By James Bamford
In A Pretext for War, acclaimed writer James Bamford–whose vintage booklet The Puzzle Palace first published the life of the nationwide defense Agency–draws on his unheard of entry to most sensible intelligence resources to supply a devastating expos? of the intelligence group and the Bush management.
A Pretext for War reveals the systematic weaknesses at the back of the failure to realize or hinder the 11th of September assaults, and info the Bush administration’s next misuse of intelligence to promote preemptive warfare to the yank humans. jam-packed with unparalleled new revelations, from the websites of “undisclosed locations” to the particular resources of America’s center East coverage, A Pretext for War is crucial analyzing for somebody involved in the protection of the USA.
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Extra resources for A Pretext for War: 9/11, Iraq, and the Abuse of America's Intelligence Agencies
They knew they could not keep you safe, and perhaps they knew the street would deliver its own retribution. You now could not bear to be touched. Together, we talked every day, as you agreed gently to risk some physical contact again. Your first tentative step at a beauty salon. I sat in the waiting area, as you allowed the therapist to touch your face. When you finished the session, you felt elated at being able to overcome this barrier of terror. You felt proud of being able to grow your nails, not chew them into oblivion.
You kept wanting to talk. No therapy, no compassion, and then you numbed your desire by taking more illegal drugs. The cocktail of legitimate and illegitimate medicine delivered seizures. The first one of these began as you greeted me in a hug. Your muscles went rigid, and your arms locked themselves into an embrace round my neck. I felt sad, frightened of what had happened to you. I called out to the nurses who, under-resourced, looked as vacant as the patients. The seizure electrified your muscles, contorting them into rigid postures.
Your response, “nobody can cope with me ”. Such a sad and true statement. At times, I wondered if I could cope with you too. Your rage seemed so random, so relentless and unforgiving. You broke things, hurled chairs, battered staff, bottled people, carried knives. Every benign object in the service of your terror acquired dangers we had never anticipated. After these bouts of inexplicable rage, where you inflicted the devastation within onto the canvas of our LETTER TO CHARDONNAY 41 lives, exhausted, you would weep.