21-01-2011, 11:40 AM
A couple of years ago I paid the five bucks and downloaded and printed and placed in a ring binder Bond of Secrecy, which I continue to describe as the deathbed deflection of a company man.
I wrote Saint John five pages (including a detailed list of typographical corrections) and spoke of his father's motivation.
Mark Lane in Plausible Denial sufficiently shattered Hunt's alibi for November 22, 1963; and of course nephew Shawn says uncle David Atlee Phillips admitted to brother William that he, too, was in Dallas that day.
Angleton's manipulation of the Oswald file, Phillip's work on the Mexico City aspect, the survival instinct of other agency power players from Dulles to Helms to Harvey et al make it a cinch they were deeply involved in the design.
As was the ubiquitous Bundy, canceller of the key raid at the outset, author of draft NSAM 273 as the red carpet tide washed in over the Oval Office floor.
Johnson was grunting and sweating throughout, just not designing or directing the thing, more like in the pit with raised fist.
Hoover, as well, was pouting and swinging his anvil-laden purse at his agents to go along.
There was a war to be run for all it was worth, from the drugs of the Golden Triangle to the billion-dollar checks to Brown & Root, to all the whirlybirds of Bellmoney, power; rinse, repeat.
Kennedy, who thoughtnot that he was a godthat there was a God and on earth His work must truly be our own, was going to spoil it all by back-channeling with Nikita and Fidel.
Yes, a concert of interests; but the writer of the concerto and the director was not Landslide, more likely someone subtle including an Angleton orchid-grower and a blueblood world manager (see also McCloy).
Were outfit people used. Of course. And DPD. And military intelligence. Probably not French gunmen, no; probably not aliens in UFOs or Mossad agents rapelling from cloud-shaped dirigibles.
It has been clear for fifty years it was not the agent of three intelligence agencies, the patriotic Marine who enlisted in the romantic spirit of Herb Philbrick to fight the Communist menace, only to be made the patsy of the consortium of powerful men, that pyramid of power variously described but undeniably controlling the events and players, false-flagging and sheep-dipping to its black heart's content.
No, it wasn't Lee.
[ATTACH=CONFIG]1750[/ATTACH]
I wrote Saint John five pages (including a detailed list of typographical corrections) and spoke of his father's motivation.
Mark Lane in Plausible Denial sufficiently shattered Hunt's alibi for November 22, 1963; and of course nephew Shawn says uncle David Atlee Phillips admitted to brother William that he, too, was in Dallas that day.
Angleton's manipulation of the Oswald file, Phillip's work on the Mexico City aspect, the survival instinct of other agency power players from Dulles to Helms to Harvey et al make it a cinch they were deeply involved in the design.
As was the ubiquitous Bundy, canceller of the key raid at the outset, author of draft NSAM 273 as the red carpet tide washed in over the Oval Office floor.
Johnson was grunting and sweating throughout, just not designing or directing the thing, more like in the pit with raised fist.
Hoover, as well, was pouting and swinging his anvil-laden purse at his agents to go along.
There was a war to be run for all it was worth, from the drugs of the Golden Triangle to the billion-dollar checks to Brown & Root, to all the whirlybirds of Bellmoney, power; rinse, repeat.
Kennedy, who thoughtnot that he was a godthat there was a God and on earth His work must truly be our own, was going to spoil it all by back-channeling with Nikita and Fidel.
Yes, a concert of interests; but the writer of the concerto and the director was not Landslide, more likely someone subtle including an Angleton orchid-grower and a blueblood world manager (see also McCloy).
Were outfit people used. Of course. And DPD. And military intelligence. Probably not French gunmen, no; probably not aliens in UFOs or Mossad agents rapelling from cloud-shaped dirigibles.
It has been clear for fifty years it was not the agent of three intelligence agencies, the patriotic Marine who enlisted in the romantic spirit of Herb Philbrick to fight the Communist menace, only to be made the patsy of the consortium of powerful men, that pyramid of power variously described but undeniably controlling the events and players, false-flagging and sheep-dipping to its black heart's content.
No, it wasn't Lee.
[ATTACH=CONFIG]1750[/ATTACH]