Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Redhead Spotlight #28

A ring of 10 Russian moles right out of a Cold War spy novel was smashed yesterday — and among those busted was a flame-haired, 007-worthy beauty who flitted from high-profile parties to top-secret meetings around Manhattan.
Russian national Anna Chapman — a 28-year-old divorcee with a masters in economics, an online real-estate business, a fancy Financial District apartment and a Victoria’s Secret body — had been passing information to a Russian government official every Wednesday since January, authorities charged.
In one particularly slick spy exchange on St. Patrick’s Day, Chapman pulled a laptop out of a tote bag in a bookstore at Warren and Greenwich streets in the West Village while her handler lurked outside, receiving her message on his own computer, the feds said. A similar exchange occurred at a Midtown coffee shop at 47th Street and 8th Ave.
The FBI claimed the two were corresponding via a secret online network.
Last week, an undercover agent pretending to be a Russian official arranged a meeting to talk about the weekly laptop exchanges, pretending to be ready to send the sexy spy on a mission to deliver a fake passport to another female agent, according to the federal complaint.
"Are you ready for this step?" he asked. "S¤-¤-¤-, yes," Chapman allegedly gushed.
The undercover instructed her on how she would recognize her fellow spy and how to report back on the handoff, the feds said.
"Haven’t we met in California last summer?" the spy expecting the fake passport was supposed to say. Chapman was to respond, "No, I think it was the Hamptons," according to the FBI.
Chapman allegedly was also supposed to hold a magazine under her arm so her counterpart would recognize her, and plant a stamp on a wall map indicate the handoff was a success.
It never took place.
Another spy-movie-like maneuver took place in Brooklyn shortly after the meeting with the undercover agent when Chapman darted into a Verizon phone store to buy a cell using the name Irine Kutsov, and an address of "99 Fake Street," the feds said. She only planned to use the phone to "avoid detection of her conversations," the FBI alleged.
At her arraignment last night, she was held without bail as federal prosecutor Michael Farbiarz called her a "highly trained agent" and a "practiced deceiver."
The other suspects, including four middle-aged couples living seemingly ordinary professional lives, were supplied with bogus names and documents and told by Moscow to become "Americanized," infiltrate "policymaking circles" in the United States and send secrets back to the Kremlin, the feds said.
All allegedly were on deep-cover assignments and schooled in spying tradecraft — from using high-tech methods like digital gadgets to traditional methods like invisible ink, sending encoded radio bursts of data and using innocent-looking "brush-by" encounters to pass documents.
Among the extraordinary allegations detailed in documents filed in Manhattan federal court yesterday:
* A senior Russian spy who used the name Christopher Metsos served as a go-between for agents across the country. He buried cash under five inches of dirt in upstate Wurtsboro that was dug up two years later by a Yonkers couple who were members of the ring.
* Metsos turned over an orange bag of cash to a Russian government official in May 2004 when they passed one another on a stairway at the Forest Hills, Queens, LIRR stop.
Other handovers and meetings between spies occurred in a Fort Greene, Brooklyn, coffee shop, a Sunnyside, Queens, restaurant and a subway entrance at Columbus Circle, the feds said.
* In May 2006, spies based in Boston gave their handlers information about changes at the CIA and about the 2008 presidential election. The information came from a well-connected "former legislative counsel for the US Congress," they told Moscow.
* The Boston spies also boasted in 2004 that one of their agents had talks with a US nuclear expert about research on bunker-buster warheads.
* A spy in Montclair, NJ, who used the name Cynthia Murphy, told Moscow in February 2009 that she had "several work-related personal meetings" with a prominent New York financier, who was a big campaign fund-raiser and friend of a former Cabinet member.
"Of course, he is a very interesting target," Moscow replied.
* Her husband, who used the name Richard Murphy, was told last January how he would be able to identify another spy when he traveled to Rome to get a bogus Irish passport.
"Excuse me, could we have met in Malta in 1999?" he was told to ask.
If the contact was legitimate, he would reply, "Yes, indeed I was in La Valetta, but in 2000."
But if his contact was carrying a copy of Time magazine in his left hand, it was a signal that the meeting was in danger, according to the instructions from Moscow.
"You were sent to USA for long-term service trip," one message said. "Your education, bank accounts, car, house etc. — all these serve one goal: fulfill your main mission, i.e. to search and develop ties in policymaking circles in US and [send] intels."
The court documents also reveal day-to-day travails of the spy business.
Last March, two of the suspects were watched as they met at a payphone at DeKalb and Vanderbilt avenues in Brooklyn. They went from there to a coffee house for a long chat. One alleged agent complained about the computer Moscow had given him.
"They don’t understand what we go through over here," he kvetched.
Before they left, one spy gave the other a package believed to contain cash, the feds said.
Moscow Center, the infamous headquarters of Russian intelligence going back decades, closely monitored how much it was spending. In one message, it listed all the expenses for two Boston spies, including $8,500 for rent, $160 for telephone and $180 for a car lease.
The Yonkers spies, meanwhile, struggled financially, and after one of them flew to an unidentified South American country to collect eight bags each packed with $10,000, he used some of it to pay off nearly $8,000 in back taxes to the country and city, the FBI said.
Neighbors of the suspects were stunned.
The two Montclair "Murphys" moved to the neighborhood about a year ago and were described by one neighbor as very normal. "They were suburbia personified," he said. Near the crowded, book-filled Yonkers home of suspect Vicky Pelaez — an op-ed columnist for El Diario — and another defendant, Juan Lazaro, neighbors were stunned.
One, Ellen Shaffren, said that the couple had lived there 12 to 15 years and that one of their two sons is a piano prodigy.
Shaffren said Lazaro was an economics professor.
Two other defendants, Michael Zottoli and Patricia Mills, were arrested at their residence in Arlington, Va.
Mikhail Semenko, was busted Sunday at his home in Arlington.
Donald Howard Heathfield and Tracey Lee Ann Foley, were arrested at their Boston residence Sunday.
Outside their home near Harvard Square, local residents said the couple never quite fit in the offbeat neighborhood.
"There was no interaction," said neighbor Lila Hexner. "Everything was very nondescript."
Metsos, who apparently was able to enter the United States repeatedly over several year, is not in custody.
Each of the 10 arrested was charged with conspiracy to act as an agent of a foreign government, which carries a maximum penalty of five years in prison on conviction.
Nine were charged with conspiracy to commit money laundering, which carries a maximum 20 years in prison.
Additional reporting by Perry Chiaramonte, Erin Calabrese, Rebecca Rosenberg and Doug Montero in New York and Marcia Harrison in Boston

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Ribbitt. Ribbitt. Ribbitt. 

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. 

Plop. 

These are the sounds one might hear standing by the water’s edge.
Alone, under the sleepy watch of fireflies and singing crickets - a soft melodic hum reminiscent of ‘can you feel the love tonight’ and ‘kiss the girl’ seem to dance on the warm breeze. Looking out over the small pond seeming to reflect an aura of possibilities and magic just as brightly as the slightly undulating reflection of the moon against the dark water. You close your eyes, melting away the cares of the world and open your heart up to belief and hope, as though love, never ending love were the only thing standing in front of you. Believing in everything but the possibility of disappointment and pain. And you take a step forward into what you believe to be the waiting arms of someone wonderful and then……

SPLASH. 

The unscuffed red soles of your designer peep-toes are now submerged in muck, your beautifully tousled hair gone damp and frizzed beyond recognition. What's more, you’re covered in eager, hopeful frogs who, like some other naïve singleton of recent memory, are crowding around in the hopes of being kissed. 

It seems to be the ones who aren’t hopping into the fray, those submerged and harder to catch which seem to be the most attractive. Even though there may be many an amphibian vying for the opportunity to show off his legendary croaking skills or perhaps to prove that his lily pad is the best in the swamp, I seem to end up face down in the mud trying to kiss some slippery, web-toed, wart infested croaker because I’m convinced the more elusive the frog…the handsomer the prince. A scenario which is seldom, if ever, the case. 

While the prospect of batting one's eyes and puckering up for frog after frog is, admittedly, a daunting one; (after all, you may only have frizzy hair a cold sore and a pair of worn down stilettos to show for your trouble) the possibility still remains that happiness could be waiting for you around the next lily pad. And hope springs eternal, after all. 

Welcome back to the pond, my friend. 

Ribbitt.

Frankly,
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Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Blue Brown Eyes

Do you ever have those days or weeks where for no particular reason, you just feel….blah?? 

It started last week – no particular reason – just a general …haze of monotony settled over my head. All of a sudden DC feels too small and leaves me feeling as though I’ve dated every man in it leaving me much less than impressed. General dislike of my apartment, my job, my hair, my skin – the only thing I AM liking is my ass as I’ve been trying to cure the boredom with excessive exercise. 

I feel like my life is at a standstill – no direction – no momentum. The same food. The same bars. The same…everything. Not to mention that anyone within a 5 yard radius seems to have developed an amazing ability to annoy the crap out of me with alarmingly minimal effort. 

And so I tried to shake things up – for instance, I went to my first opera at the Kennedy Center last week, which was lovely despite the fact that I went by myself which is less than ideal. Its no one’s fault, mind you – I didn’t ask anyone – but then again I didn’t anticipate the lack of variety in attendees and thus making for ho hum people watching. Geriatrics and hooker-fied 22 year olds on the arms of barely legal boys. Trying to temper their lack of maturity with Italian arias and buxom sopranos.

I scored AMAZING DC United tickets for Saturday night – something I’ve never done before, which had pick-me-up potential. Until…wait for it…EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY FRIENDS was either out of town, or busy, had people in town or was otherwise engaged. I even went to THIRD TEIR friends! (note: if you actually KNOW me and you're reading this blog, you are NOT a third teir friend). The prospect of going to yet another event sans friends and surrounded by strangers was a little too much.

And with this extreme lack of joie de vivre, obviously I feel as if I have nothing spectacular with which to entertain you, dear readers. Which makes me sad as well and the prescription meds aren’t exactly filling in boredom and self-pity cavity I seem to have carved for myself. 

Ugh – what a truly depressing post. Hopefully I’ll pick myself back up and be back to my generally chipper self!

*Cheers* Here’s to hoping!


 Frankly,

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Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Dating Sagas

Soooo date updates. I’ll give you the quick ones first then move on to more detailed craziness that only your dear Scarlett could produce.

Coffee Date. I haven’t written about Mr. Coffee yet. A friend set us up and we decided to meet on Friday afternoon. He’s very nice, really great smile. I don’t know if I’m all THAT attracted to him, but if he asks me out again, I wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea. 

Irish Guy. We all remember the fabulous date/marathon make-out session I had with this guy. He emailed me last Sunday and said:
Sorry I've been a little flaky.  Things have been rather crazy.  I unfortunately had to work today, just me and anal retentive boss which is just tons of fun.  Are you still up for doing something soon?  Things should hopefully calm down for me this weekend.  Do you have any plans?  Let me know what you think.  Hope you had a good weekend.
So after that I said I was free on Saturday and he suggested we touch base closer to the end of the week to decide what to do.

Friday I emailed a friendly, “hi” to see what the plan was for Saturday and heard…NOTHING back. I’m NOT a fan. We’re kicking this one to the curb.

And then we have Tex. 

So Friday evening, after sharing a drink with PQ, I met him in Gtown and had a lovely dinner at Pizzeria Paridiso. Tres Yummy! We had a great conversation, I had to stop myself from literally staring at length into his piercing blue eyes. He looked like someone…but I couldn’t quite place it. 

After dinner, we walked over to Clyde’s and proceeded to talk, drink and flirt until around 3 a.m. when the bar was closing. He offered to give me a ride home and a I certainly didn’t object. 

So we pull up in front of chez moi and he kisses me ‘goodnight’. Many, many kisses goodnight. 15 minutes of kisses goodnight – and the cars whizzing by on my busy Dupont street got a little distracting. So I very cleverly suggested, as I didn’t feel comfortable inviting him upstairs, that he pull into my building’s parking lot around back. 

Incidentally, my discomfort in inviting him up stemmed from the following three rationale:

#1. My apartment was/is STILL in disarray as the ceiling has not been repaired and all of the displaced furniture/wall decorations have not been replaced. Not exactly the way to make a stellar first impression.

#2. The way this make out session was going, it would be very hard to put the proverbial sex brakes on outside of the confines of the car. 

#3. If said sex brakes were to come off, along with my clothes…my undergarment ensemble didn’t exactly match. (I couldn’t find my mega fabulous black bra…and I didn’t feel comfortable getting naked-ish for the first time in anything else). 

So….we made out like a couple of teenagers in a car with nowhere to go. That is, of course, until we fell asleep around 4:30 a.m.! We woke up around 5 a.m. when I said, “OK, the sun will be coming up soon…you have GOT to go home and I have GOT to go to bed”. He agreed. 

So we resituated and he started the car. 

Correction – he TRIED to start the car. Einstein had left the battery on. Yep! Car – completely dead.
As ya’ll know, I don’t drive. So I didn’t have a anything to help him jump his car. The rest of my date went thusly:

5:00 a.m. – We decide its time to call it a night.

5:15 a.m.  - We realize the battery is dead.

5:30 a.m. – Tex calls a tow truck.

5:50 a.m.– Tow truck shows up.

6:00 a.m.– Sun starts coming up.

6:15 a.m.– The tow truck guy tries to jump the car. It’s not working.

6:30 a.m.– Tex asks him if he can tow him to the BMW dealership in Pentagon City. The driver informed us that he gets off at 7:00 a.m. and so he’ll have to call ANOTHER truck to tow him to VA.

7:00 a.m.– The second tow truck comes. He gives me a hug, a kiss and says "we'll talk" and he and his lifeless vehicle get hauled away.

7:15 a.m. - I fall into bed, exhausted. But have lovely dreams.

Oy! Either I’ll never see him again or it’ll be a great story about our first date!!

So THIS week:

Tomorrow…I’m having drinks with…..(drum roll please)….BOSS MAN! Yep – it’s finally happening and so little time to plan! Short skirt or low cut top? Hmmmm.

Wednesday is lunch with Rugby. A new guy, friend set up. We’ve been emailing/txting/talking on a daily basis.

I’ll keep you posted!

Frankly,

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Tuesday, March 2, 2010

And the Walls Came Tumbling Down

The Sunday morning sunlight streamed through my up tilted blinds penetrating my eyelids and casting halos of light over the characters in my dreams. I rolled over, trying to ignore the hopeful “mews” of my cats eagerly awaiting their breakfast, my arm landed on the left side of the bed. 

Tragically this side is normally reserved for male-type company and thus has been empty and cold for quite some time. This morning however, the description was not merely metaphorical. Cold. It was cold! And WET! 

I sat up in shock to see that the moisture was much larger than the spot on which I had plopped my outstreatched arm. The entire upper-left corner of my beautiful, queen sized bed was SOAKING wet. I shot up and looked around furiously for the offending feline. I was ready to shish kabob the kitty who I automatically assumed had decided to ‘mark their territory’ next to my head when a heavy, wet drop landed ‘kaploosh’ in the middle of my forehead. 

I looked up and there it was – my ceiling. Sagging, drooping and dripping all over my bed!
Quickly jumping out of bed, I pulled off the sheets, pulled on a few items of clothing and proceeded to move my lovely, but heavy bed out of harms way. I then called building management to inform them of the minor rainstorm brewing in my apartment. 

A woman, who sounded less than thrilled to be working on a Sunday, answered the line and after I explained the situation promptly informed me that the absence of of functioning ceiling did not meet their ‘emergency’ criteria, a requirement for dispatching maintenance on a weekend. Apparently, as long as I still had running water and a toilet, I could wait until Monday. 

I then pointed out to her that there was a snowstorm heading towards DC and unless they wanted to mop up the damage created after 6 inches of snow accumulation, they might want to think about redefining their 'emergency' standards.

After being assured that help was, indeed, on its way, I spent the majority of the afternoon standing over my rather soggy mattress with an industrial strength hairdryer trying to stave off mold and general mattress funky-ness. 

Help did indeed come. Long story short, they determined the best course of action would be to patch the leak with a piece of cardboard, secure it with duct tape for the time being and hope for the best.

Well kids, I’m not exactly Ms. Holly-Home-Repair, but I DO know that duct tape isn’t waterproof. I was skeptical that this 'quick fix' would really 'fix' anything. My suspicions were confirmed, at about 10:30 p.m. when the patch came crashing down bringing with it, a hefty chunk of my ceiling. 

So lets review: my ceiling is leaking; a rather large chunk of it has fallen onto my floor; my mattress has been dried with a hair dryer; my large bed is in the middle of my apartment on the verge of landing in my kitchen; plastic tarps and drop catching buckets now adorn my once fabulous apartment and now maintenance is telling me that they can’t fix the roof until AFTER the snow melts!

This is the problem with Snow in the District – either outside or IN, we just don’t have the infrastructure to handle it!

Frankly,



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