 So he sent me his bio just to put the publicity together. I thought, well, this must be three or four different people, because it's no extent. I was born in Hungary and lived in Canada for quite a while. Studied at Harvard Road Scholarship, Oxford London School of Economics, lived in Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal, Boston, New York, London, Budapest, Vienna, Bordeaux, and Montevideo. And now spends his time in San Francisco in Barnard, Vermont, the two great-in-tropical. So his family escaped from Hungary during the Revolution in 1956 and immigrated to Canada. And he also represented Canada in fencing in the Olympics. Quite a career, I would say. So I look forward to hearing. And then he turned 21. Thank you for that introduction, and thank you for hosting this. It's very nice to do this. Thank you all for coming out on such a cold night and being here to hear me talk about my life, basically, and what got me into writing. So as Lynn said, we live in Barnard, both good part of the year. And that is why I do much of my writing. That's kind of a very good place to do my writing. I was born in 1949, so I'm an old man. And then Stella missed Hungary. And I escaped from there with my family in 1956, as they said. Or rather, a better way to say it is that my parents escaped with three little children in tow. I was only seven at the time. We had to try three times before making it across to Austria. And this is the subject of my first memoir, but more on that later. From Austria, as Lynn said, we immigrated to Canada. And that's where I lived. I came down to the US to go to Harvard. I took a year off from my studies to go work at the World's Fair Expo 70 in Osaka, Japan. And that experience forms part of one of my other memoirs, my second memoir. After Harvard, on a road scholarship, as Lynn again said, I went to England and studied at Oxford in London School of Economics. I had taken up fencing in Toronto in high school and continued it throughout my college years, eventually making the Canadian Olympic team. And that is the story of my third memoir. So my career was in international finance and environmental entrepreneurship. And we moved around the world with my wife and two kids. And somewhere along the way, we bought this great place in Barnard, which is where we spend at least half the year, sometimes more. And I've been riding all along. It has been a passion throughout my life. But it is only really now in retirement that I'm getting to the point where I can work things well enough so that they get published. And now I do it pretty well full time whenever I can have the time available. Given the chores I have to do at home, looking after grandchildren. So it's my passion. So I've written three memoirs, as I mentioned, five thrillers, three poetry collections. And actually, I was fortunate enough to participate in reading downstairs during hometown two years ago. And I have some of my poetry books here as well. And I have one children's picture storybook. However, before I really start talking about my books, I would like to make some passing comments regarding the relevance to today's world of some of the things I will talk about and wrote about. For one, as you know, immigrants today are viewed differently from when we came in the mid-50s to North America. And there's also evidence of pervasive Russian meddling throughout the world. We can read some of it here in the USA. And I cannot help but reflect on the dangers of dictatorship and the ease with which countries even staunchly democratic ones like the USA can slide into being one. Especially when a rogue Russia, as I will try to show in my talk, is actively working against democracy and mounting a military threat in places like the Ukraine, Syria, and the Arctic. So let's turn, finally, to the topic, my books. First, my memoirs, my Cold War escaped trilogy, I call it. As I implied at the start, these three books are all about two events that involve leaving or trying to leave a home behind the Iron Curtain during the Cold War. And as it happened, I was involved in all three of those efforts. So For the Children is the story of my own family's escape and subsequent immigration to Canada and the start of our new life there. The book is based largely on my memory, supplemented by my parents retelling the story. And of course, I did a lot of research to build the historical context around my family's story. All this and the urge and the need to explore what happened at the time of this seminal event in my life is what resulted in the book. The escape took place during the dying days of the Hungarian Revolution. The revolution started in mid-October, and it was pretty well on its last legs in December. And that's when we escaped in 56. And for the youngster I was, this was a memorable event. I remembered it like a film, like a movie, really more than the pictorial elements. And I only came to understand it later. During the revolution, there was a brief period of hope when the revolutionaries, mostly students and workers, managed to free Budapest and push the Russians back. And the first passage I will read takes place in that little lull in the revolution. During those few days of freedom when Budapest was purged of Soviet troops, what jubilation there was everywhere throughout the city, people all around Budapest broke into spontaneous smiles in disbelief that the Soviets had left their capital. Everyone was out in the streets, seeking first-hand confirmation. All felt like brothers and sisters, comrades in arms, in the seemingly successful repulse of the hated Russians. For the first time in a long while, people could move about without any hindrance. One had to worry only about such things as unexploded shells, buildings on the verge of collapse, dangers that one could almost consider to be in the realm of chance and not acts of deliberate killing. It was difficult, though, to get used to being able to move around freely. And one's sense of liberty was somewhat curtailed by the uncertainties that the future held. People were reluctant to do or say things, just in case the days of repression would return and someone would remember or be forced to remember. The conditioning of fear is not easily discarded. It lingers, weighing on the spirit for some time after the assurance of freedom. It was all very tenuous and fragile, with fresh taste of liberty, but it was wonderfully satisfying. The air was full of rejoicing, of anticipation. Even someone of seven could feel that, although I did not at all understand what was going on around me. My parents even felt that it was safe enough to allow us children to venture forth, of course, only in their company. In fact, right at the beginning of this period, my mother took my brother and me across the Danube to Pashto, the downtown area where most of the fighting had taken place, in order to show us the ravages and destruction that were the result of war, so that we could see and remember for the rest of our lives. And I do remember, how could I not? Turning a corner, I looked down one broad avenue, lined with the skeletons of trees that had shed their leaves. From almost every tree as far down the street as the eye to travel, a mutilated body was hanging by its ankles, upside down, by its neck or wrists, in every contorted pose imaginable. Only much later, eight or 10 years later, when I came across the Life Magazine supplement entitled Hungry's Fight for Freedom, did I discover that the corpses were all former secret police, the mutilation, the manifestation of the deep loathing that people of Budapest felt for these men, the very people who, for years, had suffered repression at the hands of these savages, often torture, disappearance of loved ones, psychological and economic hardships, finally took their revenge. I remember the statue of the great mustachio leader of the brother Soviet nation that sends so many human beings to the gulags of Siberia, or straight to execution, toppled, lying on its side with graffiti, filthy drawings, scribbled on it. Some adventure to use different niches in the broken statues, toilets, debasing this hated symbol was more than a physical release after the many years of oppression. I remember seeing a grand piano, just like the one I practiced on at home. The curiously balanced as it held by some unseen force clearly hanging, delicately poised on two of its legs. The third one in the air, from the third floor of a house that had had its front wall totally shot away. I remember though not without a tinge of envy, the 12-year-old boys patrolling the streets with guns proudly slung over their shoulders. Only death would have the power to sniff out that defined look in their eyes. In jewelry sitting enticingly in the open front of the store, the window of the showcase having been shattered long before by gunshots and bombings, untouched by the human greed that normally manifests itself during times of war, despite the poverty and hunger of the Hungarian population. Decaying bodies strung upon lampposts or tied to fences, the corpses of people who had acted as informers for the secret police, with their pockets and mouths symbolically stuffed with 100 foreign nodes. These also remained safe from being pilfered. A dead soldier in Soviet uniform, right arm shot away, lying across the broken sidewalk in a puddle of blood. The exposed springs and screws, the twisted charred armor of an eviscerated red-arty tank, blown asunder by Molotov cocktail. A little girl, frail and dressed in rags, gathering the splintered wood from the wreckage of a building to take home for firewood. Images of the city ravaged by war of a nation fighting for survival. Of course, the Soviets came back with troops and tanks and their air force. They crushed the revolution and reimposed a severe dictatorship. But before they did, we managed to escape. In fact, as I said, we tried three times, twice getting caught, the third time lucky, just as the borders were closing. So I will read another excerpt from this book that occurs later during the second attempt when my parents had found out about a train conductor who was going to take his train and crash through the border. Rumor had it that some people had succeeded in getting to Austria this way. And that is how desperate my parents were to leave. They were ready to take any opportunity to present it itself. Well, the train stopped just on the Hungarian side of the border. And the conductor told us that he had a buddy in the village, Pista, his name was, who would lead us across. And this is where we pick up the story. Time to leave. Pull yourselves together and follow me with that Pista turnaround and shuffled across the cluttered courtyard toward the front gate of this property. We struggled to catch up to him as best we could, to organize ourselves into groups of twos or threes, as Pista had instructed, about every 10 meters. No mean feat in the pitch dark, especially given the tension that had mounted in all of us during the eternally long wait. We made it through most of the sleeping village without any incident. But just as we were getting to the outskirts, Pista rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt right under one of the very full ampos in the hamlet. The rest of us literally bumped into the leading groups within seconds. In the resulting confusion, Pista was just about to open his mouth to give an order, went from behind the picket fences on either side of the dirt road and to the front and the back of us, outjumped 14 or 15 men dressed in the hated blue AVO secret police uniform. yelling orders at us to stop in our tracks. Their guns were pointed straight at us. One of the would-be escapies in the rear, seeing his dreams of freedom turned into this nightmare of capture, started to run. I heard the crack of a rifle shot, and the men piled to the ground, screaming and holding his stomach. The rest of us immediately obeyed the crisp command in Hungarian to put our hands up and huddled as close together as possible for protection. I broke into tears. The bedlam, the gunshot, and the harsh orders on top of the cold and the tension were simply too much. From around the corner we had turned just a few moments before, still with hopes of finding the road to freedom on the other side. A canvas-covered Russian army truck pulled up and screeched to a halt right where we were standing in the middle of the dirt road. The AVO officer in charge, the one that shot with all the commands up until then, ordered us to climb into the rear of the truck. The rest of the uniformed men backed his commands up by hurting us toward the truck, waving us on with their guns. We obeyed without a word of protest, dazed by fear and frustration. As I was climbing into the van with the help of my mother and one of the male refugees, since my father was still carrying by those sister Clara and his arms, I heard the murmur of Pista's voice, gaily talking to the commander. I did not hear what they were saying, but I clearly remember Pista's obnoxious laugh. So we had obviously fallen into a trap right from the start, probably with the crane conductor. Things like that were going on. So that was the second attempt. And despite the capture, we eventually did get to Austria the third time. From there, we went to Canada. That is quite a tale, too. You can read about that, too, for the children. And I grew up there and lived there until I went to go down to Harvard to study. I will not dwell any more on this, but I will not turn to the year after I saw the Moor Year at Harvard when I took a year off to go to work at Expo 70, the World's Fair in Osaka, Japan. Expo 70. And it's to see here that my next contact with the communist world came. Expo 70, as the World's Fair is, was a global affair, and in many ways, it also marked the coming out of Japan. It took place at the height of the Cold War, and I, as a 21-year-old Hungarian-Canadian, selected to be one of the hosts in the Ontario Pavilion, was keenly aware of this. So to set the stage, I will first give an excerpt from the foreword of the Expo affair in the second memoir, which tells the story of three Czechoslovak girls working for their country's pavilion who approached me and a friend to help them defect to Canada. It is important to remember the context of time and place. The story starts in 1968, but unfolds mainly in the first half of 1970. This was the height of the Cold War, with brutal conflict taking place in Southeast Asia, between American troops and communists via conque forces. In many cities in North America, Western Europe, and in Japan itself, there was much discontent, which at some universities bordered on an open rebellion. Student life in the West was characterized by academic and sexual freedom and experimentation and the widespread use of drugs. While other society wrestled with these forces, it was undeniably influenced by that. The events that led up to and the massacre at Kent State happened at exactly the same time as Expo on the other side of the world. Within the Soviet Empire, too, there were rumblings, most poignantly, the very late 60s were marked by the nascent freedom and openness of Dubchak's Prague Spring, crushed by Russian tanks, as Stalinist-style oppression and terror were reimposed on the Iron Country. As for Japan, despite its remarkable economic progress during the 60s, it was essentially still a closed society at the time of Expo 70. The foreign staff at the fair constituted the most significant invasion of Gaijin, living on Japanese soil over an extended period of time since the post-World War II American occupation. The host and hostesses of the pavilions from all over the world were mostly young 20-somethings burning with energy, activity, and curiosity. Most foreign staff members were hosted, were housed in Higashimachi, a village of apartment blocks purposely built for Expo to keep us out of trouble. And as we later learned, for the Japanese authorities to be able to observe and study us like guinea pigs in the laboratory, our telephones were tapped and Japanese officials seemed to know what we were doing most of the time. They had never seen anything like it, and in spite of all their preparations were still no doubt shocked and surprised. Expo 70 was a unique, life-changing experience for all of us representing Ontario, but all the more so for me because of the hard-granding approach by some of the hostesses in the Czechoslovak pavilion to defect to Canada. That is what the Expo affair is about. So that gives context to this book. The three hostesses in the Czechoslovak pavilion approached a friend and me to help them defect about halfway through Expo. These girls had been selected by Duvček, the previous liberalizing regime, and the new regime under Husak, which was more Stalinist and oppressive, wanted to send them back, ostensibly for financial reasons, but in reality it was for political ones. My friend and I talked to officials in our embassy in Tokyo to see if we could get Canada to take them. And there was quite a bit of hope along the way that they would. We set up meetings periodically with the girls to tell them of progress or lack thereof, and the next excerpt is of one of these. It didn't mean. The next morning, sorry, a lot of wrong page. That evening, Cam and I waited for Zozana, Helena, and Emma in the deserted schoolyard halfway between Expo and Higashimachi. We sat side by side in the dark on the edge of the sandbox. Where the hell are they, Cam asked, looking at his watch. They may have had trouble getting away and noticed. We waited in silence. I picked up a handful of sand and let the cool, moist grains run through my fingers. Cam stood up and kicked the stone toward the wall of the school building. Here, this must be them. Finally, I said, relieved, peering into the darkness as three shapes materialized. Cam rushed over to the low gate and grabbed Helena by the hand. This way, come we're over here. We settled back on the rim of the sandbox. I sensed more than saw that Zozana sat right next to me, a delicious bouquet of hyacinth gave her away. I was not able to come away earlier, Zozana said, her voice revealing her anxiety. Jan and two others from the restaurant came over to talk to Taimea. I finally told them I had to go out for some air. You weren't followed, I asked, peering out into the darkness from where their silhouettes first appeared. No, I'm sure, she's not too close to me. We don't have any news from Ottawa. Cam turned to business. But no news is good news, we hope. We are also trying other avenues. I tried to give the girls some more hope. But one has fallen through, unfortunately. Yes, an Australian friend. What is that noise? Zozana agitated, interrupted Cam. Motorcycles. Cam, who had one, recognized this room from far away. They are coming closer, Emma said, standing up scared. We better go or hide. Helena frantically looked around for a hiding place. Shh, no need to panic, Cam said quietly. As the words came out of his mouth, the room became a loud roar, and two motorcycles sped into the yard from behind the school building. Before we could react, they pulled up on either side of the sandbox. The motorcycles grabbed the engine several more times before turning them off. Was only when one of them dismounted to approach us and took his helmet off that we recognized the police uniform. Papers, please, the Japanese policemen said. We're hosted Bampaku, Cam, the most composed man we have said. Papers, all five of us rummaged around for our green expo passes. You're not allowed here, the policemen said, as we looked at the passes. Go back to Higashimachi. Without a word, we started out of the school yard through the little gate and headed back towards Higashimachi with the policemen on their motorbikes following for a while at a slow speed to make sure we obeyed the orders. We only stood up as we approached the edge of the foreigners apartment complex. The girls, understandably, were very afraid as that passage tells. The KGB and the Czechoslovak secret police, by extension, somehow always knew what the Japanese police did. So there must have been a plant or something going on there. But I won't tell more because I don't want to give away what happens in this book. It was an exciting affair for me, set against the background of a wonderful experience in Japan, the World's Fair. How long did the expo go on? Typically seven months or six months, but we were there for eight months, seven and a half, eight months. We went for a month earlier. That month earlier took a climatize and then stayed on after. It started in February, officially, and I think ended in September. And this approach came in May. And you went language-less. Yes, well, yes. We had to learn Japanese, spoken Japanese before for five months, eight hours a day, six days a week. We were learning Japanese to be able to communicate with the visitors to the expo. We're mainly Japanese. But now I can only order sushi at that. He's forgotten most of it. So I will move on to the third book in the trilogy, which was only published this March. So it's the most recent of the three. And this is a story of Paul Sabo, Hungarian-Romanian, a Spencer friend who approached me at the Montreal 76 Olympics, where I represented Canada in a pay-fencing to help him defect and stay in Canada. It's not just an escape memoir, though it's also very much a sports memoir, an Olympic one. It chronicles my fencing career. And fencing is Hungary's national sport, as some of you may know. And it was an offer in my high school in Toronto, so that's where I started doing it. And I continued it, as I said, throughout college. I competed on the International Circuit for Canada after coming out of college. I almost made the 72 Olympic team for Canada, but just missed it by a couple of points. And then in 76, I did make the team. So the book does not just, however, focus on my fencing career, but it also captures the thrill of being at the Olympics, the opening and closing ceremony. And some of the exciting events, the pentathlon and the track and field and gymnastics with the fabled Dadia Komaniči, you may remember her from those days. So Paul Sabo and I had come to know each other competing on the European Circuit. He represented Romania, although he was a member of the large Hungarian community in that country, which under President Ciescu was severely discriminated against. And since Hungary was in the mother language of both of us, it was natural that we would become friends as we met up in numerous times. And once the Montreal Olympics started, Paul and I saw each other, either in the village or at the stadium. And certainly during the tense days of the competition, we were both in the stadium fencing. But the cafeteria at the Olympic Village was the meeting point for athletes. And toward the end of the games, when my event was unfortunately over for me, I didn't do too well. I went there for a meal and I'll read the next excerpt, which happens then. That was fairly late in the book. My friend Paul Sabo signaled to me as soon as he saw me after the dining room. He was alone by window at a two-seater table with just an empty glass in front of him. I went right over to join him. Hiya. I see neither of us friends well today. I greeted him, having decided to put a jolly face on him after. Yes, Paul seemed agitated. Let me get some food. No, no, but Giza, can we go for a walk? I know, please Giza, I want to talk to you. Not in here though. Come, let's go outside. One side of the cafeteria, Paul grabbed my elbow. Here, this way, let's go over there. He pointed to a small grassy note to our left, back behind there. I followed him. His long legs were moving fast as he glanced from side to side, scanning the surroundings. Paul, what's going on? Here, let's sit over there. Paul climbed up their eyes and then down the other side. A bit out of sight of most of the action in the village and stretched just six feet, three inches out on the grass. I want to stay. When someone puzzled by what he might have meant, I did not answer. My friend continued me. After the Olympics, I want to stay here in Canada. You mean defect? The enormity of what he was saying took me by surprise. Yes, I do not want to go back to Romania. Paul, are you sure? I could not believe my ears. Yes, I have made my mind up. I want to stay here. But for Paul, this was a difficult decision and he went back and forth on it several times until the very last moment. The games with all their splendor were going on in the background, though. And for those who had finished their event, like me, it had turned into one big party. I'll read the next little excerpt when Paul and I met up. The next morning, I was a little hungover, but after a quick shower, hurried to go down to the cafeteria. It was a beautiful Montreal summer morning. The sun was blazing and there was not a cloud in the sky. Paul was already sitting there in his usual spot by the floor to ceiling window. He looked like I felt sorry, I could not get away yesterday. To that, I had Carla, the gorgeous volleyball player lined up for you. Could they send me back? Paul's mind was obviously somewhere else. Yes, maybe, but not likely. I switched into defection mode. And then, if they do, well, they may give you a hard time. As far as I know, the Czechoslovak girls I tried to help in Japan, who went back, were not able to continue their studies or else lost their jobs. Paul, you were also in the army, weren't you? Yes, I was a sergeant major. They may say you tried to desert. I could be court-martialed. Desertion is a serious offense in Romania. Paul, that's not good. I was starting to get concerned. This put matters into a different league. I could be shot. Don't worry, you will not be handed back. I was trying to convince myself to. Are you sure? Paul, we will leave tomorrow. Better to focus on moving forward, I told myself. Meet me here at nine. I'm not sure, it's too risky. Not just for me, for my parents too. I don't know what will happen to them or to me. Paul, yes, it seems dangerous now, but probably a lot more than it really is. What do you mean? For sure, if you do succeed, you will have a much better life. Concentrate on what you will gain by staying, you told me. And you will be able to help your parents. Send them money. You will forget about how risky it was. Don't be stupid, I won't be able to contact them for years, if ever. Well, you have to make your mind up by tomorrow. My headache was getting worse. I was starting to lose heart, too. It all seemed to be coming apart, right at the last minute. We have run out of time, Paul. If you want to say, I will help you. I'm not sure, Paul looked out the window to avert my eyes. I will come back here at nine tomorrow morning and we will drive away if you want. If not, we will just say goodbye. Part is good friends. How about it? Yes, we had to shit or get off the pod as my friends in college used to say. No more vacillation, undecidedness. Okay. So that was the day of the exciting closing ceremony that some of you may remember. First of all, the Olympians, the party just continued except for Paul, who battled with his decision. So the last elect serve is the next morning. As I slowly claimed to, I knew I did not want to get out of bed. But fortunately, through the haze, I remembered my promise to Paul. And even though I felt terrible and tried unsuccessfully to cut on my headache with a double dose of aspirin, I struggled into the shower at quarter to nine. I cursed myself for sending such a nerdy rendezvous with my Romanian-Hungarian friend. He was there already at his usual table, very agitated and visibly gray with stress. Clearly he had not stepped the wink and had just a glass of orange juice in front of him. I passed by the food line without taking anything. Indeed, looking the other way for fear of throwing up and went straight to his table. Good morning, Paul. So what's the decision? We were a fine pair to try to carry out a defection. I cannot do it, Geza. It would just be too selfish and risky. My parents, I could not face a coordination. This was sort of what I had expected on the way over. The cards had been stacked away, sorry, stacked against it from the start, really, when I thought about it. And even more so now, that the Romanian minders were all over their athletes because of the two members of the team who were supposedly defective. Fine, Paul, that's okay. But then maybe I would just go back to bed if you don't mind. Before we say goodbye, Geza, let's go for a walk, just one more time. Sure, I owed that much to my tormented friend, but I would have much rather been back under the sheets. We walked in silence and we were on the path that led back by our grassy knoll. Okay, Geza, tell me what will happen if I stay? I want to know. Paul, we have talked about this. I cannot give you any certainties. I was losing my patience. My head was still throbbing. My stomach was turning. I needed to close my eyes. I can only tell you that I can take you to see the Canadian immigration people in Ottawa tomorrow. They are, I think, likely to let you stay. But I cannot give you a guarantee. And will I be able to go to university? He was again jumping ahead. With hard work, probably. Yes, again, no guarantees. Several steps in silence. My poor mother. I will never see her again. And my father. Yes, it will not be easy for them. But the difficult times will pass. Maybe in a few years they can come to visit. Or you will be able to go back. You will just have to be strong. And I will help. So will my family and friends. That is all I can offer, Paul. I'm being totally honest with you. All right. All right then, Keiza, I will stay. But I want to go right now. Was this a decision? Or just another swing of the pendulum? There's a lot more to Paul's story. And I will not spoil it for you. No. Before we have discussion, I will just say a few words about my novels, if I may. Five fillers. And all of them to a greater or less extent. Also explore the destructive nature and activities of the Soviet Union. And post-Soviet Russia. Sorry about that. Going. The first one, Arctic Meltdown. Expecently still only an e-book for. Would you repeat the title, please? Arctic Meltdown. Thank you. I wrote it in 2011 when we were living in Vienna. And I wanted to get it out there because the whole issue of climate change and nothing of the polar ice cap was starting to become an issue at that then. And so I published it electronically, but now there's a re-edited paperback version that will be published by my filler publisher over the next year, hopefully. This book focuses on the militarization of the Arctic under Vladimir Putin. The premise of the book is that with the melting of the polar ice cap, the Arctic, which has substantial mineral and non-engasque resources, becomes contested by several countries. And Russia partly because of where it's situated and its huge military strength actually more than 25% of its armed forces and military strength is in the Arctic, is by far the most advanced in its effort to control that part of the world. So this book is irrelevant today too, so as I say it'll be coming out in paperback form next year. I also started my twisted trilogy of thrillers in Vienna and much in the three books is centered in that city. In fact, the first one, Twisted Reasons, is a tape off on Graham Greene's The Third Man and the eponymous movie made from it. Both are set in the Imperial capital. Twisted Reasons is the tale of two college friends who get drawn into the heist of some, nuclear material from a former Soviet side into trying to figure out what happened there and tracking the gang that took the nuclear material. I was some of my own family's history into the novel and as I, well, I did a lot of research on the Soviet nuclear effort and the terrible contamination from several accidents on these sites. But still today lingers and affects the health of Russian, the Russians in that part of Siberia and the environment, of course, is devastated by it. So these books contain the tale of our Soviet and Russian activities that is not general knowledge today. The second book in the series, Twisted Traffic, examines another top line issue between the former Soviet world and the West, Human Trafficking. This was a very difficult book for me to write, but as I got into the research, it was quite devastating to learn about what, how much was going on and how much of this kind of trade is aided and abetted by the Russian government under the table. As it's more, a black market trade more generally. The third thriller in the trilogy, Twisted Fates, brings together all the threads and concludes the stories. But each book is a standalone. The last novel takes us from Vienna to Russia and then to St. Pierre and Michelin off the coast of Newfoundland, ends up, makes landfall in Maine. As the protagonist of the three novels, Greg Martins tries to bring justice, the gangs that were involved in these arms and human trading activities. Rainbow Winder, my most recent thriller, is a bit different. It's set in France and it's the story of an American exchange student who gets involved in trying to solve whether a series of bombings have devastated the French government and killed several key officials. What was perpetrated by jihadist terrorists or by the far right extremist coup, which again, as is now well known that the far right is extreme movement in France. The Fond National and its leader, Marie Le Pen, are supported by Vladimir Putin, financially. So, there's a common thread in all of these stories, as you see. I hope I've painted a picture for you that you will be able to carry away and I'm open to questions and discussion as we would like to initiate it. But thank you again for listening to me. Thank you for reading to us. It's fascinating to hear what you have to say about escaping and defecting and so forth, coming right on the heels of the book discussion group that we've just finished on Crossing Borders. It's great timing. What was the book? Well, we read, I read three out of four. There were four and they were on people who for one reason or another crossed borders of one kind or another. And what happens and why and what it all means. I think that's fair to say, yes. It was really interesting and the last discussion was just the other night. To have this come right after is good for me anyway. Good one, grateful for that, thank you. I want to read them. Thank you. Thank you. In the other comments or? How do you approach right-hand thriller? I mean, it seemed really complicated. The story started to come to me. I started to gel in my mind, started to formulate in my mind and then the characters take on a life of their own and then I create sort of an outline of where I'm at. But once I sit down and start writing, it just flows. But it takes different directions sometimes. But I didn't anticipate sort of. They don't chart it completely. No, I usually do have an outline which takes me to an end. But I allow my characters and the story to develop and often I find I may have to introduce a new character for some need or a new episode that takes them somewhere else. But so far the five fillers I've written have all just come out fairly easily. And I'm working on, I've got a couple of others that I'm working on. One would be a sequel to Arctic Meltdown, but I first want to make sure that the publisher doesn't decent job of bringing out the re-edited version of the first Arctic Meltdown. And I've got another mystery thriller which would be set more in Vermont than I'm working on. Cool. That's not out yet. No, no, it's just still there. It's German-edited. It's German-edited. But I also just fairly recently finished a collection of short stories which will be published early next year. That's already contracted. And a number of the short stories take place here in Vermont. It's a, what I did in that book is I've written down some of my dreams after having them and I've worked them into short stories so I've juxtaposed those with short stories I've written probably in a waking state. So it's an interesting juxtaposition. I call it the spinning mind, so. That'll be out next year or something. What brought you to Barnard? Good question. Well, when I was in Cambridge studying, we came up several times with friends to ski here in Vermont and actually a number of friends, good friends we made when we were living in Washington through a Harvard friend who were located in Woodstock and so we came and visited them once in 2004, I guess. We're there about at a time when my daughter was living in New York and my son was studying at McGill. So this proved to be a perfect in-between place for us to establish a family home. And it worked that way for quite a while. It still does now that all the kids are coming to Barnard with their, their kids for Christmas, so that'll be good. That's nice. We're looking forward to that. Can I help you solve that one more time? Yes, any other questions? These are the books you see out there. I'm happy to sign books. I'll make sure the library has at least a couple of them at the end of the session. Like maybe the first memoir and the, oh, you can tell me about the book, especially. Yeah, no, we can find out about that. Yeah, so thank you for coming. Thank you very much. So the follow-up to the Arctic meltdown, is it just an update of the situation as it continues to be people trying to grab the resources now that they're being exposed by melting ice and such? Well, the first book, it's fictional, but it's based in reality. And actually I chart at the conclusion of it, I have impact as an appendix, a treaty that would have been fabulous for the Arctic model down the Antarctic Treaty, which I worked out with some legal help. And at the end of the first book is a conference where this treaty is sort of accepted, but of course that never happened. So the next book will take up from there and look at some of the emerging conflicts, potentially emerging conflicts there. For example, China is taking a keen interest in the Arctic because of the possibility of navigating the northeast channel. It would cut one third off the passage of all of their goods to the US and to Western Europe. One third of the distance would be a tremendous saving for them. And of course, the oil and gas and mineral resources. When I visited Greenland in 2011 with my son to do some research for the book, the one big hotel in the capital, Nuuk, was full of Chinese already then, basically there to buy up oil and gas and mineral concessions. So there's tremendous interest in the, certainly the mineral and oil and gas resources of Greenland. Our own president wanted to buy it, remember. And the Chinese and the Russians, everybody's interested. The Russians, though, historically, they have always claimed, going back to the Soviet days, the Arctic that goes from the eastern tip of their gas, to the western tip, so it's a huge chunk of the Arctic. The current UN, coastal boundaries regulations, a lot of the sea just allows you, definitely to have 200 nautical miles off your shoreline in terms of the oil and gas and mineral resources. Your voice is dropping. Sorry, I'm losing it. So there is a huge issue there that is coming to it. There's a UN committee actually that's dealing with some of these claims. Russia has made a claim. Denmark and Canada, the US is not a part of that. Did not ratify this law of the sea court. But the other countries all have their claims in front of the UN being adjudicated. And if Russia does not accept it, then they'll probably say, forget it, we're claiming they have the fact that they have it, because they're the ones with the military resources up there. No one else has it. The US has, I think, one hailing icebreaker. I forget the number now for the Russian, but at least it's at least 20 or 30, including a very modern nuclear one. And they have nuclear subs up there. They have seven air bases, 13 military bases up there along their northern coast. So they take this seriously. And we're putting them in Vermont. And we're putting them in Vermont. Yes. It just sounds like fire for future conflicts. Yes, and that's why it makes such a good topic for a potential thriller. So the world's got a few troubles, troubles thoughts. Unfortunately, yes. Believe you. With potential. With potential. Any other questions, this question? Well, thank you for coming. Thank you.