Totally Spies Quotes

You don't need a search warrant to go through someone's trash. Seriously. Once it hits the curb it is totally fair game-you an look it up.

Note to self: Rachel Morgan is a totally awesome liar.

A mind is totally big enough to get lost inside - to go crazy if you're left with too much time and too much room to let your biggest fears run free.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” —HUNTER S. THOMPSON

Body-waxing as a torture-slash-interrogation tactic is illegal under international law. FALSE. (But if the yells coming from Tina Walters’s bathroom were any indication, it totally should be true.)

If I ever reach the point in life where there are no more snipers, I might go crazy. Or bake. I could take up baking." "Liz took up baking," I reminded her. "Yeah, but I'd be better at it. I would totally rock baking.

This is a love story,” Michael Dean says, ”but really what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery or the chase, or the nosey female reporter who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely, the serial murder loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets, or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice-trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk. Just as the housewives live for catching glimpses of their own botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors and the rocked out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on hookbook. Because this is reality, they are all in love, madly, truly, with the body-mic clipped to their back-buckle and the producer casually suggesting, “Just one more angle.”, “One more jello shot.”. And the robot loves his master. Alien loves his saucer. Superman loves Lois. Lex and Lana. Luke loves Leia, til he finds out she’s his sister. And the exorcist loves the demon, even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace. As Leo loves Kate, and they both love the sinking ship. And the shark, god the shark, loves to eat. Which is what the Mafioso loves too, eating and money and Pauly and Omertà. The way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar and sometimes loves the other cowboy. As the vampire loves night and neck. And the zombie, don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool, has anyone ever been more love-sick than a zombie, that pale dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms. His very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains. This, too is a love story.

Other personalities are created to handle new traumas, their existence usually occurring one at a time. Each has a singular purpose and is totally focused on that task. The important aspect of the mind's extreme dissociation is that each ego state is totally without knowledge of the other. Because of this, the researchers for the CIA and the Department of Defense believed they could take a personality, train him or her to be a killer and no other ego stares would be aware of the violence that was taking place. The personality running the body would be genuinely unaware of the deaths another personality was causing. Even torture could not expose the with, because the personality experiencing the torture would have no awareness of the information being sought. Earlier, such knowledge was gained from therapists working with adults who had multiple personalities. The earliest pioneers in the field, such as Dr. Ralph Alison, a psychiatrist then living in Santa Cruz, California, were helping victims of severe early childhood trauma. Because there were no protocols for treatment, the pioneers made careful notes, publishing their discoveries so other therapists would understand how to help these rare cases. By 1965, the information was fairly extensive, including the knowledge that only unusually intelligent children become multiple personalities and that sexual trauma endured by a restrained child under the age of seven is the most common way to induce hysteric dissociation.

Five is very good, Milo,” he observed with enthusiasm, spying a ray of hope. “That averages out to almost one combat mission every two months. And I’ll bet your total doesn’t even include the time you bombed us.” “Yes, sir. It does.

It’s totally your choice.” He tried to answer but the best he could do was “Amp-li-dope.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t understand what you’re saying.” “Amp-li-dope!” he pleaded. “I still can’t understand, but I’m guessing it’s probably antidote,” she answered. “That would be the wise choice.

But, after all these years, you're not prepared to swear to anything. This is, in any case, one of the first principles of the conduct which now imposes itself on you and becomes part of your ethics-in-formation. Also perhaps just an acquired deformation -- you are always on the look-out, with a feeling of always being followed, totally alert, watching for the smallest gesture, the least word which might be a prey for the eyes and ears in the walls. Being under close observation creates bizarre reactions. One eventually begins to spy upon oneself, one interiorises suspicion. Watchfulness as a psychic phenomenon is nothing other than this internal splitting.

Philby would later frame his decision as one of ideological purity, consistent with the ‘total commitment to the Soviet Union’ he had made at the age of twenty-one. He did what he did, in his own estimation, out of pure political conviction, the guiding principle of his life. He looked with disdain on others who had seen the horrors of Stalinism and abandoned ship. ‘I stayed the course,’ he wrote, ‘in the confident faith that the principles of the Revolution would outlive the aberration of individuals.

China has secretly developed an army of 180,000 cyber spies and warriors, mounting an incredible ninety thousand computer attacks a year against the U.S. Defense Department networks alone. The totality of the thefts and their impact on American national security are breathtaking.

While the rest of the class is hanging on every syllable that comes out of Mr. Landau's mouth, I'm looking at the false tongue poster and I'm kind of wishing it wasn't wrong. There's something nice about those thick black arrows: sour here, salty there, like there's a right place for everything. Instead of the total confusion the human tongue actually turns out to be.

If Sophie hadn’t used my magic in her body,” Elodie summed up, “she would’ve been dead like, ten times by now.” Okay, it was only twice, I grumbled inside. Elodie ignored me. “And no,” she said, raising my hand to cut off Jenna’s next question. “I can’t possess anyone else. Trust me, I’ve been trying to get inside Lara Casnoff ever since we got here. Which…sounds really wrong.” I felt my shoulders shrug. “Anyway, you looked like you were about to eat your own lip, and that’s totally gross, so I figured I oughta swoop in and put your mind at ease. Last night, when I was trying my hardest to possess anyone who’s not this freak, I overheard the Casnoffs talking. Apparently, turning a vampire into a demon seems like an awesome idea, so that’s why you’re here. No staking on the agenda.” Usling Elodie as a spy hadn’t even occurred to me. Oh my God, this is perfect! I shouted. Well, mentally shouted. Of course! They can’t see you unless you want them to; you can go anywhere in the school, and- Jeez, not so loud, she interrupted. I’m in your head, so use your inside inside voice. Elodie went to brush my hair out of my eyes, muttering, “God, how does she live like this?” If you promise to stop taking over whenever you feel like it, I promise to get a hot oil treatment, I replied, and she snorted. Jenna folded her arms tightly across her chest. “So, what-you’re like, helping us now?” My eyes rolled. “No, I’m on Team Take Over The World With A Demon Army. Of course I’m helping you. Mostly so that whenever this is over, Sophie can get back to important stuff. Like how to unbind me from her.

Some 480 suspected enemy spies were detained in Britain in the course of the war. Just 77 of these were German. The rest were, in descending order of magnitude, Belgian, French, Norwegian, and Dutch, and then just about every conceivable race and nationality, including several who were stateless. After 1940, very few were British. Of the total intercepted, around a quarter were subsequently used as double agents, of whom perhaps 40 made a significant contribution.

So it wasn’t a total surprise that Jay would turn a few heads while they were out tonight. She just hadn’t anticipated the power of the two of them together. Two good-looking guys more than doubled the attention they drew. Even among people they knew at the Java Hut that night, Violet and Chelsea became instantly invisible. Girls not only noticed the pair of boys but also giggled behind cupped hands and waved at the two of them. Jay was either unaware or chose to ignore them altogether. Mike, on the other hand, was not. And did not. Not only did he notice the interest he attracted, he seemed to enjoy it. Violet recognized it immediately for what it was: Mike was as much an attention whore as Chelsea. Violet was fine with that. Chelsea, not so much. Violet let Jay draw her through the crowds that bottlenecked near the entrance. She liked knowing that he belonged to her while all those envious eyes looked on. “I guess Chelsea’s not the only one who’s into Mike,” Violet whispered while Jay dragged her over to stand in line at the counter. Jay glanced back to where Chelsea stood on the outskirts of three girls from school who were animatedly chatting with Mike. “Yeah. She’s not doing too good, is she?” Jay agreed. “I thought she’d have him eating out of her hand by now.” Violet wrinkled her nose, worrying over her friend. “You mean like you have me doing?” Violet smiled up at him and then bumped him with her shoulder. “Yes. Exactly like that.” Chelsea caught the two of them spying on her, and Violet flashed an apologetic smile. Chelsea rolled her eyes in response. She sulked as she made her way over to join them. “Get me some fries.” The lack of a question in her statement was somewhat reassuring. She was still Chelsea. Disheartened but bossy.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

Although I don’t know for sure, I’d bet my dog and lot that John Grisham never worked for the mob. All of that is total fabrication (and total fabrication is the fiction-writer’s purest delight). He was once a young lawyer, though, and he has clearly forgotten none of the struggle. Nor has he forgotten the location of the various financial pitfalls and honeytraps that make the field of corporate law so difficult. Using plainspun humor as a brilliant counterpoint and never substituting cant for story, he sketches a world of Darwinian struggle where all the savages wear three-piece suits. And—here’s the good part—this is a world impossible not to believe. Grisham has been there, spied out the land and the enemy positions, and brought back a full report. He told the truth of what he knew, and for that if nothing else, he deserves every buck The Firm made.

When I talk on the phone with my brother Ivo, who is a theology instructor at Baylor, he invariably wants to talk politics, and I hear clicking in the background, and I say, Why talk politics, just remember where we are! I used to have that experience with my older brother Vlado in Yugoslavia: I would want to expound my political views, but he would point to the phone, and say, Why talk politics, remember where we are. This is not America. How things have changed! Now I tell my brother Ivo, Remember where we are. This is not Croatia! Now I am tempted to say, Remember where we are. This is not America. We as Americans are being exiled from our country of liberty through the general paranoia being injected into our asses. The total spying which we suspected in Yugoslavia, Hungary, and East Germany, is only now possible, in the States, through credit cards, computers, EZ passes, surveillance cameras, and well-meaning neighbors.

Many countries have a long history of spying on foreign corporations for their own military and commercial advantage. The US claims that it does not engage in commercial espionage, meaning that it does not hack foreign corporate networks and pass that information on to US competitors for commercial advantage. But it does engage in economic espionage, by hacking into foreign corporate networks and using that information in government trade negotiations that directly benefit US corporate interests. Recent examples are the Brazilian oil company Petrobras and the European SWIFT international bank payment system. In fact, a 1996 government report boasted that the NSA claimed that the economic benefits of one of its programs to US industry “totaled tens of billions of dollars over the last several years.” You may or may not see a substantive difference between the two types of espionage. China, without so clean a separation between its government and its industries, does not.

Israel has an extremely vibrant hi-tech sector, and a cutting-edge cyber-security industry. At the same time it is also locked into a deadly conflict with the Palestinians, and at least some of its leaders, generals and citizens might well be happy to create a total surveillance regime in the West Bank as soon as they have the necessary technology. Already today whenever Palestinians make a phone call, post something on Facebook or travel from one city to another they are likely to be monitored by Israeli microphones, cameras, drones or spy software. The gathered data is then analysed with the aid of Big Data algorithms. This helps the Israeli security forces to pinpoint and neutralise potential threats without having to place too many boots on the ground. The Palestinians may administer some towns and villages in the West Bank, but the Israelis control the sky, the airwaves and cyberspace. It therefore takes surprisingly few Israeli soldiers to effectively control about 2.5 million Palestinians in the West Bank.

Initially, the internet was celebrated as a medium of boundless liberty.... As it turned out, such euphoria was an illusion. Today, unbounded freedom and communication are switching over into total control and surveillance. More and more, social media resemble digital panoptic.... Secrets, foreigners, and otherness represent impediments to unbounded communication. Communication goes faster when it is smoothed out--that is when thresholds, walls, and gaps are removed. This also means stripping people of interiority, which blocks and slows down communication.... The negativity of otherness or foreignness is de-interiorized and transformed into the positivity of communicable and consumable difference: "diversity".... The dispositive of transparency has the further consequence of promoting total conformity.... It is as if everyone were watching over everyone else--even before intelligent agencies or secret services have stepped in to supervise and steer. Invisible moderators smooth out communication and calibrate it to what is generally understood and accepted. Such primary, intrinsic surveillance proves much more problematic than the secondary, extrinsic surveillance undertaken by secret services and spying agencies.

During the Second World War there was an interrogator for Army Counter-Intelligence by the name of Lieutenant Colonel Oreste Pinto. It was his task to break the cover of enemy spies, and he’s one of my weirder heroes. In 1942 Pinto had a man at the other side of his desk who instinct told him had to be an enemy agent. Before arriving at the Colonel’s office (just off The Strand in central London), this suspect had been through many searing investigations and survived them all. Notwithstanding that, the authorities continued to harbour suspicions; but nobody could break him. So what did Pinto think? Pinto interrogated his man over a period of days. The suspect had an impeccable Oxford accent, excellent socio-geographic knowledge, backed up by documentation that was as good as it gets. Down to the last little parochial nuance, he had an answer for everything, and seemed totally and utterly kosher. Even so, Pinto was convinced he was dealing with an exceptionally talented spy whose true provenance was Berlin. But he couldn’t crack him, so he invited him out to lunch. Ten minutes later they were walking up The Strand, about to cross it to go to the chosen restaurant when, as they stepped off the kerb, Pinto screamed, ‘Look out!’ – and he got his German because the bastard looked the wrong way. ‘We drive on the left in England, old boy.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk, just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ’roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke loves Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omertà—the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

The spies, sent to search out the Promised Land, could be likened to a Baptist committee. Instead of looking to God’s promises, they fed on one another’s perception of the impossibility before them—conquering the land God had promised. God’s great works have not come through committees but through leaders who were totally surrendered to Him. While ten of the twelve committee members were fearful of the giants and battle, Joshua fixed his focus on God. He had the pure vision to focus on God’s clearly revealed will rather than on the obstacles to fulfilling it. “And Joshua the son of Nun, and Caleb the son of Jephunneh, which were of them that searched the land, rent their clothes: And they spake unto all the company of the children of Israel, saying, The land, which we passed through to search it, is an exceeding good land. If the LORD delight in us, then he will bring us into this land, and give it us; a land which floweth with milk and honey. Only rebel not ye against the LORD, neither fear ye the people of the land; for they are bread for us: their defence is departed from them, and the LORD is with us: fear them not. But all the congregation bade stone them with stones. And the glory of the LORD appeared in the tabernacle of the congregation before all the children of Israel.”—NUMBERS 14:6–10 A pattern oft repeated in the lives of leaders who make a difference is the opposition that comes as they edge closer to being used of God. It’s as if the devil senses the potential for God’s power to flow through their surrendered lives and plants doubts in their minds and accusations in the minds of others. “You’re not good enough,” “You can’t do it,” “You’ll never see people saved,” “It can’t be done,” “No one wants to hear what you have to say”—these thoughts are common darts of discouragement the devil hurls at leaders. The person who places confidence in personal ability, education, friendships, allegiances, or alliances, will fail indeed. But while there will always be the naysayers who insist that God’s will cannot be done, a Spirit-filled leader will place his confidence solely in God Almighty and press forward. Joshua knew the victory would not come through his sword, his ingenuity, or his military skill. But he also knew that if God was in it, God would do it. This knowledge gave him the confidence to insist, against the voice of his peers, “If the LORD delight in us, then he will bring us into this land, and give it us” (Numbers 14:8). In a world of ideals, such leadership would be appreciated and readily followed. But the results in Joshua’s life were not quite so rosy. For believing God and trying to lead others to do the same, Joshua became a target. The people wanted to take the life of this faith-filled man of God! If you will be a spiritual leader where you work—a man of God who doesn’t laugh at improper jokes or join in ungodly conversation—if you will be distinct and stand for what is right, not everyone will applaud. You may be mocked, criticized, and ostracized. Standing for Christ may be difficult at times, but it does make a difference. Like Joshua, we must understand the importance of vision and be willing to make sacrifices to lead others. For “where there is no vision, the people perish…” (Proverbs 29:18).

If you are determined to be an effective shield, start by working on yourself. Great bosses avoid burdening their people. They invent, borrow, and implement ways to reduce the mental and emotional load they heap on followers. In particular, meetings are notorious time and energy suckers. Yes, some are necessary, but too many bosses run them in ways that disrespect people’s time and dignity – especially self-absorbed bosses bent on self-glorification. If you want to grab power and don’t care much about your people, make sure you arrive a little late to most meetings. Plus, every now and then, show up very late, or – better yet – send word after everyone has gathered that, alas, you must cancel the meeting because something more pressing has come up. After all, if you are a very important person, the little people need to accept their inferior social standing. Sound familiar? Using arrival times to display and grab power is an ancient trick. This move was used by elders, or ‘Big Men’, in primitive tribes to gain and reinforce status. An ethnography of the Merina tribe in Madagascar found that jostling for status among elders meant that gatherings routinely started three or four hours late. Elders used young boys to spy on each other and played a waiting game that dragged on for hours. Each elder worked to maximize the impression that the moment he arrived, the meeting started. If he arrived early and the meeting didn’t start right away, it signaled that he wasn’t the alpha male. If he arrived late and the meeting had started without him, it also signaled that he wasn’t the most prestigious elder. I’ve seen similar power plays in academia. I was once on a committee led by a prestigious faculty member who always arrived at least ten minutes late, often twenty minutes. He also cancelled two meetings after the rest of the five-person committee had gathered. I tracked the time I wasted waiting for this jerk, which totaled over a half day during a six-month stretch.

Our manifesting mission is a White Op, a term based on the military black op, or black operation, a clandestine plot usually involving highly trained government spies or mercenaries who infiltrate an adversary‘s position, behind enemy lines and unbeknownst to them. White Op, coined by my best friend Bunny, stands for what I see needing to happen on the planet: a group of well-intentioned, highly trained Bodhisattva warriors (appearing like ordinary folk), armed with the six paramitas and restrained by ethical vows, begin to infiltrate their relationships, social institutions, and industries across all sectors of society and culture. Ordinary Bodhisattvas infusing the world with sacred view and transforming one mind at a time from the inside out until a new paradigm based on wisdom and compassion has totally replaced materialism and nihilism. The White Op is in large part how I envision the work and intention of my colleagues and me at the Nalanda Institute for Contemplative Science; we aspire to fulfill it by offering a Buddhist-inspired contemplative psychotherapy training program, infused with the latest neuroscience, to therapists, health-care workers, educators, and savvy business leaders. (p. 225)

The total number of the dead in Hiroshima by the end of December 1945, when deaths from acute conditions had subsided, was approximately 140,000. About 60 per cent are thought to have died of burns from the heat rays and fire, about 20 per cent were killed by blast injuries, and the remaining 20 per cent by radiation.

Erica didn’t say anything in response. She just gave Cyrus a stare so cold it seemed to lower the temperature around us. Right at this moment, Alexander Hale returned. He barged through the door, whistling happily, and completely failed to pick up on the tension in the room. “Great news!” he cried, holding up a grocery bag. “I got everything we need to make s’mores!” Cyrus squinted at him crankily. “Now, where the heck do you expect to do that?” “The fireplace in the lobby,” Alexander suggested. “The fire in the lobby’s a fake,” Cyrus informed him. “Boy, your observation skills stink on ice.” “That’s right,” Erica told Cyrus tartly. “Everyone in this family’s a lousy spy except you. And no matter how hard we try, we’ll apparently never be good enough.” With that, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her. A cheap framed ski poster fell off the wall and busted on the floor. Cyrus rolled his eyes and muttered, “Teenagers.” Alexander glared at him, still smarting from his insult. “See if I ever buy you campfire treats again,” he said, and then stormed out himself. Somehow, with them gone, there was even more tension in the room. Cyrus was prickly on his best days, but now he seemed ready to blow. I edged toward the door, desperate to get out of there, hoping he might simply ignore me and let me go. He didn’t. His angry gaze now fell on me. “I should probably be going too,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow with the mission and all, so I want to turn in early and get a good night’s sleep. . . .” “Do you have the hots for Jessica Shang?” Cyrus asked accusingly. “No!” I lied, selling it as hard as I could. “I don’t even think she’s that attractive. In fact, to be totally honest, she’s kind of ugly. I actually feel sorry for her. . . .” Cyrus didn’t buy this for a moment.

She totally liked you. Like, liked you liked you. She invited you to go to Disney World with her, for Pete’s sake! You don’t invite someone to go to Disney World with you unless you’re really into them.” “Not necessarily,” I said. “I’d go to Disney World with you. But that doesn’t mean I’m into you.” Zoe stopped smiling, like I’d said something wrong. “C’mon,” she said coldly. “Let’s go get our skis.” Then she clomped away in her ski boots.

The budget documents obtained by The Post list $65.96 million for BLARNEY, $94.74 million for FAIRVIEW, $46.04 million for STORMBREW and $9.41 million for OAKSTAR. It is unclear why the total of these four programs amounts to less than the overall budget of $278 million.

The conversation can be serious, too, taking on the form of a grave philosophical discourse as the characters take turns to expound their views of life. When Joe finally comes face to face with his elusive prey, Stern, the chit chat gives way to pure oratory: Revolution, said Stern. We can’t even comprehend what it is, not what it means or what it suggests. We pretend it means total change but it’s much more than that, so vastly more complex, and yes, so much simpler too. It’s not just the total change from night to day as our earth spins in its revolutions around a minor star. It’s also our little star revolving around its own unknowable center and so with all the stars in their billions, and so with the galaxies and the universe itself. Change revolves and truly there is nothing but revolution. All movement is revolution and so is time, and although those laws are impossibly complex and beyond us, their result is simple. For us, very simple. And yet, this is where Whittemore’s great strength comes in: just as we are beginning to accept that this is more a philosophical treatise than a spy story, a pleasant meta-fiction, Whittemore suddenly pulls the strings taut with a dramatic piece of action worthy of Le Carré (more comparisons).

From my very first time left alone with Harvey,” she told me later, “I had to deal with him being present either in his underpants or totally naked.

There are thousands of tunnels lined with the skulls of dead people?” Mike asked, horrified. “And everyone in Paris is totally fine with that?

thinking that he’d foiled her pathetic attempt. Then he let out a yelp of pain. “Wh-wh-what?” he stammered, confused by what was happening. “You already feel it, don’t you?” she said with a confident smile. “That’s a flower sea urchin. It’s got a pretty name, but what it does to your body is downright ugly.” He looked at the spiny sea creature in his hand. It was globular, about four inches wide, with tiny pink petals that resembled flowers. He dropped it to the floor, but it was too late. His palm was already beginning to swell. “That tingling in your hand,” she continued, “that’s caused by the poison on the petals. Pretty soon it will reach your bloodstream and that’s when the real trouble starts.” He looked at her with fear in his eyes. “First, your fingers will start feeling numb and then your lips,” she said. “Once it affects your tongue, you won’t be able to scream for help.” He went to say something but realized he could barely use his mouth. “So the question you have to ask yourself is this,” Brooklyn continued. “Do you want to keep chasing us until the poison overwhelms your entire body? Or do you want to leave us alone and drink the antidote that will save your life? It’s totally your choice.” He tried to answer but the best he could do was “Amp-li-dope.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t understand what you’re saying.” “Amp-li-dope!” he pleaded. “I still can’t understand, but I’m guessing it’s probably antidote,” she answered. “That would be the wise choice.

Initially, the internet was celebrated as a medium of boundless liberty.... As it turned out, such euphoria was an illusion. Today, unbounded freedom and communication are switching over into total control and surveillance. More and more, social media resemble digital panoptica.... Secrets, foreignness, and otherness represent impediments to unbounded communication. Communication goes faster when it is smoothed out--that is when thresholds, walls, and gaps are removed. This also means stripping people of interiority, which blocks and slows down communication.... The negativity of otherness or foreignness is de-interiorized and transformed into the positivity of communicable and consumable difference: "diversity".... The dispositive of transparency has the further consequence of promoting total conformity.... It is as if everyone were watching over everyone else--even before intelligent agencies or secret services have stepped in to supervise and steer. Invisible moderators smooth out communication and calibrate it to what is generally understood and accepted. Such primary, intrinsic surveillance proves much more problematic than the secondary, extrinsic surveillance undertaken by secret services and spying agencies.

He sighed then, and began to move in her, his cadence even, purposeful. She arched to meet each stroke, taking him as deeply into her body as she could; reveling in the pleasure she was giving, in the dark desire she saw in his eyes. And she reveled, too, when control was lost to him. He turned his head away from her when the rhythm of his need took him over, escalated, drummed through her body, his hips quick and fierce. When he turned toward her again, she saw the singular mission in his eyes, the unconscious total pleasure, and from the rush of his breathing knew instinctively it would be soon for him. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding him fast. "Oh, God, Susannah. Oh, God." His long body went still; she felt his release shudder through him.

Everything was totally normal and the countryside was gorgeous, and in a few days’ time one would be going into an absolute charnel house.

Jack the Jock, Jim the Jump, and Jon the Jingle totally dominate the soccer game. I get to kick the ball twice, but that is as much action as I see.

Hitler, seeing an opportunity, not a disaster, and always comfortable with a lie that he could sell to his adoring public, blamed the civilian bombing on the British. The English had done it intentionally, he told the German people. He pledged revenge against “the English murderers” and started to bomb English civilians. So began the Battle of Britain, the bombing campaign aimed at London. Eventually, the citizens of Berlin would have to pay the price. But the Nazi high command remained undeterred. "Do you want total war?" Goebbels shouted to a large crowd just hours after the January 30 bombing of Berlin. “Isn’t that what you asked for?” “Ja! Ja!” the crowd roared in response. Total war was what they had asked for and total war was what they were now getting. And so the war of terror from above was underway. The unwritten rules of war from World War One seemed forgotten: in the past civilians were not bombed. The unarmed “warriors” were now delivered up to the bombs, as required by the new rules of conflict. The bombs shredded, entombed, suffocated, and incinerated women and children, old people and infants, prisoners and hospital patients, friend and foe, National Socialists and

Yeah,” Chip agreed. “All this stuff about the Chromazoan sounds totally cuckoo.” “Croatoan,” I corrected. “Whatever,” Chip said. “It’s bonkers.

decorated with modern sculpture of naked people. If I laugh, I will demonstrate a total lack of sophistication.

He wondered whether anyone had ever given him advice about what to do when introduced to your life partner again for the first time since suffering total amnesia. It was a tricky social situation, and his two days’ experience of the world had prepared him only to hold his hands parallel to the floor and tell Germans what a pen was.

It must not be supposed that this kind of treatment is reserved by the Communists exclusively for their enemies. The young field workers, whose business it was, during the first years of the new regime, to act as Communist missionaries and organizers in China's innumerable towns and villages were made to take a course of indoctrination far more intense than that to which any prisoner of war was ever subjected. In his China under Communism R. L. Walker describes the methods by which the party leaders are able to fabricate out of ordinary men and women the thousands of selfless fanatics required for spreading the Communist gospel and for enforcing Communist policies. Under this system of training, the human raw material is shipped to special camps, where the trainees are completely isolated from their friends, families and the outside world in general. In these camps they are made to perform exhausting physical and mental work; they are never alone, always in groups; they are encouraged to spy on one another; they are required to write self-accusatory autobiographies; they live in chronic fear of the dreadful fate that may befall them on account of what has been said about them by informers or of what they themselves have confessed. In this state of heightened suggestibility they are given an intensive course in theoretical and applied Marxism—a course in which failure to pass examinations may mean anything from ignominious expulsion to a term in a forced labor camp or even liquidation. After about six months of this kind of thing, prolonged mental and physical stress produces the results which Pavlov's findings would lead one to expect. One after another, or in whole groups, the trainees break down. Neurotic and hysterical symptoms make their appearance. Some of the victims commit suicide, others (as many, we are told, as 20 per cent of the total) develop a severe mental illness. Those who survive the rigors of the conversion process emerge with new and ineradicable behavior patterns. All their ties with the past—friends, family, traditional decencies and pieties—have been severed. They are new men, recreated in the image of their new god and totally dedicated to his service.

Osnard proposed the National Trust. "Do you like old buildings?" the secretary asked, as if he feared that Osnard might blow them up. "Adore them. Total addict." "Quite so." With trembling fingertips, the secretary lifted a corner of a file and peered inside. "I suppose they might just take you. You're disreputable. Charm of a sort. Bilingual, if they like Spanish. Nothing lost by giving them a try, I dare say." "The National Trust?" "No, no. The spies. Here. Take this to a dark corner and fill it in with invisible ink.

According to an FBI report, China has secretly developed an army of 180,000 cyber spies and warriors, mounting an incredible ninety thousand computer attacks a year against the U.S. Defense Department networks alone. The totality of the thefts and their impact on American national security are breathtaking.

Donovan agreed that dictatorship was made vulnerable by dependence on secrecy. “The soft area in a totalitarian state is the security system,” he said. “So much has to be kept secret that machinery to process information is cumbersome. A dictator is apt to think he functions in a totally secure environment and he gets careless.

His features were Middle Eastern, his eyes haunted but also defiant. They were all defiant, Gray had found. When he looked at someone like al-Omari, Gray couldn’t help but think of a Dostoyevsky creation, the displaced outsider, brooding, plotting and methodically stroking a weapon of anarchy. It was the face of a fanatic, of one possessed by a deranged evil. It was the same type of person who’d taken away forever the two people Gray had loved most in the world. Though al-Omari was thousands of miles away in a facility only a very few people even knew existed, the picture and sound were crystal clear thanks to the satellite downlink. Through his headset he asked al-Omari a question in English. The man promptly answered in Arabic and then smiled triumphantly. In flawless Arabic Gray said, “Mr. al-Omari, I am fluent in Arabic and can actually speak it better than you. I know that you lived in England for years and that you speak English better than you do Arabic. I strongly suggest that we communicate in that language so there is absolutely no misunderstanding between us.” Al-Omari’s smile faded, and he sat straighter in his chair. Gray explained his proposal. Al-Omari was to become a spy for the United States, infiltrating one of the deadliest terrorist organizations operating in the Middle East. The man promptly refused. Gray persisted and al-Omari refused yet again, adding that “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “There are currently ninety-three terrorist organizations in the world as recognized by the U.S. State Department, most of them originating in the Middle East,” Gray responded. “You have confirmed membership in at least three of them. In addition, you were found with forged passports, structural plans to the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and bomb-making material. Now you’re going to work for us, or it will become distinctly unpleasant.” Al-Omari smiled and leaned toward the camera. “I was interrogated years ago in Jordan by your CIA and your military and your FBI, your so-called Tiger Teams. They sent females in wearing only their underwear. They wiped their menstrual blood on me, or at least what they called their menstrual blood, so I was unclean and could not perform my prayers. They rubbed their bodies against me, offered me sex if I talk. I say no to them and I am beaten afterward.” He sat back. “I have been threatened with rape, and they say I will get AIDS from it and die. I do not care. True followers of Muhammad do not fear death as you Christians do. It is your greatest weakness and will lead to your total destruction. Islam will triumph. It is written in the Qur’an. Islam will rule the world.

Fionna had dredged the weapon from her reticule. She clung to the grip, but the barrel was wavering. He willed his thoughts into hers. One shot. One shot is all you have. But it was not to be. Colson spied Fionna holding the pistol. He wrenched it from her grasp and turned, searching for Aidan. The pistol was in his hands, pointed at Aidan's chest. Colson threw back his head. "You can't have her, you stupid fool! She's mine!" Colson crowed. Fionna, it appeared, had been totally dismissed. A stupid mistake on Colson's part. Aidan was rather stunned... and wholly proud. It all happened in an instant. Fionna seized her parasol with all the frenzy of a woman protecting her own. She whacked Colson full on in the belly the way she'd once tried to do with Aidan. This time she succeeded. This time with a power borne of fury and fire. Colson grunted with pain. His eyes went wide with shock. He clutched his belly and began to slump... Just as Fionna's knee came up. His jaw cracked like the sound of a pistol. There was no sweeter sound on earth. No sweeter feeling than Fionna clinging to him with all her might. "Aidan! Aidan, I knew you would come. I knew it!" Aidan's laugh was breathless with love and laughter. "Remind me, sweet, never to cross you when you're holding a parasol.

Most strategic interactions are one of two kinds of “games.” In the first type of game, both sides win. Both sides are better off at the end than at the beginning. Or, at least, both sides go into the game expecting to benefit at the end. The first type of game is a win-win game. To make it work, both sides usually give something to the other side. Or trade something. Or exchange something. Or pool their resources. So something bigger is built. So they can share in something greater. So both sides win. It’s a Positive-Sum Game.6 The second type of game is different. It’s when only one side can win. At the end, only one side is better off. Which means one side isn’t better off. The other side is worse off. The other side lost. The second type of game is a win-lose game. Totaling up the additions and subtractions at the end, you get zero. What is added to one side is taken from the other side. A plus for one is a minus for the other. It’s a Zero-Sum Game. Zero-Sum Games are competition or conflict over something. Maybe it’s land. Or money. Or influence. Or a customer relationship. If one side wins it, the other side loses it. There’s a third kind of game, but it’s rare. It’s rare because both sides lose. Both sides are worse off at the end than they were at the beginning. It’s a Negative-Sum Game. If it’s planned, a Negative-Sum Game is expected to be short. Like in a war of attrition. Because people can only stand to lose for so long. People want to return to Positive-Sum Games and Zero-Sum Games as quickly as they can. The first two types of games happen all the time. In business. In war. In politics. In espionage. Even in friendships. Zero-Sum Games and Positive-Sum Games are everywhere.7

For the Resistance, the only organizing principle is: Which position will be worse for Trump? Is Russia a colorful country with a noble history of giving socialism a try—or the most evil regime since Nazi Germany? Do I enjoy coarseness in popular culture—or am I a hothouse flower offended by dirty language? Am I enraged by the idea of the government secretly spying on American citizens—or is that a vital part of national security? Is it outrageous that private communications of the Democratic National Committee were publicly revealed (on WikiLeaks) during a campaign, or is it totally fantastic that a secret recording of Trump (the Access Hollywood tape) was blasted all over the world a month before the election? Is transparency in government something that I support, or do I think Trump has got to get off Twitter—a novel and independent thought that has occurred only to me? In that environment, we may give Trump more than the usual latitude if he acts as if he’s under siege. He is under siege. Is he unhinged? No, he’s hinged, fighting back against the left’s infantile, knee-jerk reaction to everything he does. Instead of governing, Trump is spending his presidency refuting questions like “Did you boil and eat a small child today?” It’s one ginned-up, fake story after another. And the people doing this are the most corrupt and conflicted in the history of the world—James Comey, Robert Mueller, Brian Williams, George Stephanopoulos, Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton, and on and on.

He ordered a freeze on CIA operations in Moscow—a total stand-down. The Moscow station was told not to run any agents, not to carry out any operational acts.

The Islam I had found in Europe was all about hellfire and guilt. It was totally joyless. In many respects it was more puritan than Wahhabism.