CIA Spies in Russia and Me Their Target
CIA Spies in Russia and Me Their Target
James Beatty and I met in Russia in Saint Petersburg in early 1998. I was surprised, though pleased when he invited Svetlana and I to his wedding to a former dancer, another lovely Russian gal, named Vika. I recall at the wedding his inviting me to the bathroom to share a few lines of cocaine that he provided. I hadn't touched the stuff since my early 20s and had no great fondness for this stimulant, then as now, illegal in Russia. I didn't think much of this event til years later, when I understood better the nature of psy ops, covert manipulation of a target such as myself by folk like James who I learned were termed gangstalkers. And James, likely employed in manner similar to self admitted American spy, NCIS agent Doug Boyce, by the CIA. Oh boy. Blew my mind for a while, that realization. Funny to what one might grow accustomed.
As stated above, James is, in my humblest of opinions, likely a CIA gangstalker and while I liked him, now not so much, apparently James with a 'gangstalking' team plotted to assassinate Obama in 2014 using me as a 'targeted individual' or 'patsy' to get me up and over that White House fence that fall. They failed though their effort surreptitious and mighty. Instead they or more accurately, others like them, were successful in getting Army veteran, Omar Gonzalez there. I feel for him. I truly do, not that that will help him get anything resembling justice in this world.
2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014...
A lifetime ago.
In the fall of 2011, my mother died as I held her hand and we, my siblings and I, pulled the plug. She had been expected to leave the hospital but had contracted a c-dif infection. At the time and as usual if one can use such a term in such matters, I recall thinking how awful, but going with conventional thinking that she had simply contacted as happens to old folk in such circumstance.
Since then a former CIA agent and current senior NCIS agent whom I had known earlier in Russia in 2000, named Douglas George Boyce told me that while we worked together in Russia in those days, that he had been an American spy. I recall that moment as he built up to it well.
He led in saying something like, "Rick you know many people had thought that you were an American spy in Russia. You weren't of course. I was."
Doug a bright bunny, brighter than most, blew my mind.
Why?
I had no active security clearance at the time and I certainly had no 'need to know'. These two requirements for such a conversation burned into my head from 6 years in the US Navy and a year thereafter employed by General Electric while I awaited a Top Secret clearance.
Still later I would find out that I had been under police surveillance, that is to say FBI surveillance the entire time I was in the US from October 2013 to December 2016, and when I go back the FBI will be waiting to surveil me for that is how such things go, how such things are.
Here now in Russia I live under surveillance 24/7. Sometimes I pick up a tail while on the street. The last ones I picked up were a man and a woman. After I followed them and they failed to shake me wandering this way and that as I got ahead of them and reversed myself to see that my intuition and observations were correct the woman drew her finger across her throat as she looked into my eyes with something resembling hatred, though as we don't know each other, I would label that look simply a reasonable facsimile.
So with this, that, and oh yes, Russian spy Anna Chapman coming on to me while I was CEO of the Yellow Pages of Russia in 2008 in Moscow before other circumstance would reveal her occupation to the world in two years time, let me know I was being played with by 'big dogs'.
In the states I would meet undercover FBI agents like Coy Ebell of Denver, police informants like Shari Faller of Virginia Beach, and Jon Pouliot, then residing in Virginia Beach, now moved back to New England, the latter two would try to get me to poison myself with narcotics of a variety of flavors.
The former, Coy, would break into our apartment at Skyline1801 on the corner of 18th and Arapahoe in downtown Denver and leave poisons in that place, the worst of which was left on a dishwashing liquid soap bottle. As soon as I touched that it was as though 3 dimensions went to 2. Very frightening. And oh yes he mailed a variety of materials to my son and my son made great effort that I would injest these these things. I ended up exercising the toilet quite a bit. Flush. Flush. Flush.
So with all that knowledge, information, and experience, I am confident to conclude that mother didn't just happen to contract c-dif. She was fed that stuff. Literally a 'shit sandwich'. Who and how I will never know no doubt.
Why make a claim easy to ridicule? Let's go back to 2011. August 14th. Me in a banya with a 20 year old prostitute Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva, or Genya as I came to know her, and her supposed pimp/lover Alexander Valerievich Tregubov. Alexander, or Sasha, as I came to know him, spiked my beer. After drinking that beer and engaging in a 'menage-a-trois' with him and the willing Genya, I went home and over the next 4 weeks lost 35 pounds. I was literally shitting myself perhaps as I was led to conclude to death.
Timing is everything.
Having achieved that little tactical victory, the game was on and the clock was ticking. This I would learn in Massachusetts.
I recall being 35 pounds lighter, a result of this poisoning, Doug Boyce, good buddy and pal, would confirm to me in the summer of 2014 via head of security at MMC, another CIA boy, Danny Mead, also like us a veteran, and also like us an expat in Russia in 2000, that Alexander Valerievich Tregubov had indeed poisoned me in that banya on that 14th of December.
Alexander would try to this deflect in a Skype conversation, our last, with him in Saint Petersburg and me in a barn in Pembroke, Massachusetts owned by a 70 plus year old liberal fellow with a beard named William Stanhope, by claiming that Genya, Evgeniya had poisoned my beer. He grinned broadly as he told me this lie, savoring my lack of knowledge.
Clock ticking. Tick tock. Tick tock.
Stiiv Knowers, MI6, and a retired Anglican Priest residing in Tallinn, introduced to me by pal of now 19 years and also likely employed by MI6, Adrian Terris, my predecessor as general manager of the Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages, offered me insight after we first met some weeks ago here in Saint Petersburg, Russia.
Stiiv was excited and fascinated to meet me. His tells, though British were like a one way broadcast. I was similarly thrilled. Perhaps we should have kissed. Don't know. Think he might have liked it, and me, well I am flexible in such matters if I feel it likely to get me closer to truth. And the humor of such a moment makes that idea compelling, damn compelling. Maybe I could dress as altar boy and him in his priestly frocks to really take us over the top. Haven't played dress up in some time. Not since Marata Street and Sergei's den of 'whatever you like'.
Stiiv made comment either in a facebook messenger chat or perhaps it was email about God loving his creations, a dig at my situation being a 'targeted individual' from birth. This a result of my OSS dad killing a man on an Arab street long ago just after WW2.
And having been poisoned by that Russian boy, a favorite of my Svetlana's, she was in those days my wife though disloyal as such circumstance demanded long ago, the clock was ticking. I was also disloyal to her in ways traditional though I paid bills, kept roofs over heads, our sons, mine. Even the cat named Whiskey, him from Kemerovo, Russia and fated to be a world traveller. He oddly passed on November 20th, Svetlana's birthday. More than a little creepy.
The clock ticking. Would FBI leave such matters to fate? Unlikely. Doug Boyce had made it clear to me in gentle discussion how these spy games worked in that summer of 2014 in Virginia Beach. Psy ops. Tricks. Just as nasty as you like and then some. Doug told me how all people lied, all the time. I see his meaning now, deep and furious. He is in this correct. I still like Doug for the education he provided if nothing else. Truth is I like him for simpler reasons. I'll save that pontification for another post. Let's digress less, though it is a bright Sunday morning and such hours are leisurely and ample for digression.
Having poisoned me, and that Obama would only have so many years in office, the time to bring the hammer down was now, or rather then, September 2011.
Someone perhaps fed my mom a shit sandwich. Orally? Interveniously? No idea. She had to go and it had to be soon. She knew it was coming, brave woman that she was, though dishonest as a result of a commitment she and my father had made before my birth. I arrived tired, the weight loss and those thoughts wearing. I flew into Boston, my sister Lisa picking me up at Logan. I always enjoyed seeing her, the years too many and our meetings either too few or just enough depending on mood.
We went straight to that hospital ICU. Wellesley, Massachusetts. Upscale New England town. There she was. 79 and 5 months. I rubbed her head. She could not speak though was aware I had arrived and it was I scratching her head as she had liked. I had loved this woman as a son does, even one 'targeted' and subtly mistreated as I had been. Perhaps that increases such love, perhaps not. I am not specialized in such matters. I know that I would howl at her passing later in her Rockland home all alone. I would not know that the FBI had set up video surveillance so as to intrude on the depths of my lonely misery.
In 2016 son Nicholas James and I would move to a fashionable Denver apartment where a hot black gal office manager type named Andre'a would innocuously inform me that we were in our $2200/month apartment be under continual video surveillance. She would not tell us the reason or the legal justification. For it was FBI and I was and remain a 'targeted individual'. Earlier in 2014 FBI tried to manipulate me a la Myron May to cross lines and to become a patsy in a presidential assassiantion attempt on Obama. I dodged and weaved, learned far too much about corruption in our wealthy families and our 'security services' who work on their behalf.
Nick and I later put this to the test. Those were days. The things a father has to do when the deep state as it is called in today's pop culture bares it's teeth to gnash at you. Especially then as I had 'upset their applecart', their robust plan to set me up a la Omar Gonzalez to assassinate a president. The black one. Barack Obama.
Apparently, it was important for my mom to die that September, just as it had been important for my dad to pass at the relatively young age of 65 while I was away in the Navy to push my buttons.
It was important that I held my mother's hand as she left. It was important that Silk Road vendor 'Nawlins', Adam Stanhope, would introduce me to a then legal stimulant , now illegal so as to drive me as dogs drive a fox in a hunt.
I escaped being patsy. I knew too much. They, the FBI in the US, needed to coverup this plot about which I had learned too much. And so they tried, arresting me in Victor, NY on a false child endangerment charge now since discharged. They tried again in Denver in 2016 and failed again.
The FBI, though quite corrupt, is well organized in such matters for they have generational and as a result institutional knowledge about framing 'targeted individuals' like me. Coy Ebell, FBI undercover agent in Denver and about 20 others would let me know about organization in Denver, especially that night when they broke in my apartment and carried me out from apartment 205 to leave me on a couch in room 705. That was a morning to remember. My son had worked with them to ensure the mail the FBI had sent would be put to use, and I needed to see where this would go. These events in Denver would confirm what I had not wanted to know, but as a good son, needed to do those hard yards, self as bait to answer questions as:
Why had Anna Chapman come on to me in Moscow in 2008?
Why had NCIS agent Doug Boyce told me he had been a CIA spy when we met in Russia in 1999?
Why had I been poisoned by Alexander Valerievich Tregubov in August 2011?
Why had Egish Khachatrian said to me on the phone in that summer of 2014, "Rick you will be this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!"
And the answer I learned though will be unlikely to prove in any court for such things are resolved in manner different, was that I was to have been in place of Omar Gonzalez, a presidential assassination patsy.
2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014...
A lifetime ago.
In the fall of 2011, my mother died as I held her hand and we, my siblings and I, pulled the plug. She had been expected to leave the hospital but had contracted a c-dif infection. At the time and as usual if one can use such a term in such matters, I recall thinking how awful, but going with conventional thinking that she had simply contacted as happens to old folk in such circumstance.
Since then a former CIA agent and current senior NCIS agent whom I had known earlier in Russia in 2000, named Douglas George Boyce told me that while we worked together in Russia in those days, that he had been an American spy. I recall that moment as he built up to it well.
He led in saying something like, "Rick you know many people had thought that you were an American spy in Russia. You weren't of course. I was."
Doug a bright bunny, brighter than most, blew my mind.
Why?
I had no active security clearance at the time and I certainly had no 'need to know'. These two requirements for such a conversation burned into my head from 6 years in the US Navy and a year thereafter employed by General Electric while I awaited a Top Secret clearance.
Still later I would find out that I had been under police surveillance, that is to say FBI surveillance the entire time I was in the US from October 2013 to December 2016, and when I go back the FBI will be waiting to surveil me for that is how such things go, how such things are.
Here now in Russia I live under surveillance 24/7. Sometimes I pick up a tail while on the street. The last ones I picked up were a man and a woman. After I followed them and they failed to shake me wandering this way and that as I got ahead of them and reversed myself to see that my intuition and observations were correct the woman drew her finger across her throat as she looked into my eyes with something resembling hatred, though as we don't know each other, I would label that look simply a reasonable facsimile.
So with this, that, and oh yes, Russian spy Anna Chapman coming on to me while I was CEO of the Yellow Pages of Russia in 2008 in Moscow before other circumstance would reveal her occupation to the world in two years time, let me know I was being played with by 'big dogs'.
In the states I would meet undercover FBI agents like Coy Ebell of Denver, police informants like Shari Faller of Virginia Beach, and Jon Pouliot, then residing in Virginia Beach, now moved back to New England, the latter two would try to get me to poison myself with narcotics of a variety of flavors.
The former, Coy, would break into our apartment at Skyline1801 on the corner of 18th and Arapahoe in downtown Denver and leave poisons in that place, the worst of which was left on a dishwashing liquid soap bottle. As soon as I touched that it was as though 3 dimensions went to 2. Very frightening. And oh yes he mailed a variety of materials to my son and my son made great effort that I would injest these these things. I ended up exercising the toilet quite a bit. Flush. Flush. Flush.
So with all that knowledge, information, and experience, I am confident to conclude that mother didn't just happen to contract c-dif. She was fed that stuff. Literally a 'shit sandwich'. Who and how I will never know no doubt.
Why make a claim easy to ridicule? Let's go back to 2011. August 14th. Me in a banya with a 20 year old prostitute Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva, or Genya as I came to know her, and her supposed pimp/lover Alexander Valerievich Tregubov. Alexander, or Sasha, as I came to know him, spiked my beer. After drinking that beer and engaging in a 'menage-a-trois' with him and the willing Genya, I went home and over the next 4 weeks lost 35 pounds. I was literally shitting myself perhaps as I was led to conclude to death.
Timing is everything.
Having achieved that little tactical victory, the game was on and the clock was ticking. This I would learn in Massachusetts.
I recall being 35 pounds lighter, a result of this poisoning, Doug Boyce, good buddy and pal, would confirm to me in the summer of 2014 via head of security at MMC, another CIA boy, Danny Mead, also like us a veteran, and also like us an expat in Russia in 2000, that Alexander Valerievich Tregubov had indeed poisoned me in that banya on that 14th of December.
Alexander would try to this deflect in a Skype conversation, our last, with him in Saint Petersburg and me in a barn in Pembroke, Massachusetts owned by a 70 plus year old liberal fellow with a beard named William Stanhope, by claiming that Genya, Evgeniya had poisoned my beer. He grinned broadly as he told me this lie, savoring my lack of knowledge.
Clock ticking. Tick tock. Tick tock.
Stiiv Knowers, MI6, and a retired Anglican Priest residing in Tallinn, introduced to me by pal of now 19 years and also likely employed by MI6, Adrian Terris, my predecessor as general manager of the Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages, offered me insight after we first met some weeks ago here in Saint Petersburg, Russia.
Stiiv was excited and fascinated to meet me. His tells, though British were like a one way broadcast. I was similarly thrilled. Perhaps we should have kissed. Don't know. Think he might have liked it, and me, well I am flexible in such matters if I feel it likely to get me closer to truth. And the humor of such a moment makes that idea compelling, damn compelling. Maybe I could dress as altar boy and him in his priestly frocks to really take us over the top. Haven't played dress up in some time. Not since Marata Street and Sergei's den of 'whatever you like'.
Stiiv made comment either in a facebook messenger chat or perhaps it was email about God loving his creations, a dig at my situation being a 'targeted individual' from birth. This a result of my OSS dad killing a man on an Arab street long ago just after WW2.
And having been poisoned by that Russian boy, a favorite of my Svetlana's, she was in those days my wife though disloyal as such circumstance demanded long ago, the clock was ticking. I was also disloyal to her in ways traditional though I paid bills, kept roofs over heads, our sons, mine. Even the cat named Whiskey, him from Kemerovo, Russia and fated to be a world traveller. He oddly passed on November 20th, Svetlana's birthday. More than a little creepy.
The clock ticking. Would FBI leave such matters to fate? Unlikely. Doug Boyce had made it clear to me in gentle discussion how these spy games worked in that summer of 2014 in Virginia Beach. Psy ops. Tricks. Just as nasty as you like and then some. Doug told me how all people lied, all the time. I see his meaning now, deep and furious. He is in this correct. I still like Doug for the education he provided if nothing else. Truth is I like him for simpler reasons. I'll save that pontification for another post. Let's digress less, though it is a bright Sunday morning and such hours are leisurely and ample for digression.
Having poisoned me, and that Obama would only have so many years in office, the time to bring the hammer down was now, or rather then, September 2011.
Someone perhaps fed my mom a shit sandwich. Orally? Interveniously? No idea. She had to go and it had to be soon. She knew it was coming, brave woman that she was, though dishonest as a result of a commitment she and my father had made before my birth. I arrived tired, the weight loss and those thoughts wearing. I flew into Boston, my sister Lisa picking me up at Logan. I always enjoyed seeing her, the years too many and our meetings either too few or just enough depending on mood.
We went straight to that hospital ICU. Wellesley, Massachusetts. Upscale New England town. There she was. 79 and 5 months. I rubbed her head. She could not speak though was aware I had arrived and it was I scratching her head as she had liked. I had loved this woman as a son does, even one 'targeted' and subtly mistreated as I had been. Perhaps that increases such love, perhaps not. I am not specialized in such matters. I know that I would howl at her passing later in her Rockland home all alone. I would not know that the FBI had set up video surveillance so as to intrude on the depths of my lonely misery.
In 2016 son Nicholas James and I would move to a fashionable Denver apartment where a hot black gal office manager type named Andre'a would innocuously inform me that we were in our $2200/month apartment be under continual video surveillance. She would not tell us the reason or the legal justification. For it was FBI and I was and remain a 'targeted individual'. Earlier in 2014 FBI tried to manipulate me a la Myron May to cross lines and to become a patsy in a presidential assassiantion attempt on Obama. I dodged and weaved, learned far too much about corruption in our wealthy families and our 'security services' who work on their behalf.
Nick and I later put this to the test. Those were days. The things a father has to do when the deep state as it is called in today's pop culture bares it's teeth to gnash at you. Especially then as I had 'upset their applecart', their robust plan to set me up a la Omar Gonzalez to assassinate a president. The black one. Barack Obama.
Apparently, it was important for my mom to die that September, just as it had been important for my dad to pass at the relatively young age of 65 while I was away in the Navy to push my buttons.
It was important that I held my mother's hand as she left. It was important that Silk Road vendor 'Nawlins', Adam Stanhope, would introduce me to a then legal stimulant , now illegal so as to drive me as dogs drive a fox in a hunt.
I escaped being patsy. I knew too much. They, the FBI in the US, needed to coverup this plot about which I had learned too much. And so they tried, arresting me in Victor, NY on a false child endangerment charge now since discharged. They tried again in Denver in 2016 and failed again.
The FBI, though quite corrupt, is well organized in such matters for they have generational and as a result institutional knowledge about framing 'targeted individuals' like me. Coy Ebell, FBI undercover agent in Denver and about 20 others would let me know about organization in Denver, especially that night when they broke in my apartment and carried me out from apartment 205 to leave me on a couch in room 705. That was a morning to remember. My son had worked with them to ensure the mail the FBI had sent would be put to use, and I needed to see where this would go. These events in Denver would confirm what I had not wanted to know, but as a good son, needed to do those hard yards, self as bait to answer questions as:
Why had Anna Chapman come on to me in Moscow in 2008?
Why had NCIS agent Doug Boyce told me he had been a CIA spy when we met in Russia in 1999?
Why had I been poisoned by Alexander Valerievich Tregubov in August 2011?
Why had Egish Khachatrian said to me on the phone in that summer of 2014, "Rick you will be this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!"
And the answer I learned though will be unlikely to prove in any court for such things are resolved in manner different, was that I was to have been in place of Omar Gonzalez, a presidential assassination patsy.
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