Cia Guy Quotes

New Rule: Conspiracy theorists who are claiming that we didn't really kill Bin Laden must be reminded that they didn't think he did the crime in the first place. Come on, nutjobs, keep your bullshit straight: The towers were brought down in a controlled demolition by George W. Bush to distract attention from Hawaii, where CIA operatives were planting phony birth records so that a Kenyan named Barack Obama could someday rise to power and pretend to take out the guy we pretended took out the Towers. And I know that's true because I just got it in an e-mail from Trump.

If by peace, you mean terrorized to my bones of rotting in jail, then sure, let’s call that peace

He checked out his surrounding. More books. A drinking fountain. A poster showing a guy slam-dunking a basketball with one hand and holding a book in the other, urging kids to READ! Weird, thought Steve. How can he even see the hoop? ... You see, Steven, Librarians are the most elite, best trained secret force in the United States of America. Probably in the world." "No way." "Yes way." "What about the FBI?" "Featherweights." "The CIA?" Mackintosh snorted. "Don't make me laugh. Those guys can't even dunk a basketball andd read a book at the same time.

Snowden said carefully, 'I've been unable to get in touch with the person I thought might know about our mutual friend's difficulty.' The guy sounded like he worked for the CIA. Or Charles Dickens.

We both know the world overflows with secrets, most of them kept by bad people trying to do bad things. Those secrets are choking truth, democracy, and compassion to death.

Rule number one. The good guys always win. Rule number two. If the good guys lose, we play again.

Both at the CIA and the White House, almost everyone involved in the closely held planning knew what was likely: The tribal agents would say that they were going to try to take bin Laden captive, but in fact they would launch what CIA officers referred to as “the Afghan ambush,” in which you “open up with everything you have, shoot everybody that’s out there, and then let God sort ’em out,” as Gary Schroen put it. Schroen figured that the agents would return to them and say, “We killed the big guy. I’m sorry.

To fall from a place of intellectual celebrity to a place where he barely knows how to add to a conversation lays another blow to a once secure, even arrogant, self-esteem.

Okay, either this guy was hiding his good qualities with all the skill and dedication of a highly trained CIA operative, or he was just a douche-bag.  

I understand the CIA has bigger stuff to do than figure out why some guy’s manual on do-it-yourself hair restoration got jacked up, but is it so much to ask that we could get a little FBI/X-files attention when some honest-to-goodness, real live, supernatural, ghost shit goes down? I think not.

Its unforgettable grandiosity may have hidden a more prosaic truth: that a few rich guys had gotten in over their heads with an unstable ex-con.

The CIA had been covering Cuba with U-2 flights for years. And then, in August 1962, they hit pay dirt and came up with the pictures that showed the Russians were planting ballistic missiles right next door, SS-4s and SS-5s. When Kennedy was shown the site constructions, he asked, “How do we know these sites are being manned?” They showed Kennedy a picture taken from 72,000 feet, showing a worker taking a dump in an outdoor latrine. The picture was so clear you could see that guy reading a newspaper.

Court played his role to the hilt now, cocking his head as if he were wondering if the person asking the question might possibly be mentally deranged. “The CIA? You think I bought my way free of the Agency? I fucking shot my way out, pal.” He rolled his eyes. “Pay off the CIA? They don’t need me to pay them off. They are part of the U.S. federal government, the guys that print U.S. dollars, or didn’t you know?” Dai asked his next question in a flat, emotionless voice. “Did you arrive in a Dassault Falcon yesterday?

Here is one thing that the disorganized CIA didn’t quite understand at the time, and that no major American employer outside of Silicon Valley understood, either: the computer guy knows everything, or rather can know everything. The higher up this employee is, and the more systems-level privileges he has, the more access he has to virtually every byte of his employer’s digital existence. Of course, not everyone is curious enough to take advantage of this education, and not everyone is possessed of a sincere curiosity.

After receiving such a warm welcome, it sounded to me like the Directorate of Intelligence had placed me on the CIA’s “don’t screw with this guy list”. This list was something of an urban legend throughout The Company. Once on it, you had it made. Everyone at the CIA would go out of his or her way to be helpful and red tape would magically vanish for you. It meant that you had a very powerful patron at the top levels of the Agency. I may have been hustled out of Headquarters but I apparently still had a very powerful friend in high places.

We knew that some guys that looked as though they were al-Qaeda-associated were traveling to KL,” said a senior CIA official, referring to Kuala Lumpur. “We didn’t know what they were going to do there. We were trying to find that. And we were concerned that there might be an attack, because it wasn’t just Mihdhar and Hazmi, it was also ‘eleven young guys’—which was a term that was used for operatives traveling. We didn’t have the names of the others, and on Hazmi we only had his first name, ‘Nawaf.’ So the concern was: What are they doing? Is this a prelude to an attack in KL—what’s happening here?

Manson spent his earliest years in neglect. When he was still an infant, his mother would leave him to go on benders with her brother, during one of which the pair decided to rob a guy who looked wealthy. Within hours, they’d been arrested, and Manson’s mother was imprisoned for several years. He was eight when she was released, and they spent the next months with a succession of unreliable men in seamy locales, his mom racking up another arrest for grand larceny.

Dostum offered this exoneration as evidence of his loyalty to the Americans. But his conviction that the Americans were by his side during the incident raised another set of difficult questions about whether the Special Forces and CIA personnel witnessed any of the communications between Dostum and his commanders about the murders, and failed to either stop them, or report them after the fact. Nutsch told me he knew of no abuses. “My team has been investigated multiple times over this,” he said. “We did not witness, nor observe, anything.” Just as Dostum considered the American special forces blood brothers, the camaraderie was apparent on Nutsch’s side. “I saw him as a charismatic leader. Led from the front. Took care of his guys,” he added. In a celebratory Hollywood rendition of 595’s collaboration with Dostum called 12 Strong, Nutsch was portrayed, with exaggerated brawn and smolder, by Chris Hemsworth, the actor who played the superhero Thor. Nutsch grew testy when I asked a series of questions about the more complicated realities of the story. “Dostum’s enemies are the ones accusing him of these things,” he said. When I told him Dostum had admitted the killings may have occurred, and suggested two of his commanders may have been involved, Nutsch paused, then replied, “I don’t have a reaction to that.

Some of the guys said he’s been macking on this little brunette who works in operations.” “What, are you jealous?” Oh my God, why did I say that? As the SOG, or Special Operations Group, team leader, Colt was one of the few men who knew what Meg really did for the CIA. He’d been around the block a few times, and with multiple tours in Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan, he had a disarming manner that Meg found sexy. It didn’t hurt that he was good-looking and believed she was an asset for the Algiers station. The only problem was that he treated Meg like she was his little sister. “Why would I be jealous?” he asked with a confused look that annoyed the hell out of Meg

One particularly distressing example of the high cost to feminist progress exacted by the war is what happened in Pakistan after the capture of Osama bin Laden in Abbottabad, Pakistan, in 2011. In the run-up to his capture, the CIA and the U.S. military allegedly worked with the charity Save the Children in hiring Dr. Shakil Afridi, a Pakistani physician, to run a fake Hepatitis B vaccination program as a front for their surveillance operations.15 Per CIA instructions, Dr. Afridi and a female healthcare worker visited the bin Laden compound under the guise of administering vaccinations and managed to gain access, although they did not see bin Laden. In 2012, all foreign Save the Children staff were expelled from Pakistan, and in 2015, the entire organization there was required to shut its doors, despite having denied (and continuing to deny) that it was involved in this effort. The CIA managed to get their guy, but when the Pakistanis, irate at not having been told about the raid, expelled U.S. military trainers from Islamabad, they were immediately threatened with a cut of the $800 million aid package that the U.S. had promised, thus exposing yet again the coercive power that aid wields. The loss of aid money was not, however, the worst impact of the tragedy. As the British medical journal The Lancet reported, the unintended victims of the tragedy were the millions of Pakistani children whose parents now refused to have them vaccinated amidst rising rates of polio, a disease that vaccination had essentially extinguished in Western countries by the mid-twentieth century.16 In their view, if the CIA could hire a doctor to run a fake vaccine program, then the whole premise of vaccinations became untrustworthy. Within a few years of the raid, Pakistan had 60 percent of all the world’s confirmed polio cases.17

But you don't have to my word for it that Russia and Putin are being unfairly scapegoated. Even Nadezhda Tolokonnikova- the founder of the Russian punk group Pussy Riot, whose members were imprisoned in Russia in response to their anti-government protest at an Orthodox Church- recently expressed such an opinion. As Tolokonnikova explained in an interview with David Sirota in the International Business Times, "I'm not terrified of him {Putin} at all. I don't think you have to be terrified of him. He's just a guy who claims that he has power, but I claim to have power too and you have power....If you talk here about mainstream liberal media in America, which speak a lot about Putin, I think it's just a trick....They don't really want to talk about internal American problems....They're just looking for a scapegoat and, you know, for Trump it's Muslims and Mexican workers. And for liberal media in America it is Putin.

QUOTES & SAYINGS OF RYAN MORAN- THE WORLD'S MOST POWERFUL MAN Favorite Sayings of Ryan Moran: The World's Most Powerful Man “Sometimes the withholding of a small part of the truth is not only wise, but prudent.” “There is one principle that bars all other principles, and that is contempt prior to investigation.” (Ryan was fond of paraphrasing Herbert Spencer) “What do you mean?”, “How do you know?”, “So what?” “I don’t need much, just one meal a day, a pack of cigarettes and a roof over my head.” “Well…, we must have different data bases, mustn’t we?” “This guy is more squirrely than a shithouse rat” The CIA—you know, the ‘Catholic Irish Alcoholics’ “That dumb fuck.” “Oye! A Jew and an Irishman—what a team!” “Okay, everybody, up and to the right ten thousand feet,” ( If things in general were not going well. Refers to his jet flying days) “Is that what you want to do?.....Are you sure?" “Curiosity is self serving,” “If you don’t know where you’re going, you will end up somewhere else.” “So…, what are you thinking?” “I can do anything that I want, as long as I have the desire and I am willing to pay the price.” (His working definition of honesty) “Well, what did you learn tonight?” “Don’t let your emotions get the best of you, and don’t get too far out into your future.” “If you meet someone in the middle of the desert and he asks you where the next water hole is, you had better tell him the truth. If you don’t, then the next time you meet, he will kill you.” “Damn it!” “And remember to watch your mirrors!” (Refers to the fact someone may be following us in the car) “A person either gets humble or gets humiliated.” “That’s right.” “Oye, Sheldon, a Jew and an Irishman—talk about guilt and suffering!” “Pigs grow fat, but hogs get slaughtered.” “A friend is someone who is coming in, when everyone else is going out.

If I had lied to the CIA, perhaps I might have passed a test. Instead of writing a book about the White House, I’d be poisoning a drug kingpin with a dart gun concealed inside a slightly larger dart gun, or making love to a breathy supermodel in the interest of national security. I’ll never know. I confessed to smoking pot two months before. The sunniness vanished from my interviewer’s voice. “Normally we like people who break the rules,” Skipper told me, “but we can’t consider anyone who’s used illegal substances in the past twelve months.” Just like that, my career as a terrorist hunter was over. I thought my yearning for higher purpose would vanish with my CIA dreams, the way a Styrofoam container follows last night’s Chinese food into the trash. To my surprise, it stuck around. In the weeks that followed, I pictured myself in all sorts of identities: hipster, world traveler, banker, white guy who plays blues guitar. But these personas were like jeans a half size too small. Trying them on gave me an uncomfortable gut feeling and put my flaws on full display. My search for replacement selves began in November. By New Year’s Eve I was mired in the kind of existential funk that leads people to find Jesus, or the Paleo diet, or Ayn Rand. Instead, on January 3, I found a candidate. I was on an airplane when I discovered him, preparing for our initial descent into JFK. This was during the early days of live in-flight television, and I was halfway between the Home Shopping Network and one of the lesser ESPNs when I stumbled across coverage of a campaign rally in Iowa. Apparently, a caucus had just finished. Speeches were about to begin. With nothing better to occupy my time, I confirmed that my seat belt was fully fastened. I made sure my tray table was locked. Then, with the arena shrunk to fit my tiny seatback screen, I watched a two-inch-tall guy declare victory. It’s not like I hadn’t heard about Barack Obama. I had heard his keynote speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention. His presidential campaign had energized my more earnest friends. But I was far too mature to take them seriously. They supported someone with the middle name Hussein to be president of the United States. While they were at it, why not cast a ballot for the Tooth Fairy? Why not nominate Whoopi Goldberg for pope?

At Ardennes she conceived a desire to strangle the young woman who prepped and held down garde manger. The woman, Becky Hemerling, was a culinary-institute grad with wavy blond hair and a petite flat body and fair skin that turned scarlet in the kitchen heat. Everything about Becky Hemerling sickened Denise—her C.I.A. education (Denise was an autodidact snob), her overfamiliarity with more senior cooks (especially with Denise), her vocal adoration of Jodie Foster, the stupid fish-and-bicycle texts on her T-shirts, her overuse of the word “fucking” as an intensifier, her self-conscious lesbian “solidarity” with the “latinos” and “Asians” in the kitchen, her generalizations about “right-wingers” and “Kansas” and “Peoria,” her facility with phrases like “men and women of color,” the whole bright aura of entitlement that came of basking in the approval of educators who wished that they could be as marginalized and victimized and free of guilt as she was. What is this person doing in my kitchen? Denise wondered. Cooks were not supposed to be political. Cooks were the mitochondria of humanity; they had their own separate DNA, they floated in a cell and powered it but were not really of it. Denise suspected that Becky Hemerling had chosen the cooking life to make a political point: to be one tough chick, to hold her own with the guys. Denise loathed this motivation all the more for harboring a speck of it herself. Hemerling had a way of looking at her that suggested that she (Hemerling) knew her better than she knew herself—an insinuation at once infuriating and impossible to refute. Lying awake beside Emile at night, Denise imagined squeezing Hemerling’s neck until her blue, blue eyes bugged out. She imagined pressing her thumbs into Hemerling’s windpipe until it cracked.    Then one night she fell asleep and dreamed that she was strangling Becky and that Becky didn’t mind. Becky’s blue eyes, in fact, invited further liberties. The strangler’s hands relaxed and traveled up along Becky’s jawline and past her ears to the soft skin of her temples. Becky’s lips parted and her eyes fell shut, as if in bliss, as the strangler stretched her legs out on her legs and her arms out on her arms…    Denise couldn’t remember being sorrier to wake from a dream.    “If you can have this feeling in a dream,” she said to herself, “it must be possible to have it in reality.

Jon Stewart: [at anchor desk] The media, of course, must walk a fine line covering this story. With more we turn to Steve Carell in the Daily Show news center. Steve? Steve Carell: [standing in front of a bank of TV monitors] Jon, this is in many ways an unprecedented situation for us. [A blue band with white letters—the “crawl,” or “chyron” in TV lingo—scrolls across the screen, at Carell’s waist level] Crawl: MAJORITY LEADER DASCHLE RECEIVES LETTER CONTAINING ANTHRAX. Steve Carell: On the one hand, we must alert the country to the latest events. Crawl: AL QAEDA VOWS NEW ATTACKS. Steve Carell: And on the other hand, we musn’t cause undue alarm. Crawl: FBI WARNS SOMETHING BAD TO HAPPEN SOMEWHERE SOMETIME. Steve Carell: Scaremongering isn’t the way to go. Crawl: WHITE POWDER FOUND ON DONUT IN ST. LOUIS. Steve Carell: So far the media has in fact shown restraint. Crawl: STORMS BATTER NEW ENGLAND—LINK TO TERRORISM STILL UNDETERMINED. Steve Carell: And I must stress this—there is absolutely no need to panic. Crawl: [picking up speed as it moves left to right] CIA: THAT GUY SITTING ACROSS FROM YOU ON THE BUS LOOKS A LITTLE SHIFTY. Steve Carell: Patience, diligence, and above all, responsibility. Crawl: A FRIEND OF THIS GUY I KNOW CONFIRMS HIS GIRLFRIEND TOLD HIM “THEY’RE PLANNING SOMETHING IN A MALL OR SOMETHING.” Steve Carell: Jon, we have a job to do here, but we also need perspective. Crawl: [accelerating] OH, F—! WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? SERIOUSLY, DID YOU HEAR A SOUND? Steve Carell: And in keeping that perspective— Crawl: “THE HORROR, THE HORROR”—KURTZ. POLL: 91% OF AMERICANS “WANT MOMMY.” Steve Carell: Okay, that was—no, no, no, that was unacceptable. Jon, would you excuse me for a minute? [walks out of frame] Crawl: CHICKEN LITTLE: “THE SKY IS FALLING! THE SKY IS FALLING!” OH GOD, OH GOD. [Carell confronts technician typing the crawl, beats him up as screen goes snowy] Jon Stewart: We’re having some technical difficulties with the crawl. Ah, Steve Carell is back! Steve Carell: Sorry about that, Jon. As I was saying, we journalists have to make sure that our worst instincts are curbed in the sake of national interest. Crawl: EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE JUST WONDERFUL WITH LOLLIPOPS AND RAINBOWS AND HAPPY FEELINGS FOR EVERYONE. Steve Carell: It’s a unique challenge, but one I think the greatest free press in the world can easily attain. Crawl: BUNNIES ARE CUTE, CUDDLY, AND COMFORTING. Steve Carell: Jon?

I wanted to be a spy,” Olga said, shrugging. “I applied to the CIA. I was turned down. I did not meet the psychological profile. Oppositional Defiance Disorder. Basically, I have a hard time taking orders from idiots.” “Don’t think of me as an idiot and I won’t give you an idiotic order,” Sophia said. “But if I give you one, you’d better do it. Because it’s probably going to mean surviving or dying.” “You I don’t mind,” Olga said. “Or I wouldn’t have joined your crew. Don’t ask me about Nazar. So I was in Spain with the troupe. When the Plague hit, they shut down travel. And all my guns were in America. In a zombie apocalypse. I was quite upset.” “You should have seen Faith when they told her she had to be disarmed in New York,” Sophia said. “Then they gave her a taser and that was mistake. What kind of guns?” “I like that your family prefers the AK series,” Olga said. “I really do think it’s superior to the M16 series in many ways. Much more reliable. They say it is less accurate but that is at longer ranges. The round is not designed for long range.” “I can hit at a thousand meters with my accurized AK,” Sophia said. “It’s a matter of knowing the ballistics. It’s not real powerful at that range, but try doing the same thing with an M4. I’ll wait.” “Oh, jeeze, you two,” Paula said. “Get a room.” “So continue with how you got on the yacht,” Sophia said. “We don’t want our cook getting all woozy with gun geeking.” “We were called by the agency and asked if anyone wanted to ‘catch a ride’ on a yacht,” Olga said. “When they said who owned the boat… I nearly said no. We all knew Nazar. Or at least of him. Not a nice man, as you might have noticed. We knew what we were getting into. But then we were told he had vaccine… ” she shrugged again. “Accepting Nazar’s offer was perhaps not the worst decision I have made in my life. I survived. Not how I would have preferred to survive, but I was vaccinated and I survived. But I did not even hint that I knew more about his men’s weapons than they did. They were pigs. Tough guys. But none of them were military and none of them really knew what they were doing with them. When they brought out the RPG, I nearly peed myself. Irinei had no idea what he was doing with it. I don’t think he even knew the safety was off.” “You know how to use an RPG?” Sophia said. “My family liked the United States very much,” Olga said, sadly. “We all like guns and anything that goes boom. And in the US, you could find people who had licenses for anything. I’ve fired an RPG, yes.” “Well, if we find an RPG you can have it,” Sophia said. “Oh, thank you, captain!” Olga said, clapping her hands girlishly. “But we’ll be keeping the rounds and the launcher separate,” Sophia said. “Oh, my, yes,” Olga said. “And both will have to be in a well sealed container. This salt air would cause corrosion quickly.” “I guess you miss your guns?” Paula said. “That’s not a request for an inventory and loving description of each, by the way. Got that enough from Faith.” “I do,” Olga said. “But I miss my books more.” “Books,” Paula said. “Now you’re talking my language.” “I have more books than shelves,” Olga said. “And I had many shelves. I collect old manuscripts when I can afford them.” “If we do any land clearance, look in the libraries and big houses,” Sophia said. “I bet around here you can probably pick up some great stuff.” “This is okay?” Olga said. “We can, salvage?” “If there’s time and if we clear the town,” Sophia said. “Sure.” “Oh, thank you, captain!” Olga said, kissing her on the cheek. “Okay, now you definitely need to get a room.

Only weeks before, McMahon had beaten back an attempt by the National Security Council staff to violate a presidential ban on political assassinations. “We received a draft secret executive order telling us to go knock off terrorists in pre-emptive strikes,” McMahon recalled. “I told our folks to send it back and tell them: ‘When the President revokes the executive order which precludes CIA from assassinations, then we’ll take this on.’ That hit the guys on the NSC staff. They went ballistic.

when a CIA guy tells you your life is in danger, he is usually the cause of the danger.

While hallways in normal buildings went in nice, straight lines, the CIA’s zigged and zagged to discombobulate any bad guys who might have happened to infiltrate the building. Unfortunately, they also were discombobulating to any good people who happened to be there as well.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows that the war is over Everybody knows that the good guys lost —LEONARD COHEN, “Everybody Knows,” 1988

The guy with the buzz cut said, “I’m Casey Waterman, FBI.” “Jack Reacher, United States Army.” The guy with the hair said, “John White, CIA.” They all shook hands, and then they lapsed into the same kind of silence Reacher had heard when he stepped in. They had run out of things to say. He sat on a desk near the back of the room. Waterman was ahead of him on the left, and White was ahead of him on the right. Waterman was very still. But watchful. He was passing the time and conserving his energy. He had done so before. He was an experienced agent. No kind of a rookie. And neither was White, despite being different in every other way. White was never still. He was twitching and writhing and wringing his hands, and squinting into space, variably, focusing long, focusing short, sometimes narrowing his eyes and grimacing, looking left, looking right, as if caught in a tortuous sequence of thoughts, with no way out. An analyst, Reacher guessed, after many years in a world of unreliable data and double, triple, and quadruple bluffs. The guy was entitled to look a little agitated. No one spoke. Five

The door opened. A guy came in. Busy, bustling, sixty-something, medium size, a gray suit, a tight waistband, a warm and friendly face. Pink and round. Lots of energy, and the start of a smile. A guy who got things done, with a lot of charm. Like a salesman. Something complicated. Like a financial instrument, or a Rolls-Royce automobile. “I’m sorry,” the guy said. To Sinclair only. “I didn’t know you had company.” American. An old-time Yankee accent. No one spoke. Then Sinclair said, “Excuse me. Sergeant Frances Neagley and Major Jack Reacher, U.S. Army, meet Mr. Rob Bishop, CIA head of station at the Hamburg consulate.” “I just did a drive-by,” Bishop said. “On the parallel street. The kid’s bedroom. The lamp has moved in the window.

found. However, in my research for this book, I come across the same incident with the same guys only the location is in the far northwest of North Vietnam and to the north of the PDJ and more along the Chinese border. In that case, these guys were probably flying out of Udorn in the CIA’s secret war and were running SLAR about a hundred miles further to the north of the PDJ than where I had over a hundred night missions. In that case, they may have been brought down by an SA-2 SAM, but more likely they were jumped by Soviet MiGs the North Vietnamese were flying, and as such was the same fate as some other 20th ASTA/131st guys we know we lost to MiGs. I suggest this because the SAMs were mostly kept in and around Hanoi and Haiphong harbor or down the coast towards Vinh, where the other account of this loss indicated. If so, the Army would have manufactured the account of a SAM downing the Mohawk on an RP-2 mission off the coast rather than give information about our years of CIA operations up against the Chinese border. During Lam Son 719 in the spring of 1971 I took a SAM missile in southern North Vietnam while flying an IR night mission.

How would I like to work for the CIA, he said, as a Non-Official agent. NOs are the guys who don’t technically exist. They are ghost operatives, working without schedules, bureaucracy, and, above all, students.

That summer, Lee Harvey Oswald handed out pro-Castro literature stamped with the address 544 Camp Street, a commercial building. This was a blunder because Oswald actually was under the control of an anti-Castro operation headquartered there. W. Guy Banister, his controller, had connections in military intelligence, the CIA and a section of the World Anti-Communist League set up by Willoughby and his Far Pacific intelligence unit in Taiwan. In The Great Heroin Coup, Henrik Krüger disclosed that the International Fascista was “not only the first step toward fulfilling the dream of Skorzeny, but also of his close friends in Madrid, exile Jose Lopez Rega, Juan Peron’s grey eminence, and prince Justo Valerio Borghesé, the Italian fascist money man rescued from justice at the hands of the World War II Italian resistance by future CIA counterintelligence whiz James J. Angleton.

I swallowed the coffee while staring at the strange drawings and data I had scribbled the day before. Among my sketches, one mysterious figure stood out—faceless, cloaked, hooded, and pointing a gnarled hand toward someone or something unseen. The pages that followed contained descriptions of another world, perhaps another dimension … things that just now were incomprehensible. I pored over them, trying to grasp their significance, when smack! a firm hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. “Not bad for the new guy in town.

Rather than inserting more Marines and engineers to harden and defend the American Embassy—thus sending an unequivocal message that such an assault against American sovereign territory in the heart of Tehran would never be tolerated again—the bureaucrats back at the White House and State Department had panicked. They’d reduced the embassy’s staff from nearly a thousand to barely sixty. The Pentagon had shown a similar lack of resolve. The number of U.S. military forces in-country had been drawn down from about ten thousand active-duty troops to almost none. The only reason Charlie had been sent in—especially as green as he was—was because he happened to be one of the few men in the entire U.S. diplomatic corps who was actually fluent in Farsi. None of the three CIA guys on site even spoke the language.

Cofer Black, who directed the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center, once told a colleague that he wanted Osama bin Laden’s head shipped back in a box of dry ice.26 Black also assured President George W. Bush after 9/11, “When we’re through with them, they will have flies walking across their eyeballs.”27 Among Bush’s closest advisors, Black came to be known as the “flies on the eyeballs guy.”28

Some of the attendees protested. One guy said, “We have jobs. We can’t keep making up excuses to miss work.” “If you can’t lie to your boss, how are going to succeed at this?” the presenter responded.

As Director Helms observed, “It’s not enough to ring the bell; you have to make sure the other guy hears it.

What do you know of Sidney Gottlieb?” “Rings a bell. Isn’t he the mind-control LSD guy from the CIA in the fifties and sixties?

It’s a top-secret CIA mission.” “Why does everyone keep saying that out loud?” I asked. “Because the only people close enough to hear me are also on the mission,” Erica explained. “I’ve already cased the area. All the other residents of this fleabag motel are out skiing, housekeeping has gone home for the day, and the guy running the desk has the stereo in the lobby jacked up so loud playing Christmas music he can barely hear anything over the jingle bells. So the only humans around are either fellow spies or shams.” “Shams?” I asked. “Hello!” Alexander Hale cried, exiting his room. “Case in point,” Erica told me, indicating her father.

You guys really think when push comes to shove, Americans are going to defend Taiwan from China? Or the Baltics or Ukraine from Russia? Or anyplace in the Middle East from Iran? Think a lot of Americans will be willing to make any sacrifices to protect South Korea from North Korea? You guys couldn’t even get your own people to take lifesaving vaccines. The Taliban’s back to their old tricks, all over Afghanistan. The forces of chaos are on the march.

firms were hiring ‘moonlighting’ active Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) agents to train managers in ‘tactical behaviour assessment’ techniques. These are ways of checking on employee honesty by reading verbal and behavioural clues, such as fidgeting or use of qualifying statements like ‘honestly’ and ‘frankly’.

Pendleton tried to keep a straight face when he found one such man up on deck, cursing and scratching his scalp like a flea-bitten dog. “Goddamn, this wig is so itchy I wish I could throw it overboard,” the man said. “But the security guys would kill me.

But there was so much paper being generated on a daily basis that the shredders kept jamming, and the security guys realized it was sometimes easier to just rip the paper into tiny pieces by hand and then dispose of it the old-fashioned way—by going to the top deck and making it rain. This process worked well enough, with one exception, when an overtired team working the late shift made the mistake of throwing the paper into the wind instead of with it, resulting in a blizzard of classified confetti that blanketed the deck, and causing the poor security guys to scramble and clear the evidence before Jack Poirier awoke and lost his mind.

To my mirrors, The aliens and the CIA secretly watching me, and any spirits stuck in my room, sorry guys. I know look batshit crazy each time I start reciting a bunch of monologues in my dramatic "film voice" after I finish watching a movie.

RECRUITMENT Ripley Residence 2107 Mockingbird Road Vienna, Virginia January 16 1530 hours “Hello, Ben,” said the man in my living room. “My name is Alexander Hale. I work for the CIA.” And just like that, my life became interesting. It hadn’t been, up till then. Not by a long shot. That day had been a prime example: day 4,583, seven months into the twelfth year of my mundane existence. I had dragged myself out of bed, eaten breakfast, gone to middle school, been bored in class, stared at girls I was too embarrassed to approach, had lunch, slogged through gym, fallen asleep in math, been harassed by Dirk the Jerk, taken the bus home . . . And found a man in a tuxedo sitting on the couch. I didn’t doubt he was a spy for a second. Alexander Hale looked exactly like I’d always imagined a spy would. A tiny bit older, perhaps—he seemed about fifty—but still suave and debonair. He had a small scar on his chin—from a bullet, I guessed, or maybe something more exotic, like a crossbow. There was something very James Bond about him; I could imagine he’d been in a car chase on the way over and taken out the bad guys without breaking a sweat. My parents weren’t home. They never were when I got back from school. Alexander had obviously “let himself in.” The photo album from our family vacation to Virginia Beach sat open on the

Being present at the creation of a full-blown conspiracy theory. It’s like watching a galaxy being born. Lots of random, unconnected bits and pieces of matter whiz past each other, exert a little gravitational pull and bingo, they start forming an organized system. The next thing you know you have a complete, wheels-within-wheels fantasy involving the CIA, Area 51, cosmic energy and a dead guy.

Out the window, a CIA paddy wagon was parked in front of the diner. Ashley Sparks was being loaded inside, her hands cuffed behind her back. She had regained consciousness and was screaming at everyone. I thought I could make out the words “I stuck the landing.” Zoe, Chip, Jawa, and Warren sat in a corner booth, away from the action. To my surprise, Nefarious was with them. He was cuffed as well, but he looked far happier than Ashley. He wasn’t an outcast anymore; he was the center of attention. He was talking animatedly—spilling his guts about SPYDER, perhaps—and my friends were hanging on his every word, fascinated. There was no sign of Murray Hill. He had apparently escaped. And Joshua Hallal certainly wasn’t there. He’d probably been in another country when the missiles fired. Along with the rest of the higher-ups at SPYDER. I was too tired to feel frustrated about this. Instead, I felt proud of myself. Maybe the bad guys had escaped to fight another day, but for the time being, I’d helped thwart their plans once again. My first undercover mission had been a success. Suddenly, Erica’s hand tensed in mine. I looked over at her. She was awake now. Or at least, kind of awake. Her eyelids still drooped and she seemed a bit zoned out. “Hey,” she said. She sounded oddly far away, even though she was only a few inches from me. It was probably due to my ears still recovering from the blast. “Hey,” I replied. “How are you feeling?” “Excellent. But that’s probably because they’ve given us painkillers.” It occurred to me that this was probably why I felt so calm myself. “Thanks for saving me,” Erica said. It was the type of comment she never would have made unless she was doped up on medication. “I owe you one.” “How about this,” I suggested. “Next time you decide to bring me on a mission, you tell me about it first?” “It’s a deal.” Erica’s eyes began to slide shut again. “In fact, next mission, I’ll ask them to make us equal partners.” “Really?” I asked. “You’d do that for me?” “Of course. That’s what friends are for.” Erica gave me a dreamy smile, then dozed off again. I wondered if she’d ever remember saying that. But for the time being, I was too tired to care. Even with all the chaos around me, I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep as well, Erica’s hand still firmly clenched in mine.

Ex-CIA analyst and thriller author David McCloskey is not only a terrific writer (Damascus Station, Moscow X, The Seventh Floor), he’s also an all-around great guy and helped me with some CIA-

Special Forces soldier, Anthony Herbert, the single most decorated combat veteran of Vietnam, published a bestselling book, Soldier, that detailed typical orders from his Phoenix superiors: “They wanted me to take charge of execution teams that wiped out entire families and tried to make it appear as though the Viet Cong had done it themselves. The rationale was that the Viet Cong would see that other Viet Cong had killed their own and… make allegiance with us. The good guys.