December 18, 2010, Alkmaar, the Netherlands 18:48

 The camera is switched on and bounces a little as it begins to record a room with white walls and a door with black panes of glass. It is the inside of a home in the evening.  The view is from the surface of a desk or table. To the right of the door, there is a large black clock with golden roman numerals. There is the top rim of a tan office-chair in the foreground. On the wall behind the chair, there is a poster made of dark pink butcher paper, with a large red heart in the center and colored hand prints: The small hands of children pressed in bright paint. Taking awkward space in the foreground, there is a water glass which he has not removed from the frame. There is a shuffling noise as he adjusts the camera and comes to sit in front of it.

He is a confident man in his early thirties. He is wearing a sporty sweater with a collar, zippered down the front. It is dark brown with yellow stripes on the sleeves and the letters in yellow, “G S” on either side of the zipper. His face is expressive with prominent cheeks angling into a square jaw. His lips are full, almost femininely so. His words are glib and firm, and the smile that touches his mouth is at once knowing and playful. His forehead his high, with a receding hairline, and his forehead creases with passion and intensity as he speaks. His eyes are his most arresting feature. There is an alertness and intelligence in his gaze and very little self-consciousness as he addresses the camera:

 “Okay, Elisabeth,” he says in a business-like tone, settling into the seat.

“Um, this is very strange because I am talking to you and you can hear my voice now, and I am looking in this camera.”

He smiles as he says this, perhaps struck with the absurdity of what he has begun. Then he becomes serious, and speaks earnestly.

“I do this because I…want to…share some information with you. I want you to know that…I very deeply care about you. And I love you as I have never loved anything before. And...”

He pauses, seeming to grasp for the right way to structure his next thought. “I know that it’s a very difficult situation. I know what my part in that is, and that, therefore, I am not entitled to have any expectations. But I am allowed to have hope. And all I can say is that I will respect you, whichever path you choose. And I love you, and I fear, forever.”

These last words are spoken with a wide, mischievous smile that promises much but lingers only briefly, before he reaches for the camera and the screen goes dark.   

Hidden Facebook

Okay, MIVD. This is really silly. You're still hiding Jan's FB friends list. And you don't let me post on his timeline. I was reminded of this fact just now because I wanted to write on his timeline and thank him for dinner. Just so you know: this irritates me more than stops me. And when I'm irritated, I'm going to start tracking down the people on the list to figure out why you don't want me to see them. If there's any trouble you're actually fearful of, I'll try to make sure it happens.

Also: you should know that I took screen shots of his friends list the last time you did this. So I already have the names.

Another species

I don't understand other women.
Clarification: I have some deep and abiding friendships with specific women. But, in general, I feel that I don't understand most women.

I was at an event this evening: a dinner with army men and their wives. "J" invited me. He didn't clarify to anyone at the gig that we weren't a couple so I figured this was one of the reasons for my invitation: he wanted someone with makeup and coiffed hair to sit next to him and keep him from looking divorced and alone.

There were three women, apart from me. One was a lawyer with experience working in the White House. The remaining two women seemed to affiliate themselves exclusively with their husband's careers, so it was difficult to know if they had identities of their own. One was a lovely pregnant person, and the other looked to be vying for the position of trophy wife (TW).

TW clearly had some work done (at least the boobs. Probably more). She was blonde with lean legs and short-short-you-can-see-my-butt-cleavage-shorts. Early forties, I guessed. Both her shorts and the silk blouse with the plunging neckline were white. Funny, when you consider that this was a "eat boiled shrimp and sausage with your hands" dinner with plenty of Old Bay to go around. I wonder what her plan was...

They were nice. All of them. But I really think I would have shot myself if I'd been trapped in a room with them by myself for more than a couple of hours. We all have vaginas and breasts, but I think that this is where the similarities end. I really don't think we are the same species. The things that they talked about; the things that they valued; the things that they wanted; they were in no way related to me.

Because they assumed I was with "J", there was some twittery conversation about single women that I found fascinating. There was a general sense of self-satisfaction that they had already snagged their husbands, and pity for those women who hadn't. TW had a male friend who was 41 and single. He'd been dating a 36-year-old chick, but wasn't sure he was going to marry her. TW advised him to move on - for her sake. She viewed it as cruelty if you led a 36-year-old woman on. The other army wife agreed that this was very sound advice.

Of course, the irony of the age she named was not lost on me. I am also 36 years old. It occurred to me that there was an unspoken agreement that it was awful and pitiful and worrying if you were alone at 36 - and that you'd better find a guy to marry. Fast. Both of them talked about all of the really talented and beautiful women in their thirties who were single. As though it was some sort of contagious disease! Then it occurred to me that I wasn't panicked about being alone. I think it's a likely scenario for me. And, frankly, it kicks the ass of being with someone you don't adore. I would have fucking loved being married to Sjors because I loved everything about him and he was my match. But any of the other men I've tried to date since? Naw. Not so keen on that idea. I wonder: is this agreed-upon-panic even reasonable, or is it imposed on us by some other rule-maker? It certainly doesn't seem to bother men too much if they're alone at 36-years-old.

So, here's what I think: women are told to worry about these things because if they're worrying about superficial markers and status symbols, they don't spend their time thinking about things that really matter. They don't become big problem solvers and deep thinkers. They don't value themselves and their contribution to the world, because they're told that their value is to support their husband's contribution. And, because they don't value themselves, they will not demand equal pay for equal work, and they will feel catty and judgmental about other women. They will be competitors with other women for the attention of men. They will not be sisters.

Sometimes I think about that moment when the HR lady, Pearl, tried to manipulate me by telling me that my work was appreciated by other people and I responded, unemotionally, that this was because I was a "damned good analyst."

I think it's bad that I don't relate to these women. I think I have to do this at some point: get into their head space and do what I can to make them sisters. Because, even though they follow the social rules, I can't believe that the paradigm is one that they invented.  And people shouldn't be trapped by paradigms.

Metric Century

I went riding with "J" today. It's been a long time since since we briefly tried to date last March and then he fell off the planet. On the few times I've reached out, I heard only crickets.
He sent a short e-mail on Thursday. Did I want to ride? Yup. I always want to ride.
I don't think he expected I'd be up for much, so he put in about 40 miles before we met. Of course, he asked that I meet him 17 miles out from my home, on the W&OD trail at some place in Vienna, so I'd already put in my fair share, as well.
I arrived before him, ate half of a turkey panini, and drank coffee. It was raining lightly outdoors. The forecast said it was supposed to clear up after noon. We said hello and chatted for a while. Since I detached emotionally months ago, this was no big deal for me. I was just glad to have someone to ride with.
So, then, we rode. Together, we logged 50 miles. It rained the entire time, and we didn't stop. It was pretty rough. But also fun. At the end, I was glad to get in my metric century ride.
We tried to chat as we rode, but as the miles wore us down, conversation became sparse, and was replaced by a camaraderie born of shared misery.
"J" talked about his time in Ranger training. During a 27 hour hike through the forest, in the rain, he said you cycled through a series of emotions. First, you were pissed off. You were angry at the situation and the rain. When the anger burned out, it was replaced by self-pity and sadness. Then there was absurdity, and then a brief moment of zen acceptance. Then the cycle started over again. Everyone on the hike was going through the same cycle, but not at the same pace. So it was trouble when you were in a laughing-absurd mood when the guy next to you was pissed off.
I suppose most of life is this way. We encounter our friends at different phases of their mood cycle. Sometimes we're in synch, sometimes not.  It isn't personal. It's just part of the long march.

shooting stars

I was in Western Virginia late last night.
After hiking Old Rag by myself and finding that it cleaned out the dusty parts of my mind, I feel quite driven to return to the mountains. I've spent time on REI.com checking out 2-lb tents and backpacks and sub-zero sleeping bags. I want to plan an expedition.
My talk of this seemed appealing to a fellow named Matt. We just met, but he agreed to a day hike in the Shenandoah National park. So we drove out there. It was raining, but we hiked anyways. Among other things, he had a bizarrely thorough knowledge of edible mushrooms. It was a good time, but far too short due to weather and daylight.
It was a foggy drive back. We saw deer crossing the road, and two baby bears loping across the yellow lines and tumbling up and over the stone wall on the other side.
On the drive back, we pulled the jeep over and looked at the milky way. I watched the International Space Station move across the Big Dipper. And I saw about 5 shooting stars.

Today, I trained early and made it in time for an 1100 interview.

Path function vs. State function

In physics and chemistry, there is an interesting concept about the beginning and ending of things.

Those properties or quantities whose values depend only on the starting point and ending point are called "State" functions. In physics, the concept of "work" is a state function. That is, you may climb a mountain any route imaginable, but it is only the height of the base camp and the summit that are taken into account into the calculation of "work". In a path function, the state of the system depends entirely on the way in which the effort was achieved. The process is everything.

I am coming to believe or understand that human interactions and endeavors are path functions. There seems to be some fundamental law of life which says that the ends do not justify the means. In fact, it seems that when we take actions for the sole purpose of achieving a particular end, that ending is somehow spoiled or tainted, or we find that it was not worth the damage we incurred to achieve it. This is counter-intuitive to the pragmatist, the manipulator, and the Machiavellian. But it seems to be true.

This thought has particularly struck me as I write this biography of a Dutch spy, unwrapping my notes, and stitching together memories and analyses. The ethicist in me sees the vast moral ambiguity and immorality of MIVD's actions, and the scientist in me sees the technologies that they deployed, and the tactics and procedures they used (or, in this case, misused) on Sjors and on me. The analyst in me sees that this type of behavior, though intended to achieve economic advantage and institutional security, has the grave potential to undermine both. The analyst in me disapproves of these methods not merely on the basis of their being unethical, but on the basis of their being ineffectual.

On the strategic level, consider that the current threats to national security come from asymmetric, non-state actors. Their detection and elimination is certainly dependent on technology, but it is increasingly important to have access, understanding and, ideally, shared objectives with well-positioned people or organizations. You can buy or manipulate your way into this access, but these types of purchased relationships are shaky and uncertain. what you want is a partner who will have your back even when you're not around to request it. This is the difference between intelligence operations and security force assistance. In the first case, you have a "source" whose motives are varied and possibly changeable. But in the second case, you risk to make genuine friendships and partnerships. You risk to be successful in building a lifelong, capable ally whose goals align with yours. They help you because they want to. Because it is the right thing for everyone. This is the difference between what Sjors was doing, and what I was doing.

On the operational level, I think about the MIVD team's misuse of their technology. They were, I believe, intending to block communication between Sjors and myself. They were trying to minimize risk and bring Sjors in line. Certainly it must have made sense to them at the time. But the way that they went about doing this was so wrong-headed and illegal, and it made them wildly vulnerable. I saw what they did. I recorded it. I filed a criminal complaint. Everything that they've done afterwards (the denial and sliming) has been to cover that fuck-up.

On the tactical level, I think about Sjors' lies to me. He was trained to lie. It was his job to lie. But his lies were intended to prevent me from acting - and they had the opposite effect. I loved him. I wanted to help and protect him. I saw his lies (how could I not?) and interpreted them as symptoms of coercion. And I deployed every weapon in my arsenal to help him.

I remember when I first learned that Sjors was married. I loved him so fiercely and the situation devastated me. I wanted so badly to be with him. I remember thinking that I would give up everything I had - happily give Sjors' wife all my earnings for the rest of my life if I could be with him. I would have given anything in the world to be with him. But I understood somehow that this was a path function. It was too important to me to do this wrongly. Sjors was so vulnerable and open to me at the time and there were so many things I could have said and done to manipulate the circumstance to my advantage. I could have pulled strings and pretended and feinted and punished to achieve my objective. But I chose not to. I was always open and honest. I wanted Sjors - but I wanted Sjors freely. Because he chose to be with me - not because I had manipulated to get what I wanted.

The other side did not play fair. MIVD manipulated and conned and coerced and threatened and rewarded. And he chose them.

I look back over my decisions and I know that, if I had done everything I was able to do, I would have lost something fundamental of my self. I might be with Sjors today. But the victory would be Pyrrhic. What would I have to offer him if I had lost my soul?

Driving the car into the garage

Google Maps estimated that the trip would take less than 7 hours, but the trip to Newport, Rhode Island to bring P and his family home yesterday took 13.5 hours. 

Crystal had the new baby on Tuesday. They named him after the doctor who had saved their other son's life.  Friday, everyone checked out of the hospital and spent Friday night in the Ronald MacDonald house. Eve and I met them there yesterday morning and loaded them into two cars. Eve took Crystal and the new baby. I took P and his two sons. 

It was difficult going. I drove the lead vehicle and navigated, and everyone suffered. We stopped for picnics on the lawn of the rest-stops and we stopped for potty breaks when the situation required it (as it often did), but these were never enough to stop the pain. Poor Crystal suffered with breasts full of milk and a tiny baby she couldn't get out of the carseat to feed.  In my car, the 2-year-old, miserable after nearly two months in the hospital and plugged into respirators, feeding tubes, catheters, shunts, and undergoing three cranial surgeries, and now lashed down in a car-seat for an impossibly long journey, began to scream. 

Until last week, we thought he would be shipped out on a medical evacuation flight. Now, this fragile little guy was reliant on my good driving skills and awareness of other drivers' stupidity to keep him safe. This was nerve-wracking, but I didn't want his dad to see how worried I was. His brother, in a toddler seat beside him, was as patient as he could be. I'd loaded up coloring books and crayons, puzzles, cards, stickers, and as many toys as I could find on the dollar rack of Target during my late-night run the night before. 

P did parenting from the front seat, trying hard to keep the two boys comfortable and happy. 

The screaming and thrashing-about seemed dangerous to me. I worried that this little guy would whack his head or induce swelling in the brain again from his obviously elevated blood pressure. I pulled the car over several times, but we found that he wasn't hurt - he just wanted out of the seat. We couldn't do that. 

After nearly two hours of howling rage, I risked to pull out my i-phone and use the application my brother had downloaded, Spotify. It allowed me to find the song I knew the boys liked: Paradise by Coldplay. 

It worked. He calmed down and, though he still can't speak, he vocalized with the music: "Para...para...paradise".  I was so relieved and grateful, I could kiss Chris Martin. We listened over and over and over. 

I can't begin to express how grateful I am that we got everyone to Rhode Island safely. It was no sure thing. But it needed to happen. When Eve told me what needed to be done, she said: "It's like we've done the Dakar rally through the Saharan Desert, and all that's left is to pull the car into the garage. We need to pull the fucking car into the garage."

She's right. This has been a marathon. At any point along the way, things could have taken a turn for the worse. When they brought the two little boys into the hospital last month, one was dead. They worked a miracle. Everyone is alive. And our little guy is doing well. He's starting to talk at last. And, when we finally brought him into his new home and he saw the books and toys he recognized, and realized that he was home at last, he walked around the place like a madman, holding onto Eve's hands for balance as he wobbled about. He jumped and squealed with joy. 

My little 4-year-old friend snuggled up against me last night, relieved to be at home at last. He sucked his thumb and reached up with his other hand to thread his fingers through my hair and pull at the fleshy bit of skin at my jawline. 

This morning, he came into my room first thing and declared to me: "Je ne veux pas que tu partes"

The first part I heard and understood: "I don't want..."

"Je ne comprends pas," I said. 

"Je ne veux pas que tu partes" he said again. 

"Je ne comprends pas partes," I said. "qu'Est-ce que c'est partes?"

"Partir," he said. I understood. Partir is to leave. To depart. 

"I don't want to leave you either, buddy," I said. I wanted to snuggle him on my lap but his pants were wet where he peed the bed last night. 

I tried to use my French to tell him I didn't want to leave either, but the broad grin on his face made me feel like I'd missed the mark. Had I told him that I wasn't going to leave? 

Eve and I fixed breakfast for the two little boys (Eggs and grapes cut in half so as not to be a choking hazard.)

As it came time to go, he lingered by my side. He reached up for me to hold him, and I'm grateful for the months of weight lifting that make this an easy task. Then, we sat together on the couch, and he climbed into my lap and I held him like a baby. This seems to comfort him, make him feel that he is cared for, even as his little brothers need the attention of infants. He looked angry at me as I left. It's probably best that he get pissed at me and . I would take him home with me if I could. 

Eve and I headed back today. It took 11 hours. Google maps lies. So glad to make it back. So glad that it's gone well. 

We pulled the fucking car into the garage. 

The liar

I've been so saddened to consider Robin Williams' death yesterday. God, what a bright light to be extinguished. I remember him the way that I remember an old friend.

When I was 5, my parents, sisters, and I were living at my grandparent's house in Sacramento, California. This was because Grandma was at stage 4 breast cancer and my mother was helping her as she deteriorated. I remember sitting on the floor, close to my grandparent's television, watching Robin on Mork and Mindy. Even now, I can recollect the feeling that he was somehow my own special person. Over the years, I must have retained that same sense of special ownership and relationship. I wonder how many other people felt the same way. I see the feelings expressed on social media and I think that his impact must be both enormous and personal in the same way it has been huge and personal for me.

Depression is such a fucking liar. Completely powerful. All consuming. It takes beauty and joy. It corrupts even the good memories, convincing you that your happiness was a facade, and that this is the reality. I think the thing that I hate the most about Robin's suicide is knowing that the voice of the liar was the last thing this beautiful and generous man heard. 

Old Rag

Yesterday morning, Eve went to the hospital to take care of Crystal. It is such a relief to be able to hand this off to her. It has become very difficult for me. The last time I visited the hospital and took Crystal on errands, I became nauseated and had a painful stomach. I thought I was sick, but I believe it was just the accumulation of stress from the circumstance as I recovered after returning home and downing antacids. I have found it near-impossible to work. My desire to support has been overtaken by the physical limitations of this support. 

I knew I needed a reset. I considered the "usual" bike ride to Bethesda, but this has become less of an adventure for me, and I needed something atypical to pull me out of this slump. 

I still have Sara's car, so I decided to drive to the Shenandoah National Park and hike a mountain. The idea didn't even occur to me until 1300, and I knew that the drive would take two hours - but I thought, "what the hell? If it gets late, I can always turn around." 

The entrance to Old Rag is through Sperryville, Virginia. The drive took about two hours. 

I'd packed supplies and emergency gear in case I was stranded on the mountain overnight. I decided that it wasn't a bad night to be downclimbing since it was the night of the Supermoon - when the full moon is closest to the earth. Even if my headlamps failed, I would have lunar assistance. 

It was a beautiful hike. The trees were in their full foliage and the sky was overcast but bright. The air was extremely humid and the exertion was good. I was drenched within an hour of climbing. I took off my undershirt and hung it on my backpack to dry. I listened to the audiobook of Scott C. Johnson's "The Wolf and the Watchman". In it, Johnson discusses the relationship troubles caused in his family by his father's work as a covert operative for the CIA. 

The theme of Johnson's book focuses on the emotional damage it caused him to live a lie during his childhood and adolescence in support of his father's cover, and the distrust that fomented over the years between him and his father as a result of his father's spy-work. He wrote: "I had by now accepted that selective nondisclosure was part of the deal with him; he couldn't tell me everything, and I didn't need him to. But this wasn't as much about information as loyalty. I had always wanted to believe I came first. But what happened, I wondered, to spies when loyalty to their loved ones conflicted with their loyalty to their masters? Who, in the end, would win? Whose loyalty was more important?" 

I thought it interesting that Johnson used the word, "master". Not "employer". This is the word you use to describe a puppeteer or slave-owner. This stands in contrast to the adulation Johnson readily expresses for this father; admiration for his calm confidence, intelligence, and resourcefulness. But how, in light of this alternate framework, could he so respect a man who would willingly be a marionette or a slave? 

This is one of the rare leaps that Johnson makes to comment about the ethical conflict and psychological danger generated by the organization itself, its methods, objectives, priorities, and operating procedures. I believe that Johnson erected firewalls in his mind when he was a child, partitioning the CIA into some category of untouchable omnipotence. It is some immutable thing - to be rejected entirely or complied with, but not to be questioned. He ranges between affection and hate for the organization, but cannot ever seem to rationally examine it. In adult years, Johnson judges his father harshly, but not the organization who created him. 

Because I saw firsthand the methods that MIVD used on Sjors to control him, and I saw the damaging effects it had on him, I am considerably less critical of the man, and far more critical of the organization. When he signed on the dotted line to be one of their ranks, he did not give informed consent. Because the organization operated in the shadows, he had no way of knowing what he signed up for. But they knew. 

I think that I have some fundamental differences of opinion with Johnson. I believe in the importance of covert action and espionage in instances of real threat to National Security. For example, I think that it is crucial to use these methods to infiltrate organized crime and terrorist groups. However, I think that it is inherently bad for any individual or group when they have 1) The ability (or, in this case, the mandate) to operate in secrecy, 2)  Powerful tools and techniques, and 3) the mandate to lie. It is far too tempting to abuse your tools and techniques, and then to cover your actions through secrecy and deceit. 

I was surprised to find that, in spite of the late hour, I was not alone on the trail. There was a group of about 15 people who were hiking to the summit to watch the moon rise. When I arrived at the top, climbing my way through the boulder-field, I was able to sit with them, share food and wine, and chat. I also had people to walk with as I hiked down. It's bear country and safer to walk in groups, making noise. The most dangerous thing we saw on the hike down was a copperhead snake crossing the trail. 

The full moon lit the 5 mile descent, shimmering through the trees in an eerily beautiful glow. 

I feel refreshed today. My mind is clear, and I don't feel like I'm going to bust out of my skin. I don't know why it is so important to do these things, but I'm glad I know the trick. 

Crystal

Still can't focus on work. The situation with Crystal and P and their boys has taken it out of me again.

I tried to take this week off from going to the hospital. But it wasn't possible. I took Crystal to the doctor on Tuesday. Wednesday, as I worked and tried to finish this pricing structure for this potential contract, her interpreter called me and asked if I could come and watch the 2-year-old while Crystal was checked out on the 3rd floor for contractions. The interpreter asked me what the plan was for Harold when Crystal went into labor. I felt horrified. I'm not the plan-maker. I'm the emergency support. But when I told the interpreter that Crystal needed to talk to P about the plan, Crystal interpreted this to mean that I would not come and help her unless P asked me to. It's all so awful and fraught. And it doesn't help that Crystal doesn't seem to like me very much.

I don't want to resent them, but I'm so tired. It is hard to be the perpetual support person. This morning, Crystal sent me a text message in the best English she could muster: "Hi Elisabeth, please if u have a time today I need that u help me. i want to buy some clothes for the born. if u dont hav a time dn't worry."

I feel so sad for her. Here she is, ready to give birth, and she hasn't had the chance to buy anything for her baby. The only thing I've thought about the baby sofar is: "Please don't come yet!" God, of course I'll go and get her. We'll go baby shopping. And I look to god and the universe to buoy up my foundering business while I do this.

Strangely, I am writing a tremendous amount. My brain still seems able to do this. I write 3,000 to 10,000 words each day. Can't say much about the quality at this point, but at least the memories and records are going down chronologically. Grateful that I can still produce something during this draining time.

Back on track

It's been a challenging weekend. I collected P at the airport on Friday and took him to the hospital. The 2-year-old is interactive. He had surgery to replace one of the two pieces of skull they removed. He seems to be recovering very quickly. What a resilient kid!

I am worn out from being at the hospital and drained from the emotional energy it takes to support the family. I spent most of the weekend buying and preparing food for them and sitting in the hospital and playing with the 4-year-old. I took him on a special trip to MacDonald's because there are toys in the happy-meals (even if the food is disgusting) and because this was a wild appeal to him ("Mac-Doh", he chanted. "Mac Doh", "Mac Doh".) It is easy to love him. When he sees me, he lights up and leaps into my arms. He rests his head on my shoulder, and wipes his mouth on my shirt. Sometimes he uses me a jungle gym and I throw him over my shoulder and jog around. Sometimes, he pretends that he is asleep so that I will cuddle him like a baby and coo at him. "philippe doux, il dort. Je t'aime."

I'm quite enamored. It causes me to consider the possibility that I might adopt a child someday. I cannot have Sjors' children and I do not want the children of another man. But there are plenty of kids who need someone who loves and gentles them and rough-houses when they want it.

I am very tired. I do not resent them for their need but this has become very difficult for me. I feel very tapped. As Bilbo said, "like butter spread over too much bread."

I decided that I would take the week off and not visit until next weekend. But P asked me to take Crystal to her pre-natal doctor's appointment tomorrow. I feel this obligation as a difficult weight on me. However, as I request great support from god and the universe, I do not think it appropriate to be stingy with my support of others.

Apart from this drain, I feel better able to work this week than last.  It is a difficult time to get contracts, but I am hopeful that there will be good news soon.

In the meantime, I've been able to write a considerable amount: to collate the records and notes from that time in 2010/2011 when the MIVD team attempted to manipulate Sjors' behavior by blocking his communication with me (and me with him). It is good that I have detailed, dispassionate records which stand up to any level of scrutiny. There has been considerable international dialogue about the role that covert governmental and military organizations play in invading personal privacy. I think that it is an appropriate discussion, and that my contribution to the discourse will not be unwelcome. Covert organizations have always had the initiative to invade privacy but they have not, until recently, had such a vast capability to do so. It is appropriate that they be subject to scrutiny, reprimand, and reconsideration of practices.

Perhaps it is the intention and application of this specific privacy violation that causes the greatest ethical and practical concern. MIVD did not simply stand by and passively monitor (as they do with this blog) but they used their capability actively, intrusively, and for the specific purpose of interfering with the relationship between Sjors and myself, and manipulating his behavior. This is a dreadful practice and one which they should answer for.

The fact that they were successful in their manipulation is despicable. Not to mention: it has caused such terrible harm. That they subsequently attempted to slander me to cover up their misdeeds should be cause for alarm. These are bad business practices because they do not protect the institution but, rather, open them up for criminal investigations and defamation lawsuits. These are bad ethical practices that justly expose them to public scrutiny. These practices also interfere with the actual mission of the organization: to stop bad people from doing bad things. If it is your job to find and eliminate terrorists then, by all means: fucking do so. To waste your resources and capabilities in order to interfere with a person's private affairs is a distraction and a fuck-up. To make matters worse, you stopped me from doing my job - and I was working to make your military more effective, and to make the world a safer place. You have stopped all the good things I would have done in this past year.

I had a long conversation with a member of the Cameroonian Special Forces today. He contacted me because he very badly wanted me to conduct additional training in Cameroon. But I am powerless to help him, as I am equally powerless to assist the dozen other African countries where I was supposed to put programs in place in the past year. I put this on you, MIVD. I blame you for this capability gap which cannot be filled any other way. Ask your own officers who worked alongside me. Ask them what value I brought. And ask yourselves: what the fuck were you thinking?

Gabriela y Rodrigo

Last night, I went to a concert at Wolf Trap with Sara and her husband and their friend. What a lovely way to spend an evening! We picnicked on the grass beforehand, eating cheese and bread and wine.

Then the concert itself was amazing. A fusion of flamenco and heavy metal by two Mexican artists, Gabriela and Rodrigo. Sara's friend had gotten us fantastic seats, and it was impressive to hear and see the skill and musicality. They used the guitar in interesting and different ways, Gabriela providing both harmony and percussion, using complicated strum patterns and the guitar itself as a striking instrument. Rodrigo played with his legs apart, hips thrust Elvis style as he played sexy melodies. 

The experience was quite invigorating. I'm starting to get my groove back on. I've been a bit lethargic lately. I suspect that it's been difficult to deal with the emotional attention required for P and his family, and then for my own family. I've had trouble doing work. But today, I was up early for some Crossfit. Then I took the train to Reston where I met with some software engineers who will be developing the prototype for my invention. Very cool. 

And I've been able to write a tremendous amount recently. Recording events and putting pieces together chronologically so I can tell the complete story. I feel that it's important to do this. I've always felt the need to look at it all: spread out behind in its complex pattern. With the benefit of hindsight, I can understand the whys and wherefores, but I didn't know the significant parts while I was in the middle of them. I have excellent notes, e-mails, and records so it becomes possible to create an accurate (is memory ever accurate?) narrative. In retrospect, I think that I would do one single thing differently - and it would have made all the difference: When Sjors and I were in his rooms on the base in 2010, and Mac came sniffing at the door, I was ready to open the door and to tell Mac to fuck off. Sjors begged me not to. He was fearful and I became contaminated by his fear. But I am not someone who hides in the shadows. If I had it to do over again, I would have confronted Mac before Sjors left the base on 11/26/2010. I would have forced the bastards to talk to me.