn't you know 80% of your ex-pat friends in Russia were intelligence agents?"
I decided to free my son then 15 from whatever had happened in Russia and on the East coast of the US by moving to Denver, Colorado. That was April 2016. We moved downtown to the Skyline1801 apartment complex on the corner of Arapahoe Street and 18th, two blocks from the famous walking street of 16th. We lived across the street from the Ritz Carlton. I enrolled him in the Denver Online school and expected to once again join the working world as a sales director, having had several similar jobs with excellent results, even rising to the level of CEO twice.
We moved into apartment 205. Smaller than the home I had owned and sold that summer at 1235 Honeysuckle Pass in Victor NY, a white suburb in the farmlands south of Rochester, New York, home of world famous Kodak, and my two time employer, Harris Corporation, a military defense contractor.
And I noticed a vibe, something I had gotten used to after my divorce in Russia, my time in the US from October 2013, after my harried departure under fraudulent Russian death threat, moving as if on a chessboard, from Pembroke MA, to Portland ME, to Levant ME, to Manhattan, where I avoided a come on from likely spy Caterina Innocente (another story for another time), to Virginia Beach...
Continuation of previous three posts
...to the home I had owned in Victor, NY. These vibes odd, out of place, unnatural, the result of me being under FBI surveillance. I have and will continue to describe these instances of 'street theater' and gangstalking in my blog, that which facebook and instagram ban me from sharing the web address which suggests a level of corruption consistent with that which I have experienced and from which I have learned so much.
I met some of my neighbors in that complex, I recall one claiming to be a Trump campaigner, intent on running for Congress, his name Coy Ebell. Coy was undercover FBI, as were 18 other of the apartment complex tenants. How do I know this? My lease was from April 2016 to April 2017, but having reconciled with my Russian wife Svetlana in the late fall, I moved self and son back to Russia in late December 2016. I returned briefly to clean ojt the apartment, and learned from the black security guard Tommy that oddly 19 apartments had been vacated simultaneously. What were the odds of that? Statistically unlikdly, even impossible. FBI was intent on covering up on that which I had learned, that they had gangstalked me to turn me into a patsy for an assassination attempt on Obama in 2014. They failed. Recall Omar Gonzalez climbing the White House fence claiming he had heard voices. That was the answer to the question NCIS agent Doug Boyce had posed to me when I informed him of the 40 cars harassing me in Virginia, "What juice is worth the squeeze?"
Back to the movie. The part that tore me once does it again. Clint Eastwood in the rain, Meryl Streep in her husband's truck. The stoplight. Her hand on the door handle, her eyes tearing, mine as well in empathic response, I choke back tears recalling my betrayal of first wife Christine to pursue a Russia beauty, a one time prostitute, 9 years my junior, her name Svetlana, me supposedly the last of her 75 clients. I pulled that handle and went out into the rain, not realizing for another 20 years, that I, unlike Clint or Meryl, was am am what is called in pop culture, a Manchurian Candidate. Damn the corrupt CIA. Damn the corrupt FBI. Damn them all to hell.
And yet from this mystery, now solved, I have a son, we have a son, and a story for the ages, one that if well known, that so damn unlikely, could change our world, or more likely get me 'suicided' for those boys are cold, unforgiving, with no soundtrack, and only merciless greed.
I recall leaving my first wife Christine for the Russian goddess I perceived, Svetlana Borisovna.
And unlike that moment in the film when Francesca grabs the truck's door handle, which if turned, would change her life, and she relents, stays with husband Richard and their two teen children, I pulled the handle, opened the door, crossed an ocean, for a girl I knew not, but for in the sense most would describe as physical, landed in Siberia, and convinced her to join me. That was 1997, over 20 years ago.
We have a son, now 19, and all that I perhaps ever wanted in a son.
And Svetlana, I knew she didn't love me, not as I loved her. Men and women are perhaps different in this regard, of that I am not sure, my data set too small to matter. I recall thinking if she just got to know me she would love me. Perhaps she does as she can; we grew up so differently, me a middle class New England boy, and her poor in the closed Soviet city of Gorkiy, now Nizhniy Novgorod, home of Boris Nemtsov, murdered five years ago today as a dog on the street. Still makes me want to weep, such cruelty.
I digress.
Our marriage, a sham, though this I did not know until over a year after our divorce in the fall of 2012. The phone call unforgettable, the date burned into my mind, June 20, 2014. I had departed Russia in October of 2013 as the result of a death threat, fraudulent, though this then, I did not know. By May 2014 I had learned that Svetlana along with at least three Russians, Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, Egish Kharchatrian, and Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva had conspired in manner most dramatic and unbelievable in setting that stage, from which I exited stage left, thinking I had endangered my little family, when the opposite was true.
And in that call Svetlana admitted she had never loved me, that Mr. Tregubov due to a war wound suffered in Chechnya was unable to father any children, which Svetlana, in her early 20s had so furiously desired, hormones and nature being what they are, and I was able to impregnate her, further I could offer her the materialistic lifestyle denied her by Soviet privations, divorced parents, life in a communal apartment, alcoholic father and overweight mother. Then she dropped on me the bombshell which like those revelations revertebrates today, that she and Tregubov had monitored my phone calls, internet access, emails, and whereabouts...
Continuation of previous post...
This monitoring commencing in 1997. Individuals don't have that ability of course, the expense too much for any one or two people to bear. This level of surveillance, requiring the resources of an organization, a corporation or a state.
Soon after I connected dots, understood Svetlana, whom I choose to love regardless, though regret we will never enjoy intimacy as other couples do, was a honeypot trap, set upon me by Russian intelligence. This in cooperation with the American CIA.
Other data points that connected were Russian spy Anna Chapman coming on to me in Moscow in 2008 while I was CEO of the Yellow Pages of Russia, two years prior to her arrest by the FBI for spying in New York City.
NCIS agent Doug Boyce admitting to me unasked in his Virginia Beach home in the spring of 2014 that he had been an American spy in Russia when we met and became 'friends' in 1999.
A mysterious unsolved roof fire a la Notre Dame, at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35, Saint Petersburg Russia on May 29, 2009, JFK's birthday. This nugget of detail shared with me by likely CIA agent Jason Smolek. The fire to be blamed on me posthumously as I would only later understand after being pursued by at first ten, then twenty, and finally forty FBI undercover vehicles, this commencing the day after Svetlana's revelations, June 21, 2014.
A phone call I initiated to the common law wife of Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, Irina Klimova, answered unexpectedly by Egish Kharchatrian, an Armenian Russian, whom I had been led to believe was a human trafficker, bringing to Saint Petersburg a fresh supply of young women to prostitute themselves from the desperate city, formerly on the edge of the Soviet empire, Angren, Uzbekistan, located in the historic Fergana Valley. Egish shouted into the phone, "We will turn you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald! We will get you and Obama too!" I was of course stunned as the purpose of my call had been to inform Irina I would return to Russia and using my contacts Doug Boyce and Dan Mead, to use local Russian law enforcement to arrest and prosecute her common law husband Alexander Valerievich Tregubov for his poisoning of me in August 2011, and his death threat of October 2013. As stated previously Doug was a senior NCIS agent with strong law enforcement contacts, while Dan Mead was and remains Head of Security for the London office of Marsh and McClellan.
What a buffoon was I.
To be continued...
Continuation of previous two posts
I was a buffoon.
I had succeeded in getting guardianship of our son, him arriving at JFK airport on December 4, 2014. Then in September of 2015 Svetlana sent to him a furious email saying he would be contacted by a Meghan from Child Protective Services and would be forced to choose to live with a foster family. Two days later I was arrested by corrupt cops on the trumped up charge of child endangerment, a misdemeanor. The court offered a year of parole, I refused, demanding a jury trial, having by then connected so much, and believed my defense, while perhaps ultimately unsuccessful would make front pages. The prosecutor relented and offered improved terms to resolve my arrest, get a few weeks of counseling and not get arrested again for 12 months. Realizing I was up against a number of corrupt cops, and not understanding the depth of corruption, decided to call it a day amd accepted these terms. In 12 months the charge was discharged and my record remains clean.
In December 2015, in our first call in some months, a Skype video call with then ex-wife Svetlana, she with a broad grin asked me, "Rick didn't you know 80% of your ex-pat friends in Russia were intelligence agents?"
I decided to free my son then 15 from whatever had happened in Russia and on the East coast of the US by moving to Denver, Colorado. That was April 2016. We moved downtown to the Skyline1801 apartment complex on the corner of Arapahoe Street and 18th, two blocks from the famous walking street of 16th. We lived across the street from the Ritz Carlton. I enrolled him in the Denver Online school and expected to once again join the working world as a sales director, having had several similar jobs with excellent results, even rising to the level of CEO twice.
We moved into apartment 205. Smaller than the home I had owned and sold that summer at 1235 Honeysuckle Pass in Victor NY, a white suburb in the farmlands south of Rochester, New York, home of world famous Kodak, and my two time employer, Harris Corporation, a military defense contractor.
And I noticed a vibe, something I had gotten used to after my divorce in Russia, my time in the US from October 2013, after my harried departure under fraudulent Russian death threat, moving as if on a chessboard, from Pembroke MA, to Portland ME, to Levant ME, to Manhattan, where I avoided a come on from likely spy Caterina Innocente (another story for another time), to Virginia Beach...
Continuation of previous three posts
...to the home I had owned in Victor, NY. These vibes odd, out of place, unnatural, the result of me being under FBI surveillance. I have and will continue to describe these instances of 'street theater' and gangstalking in my blog, that which facebook and instagram ban me from sharing the web address which suggests a level of corruption consistent with that which I have experienced and from which I have learned so much.
I met some of my neighbors in that complex, I recall one claiming to be a Trump campaigner, intent on running for Congress, his name Coy Ebell. Coy was undercover FBI, as were 18 other of the apartment complex tenants. How do I know this? My lease was from April 2016 to April 2017, but having reconciled with my Russian wife Svetlana in the late fall, I moved self and son back to Russia in late December 2016. I returned briefly to clean ojt the apartment, and learned from the black security guard Tommy that oddly 19 apartments had been vacated simultaneously. What were the odds of that? Statistically unlikdly, even impossible. FBI was intent on covering up on that which I had learned, that they had gangstalked me to turn me into a patsy for an assassination attempt on Obama in 2014. They failed. Recall Omar Gonzalez climbing the White House fence claiming he had heard voices. That was the answer to the question NCIS agent Doug Boyce had posed to me when I informed him of the 40 cars harassing me in Virginia, "What juice is worth the squeeze?"
Back to the movie. The part that tore me once does it again. Clint Eastwood in the rain, Meryl Streep in her husband's truck. The stoplight. Her hand on the door handle, her eyes tearing, mine as well in empathic response, I choke back tears recalling my betrayal of first wife Christine to pursue a Russia beauty, a one time prostitute, 9 years my junior, her name Svetlana, me supposedly the last of her 75 clients. I pulled that handle and went out into the rain, not realizing for another 20 years, that I, unlike Clint or Meryl, was am am what is called in pop culture, a Manchurian Candidate. Damn the corrupt CIA. Damn the corrupt FBI. Damn them all to hell.
And yet from this mystery, now solved, I have a son, we have a son, and a story for the ages, one that if well known, that so damn unlikely, could change our world, or more likely get me 'suicided' for those boys are cold, unforgiving, with no soundtrack, and only merciless greed.
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