Thread by @johnkonrad

I’ve seen wild things as a ship captain & maritime reporter—USAID & CIA stories that’d turn your hair white. I don’t have a death wish, so I stay quiet…

Unless it’s about USAID & Democrat graft. So, F it.

It all started with a call from a man—let’s call him Derick 🧵

Full disclosure: I’m adding fictional details. Why? Because it’s the CIA—you gotta give them an out, a way to deny involvement.

Consider this their out.

Also, this was over a decade ago, and I didn’t take notes for obvious reasons… so this is all from my faulty memory.

You have to give the CIA an out—but you also have to include just enough details so they (and hopefully one of you) can verify I’m not making this up.

So here goes

Derick calls me. Says he’s former U.S. Coast Guard special forces—yes, they once had their own version of SEALs. Says he has a top secret project. Says it’s urgent. And—get this—says he’s already bought me a plane ticket.

I don’t ask questions. I get on the plane.

When I land, a black Lincoln Navigator is waiting. No markings. No plates. Silent driver. I get in. The city blurs past.

The car stops in front of a church. Not just any church—a masterpiece. Perfectly restored, like something out of a history book. I step inside, and my brain short-circuits.

Antiques. Gold-framed paintings. Rare books. The place looks like a billionaire’s study. Turns out, Derick had somehow convinced the Smithsonian to pay him to store priceless artifacts here, which he then used to decorate his personal fortress.

He leads me deeper inside—past a humming server room, a windowless office full of women typing on ancient computers, past a massive private gym, up a winding staircase

At the top, a gorgeous secretary sits behind an ornate desk.

And then, right in front of me, Derick pulls a goddamn book off the shelf—and a retinal scanner pops out of the wall.

I swear to you, this actually happened.

Derick—who is now fully committing to some kind of low-budget James Bond audition, fake British accent and all—removes his glasses, presses his chin into the scanner, and says:

“This is Derick X—8463956.”

A red laser sweeps across his eye.

A voice straight out of 2001: A Space Odyssey responds:

“8463956 confirmed.”

The entire bookcase swings open.

At this point, I’m wondering if I should be taking notes or planning my escape.

We step inside the hidden chamber. We climb another staircase. At the top? A bell tower-turned-command-center. Floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass. A sweeping view of the city and the bay.

Derick turns to me, eyes gleaming.

“I have THE solution for Middle East Peace”

Now, I wokred in the oil business, there are a few phrases in life that immediately raise red flags. “Trust me.” “I’m not a liar.” “This investment is a sure thing.” And, at the very top of the list: “I have solved Middle East Peace”

I say nothing.

Derick’s smile fades. He launches into a scorched-earth tirade about Republicans, about Bush, about the endless wars. His voice is shaking with rage.

And then—as if someone flipped a switch—he’s beaming again.

“But thanks to Obama and Derick’s Brilliant Plan, we’re about to have 100 years of peace.”

Now, I have a general rule: The moment someone starts referring to themselves in the third person, I leave the room.

But I wasn’t sure if I was standing over a trapdoor leading to an incinerator, so I stayed.

“Would you like to see the plan?” he asks.

“Certainly,” I say.

With the flair of a stage magician, he opens a hand-carved wooden box and hands me a pair of binoculars.

I look through them, following his gesture.

In the bay, a stunning wooden schooner sits at anchor. A masterpiece. The kind of yacht that old money commissions from scratch or new money spends a lifetime pretending to own.

“That’s the plan,” he says.

I lower the binoculars. “The yacht?”

He nods, grinning like a child who just unveiled a macaroni art project.

There’s about three minutes of silence.

Finally, I say: “All right, Derick, you’re gonna have to give me more details here.”

His grin falters, but he sighs and pulls out a folder.

Inside? Pictures of kids.

Ordinary-looking teenagers.

“You still don’t get it,” he says.

“Nope.”

And then—he lays out his master plan.

These weren’t just any kids. They were the children of Israel’s and Palestine’s elite. And Derick? He was going to whisk them away to a private island, put them on the yacht for months, and let them hammer out a peace deal.

“And what’s the peace deal?” I ask.

He looks deeply disappointed in me. “That’s what the kids have to figure out.”

I blink. “The kids. Are going to negotiate a 100-year peace deal.”

He nods enthusiastically.

He launches into a speech about how kids are smarter than people realize. How they don’t carry the baggage of colonialism. How they’ll find a way forward.

How this will be the most historic diplomatic breakthrough in modern history.

And then—the kicker.

He was doing it all for the U.S. government—for free.

As the “world’s top maritime journalist” he wanted to know if I’d “embed” with the team on the yacht

I said nothing. I just turned and walked out. Because what the hell do you even say to that?

What Happened Next?

A few years later, I run into someone who worked for Derick. Naturally, I ask what became of his “brilliant” peace plan.

He smirks. “Oh, they made a video or something, but hardly anyone watched it. It was basically just a luxury cruise for rich kids.”

And Derick didn’t charge the government anything?

The guy laughs. “Well, technically, no. But he billed an enormous amount for ‘security services’ to keep the kids safe.”

“Security services?” I ask. “What security? He was in the middle of the ocean.”

The guy shrugs. “Yeah, he never actually hired a security team. There was no real risk. He probably pocketed all the ‘security money’

“And what about the yacht? Who paid for that?”

His smirk vanishes. “No idea. CIA, State, USAID, a rich ‘uncle’ of his, who knows. But he kept the yacht. He still owns it.” 🤯

Now, here’s what I do know.

Derick was a major donor to the Democratic Party.

And if I had to take a wild guess?

Somewhere, buried deep in the labyrinth of USAID funding, is a line item that translates to:

“multimillion-dollar yacht, handed to a political donor under the guise of ‘educational peacekeeping efforts.’

Who paid for the yacht? Derick himself, CIA, State, USAID?

Does he still own it?

IDK - but I did just look “Derick” up via @DataRepublican and 🤯

@DataRepublican And he’s the kicker.

This all happened after Derick made (or at told me he had made) “significant contributions to the Obama campaign”