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I Used To Be A Contract Hitman, And This Was The Perfect Murder
A request came through asking whether I could detail a perfect murder, and while no murder is ideal, this one came pretty damn close.
I was seven months into my new career. My reputation as a contract hitman had begun to soar, shattering my expectations and throwing my name deep into the market. Clients were swarming in from all sides of the globe with potential hits and I was consumed entirely by the work, so much so that I no longer counted hours, but days. I was traveling so often, from city to city, country to country, that days were the only thing that gave me a sense of time. It was quite euphoric.
One step into the dark side of human nature and you realize how many people are actually wanted dead, and how much others are willing to pay for the deed to be done. On the other hand, there are the sick, sadistic clients that request you do the unthinkable to the target; torture. Most of those hold long, heavy grudges that have scratched hate deep into their hearts.
The type of torture varies greatly from country to country. South America and Africa seem to prefer physical torture; chopping off fingers, prying fingernails off or pushing rusted nails under them, gouging eyes out, cutting tongues in half, inserting sharp, slim stakes into the ear canal, breaking toes, popping out knee caps, skinning, tooth extractions... all just a peek into the darkness.
There's also psychological torture that Russia and Germany seem to favor, but that's completely different. Toying with someone's mind and drawing out their biggest, darkest fears is arguably more effective than physical pain. Everyone has a different pain tolerance, but no one is safe from the poison the mind infects you with. You can't hide from that, no matter how hard you try.
Torture pays the highest, but rarely is it something clients request. It's just too risky, it involves too much contact between the target and the executioner. Too many chances for something to slip or go wrong. A quick and easy job is the preferred route, both for the client and myself. I've only had one torture job in my three year career, and it will be engraved in my mind until my last breath.
This hit wasn't a prolonged and painful death, although it came close. Technically, I didn't cause the target any pain, unless you count the moment when I snapped his neck. But you wouldn't do that.
A client contacted me via an encrypted, untraceable e-mail one night with information on a young man he wanted dead. According to the e-mail, the young man, Gregory, had been having an affair with the client's wife while at work. They'd sneak into a janitor closet during their lunch break three times a week and relieve the stress of work on each other's bodies. A camera caught them once, the blonde woman being shown exiting the closet while hopping on one foot trying to get a high heel on. Gregory was shown in the film exiting after her, fixing his tie and slapping the woman's backside after closing the door behind them.
The e-mail went on the describe how the relationship with the blonde had spiraled out of control due to their work schedules, but I skimmed through it. I didn't care for the sob story, if the client wanted someone to throw their problems on they should've contacted a therapist, not a hitman. What I did take note of was Gregory's address, place of work, work schedule, car model and the few pictures that had been included so I could recognize him. The last line read: MAKE IT LOOK LIKE A SUICIDE.
Typical hit. Unsurprisingly, around 40% of my jobs involved some sort of relationship hardship being the root of the problem. Backstory doesn't matter, though. $30,000 would be in my pocket after the job was done and I would never look back on it. The last thing on my mind would be why I did it. It would be just another hit added to the countless others with more irrelevant stories behind them.
Gregory resided in the U.S., but luckily, my last job brought me back to the States after spending two weeks overseas dealing with a flurry of offers that had cluttered my inbox. I was staying in a cheap motel on the west coast, my suitcase hidden under the bed and filled to the brim with my tools and payments. I avoided reputable, fancier hotels like The Plague. Places like the Marriott, The Hilton, and Best Western were all a sure way to throw my life away. Security was just overwhelming, so I stuck to motels on the sides of the roads.
I had only been at the motel for two days and already it was time to pack my things and get a move on. Gregory lived in New York and I was short on time if I was going to complete the job in the allotted time I guaranteed my clients: two days. I had two days to get to New York, find Gregory, and perform the kill. So I asked for a favor.
I called an old friend and told him I needed to fly for a job. We'd been friends for over a decade and he happily agreed and said he was near the area. He didn't know about my career and didn't care to ask, and I paid him a hefty amount for letting me use his private jet every once in a while, so the questions were kept at a minimum. I was fairly confident he was involved in drug and weapon trafficking, so it was in our mutual interest to keep our business relationship strictly business. And the jet was nice.
I met him at an abandoned runway an hour later, carrying two suitcases and an iced coffee. We greeted each other with a handshake and stood on the smoldering asphalt while the pilots refueled the jet. The sun was blaring down on us and ripples of heat rose from the black pavement. Crows cawed overhead, a dead rodent lay a few feet away from us, its chest cavity open and the contents of its stomach were spilled on the ground. I could almost hear the sizzle.
"Job treating you well?" Landon asked, cutting the silence. The sound of a dry breeze echoed around us. He was wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that was two sizes too big for him. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes from view and blocked the sunlight. I stood well over a head higher than him, though, and noticed his eyes darting back and forth behind me, almost as if he thought he was being watched.
"Yeah, very demanding, but what can you do?" I answered, sipping my coffee from a green straw and trying to read him. He nodded and scratched his thinning head. The weather was making us both sweat profusely and we watched with growing anticipation as the jet was being prepared for takeoff. We were both eager to get inside the air conditioned plane and have a few drinks at the bar.
"So, New York, huh? What takes you there?" Landon continued. I eyed him carefully. It wasn't like him to start asking questions, but we hadn't seen each other in over four months so I figured he was just trying to make polite conversation. Our days of joking about girls and complaining about teachers were over.
"Client wants to meet in person," I said simply. "Some uptight jerk, probably."
That got a chuckle out of Landon and he relaxed his shoulders. He tended to tense up whenever he was uncomfortable, a sign of his I had picked up back when we were in high school and awkward pre-teens. But why was he so nervous? Maybe he thought I worked for the C.I.A. because of how I was dressed and that I'd found out what he was involved in, but knowing him he surely would have voiced his concerns. I decided it didn't matter and brushed the thought away as one of the attendants informed us the jet was ready.
We both sighed with infinite relief as we entered the cabin. A nice, cold wave of air slapped us as we walked up the steps and into the plane. It was refreshingly cool and I headed straight to the bar for a drink after tossing the rest of the coffee in a trash can. The inside was well furnished and immaculate, tan leather seats lined the windows. A beige carpet covered the floor. I sat in a tall stool by the modern bar and treated myself to some Scotch, turning on the stereo system in the jet. Relaxing classical music filled the cabin.
Landon joined me a few minutes later after being in the cockpit. He brought a pretty flight attendant with him, and suddenly, the five-hour long flight got much more interesting.
The three of us sat in a semi-circle after introducing each other and drew up stories of our childhood, memorable moments of our lives, crazy parties, past relationships, just trying to find something to make the time go by quickly. The liquor helped.
I made sure to stay very vague in my stories, though, and omitted any important names and details about them. Drunk and tipsy, Landon and the flight attendant, Christina, didn't seem to notice.
Landon headed to the front of the plane after an hour, saying he was going to catch up on sleep, leaving Christina alone with me. Throughout the time we'd been there, she'd shot me playful glances and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her white shirt, blaming it on the alcohol doing "silly things" to her. She quickly sat next to me once the seat had opened up and stared at me in a dreamy, drunken state. Her blonde locks fell carelessly over her shoulders and her ocean-blue eyes seemed distant.
Her fingers formed two legs that walked up my arm. I stared at her, saddened that I would have to reject her attempt at, probably, the only fun she would have for the next month. It was a shame, she was exceptionally pretty and her body was an invitation for pleasure. Her fingers intertwined as they walked up my forearm and stopped at my elbow, where they wrapped around my arm.
"There's a bathroom behind the bar," Christina whispered, sliding my coat off and placing it on the stool behind her. A small smile formed on her face. Her eyes fluttered from my chest to my arms and she scooted forward on her stool and leaned in close. Her soft lips began to trace my neck and she left little pecks of lust under my chin. She smelled of strawberries and roses and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
God, I hated myself.
I slowly pulled away from her and stood up. I couldn't have any form of attachment with the path I had chosen for myself. It only led to disaster or heartbreak; either I would get sloppy and have my past catch up with me or I would be so busy with hits that we would rarely see each other. It couldn't escalate more than it already had. It wouldn't work. The look of disappointment on her face killed me, though, and I bent over and whispered in her ear.
I left a kiss on her cheek before smiling apologetically and heading to the front of the jet in search of Landon. I found him sprawled on a soft couch, drool dripping from his open mouth and his shirt unbuttoned. His big belly hung over the side of the cushions and I laughed to myself before laying on the couch opposite of him and closing my eyes.
I fell into a troubled sleep.
I thanked the pilot for the flight and slid a bill into her palm as she handed me my belongings. She expressed her gratitude and I let her know it was my pleasure. I wasn't going to ask but I was sure Landon overworked his pilots and staff and I tried to help them in any way I could. Only a few months ago, I was in their shoes, struggling to make ends meet and unsure of what the future held. I wished someone had helped me back then.
I reached the back of the jet and was about to exit when someone called my name.
A soft voice came from the bar. It was Christina. Draped over her arm was my coat.
"I didn't want to bother you since you were resting, but you wouldn't want to leave this behind, now would you?" She teased. I chuckled, nodding in agreement.
"Thank you, Christina." I slid the coat on said my goodbye as I walked down the steps. Christina waved and shut the cabin door behind me, closing us off into the outside. I hoped she'd find the present I left her once she went to clean the sofas.
Landon was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. We were in an empty field, tall grass and weeds rose up to meet our knees. Immense skyscrapers and buildings were in the background, evident of New York's busy life. The sun was setting and the sky turned a deep orange as a chilly breeze blew by. The grass swayed gracefully and I noticed fireflies floating in the air.
"Well, here we are," Landon said, spreading his arms open to show me the city. "New York, New York, the city that never sleeps." He spun around dramatically and I laughed at his monologue.
"Thank you, Landon. You have no idea how easy you make my job sometimes." Landon brushed me away as if his private jet was no big deal. In reality, he kept me away from customs at airports and the ridiculous amount of effort that went into concealing weapons and chemicals for a commercial flight. "I left a small token of my appreciation at the bar," I told him.
"Ah, you know you don't have to do that," Landon said quietly. Then, he laughed loudly. "But you know I damn well appreciate it."
We said our goodbyes and after a quick glance back at the white jet, I made my way to the city.
The building was a fifty-story skyscraper made mostly of glass. An ornately decorated entrance completed with a tall fountain where the concrete path that led to the glass doors split and circled the ceramic water structure lay open to a street. The layout of the interior was just as I suspected, having been in buildings like this one much too often. What concerned me was Gregory's transportation. The building's parking space was underground in a private parking lot, and I wasn't sure where the entrance to that was. If Gregory headed there and got to his car after leaving the office, I would miss my chance.
Ten minutes before I left, I gathered a suitcase filled with fake files and a thick rope and collected the tools I would be needing; a small razor, a screwdriver, a sharp knife, a syringe, and my trusted Beretta 92 with a silencer attached, in case things got messy. You could never be too careful with something like this.
The syringe was filled with Ketamine, an anesthetic used for light surgeries and, by others, as a way to get high. The idea wasn't to render Gregory unconscious, but to put him in a trance-like state where he wouldn't be aware of his surroundings or what was occurring before I killed him. Using the needle was a risky move, though, since it required some form of accuracy in what would be a hectic and intense situation, but Gregory was young and the last thing I wanted was a slow acting inhalant to ruin the plan.
At 9:50 P.M., I walked out of my motel and headed to Gregory's workplace. The streets of New York were decently lit and, just as Landon had said, it almost looked like no one was asleep. The sidewalks were bustling with cars and pedestrians and I was forced to slip into a dark alley in the middle of my commute. I didn't want anyone noticing me out of place and while the detour would cost me a few extra minutes, it would outweigh the consequences of someone remembering me by chance.
I've spent a good amount of time in New York, so it didn't take me long to find the correct alleys and empty streets to make it to the tall, glass skyscraper Gregory worked in. It gleamed in the moonlight, the smooth, glossy surface of the glass reflecting all light and almost making it seem like each glass panel was a different color. A few businessmen were near the entrance, all wearing expensive suits and huddled closely together, probably discussing ways to backstab a poor fellow whom they didn't like.
Fortunately, they didn't seem to notice me as I crossed the street and headed to the back lot of the building. They were lost in each other's words and I made a wide semi-circle around them and cut through a small garden, another feeble attempt at adding color to the gray skyscraper. I took extra care while walking through the bushes and flowers, if a thorn or a branch managed to snag even a string of fabric from my coat, links could be made, and that spelled prison with a capital P.
A few moments later, I was standing behind the fifty story building. The "back lot" was a rectangular parking lot that held around five cars, all parked near a rear exit. What I hadn't noticed before was that the back of the building was on an incline, adding another whole story that wasn't present at the front. It was interesting at the least. Two parking lots for a skyscraper of this size made sense, and after a quick scan of the cars I saw Gregory's, a black S-Class Mercedes-Benz. That made things things much simpler and I breathed a little easier knowing that I wouldn't have to worry about him heading to the private underground parking lot.
A red fire escape door was near the edge of the building, and plastered on it were signs that an alarm would go off if it were to be opened. I scoffed. What many people don't know is that fire escape doors are linked to the building's sprinkler systems, and the alarm will only sound if it's opened when the sprinklers are triggered.
The plan was to enter the building and get into an elevator unnoticed, and with only two security guards roaming the interior, it wouldn't be too difficult. Once in an elevator, I would ascend to floor twenty five, where Gregory's office was located, and wait for him to enter an elevator and finally reveal myself, where I would kindly ask him to hold the elevator doors open and step inside with him. Before the elevator reached the bottom floor, I would find an opening to inject Gregory with the Ketamine and while he was in a lucid state, carry him to his car where I would drive to his house and create the apparent suicide in his living room. At least, if the scenario played out like I thought it would.
With that in mind, I glided to the red door and put my ear to it, careful to hold my suitcase in a way that wouldn't juggle the contents of the inside too much. The faint rumble of an air conditioning system and the drip, drip of a leaking pipe could be heard and nothing else. My hand hovered over the doorknob, but I continued to listen, something that could only be described as my sixth sense telling me that entering at that moment would be the wrong thing to do.
"What are you doing here?"
A voice behind the door filled with false authority and superiority loudly cut the silence. Two pairs of footsteps on the other side of the door mingled with each other before the sharp click of men's dressing shoes stopped and the dull thud of combat boots went to meet them. Keys jingled to a stop. A leather briefcase slapped against someone's leg.
"Oh, I didn't know anyone was back here," a young man said, laughing politely. "My car is right there, I thought I could take a quick shortcut since the wife is waiting with dinner at home. You know women."
It was the security guard's turn to laugh politely at the sexist joke.
"Sorry, Greg, you know I have a code of conduct to follow. Can't play favorites."
I couldn't believe my luck.
Gregory sighed. "You're gonna make me take the long way, Frank?"
"Sorry again, buddy," Frank said, sounding farther away than he did a few seconds ago. "Take the cargo elevator, though, it's just down the hallway. I'm on my way to the second floor anyway so I'll stop by the maintenance room and open it up for you. Press the 'M' and it'll arrive at the main floor where you can just go around the outside."
Gregory sighed again and cursed Frank under his breath. "Thank you," he shouted.
"No problem!" Frank's echo said, definitely coming from another room.
I heard the click of shoes start again and I quietly swung the heavy door open. Change of plans. Air was sucked in as I stepped inside. The hallway looked like it was still under construction and dimly lit. I quickly located Gregory to my left, standing impatiently in front of two gray elevator doors and glancing at an expensive watch. He was wearing a gray suit and a mop of curly black hair lay on his head.
A white light suddenly spilled into the hallway as the elevator doors slid open. Gregory mumbled something quietly and stepped inside.
I made it just as the doors were about to close shut. I shot my hand between the doors and they slowly re-opened. Gregory was taken aback, not aware that there was anyone else in the hallway with him and visibly confused. I gave him a smile as I pressed a button labeled "P", which I hoped was for the private parking lot. Gregory cleared his throat and stepped away from me.
"Excuse me, but who are you?" he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle on his black suitcase tightly. He was nervous.
I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood and put him at ease, to show him I was friendly.
"Frank said I might be able to catch you if I ran. A stickler for rules, that one, isn't he? Wouldn't let me go out the back door," I joked, trying to seem like it wasn't the first time I met Frank. The elevator began to descend.
"Yeah," Gregory answered, turning to look at the small screen above the doors that displayed a red arrow pointing downwards. "Where do you work, again?" He asked after a pause.
"I'm a contract lawyer," I told him. In truth, I had no information regarding this office space or what it was for. I only knew Gregory was a lawyer and that meant he must work for a law firm. A contract lawyer didn't have to work for the law firm he was contracted for, so that meant my sudden appearance might make sense to Gregory. But he wasn't fooled.
"Contract lawyers don't park in the private lot," Gregory said. And with that, he jumped forward and raised his hand to press the red alarm button.
But I was aware of how he had slowly inched forward towards the elevator's dashboard. I noticed how he had taken note of the floor button I pressed. I noticed how he looked at my briefcase and studied my face to see if he could remember me. But he knew he had never seen me before and I knew he didn't believe a word that had come out of my mouth.
My right arm came down in an arc to stop Gregory from sounding the alarm. My open palm slammed into his forearm and he dropped his briefcase as he cried out in surprise. My elbow came up next, using the momentum and ramming into Gregory's chest, sending him sprawling backwards.
I pinned him against the elevator wall and, knowing he was in trouble, he tried to land a left hook on the back of my head.
I read him easily and ducked in time for his arm to swing down in front of his stomach, where I grabbed it and held it in place. For a few moments, we stood still, breathing hard and trying to come up with a solution; Gregory questioning how he could escape and I was wondering how I would kill him.
I barely had time to come up with something before Gregory's forehead smashed into my face, cutting open my bottom lip and throwing me off balance. The metallic, coppery taste of blood seeped into my mouth and before I could regain my composure, Gregory pushed me to the side and quickly ran out the open elevator doors as they beeped.
But I was quicker. I pushed myself off the wall and reached at the only thing I could grab; Gregory's tie. It was draped over his shoulder and fluttering in the breeze behind him, having been loosened in the scuffle.
My fingers wrapped around the tie and his neck jerked backwards just as the elevator doors began to slide shut. Gregory, unaware that the elevator was seconds away from ascending again, used his arms to push against the wall of the parking lot and stop himself from being dragged back inside.
The doors closed.
I was left inside, still gripping Gregory's tie while the elevator rose. I heard Gregory begin to scream as the tie tightened around his neck and began to lift him alongside the elevator. The frantic movement of his legs as they thrashed wildly could be heard through the closed doors. After a few seconds, I rose above the ceiling of the parking lot and the tie shot out of my hand. Gregory's screaming turned to erratic choking noises as the elevator began to slow, groaning in protest as Gregory became an anchor, being squished against the ceiling of the parking lot and preventing the elevator from reaching the main floor.
The suffocating turned into a low moan as the tie broke Gregory's voice box. I heard what I thought was Gregory's hand slapping the elevator doors in a useless attempt to get them open. Suddenly, a loud snap echoed through the elevator and the tie finally ripped. The elevator then lurched upwards with a jolt.
I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath the entire time. It came out slow and steady and I quickly brushed myself down as the elevator opened at the main floor. I grabbed my suitcase as I walked out, striding quickly through the ornate lobby and out the glass doors.
The group of men with nice suits had disappeared.
A young and promising lawyer had been found in the underground parking lot of his work place. He had taken an elevator that was closed for renovations and thought to have malfunctioned, taking him to the lot instead of the main floor. When the man tried to exit, his tie caught on the doors as they shut and his neck was crushed as the elevator rose and pinned his head against the ceiling. His neck snapped under the immense pressure and he was found dead the next morning by a colleague.
The death was ruled accidental. After an internal investigation, the security guard was questioned and found guilty of involuntary manslaughter at his trial. He was to spend five years in prison.
It wasn't a clean and calculated suicide as I had wanted, but things don't always go exactly to plan. I found the payment of $30,000 where the encrypted e-mail said I would and the death was never linked to me. What more could I ask for? It was the perfect murder.
The night I killed Gregory, I went back to my motel and put everything away. I was angry at myself for letting the situation get out of hand and, most importantly, sloppy. But as I took off my coat and hung it by the door, that anger slowly faded away. I noticed a white slip of paper in the outside pocket that I had no recollection of.
Curious, I grabbed it and unrolled it, smoothing out the wrinkles on the wall.
Scribbled on one side was a phone number, followed by the name Christina with the I's dotted with hearts.
5 Conspiracy Theories that Turned out to be True [Quite Big Post]
by Jonathan Elinoffsubmitted by CuteBananaMuffin to conspiracy
from NewWorldOrderReport Website
You can see the documentary, "Core of Corruption - In the Shadows".
Jared Lee Loughner
If you don't know what MK Ultra is, read the 3rd paragraph.Journalism professor Nathaniel Blumberg was so disturbed about the investigation into the attempted assassination of President Reagan that he turned his suspicions into a 377-page novel. In The Afternoon of March 30 , Blumberg blends fact and fiction in looking at the unreported "connections" between Hinckley's family and that of Vice President George Bush, the man who came within a heartbeat of the presidency of the United States. "What I'm really after is the case to be officially reopened," said the Rhodes scholar and former dean of the University of Montana journalism school.
"If they can answer all the questions satisfactorily, I'll be delighted," he said in an interview. "In truth, I don't think all the questions can be answered without opening up a whole new can of worms." Blumberg's unease is now focused on the indifference shown to what he calls "the story behind the story."
Bush, he said, has questions to answer in connection with the attempt. So do the FBI and the judge who presided over Hinckley's trial, according to Blumberg. "I'm not saying there was a conspiracy to assassinate Reagan," Blumberg emphasized. "I'm saying there was a conspiracy to keep significant information from the public that it has a right to know." Blumberg asks his readers to consider his contentions that journalists were fed a barely believable story full of inconsistencies. A long-time media critic, he decided the example warranted more than a critique of press performance in a crisis. Such efforts, he said, usually "go out there and die."
Instead, he chose to weave his questions into a novel so it would reach a broader audience and allow him to probe problems in society and corruption in government, as well as maladies of the U.S. press.
Here are some of the videos of the testimony from MK Ultra survivors during court cases against the government:
VIDEOS DELETED. (i will try to find other sources for the deleted videos) there are 12 deleted videos.
In the 1950s to the 1970s, the CIA mind-control project was aimed at finding a "truth serum" to use on communist spies.
Test subjects were given LSD and other drugs, often without consent, and some were tortured. At least one man, civilian biochemist Frank Olson, who was working for the government, died as a result of the experiments. The project was finally exposed after investigations by the Rockefeller Commission.
Watch a video about MK-ULTRA from a documentary called Secrets of The CIA...
the CIA paid a number of well-known domestic and foreign journalists (from big-name media outlets like Time, The Washington Post, The New York Times, CBS and others) to publish CIA propaganda.
The CIA also reportedly funded at least one movie, the animated "Animal Farm," by George Orwell.
The Church Committee finally exposed the activities in 1975.
In 1953, Joseph Alsop, then one of America's leading syndicated columnists, went to the Philippines to cover an election.He did not go because he was asked to do so by his syndicate. He did not go because he was asked to do so by the newspapers that printed his column. He went at the request of the CIA. Alsop is one of more than 400 American journalists who in the past 25 years have secretly carried out assignments for the Central Intelligence Agency according to documents on file at CIA headquarters. Some of these journalists' relationships with the Agency were tacit; some were explicit. There was cooperation, accommodation and overlap.
Journalists provided a full range of clandestine services - from simple intelligence-gathering to serving as go-betweens with spies in Communist countries. Reporters shared their notebooks with the CIA. Editors shared their staffs. Some of the journalists were Pulitzer Prize winners, distinguished reporters who considered themselves ambassadors without portfolio for their country.
Most were less exalted: foreign correspondents who found that their association with the Agency helped their work; stringers and freelancers who were as interested in the derring-do of the spy business as in filing articles; and, the smallest category, full-time CIA employees masquerading as journalists abroad.
In many instances, CIA documents show, journalists were engaged to perform tasks for the CIA with the consent of the managements of America's leading news organizations. The history of the CIA's involvement with the American press continues to be shrouded by an official policy of obfuscation and deception for the following principal reasons: The use of journalists has been among the most productive means of intelligence-gathering employed by the CIA. Although the agency has cut back sharply on the use of reporters since 1973 (primarily as a result of pressure from the media), some journalists are still posted abroad.
Further investigation into the matter, CIA officials say, would inevitably reveal a series of embarrassing relationships in the 1950's and 1960's with some of the most powerful organizations and individuals in American journalism. Among the executives who lent their cooperation to the Agency were: William Paley of the Columbia Broadcasting System Henry Luce of Time Inc. Arthur Hays Sulzberger of the New York Times Barry Bingham Sr. of the Louisville Courier-Journal James Copley of the Copley News Services Other organizations which cooperated with the CIA include: the American Broadcasting Company the National Broadcasting Company the Associated Press United Press International Reuters Hearst Newspapers Scripps-Howard Newsweek magazine the Mutual Broadcasting System the Miami Herald the old Saturday Evening Post New York Herald-Tribune By far the most valuable of these associations, according to CIA officials, have been with, the New York Times CBS Time Inc. [...] Appropriately, the CIA uses the term 'reporting' to describe much of what cooperating journalists did for the Agency. "We would ask them, 'Will you do us a favor?'" said a senior CIA official.
"'We understand you're going to be in Yugoslavia. Have they paved all the streets? Where did you see planes? Were there any signs of military presence? How many Soviets did you see? If you happen to meet a Soviet, get his name and spell it right... Can you set up a meeting for us? Or arrange a message?'" Many CIA officials regarded these helpful journalists as operatives: the journalists tended to see themselves as trusted friends of the Agency who performed occasional favors - usually without pay - in the national interest. [...] Two of the Agency's most valuable relationships in the 1960's, according to CIA officials, were with reporters who covered Latin America - Jerry O'Leary of the Washington Star and Hal Hendrix of Miami News, a Pulitzer Prize winner who became a high official of the International Telephone and Telegraph Corporation.
Hendrix was extremely helpful to the Agency in providing information about individuals in Miami's Cuban exile community. [....]
A note about Hendrix - he was the one who Seth Kantor, reporting on the JFK assassination, was told to call for 'background' on Oswald after Oswald's arrest.
Hendrix, from Miami, had all the info on Oswald's pro-Castro leafleting activities in New Orleans, details about Oswald's defection to the Soviet Union, etc.
Only years later did Kantor realize the significance of a guy like Hendrix, CIA, having so much info on Oswald so soon after the assassination.
"The Central Intelligence Agency owns everyone of any significance in the major media." - William Colby, former CIA Director, quoted by Dave Mcgowan, Derailing Democracy "You could get a journalist cheaper than a good call girl, for a couple hundred dollars a month." - CIA operative, discussing the availability and prices of journalists willing to peddle CIA propaganda and cover stories. Katherine the Great, by Deborah Davis "There is quite an incredible spread of relationships. You don’t need to manipulate Time magazine, for example, because there are [Central Intelligence] Agency people at the management level." - William B. Bader, former CIA intelligence officer, briefing members of the Senate Intelligence Committee, The CIA and the Media, by Carl Bernstein "The Agency's relationship with [The New York] Times was by far its most valuable among newspapers, according to CIA officials. [It was] general Times policy ... to provide assistance to the CIA whenever possible." - The CIA and the Media, by Carl Bernstein "Senator William Proxmire has pegged the number of employees of the federal intelligence community at 148,000 ... though Proxmire's number is itself a conservative one. The "intelligence community" is officially defined as including only those organizations that are members of the U.S. Intelligence Board (USIB); a dozen other agencies, charged with both foreign and domestic intelligence chores, are not encompassed by the term... The number of intelligence workers employed by the federal government is not 148,000, but some undetermined multiple of that number." - Jim Hougan, Spooks "For some time I have been disturbed by the way the CIA has been diverted from its original assignment. It has become an operational and at times a policy-making arm of the government.... I never had any thought that when I set up the CIA that it would be injected into peacetime cloak and dagger operations." - former President Harry Truman, 22 December 1963, one month after the JFK assassination, op-ed section of the Washington Post, early edition
5. Manhattan ProjectThe Manhattan Project was the codename for a project conducted during World War II to develop the first atomic bomb.
The project was led by the United States, and included participation from the United Kingdom and Canada. Formally designated as the Manhattan Engineer District (MED), it refers specifically to the period of the project from 1942-1946 under the control of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, under the administration of General Leslie R. Groves.
The scientific research was directed by American physicist 'J. Robert OppenhMafia.'
The project's roots lay in scientists' fears since the 1930s that Nazi Germany was also investigating nuclear weapons of its own. Born out of a small research program in 1939, the Manhattan Project eventually employed more than 130,000 people and cost nearly US$2 billion ($22 billion in current value).
It resulted in the creation of multiple production and research sites that operated in secret. With the total involved, this makes it one of the largest conspiracies in history. Entire towns were built for short periods of time, employing people, all under secrecy and top national secrecy at that.
The government never admitted to it, the media never reported on it, and people had no idea for over 25 years.
Project research took place at over thirty sites across the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. The three primary research and production sites of the project were the plutonium-production facility at what is now the Hanford Site, the uranium-enrichment facilities at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and the weapons research and design laboratory now known as Los Alamos National Laboratory.
The MED maintained control over U.S. weapons production until the formation of the Atomic Energy Commission in January 1947.