John le Carré
Where are you when we need you?
Spy novels are being written
Sicilian justice at its finest. (I’ve read all of Andrea Camilleri, so I am an expert.)
He’s wearing a new wardrobe. Featuring cement shoes.
Joseph Mifsud
12 Gulag St
Sevvostlag, Kolyma, Russia
Gone to ground. Shallow ground that is.
Wow, this gets more Tele novella every day. Mifsud disappears and Papadopoulos is suddenly unable to recall stuff.
Coinkydink or no??
Ya’ think they might be, ya’ know, kinnected?
He “sleeps with the fishies”?
Come on people - think like the Qfolk -
Perhaps he is under deep cover for Mueller and Trump, rooting out the sex trafficking rings run by HRC and McCain who is still alive, but now under surveillance at Guantanamo because he won’t give the final dirt to bury Hillary.
Or then again - wasn’t he last seen in Moscow? Any recent accidental falling out of windows for which their is no identification of the human projectile?
I bet a lot of other people involved as targets wish they could be missing too.
My husband and I used to be able to rent DVDs of the Italian TV show based on those books - it’s called Montalbano. We’ve not been to Ragusa, where they film most of it, though we have spent a few weeks the last 3 springs in Sicily. But I’ve gotten into some great conversations with Sicilians about the show.
It got extremely popular all over Europe and in Australia.
Our DVD rental place that had the series finally went out of business, alas.
“No one seems to be able to find Joseph Mifsud, the Maltese academic at the center of the Russia investigation rocking Washington…”
Has anyone looked in the Lubyanka?
(Or, perhaps, under it?)
Anybody check the basement at Comet Ping Pong Pizza?
Maybe if you pop a wig on Mifsud, you’ll get “Simona Mangiante”?
Joseph Mifsud, the Maltese academic at the center of the Russia investigation rocking Washington…"
“The stuff that dreams are made of…”
He’s taking a dirt nap.
Turns out he was just Rudy Giuliani in a fake beard and a trench coat all along.
You know, seriously, with this regime, having your handler arrange a meet where he says “your cover is blown. We need to exfiltrate you back to the Rodina immediately. Meet me at the docks at 8:00 pm. Don’t worry about your dog/cat/wife. We’ll make sure they get out too and you’ll meet up with them in your beautiful new dacha in the country,” would be about as gut wrenching as being told that in the Stalin/Beria days. Because you just wouldn’t know whether you’re really getting the dacha or an unmarked grave until you got there.
At least when the CIA does that to its sources, the biggest fear is whether your new life will be in some gawdawful dull medium sized town in Iowa or Nebraska.