The agent of magic, part 2

The agent of magic, part two

by Jon Rappoport

August 4, 2017

Another excerpt from my novel, The Magic Agent, about a breach in space and time, a private eye, and the CIA…

June 6

“There are the infamous photo files.  It’s said there is enough blackmail evidence in that secret cache to indict half the membership of the US Congress.  While this is, of course, a wild exaggeration… 

We could dismiss such speculation as complete nonsense, if it were not for the protracted closed session of the House Intelligence Committee in the spring of 1993.  The meeting erupted into a frantic battle. Representative Larry Bernstein accused the CIA counter-intelligence director of waging a private war against the legislative branch.  Bernstein waved around a photograph of a sexual act taken at the moment of orgasm, featuring a former Congressman and a prostitute in a Portland, Oregon, hotel room.”

Forgotten Legends of the CIA,
Arthur Meriden

I had a feeling I’d met this guy Ralph Renari before.  Or maybe he was just an illustration of the distasteful and the disgusting—qualities which I usually work with, but I could hear him in my head prattling on: “Breach in continuum…playing one side off against another opening up a hole in space, the Agency is aware of this…maybe they’re causing it…”

I was sitting in the cafeteria in the basement of Beth Israel Hospital, in Santa Monica.  Bright fluorescents, no shadows in the room.  Vending machines, a short cafeteria line, a few blank faces.

A doctor walked in.  He stopped and looked around.

He came to the table and sat down across from me.  His name badge read Dr. Martin Kelly/Cardiology.

“Mr. Palmer?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Ralph called me.  He’s an old friend.”

His voice was nasal, dry.  He was about forty, slender, had black hair cut short, a receding hairline.  White coat over a gray suit.

He put his hand on his chin.

“Who are you?” he said.

“An investigator working on spec so far.”

He looked pampered, and occupationally tired.

He rubbed his hand through his hair.  “What’s the goddamn drug?” he said.

“It was called Y-103, by Allison-Bowles.  For bipolar.”

“I know the company,” he said.  “I wasn’t aware they were doing that kind of clinical trial.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Ralph said you knew about the study.”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know who you are.”  He looked at his hands.  “I’m a cardiologist.”

“So what?”

“I’m not used to talking to people about sensitive matters when I don’t know them.”

“Heart specialists have higher standards?” I said.

“You might want to discredit a drug company.  I can’t be part of that.  I told Ralph I’d do him a favor.  But now I think I made a mistake.”

“Or you just like saying no to people.”

“I read you as some kind of thug.”

“Why do you say that?”

He wiped his hands on his white coat.

He stood up.  So I stood up.

He walked away and I followed him out of the cafeteria.  He kept walking toward a door in the corridor.  I stood there and waited until he walked through it.

Where do these fucking people come from?

 

When I got back to my office, I called Jerry Nevins.

His machine picked up.  He had no message recorded.  A few seconds of silence and then the beep.

“Me,” I said.  “I’m in gear and I need you for a day or two.  I’ll be here for a few hours.  If you’re broke, come over.”

 

An hour later, Jerry, wearing tan shorts and a blue short-sleeved button-down shirt, walked in.  He’s 5-6, wiry, goes about 150.  His head is a prop.  Bent nose, long brown hair almost to his shoulders.  He affects a stupid blank look.  It’s a front.

He pulled out a little notebook with a pen clipped to it, and sat down in an easy chair next to the file cabinet.

He looked up at the ceiling.  “What time is it?” he said.

“About three.”

“Okay,” he said.  “Lay out the shit.”

He looked at me and his eyes, a frightening pale blue, were very clear.

I told him the story of Ralph, as I understood it so far, and he wrote it down.

Jerry claims to have a poor memory.  This is false.  He knows the habits of every green at Torrey Pines in all weather.  Nine years ago, he finished in a tie for sixth at the Open there, after ending up in a trap at 15 and taking three strokes to get out.  Booze eventually began to claim him.  A few years after his Open outing, he was off the tour and in AA.  He stayed dry for six months.  He’s been on and off ever since.

He said, “Maybe we should go over to Alison-Bowles and ask around.”

“I’d rather collect a few facts first.”

“Where?”

“Why don’t you drive to Beverly Hills and talk to Ralph’s ex-wife?”

“Find out if Ralph’s a believable human being?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have her name.”

“Maybe she’s still using Renari.”

He looked out the window.  “I could be swimming on a nice day like this.”

“A hundred a day, plus expenses.  Just as a gesture.”

“Jesus,” he said.  “I could make that hanging out by the liquor store and begging for quarters.”

“I know.”

“I have a gig in a couple of weeks, playing a few rounds with some businessmen from Dallas.  At Lace Creek.  Bellamy’s bringing out a new line of irons.  They’re having in people to try them out.  They need a ringer to lay bets and take these guys’ money.  Make them feel at home.”

“I’m sure we’ll be done by then.”

“Lace Creek.  I shot a 68 there last month.”

“Ralph’s ex-wife has money.”

“I rolled in a putt from the front lip of the 17th.  Over the hill and down.”

“Call me.”

He nodded, stood up, and walked out.

I called my second friend, Doc Lieber.  I have two friends, Jerry and Doc.  Doc was at home.  He told me to come over.

I walked around the garden at the front of the Hancock Park Tudor and along the path by the side of the house.  Doc was sitting on the edge of a large trampoline on the deck of his pool.  He was rubbing his neck with a white towel.  Black bathing suit, no shirt.  Perennial tan.

For a man in his late sixties, he was in good shape.  He shaved his head to avoid comb-over temptations, and he wore a tightly clipped white beard, like an artist who teaches people on TV how to paint landscapes.   His stomach was almost flat.

On and off for the last two years, Doc had mentioned his missing brother.  It wasn’t a job, because he wouldn’t give it to me.  He just brought it up now and then.  Maybe he didn’t really want to find him.

Once in a while, I got the feeling I was a stand-in for the brother.

He stood up, came over to me and pointed to the little white metal table under a green umbrella.  We pulled out chairs and sat down.  He had two bottles of Sam Adams waiting under a checkered dishcloth.  He took away the cloth and we drank.

“So,” he said. “what defecating mess is it this time?”

“A drug trial conducted by Allison-Bowles.  Bipolar med.  They called it Y-103.  A volunteer beat his wife after the trial was over.  My new client’s sister was also in the trial.  She thinks this guy is coming after her now.”

He reached into his bathing suit pocket and took out a hard blue rubber ball.  He began squeezing it.  “I never thought much of Allison-Bowles.  Biotech smoke and mirrors.  They mostly raise money from investors and do studies.  Nothing comes of it.  Hard to imagine they’d be running a trial of a bipolar med.”

A black and white border collie came running out through the open French doors at the back of the house.  The dog was followed by a slender woman who looked about 30.  She was wearing a tiny red bikini.  Her black hair was pulled together on top of her head with a few white ribbons.

“This is June,” the Doc said.

She nodded to me and walked to the pool, sat down, and stuck one foot in the water.

The dog took up a position sitting at the Doc’s feet and waited, looking at the ball.  The Doc tossed it a few feet.  The dog rushed away and brought it back and set it down gently on the concrete.  She sat again and stared at it.

“Ginger,” Doc said.  “I’m talking.  No ball playing.”

The dog ignored him.  She kept staring at the ball.

Doc snapped his fingers.  Ginger looked up at him.

“Cell phone.”

The dog raced back into the house.  In half a minute she came back out with a cell phone in her mouth.  The Doc took it and patted the dog on the head.  The dog was not interested in the pat.  She sat down and looked at the ball.

“I could have trained her to hand me instruments when I was taking out bullets in the old days,” he said.  “I swear, she would have been correct.  She needs a field and a herd of sheep.  I’m a bastard for keeping her here in the yard.”

“I don’t think I’d want to look up from an operating table and see a dog with a scalpel in her mouth.  When did you get her?”

“Month ago.”

He punched in some numbers and waited.

“Marty, this is Lieber.  Get back to me.  I’m trying to find out about an experimental bipolar drug called Y-103.  Allison-Bowles.  They did a clinical trial.  Possibly aborted.  See what you can do.”

He put the phone down on the table.

“Marty Raskel.  He has a boat in the Bay.  Used to do open heart at Scripps.  He knows everybody.”

“I’ve got Jerry on this, “I said.  He’s going to Beverly Hills to talk to the client’s ex-wife.  She owns an art gallery.”

“How’s his game these days?” Lieber said.

“Shot a 68 at Lace Creek.  I hear he’s got a new swing.  Winds the fucking club around his neck and then brings it down in a perfect arc.  Pisses everybody off.”

Lieber smiled.  “He boozing?”

“Right now, as of today, I don’t think so.”

The woman stood up at the edge of the pool and took off her top and bottom.  She stretched and then dove into the water.  Very little splash.  I turned to Lieber.

“She lives in a big house in Rancho Santa Fe,” he said.  “Her husband was forced to give it to her in the divorce.”

“She boarding here?” I said.

“A few days a week she stays over.”

“You’re handling it okay?”

He snorted.  “Without Viagra, baby.  Twenty years as a cutter, I wasn’t going to go to seed after I retired.  That would have been cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You know a guy named Ralph Renari?” I said.  “He’s my client.  He teaches psychology at Santa Monica College.”

“No.”

“Anything new on your brother?”

He shook his head.  “Ted’s changed his name three or four times.  Some people say he’s out of the country.  I’ve pretty much given up.”

“Listen, what the fuck do they want him for, anyway?  You seem unusually sensitive about it.  Embezzlement?  Bank fraud?  Raping a Congressman?”

“Sensitive?  You’ve got the wrong guy.  He hasn’t done anything really bad.  Multiple breaches of National Security.  That’s all.”

“You want help?”

“No.  Just go your merry way, Frank.  It’s old news.  Family burdens are a trap.  You think you can fix it, but it’s not supposed to be fixed.  That’s my personal contribution to the Freudian lexicon.”

This was a side of Doc that made no sense to me.  I could accept it, but I knew there were shadows around the man.  It was as if he was cultivating them, to prove that things were much less in some way.  I had once watched him carve away, with a Swiss Army knife, the remains of a smashed and bleeding finger from a passenger in a car wreck off the 10 Freeway.  He had looked hard at the face of the man as he was cutting.

I stood up and waved to June, who was standing in the shallow end of the pool.  She nodded at me.  I walked away.  Doc picked up the ball and threw it in the pool.  The dog ran right off the edge and jumped in, swam over, and looked around for it.  It had sunk out of sight.  I didn’t see the rest.

 

June 7

“Another photograph showed Mississippi Congressman Allen Taurent sitting naked in his backyard with two unknown women. The Congressman died in 2001.”

Forgotten Legends of the CIA,
Arthur Meriden

 

A little after midnight, Doc called.  I was watching Big Love on HBO in my office.  It’s not TV, it’s Insanity.  I clicked it off.

“Here it is, “he said.  “Marty told me they finished the trial.  Eight weeks.  They didn’t like the outcome.  The FDA was not impressed, either.  The drug was basically an antidepressant.  Probably a tranquilizer thrown in.  Pretty amateur stuff.  Something to show the investors they were busy boys.  ”

I told him about my brief meeting with the cardiologist, hung up, turned off the TV and the light in my office, went downstairs, and strolled up La Brea to my ground-floor apartment on 2nd Street.  There was a cool breeze.

A new VW was parked next to my building.  The nineteen-year-old woman was sitting behind the wheel reading a magazine.

I walked in, went to the kitchen, turned on the light, and found a bottle of Dane’s in the fridge and drank it.

I brushed my teeth and went to bed.

In the morning, I drove downtown to the gym and punched the heavy bag and worked out on the old Nautilus.  Shelly Rogers wasn’t there.

At my office, I found an envelope on the floor below the mail slot, inside my door.  There was a check in it, for two thousand dollars.  Ralph had signed it.  I called his bank and confirmed he had the money in his account.

I walked down to my bank and deposited it.

As I came out of the bank, I saw a tall guy wearing a black leather jacket standing in front of the cleaners next store.  He was looking in the window.  I walked down the alley by the bank and into the parking lot.  He followed me.

I wandered up and down two aisles of parked cars.  At the end of the second aisle, he was waiting for me.  He was leaning up against a red Pontiac.

“You need something?” I said.  I stopped ten feet from him.

“Yeah,” he said.  He was about my height, 6-2.  He was wearing jeans and cowboy boots.  He had a buzz cut and a black moustache.  His hands were large and bony.

“What is it?”

He nodded.  “I hear you’re interested in Marci Renari.”

“Interested how?” I said.  “You mean I want to take her out?”

“Who gives a fuck,” he said.  He came up off the car and got into some kind of vague martial arts pose.  His hands were out in front of him.  I walked up to him and stomped down hard on his instep with my heel.  He screamed.  I grabbed the collar of his jacket and swung him around into the Pontiac.  He went over across the hood.  I clubbed him on the back of his neck with the side of my fist.  He collapsed on the hood.

I waited.  In a minute, he started to move.  He tried to turn around.  I put my hands around his neck and squeezed hard.  I kicked his legs out from under him and he fell and hit his head on the fender of the car and slid off and rolled on to the concrete.  He was on his back.  His eyes were open and unfocused.

I stepped back.  I waited.

He started looking around.  His head wasn’t moving, but his eyes were.

“What’s your name?” I said.

After a long pause, he said, “Carroll Montgomery.”  His voice was raspy.

“You beat your wife.”

He shook his head.  It was a reflex.

“That’s what I hear,” I said.

“So what?” he whispered.

“You’re after Marci.”

He cleared his throat.  “I made a mistake.”

“You won’t make the mistake again.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s where we started,” I said.  I bent down and drove the palm of my fist into the point of his nose.  I heard it snap.  Blood spurted out of his nostrils.  He screamed.  He kept screaming, to cover up the shock and the pain.  He covered his nose with his hands.

His screaming gradually went down to whimpering.

I stood up.  “I don’t deal with cops,” I said.  “If you go to them, I’ll hurt you a lot worse.  If you go near Marci, I’ll wreck your knees.”

Blood was oozing out between his fingers.

He started to cry.  He curled up into a ball.

I bent down and searched his pockets.  His wallet was in the pants pocket turned toward me.  I took it and walked away.

I looked around the lot.  A few people were getting into and out of cars.  They hadn’t registered what happened.  Most people don’t pay attention.  They don’t want to.

I looked through the wallet.  His driver’s license said he lived on Roscomare Road in Bel Air.  He had an American Express and a Visa card.  No photos.  A few hundred in cash.  Other store cards.  A script for Lithium from a doctor in Beverly Hills.

I took the driver’s license and dropped the wallet on the ground.

 

I went to a hardware store and bought three big cans of red spray-paint.

I took the 10 to the 405 North, and got off at Mulholland.  I swung up the hill and turned right on Roscomare.  Down a mile, I found the address.  It was a yellow cottage framed with squat palm trees.

I parked.  The garage door was closed.  There were no cars in the driveway.

I took the paper bag and walked up to the front door and rang the bell.  I waited and then rang it again.

A woman opened the door.  She was a petite brunette.  She had sunglasses on.  She was wearing a light-blue quilted robe.  There was a red bruise on her right cheek.

She looked at me and didn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Montgomery?” I said.

She just stood there.

“I’m not going to tell you my name,” I said.  “I want you to get dressed and leave the house.  I know your husband.  He beats you up, and you hang around.  That shit stops now.  Don’t pack anything.  Just get dressed, take whatever cash you’ve got in the house, your credit cards, your checkbook, and drive away.  You have a car, don’t you?  It’s in the garage?”

She didn’t move.

“Go somewhere where he won’t find you.  I’m going to do a few things here.  You don’t want to be around.  Pull yourself together.”

“Who are you?” she said.  Her voice was clear.  That was good.

“I’m giving you five minutes,” I said.  “I’ll wait in my car.  If you’re not gone in five minutes, I’m going to call the station.  They’ll come and I’ll tell them he’s been beating you up.  You’ll have a case on your hands.  You’ll be in court.  Everyone will know.  It’ll get ugly.”

She frowned.  “What the hell is this?” she said.

“I’m counting.  You’ve got five minutes.  I’m a police detective, Mrs. Montgomery.  I live down the street.  I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

She still didn’t move.

I took a spray can out of the bag.  I forced my way into a thick hedge in front of the house, and started spraying on the façade.  She watched me.

BEATS HIS WIFE.

I moved over to the right and started spraying the words again.  In larger and thicker letters.  It would be quite visible from the road.

She was planted where she stood.

I finished the second round.  BEATS HIS WIFE.

I moved further to the right, took a new can out of the bag, and sprayed the name CARROLL MONTGOMERY on the façade.  I was on BEATS when she turned back into the house.

I finished the sentence, looked over my work, and walked back to my car.  I got in.

Five minutes went by.

Ten.

The garage door opened.

A white Jaguar backed out fast.  She stopped at the end of the driveway, craned her neck to look for traffic.  There was none.  She backed out into the street and drove down the hill toward Sunset.

I went the other way, up to Mulholland.

A few blocks from my apartment, I threw the spray cans into a dumpster.

Back at my place, I took a long shower and put on shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers.

I jogged down La Brea all the way to Pico, and back.  I took another shower, made a sandwich and drank a beer.  I sat down on my couch and watched a few innings of a College World Series game.

I called Ralph Renari and left a message for him.  I told him to take his sister and check her into a hotel for a few days.

Jerry called.  “I’m in Beverly Hills,” he said.  “She still uses Renari.  It’s the name of her gallery.  She’s taking me on a tour, as we speak.”  He hung up.

 

June 8

“I have always had a prurient interest in private discussions.  Looking through the loophole.  To see what is going on, to hear what people are saying, to know what they are really thinking, this is a reward in itself.  You can throw away the veil in your mind.  You can admit what life is all about.”

Alexander Markov, Soviet defector, to Arthur Meriden,
Hidden Legends of the CIA 

 

A little after dawn, I woke up to the sound of a click and a laugh in my living room.  I walked out there in my underpants and Jerry was putting balls at a glass on the rug.  He was mumbling to himself and giggling.

“What about the ex-wife?” I said.

“Back at my place.”

“Really.”

“I was shocked.  As soon as I walked into the gallery, she practically attacked me.”

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Could be.  I bought a few bottles of champagne.  She has a body of a pampered star.  Not too hard and not too soft.  Smooth skin.  Very white.  Moist. There’s the illusion the skin has a layer of oil underneath the surface.”

“You want coffee?”

“In a few minutes.”

“What did she say?”

Jerry had balls lined up side by side.  He putted a few.  Missed the glass.

I went into the kitchen and made coffee, brought him a large cup of black.  He took it from me and tested it with his finger.  He sipped it.  Smacked his lips.

He laid the putter on the rug and walked to the wall and leaned on it.  “She’s a failed painter, according to her.  The gallery is Renari Silvan.  Her name is Kate.  I never asked who Silvan is.  The work on the walls is mostly geometric.  Large rooms in the gallery.  I’m guessing twenty grand a month minimum rent, unless she owns the building.”

“Who did you tell her you were?”

“I mentioned your name.  You know, just to say something.  Said Ralph was trying to look into his sister’s problem.  I explained the problem.  She seemed to accept that, though she hadn’t heard anything about it.  She’s a pretty cool customer.  Course, she was already sizing me up.  She showed me a flowery journal article Ralph wrote.”

Jerry took a gulp of coffee.

He said, “October 15, 1999.  New Science Journal.  The Ghost in the Machine Revisited.  Ralph Renari.  ‘If soul is not merely an antiquated notion but is instead a metaphor for psychic capabilities shared by all human beings, then the positive results of fifty years of well-designed laboratory studies on paranormal abilities is a doorway into a belated understanding of ourselves’”

Jerry could do that.  Alcohol allowed him to do it a little better.  His faculty advisor at Stanford, in the early 1990s, told him he was wasting his time playing golf.  Instead, he said, Jerry should go on for his PhD in American literature and teach.  He had a memory gift that could make him an outstanding academic.  Jerry said a career at a university would age him prematurely.

We sat out on the back balcony.  Jerry finished his coffee.  I brought him another cup.

“Since I’m with the ex-wife for the moment, I think I’ll stay in the game.”

“You like her?” I said.

“Relative term.  I’m probably doing unconscious tantra.  Extracting energy from the ether.”  He chuckled.

“The ether in this case is an art dealer from Beverly Hills.”

“She drives a tan Lexus.  She wants to fly to Amsterdam and look at Van Goghs.  She is not a vegetarian.”

“I sent you up there to ask about her ex-husband.”

“Best way to find out.  Share bodily fluids.  Talk, share, talk.  She says he’s a flake and not to be trusted.  She says he plays games with people.  He’s a weasel and a liar and a drug addict.”

“I guess that covers it.”

 

Over breakfast at Denny’s, Jerry sobered up.  I told him about my adventure with Carroll Montgomery and the forced eviction of his wife.

“Broken nose and red spray paint,” he said.  “Nice piece of work, right out of the blocks.”

“Montgomery had no way of knowing who I was or where I was.  I guess Ralph or Marci told him.  Betrayal is a nasty thing.”

“Like dropping a Titleist down your pants into the weeds.”

“Golf being your only metaphor for life.”

“So what about you?” Jerry said.  “What’s keeping your hand in now?  Sounds like you’re done.”

“You know,” I said.  “I’m about tag ends.  I find one, I pull on it.”

“A scrap merchant.”

Just to annoy me, Jerry gently put his hands together in a golf grip.  “First time I ever hit an iron to a green, I was nine.  My father took me to Rancho Park.  On the first hole I hit a high seven-iron, got the divot just right, the ball landed on the back edge and checked eight feet from the pin.  I was hooked.  Years later, I thought sex was better, but it really wasn’t.  A terrible admission.”

“You’ve told me that story many, many times.”

“So what?  I’m in process.  It’s a psychological phenomenon.  You’re probably not aware of it.  You wouldn’t be.  You just break shit.”

“So in heaven they really do play golf.”

He picked up a napkin and wiped a ring of coffee off the table.   “I’m counting on it.  Fairways and greens.”

Several years back, Jerry had taken me for drinks to the old Rancho Santa Fe Inn.  We chatted with Billy Mason, a legendary local pro the PGA tour guys seek out when their swings go south.  Billy told me Jerry had one of the sweetest natural swings he’d ever seen.  That took in a lot of territory.

Billy said if Jerry wanted to, he could screw himself in on sand at the beach, in six inches of water, and hit a ball bobbing and moving on the low tide.  He’d pick up about a cup of water with it, and give you pure backspin.  Nothing right or left.  Just straight.

Jerry had smiled and picked up his glass of scotch and raised it to his eyes, looking over at Billy.

 

After breakfast, we walked along Sunset.  Jerry nodded at me.  “Your instincts are good.  I believe there’s going to be some more shit in this trolley car.”

“Could be.  We’ll see.”

“A stranger walks into your office, you listen.  What a fool you are to be in that kind of business.”

Upside, downside, blind side.

 

Jerry went off to talk to the people at the Bellamy company about his upcoming game with the businessmen from Dallas, and I walked to my office.

I had a message from Doc Lieber.  “Marty Raskel pulled a few strings.  Go back to the hospital.  That guy you spoke with?  He’ll talk to you now.”

I called Jerry’s place.  Ralph’s ex-wife Kate didn’t pick up.  So I drove over to the hospital for another go-around with the cardiologist.

This time I sat on a small chair at a cloudy glass table, in a little garden full of well-watered ferns and small palm trees set in buckets.  There was a fountain going.

Dr. Kelly came walking through a glass door with serious intent.  He plopped himself down in a chair next to me and said, “I’ve known Marty Raskel for almost ten years.”

“Isn’t that wonderful.”

He started to crack his knuckles and stopped.  “I know people at Allison –Bowles,” he said.  “It’s a ticky-tack outfit.  Their clinical trial was a minor disaster.  They thought of throwing away the last two weeks of data and just using the first six.  But even that was unimpressive.  So they never published the results.  The drug was an SSRI antidepressant.  Like Prozac or Zoloft.  A spin-off.  They added something.  A compound that was supposed to level out the manic phase of the bipolar.  The antidepressant would kick out the depression and this other thing would put a ceiling on the highs.  No one knows why it didn’t work.  Maybe they got the proportions wrong.  These trials can by a crapshoot.”

“And if something bad happened to one of the volunteers?” I said.

“What bad?”

“Violent behavior.”

He spread his hands.  “I don’t know anything about that.”

“What about the guys who run the company?”

He shook his head.  “Only because of Marty I’m telling you this.  The honchos are jerks.  They’re basically hustlers.  But the one you’d want to go after, if something went bad, would be Scott Bestler.  He almost had his license yanked a few years back for screwing up plastic surgeries.”

He looked around and stood up.  “So who the hell are you anyway?”

“You don’t really want to know,” I said.  “I have a client.  He wants to find out about the clinical trial.”

“That’s all I’m getting?”

“It’s better that way.”

“Jesus,” he said.  He shook his head.

“No,” I said.  “Actually, you’re lucky.”

“What?”

“Because I have a lucid urge.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“To break your hand.”

He stared at me, and then he walked away.

 

When I got back to my office, Ralph and a woman with expensively cut short blonde hair were waiting in the hall.  We went inside and sat down.

She was wearing a gray silk suit jacket and faded jeans with a crease.  She pulled at the collar of a white shirt.  She looked at me and grinned.  Her hands were strong.  Nails cut short.  No polish.  She was wearing open-toed low black heels and her feet were bare.  The toenails were painted light pink.  She had the face of an ex-cheerleader.

 

I sat down behind the desk, picked up my cell and called Jerry.  He answered.  “Come on over,” I said.  “Bring your friend.”  I hung up.

Ralph said, “This is my sister Marci.”

“Good,” I said.  “Are you staying at a hotel?”

She nodded quickly.  “Yes.”

“I’ve taken care of the matter.  You’re okay now.”

“Really?” she said.  “What did you do?”  Ralph leaned forward in his chair.  His eyes were bloodshot.

“Montgomery came after me.  Which was interesting.  I put him down.  I broke his nose and gave him a few other aches and pains.  I believe his wife has moved out of their house.”

Ralph laughed.  “Goddamn!  You work quick!  You broke his nose?”

“Yeah.”

“Good for you!  How did he react?”

“He was in the fetal position in a parking lot when I left him.”

Ralph stood up and then sat back down again.  “I wish I could do something like that,” he said.

“So we’re even,” I said.  “You paid me and I banked your check.”

“Of course,” he said.  “Even.”

“There are a couple of other things. Marci, you were probably given a bad drug in the clinical trial.  I’m told Allison Bowles isn’t a reputable company.  If you wanted to, you could pursue that.  Talk to a lawyer about civil litigation.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.  “I just want to be left alone.”

“The other thing, Ralph,” I said, “is that you told Montgomery about me.  He picked me up at my bank.  Why did you do that?”

Ralph closed his eyes.  I thought he might be meditating.  I waited.  He said, “Of course I told him.  I wanted him to find you, so you could take care of the problem.”

“Then you knew where he was.  Why didn’t you give me that chunk of information?”

“I only have his cell number.  I don’t know where he lives.  I assume he’s been moving around.”

“That’s quite a lie,” I said.  “But we’ll move on.  How did you convince Montgomery you were on his side?”

“I didn’t try.  I just said I had information he needed.  I threw in a gratuitous remark about Marci.  I said she was prone to exaggeration, and I didn’t believe she was in danger from him.  I guess it worked.”

“You know how to be vague,” I said.  “I’ll give you that.”

Marci looked at him.  She smiled a little and shook her head.

“So we’re done,” I said.

“Not quite,” he said.

“Dropping another shoe?”

He looked up at the ceiling.  “Carroll has something on us.  On Marci and me.  I don’t want him to use it.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well,” he said, looking at Marci, “my sister and I are related by adoption.  My birth parents are her adopted parents.  Marci and I have a sexual relationship.”

Marci didn’t seem upset.  She looked at me and shrugged.

“And how long has this been going on?” I said.

“Since we were adolescents,” Ralph said.

“I was seventeen,” Marci said.  “Ralph was twenty.”  She was calm.

“And Montgomery knows this,” I said.

Ralph nodded.

“How?” I said.

“I told him,” Marci said.  “Obviously, it was mistake.  That was the only effect of the drug I noticed.  It made me talkative.  But not in the usual way.  I felt a compulsion to share.”

“I assume he felt the same compulsion.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“He told you he was beating his wife.”

“He didn’t come right out and say it.  He intimated it.  He was trying to find out whether I liked pain.”

“And you said no?”

“I definitely said no.”

“Which didn’t deter him, because he kept calling you on the phone.”

“We spoke four or five times.  He said he liked administering punishment to women.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type who would volunteer for a drug study,” I said.

“He told me he was having trouble sleeping,” she said.  “His doctor sent him to a psychiatrist.  He was diagnosed bipolar.  But the regular medication didn’t help.”

“You two have a facility for bullshitting as you go along,” I said.  “Some people work it out beforehand.  Anyway, you might have to talk to your ex-wife,” I said to Ralph.

He was startled.  “Why?”

“Because my partner, who works with me, Jerry, is having a sudden fling with her.”

Ralph looked at his sister, then back at me.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I sent him up to Beverly Hills to talk to her.  I wanted to check up on you.  I guess they hit it off.  She’s at his place in West LA.”

“Check up on me?  What kind of bullshit is this?”

Marci put her hand on his.

“I don’t know you,” I said to Ralph.

“And what the fuck did Katie tell your friend?”

“That you were a flake and a liar.”

“I don’t fucking like this,” he said.  He looked down at the floor.  “Goddamn bullshit.  Who are you to go to my ex and ask her about me?”

“I don’t blame you for being upset.  But that’s the way it turned out.”

Marci suddenly said, “Carroll tried to rape me.”

Ralph looked at her.  “You didn’t tell me that.”

“It happened.”

“Where,” he said.

“In my apartment.”

“You said he was just threatening you.”

“I was lying,” she said.  “I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Ralph said.  “From what?”

“Bad news,” she said.  “After we had lunch one day, he drove me home.  I had taken a cab because my car was in the shop.  He dropped me off, asked me for a date, I said no.  The next day, about five in the afternoon, he came to my place.  I let him in.  He tried to take off my clothes.  I kicked him in the face when I was on the bed.  He decided not to rape me.”


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

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The agent of magic, part one

The agent of magic, part one

by Jon Rappoport

July 31, 2017

I continue to publish excerpts from my book, The Magic Agent. They can be read as stand-alone pieces or in concert.

The book is a production of multiple realities…presented in part as a detective/spy story with Frank Palmer as the private eye who walks into a case that sprouts branches and layers…

NOTE: IF YOU ARE READING THIS AS AN EMAIL, BECAUSE YOU’RE ON THE EMAIL LIST FOR “OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE,” I’LL BE PUBLISHING THESE LONG EXCERPTS ON MY BLOG OF THE SAME NAME, INSTEAD OF SENDING OUT FREQUENT MASS EMAILS. DEPENDING ON THE LENGTH OF THE EXCERPTS, MASS EMAILS MAY NOT SUPPORT AND DELIVER ALL OF THE CONTENT. SO GO TO THE BLOG TO PICK UP THE LATEST EXCERPTS. THANK YOU.

All excerpts of The Magic Agent are archived on the OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE blog here.


“We brought that up in the hearing, Your Honor.”

“So you did. But it seems to me this is going around the block to prove your point. You’re approaching the question of whether the space-time continuum has been breached, and in order to do so, you’re offering films. It’s tenuous.”

“It’s the best way to discover people’s raw experience of time.”

“I wonder about that.”

I walked out of my apartment. Five in the afternoon. I was on the way to my office. A tall stunning woman was looking in the window of Haslett’s Bookstore two buildings down. She shot me a sideways glance.

I revised my estimate. She was maybe nineteen. A kid.

She was wearing a thin pale-blue cotton dress and a black satin jacket. Her brown hair was in a pageboy. She walked away from me and stopped at the edge of the window and looked inside again, as if she was searching for a book.

I didn’t think she was looking for a book.

I turned and walked in the opposite direction to my office on La Brea.

I sat in the office and read the Times. The Reds had shut out the Dodgers. A local businessman was trying to sue the city because workers had been digging up the street outside his store for a month. Pundits and Congressmen were questioning the troop surge in Iraq. A wealthy old cocker was trying to buy the Times.

I picked up the remote on my desk and clicked on the TV.

My phone rang. I picked it up.

A man’s voice said:

“Mr. Palmer, I need you.”

I knew he was lying. It was careless, unconcealed, and yet he broadcast a desperation that was coming from an entirely different place. It reminded me of a car crash that had been planned to look like an accident.

“What it’s about?” I said.

“I’m jammed up.”

“What happened?”

“A terrible thing.”

“Yeah?”

“My sister. She’s under threat.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone wants to hurt her.”

“Right now? This second?”

“He isn’t here, but he could come over.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“So get out. Is your sister with you?”

“No. She’s at her apartment.”

“Go over and take her out.”

“I want to.”

“You want to? Tell her to get out.”

“I did. But she won’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“She’s scared to move.”

“Does she have a car?”

“Yes. She won’t go.”

“Just go over there and get her.”

“She has the door locked.”

“That’s good.”

“I don’t know if he’ll break in.”

“Why are you talking to me? Get her.”

“I’m scared. Will you get her?”

“No. You do it. I’m busy.”

“What do you mean, busy!”

“I’m watching the College World Series.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Whoever you are, you sound like a phony. You’ll have to do a much better job of acting.”

“I’m not acting!”

“Sure you are. Is this a crank call?”

“Of course not! We’re in danger!”

“Then get up off your ass and take your sister out of her house.”

“I can’t.”

“You have a problem.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll try to get myself together.”

“That would be a good idea.”

“That’s all you can offer me?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“He could kill Marci.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes!”

“I’ve offered you all the advice I have. What’s your name?”

He hung up.

I sat there and watched Oregon State play LSU. I had the impression he had been trying to convince me he was crazy.

A half hour later, the phone rang again. I picked it up.

“Mr. Palmer?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps the danger has passed for now.”

“I’m delighted to hear that.”

“I jumped the gun.”

“We all do that sometimes.”

“It was an anxiety attack. That’s what I was experiencing.”

“Well, now you’re better.”

“But the threat is still real.”

“That’s always important to know.”

“Do you find this amusing, Mr. Palmer?”

“To be honest, yes.”

“You’re a nasty bastard. This is a very serious situation.”

“If you say so.”

“I may need you.”

“I don’t work gratis.”

“How much do you charge for your services?”

“I work on a case by case basis. The higher the fee, the more you would have my attention.”

“You’re not sympathetic to people’s needs.”

“Not unless they pay me to be.”

“You don’t care.”

“About anything? That’s a very broad assessment.”

I thought I heard him sniffling.

“Mr. Palmer, I’ve known people like you in my life.”

“I don’t care about your life.”

“Why not?”

“I have no reason to. You’re just somebody who found my phone number. Which is, by the way, unlisted.”

“I know about you.”

“Another vague statement.”

“My anxiety attack is over.”

“You keep score?”

“You’re a fucking prick. I can be a prick, too. I understand the impulse.”

“Duly noted.”

“I ran out of medication.”

“I understand they have drug stores that stay open around the clock.”

“I’m a professional.”

“I’d hate to have rely on your work. By the way, what’s your name?”

He hung up.

I went back to watching the game.

June 5, 2007

“He was supposed to be at his office at Langley the whole time. It was in two or three reports. The investigators interviewed everybody. I mean, that’s where he worked every day. But years later, they found out he had been in Moscow that week. Not Langley, Washington, Chicago, or New York. Moscow. Thousands of miles away. He had friends there. He was vacuuming up information. He was staying in a Dacha. Does this guy Schuster have a shadow? A double?”

Joseph Walsh, to Arthur Meriden, author of Forgotten Legends of the CIA

I was sitting behind my desk. The door to my office opened and a short wide man walked in and set down a gym bag by my file cabinet.

He pointed to a chair at the side of my desk and I nodded. He sat.

His brown eyes were glistening. He was on something. Probably crank.

“Frank Palmer?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Bill Polowski at the Globe once told me about you.”

“Bill died.”

“Yes.”

“Eight years ago,” I said. “I’m not a reporter anymore.”

“You take cases.”

His voice was rather cultured. Not British. Artsy, especially for a guy who was wearing a red T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and had upper arms developed from lifting major weight. He had a large tattoo, HANK, in brown block letters, on his left forearm.

“Some cases,” I said.

He nodded. “I hear you have no license to practice.”

“None to practice anything.”

He was wearing dirty white flip-flops and no socks.

“That’s all right,” he said. “My name is Ralph Renari. I teach psychology at Santa Monica College.”

“You want me to ghost-write a journal paper?”

He smiled. His teeth were a waxy yellow. “No. I’m fine there. I have something else. It might be a story. I mean story in a loose way.”

“If you want something from me,” I said, “then you’re the client. I give you the information. What you do with it is your business.”

“A snoop.”

“I’m a niche guy,” I said. “I fall between categories.”

Again he smiled. “And you can make a living at this? Whatever it is?”

“My overhead is low.”

He looked around the office. The walls were bare.

I reached down to my little half-fridge, removed two bottles of Dane’s beer, a local brand, screwed off the caps and pushed one across to him. He picked it up and took a swig and set it down. “Cold,” he said.

He leaned back in his chair. “Do you know anything about clinical trials of drugs?”

“What I read in the papers,” I said.

“Well, my sister Marci was a volunteer in one. A new medication for bipolar disease. About a month after the study was completed, there was a beating. One of the volunteers beat his wife. And now Marci thinks that guy might be coming after her.”

“Oh, so you’re the nut job who called me yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Palmer. I was overwrought. I’m much better now.”

“I can see that. You’ve gotten well. You’re high. Meth?”

He ignored that.

“Really,” he said. “I’m sorry. I went off the deep end for a few hours.”

“You were bullshitting me on the phone.”

“Not on purpose, I assure you.”

“So why does your sister Marci think this unnamed guy might be coming after her?”

“Because he’s crazy. Who knows?”

“On the phone, I had the impression you were crazy.”

“I can be overly dramatic.”

“It wasn’t that. You were consciously trying to bullshit me.”

“I might have come across that way. I was upset. I wasn’t in control of myself.”

“Okay. We’ll let it slide for the moment.”

“Marci’s been receiving phone calls. He says he wants to have sex with her. He won’t take no for answer. He says he’s going to visit her.”

“She knows the calls are coming from him?”

“She recognizes his voice.”

“He leaves messages?”

“No,” Ralph said. “He only makes these threatening statements when she picks up.”

“This crazo,” I said. “Do the cops believe he beat his wife?”

“His wife won’t report him.”

“But your sister Marci knows the man beats his wife.”

“He admitted it to her.”

“And has Marci gone to the cops?”

He shook his head. “They can’t do very much.”

“Where was the drug study done?”

“At Stevens Hospital. The drug company is Allison-Bowles. Their headquarters are in Palm Springs.”

I took a sip of beer.

“I’m a little confused,” I said. “Are you implying that the experimental drug made this guy crazy? Or was he already nuts?”

“Well,” Ralph said, leaning back in his chair. “We don’t know the answer to that. Maybe he was off his rocker before, and the drug made him worse. I assume he was beating his wife before he volunteered for the study.”

He stared at me. “I can pay you three hundred dollars a day. You work on this for us. You fix it.”

“Bill must have given me a good recommendation,” I said.

“He told me you found out who killed one of the route carriers for the Globe. And when you did, the man tried to shoot you. You disarmed him and put him in the hospital.”

“Yeah. And Bill probably told you that’s when I quit the paper.”

“To do this work,” he said. “Bill told me you were can-do. Like Ollie North, but without the diary.”

“My field is nothing like Ollie North’s.”

“Whatever this field is.”

“I exist on referrals.”

He frowned. “Will you do whatever is necessary?”

I assumed he wanted a little dog and pony.

I stood up and walked to the closet, opened it and picked up an old baseball bat that was leaning against a box of books I had never unpacked.

I took the bat over to short fat Ralph, the professor who had powerful upper arms. “In that instance,” I said, “I used this 32 Adirondack to beat the shooter until he fell down and didn’t move anymore.”

He looked at the bat.

“Those are not the instincts of a reporter,” he said.

“Maybe that’s why I quit the job. I prefer more straight-line solutions to problems.”

He nodded and grinned. “You’re an outlaw.”

“Let’s go downstairs and have some lunch,” I said.

He finished the rest of his beer in one long swallow, put it down on the desk, and stood straight up, like a military man reacting to an assignment.

We settled in at Streeder’s, a bar and café. The burgers came quickly, and we drank more beer. Our table was at the back.

“The experimental drug,” Ralph said, “was called Y-103. At first they just assign numbers and letters. When they get close to FDA approval, they cook up an official name.”

He finished his beer, and began wiping the moisture off the glass with a napkin. “I’ve never hired anyone to do this kind of work before. But I’m sure most of your clients are first-timers.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, the usual route for people is through a detective agency.”

“Who was the drug company again?” I said.

“Allison-Bowles.”

“Tell me a little about yourself, Professor.”

“Forty-eight, divorced. My ex lives in Beverly Hills. She owns an art gallery. Her parents have money.”

It was interesting he would start there.

He took a napkin from the metal dispenser and wiped his forehead. “I see hookers, mostly, now. Does that bother you?”

“No,” I said.

“No moral stance on sex?”

“Age of consent. That’s all.”

“There are so many prudes these days. But sexually, they’ll take anything they can get for themselves. They spin it however they have to.”

“Whereas, you’re honest and forthright.”

“I try to be.”

“Keep in mind I’m not a therapist.”

He looked down at his plate.

“Is your sister married?” I said. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“She’s lived alone for ten years.”

“Why didn’t she come and see me?”

“She’s scared.”

He paid the check. We walked outside to the parking lot. He stopped at a blue Infiniti.

“I should talk to Marci before I decide whether to take this on,” I said. You want me to find this guy and make him go away, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t care how.”

“Mind giving me his name?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Carroll Montgomery. He’s a psychologist.”

“A psychologist. He volunteered to be in a drug study.”

“Yeah.”

Renari handed me his card. I didn’t know professors had cards. He unlocked the door and climbed in. He turned back to me. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Go see a Dr. Kelly at Beth Israel. I’ll call him as soon as I get home. He can fill you in on the clinical trial.”

He drove away.

I wondered how many levels of bullshit he was operating on, or if there was any way of actually finding out. On a scale of one to ten, my intrigue level was at about a three. That’s average for me. Of course, he hadn’t paid me any money yet.

June 6

“There are the infamous photo files. It’s said there is enough blackmail evidence in that secret cache to indict half the membership of the US Congress. While this is, of course, a wild exaggeration…

We could dismiss such speculation as complete nonsense, if it were not for the protracted closed session of the House Intelligence Committee in the spring of 1993. The meeting erupted into a frantic battle. Representative Larry Bernstein accused the CIA counter-intelligence director of waging a private war against the legislative branch. Bernstein waved around a photograph of a sexual act taken at the moment of orgasm, featuring a former Congressman and a prostitute in a Portland, Oregon, hotel room.”

Forgotten Legends of the CIA, Arthur Meriden


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

From The Magic Agent

From The Magic Agent

by Jon Rappoport

July 29, 2017

This is an excerpt from my book, The Magic Agent.  I present it for two reasons.  One, it concerns a breach in the space-time construct.  And two, it imparts the flavor of a future agency at work, an agency with layers of complexity that functions as a labyrinth.  Is this maze an attempt to confuse the reader?  No.  Although there are elements he may not understand, there is enough “sense” to let him through the door into a future investigation that is underway.  Here it is:

The Tribunal date was set by the court.  February 6, 2052.  No witnesses would be allowed.  The same five people would sit in a suite on the top floor of the Randall Building, in the Wilshire District of Los Angeles.  Gray and Gregory would present their evidence.  The judges would make a ruling.  In what manner they would rule was also predetermined.  They would recommend, to the Attorney General of the United States, and through him to the president, what action, if any, should be taken.  So although numbers one through three were judges, in this case they had been conscripted by the Executive Branch.  They were not precisely an investigative task force.  They certainly were not independent prosecutors.  They were considering one slab of evidence that had been gathered by two lawyers who worked for the US Department of Justice.  And whatever evidence and opinion those lawyers offered, there would be no opposing side.  The Judges would deliberate and have complete control over the outcome.

November 6, 2053

After a number of delays, the Tribunal opened session.

Gregory and Gray sat behind a large table.  Thirty feet in front of them, on a raised platform brought in for the occasion, the three judges now sat in high-backed chairs, and they were now wearing black robes.

Judge One said, “This Tribunal is in session.  The proceedings will be automatically recorded through the auspices of the US Attorney General’s office.”

Gray, in her Captain’s uniform, rose and made a brief opening statement.  She slathered sincerity on like grease.

“Your Honors, we are here to determine whether there has been a breach in the space-time continuum.  This is clearly a question of National Security.  Many explanations have been given for the degeneration of moral values across this land.  Although some of the proposed causes are undoubtedly relevant, it is our task to examine a more comprehensive possibility.  Many Americans have had troubling experiences they cannot explain.  What is the source of those experiences?  Why do citizens suddenly find themselves in a web of mysterious circumstances?  Why are there breaks in the very fabric of their lives?  Why has loyalty to the great traditions faltered?  We will present evidence that impinges on all these questions.  We will present it in great detail, so that you will be equipped to render a decision.  We hope this Tribunal will make a contribution to the re-establishing of order in America.  The fundamental order that once bound us all in a community of shared principle.  On that order we can build, anew, common security, we can extend safety, and we can again develop authentic pride, as shameful behaviors of all descriptions hopefully dissipate and float away on the tides of a forgotten era.”

Gray sat down.

Gregory was surprised she had taken “archetypal Indiana” that far.  He rose.

“Your Honors, our entire presentation will follow a simple direction.  We will offer documents to the court.  Captain Gray and I will introduce each document, and after you view it, if it please the court, we will answer any questions you put to us.”

Judge One nodded.  “Proceed, Mr. Gregory.”

“Your Honors,” Gregory said, “Document One comes in five parts.  First, you will see a conversation that took place in a residence in Georgetown, on the evening of May 27, 2007.  The old 2007.  The participants were employees of the Department of Defense.  This conversation was covertly recorded by the Central Intelligence Agency.  As we explained in the hearing, CIA historians have vetted the recording and attested to its authenticity.”

Judge Two said, “This is the conversation about Project 360.”

“Yes, Your Honor.  Then you will see the subject of Project 360, a man named Frank Palmer.  Remarkably, you will see a section of his life.  From his own point of view.  Following that, we return to a short conversation in Georgetown, because the men in that room have just witnessed the very same section of Palmer’s life.  They react to the experience.  Very strongly.  Then we will see a meeting between one of the Georgetown men and his superior at the Pentagon.  This was also recorded, covertly, by the CIA domestic tracking unit.  Finally, we will view a brief section of Palmer’s life, again from his own point of view, that takes place beyond the scope of Project 360.  It was covertly recorded by TransV Studios, using its proprietary technology.”

Judge Three said, “So somehow this man Palmer’s life was put under two separate microscopes.  360 and TransV.”

“Correct.  It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the threads will become clear to you as you watch the footage.”

“I hope so,” Judge Three said.

“I’m confused,” Judge Two said.  “We are going to watch a piece of a man’s life.  A man who was spied on.  And yet we are actually watching that piece of Palmer’s life from his own point of view.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How in the world is that possible?”

“The technologies employed made it possible.”

“I’m not aware any such technologies exist.”

“Both the Pentagon and TransV state that it does.”

“It’s the same technology?”

“Not exactly, sir.  But the same surveillance result is achieved: experiencing events from the subject’s own point of view.”

“You are basing your case on this?”

“We brought that up in the hearing, Your Honor.”

“So you did.  But it seems to me this is going around the block to prove your point.  You’re approaching the question of whether the space-time continuum has been breached, and in order to do so, you’re offering films.  It’s tenuous.”

“It’s the best way to discover people’s raw experience of time.”

“I wonder about that.”

“If we accept that these technologies are real, then we are on solid ground.”

“Wishing does not make it so, Mr. Gregory.  Both the Pentagon and TransV state their confidence in their own methods, but what else would you expect of them?”

“With all due respect, Your Honor, we settled this question of admissibility at the hearing.”

“I have had further thoughts since then.”

“All we’re asking is that you view this footage.  We are prepared to answer any questions you have afterwards.”

“Yes, Mr. Gregory, but once you get a green light from us, it’s a done deal, so to speak.  We admit, to a degree, that what you are showing us is real.”

“Not at all, sir.  We are certainly willing to take up that question.”

“But not now.”

“We would, of course, prefer to introduce the evidence and then argue its merits.”

“Well, Mr. Gregory, that’s where we are.  I want some further justification before I subject myself to your film.”

“May I ask why, Your Honor?”

“Because I find it unbelievable that a person or group can make a film about another person in the way you describe.  It’s like saying you can turn a camera on me, as I sit here, and come out with a product that shows my moment-by-moment response to, well, reality.  From my own perspective.  That sounds like some sort of invasive mental surgery.”

“I understand the dilemma, sir.  And yet I believe your experience of the film will answer your questions.  It’s rather like reading a review of a movie.  Whatever the critic says, finally the reader has to go into the theater and see it for himself.”

Gray said, “One additional point, Your Honors.  In the hearing, we presented affidavits from several persons who have experienced the TransV and 360 technologies.  They claim they were, in fact, experiencing reality from the point of view depicted by the technology.”

Judge Two said, “Yes.  They claim.  But is that what we have to go on?”

“To a degree, yes,” Gray said.  “The whole area of the subjective is fraught with problems.  I think, however, we’ve established that it is the only doorway into the study of Time and what has happened to it.”

“Well, “ Judge Two said, “if you brought us first-person written accounts from individuals, I think we’d be better off.  Instead, we’re being asked to watch something I find, by definition, to be incomprehensible.”

“Your Honor,” Gray said, “it will take you a few hours to view the first document.  Mr. Gregory and I are certainly not saying we know it is ironclad.  No one is saying that.  We are only asking the court’s indulgence for that brief period of time.”

“And if we decide it’s rubbish?”

“Mr. Gregory and I will then speak to that.”

Judge Two glanced at his colleagues.  They did not meet his eyes.

“Let me bring up another point,” he said.  “In the hearing, you stated, if I remember correctly, that you had stripped the 360 presentation of its emotional impact.  You wanted to spare us suffering.  I assume you’ve also stripped the same emotional impact from the TransV technology.  Explain that, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Gray said.  “People who viewed the full version of 360 experienced radical symptoms.  They went unconscious.  They were terrified.  Not all of them.  Some of them.”

“And you wanted to leave us able to continue to deliberate.”

Gray smiled.  “Yes, sir.”

“But then we would not have the complete experience.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll make a devil’s bargain with you,” Judge Two said.  “I’ll allow this document in as evidence if I can obtain the full effect.”

“Excuse me?”

“I believe I was clear.”

“Sorry, sir. You want to experience the full effect.  On that basis only, you would you permit us to introduce this document.”

“Very good, Captain Gray.”

“Done,” Gray said.

“Well?” Judge Two said, looking at his colleagues.

The two judges and Gregory and Gray realized that, for whatever reason, this was what Judge Two was after.  He was essentially telling his colleagues on the platform that he would make trouble the rest of the way if he couldn’t get what he wanted.

“You have the original version of Document One?” Judge Three said.

“We do,” Gray said.

Judge One sighed.  “Then show it.  Let’s get on with it.  And give us all five parts, without interruption.  We’ll ask our questions at the end.”

The lights dimmed in the room.

“Your Honors,” Gregory said, “This is DOCUMENT ONE.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gregory saw Judge Two smile.  He heard the Judge say, “A movie of someone else’s life from his own point of view.  I’ve never heard of such a thing.  And this, to adjudicate if time has been breached.  We must be crazy.  But life is short.  So let us be stimulated.”

A wild card.  But maybe every person in the room was a wild card.


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

Cold-war fiction

Cold-war fiction

by Jon Rappoport

October 20, 2015

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)

As indicated in my previous piece, I’m re-working sections of my novel, The Magic Agent.

Here is another chunk, this time in the words of former CIA Director Arthur Meriden, an important character in the book:

“Operation Mockingbird? The CIA infiltrating and controlling the press? That was just one corner of a much larger program. Turning a reporter was like rolling out of bed in the morning.”

“Alexander Markov was the Agency’s most valuable prize. He set the standard for Cold War defectors. According to Cody Samuels, an Agency counter-intelligence expert, Markov was one of the least informed Russian spies in the world. Markov simply adopted the position that he knew everything. He sold that to the Agency. He sold the need to have someone who could give the appearance of being an absolute authority. ‘One of the basic problems we had with Markov,’ Samuels said, ‘stemmed from the fact that we were always on defense. He was telling new lies faster than we could combat his old ones. He understood that. He knew he had to stay out in front of what we were doing.’

“Well, Markov was doing more than that. He was inventing Russian spies that didn’t exist. But I came to see his revelations in a different light. Markov was digging down into the psyche of the KGB. He was explicating it through his inventions. I was getting a better picture of his agency than a compilation of facts could provide.

“Markov was doing multi-dimensional chess, except that time was also a factor. Time shifts, deleted time, non-serial time, as if the march of history hadn’t yet been invented. It occurred to me that the KGB had come upon a parallel universe which they could enter and exit and include in their plans.

“On one level, Markov was fabricating; he was a Salvador Dali. On another level, he was metaphorically representing the mind-set of his agency—and then he was also presenting information consistent with the appearance of another universe or realm.

“In that universe, he was a Homer. I never saw the Odyssey as a sequential poem. It was a series of islands in the fog.

“…The CIA makes up so many stories it then begins to plan as if some of them are real. Can you imagine the burgeoning effects? The spillover? The diabolical expansions? The CIA is the boy who cried many, many wolves. And there is no one there to doubt us. We’re cut loose and floating.

“The false trails we lay out in the aftermath of an operation that never happened become the basis for new operations. And the thing is, once in a while, by this ‘method’, we achieve stunning results.

“Taking a cue from Markov, I began to fabricate a whole raft of non-existent CIA operatives. I gave them names and missions. I had a unit build up a formidable series of their reports from the field. I ordered a few of them killed in action. I eventually found this sort of work far more interesting than my daily chores. I especially enjoyed keeping the President informed about several of his favorite CIA spies, who of course didn’t exist. ‘How is Brian Thatcher doing?’ he would ask me. ‘Oh,’ I would say, ‘we had to pull him out of Afghanistan. It was getting too hot there. But now he’s in East Germany. Very dangerous there as well, but he blends in more easily. His parents were German…’

“I once traveled to Berlin and impersonated Thatcher. Pulled off a few very useful moves.

“In the early 1970s, we began constructing a grid to lay over the world. Obviously, it was a very ambitious program. We would invent a bewilderingly complex series of data clusters, in order to describe, well, reality itself. It would be our grid. Therefore, we could enter and exit it at will. But no one else could. For them, it was entangled beyond any effort to unsnarl it. So if we could sell the grid as reality, we would be kings. Markov, our Russian defector, somehow understood all this. He was very enthusiastic. I decided to let him in. He could help us enormously. He told me, ‘You know, every realm is an artifact of some kind. Everything depends on who is doing the inventing.’ From that moment on, time sped up for us…”


power outside the matrix


“We invented space aliens, too. That was when we really went over the edge. One afternoon at Langley, one of those creatures strolled into my office. I almost had a heart attack. He said, ‘Well, what would you expect? Eventually, this had to happen.’ I asked him whether I could un-invent him. He told me that depended on how ‘advanced’ I was. I was led to explore the arts of the ancient Tibetan magicians. They knew all about this sort of thing. I left the Agency. I branched out into deeper areas. I founded a credit-card company. Talk about conjuring. You collect interest on money you invent out of thin air, and you become a bank. You work with men who decide who the next President will be. Pretty soon you’re going to see a hologram take up residence in the White House…”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

The Magic Agent on the move

The Magic Agent on the move

by Jon Rappoport

October 20, 2015

While revising my novel, The Magic Agent, it occurred to me, for the 10,000th time, how much better fiction is at expressing certain truths than facts are.

The truths have to do with human beings, with the individual, with his multi-dimensional aspects.

You can suggest these dimensions, but you can’t nail them down, because they aren’t things, they aren’t precise territories, they aren’t covered by any of the spiritual teachings of planet Earth.

This doesn’t make them any less real. They are super-real. They exceed all convenient boundaries. They aren’t mere cultural or political artifacts. They embrace paradox. They accept contradiction. They’re mysterious. They’re anti-machine.

So I thought I’d offer a few quotes a character in the novel.


First and foremost, Ralph Renari, whom I’ve only begun to plumb. He’s far slipperier than a polished eel.

Renari spoke the following to a doctor at a California mental hospital where, for a time, he was locked up:

“Imagine a piece of sculpture in a museum, Doctor. It has 107 dimensions. In one of those dimensions, time has been crawling along a surface in precise small increments. But now time begins to skip ahead in longer leaps. And now it jumps from one dimension to another. We observe this. So, to avoid a very perplexing situation, we throw a sheet over the whole sculpture and prepare to walk away. And then we realize we are in the darkness.”

“The greatest spy in the world wants to enter the place where universes overlap and collide. Then he is sniffing on the Big Track.”

“Suppose, Doctor, you put out your hand and it is a paw, the paw of a jaguar. You don’t know that, but I do. I can see it very clearly. Your blindness is a chronic condition. It can never be cured. Unless—the President of the United States admits to every lie he ever told. Then your paw would go back to being a hand. This is an unlikely causal connection, but it exists. No one knows why. What will you do? What will I do? Will someone step forward and dedicate his life to making the President come clean? And right here and right now, how can you and I continue this conversation? We’re at an impasse. I know things you couldn’t possibly accept. On top of all this, I’m an agent. I’m an agent for a group that investigates dimensions and realms. I send back reports. I report what I see. You’re an interesting footnote in my work. You became a doctor to avoid coming to terms with how you operate in other dimensions. You’ve shrunk yourself down to the size of a small machine. You click and tick. Did you just see the wall behind you disappear? Turn around and look. For you, the wall is still there, but for me it’s gone. I’m going to walk through the empty space now. What will you tell your superiors when I don’t answer roll call? You’ll lie. And that’s the whole point, Doctor. I don’t have to lie.”

“The greatest invention of man is organization. Everything fans out from there. Consider the trafficking of heroin. You have the growers in the fields, the farmers. Then you have the people who take delivery of the poppy crop. They transport it to factories where it is processed. And from those factories, there is a sophisticated system, routes along which the product travels until it reaches the addict in the street. This is to say nothing of the bankers who launder the profits, and businessmen who set the global price. At first, there are many separate compartments in such an operation. I am speaking of more primitive times. But then, someone gets an idea. Why not create an umbrella for the entire apparatus? Why not oversee it all? Organization. The ultimate bosses may even allow the illusion of separate elements to remain. It is a useful cover. Eventually, it is the same, or it will be the same, in any industry. Someone will always want more organization. There is that drive, that obsession. That is why spying gets harder over time. There are more levels to discover. That is why spying itself organizes in wider ripples. Which organization will ultimately win? It’s an interesting question. I won’t be here to see the answer, but there will be an answer. One organization of some kind will run the world. Can you imagine the blowback? Do you think people are going to sit still for that? There is a point at which organization seeps into the consciousness of humans. They realize what it implies. The individual psyche operates on completely different principles. Open principles, which can be altered at the drop of a hat. Non-literal principles. That’s the key. Suppose the basis of all universes is metaphor, not fact? Have you considered this, Doctor? Suppose, when you go down far enough, when you’re forced to abandon your fixation on facts, you see them change their appearance? They turn into poetics. Not little sing-song rhythms and rhymes, but broad open wild endless lines that shatter all the smug assurances of the empty-suit mind. What will happen then, Doctor? What will you do? I could make you my patient, here and now, but why should I waste my time?”

“I was a President once, Doctor. It’s so long ago I don’t remember all the details. But as my first order of business, I brought in a universe that was right next door. I brought it in so people could see it and experience it. It caused quite a commotion. But I saw my duty clearly. End the con. Stop the false music. Otherwise, why bother to lead people? You would just be going around in circles.”


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.