Not much is known about about the Heyer family as yet, other than the fact that they are from somewhere in New York and have made the incomprehensible (to me, at least) decision to move to Russia. They are the U.S. equivalent of the Canadian Feenstra family . . . just with fewer children.

And once more — as I did when first writing about the Feenstras — I have to ask:

“Don’t you people read the news?!!”

Like their Canadian doppelgängers, they are an ultra-conservative Christian family seeking their version of Nirvana, that is, a land of what they consider to be “traditional moral and family values” — a place that exists only in their dreams.

So they decided that place must be Russia.

Knowing nothing of their background, I can’t fathom what brought Leo and his wife Chantel to this conclusion. But from their belief that Russia must be the land of their dreams, I suspect that they are, at the very least, unworldly and undereducated as to the realities of life. And judging solely from their photograph above, taken as they received their temporary Russian residency permits, I would say that Leo looks optimistic; Chantel looks a little nervous; and the three boys look stoned . . . oh, sorry . . . stunned. As with the eight Feenstra children, their futures are of the greatest concern to me.

Leo Heyer’s comment for the video published by the Russian Interior Ministry was simply: “I feel like I’ve been put on an ark of safety for my family. The person I want to thank is President Vladimir Putin for allowing Russia to become a good place for families in this world climate.”

And Chantel added: “In a small way, it feels as if I just got married to Russia.”

Whoever wrote their script has a real future with the Russian equivalent of Hallmark.

*. *. *

Needless to say, Russia’s Interior Ministry did not overlook the propaganda value of the American family’s arrival. Their spokeswoman, Irina Volk, was cited by the official Russian news agency TASS as saying that the Heyers’ decision to move to Russia was the result of their “distaste for the dissolution of traditional moral and family values in American society, as well as the poor education system. The adult members of the family were worried about the future of their children.” [TASS, August 15, 2024.]

According to TASS, she stated: “Another American family has chosen to relocate to our country and live here. My colleagues from the Moscow Region’s branch of the Russian Interior Ministry issued certificates of temporary asylum on the territory of Russia to the Heyer’s [sic] and their children. In the future, Leo and Chantel plan to get Russian citizenship, because they know that in our country traditional values are protected by the state. They say it is safer here, the level of education is better, large families are supported.” [Id.]

The Feenstras at least have a YouTube channel through which they are allowed to keep in touch with the outside world. I hope we will also be kept informed of the Heyers’ progress as they navigate the muddy waters of life in Russia. In the meantime, I wish them . . .

Vsevo dobrovo. All the best.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/22/24

They say every dream has a meaning, and not necessarily an obvious one. I’m not sure I want to know what mine mean . . . they’re that weird.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know I write a lot about Russia, both past and present. (I haven’t learned to forecast the future yet.) So it would seem natural for me to dream about the time I spent there years ago, or the people I knew in Moscow back in the ‘90s, or being chased by Vladimir Putin through the dark forest or across a snowy tundra. But I don’t.

I do dream a lot about Nazis, though. Evil-looking, gun-toting, goose-stepping, 1940s Gestapo types, who for some reason are pursuing me from nook to cranny, hell bent on killing me. And each time I think I’ve found a good hiding place, here they come again. They never do catch me, but can anyone tell me what they’re doing in my dreams? Could it simply be a craving for sauerbraten?

Happily, the Nazis don’t visit often. But I do rack up a lot of miles while I’m sleeping — driving and driving and driving. A lot of the time I’m searching for the right road (okay, that one’s pretty obvious), but just as often I know where I’m going and other cars keep getting in my way, though I always find my way around them. Or it starts snowing and the road is slippery. Or I’ve parked the car somewhere and when I go back for it, I can’t find it. I spend a lot of time running up and down the ramps in parking garages too. Driving, driving, driving . . . running, running, running . . . and getting nowhere.

Actually, this one is starting to sound more like my life, except that in the dreams I’m usually younger and more able-bodied.

I have a confession to make: I was, for most of my adult life, a bona fide shopaholic. I loved going to the big malls, wandering from store to store, roaming through displays of things I would never in a million years have any use for. But especially at the change of seasons, there were the newest fashions. Clothes for work, clothes for play, clothes for the White House dinner I would never be invited to. Clothes for the next cruise. Shoes. Purses. Lingerie. Pajamas. Jewelry. I loved it all.

I don’t do that anymore. At my stage of life — old and retired — I have no need for all those beautiful things. And nowhere to put them anyway, since the downsizing. Besides that, I’m not sure I would survive an entire day of shlepping through a three-story mall complex, complete with food court, gigantic atrium, and multiplex movie theater.

So I dream about it instead. Really. I can’t count the number of times my sister (in reality, gone these past seven years) and I hit the shops, try on clothes, argue over which one is going to get the jacket we’ve both fallen in love with. Those dreams are so real that when I wake up, I have to check to be sure my credit card is still in my wallet and my sister hasn’t miraculously come back to life. (Yes, it is, and no, she hasn’t.)

And then there are the nighttime fantasies where I’m in a theater, and I’m called upon to perform. Lots of luck with that one! I guess that’s just the latent extrovert trying to escape from somewhere deep down inside; but trust me — it’s never going to happen. I have no musical talent, and the last time I acted in anything was in an office Christmas review when I played the part of a cleaning lady singing about the Sherman Antitrust Act. Don’t ask — it was a law firm and the script was written by lawyers, so it’s not going to make sense. All I remember is that I had to have several drinks before screwing up the courage to go onstage. They said I did well, which is what counts, I guess. And I recall the broom.

So I fantasize about performing in my sleep, and the applause is truly uplifting. It also usually wakes me up, which is irritating because then I have to make one of those nocturnal trips to the w.c.

You’ve probably noticed that these have all been dreams built on repeated themes. That in itself must mean something, but I haven’t a clue as to what it might be. There are others that keep cropping up — looking at new houses and apartments, cats and dogs that talk to me, trying to find an unoccupied ladies’ room, and babies that for some reason have been left in my care.

But now and then there will be an excruciatingly detailed, very mixed-up, totally incomprehensible dream that leaves me scratching my head and saying

when I finally wake up. Like the one the other night that included the following:

— A date with a man I sort of liked but wasn’t sure of;

— Going to a party in the wealthy D.C. suburb of Potomac, Maryland;

— Wearing a beautiful, slinky, sparkly, rose-colored evening gown with bare shoulders and “spaghetti” straps;

— Being tall and slim and much younger (that’s how I knew it was a dream);

— Riding in the man’s Lincoln Continental;

— Arriving at the restaurant, where the elevators kept closing before we could get into them;

— Finally being seated with several other people I didn’t know;

— Everyone chipping in for the dinner with cash, but not being allowed to contribute my share;

— Going to the ladies’ room with my sister, who somehow suddenly showed up; and finally

— Riding a different elevator to . . . wait for it . . .

You knew there had to be a garage in there somewhere, didn’t you?

So . . . anybody make sense out of any of that? I’d see a shrink, but I’m scared to death of the diagnosis. I’m also a little afraid to fall asleep at night. But at least my nocturnal life isn’t boring.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/21/24

In the course of pushing those “disastrous consequences” threats this week, Belarus has become the latest excuse for the chorus of warnings emanating from the Moscow Kremlin and Foreign Ministry.

Yesterday, Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova told reporters of her concern as to — in her words — increasingly “provocative” activity on the Belarus-Ukraine border, further stating that she would not rule out the possibility of attempts to “escalate” in the region. [Dmitry Antonov and Andrew Osborn, Reuters, September 20, 2024.]

Shortly after Ukraine’s counteroffensive into Russia’s Kursk region on August 6th, Belarusian leader Aleksandr Lukashenko — in what may have been another of his obsequious attempts to remain relevant to his idol, Vladimir Putin — suggested, without offering a shred of evidence, that Ukraine might be planning to attack Belarus. Or he may have been acting under Putin’s instructions from the get-go. It doesn’t really matter.

In either event, it was the excuse Russia and its puppet state, Belarus, needed. The Minsk government later said that it would be sending extra troops to its border with Ukraine, though Kyiv said it had not seen any sign of major changes. The Ukrainian Foreign Ministry also said last month that their country “has never taken and is not going to take any unfriendly actions against the Belarusian people.” [Id.]

But now, Russia’s Zakharova inexplicably offers this statement:

“We take due note of the information received about the intensification of the activities of Ukrainian forces in the border zone.

”We see these facts ourselves and are aware of constant attempts from the Ukrainian side to use drones and to send terrorists into the republic.” [Id.]

I’m sorry, but . . . What “information”? What “facts”?

Well, according to Zakharova, Ukrainian President Zelensky has already taken “reckless steps,” and she accused him of coordinating his actions with Washington — somehow relating it to the upcoming U.S. presidential election:

“Therefore, in line with this logic, we do not rule out the possibility that these destructive forces could set the situation in the region in motion and escalate.” [Id.]

Aha! Now I get it!

“In line with this logic . . .” “. . . do not rule out the possibility . . .” She’s talking about Russian logic, and possibilities. Not facts.

After all, who needs facts when you’ve got speculation, and conjecture, and inventiveness? You just make it up as you go along, creating the scenario that best suits your purposes.

Zakharova closed with some comments about Russia and Belarus being part of a “Union State” with a joint defense agreement and a joint regional military grouping — sort of a mini-NATO — but deployed in Belarus along with Russian tactical nuclear weapons (there’s that threat again), saying:

“The practical implementation of any scenarios which are aggressive towards Minsk is fraught with disastrous consequences not only for Ukraine, but also for its sponsors.” [Id.]

Sound familiar? Of course, it does. It’s another instance of SSDD:

Same Script, Different Day.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/21/24

I don’t know who thinks up these “holidays,” but apparently a lot of people have found September 21st to be meaningful. So put on your party hats, grab that bottle of Schnapps, and let’s get celebrating, beginning with . . .

World Gratitude Day.

This is a celebration instituted by the United Nations as a reminder to “embrace gratitude as a catalyst for personal happiness and mental well-being. It serves as a poignant reminder to pause, reflect, and appreciate the blessings in our lives, fostering humility and a positive mindset.”

That’s a lovely idea. But has the U.N. looked around lately at the world of today? I’m grateful not to be living in, for example, Ukraine or Gaza. But mental well-being is getting harder and harder to achieve everywhere. Sorry, United Nations, but maybe we should put this one on hold until you’ve fixed a few more of the bigger problems.

Locate An Old Friend Day.

I’ve done this, and it’s a great idea. I really loved seeing how much older they’ve all gotten, while I’ve stayed . . . well, never mind.

National CleanUp Day.

Really? That sounds worthwhile, but exhausting.

Oktoberfest.

Oh, yeah . . . this is something we can all get behind. Thus that bottle of Schnapps I mentioned in the beginning. Or if you prefer:

International Eat an Apple Day.

If it will keep the doctor away, so much the better. Make mine a Honey Crisp, please. (Just a personal preference.)

International Coastal CleanUp Day.

See National CleanUp Day. Also, I live inland. But if you’re anywhere near a coast, go for it.

World Alzheimer’s Day.

I assume we’re not actually celebrating Alzheimer’s, but rather working toward finding a cure. Definitely worth a contribution.

International Day of Peace.

Another U.N. creation. You have to admire their tenacity.

National Chai Day.

I assume this is the “chai” that refers to a type of tea, which I love. Or it could be construed as meaning “life,” as in the Hebrew word pronounced something like “high.” Either way, count me in.

National Gymnastics Day.

Not even when I was younger! I still have the burns on my thighs from trying to climb a rope in gym class. Don’t even ask me about the balance beam!

Big Whopper Liar Day.

I’ve never heard of this one, and I’m not sure what it’s supposed to commemorate. But I do know whom I’d like to nominate to be the poster child for it.

*. *. *

And happy first day of fall tomorrow, everyone!

Brendochka
9/21/24

I noticed yesterday that one of my readers had dug up an old blog post of mine (“old” being from May 3rd of this year) having to do with the strange disappearance and unexplained demise of American-turned-Russian Russell Bentley, who was last seen fighting for the Russians in Ukraine. And I wondered why the sudden interest in this story. I also wondered what had happened to Bentley’s widow, Lyudmila, since his death, so I went digging.

I didn’t have to dig very far, because there had been news just yesterday of the arrest of four Russian service members charged with Bentley’s death on April 8th. The Russian Investigative Committee has concluded that Bentley, 64, was tortured and killed by members of the Fifth Brigade. [Maya Mehrara, Newsweek, September 20, 2024.]

Bentley’s life in the United States before coming to Russia was anything but ordinary. The brief version (from Wikipedia) says enough:

“Russell Bonner Bentley III . . . also known as Texas and the Donbass [sic] Cowboy, was an American man who served in Vostok Battalion and XAH Spetsnaz Battalion in 2014, 2015 and 2017 on the side of the Donetsk People’s Republic [Russian-occupied Ukraine]. He was a YouTuber until his channel was deleted in early 2022. He also worked for the Russian state-owned Sputnik news agency as a war correspondent. Prior to his activities in the Donbas, he was a marijuana activist and smuggler who was later convicted of drug smuggling and spent five years in prison.”

There’s a lot more, but you can see that he was, to state it mildly, a colorful character. Relocating to Russia in 2014, he married a Russian woman, Lyudmila, and reinvented himself as a warrior and war correspondent. And on April 8th of 2024, he disappeared. His body was finally found around the 19th of April; it was thought at the time that he had most likely been “picked up by soldiers mistaking him for an American or NATO spy” and killed. [DailyMail.com, April 25, 2024.]

And it has now been reported by Russian media outlet Rg.Ru that four members of the Russian Armed Forces — Vitaly Vansyatsky, Vladislav Agaltsev, Vladimir Bazhin, and Andrei Iordanov — have been charged with “torturing and killing Bentley as a group through negligence, an action reportedly beyond their authority.” [Newsweek, op.cit.]

Did they really say, “Through negligence”??!!!

A friend of Bentley’s wife has confirmed to Astra Press that Bentley “died as a result of electric current torture, . . . [and that] his heart couldn’t withstand the electric shocks.” I’m sorry, but I can’t fathom how that can be classified as “negligence.”

Maybe it really was a case of mistaken identity. Maybe they did think — hearing his Texas/American accent and not recognizing him — that he was a NATO infiltrator. So do they arrest him, take him into custody and lock him up until they can verify his identity? Oh, no. Instead, they go directly to the most brutal kind of interrogation — electric shock — and kill the poor bastard. Then try to cover their tracks by hiding his body for a week and a half.

And now, some five months later, the Russian hierarchy brings forth four scapegoats to take the punishment for what is surely the brutal business-as-usual of the entire Russian Army — perhaps labeling it as “negligence . . . beyond their authority” in order to avoid having to invoke the maximum penalty.

It might have brought some comfort to Lyudmila Bentley if she could have learned that her husband had died in battle. But this . . . this horror will haunt her for the rest of her life.

It is an ending worthy of Dostoyevsky.

It is a Russian ending.

Just sayin’. . . .

Brendochka
9/21/24

Vladimir Putin has just given Russian men the biggest, bestest gift imaginable . . . while at the same time hitting women with the biggest, worstest assignment he could think of: encouraging — no, urging them “to ‘engage in procreation on breaks’ during their working day.” [Maya Mehrara, Newsweek, September 20, 2024.]

Yes, I know . . . I had to read it three times before I could be sure I wasn’t seeing things. But it’s true: Russia’s most benevolent leader wants his people — how to put this delicately? — copulating like rabbits at lunchtime, all for the benefit of Mother Russia.

He calls it a reversal of the country’s declining population; I call it Papa Putin’s Purposeful Procreation Plot. And it could well replace vodka as the country’s most popular lunch-hour indulgence. Popular, that is, except with the women who will then have to spend the ensuing nine months carrying the Progeny of the Procreation Plot, and the rest of their lives raising them.

Here are the Pimping President’s precise words, delivered on Wednesday at the fourth annual Eurasian Women’s Forum, and designed to justify his brainstorm and mollify the working mothers who will have to bear (literally) the brunt of the assignment:

“Russia is traditionally respectful of women. In this regard, our state policy relies on the National Strategy of Action in the Interests of Women.

”Several initiatives have been put forward toward this end, and proper conditions are being created for women to succeed professionally while remaining guardians of the hearth and lynchpins of large families with many children.” [Id.]

Is anybody buying this so far? Maybe not, because he went on to say that women are able to cope with combining professional careers and motherhood as they are “beautiful, caring and charming” and “possess a secret that men are unable to fathom.” [Id.]

In closing, he added that he wishes women “success for the benefit of peace, creation and progress.” [Id.]

As it turns out, this has not been dropped on the people of Russia overnight. Back in July, my bubbeleh — Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov — put in his two kopeks’ worth by saying that the birth rate “is now at a terribly low level — 1.4 [births per woman]. This is comparable to European countries, Japan and so on. But this is disastrous for the future of the nation.”

And Health Minister Yevgeny Shestopalov has said that Russians should “engage in procreation on breaks” during a recent appearance on Russian national television. [Id.] So the secret is out: shtupping is in.

I haven’t seen anything in writing to indicate who is going to pay all of the copulating couples to raise the additional children with whom they are to be blessed, or for the larger houses or apartments to accommodate them.

And while Putin has assured the mothers-to-be that they are “beautiful, caring and charming,” and “possess a secret” that will allegedly empower them to take on all of the extra duties of multiple motherhoods, I don’t see any mention of a national childcare program to help out in this regard, either. Perhaps that’s one of the “conditions . . . being created.”

But Russia needs to regrow its population, and this is his solution. I wonder . . . has Putin considered options, such as ending the massacre of young men fighting his bloody war in Ukraine by calling a halt to the so-called “special military operation”? Or stanching the exodus of citizens leaving the country to escape persecution for speaking against Putin’s policies by easing those policies?

China has also been experiencing a worrisome drop in the birth rate over the past several years, and has begun offering incentives to reverse the tide. But I don’t believe that they have gone so far as to offer conjugal lunchtime visits.

I’m trying to imagine how this would have worked in my office. And I can’t. I just can’t.

No . . . there has to be a better way.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/24

On Wednesday, September 18th, Vladimir Putin’s war against Ukraine came closer to home again, when Ukrainian drones struck an arms depot in the Tver region, some 200 miles north/northwest of Moscow.

The Kremlin said the area had been hit by falling pieces of drones that had been destroyed by Russia’s defenses. But the evidence says otherwise: the blasts were strong enough to have been detected by earthquake monitors, and NASA satellites sensed intense heat sources from an area of about five square miles at the site. Multiple detonations were heard, and social media videos and photos (as yet unverified) showed the purported result of the strike. An entire nearby town was evacuated. [Lucy Papachristou and Lidia Kelly, Reuters, September 18, 2024.]

According to Russian military blogger Yuri Podolyaka, “The enemy [Ukraine] hit an ammunition depot in the area of Toropets. Everything that can burn is already burning there (and exploding).” [Id.]

A Ukrainian source said the drone attack had destroyed a warehouse storing missiles, guided bombs and artillery ammunition. But the governor of the Tver region, Igor Rudenya, downplayed the damage, saying merely that the drones had been shot down, a fire had broken out, and some residents were being evacuated.

The storage facility had in the past been touted by former Deputy Defense Minister Dmitry Bulgakov as “protect[ing] them [the stored weapons] from air and missile strikes and even from the damaging factors of a nuclear explosion.” [Id.]

But one woman, on one of Russia’s VK chat groups, had this angry response to the attack:

“Why wasn’t the ammunition underground?! What are you doing???? In Kudino, houses were blown away! Why is the forest burning and no one is there… What kind of negligence is this!!!!” [Id.]

Sounds like more than a simple difference of opinion to me.

*. *. *

Russia, of course, calls this aggression; Ukraine and its Western allies know it for what it is: a successful counteroffensive.

And this was accomplished without the use of the controversial long-range U.S. missiles that Ukraine has been seeking permission to use. That decision remains to be made by the U.S. and its NATO allies, and Vladimir Putin continues to threaten retribution if permission is granted.

This week, outgoing NATO chief Jens Stoltenberg dismissed Putin’s warnings, saying:

“There have been many red lines declared by him before, and he has not escalated, meaning also involving NATO allies directly in the conflict. He has not done so, because he realises that NATO is the strongest military alliance in the world. They also realise that nuclear weapons, nuclear war, cannot be won and should not be fought. And we have made that very clear to him several times.” [Dmitry Antonov and Lucy Papachristou, Reuters, September 18, 2024.]

Strong words, indeed. And who should emerge to respond to them but the Russian media’s best friend in the Kremlin . . . drumroll, please . . . Dmitry Peskov. Of course, he was not amused, and offered this:

“This ostentatious desire not to take seriously the Russian president’s statements is a move that is completely short-sighted and unprofessional” . . . adding that Stoltenberg’s position is “extremely provocative and dangerous.” [Id.]

Thank you, Dima . . . it’s always good to hear from you.

And so, as another winter approaches, Vladimir Putin’s “special military operation” in Ukraine drags on; more people die, are wounded, and are displaced; and the world’s two superpowers stand toe-to-toe on that metaphorical red line once more . . .

. . . while I have flashbacks to 1962.**

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/24

** The Cuban Missile Crisis: October 16-29, 1962.

This is it: the final installment. Thanks for staying with me to the bitter end. - Brendochka

It was done. I had chosen my own way, and that path had led me to places I never dreamt I would be. Now that it was over, there were decisions to be made, a new course to be plotted. And I was totally unprepared.

I had always known, of course, that once Yuri Shvets’ book was published, that part of my life would be behind me. What I hadn’t foreseen was the resultant unraveling of my long relationship with Russia: my business, my travels, and — most painful of all — my Russian friendships.

The KGB had kicked me to the curb; the FBI no longer needed my help; and my friends in Moscow were afraid to talk to me. My business plan was defunct, and my bank account was in desperate need of an infusion of cash. It was as though it had all been a long, weird dream, and I had awakened still groggy and not quite sure of what was real and what wasn’t.

So what do you do when you reach the dead end of a road? As I see it, you have two choices: you can fall apart, or you can look for a new road. I momentarily considered the first option; but then I gave myself a good lecture, pulled myself together, updated my resume, and went searching for a job. It wasn’t that difficult in Washington in those days; we used to say D.C. was recession-proof. In a matter of days I found my place — a good one — and I stayed for 21 years.

The law firm was Foley & Lardner LLP; I was assistant to one of the firm’s top corporate partners, Steve Chameides, whose extensive background included work for Russian and Ukrainian shipping and cruise lines. I was hired in part for my Russian language skills and knowledge of the country, so there was still some attachment. On the downside, there was no opportunity for travel, and I was no longer my own boss; but the work was interesting, the people were great, the location on the Potomac Riverfront in D.C.’s Georgetown neighborhood was ideal, and the pay was good. Was it exciting? For the most part, no. But it had its moments . . .

I had only been with the firm for a couple of weeks, and was still finding my solid footing, when Steve was asked by another partner to join a meeting with some potential new clients, one of whom was from Russia. At one point, Steve rang and asked me if I could get someone from our copy center to pick up some documents to be duplicated right away. Rather than waste time delegating, I decided it would be quicker to take care of it myself and went directly to the nearby conference room. Looking only at Steve, I took the documents, left the room, and headed for the copy center. On the way, I happened to glance down at the top page of the sheaf of papers in my hand, and saw a familiar name: the name of Valentin Aksilenko’s brother-in-law from Riga, Latvia, who had been the conduit for the exchange of messages between myself and Aksilenko for a while in 1993.

I stopped walking and began leafing through the papers. And there was the other name I was looking for: Valentin Aksilenko himself. By one of the most bizarre of coincidences, he and his brother-in-law were partnering with a former client of Steve’s, an American man, in some sort of commercial transaction. Aksilenko had to have been in that room! Of all the law firms, in all the cities, in all the world, he walks into mine . . . (Oh, sorry — couldn’t resist channeling Casablanca.)

So now what should I do? First I took the papers to be copied, and instead of leaving them for someone else to bring back to Steve, I decided to wait for the copies and return them to the conference room myself. I just had to know. And when I walked back into that room, there was Aksilenko — seated across the table, facing me as I entered, and looking as though he wanted to slide under the table and disappear. His face was flushed, and he clearly did not know what to expect. Was this too much of a coincidence to actually be one? Was I going to say something? He was in as great a state of disbelief as I was.

But I had had time to compose myself. I handed the documents back to Steve and left the room as I had entered: without a word — but not before looking directly at Aksilenko to let him know I had seen him. I went back to my office, sat down, and waited for the shaking to stop — it seemed I wasn’t quite as composed as I’d thought. And then I called Eric at the FBI. But he was strangely unconcerned, and simply asked me to keep him advised of the outcome of the meeting. I was clearly an outsider now, and this encounter was no more than a little glitch to him. But to me, it was a disturbing indication of how small a world this really is. What’s that old saying?

Later, when the meeting broke up, I did what I had to do: I told Steve the story of my history with Aksilenko, and assured him that I would recuse myself from all work on any projects the firm might undertake for him and his colleagues in order to avoid even an appearance of any conflict of interest. As it turned out, though, that wasn’t necessary; it had already been decided that their proposal was not of interest to the firm and they were not going to be taken on as clients. But Steve was fascinated by my story, and we developed a great working relationship over the next two decades, and a friendship that continues to this day.

*. *. *

That was early in 1995. I have not seen, spoken to, heard from, or in any way communicated with either Valentin Aksilenko or Yuri Shvets in the ensuing 28 years. But they have never been far from my mind, and a little over two years ago — by then in retirement, with plenty of time on my hands — I decided to give voice to my memories. I began writing: not this blog, but a book. I have a nearly completed draft manuscript and a book proposal now, and I’m on a search for a publisher or literary agent. My magnum opus may never see the light of day, but writing it has been truly healing. If nothing else, it will be a legacy for my children.

And from that book was born this blog. It’s been a great way of sharing parts of my story with friends and others around the world who may be interested. And I’ve found writing a blog to be much more relaxing than writing a book: no in-depth research, no pressure, no need for grammatical perfection. No money either, but that’s beside the point.

As for all of that research, I had to do a lot of reading before I could even begin writing. And in the course of that reading, my name popped up in some unexpected places, the most fascinating being a book titled “One Nation Under Blackmail – Vol. 2,” by one Whitney Webb. It is largely about the late (and not so great) Jeffrey Epstein. In Chapter 20, the author writes about Epstein’s connection with the Edge Group, “an exclusive organization of intellectuals . . . created by John Brockman.” Yes, the same literary agent John Brockman who sold Shvets’ book to Simon & Schuster all those years ago.

Ms. Webb goes on to write more about Brockman, including his involvement with Shvets and Aksilenko in 1993-94 . . . which is where my name shows up, mostly in quotes from that old New York Times article. Nothing negative about me, but who would ever have thought I’d be mentioned, even marginally, in a book about a notorious, convicted, and now dead sex trafficker like Jeffrey Epstein? My name is even included in the Index! My grandmother would have been horrified — she used to preach that you’re judged by the company you keep. She was right, of course; but at my age, I figure any publicity is good publicity and can only enhance what’s left of my reputation. So, all in all, I’m fine with it.

*. *. *

And there we are (pictured above) at the beginning: Valentin Aksilenko, far left; Yuri Shvets, second from right; John Brockman; his wife and business partner Katinka Matson, far right; their son Max; and — in the middle of things as usual — yours truly, with the red hair and an inexplicably odd facial expression. The red hair was an accident of birth; I can’t explain the expression except to say that it was early in the morning, just prior to leaving for the city to meet with publishers, and I hadn’t slept well the night before. And judging from everyone else’s somber expressions, neither had they. Or perhaps the photographer just forgot to say “Smile.”

[NOTE: The photo is from John Brockman’s archives. Two corrections: the date was April, not June, 1993; and Yuri Shvets was a Major in the KGB, not a Captain, at the time of his retirement.]

And here I am today, retired and living in the great state of Georgia, navigating a quieter path, and still missing the excitement of Washington, Moscow, and all the other world capitals I’ve been privileged to visit . . . but grateful to be able to write about them. In my view, a life devoid of tales worth telling would be a life only half-lived.

And what about the other characters in this story? Where are they now? Also in the course of my research, I inevitably ran across articles on Aksilenko and Shvets. It appears they’ve long since become U.S. citizens, enjoying the benefits of living here rather than in Vladimir Putin’s Russia. Aksilenko, true to his nature, has kept a lower profile, reportedly running a business, writing a book of his own, and speaking from time to time before various private and governmental organizations.

Shvets, on the other hand — always the more flamboyant of the two — has maintained a somewhat more public persona. Despite his allegations that he continues to live in fear of retribution from certain forces in Russia and thus must keep his exact whereabouts secret, he has appeared frequently in print and on TV. He also has his own YouTube channel, wherein he expounds on matters of international political importance — in Russian, without English subtitles. I wonder: to whom is he speaking?

In any event, they both seem to have enjoyed the rewards of living in the land of the free. Good for them.

As for the self-proclaimed superspy Aldrich Ames, now 82, he continues to live out his life sentence, without possibility of parole, in Federal prison. Has the identity of the person or persons who blew the whistle on him ever been made public? Not to my knowledge. There were those, nearly three decades ago, who suggested it was none other than Valentin Aksilenko; but others said no, and offered a few different possibilities. I doubt we’ll ever know for sure.

But, if it should happen that Aksilenko — or even Yuri Shvets — was that person, then I would take great pleasure and pride in knowing that, in some very small and indirect way, I helped to make it happen. And if not, then at least it was . . . well, not fun, exactly . . . but undeniably interesting. Not everyone can say they spent two years hanging out with the FBI, the KGB, the CIA, the Russian Mafia, the Moscow Militia, two Russian defectors, and an extraordinary assortment of bit players. But I can.

And if I could turn the clock back to that cold February day in 1993, would I choose the same road again?

Would you?

FINIS

Brendochka
6/1/23 (re-posted 9/20/24)

It really was uneventful here as far as any sort of fun was concerned, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You know those national and international “holidays” that sound like a lot of laughs? Well, there weren’t any today. Here are the three that made it onto the “official” list:

Batman Day.

The cleaners lost my cape, and Robin quit when I couldn’t afford to pay him any longer, so this one didn’t work out too well.

*. *. *

Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Don’t. Just don’t.

*. *. *

National Dance Day.

Anyone remember how to foxtrot? Didn’t think so. It might have been fun, if the Glenn Miller Orchestra had shown up. A little spooky, too, considering . . .

*. *. *

So you see what I mean — a total bust of a day. But looking ahead, Saturday (the 21st) promises to be a beaut — eleven events, including Big Whopper Liar Day. I didn’t even know the Trumpster had a day named after him.

And on that totally boring note, I’ll be signing off now. See you back here tomorrow.

TTFN,
Brendochka
9/19/24

I’ve read your charming little foray into the rarefied world of poetry, and decided if you can do it, anyone can. So here is my pitiful stab at a response, just for fun (which I assume was also your intention):

Perhaps religion’s not to blame;
Grok* might be the culprit’s name.

Technocrats and AI freaks,
Billionaires, computer geeks,

“Migrants eating people’s pets,”
“No one’s shot at Biden yet,“

People with too many kids.
This whole world has hit the skids.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/19/24

(* Reportedly the name of Elon Musk’s AI chatbot)