29 September 2006

Some advice is given

So Bill Clinton calls me up about a week ago, and tells me that he needs some dirt on Chris Wallace from Fox News. Says he's going to get interviewed by him and wants to really be able to "grab this little puke by the nuts and swing him around."

I said, "Bill, in order to grab a dude by the nuts, those nuts have to have descended. You could save us both some time and just take a shot that he still wets the bed. Twenty bucks says he starts sniveling and crying if you just come out with that."

"Nah...", Bill says, "That's not what I need here, I don't think... You gotta help me C, like in the old days. Tell me what to do."

Now, "helping Bill out in the old days" meant one of two things: giving him strategy advice, or getting him girls. I was pretty sure he meant the former in this case.

Actually, though, as a side note, the girl thing was always a lot of fun. Sometimes I would just round up girls from hotel bars and swing 'em by the White House in the evenings. It usually wasn't a big deal because they kept Chelsea so coked out on Ritalin that she was generally comatose by 7pm, and most nights Hillary was up until the wee hours pushing figurines around this giant Risk board she kept in the basement. Other times, though (usually while we were in Europe), he and I would head out to bars and just pull chicks together. A lot of people were pretty embarassed by the quality of the ass that he got busted on, but if they'd only seen what I had, wow, they'd have been glad it was Lewinski... I think it was all the time at Cambridge or something, but he's always going for the girls that aren't all that hot because he thinks they'll be smarter or something. At any rate, it was great, because here I am with the leader of the free world, and he's nudging me and going, "The one in the glasses is mine, hands off." And I'm looking at this incredible piece of tail next to the bookish one, and I'm just like, "No problem, dude."

Anyway, so he asks me about the Fox interview, and I think for a moment and say, "You know what, have you read Dick Clark's book?"

"No," he says, "Is it about the Rockin' New Years thing?"

"No," I said, "Remember, he was your counter-terrorism chief. You wanted to give the job to some bumpkin, but I told you that this was one better left to the professionals... told you to get your head out of your ass..."

"Oh yeah!" says Bill, "Damn, I wish you'd given me the same advice on the travel staff."

I actually had told him that on the travel staff, but decided not to mention it.

"Anyway," I said, "Just read that book. Should give you all the ammo you need..."

Musharraf and The Stone Age

I realized my characterization of Musharraf was a trifle simplistic. He is a very intelligent man, but he also realizes where his best interests lie. Here are a few quotes from his new book concerning his somewhat forced alliance with the U.S.:

"I war-gamed the United States as an adversary. The question was: If we do not join them, can we confront them and withstand the onslaught? The answer was no...Our military forces would be destroyed....The Americans would undoubtably have taken the opportunity of an invasion to destroy [Pakistan's nuclear] weapons...Our economic infrastructure, built over half a century, would have been decimated. We could not endure a military confrontation with the United States from any point of view."

Now the really strange part of all of this is that Musharraf goes through the trouble of admitting that he actually contemplated war with the U.S. as an alternative to fighting Al Qaeda and the Taliban. So on one side he talks about how he is committed to his alliance with the U.S, and behind the scenes, and in his book, he talks about how he only did what was necessary for his country, and how Dick Armitage threatened to send Pakistan back to the Stone Age if they weren't with the U.S. in the war on terror. You have to wonder what exactly his motives are in being this obviously honest. It reminds me of Saudi Arabia; how they have somewhat self-consciously supported numerous fundamentalist Muslim militant groups to shore up their legitimacy as the custodians of Islamic orthodoxy, while at the same time their leaders and businessmen lead rich, opulent and Western-influenced lives.

Musharraf definitely has his heart in the world of the fundamentalist Muslim culture, and it is undoubtedly to have it both ways that he treads both sides of the fence. After the 'jihad' against the Soviet Union was successful, many Muslims considered taking Kashmir back from India as the next holy war. But Musharraf is a complex individual. I plan on reading his book to get a better understanding of his mindset.

Also, about the whole 'Stone Age' conversation between Armitage and Musharraf; the following is the full version of the conversation as given in the footnotes of Musharraf's new book.

Musharraf's version:

[Phone rings...]
Musharraf: Hello?
Armitage: Hey, is this Musharraf?
Musharraf: Yes, sir.
Armitage: You better get with the program, buddy.
Musharraf: Excuse me?
Armitage: You heard me.
Musharraf: Who is this?
Armitage: I'm Dick Armitage, Deputy Secretary of State for the United fucking States.
Musharraf: Sir, it's 2 in the morning, what exactly do you--
Armitage: Look, are you with us or against us?
Musharraf: Mr. Armitage, I'm really not sure-
Armitage: Answer the fucking question!
Musharraf: You'll have to give me some time to think about this, sir.
Armitage: Do you like rocks?
Musharraf: (Long pause) I'm not sure.
Armitage: Well, I hope you do cause you're about ready to go back to the Stone Age. Get ready to be bombed to shit.
Musharraf: (Long pause) Are you drunk, sir?
Armitage: I hope you like rocks, motherfucker.
[Armitage hangs up the phone.]

According to Armitage, the whole thing was a big misunderstanding; he says that when he said, 'Be prepared to be bombed. Be prepared to go back to the Stone Age' he was merely offering a friendly bit of advice. "In this crazy, mixed-up world," said Armitage on Sixty Minutes, "you never know when you might be suddenly bombed back to the Stone Age. I was merely offering a preparedness tip. I also told him to store a lot of jugs of water. Apparently he took this as some kind of threat."

28 September 2006

Some much needed R&R

First of all, my apologies to all my regular readers for not putting up any posts for the last few weeks. It's a little joke in the business that getting shot is the surest way to collect on the vacation days that you've got coming (especially if you get killed, in which case you'll get them all and then some!) So as I hit the floor, the first thing that went through my mind was "Boo-yeah, a little R&R". Well, that was after, "You dirty, rotten, back-stabbing she-devil..." Anyway, you get the picture. Needless to say, I took full advantage of the down-time, and didn't pick up my computer aside to look at satellite images of topless sunbathers (of course, I've got the hi-res version of this little toy, so it's a bit more titillating.)

So my time at the secret hospital was, as Zulu described, pretty freakin' awesome. Mother Mayberry and Zianthura, the two old birds that run it, know how to take care of an agent when he's in most need, and do so in the manner that we're accustomed. When you live the life, there are things you just kind of come to expect, like that when you get a new car that there will be a rocket launcher, or that a hospital will be outfitted with nurses that could have been hand-picked by Hugh Hefner himself (actually, in many cases they have been, as in a side deal Zianthura has arranged to be Hef's virility specialist in exchange for some side perks for our agents). Anyhow, the girls this time were wearing furry go-go boots and 6" mini-skirts. Let me tell you, a catheter change goes a lot easier with that kind of service.

The other cool part about the hospital is that they're totally in to healing effects of psychoactive drugs, so when you're not getting sponged down, you can be sitting around tripping out on the peyote. The other cool part about that is that they have this experimental device that can record your trips, and then you can play them back later and have a good laugh. Check this one out that I dreamt the other day.


Anyway, I'm all healed up and back on the beat. Guess I've got a few loose ends to tie up now... especially with Sierra. I definitely do not view her little story as bringing resolution to this issue. She and I are going to have words. And by words, I mean bullets... or words. Words and bullets are pretty much interchangeable in this line of work. Both can really hurt.

Karzai and Musharraf Hanging Out


The presidents of Afghanistan and Pakistan have been in the U.S. all week, doing the talk show scene, and having dinners with President Bush. (I can't imagine what those dinners must be like; 'Could you pass the awkward silence, Mr. President?').

They each blame the other for the resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan, but they both realize the importance of having the U.S. on their side. Musharraf was of course a supporter and his administration a funder of the Taliban in Afghanistan from the Pakistan military coup in '99 up until 9-11; then the U.S.'s ultimatum convinced him that siding with the U.S. was a much smarter move than opening up the possibility of an Indian-U.S. alliance. To his credit, though, he drinks a lot of whiskey and owns dogs; two things no self-respecting fundamentalist Muslim would be involved in. He's viewed as a moderate to most western countries; his flip-flopping on various issues (from nuclear arms to Kashmir to the Taliban) reveals his truly political nature. Actually, it is this very self-serving nature which makes him a great ally in the region; it's something we can at least relate to.

Karzai needs the U.S. the most, of course. He wouldn't be where he is without Bush, and his country, as big a mess as it is now, is being somewhat vaguely held together by the U.S. and United Nations support. His influence outside the capital city is so laughably low that he is jokingly referred to as 'the mayor of Kabul'. In his favor, he dresses impeccably; he is particularly known for his capes and fezzes. He was actually featured as one of the best-dressed men in the special 2004 Afghanistan issue of GQ (if anyone has any copies of this, I am willing to pay a pretty penny for it). Any man as vain as Karzai can be counted on to do our bidding, that's for sure.

Bush counting these men amongst his greatest allies in the war on terror is really redundant; the U.S.'s clout is its greatest ally in the war on terror. Bush could be saying anything; Karzai and Musharraf would be 100% behind him if he announced that the three of them would be living together on Jupiter by 2010.

Also, it appears from the picture at the top of this post that President Bush's crotch is being questioned.

27 September 2006

Funny Picture Made Me Laugh Rather Loudly

A bird with a tophat, a monocle, and diamond-tipped walking stick. What will they think of next? LOL...

24 September 2006

Iraq War Worsens Terrorism Threat


The opening of this article, which I recommend reading in full:

WASHINGTON, Sept. 23 — A stark assessment of terrorism trends by American intelligence agencies has found that the American invasion and occupation of Iraq has helped spawn a new generation of Islamic radicalism and that the overall terrorist threat has grown since the Sept. 11 attacks.

The classified National Intelligence Estimate attributes a more direct role to the Iraq war in fueling radicalism than that presented either in recent White House documents or in a report released Wednesday by the House Intelligence Committee, according to several officials in Washington involved in preparing the assessment or who have read the final document.

The intelligence estimate, completed in April, is the first formal appraisal of global terrorism by United States intelligence agencies since the Iraq war began, and represents a consensus view of the 16 disparate spy services inside government. Titled “Trends in Global Terrorism: Implications for the United States,’’ it asserts that Islamic radicalism, rather than being in retreat, has metastasized and spread across the globe.

This is something us operatives have known for a few years now, but it's nice to see the information reaching the masses (though I doubt you'll see this particular finding ever mentioned on FOX news). The administration will counter with, "Yeah, but we haven't had any attacks on American soil." This is true, and much of the upper tiers of the organized groups like Al Quaeda have been decimated, but the sheer number of those who wish us harm is undeniably greater than it was pre-9/11. So while their ability to perpetrate large attacks away from the Middle East is apparently diminished (for the moment), it is by no means a sign that we have done, or are doing, things right.

The administration could have handled this better if they had taken a much more psychology-oriented tack in this procedure; trying to understand what makes people terrorists and especially, Anti-American terrorists. In all of Bin Laden's writings and addresses, you will never hear him actually attacking the American way of life, contrary to popular opinion. You won't hear him railing against Hollywood or Sex in the City or our culture's promiscuity when it comes to sex, drugs, and rock and roll. When he talks of the U.S., he talks about our support for Israel, he talks about our presence in the 'Land of the Two Holy Places' (what he calls Saudi Arabia, because he sees the House of Saud as corrupt and apostatical), he talks about our killing of innocents all over the Middle East through our sanctions on Iraq and other controversial U.S. military actions, he talks about our apparent disdain for Islam in general. But the main thing that he hates, and that many moderate Muslims disagree with, is having an 'infidel' presence in the Holy Land, and this is something our increased military presence in that area will only exacerbate.

17 September 2006

Good Will Hunting: Alternate Scene?

Just a strange sentence in this article on Matt Damon. See if you can spot it:

“Good Will Hunting,” which Mr. Damon initiated when he was a student at Harvard, became one of Miramax’s most profitable releases. Despite some hints of darkness, the film is calculated nonsense of a high order, as phony as anything cooked up by Hollywood committee. Chris Columbus could easily have directed it, after all, though unlike Mr. Van Sant he could not have slipped in the film’s one true scene: Will mocking the therapist played by Robin Williams. (In another version of the screenplay, the therapist sexually services Will.) As Mr. Damon faces the camera in searching close-up, we see the cruelty slide across Will’s face like a shadow and, as important, we see the pleasure he derives from that cruelty.

Um, did you spot it? I can't imagine Robin Williams character "sexually servicing" Matt Damon's character; doesn't seem right. Though the director Gus Van Sant is gay, so I suppose it is possible, but I still have a very hard time believing that to be true. Wtf?

Also, if you're interested, these are the scenes in the movie that contain sexual content:

  • Chuckie asks a woman in a bar why he isn't seeing any "hootchie kootchie" from her. She replies that she's not going to "spread my legs for your tootsie roll."
  • Will asks an older male psychiatrist, "Do you find it hard to hide that you're gay?" When the man acts surprised, Will adds, "A couple of minutes ago you were about to give me a jump."
  • Will sings some lyrics from the song "Afternoon Delight" to a psychiatrist, "We can make a lot of love before the sound goes down. Skyrockets in flight. Afternoon delight."
  • Sean jokes about if patients don't trust you, "how are you ever going to get them to sleep with you?"
  • When Skylar comments that Will was probably hoping to get a goodnight kiss, he responds, "I was hoping to get a goodnight lay."
  • The guys trade some insults with one of them saying, "Get off mothers" (the subject) and then one of them says, "I just got off yours."
  • Will tells a joke where a pilot says that all he needs is "a blow job and a cup of coffee."
  • Will tells Sean in one of his sessions, "I have been laid."
  • Skylar tells Will, "I won't let you sleep with me again until I meet your friends." He then immediately dials one of them on the phone, and she comments that if men aren't controlled by their "weiner," then they're acting on behalf of it.
  • Later, they passionately kiss, and he also has his head in her lap or crotch (but doesn't appear to be doing anything sexual).
  • Skylar tells a joke about a couple married for fifty years where the husband asks for "a blow job." The wife complies, and when the husband asks if he can do anything for her, she says, "Give me a kiss," and Skylar visually finishes the joke by spilling beer out of her mouth (as if it were semen) while saying that line.
  • Chuckie yells up to Morgan that he better not be watching porno films in his mother's bedroom. Morgan then appears and they make some comments about him masturbating ("jerking off").
  • At least 139 "f" words (3 used with "mother"), 29 "s" words, 7 slang terms for male genitals (the "d" and "p" words and "wiener"), 1 slang term for female genitals (the "p" word), 18 asses (3 used with "hole"), 3 damns, 1 S.O.B., 1 crap, 1 hell, and 7 uses of "Oh God," 2 uses each of "Christ," "Jesus Christ," "Swear to God," and 1 use each of "G-damn," "For God's sakes," "Jesus," "Oh Christ," and "For Christ's sakes" as exclamations.
  • Seeing the Company Shrink

    So I've been seeing this shrink for the last few months. Let's face it; in our line of work, we see and do some horrible things; things that make you question your faith in humanity, your faith in yourself as a good person, your faith in your place in the world. But I hear even accountants can have some of the same problems, so I don't feel too alone here.

    Hyde recommended I see this therapist after a near-death experience I had in Macao. I was shadowing this Taiwanese drug-lord and he got the drop on me in an alley near the Pearl River. He managed to shoot me in the shoulder and make his escape. Fortunately it was only a flesh wound, but on my way back to the safe-house I bought some rice and some fermented heshiko from a rather unhygenic-looking street vendor and I ended up in the hospital with a bad case of botulism.

    So I was out of commission for a couple of months, resting up. I had a lot of time to sit and think about some of the bad choices I had perhaps made in life (not the least of which was buying that mackerel from that scabby peasant), and think about how I was a bit disappointed with the way things were going. I hadn't felt this bad since the time I synchronized my watch incorrectly on this mission in North Korea and seven of our guys died as a result.

    So I ended up scoring pretty high on a couple of the company's depression tests, and management thought it'd be a good idea for me to see one of their therapists. And I like the guy; he's even got some field experience so he can understand some of those issues. It's just a strange thing to be able to talk with someone about things I've rarely talked to anyone about, and feel that he is there just for you, and that what you say stays with him. Of course all of our sessions are being recorded and transcribed by the company, but at least I know that that stuff will stay classified for at least twenty years, probably longer.

    15 September 2006

    Operative C in Good Condition

    Took a flight out to see C at the secure facility they've got set up in Cali yesterday. Interesting set-up they've got; it's got an antique store for a cover; two old ladies running it and everything, but upstairs they've got all of this state-of-the-art medical equipment and the most attractive nurses money can buy. Not a bad place to convalesce.

    Turns out Sierra didn't do much damage with that shot to the stomach. The bullet missed any vital organs, but did manage to remove C's appendix, which, though there is a slight controversy in the medical field, is widely considered a vestigial and useless structure. (C joked from his hospital bed, "Maybe next time she'll get my tonsils.") While the uninformed might consider this a lucky turn of events, we in the profession know that Sierra is a highly trained assassin, and the fact that she didn't leave any serious injuries to C tells us at least that murder was not her goal. We still have not had any reports on her; she has not surfaced anywhere, and we do not know what purpose her disruption of the Armenian/Scientology sting served. Her cover, we have found out, is still intact with the Scientologists, so this would suggest that she is working with them still. It is not inconceivable that she has been converted; if other very intelligent and independent people (Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Kirstie Allie) have succombed to the philosophies of L. Ron Hubbard, then it's not too far a stretch to think that one of our top agents is beyond their reach.

    C is almost out of the hospital. I believe his feelings are much more hurt than his stomach. When Sierra's bullet shattered his appendix and exited right beneath his rib cage, I think it also shattered his hope that he might have had a possible 'soul-mate' in this cruel profession of ours. While he may deny these things, I know he's a much more sensitive person than his posts and his assassinations would let on, and he may have allowed himself to get too close to someone who in my mind has no capacity for real human emotion. I've only met Sierra once (at least I think it was her), but anyone who can push a button and detonate a car bomb, killing an entire Saudia Arabian family, and then frame the best friend of that family for the murder, is, in my mind, not really someone you want to share your hopes and dreams with. (Actually, that one was my mission, but Sierra's done some very similar stuff. Point is the same.)

    14 September 2006

    Double Crossed

    It's been a while since I've run a mission with Sierra. A couple of years ago in Geneva we broke up a ring of rogue scientists that were operating at CERN, but since then we've been back stateside and running in different circles. I've mainly been doing counter-terrorism ops, while she's been examining the dark under-belly of the entertainment industry.

    Finally our paths managed to cross again, though, as a group of Armenian arms smugglers were operating out of the port of Los Angeles, and I needed someone who had established a presence locally to help me on the bust.

    The plan was simple. Sierra was going to be representing an entertainment industry social group that was looking to acquire arms to protect themselves in the case of an apocalyptic event or a government crackdown, whichever came first. I was to be an American broker who was consulting them on the deal. We’d show up with $5M in cash, take possession of the weapons, and let a Special Forces team overwhelm the Armenians in the harbor. We’d then pass the weapons on to the receiving party to continue the confidence. Pretty standard stuff.

    It was good to be back with Sierra. As we planned out the mission we very quickly fell back into our old rhythms, finishing each other’s thoughts as we planned sightlines and escape plans.

    On the night of the event we were in the back of the van, going over the plan one last time and putting our weapons together. As I was screwing the silencer onto the muzzle of my Beretta, I started doing the drum line from Rock & Roll Part II by Gary Glitter, you know: do do ch ch do do ch, do do ch ch do do ch… and Sierra started in with the synth part: New new newwww, new newwwww newenewwwww... It was great, just like old times. When we stopped we laughed and looked at each other. Her eyes drew me in, as they had done many times in the past, blue and longing. Her ability to do that to a man, to cut him off from his surroundings, is what both makes her so intriguing, and so deadly.

    As I looked at her, I saw those eyes change from laughter to sadness, and after what could have been hours, or just a few seconds, she said to me, “I’m sorry.”

    It was at that point I then became aware again of my surroundings and noticed that the Sig she had been loading was pointed at my gut.

    It was, I believe, a relieved feeling that came over me as I began to grasp the situation. Somehow I had known this was coming, even though I hadn’t allowed the realization to fully come to my conscious. And to have it spelled out so clearly now was to allow my mind to reach a peaceful equilibrium.

    I don’t know if she said anything else before she pulled the trigger, but I certainly felt the kick to my stomach, cold and hard. Though I don’t know if it was the bullet I felt.

    I crumpled to the floor of the van, finding myself staring sideways at her black leather boots as she stood and took the briefcase full of cash that I had brought from HQ.

    As she opened the back door of the van to leave, she knelt down and put hear lips next to my ear and whispered in her soulful voice, “I’m so sorry.”

    I believed her.

    Saddam In Court

    Saddam is back in a Baghdad court again today, being charged with genocide for his alleged ordering of the attacks in the 1980's on the Kurds. Prosecutors say the attacks left more than 182,000 ethnic Kurds dead or missing.

    Wow. Genocide. What a mind-blowing thing for someone to be in a courtroom for. "You're being accused of trying to wipe out an entire ethnicity." There's not much worse a crime you can charge someone with, unless it was like for blowing up the entire earth. What would the bail for a genocide case be? Like 50 billion dollars?

    13 September 2006

    Sierra, Urgent: Code 25

    Sierra,
    I know of no other way to get in touch with you. C is out of town and of course no one at the office will give me your contact information. Hopefully you'll check this message board. Need to urgently get in touch with you before you also are out of the country. Use my anonymous e-mail account; zuluecho1@gmail.com or if you have my number, call me.
    -ZE

    Cheesy Pick-Up Line Delivered Incorrectly

    At the 10-20 game last night at the local casino. Drunk idiot, a young guy, a regular, sits down, immediately begins playing like a maniac. Cute dealer shows up and everyone knows drunk guy has a thing for her. At one point, out of nowhere, he slurs, "If I could re-arrange the alphabet, I'd put you and me together." The dealer looks disgusted, and she says, "I think you mean 'U and I'." Everyone at the table laughs and the idiot looks oblivious.

    12 September 2006

    "Happy September 11th"

    That's what the TSA lady said to me today while I was in line. Some dumb broad couldn't manage to stand still in the puffer machine and was holding everybody up, and the TSA lady turns to me and says that. She says it in this non-chalant way and rolls her eyes, like she's not worried. Like everyone is so lame for worrying about terrorism today. Like she knows where it strikes. Like she knows the score. Yeah, like you know the score, huh? With your rumpled white suit, and your cheesy badge, huh? Like you were the one who just found a garrotted air marshal in the bathroom near baggage... and had to dispose of him in a dumpster before boarding flight 408... not knowing who or what was waiting on board. Like you know the real culprits and motives behind the attacks five years ago. Like you even had any clue, even after searching me, that I had an arsenal in my carry-on sufficient to take down an F-22, let alone an airliner.

    Just can it TSA lady. Step aside and let a player play.

    11 September 2006

    "Take Care" and Beerfest

    Maybe it's just me, as I'm prone to thoughts like this. Did you ever stop to think about the phrase, "Take care"? It's always struck me as a kind of strange thing to say when you're parting ways. Ominous. Like, it sounds perfectly natural when it's said to me by a fellow operative before I'm about to traipse across an Afghani minefield, but sounds out of place when it's coming from the guy who's bagging my groceries. Especially if it's said in a somewhat ominous, joyless tone, almost as if they know something's going to happen to me. Part of me, the super-alert agent part of me, wants to grab the 40-year-old bagboy and put him in a chokehold and scream, "What do you know? Is there a timed C-4 delivery device in my engine block? Who do you work for?" and get all Guantanamo on him. But I know that the job's just getting to me.

    Also, I saw Beerfest last night, a movie that I had the pleasure of working on for a couple of weeks earlier this year. A friend and I waited for the closing credits to see my name (pseudonym, of course, but still exciting) but to no avail; I guess I didn't merit a credit. Even a certain colleague of mine who worked on the thing from Day One to closing got no credit. It's a strange feeling being disavowed even by Hollywood.

    10 September 2006

    Speaking of Diddy


    I haven't seen Sean since I visited a military college friend in Atlanta and we got to meet him out at this club. His bodyguard Andrew and me almost got into it over this girl Tanya he thought I was hitting on. But then we were cool and we ended up popping Kristal until like 6 in the morning. Diddy's got a new album coming out. And from this article I read he sounds a tad insecure about it:

    Perhaps this is an average day for the man formerly known as Puff Daddy. He never seemed stressed by the complex agenda. What did seem to make him nervous was the potential reaction to his new music. His driver cued up “Diddy Rock,” an inventive fusion of hardcore hip-hop and Ibiza-style dance music, which sounded great. (Then again, can a song sound bad when it is blasted in a Rolls-Royce Phantom speeding through Times Square?)

    “Now don’t feel like you have to say anything — just form your own opinion, and I’ll leave you alone,” Mr. Combs said. Pause. He glanced sideways as if searching for signs of head nodding. “It’s pretty different though, right?” Pause. “You can imagine people dancing to it at some after-hours spot in Miami, right?” Long pause. “That’s Timbaland on there.”

    I think we know someone is a trifle insecure when they have to point out that Timbaland's on there, as if that's an accomplishment. Isn't that guy on like 90% of the hip-hop you hear on the radio?

    By the way, in that picture you'll notice P. Diddy just seems to be pouring the champagne on the floor. That's exactly what he was doing in that club in Atlanta. I never saw him drink a sip. He'd just order Kristal and Dom P. and start pouring it on the floor and sometimes on women who were sitting nearby. This one guy walking through the VIP room slipped and almost broke his neck. It was very strange.

    08 September 2006

    Alternative Torture Methods


    This from an ABC news story from last year, on detainees in CIA secret prisons:

    "They would not let you rest, day or night. Stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down. Don't sleep. Don't lie on the floor," one prisoner said through a translator. The detainees were also forced to listen to rap artist Eminem's "Slim Shady" album. The music was so foreign to them it made them frantic, sources said.

    The use of music in torture and information-gathering is nothing new, but the use of Eminem's body of work was news to me. We all know how most caucasians are frightened and disoriented by the sound of an angry black man singing in rhyme over heavy percussion, or, in this case, a white man imitating the same. But I would have thought that the Arabs would have been more immune to these effects; maybe I'm thinking this because of their proximity to Africa. But the use of lyrics such as "Got pissed off and ripped Pamela Lee's tits off" might be understandably scary to a people who don't understand our culture of freedom.

    I myself have never used hip-hop or rap for musical Psy-Ops, though now it's gotten me interested. I might have to load up my I-Pod for my next interrogation session (I'm thinking the Bonecrusher and Killer Mike collabo; they've got a very angry song about shooting other African-Americans). The one time I engaged in 'musical persuasion' (as we call it) was in Yemen, 2000, about 3 month before the Cole bombing. We had gotten tips that several Yemeni and Saudi hard-liners were planning something, but it was all very amorphous information. Nobody seemed to be privy to any real solid information, but we knew something was going on.

    But we think we've got four of the main guys in custody. We're set up in the basement of an abandoned oil refinery, and we have the four strapped into these chairs in the middle of the room, and C-Dog, me, and another agent we called Silus are trying to break them down a bit. They've all got the usual defiance of the just-captured, spitting in our faces and whatnot, mentioning Allah in loud voices. Silus suddenly gets the idea to play like a musical chairs sort of game with them. He brings in the Doberman Pinschers and has them sit watch on the sidelines, and C goes to get the boombox from upstairs.

    And for some reason Silus has this whole tote bag full of horrible music, like John Tesh, Stevie Nicks' solo albums, Michael Bolton, some kind of muzak version of Peter Frampton songs, a live recording of Barry Manilow sounding very inebriated, etc. We were ribbing him a bit about carrying that stuff around, but it was obvious he was some kind of sick musical sadist and he had this specific scenario in mind the entire time.

    So we cut the M.E.'s free, and we tell them the rudimentary rules of Musical Chairs. After a few stupid questions (No, you can't sit on two chairs at once, Habib) we start up the music. Then Silus cuts in; the winner of this particular version of Musical Chairs will be the last person we execute. And he gives a long evil laugh. Me and C just look at each other, not sure how serious Silus is because we don't know him well at all. Then Silus starts up the boombox, blasting some John Tesh in their faces, and the detainees start to marching somewhat lackadaisically around the chairs.

    "Now, when the music stops, boys!" Silus yells, "that's when you've got to grab a seat! You really want to get that seat, boys! This is like Russian Roulette, motherfuckers! You sit down too early and you get a bullet!" I am quiet, not sure how effective this method will be. So C and I are waiting for Silus to stop the music, so we can see who's the quickest Arab, but after 5 minutes or so we understand that's the rub; Silus isn't stopping the music. He's got an 8 CD disc-changer in the boombox, and he has no plans on stopping this music. And the M.E.'s really are hating this music. They look disturbed and disgusted. One guy actually turns green and pukes after the 3rd John Tesh song, and I'm not feeling too well myself. C and I leave the room as a bootlegged New Kids on the Block concert starts up and the dogs in the corner start howling. But Silus, the true sadist, stays and watches for the entire next 6 hours. We can hear him laughing in the next room as we're checking satellite images and drinking Starbucks.

    To make a long story short, 6 hours later we return to the room, and the captives are a complete mess; there is vomit and urine on the ground, one guy has a nose-bleed, and they are all piled up in the middle of the room, shivering and scarcely breathing, and Bryan Adams is blasting out of the boombox, which Silus has actually set on top of their spent bodies in a sort of victory symbol, like a flag on top of a conquered mountain. Silus seems very pleased with himself. "Next time I do this," he says contemplatively, "they'll be naked.....Yeah."

    After that the Yemenis didn't put up much resistance to our questioning. As it turned out, they were just a bunch of innocent fisherman who were no more interested in blowing things up than your average Yemeni citizen; that is, not so much as to be concerned about. But we wouldn't have found that out as quickly as we did without Silus' particular form of information-gathering. It was on that day that I truly realized the great power of music.

    07 September 2006

    Cover Blown? Or Just Being Paranoid?

    As many of you know, I spend a lot of time playing poker. You could say that it's my other job, and being a professional poker player has been my cover on many missions in the past. It's the perfect excuse for travelling to many exotic locales, without having to give too much explanation about your personal situation if pressed. Of course, it helps that I'm a world-class player who makes almost as much at the tables as I do in my intelligence work.

    So I spend a lot of time at one of the local casinos, both because I enjoy it and because I need to maintain appearances and make contacts in the poker world for my cover to appear more legitimate. Also, as I mentioned in one of the previous posts, I've got an upcoming assignment in the Middle East, and have been practicing my Arabic for it. So today I'm over at the casino playing in a rather wild pot-limit omaha game. I'm up about 2 grand; the game's pretty easy and I'm watching CNN more than I am the players. Then a seat opens up and they call for 'Nassar', which immediately gets my attention because there are not too many middle eastern people in our area.

    He's a rather scruffy fellow with an intense stare, and he sits down two seats to my right. Despite looking rather squalid, he buys in for 5 grand, all in crisp, clean hundreds, a much larger than usual buy-in for this particular game. He announces his buy-in, and from his short sentence I think I detect a Syrian accent. But a part of it might be that he closely resembles Bashar al-Assad, and I'm making that connection. He's got that same kind of ratty smile. He's also wearing a rather conspicuous cross on a necklace dangling outside his shirt, and it's definitely incongruous if you know Syrians like I do. So right away this guy has gotten my full attention, though no one watching could possibly have known it. I'm wearing my shades and studying this guy from the corner of my eye.

    A few minutes later, Nassar and I are involved in a pot, and he rivers a gutshot straight to take a 500 dollar pot off of me. He's been in almost every pot, and it could just be my heightened alertness, but I feel like he was looking for a reason to talk to me. He apologizes to me after he wins the pot, and I am convinced his accent is Syrian. I tell him it's perfectly all right, that's poker. Then he asks me my name, and the back of my spine is tingling, because he hasn't talked to anyone else at the table since he sat down, and after a slight pause I tell him. My name has a middle-eastern biblical origin, and Nassar asks me if my full name is this middle-eastern variant on my name, which is a really strange question to ask because I'm obviously caucasian and American; it'd be like asking an African pygmie whom you just met if his full name was Theodore. Well, probably not that strange, but you get the gist.

    So I tell him that my name is the more common English variant, and he tells me that he's from Turkey, and that he's just visiting for a few weeks. Doesn't say what he's doing over here or anything, but makes some weird jokes about his family owning 'olive oil wells' in Turkey and Syria, which he laughs at but no one else does. It's definitely a very strange situation, as no one else at the table is talking and everyone's attention is focused on Nassar and I. But I have to play along, so I ask him what he's in the States for.

    "Some friends of mine are looking at real estate deals," he says, and starts to talk about investing in America, because things are so much more stable over here than where he comes from. "Business is booming over here, isn't it?" he says, and again he uses my name.

    At this point, I figure this guy must know something about me, because the whole situation's just too weird to be coincidental, and I'm checking out the rest of the room for anything out of the ordinary. My flight or fight instincts are in high gear.

    "Where are you staying in town while you're here, Nassar?" I ask. I figure this is the perfect question to ask, because how he answers it will tell me everything I need to know about him.

    "At the Embassy Suites," he says. "Very nice place. Very attractive women are there." And now I am back to square one, because I'm reading him as being very open, and his comment about the women makes me think that he's just a very strange cat, and I'm blowing this situation out of proportion.

    So to add to the strangeness, he receives a phone call in the middle of a hand a few minutes later, and despite being invested more than 200 dollars already and looking like he's going to keep playing, he immediately folds and answers the phone. Then, in Arabic, he says into the phone, "Okay. Yes, I'm done." And he puts his chips into racks, says 'Goodbye, my friend' to me, and is gone. I follow him, and he's got a Cadillac, a rental, already waiting for him at the valet station. I get the license plate number as he drives off.

    Now I'm thinking I need to go check out the Embassy Suites tomorrow to really set myself at ease about this whole thing. It's not often I get these feelings on my home turf. Anyone think I'm just being a little paranoid?

    Paul Otellini is such a dipshit

    Have you ever heard of quantum computing? I won’t get into the details here, as it’s pretty freakin' complicated (besides, White Ghost or Sierra would do a better job explaining that shit). Anyway, it’s one of those Holy Grails of computer architecture. You know, make shit all super-fast, keep us on the ol’ Moore’s Law curve and all. Any computer architecture college or processor manufacturer worth their salt has got some white-beard working on the problem in a dank basement somewhere. Most of them aren’t getting anywhere though… Most of them that is, except for our very own White Ghost, and a certain Marcus Felders, formerly of employ at Intel Corp.

    As some back-story, I took White Ghost out of the office in the spring of 2001 for a mission. I know, that’s not code, but the mission was cake. A certain Commander in Chief’s daughter was bound to get preggers in Cabo, and all we had to do was slip her some RU486 to counteract the vast amounts of alcohol, roofies, and semen (probably in that order) that would be circulating through her system by the end of the weekend.

    So it’s me and the Ghost sitting at this beachside bar doing tequila shooters on the expense tab, and we start buying drinks for all the girls. And we’re getting loud and going nuts, and Ghost all of a sudden jumps up on the bar and shouts, “Who wants to do body shots?!? Whooo!!!”

    So then all of a sudden we’ve got like twenty beautiful babies all crowding up to the bar, and Ghost’s eyes are all wide, because he’d never been down to Mexico for Spring Break, and he doesn’t have the cool head of an ops guy, you know. So I just use my skills and quickly scan the crowd and pick out this honey that I just know is Ghost’s type.

    So I call this girl out and everybody’s looking kinda sore, but the crowd parts and she comes up, and Ghost is wigging, and when she gets there she hops on the bar, whips off her bikini top and flops down.

    Now, I thought ol’ White Ghost was going to have a heart attack at this point. In fact, I think he did, but I used my advanced field first aid training and gave him a quick bop on the sternum, and he kinda took a step back, got his color again, and then this big smile comes across his face.

    So I know we’re losing time, so I grab the salt, pour it on her chest, give a generous helping of the Patron, and then like a pro Ghost is down to do the shot, and as he comes up I jabbed a lime wedge in his mouth. No sooner is it in, though, he spits it out and shouts, “I’VE GOT IT!!! I’VE FUCKIN’ GOT IT!!!” And like a flash he’s out of the bar dashing down the beach to the hotel, leaving me to close down the place myself… Which I was obliged to do.

    Anyway, turns out that at that peak of our debauchery, White Ghost realized the secret to quantum computing, and within a week of getting back we had the most kick ass computer on the planet crunching Interpol files, sorting DNA samples, and helping us to whip some serious butt at World of Warcraft. The secret existence of quantum computing has been our organization’s little ace in the hole over the past few years, you could say.

    Now into the fray enters Marcus Felders at Intel. Not even at those companies do they take these quantum computing researchers seriously, and when Felders started talking about his discoveries, nobody, even at Intel, was listening…except for our operatives inside.

    We knew that we needed to get rid of this guy, or at least get him out of there. Anybody finding the answer to this problem would be a complete fluke, and it could be fifty years before the right blend of brains, booze, and raw animal magnetism came together again to solve the problem. But how to get him out? Even a hatchet man like Otellini knows that it’s worth keeping around at least a few of your top employees. And so a scheme was hatched…

    A few months ago Zulu Echo and I waltzed into the Intel HQ in Santa Clara and introduced ourselves as consultants from McKinsey & Company on assignment to look over the books. Turns out that they’re such a big company they didn’t even check to make sure we were supposed be there. So we spent a week and a half picking badge numbers at random and putting together a report about how they need to make cuts in order to stay competitive with AMD.

    The report was really the key. We wanted Otellini to read the executive summary with all the neat McKinsey buzzwords, get the picture, and then not want to pour through the rest of the expansive report. So we put all of our time into the first few pages and the last few pages, and then copied the text of Ulysses off the Internet, put it in 6 point font, and filled that in for the middle. We made it very clear that there was a key group of cuts that needed to be made immediately (a core group of competent managers who might actually read the report), and then rounds and rounds of cuts to follow. We needed a very large number of total cuts, otherwise Otellini wouldn't think this shit was serious. Also, if the number was too small, it might be drawn to his attention that Felders, one of his most brilliant employees, was being targeted for dismissal. After some debate, we settled on the absurd number of 10,000 people.

    We weren’t really sure that the scheme would work. But when we just showed up at Paul’s office, report in hand, and told him we were from McKinsey, he got this look on his face like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny had showed up on his doorstep with a big sack full of toys and candy. So we took him through the plan, he shook our hands, and said he’d been looking for something to do to feel useful, and that he’d get right to work.

    Two months later, and right on the schedule called out in the report, a bewildered Marcus Felders wandered out of his basement office, pink slip in hand. We had a black van waiting on the street. It zipped up, a couple of agents pulled a gunnysack over his head, and we drove him away.

    He’s been working for us ever since, and says it’s the best career move he could have made. Apparently he’d felt for a while that Intel was going down the shitter.

    A lesson in reading subtext

    This article in the Times today is a perfect opportunity to learn about reading the subtexts that are going on in a story. See now, it looks like a nice little business article about Ford trying to turn itself around by bringing in a new CEO. But really, there are several clues to what’s really going on here…

    1. Read their faces: Notice how Bill Ford has that “just fuck it, let him try, I’m so sick of this shit” look on his face? While Alan Mulally looks like that clueless uncle you had growing up, the one who you had to hook up his VCR for at Thanksgiving? These guys are what’s known in the business as “pawns”. [Note, that’s my business, not the business of selling boring cars.]
    2. Look for smart guys making what on the surface appears to be a really dumb move: (Not that I’m calling Bill Ford smart. Give that guy a liquor store in the ghetto and he’d run it into the ground.) Notice how in the article it’s really obvious that Mulally is not the guy for this plum job? Let’s review… First, he got passed over several times at his own company for promotion. Second, when he was in the airplane business he copied the auto industry, now he’s coming back to tell them how to do their jobs? Third, he’s a moron. Why would you study the Taurus as a success over Toyota and Honda? While the Japanese rode their cars to the bank, Ford was busy playing shell games with their Hertz subsidiary to make the Taurus a winner.
    3. Look for the distraction: Notice how there’s all this fanfare for the new guy while nothing is actually going to be in his control? There’s a new plan already in place (to eliminate 30,000 jobs) that he’s going to oversee, with all the same people there to run it. Boy, sure looks like he’s just a lame duck…
    4. Look for the bozo politician: Since when does big industry look to a big labor politician like Dick Gephardt for advice on how to run their companies? Try never. Methinks me smells a rat…
    Once you put together all the clues, it’s obvious what’s going on here. The Ford board told Bill that while he’d made some really nice commercials, that he was a loser as a CEO. Then they handed him a plan to kill 30,000 union jobs. But how do you slip that one by the unions? Oh, maybe if you buddy up to a big, dumb, washed-up labor politician and ask him what he thinks. Gephardt could have pointed to the cashier at Wendy’s and it wouldn’t have mattered. Now you’ve taken his advice and you bring the new guy in. He swings the axe on the jobs. The union bosses say, "Don't worry, Dick said it was cool." And a couple months later you show a dumbstruck Mulally to the door. Go get yourself a real CEO, and you’re back in business.

    We do this kind of shit all the time overseas when we’re upending governments. Sure it seems like a lot of work, the whole dog and pony show, but it really feels good when you’ve got that stoodge sitting there at the big desk, thinking he’s all that, while you’re kicking him over falls in his little rowboat of a government.

    Of course, that only happens in little countries, with uneducated populaces. That would never happen in a big superpower. You could never pull a fast one on them like that. You know, get a guy in office who wasn’t up to the task… get him to do some really stupid shit that could ruin the country… all for the sake of an agenda shared by just a few really shrewd individuals…

    Did I ever tell you about the people I work for?

    06 September 2006

    Scary Dream This Afternoon

    Just woke up from a quick nap before heading into the office. Had a very realistic dream about one of the large bridges in New York, possibly the Brooklyn Bridge, being attacked by a very large futuristic rail gun. My sister and her husband were there for some reason, and he was injured when a bit of the bridge fell on him. Many people were killed. Also, several buildings had been taken down with these weapons. I guess it was the reminiscing about the failed Teteriv bridge bombing that brought on this dream, but it got me thinking about bridges as a target for terrorists, and whether we're doing anything on our side about this. Of course there was the failed 1993 New York landmark terrorist plot, where they targeted the George Washington bridge and the PATH tunnels. But I feel like we may have gotten too complacent when it comes to our bridges. I'm going to mention this concern to Hyde when I go in today, as I'm not one to take these kinds of portents lightly.

    And that's the big difference between us and Steve...

    Our deaths broadcast on TV? Maybe, but you'll never pick us out of the explosion. A state funeral in our honor? Not a chance.

    All you'll hear is: "We have no knowledge of that individual or any activities he may have been involved with."

    Our final wishes? That doesn't matter.

    More Media Pet Peeves

    4) Enemies Expect More Talk Before Being Killed: One other thing movies have really changed is that our enemies are always expecting us to engage them in more banter. I'll be honest; I'm not the most loquacious guy when I'm trying to kill somebody. I could be the odd man out on this. But most of the time, if I don't need any further information from you, I'm going to finish you off as quickly as I can; be it a bullet to the head, a breaking of the neck, or a live electrical wire to the groin. Call me anti-social, but I don't think the movies do us any favors portraying us all as talkative, curious sort of chums. I've noticed lately that whenever a deadly encounter between me and a villain occurs, there is always this look of surprise and positive disappointment in their eyes when I end their life as quickly as I am humanly able. It's almost as if I'm reading in their eyes, "Why didn't you ask me why I decided to turn to a life of crime instead of becoming the next CEO of my father's company?", or "Weren't you curious how I decoded your secret radio transmissions?", or, sometimes, "Why couldn't our fight have been more prolonged and exciting?" And this kind of stuff wears on me. I start to think I might have done something wrong.

    Just a few thoughts before I head into the office. Later, folks.

    I Blame The Media

    My last post about Tom Cruise may have seemed a tad vitriolic to the observant eye. It's nothing personal against him, but rather a frustration with the 'Mission: Impossible' franchise and similar movies. A Swiss friend of mine and I were corresponding about this problem recently and we basically agree it boils down to a problem of 'high expectations', from everyone; our colleagues, our bosses, our contacts, even our enemies.


    The following are some serious problems that we agreed on.

    1)Face Masks: In these M:I movies and I think in some other ones, like Charlie's Angels, there's people ripping masks off their faces like every ten minutes. Somebody like L.L. Cool J will be talking and walking around and being as black as can be, and then he rips off his face mask and it's Alicia Silverstone from 'Clueless' under there or some such nonsense. It's ridiculous. My biggest problem with this, (and I'm sure I'm gonna get some similar shoutouts from my colleagues) is that nobody in the field believes who we say we are anymore. For instance, this happened recently; I was meeting an important contact of mine right outside the North Korean border, a highly ranked general, close to the Jongster and everything, somebody who is risking their life to talk to me, and he's getting all skittish all of a sudden. "How do I know you're not wearing a mask?" he's asking me now. "You could be Park Doo Sung under there." (I had no idea who he was talking about either.) So I'm like, "Come on, S----, I might also be an under-cover Taepodong missile, if you want to get paranoid." And this is a guy who's met with me multiple times. You can imagine trying to get people to trust you when everyone's watching too many movies and thinks the spy game's like a fucking Broadway production of CATS.

    2) Torture Methods, Lack of Trust in: Did you see Mission Impossible: III?(Spoiler Alert!!!) You know that scene when Philip Seymour Hoffman shoots Tom Cruise's wife in front of him? I really liked that scene; it had the ring of truth there that these movies seldom have. I was like, finally, a movie that's getting gritty and realistic about the dangers of this line of work. Nope, as it turns out, Philip Seymour Hoffman just got somebody else to wear a fucking mask (masks again) so that it looked like Tom Cruise's wife. Talk about a cop-out.

    But how this affects our work is that now when you're setting up an intimidation scenario, where you want to make someone talk, there's always all these fucking questions now. Like we get this Congolese warlord in for some serious questioning; some life or death questioning because he's been holding some foreign aid workers captive and his people have been eating parts of them (I shit you not!) and we're trying to find out where they are. So we manage to find his two children, who were living in the Sudan at the time, and we're no holds barred at this point, so we point heat at the kids and threaten to blow their heads off if he doesn't give up some information. He just sits there and laughs, and asks us if those are really his children, because he's seen how we Americans always put people in masks and pretend to be other people. And this guy's in the middle of the jungle. "Must be Netflix," runs through my head.

    "How do I know those are my kids?" he asks. Like we have this elaborate plan that involves hiring midget actors and using all types of body coloration and disguise and training them so that they cry on cue just like actual scared-to-death children. So we get nowhere with the warlord, and we end up shooting the kids out of pure frustration, and the bastard doesn't even seem to care. Now obviously part of this is just bad parenting, but the influence of these movies on these situations is apparent.

    Technology Expectations: People just are expecting way too much from the technology these days. Big surprise, when you've got all these movies acting like the federal government is made of money. Very seldom do I get the equipment I really want when I go out on assignment, and if I'm not getting it, I know everyone else is having a hard time. The tech aspect is a big deal to recruits, who think they'll be working with all kinds of cool toys once they get in. And we do quite honestly drum this aspect up to get people in the door, (much like those military ad campaigns where they pretend that people will learn useful skills for later in life.) But people are always disappointed when they get in the program and learn that it's hard sometimes to just get a simple transponder. I even had to resort to buying my own GPS device, because checking one out of the lab was such a chore. (I'm sure my colleagues have plenty of equipment stories of their own to share.)

    And then this stuff doesn't work like it's supposed to. My biggest letdown when it comes to equipment was an assignment in the Ukraine, in the Zhytomyr province. This was back in '94, I believe. For purposes of isolating a divisionist terrorist group in the nearby town, blowing up a bridge on the Teteriv river was called for. For this mission I was travelling light, so the White Ghost and the boys at the lab had come up with a pen bomb; it was actually a miniature nuclear device, basically a miniature A-bomb inside a rather large, unwieldy pen (the pen even wrote). For protection from the radiation, I had to wear a lead pocket-protector, which fit my cover, as I was supposed to be a visiting English professor studying the culture of the region for a book. Anyway, I clicked the thing 10 times, which armed it, and left it on the bridge, and walked away. 20 minutes later, I'm an hour away, and the thing hasn't gone off. And I can't get back because I'm involved in a hostage negotiation situation with a room full of scared nuns. So that was a failure of technology right there. Never retrieved the pen, so somewhere out there there's a kid probably dying of testicular cancer from carrying that thing in his pocket. That is, if he hasn't already stepped on a loose landmine. (A big problem over there.)

    This is just the start of the list. Got to run.

    Does Scientology Cause You To Shrink?

    Ummm. Did someone doctor this photo? Was Tom Cruise actually ten feet behind Katie Holmes to achieve this optical illusion? Or is he just actually this small? This looks like that scene in Lord of the Rings when Gandolph is hanging out with Bilbo Baggins in the Shire. I knew he was small, but this photo makes this pregnant waif Holmes look like she's a freaking Amazon. Good to get this off my chest.

    Half the story, again

    This is so typical of the New York Times. They're always only getting half the story. Check out this article on the dwindling numbers of Zoroastrians. Yeah, it's tough for them to marry, yeah their traditions are getting diluted, blah blah... But what about the difficulty for spooks to infiltrate the group, huh? How about that?

    Man, I had a mission about 4 years ago to get inside a congregation in Atlanta. That was one of the hardest missions I've ever done... and I didn't even get shot at!

    You see, normally with these religious groups, all you have to is put on the blank stare, do some chanting, and shout, "Death to whomever!" and you're totally in. And if it isn't a Christian group, than you just have a few other customs to get down. But the Zoroastrians... yeesh!

    First of all, there's so few that they all know each other. So you're constantly getting, "Hey, I haven't seen you before. Are you Hamed's cousin? Have you met my daughter?" Or if they do start to recognize you, its, "Hey, I know you... You still haven't gone out with my daughter yet, though. Let me hook you crazy kids up!"

    So that's why the job was so rough. In the spy business, anonimity is your friend. That's why the Klan is like a fuckin' vay-cay. You put on the damn hood, drink some beer in Cletus' backyard, maybe you march around, light some fires. By the end of the weekend you've usually not only got the guy you wanted on tape spoutin' off about the crime that he did or was planning to commit, but you've usually also got some asshole on beastiality charges too. Best part is since you were wearing a hood, you can come back next month and get some other dumb bastard!

    Those jobs are the best, but the Zoroastrians are a completely different story. I can't give you the details of the situation (basically it was about protecting some priest who was the target of a centuries old vendetta from the old country, typical stuff.) I was successful in the mission, and I also got more tail that month than I'd seen since that job in Canada. Still, it wasn't easy.

    And if I can make one final comment on the Zoroastrians and their prospects for the future, let's just take a look at the facts here:
    1. They encourage women to have careers.
    2. They believe in free will, even in matters of religion.
    3. They don't proselytize.
    4. They don't believe that you require a physical church.
    5. Their basic doctrine is, "Good thoughts, good words, good deeds."
    Folks, it's time to look around and face facts. You're out of step with the modern world here. Just give it up.

    It wasn't that exciting, C

    First off, let me say; I'm not one to kiss and tell. It's not that it goes against my character; I am in fact prohibited from talking about my social life to anyone who doesn't have proper clearance. But since Operative C has definitely violated several company clauses with his last post (and Mr. Hyde will be contacting you, C.) I felt the need for a rebuttal.

    It is a matter of public record that I was in the French Riviera during all of December of last year and January of this year, and there is no proof that I left the country during that time. I was actually playing a lot of 7 stud poker at the Monte Carlo (one of my favorite spots) and there are many influential people that can attest to my presence there at that time. Having said that, it is conceivable that I was also somehow at the Japanese Imperial Palace at that time. Stranger things have happened. :)

    There is something that we in the business call 'Supersperm'. It is a genetically modified, very concentrated form of seminal fluid that is almost perfect in its purpose. Unless a woman is completely barren, her ovaries are going to get with the program when this stuff hits her system. (In an unrelated sidebar, the stuff is almost impossible to get out of bedsheets. Something I've learned the hard way.) More famous people than I can tell you about are products of this stuff. It is especially in demand in imperial and despotic regimes, for obvious reasons.

    Operative C makes it sound like this was some shady operation, but it wasn't, (or it wouldn't be if it had ever even happened) in the slightest. Princess Kiko's heir will be an influential player in Japanese politics in about 20 years, and the fact that this child is being born into her household is no arbitrary decision. I can't speak about this in any more depth. Just rest assured, there's not going to be any Pearl Harbors any time soon.

    I definitely will not delve into the specifics of what happened in the royal bedroom, because of course nothing did happen because I was probably in the French Riviera playing a little game called seven stud. But I will say that there were certain equipment problems and I did have to improvise, as I am wont to do. Whilst being modest, I will say that MacGuyver couldn't have done a better job with the tools at hand, (even if he wasn't a homosexual).

    Also, I have been with many Japanese women, a good number of them at the same time (A Tokyo Hilton, 1986, I believe it was), and Kiko exhibited a sexual appetite and creativity that I have only heretofore associated with the women of an indigenous Chilean mountain tribe I visited long ago. I'm digressing here, and saying more than I should, but it really made me nostalgic for my work in the Peace Corps.

    The story behind the story behind the story of the Chrysanthemum Throne

    Well, I just got back from the shooting range, where I was practicing with a French "AN IX" cavalry pistol. It's the weapon that Napoleon issued to his cavalry soldiers in the early 1800's. Mainly used for volleying and close quarters, the "AN IX" was, and still is, a deadly little hand cannon.

    You might wonder why I would be practicing with such an old and exotic weapon, but we practice with all sorts of out-of-date weapons in order to give ourselves every advantage in case of an "unplanned scenario". In fact, this very weapon came to my aide back in 1998 in Shropshire. I was in a gentleman friend of mine's game room when the butler revealed himself to be an assassin trained in Ninjitsu. I quickly shoved my dear friend into a broom closet and proceeded to fend off the brute using a blend of Systema and Krav Maga. Things were going pretty well, and I was gaining the upper hand, but then suddenly my friend emerged from the closet to see if the battle was over and if I needed a refresher for my drink.

    Well we were fighting in front of the closet door when he opened it (I should have seen that coming), and the sudden introduction of space between myself and my adversary gave him opportunity to reach for his throwing stars. I barely had time to shut the door again on my host and dive behind the snooker table as the shuriken splintered the wood on the table and around the mantelpiece.

    At that point I'd had enough of our little spar and decided to end it at the point of the Beretta I usually keep concealed in an ankle holster when I'm wearing a tux. Well I'll be damned if I hadn't left the pistol at home for the evening in favor of my Glock 33 in a shoulder holster, which was currently hanging on the back of a chair on the other side of the room with my jacket (you see, we were heading out to the opera that evening and would be going through a part of town where I prefer to keep more fire power closer at hand). This turn left me in a particularly tight spot, pinned down by an armed assailant from across the room.

    I knew I didn't have a lot of time before he came over to finish me off, and while I was quickly weighing my options I happened to glance up and spot the AN IX my friend had perched on display over the hearth. Without stopping to think whether the damn thing was loaded, I sprung from the floor, grabbing the weapon and cocking the hammer in one fluid motion as I dove to my right and fired a fearsome round into my attacker's chest.

    As I picked myself off the ground, my friend emerged once more from the closet, pausing momentarily to assess the carnage, and then again offered me that drink. You've got to hand it to the Brits, they certainly do know how to entertain properly (and we even managed to make it to the show on time after disposing of the body!)

    In any case, my point is that in our line of work it's important to be both prepared and ready to improvise. Which is what brings me to the story you might recently have heard about the birth of a proper successor to the Japanese Imperial Throne.

    Now I wouldn't normally share this kind of information, but I just got back from the range, I've got my '68 Glendronach in hand, and I've got a story that's just too good not to share...

    So, as you probably already know, they've had a big problem in Japan with Princess Masako not being able to produce a male heir to the throne. Add to that Prince Akishino and Princess Kiko, whose kids would be next in line, only had girls, and weren't into trying another time. This had a bunch of old-line folks over there in a tizzy, and let's just say that certain elements wanted the situation resolved. OK, so into the scene steps Zulu Echo.

    Now, I'm not saying that there was a mission, but if there was, let's say that Zulu Echo's task was to slip into the royal chambers in the dead of night and impregnate the princess (and don't get the wrong idea here, he had the necessary medical equipment, and a vial of a certain Prince's semen with the correct sperm separated to guarantee a male heir).

    OK, so now if you've got a picture of the situation, he's slinking across room in his stealth getup, he removes the equipment from his satchel, and as he's getting ready to attach the vial to the apparatus the princess turns over and purrs, "There you are..." Which she said in Japanese, of course, which Zulu Echo understood, of course, since he's fluent in like 40 freakin' languages. And he drops the equipment, which breaks on the floor.

    Now, at this point, most any rational person would be saying to himself, "How the fuck did I let my life get to the point that I'm standing here in the Japanese royal bedchambers talking to a princess while in black pajamas holding a vial of doctored sperm?" Fortunately, Zulu Echo is not just any rational person. He quickly remembers, perhaps a moment too late, that the princess has many males of employ that visit her in the evenings in black garb. And in a cool moment of brilliance he excuses himself to get her another glass of sake to replace the one that he "broke" on the floor. He goes into the hall, subdues the waiting gigolo, and returns from the kitchen a short time later with a warm glass of sake and a turkey baster. A few moments of impressive gymnastics later, and he escapes through a vent in the floor. And nine months later the Japanese succession issue is resolved!

    So again, my point is, be prepared, and be ready to improvise. And keep a cool head. You'll need that too.

    Wouldn't Recommend Afghanistan for a Vacation


    That is, unless you really like opium. The poppy fields are quite stunning this time of year.

    “This year’s harvest will be around 6,100 metric tons of opium — a staggering 92 percent of total world supply. It exceeds global consumption by 30 percent,” said Antonio Costa, the executive director of the U.N. Office on Drugs and Crime.

    Afghanistan's in really bad shape, with the Taliban insurgents making more and more of the country an anarchical cesspool, and the small numbers of Afghani police and military the U.S. and a few other countries have tried to train under the spell of corruption. It's not nearly as bad as the fiasco in Iraq, so it's not going to get the headlines. Unlike Iraq, at least, most Afghanis were happy to think that we might step in and do some good in their country, as the majority of their citizens have been disgusted with their situation since the last American-induced renaissance in the 60's and 70's, but our initial efforts at reconstruction, just as in Iraq, proved that it just wasn't as simple a thing as the administration thought it might be. And after the U.S. got started in Iraq, they let things slide in Afghanistan.

    Right now the Taliban is busy encouraging farmers to grow more opium in exchange for protection. The Taliban is making good profit from the sales. Also it is believed that by pitting farmers against anti-drug groups, the Afghani farmers will get angry at the foreign influences trying to take away their only source of money.

    If you do decide to try Afghanistan for a vacation spot this year, I'd recommend staying within crowded spaces and not going off by yourself or in small groups on secluded roads or open area. You will probably get shot.

    Agent Sierra, Hello Again, I Think

    Though I've never had the privilege of officially meeting our colleague Sierra, I have a strong feeling that we worked together in Burma in '98. Though of course our code names were not even exchanged, my intuition told me that the svelte yet powerfully physical black-wigged woman helping infiltrate the SLORC was indeed the legendary Sierra. I believe you used the name Me-Yung. I know that you can't confirm or deny this, Sierra, but I wanted you to know that I thought we did some great work there, the opinions of the nihilistic diplomats aside. I know that the Hollywood stuff they've got you on now is a far cry from Myanmar, but we both know the real importance of this Scientology/Tom Cruise issue, especially now with the impending North Korea connections.

    05 September 2006

    So Sumner Redstone calls...

    And he says, "C, I need you to kill Tom Cruise for me."

    I pause for a moment, and then I said, "Sumner, first of all, haven't you already taken care of this? And, second, how did you get this number?"

    So he goes, "C, no, I have not done enough. Public humiliation is never enough for these people, if you care to call them that, especially once they've drank kool-aid over at spaceland. No, this guy needs to be dead. And I'm surprised that you, of all people, would ask me how I got this number. You know that I'm very well connected."

    Bullshit, I'm thinking, as he says this to me. There's something else going on here besides an old-man vendetta against a creepy, Ken-doll pedophile. So I decide that I'm not going to take his bait.

    "Sorry, Sumner," I said, "I work for other, more important, people than you. How about you get the guys in effects to go make a clip where he gets blown up. In a couple of weeks I doubt you'll even realize that it didn't happen, as long as you tell your handlers now to go along with the charade. Or just go run him down in your Bentley. I'm sure you've gotten off for worse than that. Again, though, how did you get my number?"

    So then he says, "C'mon, C, are you chicken or something? You afraid of Ethan Hunt, the most dangerous Impossible Mission agent in the World? Don't think you can handle him, do ya?"

    I said, "Look, Sum, I'm not afraid of any man alive, let alone one that needs to worship space aliens so he can sleep at night in his cryogenic chamber. And Lord knows that I shouldn't even need a reason to kill him after that pathetic spy portrayal that he's been slingin' the past few years. And if I have to see another gawddam John Wu pigeon routine I'm going to have smoke comin' out of my ears like one of those crummy mini-DV players that you guys keep trying to pawn off as worthy spy-tech. BUT, I'm not going to do any of your Hollywood grudge-killing. That's not how I roll. I have standards."

    So he pauses for a moment and says, "Well, the offer's on the table. You can reach me in the usual manner."

    "Fine, Sumner." And I hung up.

    Freakin' Hollywood moguls are always pulling this shit. They can never tell the difference between fantasy and reality, the dumb bastards. How the hell did he get my number, though? I need to get White Ghost on this...

    I've killed men over less

    But never out of anger, like this. I only do it when instructed. It doesn't matter to me why people must be dead, or tortured, only that they are, and that it's carried out in a professional manner.

    All that said, much respect to Zidane. That headbutt was executed perfectly. I was once in a bar fight in Turkey, and fellow operative, Deep32, did that same move. It's really a thing of beauty when you do it right, and totally caught our 7 foot tall, Russian assailant off guard. Still, Zidane, while trained to do the move for sport, translated it perfectly to attacking a person. It's that kind of creativity and versatility that could make him an ideal operative for the French.

    Of course, being a French operative is like being a cross-dresser with a beard. You can always pick those jerks out in the their stupid berets.

    Launch Party

    I have to admit I'm glad I attended the little 'launch party' this evening. I was afraid it'd just be another dry company affair, an excuse to bring us up to date on some problems in the Middle East or Angola, or to get us accustomed to some new techno gadgetry from the White Ghost's lab. So it was going to be another night of staying at home for me, practicing my Mongolian-inflected Arabic (not easy) for my upcoming assignment. Then O.C. called me up and convinced me the get-together just might be off-the-hook. And indeed, I was pleasantly surprised. Not a mention of business the whole night, at least not to me (maybe they're starting to understand why I don't come to these things). The food was excellent, as usual. Gazpacho, grilled Dead Sea salmon and pesto-flavored chicken, made with a genetically-engineered basil grown right in Durango's own company garden. To finish it all off, a surprisingly sweet Thai watermelon for dessert. Not to mention the 'entertainment' provided by a local outfit that unfortunately has gone out of business since our soiree. Their services were adequate, but everyone agreed they were a trifle too interested in what the company was all about. Trop mauvais.

    It was nice for the company to let us out to have our little fun for our sort-of 'going public' party. It's nice to be reminded that life isn't all about the mundane. When you're on the road, it's easy to forget that there're other things besides retrieving a certain kidnapped Saudi Arabian princess, or subduing the opium/heroin trade in Afghanistan, or getting to the bottom of terrorist activities targetting a range of Chinese nuclear power plants. (And those are just the things I can mention!) You forget about the little things, the things that really matter. Like sports and entertainment news. And though we like to joke in this business that we're addicted to stress, all of this constant activity can truthfully get a bit tiresome. It's nice to be able to talk about some relatively normal things with the relatively normal public, which is why I got involved in this venture in the first place. Though of course we still have to keep most of our shit secret, it is nice to be able to let off a little steam in a public forum. For now, mes amis....

    Bon Chance and
    Au Revoir,
    Zulu Echo

    The Numbers Station Launch Party

    We had our launch party tonight at an undisclosed location in the desert. It was pretty sweet with lots of cool people that we can't talk about. Here are some photos.

    Here's Operative C with Zulu Echo and "The White Ghost", our accountant.

    This chick was getting pretty rowdy. We had to kill her later.

    You can tell by the look on Zulu Echo's face that he was thinking about which torture method to use on her. In the back are Delta4 and Larry, they're both in HR.

    "Miguel" and Peterson. I can't talk about "Miguel", but Peterson handles all of our wire transfers and party planning.

    This drunk broad in the center is actually the deadliest assassin in the western hemisphere. Not only can she hit a quarter at 1500 yards with a sniper rifle, but she also makes a mean daquari. On the right is Durango, our janitor.

    Here's The White Ghost again. In addition to accounting, he also makes neat gizmos for us to use while we're on assignment. One of the ones that we're now allowed to talk about is a laptop with a built in GPS, TAZER, and bottle opener. That thing was sick, and got me out of more than a few tight spots.

    These are just some hookers that we got for the party. We killed them all later.

    Here's G-Force, our dog/mascot/confidante. That may look like corn but it's actually a human spleen. A lot of folks don't know what those do or what they look like. I won't let you in on their sinister purpose here, but that's what one looks like. Dogs really like them.

    So that's all from our launch party. Obviously a lot of other stuff happened, but we really can't talk about all that shit because it's classified. Also, I'm sorry that so much of the photos have been obscured, but we really need to protect the identies of our people.