By: Admin On: September 15, 2018 In: Feature Tagged: password, templateEdit This
This articles is notable for content taken from both Volume 4 and 5 of American Renaissance, as well is what is purported to be the only exclusive interview granted by Amadeo Effscott while a fugitive on the run, after leaving U.S. soil in the aftermath of September 2001. (The exact date or year is unknown, but estimated to between 2002- and no later than 2012.) reporting by Andrew P. and Rye McMaster, Station Chief for East Africa
Reveille. Roused from olive green bunks in mid-slumber at 0:500 hours, in Charlie Company, the mentality necessary for a bespoke assassination is, at first, factory made. Candidate Amadeo sounded off his last name and number and was showered, shaved and dressed, his bed made, note-papers locked up, boots polished and machine gun rifle ready at attention in company formation out on the parade deck of the barracks in the piercing cold wind of the sunless Virginia morning.
This was Quantico, after all, and the way he spoke during his interrogation, it was just the way I had remembered it. Like the bulk of his fellow platoon mates, Candidates Seagers, Kalk, and McGivemey, Candidates Ready, Price, and Freeman, he had expected to end up posted to anywhere at the most wild and dangerous fringes of the globe.
But upon successful graduation from officer candidate school, he was sent to a place…Yes, that place where the Company trains…well, we called it “the Farm”. An isolated training camp on the outskirts of Williamsburg, Virginia.
…And after coming out of the pocket, “out of the pipeline,” it so happened that Candidate “Amadeo Effscott” – as he came to be known – had all along been slated for government service working just outside the local intelligence community in plain clothed civilian attire. An unspecified counter-intel unit operated by a close-knit group of high ranking retired officers of the military and clandestine service. Perhaps not so unbelievably, a covert domestic security Task Force existing as a body which exactly mirrored the official national security committee whose normal espionage activities may only be reviewed by Congress in closed executive session. The following are the declassified excerpts from his FBI interrogation:
“..But, of this mirror body, I will simply say that this was not the case. It was, at least at the time, under the furtive – and therefore illegal – control of the Nationals Security Council. Yes, not so much different than the one Freddie had described, it remained – a semi or completely clandestine body aloof from congressional oversight. And if anyone ever thought the Office of Strategic Services simply dissolved into the CIA one fine morning during the late 1940s, they should think again. Whether or not Mr. David N. Richardson III, even to this day, would ever admit the nature of the task force that was under his control or the magnitude of its existence is not anymore of my concern.
And as for this body, any record of its existence is or was handily kept close to a shredder used immediately after any physical convening by the five principles of the group. The group which in the words President Ford used to phrase the first public acknowledgement of its existence, “…reviews every covert operation undertaken by our government.” Yes, some today have called it “the Deep State.” But we called it the Special Group, as so is the name by which they are seldom known.
Certainly, they thought themselves just that. Probably in every minute of their days in the power meetings which they held on the fate of the country. And the shredded minutes of those meetings, indeed, might have made history weep. This, after all, was a second mirror body to the already secret ministrations of a group no ordinary citizen might track or take any notice of. And according to their philosophy, no doubt jubilantly taken in measure from the clichéd good old days of Cold War unaccountability – if they did not exist on paper, they never really existed at all.
Payroll and operational expenses all fell under the domain of the National Security Councils normal operations – inside of which existed this small quasi-military department in theory answerable only directly to the Commander in Chief. But I can aver no more than that which I have direct knowledge of. As per this body, I cannot even say from whom my direct orders were received. But only, with certitude, from whom they were not.
The founding charter of the Central Intelligence Agency makes it a violation of law that they engage in any domestic operation. No such action either, under the National Security Agency, as reviewed by Congress, could ever take such a course. As per this body, it is not likely even the President of the United States himself ever knew of the true nature of its existence. Other than Mr. David N. Richardson III, as of this writing, the names of none of the four other Task Force principals were ever uncovered to ordinary grade field operatives. This limited information, and any of the foregoing or following assertions with respect to its mission as it came to be known to me, I herewith submit at my own peril to the best of my recollection. This is my testimony. ——(Statistics for house of rep. mid term elections have here been deleted)
Even after the new year, I was never but vaguely informed of its true purpose. Weeks of further military and tactics training passed. A thorough grounding and immersion in the subtleties of the tradecraft. The “sticks and bricks” of the highly secretive world of professional espionage – the “brush pass,” the “dead drop,” the cash exchange, the stake out, avoiding surveillance, the techno-trinkets and cheap villainy disguises, “going black”…..— deleted –Yet regarding the more substance oriented fleshings out of a mission, only disquieting lectures on politics I at first thought were implied to be nothing but mock training sessions. Sessions from which large numbers of young agent recruits were cut, new case officers graduated, divisions – directorates assigned. The Near East division, The Soviet East European division, East Asia, Latin America, the Directorate of Plans, Operations, the Office of Technical Services. Except that for me it was then the advanced Internal Operations course played out on the back streets of Washington… …”moving through the gap”, as meanwhile my wedding approached with nothing but these strange political briefings more reminiscent of a graduate level class on political science. That is, only until we slowly realized we were being selected and picked out to be informed that they were the real thing.
During nightly lectures attended every week during December of 1996 by some one hundred and fifty isolated field agents in a small auditorium at Langley, under a severe oath of silence, we were ostensibly instructed and tutored by video conference on the imminent threat of a growing underground grass movement’s political power – a left wing conspiracy – and the imperative need to gather, analyze and report directly to the Task Force central command all manifestations of its presence detected in the population at large. It was spoken of almost in biological-medical terms as a dangerous virus in the offing.
“My trusted colleagues, fellow Americans…”, squawked a tight jacketed anonymous senior bureaucrat in a dark suit on the live video screen.. “…You as I well know that even the most powerful players in our democracy make or break their careers on the beliefs of the American people. But there comes a time when it behooves us to be on guard for rogue forces, who not by fair play or in the spirit of American values, would seek to exploit the god fearing nature of our way of life. By devious means and wily subterfuge there exist those who would try to make a hoax of the very basis for our most cherished values. That would make claims to the arrival of false prophets and even try to spread false rumors of re-enacted miracles so as to blaspheme the sacred truth of our Christian faith and so make a parody of our moral order…
“There exists at large in America today the scattered seeds of a poisonous idea whose sinister intent is to entwine the American audience in a plot to overthrow all established religion. The poisonous seeds of an idea which, already, we fear has claimed many of our best and brightest in government and the armed forces and made them ripe for treason. Trusted colleagues, for the good of our country, I cannot be more adamant in my warnings to you to resist its subversive designs. You have been psychologically screened and prepared – but above all – Beware.
Trusted colleagues, fellow Americans: Your Job is to stop it. Through your intelligence and psy-op capabilities, to bring it within the power of the United States government to make use of it. To channel this growing grass roots movement’s political power for the benefit of the Republican party in view to the millennial presidential elections.”, said the man on the video screen. And regularly, a spontaneous applause would erupt from the large conference room of savvy faced operatives so zealous for further instruction.
Let the historian, and discerning witness, therefore take note of such extravagant hubris. Operation code name “Bull-Moose”, as it came to be known, was a highly classified mission that, for the good of the country, its leaders considered paramount beyond the pale of ordinary politics. And, if for no other reason, this is why I can only speculate that the besieged President who had just been re-elected was out of the loop of this strange task force’s self serving intentions.
For in fact, under an officially Democratic cabinet nearly desperate for moral leadership, this secret chamber consisted fully of no more than the aforementioned five unidentified heavy weight Republican sympathizers (i.e. the Special Group) – who by methods of illicit propaganda and timely disinformation once designed for use on an enemy’s civilian population in time of war – were intent on expropriating a growing grass roots art movement’s constituency of a patriotic American race of artists for their own partisan cause.
In effect, a political high-jacking of a growing independent arts movement deemed so dangerous to the political landscape that it was imperative that it be tamed and brought under the Republican party’s traditional wing.
Distant field operatives submitted their reports through a system of secured wire cables. Being assigned to the District’s metropolitan area, I would leave them in person by diplomatic pouch at a special drop off safe at Langley headquarters next to an indoor blind stand. These were the only rudimentary orders we received for what seemed to amount to an excessive level of secrecy surrounding a mission of simple intelligence gathering on an obscure grass roots political movement. Really nothing more than what at first seemed to be attended by a diverse spectrum of the ordinary American people.
For when I went out in the field, canvasing various political fundraisers and gatherings so as was my job to do, neither did I see nor hear anything beyond the ordinary of great alarm. In the month of January 1997 alone, coming out of Camp Peary in plain civilian clothes, I attended more than twenty different associations with some sort of political agenda in an anonymous capacity where I’m sure nobody knew me with nothing of great interest to report back.. Mainly I had ended up going for the refreshments, and did not think that after any of the visits I would ever go back, or there was any use in seriously following up on their literature.
And yet, though field agents were officially ordered not to speak even amongst themselves, indeed rumors of odd findings began to surface from other highly placed case officers in various regions of the country. Rumors, even, of people said to be witnesses to miracles.
And there was luminous and variegated innuendo at the end of the second monthly briefing about several agents being surprised to discover so many Americans from every spectrum of the population; so many other soldiers, people in government, who were indeed secret members of a growing grass roots spiritual sect. Where, inside, at the undisclosed heart of the movement, was said to exist a core of leadership whose names were only spoken of in code. And many national events were said to be planned by them. And ripe for treason or not, many were said to come from the highest echelons of government leadership in Washington. Like a hornet’s nest waiting to explode on the land and the soft innards of the continent, it was said to be. A secret Society. Its reason unknown. Its vision a paradigm of America itself.
Somewhere, and in unknowable pockets dispersed, this strange Society was said to exist. The only thing is I wasn’t really sure I even believed it. Had I not stumbled across that strange new-age periodical again, the one that had manifested itself on my Foggy Bottom brownstone’s doorstep inside Timbeck’s subscription nearly four months past, I don’t think I would have made any plausible connection. But there it was, the magazine lying with the top up beside a box of my stuff I had brought over to Maddy Jane’s apartment, as we were nearly coming to be living together ever since I had returned from boot camp and on my weekends home from the farm at Camp Peary. The American Renaissance foundation, it’s name, and there on the backside fold of the magazine, the very number I’d called looking for my old room-mate, only to be told he was recently dead.
An unnerving incident, a small death in America, the passing away of a friend that normally I would have struggled to make more sense of. But coming to serve, through the auspices of the Marine Corp, in the halls of the hermetically uncommunicative bureaucracy of the intelligence community, I had been too overwhelmed simply trying to get my bearings. In the brutal intensity of my schedule, I had everyday to fit into a dark olive green first lieutenant’s uniform, kiss Maddy Jane good-bye and be off, either to field training near Williamsburg, Langley headquarters, or to work at the Pentagon. From where I would then have to change back into civilian clothes, only to be back out on the street again looking for something I’d barely been told what it was. I hadn’t had the time to really recognize or ponder the reality that Timbeck was no more.
Yet it began to haunt me, and so after finding that name and number and picking up the phone again, now I pressed down on the digits with the chilling recollection of the voice at the other end.
Idistinctly remember the day. How I could feel the beat of my heart going faster, the sweat of my palm. The silence before the terrifying answer. “Who is this? Who is this? No one’s…”, the voice barked in a fury. “I was looking for Tim – I was his room mate. I’m interested in the society of the American renaissance” I said quickly. There was a moment’s pause at the other end. “You were Timbeck’ room mate? I will note your address. Someone will come out to talk to you. We will send a messenger.”, said the voice, and no sooner than he’d taken down my information, he hung up…
“I see,” I said to Amadeo, but can I show you the notes from your diary in France, after you left Washington DC, following the attacks on Manhattan in 2001? Nick Farraway, the psychiatrist, went out of his way to fly out immediately and find you in Paris. Yes, I know you were at the Pentagon when it happened – but take me back to the Society, when it was first discovered in the 90s.” Amadeo looked at his notes from his conversation and interrogation with Dr. Nick Farraway. This time, we were in France again, after all. Couldn’t this help to jog his memory? The funny thing, I was going to be getting married soon the following year, and since the questions referred back to a decade before at a time close to when Amadeo first got married as well, it seemed to open up his line of thinking, even what it meant to be married within American society itself. – Andrew McMaster, Station Chief East Africa.
Paris diary – Journal entry no. 19
Estimated date: April 25, 2003
“I didn´t know how long it would be before he came, the true messenger, or how I would be able to tell him from an impostor. I didn´t know where or when to expect him….Not that I believed in any of this cockamamy bullshit, of course…..No, of course not….” I´m telling Nick, “…Yet following the trail of the `Renaissance foundation` before my own wedding, I’d happened on more than a few venues of interest where sometimes the refreshment stand would be safely tucked behind the backdrop of often wildly uncontrolled re-unions of boisterous, incoherent banter by the local population. A guy in an Elvis costume playing at bartender.
“Nothing I thought my superiors at the National Security Council would find distinctly relevant to their research mission, but drinking and participating in their get-togethers in only a moderate capacity, I filled out my agency reports all the same. Yet subtly drawn in, I continued attending many unsung political gatherings in the remote corners of the Maryland panhandle, Cumberland, the frontiers of southern and western Virginia; in high school gyms, abandoned courthouses, clapboard churches. And, although in that vicinity, the rhetoric sometimes began to take on an eerie similar tone of ribald independence and deep rooted American pride, and male members all boasted sideburns that were unusually long, I never came to think very seriously on the matter.
“…..Sure, attending those meetings made it harder than ever to seriously abstain from drinking, but I did my utmost best to stay dry and sober, as by the end of February my Easter wedding was fast approaching. All I could think of was the mounting objections to our intended plans of property and mixed faith marriage, that through his blatant refusal to meet me or even acknowledge me as a legitimate fiancee, ——--[name of wife’s deleted] father had appeared to project. I hadn’t wanted to let a minor drinking problem become an added reason for his disapproval, you see. From the mysterious distance from which he wielded it, I was beginning to see his influence as an unforseen obstacle in what was simply and honestly the fervent pursuit of our intended happiness…”, I finish saying to him.
“…Hmm…But you said you were not an artist, Amadeo…that you do not believe in the miracles of the artists – in their sacrifice for knowledge, in Dorian’s ultimate sacrifice – but still you refuse to even take a decent shower. You know there are public baths…” No, no miracles, I want to tell him. I was then – as now – a man of reason. I had nothing to believe in. I suppose I am just empty, Ok – a governmental tool, I want to say right up close to his face. – “Alright, I´m not an artist, I admit it, but don´t you see Nick – it was always straight forward history and not a historical novel that I wanted to write…?”
But as I stand, a cruel instinct of rejection comes over him. Nick suddenly jumps back as though I meant to harm him. Or, as I desperately do need a real shower, maybe it is the smell he avoids. He backs out toward the doorway like so many times I have seen him do – afraid, afraid to trust in what he knows is impossible.
“I´m sorry, Amadeo, it is so very hard to believe. Not only about the miracles other people told me, but what you say. All of it, no matter who Sean Dorian Knight really was. The Messiah? And for some reason you are so afraid, that now Dorian´s people – the artists – have come to be afraid of you too. Sooner or later they will hear of Jarrod. You refuse to see them, to go out at all in public. Why is it Amadeo? Hasn´t the fear gone away? Is a miracle something to be so afraid about? When did you first hear about them, these odd happenings?” he says, but I give no reply. “…Hasn’t the fear gone away…? You must come out Amadeo. You must sacrifice your fears for their knowledge. Do not violate their trust, they know you were in the military, but they might really come to believe you are nothing more than a corrupted ex-government spy. Mohammed, everyone, awaits your coming.”
He looks at my face. The scars faintly visible. “I will tell them one last time. Personally, I will arrange a meeting with the artists, Amadeo – You will tell them why Sean Dorian Knight was killed, if he did not die for them as the Messiah and savior of all artists, —-deleted——-… A last chance, before Jarrod….” Dorian´s biographer? It is a futile sadness, I know. A nothing man´s choice; to violate their trust – or else that of my country´s. “Who really was Sean Dorian Knight?, tell me, Amadeo….” I cannot answer him, say anything. Nick begins to leave. I hear him descend the stairs again. Maybe for the last time, before everything fades away.
Sacrifice for knowledge – and for what use? I could never have known or ever imagined the extent of people´s delusions. Of how important these futile hopes always were as dreams become the combustible fuel in the grand machinery of politics and unbridled political ambition. As they became in my very own political awakening and future perhaps. But, at the time in question, I was merely tackling the responsibilities of my job, attending these strange “Renaissance” gatherings in the service of a questionable bureaucracy draped in the guise of a national security Task Force of unheard of secrecy.
Like I said, I was a government tool. A rational man who believed in nothing. While engaged in the furtive espionage of this mysterious political movement, I believed in nothing but the rational achievement of my mission at hand. In truth, it was all I had ever wanted to do, to serve my country well. In the innocence of any darker motives, inspite of the National Security Council´s blatant admission of partisan bias, I was untainted by any confusion with respect to my faith in the good of our public service.
And I say good faith, not belief. With respect to “Operation Bull-moose”, before what happened at my wedding, it had all seemed like merely an harmless information gathering operation of subtle precaution on the diversity of the American electorate. Reporting to and from the Pentagon was a daily thrill to me, and whenever I took the shady wooded turnoff from the George Washington Memorial Parkway that leads to Central Intelligence headquarters for my weekly analyst sessions, there was nothing so exhilarating as flashing my special clearance pass, walking past the blind stands, the nakedly purifying checkpoints, and ubiquitous metal detectors, proceeding on through the lobby and magnificently antiseptic marble atrium where the giant eagle and shield of the CIA – the dark hand of international espionage – was emblazoned like a great talisman of homeland safety. Yes, every time I entered the highest and most technologically advanced governmental organ ever to evolve for the the protection of our national home and the ensurance of the American dream, I felt refreshed by those eternal words that boast chiselled into the shiny gray and black floor of its hallowed halls: “And the Truth Shall Set you Free”.
Yes, the truth, howbeit ever unknown to us low grade field operatives, and only on a “need to know” basis – impregnable though it was – still softly padded the most disquieting rumblings of my conscience in my unquestioned zeal to higher performance. And neither myself, nor any other regional field agent of our spy operation to my knowledge ever questioned the legitimacy of our mission. Such as it was, regardless of it being launched directly on a domestic front, or in flagrant violation of the Agency´s founding charter. Or even asked why at all it was controlled – down to the minutest detail – by the NSC´s secret Task Force from CIA headquarters, in stark contrast to the Agency´s strictly international agenda.
No, career advancement was always the name of the game. And so, to this bastion and brain center of impossible idealism, we – a limited cadre of hand picked government agents from near and far – had simply submitted our varied observations, safe in our service to the American ideal.
Nevertheless, any qualms about domestic government espionage aside, all was not well. Increasingly, [—–fiance’s name deleted] tended to betray signs of an irrationality that only months before could be considered ordinary jealousy. But, with all due respect to the mystique of now being engaged to marry a man in uniform, what at first seemed to be a penchant for meddling curiosity slowly began to border on delusions of distrust . And, little could I have known how the nightmare associations of my secret government job would slowly come to merge with sinister consequences into the realm of my personal world.
Since the time I came back from officer training, I do not know why, but [—future wife’s name deleted —–] was never again was the same. And, as I – agent Amadeo B. Effscotsky – reported back my findings of all my forays into the political realm of the inner American countryside, I began to see that in the professional capacity of my secret government role, neither was I being told everything I needed to know. For my own safety, and for the good of the country, some vital information of grave consequence had been kept chillingly secret for the abominal [sic] horror of its true revelation. And, in the hermetic halls of the Agency, a general paranoia of insider spies, of traitors, had begun to set in. So that nothing could be talked about by anyone without bringing scrutiny on oneself.
No, no one was above suspicion, for now this subversive and deadly virus was said to have at last infested the ranks of the best and the brightest…And, to put it euphemistically, at any moment, an officer could be left out to go into the cold…….
For my very own protection, from behind the inscrutable mask of national resolve which I dawned to my superiors, therefore, in my conscience there started to hide the turmoil of a more unpredictable identity. An identity that my role as a governmental soldier cloaked in blanket orders of unstated purpose, but which perhaps unbeknownst to me, only made me hunger for a more stable meaning.
And though it was not for me to question why – for them my duty was but to do or die – in the service of my country´s dream – perhaps for this very reason, so it was, that subconsciously I came to feel the need for larger answers to what that dream really was. In the service of America, answers the great Federal behemoth never cared or knew how to give – nor that the hollow tone of a Presidential sound-byte ever did – but replete with illusion and delusion, I strangely found my ever more frequent meetings at the Renaissance foundation gatherings could.
And although I had been warned in rigorous governmental training not to believe in this awful sect´s subversive appeal, at these meetings, the rhetoric would make allusion to someplace, somewhere, where an even greater Society was – await in hiding – as if pushing itself up from the fertile ground. Somewhere, like a rough beast, it was said to be taking form.
This dangerous political movement my clandestine mission had been simply to report back on, I had once even doubted of its existence. And yet slowly, day by day, now entering the middle April´s spring, I soon found myself struggling harder than I ever expected not to be enthralled by the authentic allure of its mystique. In essence, all that was American.
And it seemed a harmless thing at first. The mysterious ways and motives of this movement. Their generous refreshment stands, their elongated sideburns that in keeping with the style I was forced to copy. Despite the government´s utmost fervent warnings which typically veered toward exaggeration, at the time, I never thought to question it.
Somehow I still preserved the notion that this peculiar social movement was simply associated with an alternative, if obscure, form of a publishing venture. For, in those gatherings, there had been many veiled allusions to some great book. The kind Jarrod Maxwell-Smythe maybe had been mired up in discovering. Or maybe it was a new age literary guild. And though it may appear ignorant on my part for whatever the dangerous nature of this movement was to have eluded me, I did not know – and no one possessing even the highest level of classified clearances was ever told – why it had raised the alarms of national security.”
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For the inner details of the secret art society all of America, and soon the world, will be talking about – get privileged access to the incredible beginning: Here
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