The first time I met Assange, he was convinced a sniper was targeting him through the windows of a conference centre. A few hours later, he was happily typing in front of the same windows. I asked why he believed he was a target. "I can't tell you," he said. Then, five
minutes later, he did. He told me I should come to Washington DC for a press conference. Why? I can't tell you. Again, five minutes later, he told me about the Collateral Murder video.
Assange attributed his drive to his first experience with power as a young man (hacking into the email of a Pentagon general). I said maybe I liked investigating politicians' expenses because that had been my first big investigation as a student. "No, it's different when you're a young man." Can't women be driven the same way? "No, they're not." It was a definitive statement, no supporting evidence needed.
I followed up with requests to interview him for my book. I received florid emails such as, "I will have you, Heather, of course I will. But let us be messiahs to generation WHY, not a bunch of ageing hacks looking for a pension... regards from intrigue hotel... I have more interesting adventures for you..."
When he suddenly turned up in London, he wanted me to put him up and act as some sort of mother surrogate. "I have a fever. I'm not sure yet if it's going up or down," he told me. "I need some mothering. Someone to make me chicken noodle soup and bring me cookies in bed."
I later heard from two other women who said Assange pulled the same "poor little lost boy" trick on them in an attempt to finagle his way into their homes. I said that was not how I conducted interviews. He complained that I didn't have a maternal instinct, adding in drama-queen fashion: "I have two wars to stop."
I replied: "Yeah, it's a tough life being a messiah." His response left me speechless: "Will you be my Mary Magdalene, Heather? And bathe my feet at the cross."