Undercover Agent Quotes

I’d like to know more about this undercover agent who posed as my daughter’s date. The ubiquitous Tall, Dark, and Smoldering.' Nick put on his best meet-the-parent smile. 'I generally prefer to go by Nick.

An anarchist is like an undercover agent who plays the game of Reason in order to undercut the authority of Reason (Truth, Honesty, Justice and so on).

I thought, men who changed their names were likely to be con-men, criminals, undercover agents or magicians, whereas women who changed their names were probably just married.

A terrorist doesn't let strangers into her flat because they might be undercover police or intelligence agents, but her children bring their mates home and they run all over the place The terrorist doesn't know that one of these kids has bugged every room in her house, made copies of all her computer files and stolen her address book. The kid works for CHERUB CHERUB agents are aged between 10 and 17. They live in the real world, slipping under adult radar and getting information that sends criminals and terrorists to jail.

Desire is naughty and doesn't conform to our ideals, which is why we have such a need of them. Desire mocks all human endeavour and makes it worthwhile. Desire is the original anarchist and undercover agent – no wonder people want it arrested and kept in a safe place. And just when we think we've got desire under control it lets us down or fills us with hope. Desire makes me laugh because it makes fools of us all.

Well, I could never lie to you, Thor. I'm actually the All-Mother's undercover operative in the cause of niceness and puppies, and I'm here on a top-secret spy-type thingie. Shh! Don't tell anyone.

Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to look at me this way?” She assumed he was teasing her. “What are you talking about? You didn’t even like me for most of the time we’ve known each other.” He bent his head before turning to go, his voice low and confident in her ear. “Or maybe I’m just that good of an undercover agent.

Speaking of tongues, they are the main reason I'm a nervous wreck. Ryan is a senior and well, sadly, I'm not all that experienced with boys. I mean, I'm a freshman and have been to dances with boys my age and even have gone out with boys, but I've never really kissed them. Not like I hope to kiss Ryan anyway. Bobby Robinson did shove his tongue into my mouth one time, when we were kissing under the bleachers at a football game, but it didn't feel so good. I'm pretty sure he didn't have it exactly right. So I talked to my friends, Katie and Lisa, about how to properly make out. But, well, here is just a bit of their unhelpful advice. Just let him take the lead, do what ever he does. Um, couldn't that get me into a lot of trouble? Just sort of kiss his tongue, but try not to drool. Don't open your mouth too wide. And then, just open your mouth wide. See? Stupid, conflicting information. And this from girls who supposedly know how to do this! I feel like I'm an undercover CIA agent trying to wrestle vital information out of a ruthless double agent, and the fate of the free world depends upon it. All the while, the President is yelling at me in a panic, saying, Somebody! Anybody! Just get me the truth!

He was leading a double life as an undercover CIA agent by then, having volunteered his services to the agency a few years earlier after coming across one of its ads in the classified pages of the Washington Post.

Sometimes we have to face our fears to find out there’s nothing there to be afraid of anymore.

To believe God when He said He works all things together for good for those who love Him.

What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked. She looked nervously down at the papers in her hand even though I knew for a fact she had memorized every word. “When I was eleven I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when the recruiters came to see me. They showed me brochures and told me they were impressed by my test scores and asked if I was ready to be challenged. And I said yes. Because that was what a Gallagher Girl was to me then, a student at the toughest school in the world.” She took a deep breath and talked on. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked again. “When I was thirteen I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when Dr. Fibs allowed me to start doing my own experiments in the lab. I could go anywhere—make anything. Do anything my mind could dream up. Because I was a Gallagher Girl. And, to me, that meant I was the future.” Liz took another deep breath. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” This time, when Liz asked it, her voice cracked. “When I was seventeen I stood on a dark street in Washington, D.C., and watched one Gallagher Girl literally jump in front of a bullet to save the life of another. I saw a group of women gather around a girl whom they had never met, telling the world that if any harm was to come to their sister, it had to go through them first.” Liz straightened. She no longer had to look down at her paper as she said, “What is a Gallagher Girl? I’m eighteen now, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t really know the answer to that question. Maybe she is destined to be our first international graduate and take her rightful place among Her Majesty’s Secret Service with MI6.” I glanced to my right and, call me crazy, but I could have sworn Rebecca Baxter was crying. “Maybe she is someone who chooses to give back, to serve her life protecting others just as someone once protected her.” Macey smirked but didn’t cry. I got the feeling that Macey McHenry might never cry again. “Who knows?” Liz asked. “Maybe she’s an undercover journalist.” I glanced at Tina Walters. “An FBI agent.” Eva Alvarez beamed. “A code breaker.” Kim Lee smiled. “A queen.” I thought of little Amirah and knew somehow that she’d be okay. “Maybe she’s even a college student.” Liz looked right at me. “Or maybe she’s so much more.” Then Liz went quiet for a moment. She too looked up at the place where the mansion used to stand. “You know, there was a time when I thought that the Gallagher Academy was made of stone and wood, Grand Halls and high-tech labs. When I thought it was bulletproof, hack-proof, and…yes…fireproof. And I stand before you today happy for the reminder that none of those things are true. Yes, I really am. Because I know now that a Gallagher Girl is not someone who draws her power from that building. I know now with scientific certainty that it is the other way around.” A hushed awe descended over the already quiet crowd as she said this. Maybe it was the gravity of her words and what they meant, but for me personally, I like to think it was Gilly looking down, smiling at us all. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked one final time. “She’s a genius, a scientist, a heroine, a spy. And now we are at the end of our time at school, and the one thing I know for certain is this: A Gallagher Girl is whatever she wants to be.” Thunderous, raucous applause filled the student section. Liz smiled and wiped her eyes. She leaned close to the microphone. “And, most of all, she is my sister.

During World War II, a secret apartment in London was maintained by the office of the Special Operations Executive. Within it, operatives created false documents and designed elaborate disguises for use by British undercover agents. The apartment was located at number 64 Baker Street.

He loved a shadow I'd created in his mind.

One thing about faith was accepting that you couldn’t see the big picture. However, the one thing he was sure of was that God had a plan and whatever it was, it was the best thing

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to fence a stolen grand piano in outlaw biker circles.

Dodging a close call or tight spot felt like barely avoiding a horrible accident and winning the lottery all at the same time - and I felt surges of relief and exhilaration.

A man who couldn’t tolerate small failings in himself was staggered by a big one.

U.S. District Judge William W. Schwarzer, a Republican appointee, is not known as a light sentencer. Thus it was that everyone in his San Francisco courtroom watched in stunned silence as Schwarzer, known for his stoic demeanor, choked with tears as he anguished over sentencing Richard Anderson, a first offender Oakland longshoreman, to ten years in prison without parole for what appeared to be a minor mistake in judgment in having given a ride to a drug dealer for a meeting with an undercover agent.

I was often more at risk from my supposed brothers in blue than from my adopted brothers in the gang. Just as there were some decent qualities—loyalty, love, respect—among the outlaw bikers, there were some law-enforcement officers who were little more than outlaws with badges.

Okay, I’ve got the hidden microphones with GPS here,” Agent Bounter said. “Let’s get one on you.” “Now, sir?” 
“The Russians are on the radar. It’s time.” As Bounter turned to pick up the tiny button-size microphone, Grant clenched his hands into fists, his anticipation building. It’s time.

Grant glanced down at his khaki jacket. Since he’d slipped on the US Navy uniform in Agent Bounter’s office, he’d felt a confident swagger possess him. His spine lengthened, and his shoulders retracted. He should’ve been wearing this every day, not the stupid dress shirt and slacks of a lounge singer.

The situation with Jordan was starting to seem too real for his comfort. This normally would be the point when he, sensing a possible attachment, would back away from the situation. But with her, he was trapped. Consequently, all he could do was carry on as usual, being that guy who didn’t let things become real, who was always handy with a quip but didn’t have feelings deeper than that. Because he didn’t. Undercover agents didn’t allow themselves to become attached to a case or anyone involved with it. He wasn’t complaining—he’d signed on for this. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and being the best undercover agent in the Chicago field office was a major accomplishment. It was his specialty, the thing that differentiated him from the other agents in the office. Without that distinction, he’d be just another guy with a badge, a gun, and cool facial scruff. Hell, he’d be Pallas. That alone was more than enough motivation to get his head back in the game.

So why do you need me?” “To make sure Huxley isn’t in over his head. It’s his first undercover assignment. I don’t like holding back an agent, and Huxley hasn’t given me any reason to do that here. Everyone has to have his or her first undercover assignment sometime. But the U.S. attorney has her eye on this case, and that means there’s no room for error.” “Is there ever room for error in any of your cases?” Davis acknowledged that with a grin. “No. But this time, there’s particularly no room for error. It’s the way I classify things: basically no room for error, no room for error, and particularly no room for error. It’s very technical.

Foreign nongovernment organizations (NGOs) that support Russian democratic civic groups are a particular target of Russian accusations of foreign economic intrigue. In 2004, President Putin accused Russian NGOs of pursuing "dubious group and commercial interests" for taking foreign money. FSB Director Nikolai Patrushev told the Russian State Duma in 2005 that the FSB had uncovered spies working in foreign-sponsored NGOs. He further claimed, "Foreign secret services are ever more actively using non-traditional methods for their work and, with the help of different NGOs educational programs, are propagandizing their interests, particularly in the former Soviet Union." Patrushev accused the United States of placing spies undercover within the Peace Corps, which was expelled from Russia in 2002, the Saudi Red Crescent, and the Kuwaiti NGO Society for Social Reform. Patrushev attributed an economic motive to these perceived foreign plots, alleging that industrialized states did not want "a powerful economic competitor like Russia." Echoing Soviet-era accusations of nefarious Western economic intent, he claimed that Russia had lost billions of dollars per year due to U.S., EU, and Canadian "trade discrimination. Pushing for stronger regulation of NGOs, Patrushev said, "The imperfectness of legislation and lack of efficient mechanisms for state oversight creates a fertile ground for conducting intelligence operations under the guise of charity and other activities. In 2012, Putin signed the "foreign agent law," which ordered Russian civil rights organizations that received any foreign funding to register as "foreign agents.

Sidney, is that what you girls go for these days?” Kathleen asked, pointing toward her oldest son. “All this scruffy whatnot?” Well, nothing like putting her on the spot here. Personally, Sidney thought that the dark hint of scruff along Vaughn’s angular jaw looked fine. Better than fine, actually. She would, however, rather be trapped for the next thirty-six hours in a car with the crazy pregnant lady before admitting that in front of him. “I generally prefer clean-shaven men.” She shrugged—sorry—when Vaughn gave her the side-eye as he began setting the table. “See? If you don’t believe me, at least listen to her,” Kathleen said, while peeling a carrot over a bowl at the island. “If you want to find a woman of quality, you can’t be running around looking like you just rolled out of bed.” “I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, the ‘scruffy whatnot’ stays. I need it for an undercover role,” Vaughn said. Surprised to hear that, Sidney looked over as she dumped the tomatoes into a large salad bowl filled with lettuce. “You’re working undercover now?” “Well, I’m not in the other identity right this second,” Vaughn said. “I’m kind of guessing my mother would be able to ID me.” Thank you, yes, she got that. “I meant, how does that work?” Sidney asked him. “You just walk around like normal, being yourself, when you’re not . . . the other you?” “That’s exactly how it works. At least, when we’re talking about a case that involves only part-time undercover work.” “But what if I were to run into the other you somewhere? Say . . . at a coffee shop.” A little inside reference there. “If I called you ‘Vaughn’ without realizing that you were working, wouldn’t that blow your cover?” “First of all, like all agents who regularly do undercover work, I tell my friends and family not to approach me if they happen to run into me somewhere—for that very reason. Second of all, in this case, the ‘other me’ doesn’t hang out at coffee shops.” “Where does the other you hang out?” Sidney asked. Not to contribute to his already healthy ego, but this was pretty interesting stuff. “In dark, sketchy alleys doing dark, sketchy things,” Vaughn said as he set the table with salad bowls. “So the other you is a bad guy, then.” Sidney paused, realizing something. “Is what you’re doing dangerous?” “The joke around my office is that the agents on the white-collar crime squad never do anything dangerous.” Sidney noticed that wasn’t an actual answer to her question

Anna Chapman was born Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko, in Volgograd, formally Stalingrad, Russia, an important Russian industrial city. During the Battle of Stalingrad in World War II, the city became famous for its resistance against the German Army. As a matter of personal history, I had an uncle, by marriage that was killed in this battle. Many historians consider the battle of Stalingrad the largest and bloodiest battle in the history of warfare. Anna earned her master's degree in economics in Moscow. Her father at the time was employed by the Soviet embassy in Nairobi, Kenya, where he allegedly was a senior KGB agent. After her marriage to Alex Chapman, Anna became a British subject and held a British passport. For a time Alex and Anna lived in London where among other places, she worked for Barclays Bank. In 2009 Anna Chapman left her husband and London, and moved to New York City, living at 20 Exchange Place, in the Wall Street area of downtown Manhattan. In 2009, after a slow start, she enlarged her real-estate business, having as many as 50 employees. Chapman, using her real name worked in the Russian “Illegals Program,” a group of sleeper agents, when an undercover FBI agent, in a New York coffee shop, offered to get her a fake passport, which she accepted. On her father’s advice she handed the passport over to the NYPD, however it still led to her arrest. Ten Russian agents including Anna Chapman were arrested, after having been observed for years, on charges which included money laundering and suspicion of spying for Russia. This led to the largest prisoner swap between the United States and Russia since 1986. On July 8, 2010 the swap was completed at the Vienna International Airport. Five days later the British Home Office revoked Anna’s citizenship preventing her return to England. In December of 2010 Anna Chapman reappeared when she was appointed to the public council of the Young Guard of United Russia, where she was involved in the education of young people. The following month Chapman began hosting a weekly TV show in Russia called Secrets of the World and in June of 2011 she was appointed as editor of Venture Business News magazine. In 2012, the FBI released information that Anna Chapman attempted to snare a senior member of President Barack Obama's cabinet, in what was termed a “Honey Trap.” After the 2008 financial meltdown, sources suggest that Anna may have targeted the dapper Peter Orzag, who was divorced in 2006 and served as Special Assistant to the President, for Economic Policy. Between 2007 and 2010 he was involved in the drafting of the federal budget for the Obama Administration and may have been an appealing target to the FSB, the Russian Intelligence Agency. During Orzag’s time as a federal employee, he frequently came to New York City, where associating with Anna could have been a natural fit, considering her financial and economics background. Coincidently, Orzag resigned from his federal position the same month that Chapman was arrested. Following this, Orzag took a job at Citigroup as Vice President of Global Banking. In 2009, he fathered a child with his former girlfriend, Claire Milonas, the daughter of Greek shipping executive, Spiros Milonas, chairman and President of Ionian Management Inc. In September of 2010, Orzag married Bianna Golodryga, the popular news and finance anchor at Yahoo and a contributor to MSNBC's Morning Joe. She also had co-anchored the weekend edition of ABC's Good Morning America. Not surprisingly Bianna was born in in Moldova, Soviet Union, and in 1980, her family moved to Houston, Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin, with a degree in Russian/East European & Eurasian studies and has a minor in economics. They have two children. Yes, she is fluent in Russian! Presently Orszag is a banker and economist, and a Vice Chairman of investment banking and Managing Director at Lazard.

Since you’re obviously in need of something to do, instead of shouting at me through this whole drill, isn’t there some tree you could fell with your bare hands, or a boulder somewhere that needs tossing?

Missionaries are Undercover Intelligence Agents.

Unsurprisingly, the nation’s xenophobia has seeped into popular culture. Bollywood, long known for its extensive Muslim involvement across the entire industry, is being forced to toe the anti-Islam perspective. Many in Bollywood happily pushed the hard-line Hindu nationalist agenda, releasing films that openly celebrated the actions of the Indian armed forces. In a similar vein, the Israeli series Fauda, which features undercover Israeli agents in the West Bank, has been hugely popular among right-wing Indians, looking for a sugar hit of war on terror and anti-Islamist propaganda in a slickly produced format. During the May 2020 Covid-19 lockdown, the right-wing economist Subramanian Swamy, who sits on the BJP national executive, tweeted that he loved Fauda.28 The post-9/11 “war on terror” suited both India and Israel in their plans to pacify their respective unwanted populations. To this end, Israel trained Indian forces in counterinsurgency. Following a 2014 agreement between Israel and India, pledging to cooperate on “public and homeland security,” countless Indian officers, special forces, pilots, and commandoes visited Israel for training. In 2020, Israel refused to screen Indian police officers to determine if they had committed any abuses in India. Israeli human rights advocate Eitay Mack and a range of other activists petitioned the Israeli Supreme Court in 2020 to demand that Israel stop training Indian police officers who “blind, murder, rape, torture and hide civilians in Kashmir.” The court rejected the request, and in the words of the three justices, “without detracting from the importance of the issue of human rights violations in Kashmir.

When he turned the key in the ignition, there was a blinding flash followed by total blackness. In that brief instant, Ryan knew his life was over. Two days later, William Holden attended a memorial service for Ray Ryan at the Ziemer Funeral Home East Chapel with its tall white colonnades and trimmed green lawn. The service was held in the presence of several uniformed police officers and undercover FBI agents, one of whom posed as a window washer across the street. Ryan’s ashes were taken to Africa, where his tearful widow Helen Kelley scattered them at the base of Mount Kenya. Afterwards, Holden called Adnan Khashoggi and told him he wanted to sell the Safari Club. “Why?” Khashoggi asked. “Because it’s no fun anymore.

that he knew would love to be in the

She’s been involved in politics for the last few years, though,” A.Z. mused. “Makes for strange bedfellows.” A vision of Anderson in his red bikini briefs flared briefly in Lillian’s mind. “You can say that again.” “We’ll replace the camera, A.Z,” Gabe said. “In the meantime, you have our full report. The bottom line is that there was no sign of heavy-duty lab equipment in the new wing and we found no evidence of frozen extra-terrestrials. If those alien bodies were moved into the institute, they’ve got them well-hidden.” “Figures,” Arizona nodded sagely. “Should’ve known it wouldn’t be this easy. We’ll just have to keep digging. Maybe literally, if they’ve hidden the lab underground.” “A scary thought,” Lillian murmured. “My work will continue,” Arizona assured them. “Meanwhile, thanks for the undercover job. Couldn’t have done it without you. Unfortunately, you’ll never get the public recognition you deserve because we have to maintain secrecy.” “We understand,” Gabe said. Arizona nodded. “But I want you to understand your names will be legend among the ranks of those of us who seek the truth about this vast conspiracy.” “That’s certainly good enough for me,” Lillian said quickly. “How about you, Gabe?” “Always wanted to be a legend in my own time,” Gabe said. “We don’t want any public recognition,” Lillian added, eager to emphasize the point. “Just knowing that we did our patriotic duty is all the reward we need. Isn’t that right, Gabe?” “Right,” Gabe got to his feet. “Publicity would be a disaster. If our identities as secret agents were exposed, it would ruin any chance of us helping you out with future undercover work.” Lillian was almost to the door. “Wouldn’t want that.” “True,” Arizona said. “Never known when we might have to call on you two again.

He was the ideal undercover agent for Western intelligence, Rafsanjani announced – ‘a person who seemingly comes from India and who apparently is separate from the Western world and who has a misleading name’. Rushdie was a white colonialist, hiding beneath a brown skin; a traitor hiding behind a Muslim name. The British secret service had paid him to betray the faithful, the Iranian theocracy explained as it added corruption to the list of charges against him. It gave him bribes, disguised as book advances, as it organised the assault on Islam by the cunning if curious means of a magical realist novel.

Paige wanted to wipe the smarmy look off the man’s face. A man who’d just admitted to killing Sandra Price and Larry Bolin. And a man who had threatened to kill Dylan if Will told what he saw that night. Which actually

I couldn’t get on the phone and say, “Bim, I’m going to White Plains. Follow me.” Instead, I hoped that he would notice us heading away in my H2 and discreetly follow us. I drove slowly, as usual, so I wouldn’t lose my tail. My torpor behind the wheel always drove Greg crazy. “You drive like an old lady!” he complained. “Hurry up, Jackie boy! It takes you a fucking hour to drive what it takes me half an hour!” “I always go slow,” I told him. “I get flashbacks from an accident I had when I was a kid.” If Greg had been in a hurry, he would have told me, “We gotta get there fast. You’re not fucking driving.” I’d follow him and pretend to get lost, just to zing him. But that wasn’t happening this time. We were all in one car, my car, and I still had no idea what we were doing. On the way, Greg finally explained the nature of our mission. “We’re going to Bloomingdale’s,” he said. “We’re going to find that cocksucker Petey Chops.” Okay, so today’s not my day to get killed. That’s a positive. But why would we look for a recalcitrant Mafia soldier in a department store? Greg volunteered no more information, and as a member of his crew, I was in no position to inquire.

Mob guys don’t buy retail.

There’s a complicated system allowing agents to express preferences about offices and assignments that all FBI agents must follow. It would take too long to go through the whole thing here, but the FBI does have a very comprehensive approach to soliciting agents’ desires and then determining how best to deploy them. The only problem is that they totally ignore the system. If you ask the average FBI agent, he’ll tell you that the way the Bureau assigns people is that they’ve got a monkey in a room who throws a dart with your name on it at a U.S. map on the wall.

I let an undercover DEA agent talk me into snitching on my man. One

And a few hundred people, who risked their lives working for the Government or the RUC, have been pulled out of the Province because their undercover work had been detected by the IRA.  It is always necessary in such situations to pull out the person immediately, and often their families as well, and re-settle them in different locations throughout the mainland.  They are then given houses or apartments, new identities and sometimes a job.  Often, as the IRA keeps up its attempts to find and target these families, they have to be moved three or four times in an effort to keep them one step ahead of the gunmen.  I understand that these rescue missions, which are still carried out, have so far cost the British taxpayer between £75-£100 million.

the LGTSA was playing various miniature battle games weekly, usually on Saturday mornings, and with growing attendance. In fact, the group had drummed up enough regional notoriety that it managed to get the attention of the U.S. government who sent a pair of undercover Army intelligence agents, posing as a man-and-wife team of wargamers, to monitor the activities of the fledgling group. Because so little was known about wargaming and miniature combat groups, and it being a time of great social unrest, there was concern among various government agencies that such tabletop combat simulation was meant to train and plan for real-life insurgency. Mary

A proper cover was like a shield. The typical undercover Office field agent spent far more time maintaining his cover than actually gathering intelligence. Cover, they told her, was everything. During

Maybe everyone was part con man. Maybe everybody was in the game, and Phil just knew better than anyone else how to play.

Agent Keeler is the mole we planted. He’s been working undercover. The objective was to send an agent to infiltrate the Coalition, discover the mole from the inside out. Keeler’s combat skills, field experience, and brash character made him the perfect candidate for the assignment. We knew the Coalition would jump at the chance to recruit him if they believed he could be swayed to fight for their cause. “I instructed Keeler to play sympathetic to the Coalition’s purpose. It didn’t take long for our mole to make contact. Keeler received an anonymous text giving him a date, time, and place. He showed, spoke to someone who wasn’t the mole but had contact with him or her. Keeler negotiated the terms. He would join their ranks and provide intel so long as Coalition members kept their distance from THIRDS agents, specifically his team. To maintain the illusion he’d gone rogue, it was necessary for Destructive Delta to be kept in the dark. I then fed Keeler inside information to pass along.” All

Act like you belong. No one will question you. It's the simplest tip of being undercover, but sometimes the most difficult. When you already feel like you don't belong or are standing out in a situation, it's easy to slip. You start to exaggerate behaviors meant to help you blend in or look anxious and give yourself away. That's one of the first ways I can always tell an agent who has never gone undercover.

Only half of the bored parents waiting for their kids at FunLand were actually bored parents waiting for their kids; the rest were undercover CIA agents. Several of the kids were as well. The CIA had deployed every one of its shortest agents to protect me.

Fucking fuck," I hissed, putting my gun away, then running my hand through my hair in agitation. Not only had an undercover agent made his way into my organization, but he'd been equipped with a cyanide capsule? I wasn't high profile enough of a target to warrant that level of planning... not from the FBI anyway. But if Adam Puck—whoever the fuck he really was—had infiltrated my team as a double agent, who was to say he wasn't double-crossing the FBI too? Ugh. What a goddamn mess.

A great painting should be more than a sum of technical beauty. At the Barnes, we were taught to look for delicacy, subtlety, power, surprise, grace, firmness, complexity, and drama—but to do so with a scientist’s eye. This was an important point. As an art crime investigator, or an undercover agent posing as a collector, I would have to evaluate and

I sucked in my lips and leaned against the camper door. "Which one is the real you? The charming rogue slash professional thief or the highly trained secret undercover agent?" Jack walked over and leaned his forearm against the door above my head, his gaze never leaving mine. "Which one do you want?" My pulse kicked up a notch and a white-hot heat shot through my veins. "I want the real you." Jack cupped my jaw, tilting my face back as his lips came down on mine. "You have the real me." I melted against him, drowning in his kiss. I wanted to go back to the time when there was trust between us and life hadn't gotten in the way. He lifted my hand and brushed his lips softly over my knuckles. "I never saw a more beautiful sight than you hanging out the window of a speeding truck, screaming my name." "You didn't answer." Slowly, carefully, he kissed my hand, claiming every inch of bare skin with a gentleness I didn't know he possessed. "I had a knife between my teeth." "I suppose that's a good excuse." I tipped my head back for another kiss. Alone for the first time since the chase, knowing he was safe, I felt overwhelmed with the need to have him close, to feel his body against mine. His smell, his taste, his heat, his desire--- I wanted them all. His lips met mine and I explored the depths of his mouth, tangling my tongue with his as I slid one hand under his shirt to feel his warmth and the firm, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. When we broke apart to take a breath, I pressed a kiss to his throat, licking the saltiness from his skin. He backed away, one step, then two, leaving me bereft. "What's wrong?" "Chloe is in the truck." "She's a very heavy sleeper." I trailed my fingers over every hard ripple of his abdomen, following the soft trail that disappeared beneath his belt.

In “Hunter of the Damned,” Laws recounts his days working as an undercover agent in Internet chat rooms and recounts his email exchanges and chat sessions with predators, uncovering horror after horror. Offering a rare look into the investigatory process of child sexual exploitation cases, Laws seeks to combat the pervasiveness of child sexual exploitation by raising awareness and by providing a valuable resource for fellow investigators. “While exposing the heinous nature of child sex crimes, I hope to educate readers on predatory behaviors and provide insight on the perpetrators of child sex crimes, particularly for those who are investigating these types of crimes,” Laws said.

The war against the crime syndicate in Chicago never ends. Those who attended the wedding of Tony Accardo’s kid were inspired after they saw how the battle is being waged. Long before the wedding began, dozens of law enforcement agents poured into the area around St. Vincent Ferrer Church on North Avenue, a few blocks west of Harlem. Veteran crime syndicate observers were quick to spot the FBI, the Secret Service, the Chicago Police Undercover Unit, the Crime Commission, and the Quickie Credit-Check Service. This phase of the never-ending battle against the gang-lords is fought, not with guns, but with notebooks and cameras. Nobody knows if this is effective against the mob, but at least no cops got shot in the foot.

Do you know how many undercover agents we executed after liberation

Thus FDR, being a shrewd, smart sonofabitch now in his third term as President, knew that despite the cries of the isolationists who wanted Amer ica to have nothing to do with another world war it was only a matter of time before the country would be forced to shed its neutral status. And the best way to be prepared for that moment was to have the finest intelligence he could. And the best way to get that information, to get the facts that he trusted because he trusted the messenger, was to put another shrewd, smart sonofabitch in charge-his pal Wild Bill Donovan. The problem was not that intelligence wasn't being collected. The United States of America had vast organizations actively engaged in it-the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Office of Naval Intelligence, and the Military Intelligence Division chief among them. The problem was that the intelligence these organizations collected was, in the word of the old-school British spymasters, "coloured." That was to say, the intel tended first to serve to promote the respective branches. If, for example, ONI overstated the number of, say, German submarines, then the Navy brass could use that intelligence to justify its demands for more funds for sailors and ships to hunt down those U-boats. (Which, of course, played to everyone's natural fears as the U-boats were damn effec tive killing machines.) Likewise, if MID stated that it had found significantly more Axis troop amassing toward an Allied border than was previously thought, Army brass could argue that ground and/or air forces needed the money more than did the swabbies. Then there was the turf-fighting FBI. J. Edgar Hoover and Company didn't want any Allied spies snooping around in their backyard. It followed then that if the agencies had their own agendas, they were not prone to share with others the information that they collected. The argument, as might be expected, was that intelligence shared was intelli gence compromised. There was also the interagency fear, unspoken but there, as sure as God made little green apples, that some shared intel would be found to be want ing. If that should happen, it would make the particular agency that had de veloped it look bad. And that, fear of all fears, would result in the reduction of funds, of men, of weapons, et cetera, et cetera. In short, the loss of im portance of the agency in the eyes of the grand political scheme. Thus among the various agencies there continued the endless turf bat tles, the duplications of effort-even the instances, say, of undercover FB agents arresting undercover ONI agents snooping around Washington D.C., and New York City.

How unsettling is desire! That devil never sleeps or keeps still. Desire is naughty and doesn’t conform to our ideals, which is why we have such a need of them. Desire mocks all human endeavour and makes it worthwhile. Desire is the original anarchist and undercover agent - no wonder people want it arrested and kept in a safe place. And just when we think we’ve got it under control it lets us down, or fills us with hope. Desire makes me laugh because it makes fools of us all. Still, rather a fool than a fascist.

An unspoken rule at these clashes was that the Palestinian guys weren’t allowed to wear long shirts, and whatever shirts they wore had to be tucked into their pants. They did this to distinguish themselves from the undercover Israeli agents, or mista’rabeen, who dressed in plainclothes to disguise themselves as Palestinians in order to ambush and arrest us. They’d even wear kuffiyehs to try to fully assimilate with us. What often gave them away, though, was that they pulled their shirts down over their waistbands, to conceal the guns they’d hidden there.

She was. The undercover agent managed to get her out. She’s on her way to a safe house. I’ve been asked to pick up the baby and the aunt and bring them there.” I couldn’t help but grin. “Can I come along?” Wilder shrugged. “Sure. I don’t see why not.

I’ll bet you look hot in a skimpy dress.” He smacked Poser in the shoulder. “Am I right?” “Shiz yeah.” Poser brayed.  I tried to make myself invisible as I stared daggers at each of them.  Agent Mackey stood, towering over Poser and Smith. “Don’t you guys have something you should be doing?” He

The newspaper claimed that Sharpton had worked privately for the FBI after he had been videotaped in 1983 apparently asking about buying cocaine from an undercover FBI agent. As recently as 2005, Sharpton took money from a company called LoanMax in exchange for appearing in ads designed to lure poor black people into their financial web. The company offered to loan money at high interest rates to poor people with bad credit histories if they agreed to put up the titles to their cars as collateral.

A great painting should be more than a sum of technical beauty. At the Barnes, we were taught to look for delicacy, subtlety, power, surprise, grace, firmness, complexity, and drama—but to do so with a scientist’s eye. This was an important point. As an art crime investigator, or an undercover agent posing as a collector, I would have to evaluate and expound upon a wide variety of art, regardless of whether I liked a particular piece.

He leaned over to grasp my hand. “I don’t want to hurt you, Anna.” “Then don’t.” I loved how much bigger his hand was than mine. “Tell me the truth. Are you an undercover FBI agent?” “No.” He snorted. “God, no. Why would you ask that?” “Because I don’t want you to be the bad guy,” I whispered. “You’re too good to be the bad guy.” I straightened. “In fact, you told me that you weren’t the bad guy. Remember?” “Yeah,” he said softly. “When I’m with you, I don’t feel like the bad guy.

I located the shelf with the cereal and sighed. Of course Ryan had only gross flavors like “Pencil Shavings” and “Inedible Tiny Rocks.” I went with “Pencil Shavings.” I found a container labeled SUGAR and figured an undercover agent had somehow sneaked behind enemy lines. I hoped dumping a gallon or two of it on top of my cereal would at least make it edible.

I couldn’t just go to Joshua Hallal and say, “Here’s a funny story: I only agreed to come to this school because I thought the CIA wanted me to be an undercover agent here and find out what your evil plans were. But it turns out, they didn’t. So, do you think I could just drop out and go back to normal life? I promise I won’t tell the CIA anything about your secret hideout.

The French Ministry of Colonies and the secret police demanded to know just who this agitator was. Three undercover agents were assigned to report on his every move. He called himself Nguyen Ai Quoc—“Nguyen the Patriot”—but his real name was Nguyen Tat Thanh. During his long, shadowy career he would assume some seventy different identities, finally settling on “Ho the Most Enlightened”—Ho Chi Minh—the name by which he remains best known (and by which he will be known in these pages).

Cloak and Dagger was lost in the summertime NBC schedule, lumped into a mystery block with several other shows of far inferior quality. It never attracted a sponsor and got almost no critical attention, but the recent discovery of the entire run reveals a gripping show with every story an unpredictable departure from formula. It was the story of the wartime activities of the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services—“this country’s first all-out effort in black warfare … dropping undercover operators behind enemy lines, organizing local partisans to blow bridges and dynamite tunnels, operating the best spy systems of Europe and Asia.” It was a tense half-hour of patriots and traitors, of love affairs doomed by war, of triumph, tragedy, and failure. The stories did not always end with the lovers embraced and the mad-dog Germans reeling in defeat: the hero-agent, in accomplishing his mission, sometimes gave up his life. It opened with a question by actor Raymond Edward Johnson: Are you willing to undertake a dangerous mission for the United States, knowing in advance you may never return alive? It was transcribed and had a definite “canned” sound, which may also have helped turn listeners away.

You'll be working with another undercover agent," Angela said. Ignoring my question, she let go of her hair to pull a flask from her purse and take a healthy swig. "Who's the agent and who's bugging your phone?" I asked as I thought about asking for a sip. This day was quickly turning to crap.

FBI agents mostly keep haircuts short and no facial hair. In other words, they don't stand out so no one pays them attention. Exceptions are undercover agents.

You are just a misdemeanor in my felony world.

Yes, I know. The thing is that the Vogel Vanderpless stone appeared from nowhere. I just have a hunch … My friends would laugh as I have always wanted to be an undercover agent or something!

The next day, I phoned Senator Sander’s office and reported the activities of this man. By 2011, Sander’s office was fully informed about the CIA in my life and I was told that the office would send a Congressional Liaison officer to complain to CIA about what Sander’s staff termed “stalking.” In 2009, I also filed a FOIA request with the FBI in an attempt to learn if FBI was following me. I doubted that they were but I wanted to make sure. I had never found FBI participation in MKULTRA. The FOIA came back no documents located. After the incidents with the blond man, and my growing anger at the behavior of CIA, who I was certain was behind the harassment, I phoned the FBI office in Albany, New York and explained the situation I had been involved in with CIA. I recall telling the FBI that I realized it all sounded crazy and that the behavior of the CIA was indeed crazy, but that what I was reporting to FBI was accurate. I told the woman on the phone about being followed for months by a man I was able to identify as an undercover federal agent and I gave her his name. I asked the FBI to help me stop the harassment I was being subjected to by CIA and asked them to check with Senator Sander’s office if they still didn’t believe me. I never saw the blond man again and as the weeks went by, I noticed I wasn’t being followed. My new lawyer thought it was unusual for the FBI not to open a case file on a complaint, but I never heard from FBI. By May 2011, I had only one encounter with a stranger in a parking lot. It was similar to the other encounters, without the hostility demonstrated by the blond man. The harassment stopped in late 2010, except my phone remains tapped. I stopped seeing strangers following me, and my mail stopped being stolen. I did however note that by 2010 I stopped sending FOIA requests and no longer requested the help of elected officials. I suspect the reason the harassment stopped was because of the complaints I made to Sanders and the FBI. I don’t doubt that CIA was responsible. Who else would have the sophistication to pull off the types of surveillance that I was subjected to for years after I filed the lawsuit and discovered the Vermont CIA experiments?

Last summer, Dad and I went on an adventure involving a nefarious organization called the Agents of DUCK. Where DUCK is just an acronym for Dudes Undercover Chasing Kevin. You ask, who is Kevin, well let’s just say someone really wanted it to spell DUCK and leave it at that.

He was a playboy type in his late 30’s, and a sharp dresser, tonight being no exception. Dave wore a designer sports jacket and chic designer jeans; not at all what you would expect from an FBI agent’s undercover expense budget. His wife (or whoever she was), Julia, was a conservative dresser, with more of what you would expect an FBI agent to be wearing. She had mousy brown hair, spoke in nasal tones, and was somewhat frumpy; not much to look at. They went together about as well as Brad Pitt and a den mother from Davenport Iowa.

Vanti looks up from whatever she’s reading—probably Secret Agents Quarterly—the top ten undercover tricks. Number ten: Fake nose sunglasses. I giggle.

We used to think she would turn up one day and say it had all been a test. We used to think we would both die at the same age she had. We used to think she could see us through mirrors. We used to think she was an undercover agent, sending Dad money, asking for updates. We were careful to age her, never trap her. Careful to name her Granny, when Dad became Grandpa. We hope she likes us.

Devereux also uncovered that Charles had used his position as an escrow agent to help Mafia crime boss Joseph Bonanno with shady real estate deals. Devereux found that Charles had kept detailed copies of all his transactions, possibly intending to hand them over to the government as part of his undercover Secret Service duties. It is possible that someone in Bonnano’s organization knew that Charles was keeping these records and needed to dispose of him before he did anything with them. It certainly seemed like Devereux had uncovered some dangerous truths.