Friday, 30 January 2009

New Blog of Charles Heiden, CIA Director

CIA Director of Operations, Charles Heiden looks back on his life at

The President's 9/11 Blog

How President George Strong experienced September 9/11. See it through his eyes... Check for updates.

Chapter 1 - Lessons at School

Aware he’d lingered a fraction too long inside the door, and fingered his cuffs a little too nervously for such a routine, not to say, humble event for a man in his position, he threw his head back like a pianist. He started to walk on, in slow, deliberate and dignified steps, across the front of the class room of the elementary school in Sarasota.

Would he be able to go through with it? He asked himself. He drew in a sharp breath, straightened his navy blue jacket. Would he really be able to carry it off? And in the glare of the entire world’s media?

The smell of cleaning liquids hit his nostrils. He felt nauseous. Why didn’t someone open the windows? He threw a glance over at the 100 or so reporters. Mostly from the Florida media, they stood crammed at the back, uncomplaining, unaware that their lives had just changed for ever.

It was only 9 am, but sweltering, boiling hot, unendurable. The reporters were adjusting their recorders and checking their camera equipment. Obviously, they hadn’t heard the news...not yet…

An image flashed before his mind’s eye. He saw a jet crashing into the top of the World Tower Center in New York. He saw an orange ball of fire. Walking along, he recalled every detail of the sequence he'd seen replayed on a TV screen for the umpteenth time while he was sitting in the back of a limo as his motorcade had barrelled down Highway 301, running red lights with impunity.

He glanced up at a clock on the wall…9:03 am. And the second plane? His heart started palpitating. He swallowed hard. Millions of people out there must be watching the collapse of the WTC live right now on the internet or on cable TV as history turned on its axis. And millions of people around the world would be wondering where he was right now, too....

A gleam of fear appeared in his ice-blue eyes. He scanned the room with a hawk-like gaze. He lifted his hand with a rapid jerk and adjusted his Burgundy tie. Just under six foot tall, well built, slim, a little over fifty years old he had short, cropped grey hair like a ancient Roman patrician.

In spite of spending the night in the Colony Beach Resort, on a tropical island off the coast of Florida, enjoying Black Russian cocktails at his private bar with his brother, the state governor, as well as a midnight swim in the ocean, he felt strained and tense. Though he'd gone for a 5 mile job that morning around a golf course with one of his secret service agents that morning, and eaten a breakfast of Musli and French toast, orange juice and coffee, he still felt weak. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror above a washbasin in a corner of the classroom. He saw his face with close set eyes and a razor thin mouth trapped in the metal frame. Holy Smoke! He looked like death warmed up! What colour was his complexion! Pebble grey?

The further he walked, the tighter his shirt collar felt around his throat, the more cramped the classroom seemed; the lower the ceiling.

With its chipped desks, the classroom was shabby even by the standards of the run down school buildings so typical of the southern black neighbourhoods that he scarcely ever had reason to venture into except for a photo op like today's. He turned his head, and tried to look like he was interested in his surroundings when all he really wanted to do was assess the impression he was making on the audience. Had someone noticed anything? Apart from the fact that his wife - usually always at his side at events like this - was missing!

Aware that his movements were laden with tension, stiff and jerky, he made an effort to relax his shoulder muscles and swing his arms back and forth in as casual a way as he could. After all, predators have always disguised themselves to make it easier to sneak up on and pounce on their prey. Animals that understand how to camouflage themselves and blend in with their surroundings are the most successful hunters.

Turning his head from side to side, he scanned his surroundings.

“My name is Mrs Philips, Mr President, Ann Lauren Philips. I'm the teacher of this second grade class. Proud moment for us in this school to receive you here, sir,” the teacher said, offering her hand up to him.

“Glad to meet you,” George said, stiffly, pressing Mrs Philips’ hand.

He met the woman’s calm gaze. His eyelashes trembled. The whites of eyes turned whiter than snow. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He saw the teacher's eyes widen in amazement.

Just follow the script, he thought to himself. He turned to the photographers. They were snapping away. He stood there with the teacher and the 16 kids and smiled.

“Thank you for coming,” she was saying. “Sorry our wife couldn’t come. We were looking forward to seeing her here.”

“Thank you, thank you,” he stuttered, omitting to mention what was the reason for his wife's striking absence.

It was all happening so fast he found it hard to keep track.

He blinked. Cameras flashed. Why did no one open the windows?

“Mr President?”


The teacher handed him a book. Chairs scraped; the kids sat down. A glance, and he saw the kids were the “well behaved” kind; they were the kind who had been taught respect for those in authority, to sing the national anthem – and wasn’t that the way it should be for the lower classes?

He sat down awkwardly. He caught sight of kid's drawings of angels and devils and funny bicycles tacked to a board behind him. But he was in no mood for a joke He knew that the second tower must have collapsed by now and millions of people around the world would be stopping what they were doing to follow the events, and asking: where is the President? He tried to act unconcerned, casual, indifferent even though there was a volcano of emotions seething inside him.

The kids all had their heads down, following the instructions of their teacher.

He opened the book, too. He was so nervous he didn't notice he was holding it upside down. He drew in a sharp breath, then quickly scanned the faces of the kids, but no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual about the way he was behaving.

Next, he heard yells of bewilderment and dismay outside; his staff were watching a TV in the room next door.His heart started palpitating. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Next, he heard the door open. Rapid steps. It was Allan White, his chief of staff, coming to tell him that the second plane had hit the WTC in front of the world's cameras. What an alibi! His stomach flipped over in a sickening lurch as he pictured how millions of people would be tuned in and watching his reaction. The blood drained from him when he thought of how much could go wrong. Trying to look casual and surprised, he looked up. He saw Allan White walk up to him looking so tense with hands crossed in front that the situation struck him as absurd and he almost laughed out loud. White stopped, bent down and whispered in his ear.

“A second plane has hit the World Trade Center. America is under attack.” White mumbled the words in such a low voice that George would never have understood them if he hadn’t known anyway what he was going to say.

George nodded, trying to look alarmed, strained, tense, bemused, but not too much. After all, how could he suspect it was a terrorist attack? The first thought that would spring to anyone's mind was an accident.

He stiffened his face and pursed his razor thin lips and held inside him the volcano of emotions. Millions of people around the world were now watching these events live on television. The success of the whole enterprise depended on controlling the message, but with such a large number of people involved something could easily go wrong in spite of the organisation. One of the lower rank secret service agents or freemasons might make a slip up. His mind was racing between hope and fear.

Pagers were going off all around him. He could see his press secretary out of the corner of his eye reacting. Some of the local reporters were starting to whisper among themselves.

“Voices were getting louder. Disbelief, fear, anger, perplexity mingled with the sound of mobiles going off.

He glanced looked up and saw bewilderment. He could see what the reporters were thinking: why the hell aren’t you doing anything? What's going on? Two planes have just destroyed the World Tower Center! Why are you pretending to be interested in a lousy kid’s book? Why aren’t you asking questions? Giving orders or something?

Would they really be able to pull if off? He asked himself, biting his lip. Was this going to work? Were the towers really going to collapse from the demolition explosives as planned? Were his friends, who controlled the mainstream media, really going to be able to control the message and convince the world plane's impact had caused the towers to collapse even though that was impossible from the engineering point of view. No steel framed towers had collapsed in their 100 year history. Temperatures of 4,000 degrees were needed to melt steel; high explosives to pulverise concrete.

Would people be able to put the pieces together and work out that this was a con, a fraud, yet another "false flag operation" to justify another war in the Middle East and contracts all around for his freemason Bilderberg buddies.

And would he and the rest of the gang be put on trial for hatching one of the most spectacular plots in history? After all, even Louis XIV was swept away by the fury of his people.

But he was worrying too much, he thought to himself. There was nothing he could do now anyway, he mused, sweat gleaming on his forehead. The Rubicon had been crossed. The whole thing had been planned for years, so it should go smoothly. The fixers in the media had perfected the art of deceit. Deceit is natural, after all. Animals use it all the time to hunt their prey, he thought to himself. Trickery, intrigue and traps have been used by rulers since time immemoral to get power. There is nothing wrong with wanting to survive and prosper and following nature’s instinct….

Just think about the cuckoo, he thought to himself, shifting awkwardly in his plastic seat. The cuckoo certainly knew how to fool other birds. That’s how it got them to raise its own offspring. Now that was quite a scam! The method the cuckoo employed was pretty neat, too. The male cuckoo, a menacing enough looking bird, would fake an attack on a nest and so distract the birds guarding their nest. While the male cuckoo flew off pursued by the angry birds, the female cuckoo slipped her egg into the nest after pushing out one of the original eggs. The clever bit was that the cuckoo’s egg looked exactly the same as the other eggs in the nest with the same brown speckled pattern and the same colouring as the meadow pippits and reed warblers … Now that was attention to detail, he thought to himself, as he stared at the upside book in his hand. The rest? Well, everyone knew how the young cuckoo was the first to break out of its shell and then, driven by an instinct instilled by nature, push the other eggs out of the nest one by one until it was the only one there, sitting in the nest, getting all the food.

Now that’s the kind of story, these kids should be learning, he thought to himself, glancing up to scan the faces. Instead, they were given this stuff about looking after a horse and being altruistic to read, he mused.

Next, he noticed the reporters were getting so upset that some of them were actually openly pointing at him.

They weren’t buying it, he thought to himself, panicking. He had to do better. He had to be more convincing. He knew what the subtitles of the news channels would be saying as they rolled across the screen right now. He knew the words “America under attack!” “Terrorist attack!” would be rolling across the news bulletins. He just hoped that those subtitles were in big letters.

His every move had been choreographed months in advance. Everything had been done to seem natural – but his very determination to carry out the plan down to the letter, his lack of any spontaneous emotion, now seemed unnatural. He knew he had to do a lot better.

He focussed all his soul energy on playing the fatherly leader, the totally innocent guy, absolutely shaken to the core by a diabolical attack on his country, but determined nevertheless to stay in control and not let these kids down…The cramped classroom, the low chair, the voices of the reporters in the background and the heat all increased his nervousness.

The teacher put down her book. The kids got up from their seats.

He got to his feet, his eyes blurry. He could not bear to face their questions right now. He was sure his voice would quiver, crack. He stuck to the script. He threw himself the role of the passionate educator. To cover up his excitement, he started talking in a loud voice.

“Wow, I just want to say how impressed I am by the reading skills on display here,” he began making gestures to underline his enthusiasm. ”I want to congratulate you all on your fine efforts. Reading programmes like this make our country great.”

He saw the reporters staring at him. He raised his voice and gesticulated with his hands even more to make a more convincing impression of passionate involvement in the reading scheme of these black kids.

“And books like this make such a difference. A great book with great pictures. I liked the white stallion, didn’t you? I liked the way it was galloping along in that field. A great book! A great reading drill with plenty of visuals. All kids benefit from this kind of thing!” he cried.

He was chattering too much, talking utter nonsense, but he didn’t dare stop and face the reporters’ questions. Luckily, the teacher nodded, and so gave his act a certain credibility.

“Have you been using this scheme long?” he asked her.

“One year, Mr President.”

He expected her to say something more, but she didn’t.

“You’re doing a great job,” he cried, trying to spin out the conversation as long as he could. “Like I say, these drills are so important. It makes learning fun. Terrific! You know when I was a kid, I just hated school,“ he continued „ I just wanted to be anywhere but in school. But kids, you know, need to get their education, need to learn to be honest, upright people who serve their country. It’s schools like this that produce our future leaders in the community and in the army and the police and fire services. That’s why we all support a solid education. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming today. That's about it, I think!"

He said in a rush, rubbing his hands together, and smiling while cameras flashed. The reporters rushed out of the room, some of them clamping mobile phones to their ear. In the meantime, the school principal had come in. She walked up to him, her face expressing shock and horror.

"Mr President. Two planes have crashed into New York," she said.

George nodded.

"Yeah, fraid I've gotta cancel the reading in the library," he said, lingering to talk to the principal, glad of another excuse to postpone the moment when he had to step outside into the glare of the world's media.

Chapter 2 - Trailblazer arrives at Airforce One

Yanking down his tie, George stooped down and walked into the interior of Airforce One, pursued by the sound of sirens wailing on the tarmac outside. A secret service guy was standing just a foot away yelling into his walkie talkie.

"Trailblazer has arrived at Angel. Repeat: Trailblazer has arrived..."

"Is there going to be a change of plan, Mr President?" the pilot asked.

George tried to push past him, but the pilot, a princely-looking guy with a square jaw and cropped reddish golden hair, seemed to think that he was the man in charge in this emergency.

“Is it safe for you, sir, to go up into the air now?" he continued, putting his hand out to block his progress. "I mean if the terrorists have hijacked planes and destroyed the World Tower Center, they might be planning an attack on you too!”

George stared, wide-eyed. In the script, the lower ranks just carried out their functions like robots. They didn’t grab his arm and talk to him in that commanding tone.

“Sure it’s safe,” he muttered, desperate to get up into the air untill things had settled down on the ground. “Let’s get up there. Right now."

But the pilot didn’t jump and obey his orders automatically as he had expected. He was obviously still labouring under the media-generated delusion there was a real threat from terrorists. Or did he realise what was going on?

George puffed out his chest to give himself a more authoritative bearing.

„Let's hit blue sky,” he shouted, a gleam of fear flashing in his ice blue eyes.

“The terrorists might be targetting you, sir,” the pilot said.

“In that case, the safest place for us to be will be up in the skies. They’ll never be able to find us,” George hissed between his razor-thin lips.

The burly looking security agent with sideburns, lowered his walkie-talkie and stepped forward.

“Shouldn’t we get some fighter planes as an escort, Mr President?” he asked.

“Fighter planes?“ stuttered George.

“To protect Airforce One, sir?”

“I’m sure, we’ll be fine,” George said in a sharper, angrier voice. “Let’s just get up in the air. Look, I'm the commander in chief here and I give the orders,“ George shouted at the top of his voice. “We’re not going to let a few terrorists make scare us.”

This line of argument seemed to do the trick. The pilot nodded and hurried off into the front cabin. The security guys melted away and let him pass on down the aisle.

Staffers, aides, security agents, all stylishly dressed, were standing around the aisle, watching TV screens, frozen like statues, head back, staring up as if a thunderbolt had hit them as images of a plane hitting the World Trade Center in New York rolled across the screen.

George saw the subtitles „America under attack“ roll across the screen over and over again ad nauseam.

"Sir, we’re under attack? What now, sir?“Someone yelled out.

Next, every single person in the aisle looked around and stared. George tried to keep his gestures confident and natural as he turned to the young staffer with a freckled face.

"Just stay calm now,“ he said. „There’s no need to panic, folks. We’re going up into the air right now so prepare for take off.“

"Yes, sir!“

George walked on down the aisle to the special section of the plane reserved for his inner circle and sealed by a door guarded by three CIA agents. Walking inside, George saw dozens of TV screens flickering.

Carl Rogue and Emammanual Silverstein, the head of one of the world’s biggest media empires, were standing in front of the screens.

Hands on his hips, head tilted upwards, Silverstein was scanning the coverage of the attack on the WTC and the Pentagon which was being shown on all the main channels.

„How’s it going?“ George asked, breathless.

Silverstein didn’t seem to hear him.

His big, grey blue eyes were fixed on the images.

"How’s it going?“ asked George, getting excited and poking him in the arm.

"Quiet!“ snapped Silverstein, not taking his eyes off the screen, running his hand through his thin grey hair.

George took off his navy blue jacket, flung it down on a seat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

As the plane took off, Rogue brought him a can of coke. George took it without a word, snapped back the pin and started drinking the ice cool coke, staring feverishly at the screens. Hundreds of millions of people around the world were watching these events – but only on a few channels, and these were channels that Silverstein and his friends all controlled through their network of freemasons and secret service agents, blackmailed, bullied, bribed or otherwise compromised journalists. All the same, with such a large number of people involved something could go wrong.

George peered at the screens, mesmerised by the footage. Screen after screen showed the same shots. A glinting speck of steel flashed in the blue, vast sky above New York. The speck took on the silhouette of a plane. The wings were clearly visible as it soared through the sky. It crashed into the top of steel-framed tower. Next, there was a puff of smoke followed by an orange fireball. Then, the TV showed the entire tower collapsing. The skyscraper fell like a pack of cards into its own footprint. It really did look like the impact of the plane had caused the tower to fall.

"America under attack“ the subtitles screamed.

An anchor man on Box News said solemnly.

"We have no idea about the numbers of casualties yet, but there were thousands of people at work in those towers, so we can expect high casaulties.“

"Fuck, fuck!“ George said, putting down his can and jumping to his feet.

He was shaking with excitement and fear. The thought that people had actually lost their lives hit home and his stomach flipped over.

“Don't act like some two year old!” Silverstein said contemptuously, flipping from channel to channel.

George stared at footage of the tower dropping to the ground . There was a deafening roar as the building crashed, sending up billowing clouds of dust that hung in the air at street level. People holding handkerchiefs to their mouth were running away.

Silverstein yelled out in triumph every time one of his channels showed the computer generated silver plane hitting the top of the tower and the orange fireball bursting into life.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he cried out, punching the air.

Silverstein monitored the TV screens and shouted instructions into a phone. All evidence that the towers had collapsed because of a mini hydrogen bomb planted in the basement had to be edited out - and quickly – long before it reached the screen. By editing away all the footage, the media created the illusion that the impact of the planes had made the towers collapse. In reality, that defied the laws of engineering and of physics.

No steel framed skyscraper had ever collapsed in the hundred years since they had been built. Steel-framed buildings were so strong that only explosions that created temperatures of more than 4000 degrees could cause the steel to melt. The was no way that the explosion of a single jet, even one filled with jet fuel, could create anything like those temperatures. To make the towers collapsed, they had had to use a mini-hydrogen bomb placed in the basement. The force of the explosion had had to be sufficient not only to melt the steel but also pulverise the concrete. The carefully timed detonation took out one floor after another, ensuring that the lower floors didn’t offer any resistance to the floors above as they fell down. Yes, never before in the history of America had a single steel framed sky scraper collapsed – but here were two towers collapsing in their own footprints like a pack of cards.

Only with artful editing and computer generated graphics and could the American public be persuaded that 16 "terrorists" from some hole in the Middle East were so fiendish they could hijack planes, fly them into the most heavily guarded airspace in the world and take down almost indestructible steel frame towers in the centre of US. This message had to be reinforced by interviews and subtitles and soundbites. The lies also had to be repeated over and over again. That was a key rule of propaganda.

Sipping a coke, George looked at a screen. The blood rushed to his face. He saw the Pentagon. It had a hole in the side. The façade was blackened. No wonder. They had detonated an explosive charge with enough force to destroy an entire sky scraper.

A young anchor on CMM was talking breathlessly. She turned to screen in the studio to talk live to a reporter wearing a jacket and a green polo shirt. He was standing in front of the blackened facade of the Pentagon.

„So what are you seeing, Brad? What can you see of the plane that has crashed into the Pentagon?“ the woman anchor with glossy fair hair, wearing a yellow suit, was asking in urgent tones.

Brad Chester shrugged his shoulders.

„I can’t see anything that looks like an airplane, Casey,“ he said.

“You can’t?” she asked.

Silverstein groaned and flung up his arms.

“No, there is no sign of any airplane debris.”


“Get that guy has to get off!“ Silverstein yelled, furious, turning to an aide.

“Fuck! Fuck!“ groaned George. „It’s never going to work!“

Silverstein ignored him.

„I’ve walked around the site here and I haven’t see any bits of an airplane,“ the reporter was saying.

„No fuselage, no parts of a wing or tail, nothing that would indicate that a plane had crashed here…“

„Are you saying you can’t see anything that resembles a plane?“ asked Casey Thompson.

„Nothing. I’ve looked around the entire site and I can’t see any sign of a plane crashing into the building at all.“

“So what caused the hole in the Pentagon? I mean, we can see a chunk has been ripped away. The government said it was a plane.”

„Well, the government has changed its story several times this morning,“ said Brad Curtis. „First, the government said it was a helicopter that crashed into the Pentagon, then a guided missile and the latest version is that it was a plane.“

“Yes, a jet plane hijacked by the terrorists. Flight 55.“

“Just I can’t see any sign that a plane has crashed.”

„What else could have caused the damage to the Pentagon?“

“I don’t know. I guess it could have been an explosive device planted inside the building.”

“A bomb?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to see how any terrorists could smuggle that kind of explosives into the Pentagon.”

„Has there been a security lapse? What are the government officials saying?“

„The latest statement from the government says that Flight 55 crashed into the Pentagon and caused the damage you can see behind me here.“

„But you can’t see any sign of a plane crash. Nothing, Brad?“

„Absolutely nothing. No parts of a plane, no wreckage. Nothing.“

George watched, petrified.

Silverstein picked up a clip board, flicked through the sheets and jabbed his finger down onto a name. He dialled a number.

„Get me Elliot Spielberg on the line now!“ he yelled.

A pause.

“Look, Elliot,” Silverstein yelled into the phone. “Get your fucking reporter Curtis off the fucking airwaves. Get him off right now! Yeah…yeah…there’s an interview running right now with one of your guys down by the Pentagon saying he didn’t see any sign of fucking plane. Get the jackass off! Right now!”

„Oh shit, this is a catastrophe,“ George groaned. “And you said you had the filter under control? The fuck you have! They’re leaks springing everywhere.”

“Just wait, you muppet!” shouted Silverstein, furious. “Anyway, there’s fuck all anyone can do. We have the entire government in our hand.”

Silverstein was on the phone again, this time to the Pentagon, ordering all journalists to be kept away from the site.

George saw Brad Curtis vanish. CMM switched to footage of the planes crashing into the World Tower Center.

But RBSC news was showing fire fighters in yellow hats and protective gear running through the sea of molten steel and burned out cars.

„We’re getting reports of a huge explosion. A huge explosion brought down the building,“ a reporter standing at street level was saying.

He turned to a fire fighter and put the microphone to him.

„I heard an explosion,“ a fire fighter with a hard hat and a face covered in grim was saying.

Rogue groaned.

„An explosion?“ the reporter asked the fire fighter.

„Yes, there was definitely an explosion like a demolition explosion. A huge rumble, and then the whole building just collapsed. I’ve never seen anything like this. I mean. And the speed of it. It just came down so quickly. It must have been an demolition job.“

„A demolition job?“

„That’s the way a building collapses when it’s pulled demolished!”

Silverstein thumped his fist on a desk.

“Idiots!” he yelled.

„So what do you think caused the explosion?“ the reporter was asking.

„No idea, but there was definitely an explosion in the basement. I heard it. I was going down the steps to try to get the emergency power on...”

“There was no emergency power?”

“It was switched off...”

“So you were going down the steps...”

“Yeah, I’d just reached the bottom and I heard this huge bang in the basement and this guy came staggering out, covered in blood. I grabbed him and brought him up the steps.”

“So the explosives were in the basement?”

“Must have been. But for a tower to fall like that they’d need to be in every floor. Only that could account for why the tower collapsed straight down and didn’t fall over to one side,“ the fire fighter said..

"Who could have planted those explosives?“

"Good question!“


The fire fighter shrugged his shoulder.

“I don’t know who got access to the building. I just know I heard a big bang, a rumble like demolition charges going off down below in the basement.”

„Fuck!“ groaned George. “It’s over!”

But Silverstein was already on the phone yelling into the receiver.

„Get that fire fighter talking about a demolition job at the World Tower Center off now!“ he shouted.

“Yeah, Mike, get that footage off.”

A bespectled academic type was talking to a studio anchor on BCD.

„I don’t get it? Why weren’t intercepted when they entered our airspace,“ he was saying.

„What do you mean?“ asked the anchor.

„I mean where are the fighter jets that control New York, airspace? Why didn’t they shoot these planes down long before they got here? Everyone knows there are really strict radar checks and controls on any plane violating New York airspace. I just don’t see how two of the planes got through. I mean these were Saudi pilots, right? Did they know all the codes? Speak English?“

„Mike. One of your goons is going off on his own. Stop him! Yes, yes….that stufff about the aircraft interception. Get if off now!“

„And the manoeuvre of the pilot that hit the Pentagon was odd.“


„I mean he pulled off an incredible feat if he really managed to dive down from that height and hit the Pentagon.“

George was standing there, pressing his hand against his throbbing forehead, when he heard an anchor on RSBC asking about his whereabouts.

„For fuck’s sake!“ he muttered over and over again.

“The trouble is, George, you have no appreciation of art. This is like shooting a film and editing it while the cameras were rolling.”

“That is what the terrorists did, ladies and gentlemen,” a commentator was saying in sombre tones. “They have destroyed some of the most important symbols of American prosperity and freedom. They have also attacked the Pentagon, plunging a jet into the building, killing untold number of people. This is a declaration of war.”

Next, Rogue rushed up.

“Shit! Some moron at the BBC has announced the collapse of the third tower too fucking soon”

“What?” cried George.

“O shit!

“They’ve just said Tower 7 has collapsed when it’s standing fucking up there behind them.”

George froze when he heard his name mentioned.

“Reports are coming in that the President has taken off from Georgia in Air Force One,” the anchor with short, cropped fair hair was saying, staring into the camera with a steady gaze. “President Tuff was attending a reading drill at Cedar Elementary School this morning. He was there without his wife, Lorrie. It seems she did not accompany him on this occasion, and is safe. Reports say the President is informed of the attacks. He was informed shortly after the attacks occurred by an aide while he was actually in the classroom reading to the children. We understand the President has now left the school.“

George groaned when he saw the footage of him sitting in the class-room with the kids.

„Did the President say anything?“ another news anchor was asking. „I mean, from that clip there, the President doesn’t really react to the news. He just seems to nod and say nothing and continue with the reading exercise.“

„Get a statement out,“ Silverstein shouted at Rogue, who was standing there, chewing the top of a pencil.

„Say the President was anxious not to upset the kids and that he is waiting for more information. Say whatever you need to give the impression the President is monitoring the situation. Got it?“

„Yes, sir!“ said Rogue and hurried off.

„What the fuck?“ asked George. „Did you hear that guy? He’s actually asking why I didn’t respond when I got the news? Did you hear the suspicion in his voice? It’s like he figured something was up.“

„Just stay calm!“

„Calm? What the hell do you mean?“

„We’re going to stay up here until the message settles. We’re not going down till the message is stable. Okay?“ Silverstein said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the news editor in RSBC.

George walked into his private study. A few of his close aides were sitting around, talking on phones. George sat down on behind his desk.Rogue was on the phone to his contact in the commodities exchanves, where future oil contracts were traded off the radar screen.

„Get the oil price going up,“ he was saying. “No, Silverstein doesn’t know anything about this. He’s too focussed on getting his war in Iraq...And he thinks we, goyims, are dumb. The racist genocidal Satan worshipping Talmud bastard! Serves him right!”

George turned to a TV screen. He saw a young commentator on a business channel saying: „It’s too early to speculate now about what this will do to the oil price, but we can be sure that the price will go up. The terrorists were from Saudi Arabia and the Middle East according to government sources. That region is crucial for our oil supply. Any sign of instability there makes the markets nervous. So, my bet is, yes, the price of oil will start going up.“

The slick-looking anchor nodded, then asked.

“How much higher? I mean will the price of oil double? Could it actually go as far as 20 dollars a barrel?”

“It’s possible oil could double, especially if the President decides military action in the Middle East is necessary.”

“Do you think he might?”

“If these terrorists from that region are causing trouble, the President might decide drastic steps are needed to protect America.”

“So you see the oil price increasing fast even without a war.”

“Sure, the markets respond very quickly to any sign of disruption and so I think the oil price will go up this week whatever happens.”

“Do you think it’ll be 10, 12 dollars a barrel?”

Rogue smiled as he turned to the screen.

„That a boy! It’ll soon be 100, 200, 400 dollars. Oh, boy! Wait till we go into Afghanistan and Iraq. We’ll be raking it in with the drugs, the oil and the contracts!”

Next, Allan White came up with a phone.

„George, the Veep.“

George took the receiver and put it to his ear.

„How’s it going, Vamp?“ he asked.

„Okay,” came the dry voice of Rick Shane. “You?”

“I’m thinking this isn’t going to work.”

“It’s going fine!”

„I don’t want to be lynched.“

Shane laughed.

“Everything is going just fine. We have it all under control. And the oil?“

„Carl’s just given the green light to push up the oil price in the Enron loop.“

„Good“ said Shane. „I want the oil to be have jumped at least three dollars by end of play today.”

„Aren’t you getting greedy?“

„What do you mean? That’s being modest.“

„Just make sure you don’t overdo it. We don’t want people asking questions about why the oil has jumped up so suddenly.“

„What do you mean? The trades are off the radar screen and our own boys in the filter know that they have to keep it that way.”

“Silverstein doesn’t know, right, about our guys?”

“No. That arrogant bastard's in for a surprise! He thinks we goys are morons! Everyone scanning the media will think it’s just a regular response of the market to the attacks like we tell them, even Silverstein and the Zionists.“

„Okay, okay. I guess we’ll have to land soon," George said, checking his watch.


„Sure am! It’s not you who have to get off that plane and give a speech to the nation after you helped stage an attack on your own country.“

„Relax. It’s all under control. The filter is operating just like it should. We’ve been doing this so long we even got you and your Daddy elected! That shows how perfect the media propaganda is, huh!”

“Very funny!”

Rogue gave George a playful slap on the back.

“We’ve been planning this so long, there wonn’t be any glitches.”

Soothing words.

George walked back into the main room. He scanned the TV screens.

In the meantime, Silverstein’s interventions were paying off. Whichever channel George looked at, he saw the same images. They all showed the same footage of the plane crashing into the tower, the orange ball of fire, the towers collapsing, the blackened facade of the Pentagon. All five of the major TV channels had anchors and reporters talking about terrorist attacks and in voices trembling with dismay and shock. Brad Curtis had vanished from the screen. So had the fire fighter talking about an explosion in the basement. The “expert” wondering why the planes hadn’t been intercepted was gone. The major twenty world newspapers were also all on message, too. There had been a hideous terrorist attack. The hijackers had destroyed the WTC in New York. Even the BBC was in tune.

Silverstein was busy monitoring the media coverage of in Great Britian, France and Germany, Japan, checking what footage was shown, contacting the editors.

UK PM Tim Blight delivered a statement of strong support to the US, condeming the “terrorists” as expected – no surprise since freemason Tim Blight and in on the plot like all the other freemason European governments.

Mind you, he wasn’t going to risk anything. He wasn’t going to go down and land and face the public until he was really sure the message that there had been an attack had settled. Why risk anything? George thought to himself as he sipped his coke.

It was all about money and power. And the biggest source of money and power was America and the biggest profits were to be made from getting control of the government The Skull and Bones, the freemasons, the Bilderbergs, the CIA and MI5, the Knights of Malta and the Zionists who had controlled America and Europe for decades had all teamed up for their latest crime spree, the biggest and most spectacular so far.

Chapter 3 - Whiskey in the Jar

The one thing he desired before he went to bed that night was easy enough to obtain. It could be found in any supermarket, any corner store. And yet he couldn’t get to it. It cost only 20 bucks. Yet, he couldn’t buy it. Not even though he had a personal fortune of 800 million dollars if he calculated his small share of the total Strong family wealth and that amounted to more than 3 trillion dollars if all the investments in property, stocks and shares, hedge funds, oil, metals, gold and drugs were counted up.

He shouldn’t have had any interest in it anyway. He had declared to the entire country he didn’t give a damn about it anymore. It was history, passe. But deep down he craved it, longed for it, hungered for it, for a way out, an escape from the pressures and the stress after that hectic day starting early that morning with his visit to the elementary school in Florida....

And that night he gave way to temptation…. He struggled. How he struggled! But the craving was too strong. He was sitting on the cream couch in the Oval Office, trying to chill out. The chimes of a clock struck midnight.

He’d just closed his eyes in exhaustion. What a day! He yanked down my tie and put his cleaned and shining shoes up on a coffee table. A jumbled up stream of images rolled through his brain - planes crashing into skyscrapers, firefighters rushing into smoke, motorcases with blue lights flashing. He emptied his mind, and all of a sudden, he saw... a bottle of whiskey. A bottle of Jack D was visible to his interior eye! The liquid had the colour of pure gold. There was such a radiance about it, it was almost as if the whiskey had a luminous property of its own. It was so bright, it actually seemed to be a source of light. Like the stars, the moon or the sun! His heartbeast quickened with desire.

He opened his eyes – and saw an eagle staring at him.

It took him a moment to realise it was actually the imperial eagle symbol that was placed just about everywhere inside the White House. The way the eagle stared at him like that always made him uneasy. He couldn’t stand the way it looked at him with that glint in its eye and with its beak pulled up in an expression of such arrogant disdain, like it was something special and he was just a piece of dirt. So what if it has all these crests and mottos all over it? That eagle looked so aggressive, it reminded him of the Veep. He also has that look in his eyes when he didn’t get what he wanted.

“I’m trapped!” George suddenly thought to himself, looking around widlly at the office lit up only by a couple of lamps.

His heart started pounding. He jumped to his feet. He slammed his fist down on the desk.

“I’m trapped in this hole! I can't get out! I'm a prisoner!"

A surge of anger, even hatred came over him. He detested the prison that his life had become! He loathed the constant, relentless duties, rituals, ceremonies, meetings, conferences, briefings, rules and regulations! He was just the front man for a vast operation, and never allowed an moment's rest. He was sick and tired of all the demands heaped on him. He wanted to blot it all out, once and for all, escape. Just let the world sink. Sink beneath the waves! He thought to himself as he walked over to a drinks cabinet. For guests. Strictly for guests.

“But aren't I a guest too?” he thought to himself, frowning, as he turned the key in the stiff lock. “Aren't I a guest in this world?”

He opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of whiskey. He unscrewed the cap and poured some of the golden liquid into a crystal glass.

"Just one little drink is not going to make a big difference, is it?" He thought to himself, clutching his chest.

He’d been dry and clean now for almost 20 years now. Heck, he was as sober as a grizzly bear. One little drink was nothing.

It was the smell that got to him first. Why should he use such a vulgar word as smell to describe the bouquet that greeted his nostrils as he bent over and inhaled? The word fragrance would better describe the heavenly, blissful, divine scent that filled his whole being. He breathed in the scent of the whiskey and he could have sworn he was breathing in the spices of the orient. He breathed in the magic of palm trees and date trees of Arabia. That moment, memories came to him of a time long ago when he was young man and still able to enjoy life, play baseball, down bottles of bourbon, without worrying constantly about the family business.

He twirled the glass in his hand, slowly, savouring the scent. Then he lifted the glass a few centimetres up to his nose and inhaled again. This time the bouquet was even stronger and more enticing. He took one sip - and it seemed to him that spirit of life itself in liquid form slid down his throat and filled his soul with fire. That pure fire grew inside him and burned away all the negative emotions of fear, shame and guilt. He walked back to the sofa and sat down, nursing his glass in his hand revelling in not having to think for a change about the nightmare his life had become.

“And to think it's all just started!” he groaned as he ran his hand through his hair.

After the false flag operation that day on the World Trade Center, he would have to enact a whole raft of executive orders as well as federal legislation to rescind the Constitution and Civil rights and authorising wiretapping and surevillance under the pretext of fighting terrorists. Then, he would have to start series of wars in Afghanisatan and in Iran to get control of the drugs triangle and the oil while pretending all the time it was to protect America from terrorists.

In addition, he had to help engineer the collapse of the world's financial system so that his fund could buy up as many assets as cheaply as possible. The millions of impoverished people would have to be put into concentration camps after martial law was declared. A universal military draft would be introduced to get Americans, who might otherwise start a revolution, into army and fighting Russia and China, and any other countries that were starting to challenge the elite’s power. The United Nations would be called in to take charge of the chaos in America; it would split the US into two with two capital cities, Denver and Atlanta. But that was all due to take place after he left office when his two terms were completed in 2008, and he found it hard that think so far ahead, especially when he felt so exhausted.

Sitting on the couch, sipping his whiskey, he got confused about whether Washington DC was going to be the Illuminati cultural site or New York under the UN. By the time, he got through half the bottle of Jack D, he couldn’t remember if New York was going to be declared the United Nations Capital city for the Earth or New Orleans?

He couldn’t remember either whether the chemtrails, genetically engineered crops and viruses were designed to eliminate people in Africa, Central America or North America or in all of those places.

By the time, he finished the bottle of whiskey, his mind was so hazy he wasn’t sure whether a staged alien invasion would occur forcing all nations, religious and cultures to surrender their identities to the United Nations or whether the United Nations would surrender to the aliens.

He was getting so mixed up he wasn’t even sure if the New World Religion was a cult of Satan or a cult of Prince Emmnanuel and Princess Diana. As for the cloned Christ scheduled to come after 2010, he couldn’t remember whether it was supposed to come from Mars or Pluto.

As he staggered to his feet in the early hours of the morning, he wasn’t sure if the Pokemon and Teletubbies were going to be microchipped and given mandatory identification cards or the Ninja Turtles.

Stumbling across the room, he asked himself if the frozen moons of Saturn and Jupiter and Neptune really would become earth-like after a special comet missile had changed Jupiter’s orbit…He asked himself whether this nightmare of a plan leading to a New World Order had really been properly through through… He put down his glass, so dizzy he had to steady himself by leaning against a door. Outside the French windows, he saw the first light of dawn and the dark shadows of the trees in the Rose Garden.

Chapter 4 - At Ground Zero

…And today he had to play the role of a warrior king, of Henry IV firing up his troops with blazing patriotism before the battle of Agincourt.

Tall order! George thought to himself, looking around at the rubble-strewn wasteland.

Dressed in a grey jacket, brown slacks and thick-soled brown shoes, he sure didn’t look like Henry IV, for one thing. And the sea of debris made up of pulverised concrete and melted steel didn't look like the lush green fields of France either. A gigantic Stars and Stripes flag suspended from one of the Manhattan skyscrapers was about the only colour to be found in the depressing sea of grey.

The air was filled with toxic fumes and he coughed to get the poison and dirt out of his lungs. He coughed so hard that he paused as he walked over a plank that had been placed across a crater and which led to a mound of rubble and a small group. Only selected rescue workers had been given the special passes to enter the area. Mixed among them were secret service operatives, ready to fire on the crowd in the pre-scripted drama. Someone slapped him on the back as he approached. He turned round, startled and then half smiled when he recognised a familiar face from his White House security detail, dressed up in a hard yellow hat and yellow jacket.

Next, clapping and rousing cheers rent the air. On cue, he smiled, shook hands, slapped shoulders. He moved through the crush avoiding looking at the camera team as much as possible, trying to look spontaneous, natural.

As for his “stage”, a mound of debris, it sure did look pathetic, he thought as he clambered up, struggling to gain traction. Only Carl Rogue could have thought of this setting, he mused. That guy planned out everything in his head, but didn’t have any feel for the reality on the ground, for the emotion, the atmosphere….

Rubble beneath his shoes gave way and he took hold of the arm of a tough looking, tanned rescue worker standing on top of the mound. With just a word or two, the guy handed him a loudspeaker, so heavy George had to tighten his grip on the guy to keep his balance. He tried to look casual, in control as his ice-blue eyes scanned his surroundings. He saw the camera man at the foot of the beehive was angling his lens upwards to make his position look even more elevated. George puffed out his chest to look the part of Henry IV, surrounded by his troops, showing flaming patriotism, leadership and courage in the face of so many threats and dangers.

“I want to tell you something,” he began, putting his mouth to the loudspeaker.

He paused. The loudspeaker was a really silly idea, he thought to himself. It made his voice sound thin and flat. But there was nothing he could do about that now, he reflected as he glanced up at the leaden clouds above his head.

“Tell us!” came the chorus on cue.

Gathered around him now in a tight crush were maybe only 100 or so tough-looking rescue workers but the camera guys were filming a close up so that TV viewers would not be aware of just how small the crowd was.

The crowd was yelling and clapping – following the script. George paused to allow the cheering to fade.

Peering over the hard hats, he saw, far into the distance, he saw the flashing lights of the police cars and the hundreds of uniforms a barrier erected to prevent people coming off the street and joining in the event on Ground Zero. The police had already moved the demonstrators along, and so their chants were no longer audible.

“I want to tell you something,” he yelled through the loudspeaker.

“Tell us!” the crowd shouted on cue.

It all sounded so artificial that George struggled to hold back laughter. And failed. His face broke into something between a smile and an ironical sneer.

“There’s going to be a storm,” he said, pointing up at the sky.

There were a few chuckles at the satirical gleam in his eye and his dead pan delivery of the anti climatic punch line. But most looked at him, puzzled. Even his own guys. This was not a time for a comedy routine, George thought, frowning. He had to stay in his role. He was the concerned President, the leader who cared for his people. George swallowed hard, and resolved to sound sincere and passionate.

He raised his hand, a guesture that triggered another burst of clapping.

“I know people are hurting,“ he said, struggling to look serious. “There are families who have lost loved ones in this terrorist attack. I want to say: We’re hurting with you. We send our prayers to you. I want to say too to all the people here, we’re proud of your work! We thank you from our heart for what you did. We will always honour the heroism that our fire fighters and police men have showed. The deaths of the victims of these terrorist attackers were tragic but we won’t let them go unpunished.

On cue, the men started yelling.

„Go attack! Go attack!“

Their chants rented the air. As if picking up on the spontaneous outpouring of emotion, George put the loudspeaker to his mouth again and cried.

“I hear you. I hear what you’re saying. I promise you we will attack and hunt down terrorists wherever they might be!“ he cried, raising his voice and pumping the air. „We will not allow these terrorists to go unpunished! America, the land of freedom, will not bend to terrorists.I’m here to show those people out there who tried to knock us down that we’re not knocked down. We Americans are still standing, proud of our country, determined to defend our freedom and our democracy. Those people out there who attacked us will be knocked down soon.”

“Go attack! Go attack! Go attack!” On cue, the chanting began again. There was clapping and cheering. Fists pumped the air. George nodded in approval.

“Our American democratic way of life is at stake and we Americans will defend it against terrorists wherever they are in the world, whether they are in Afghanistan or Iraq!”

He did the movements and the gestures. But the whole thing had a leaden feel about it. He knew he had to sound more angry, fired up, outraged but he felt cold, weary, depressed and his mouth was dry. It was hard to reinvent himself as General Patton, fighting for freedom when he was the grandson of a banker and senator who’d just about escaped trial for his collaboration with the Nazis during world war two, and who had hatched a plan to assassinate Roosevelt and declare martial law - a plan that had only been uncovered by Congress at the last minute. Yes, he had to sound like a warrior ready to put his life down for his country when he’d dodged the military draft and Vietnam. He had to sound like one of the people when he’d led the privileged existence of an aristocrat. To get into his role, he swung out his arm an dput it around the tough looking fire fighter hoping this would show the world that he was one of the regular guys. Then he drew in sharp breath and said in a loud and determined voice.

“I am a man of peace," he cried out. "Everyone knows that. But there comes a time when even a man who love peace has to go to war to defend his country, to defend his people, to defend America and its values of freedom and democracy against hate filled terrorists who kill thousands of innocent people!”

There was more yelling, clapping and cheering and waving of hats and Stars and Stripes flags in an outpouring of patriotic fervour! George looked on, wearily.

The minute the camera team stopped filming, George handed back the loudspeaker. He climbed back down the mound and walked back across the rumble strewn area in silence accompanied by dozens of security agents.

Walking across the cratered landscape oppressed him. It was all so bewildering and overwhelming. As he walked along, he kept thinking this was just the beginning. The plot had so many twists and turns he could hardly take it all in, he thought to himself, glancing over at Rogue, who was waiting for him at a heavily guarded exit. George paused to shake the hands of a few fire fighters and cops thanking them for their sacrifice and hard work. Then he got into one of the armour-plated limousines with Rogue him without saying a word.

The motorcade rolled away. George sat back and unzipped his jacket while Rogue pulled out his cell phone.

He was talking to Emmanual Silverstein while scanning the small TV set where a CMM anchor was discussing the speech George had just given at Ground Zero.

“A stirring call to patriotism, there, for the President at the sight of the terrorist attack,” the anchor was saying.

George stopped listening. He felt cramped, claustrophic. He turned his eyes to the side and looked through the window at the streets outside. The police had cordoned off half of Manhatten. There were only a few people to be seen. It was already getting dark. The lights of the buildings were starting to blaze. The shabby, dirty streets, depressed him.

It must be awful, terrible to live in this kind of place, he thought to himself, glad he had his ranch in the middle of the countryside with plenty of space and light – not to mention his luxurious apartments inside the regal White House.

Yes, it must be a terrible fate to be born to be one of the millions of wage slaves, toiling away for long hours in offices and military bases on low pay like the slaves of Babylon toiling away for their masters.

George wished he could switch off the CMM coverage of his speech at Ground Zero and watch one of the baseball games.

But he knew Rogue wouldn’t allow him to change channels. Rogue was always lecturing him. In his eyes, he was a slacker and a lightweight. That annoyed George. He tried to repress his anger. After all, he and Rogue needed each other. They were different in character -- Rogue was the intellectual strategist, he, he was the charmer – but that’s why their talents complemented each other, and they made such a good team.

Rogue was like Odysseus and he was like Sinon. Together, they had persuaded the people of Troy, who had fought back a siege by the Greeks, to take in the Trojan Horse. The brainy Odysssues had thought up the plan of slipping an object into the city filled with soldiers, and then storming Troy from the inside. He, George, was like the guy, Sinon, who had been sent by Odysseus to persuade the sceptical Trojans that the wooden horse was actually a present, a farewell gift from the Greeks, who had finally accepted defeat.

Like Sinon, George had a talent for acting, for improvising, for persuading the American people he was a patriot with their best interests at heart when the opposite was the case.

Among the Trojans, just like among the Americans, there were enough people who had seen through the ploy, mind you. Laocos and Cassandra had warned the Trojans not to take in the wooden horse, and there had been plenty of voices, warning the people of America not to elect him – though the alternative was also one of the aristocrats.

But those wise counsellors had been overruled by the others, jubilant to see the Greek fleet apparently sail away from their shores. The wooden horse had been wheeled inside the city gates. That same night when the Trojans were celebrating the end of the Greek siege, the doors hidden in the wooden horse had opened, and Odysseus leading Greek soldiers had jumped out and begun their slaughter….

In the same way, as soon as the Americans had elected him as President, George had continued the work of dismantling their civic rights, and their constitution and also of constructing an efficient financial apparatus that was designed to suck out as much money from every corner of the country as possible.

While George stared out of the window, wearily, Rogue sat there studying some papers.

“Don’t you ever tired of all that stuff?” asked George, glancing over at him.


“All the statistics and the calculations?”

“I love them! Other people turn to God when they are in trouble. I turn to my statistics.”

“Are you finished?”

Armed with pocket computers, calculator and blackberries, a sharp memory and huge store of knowledge, Rogue was a walking encyclopaedia. He had an IQ of 155, too.

Rogue sat pouring over statistics and figures on every aspect of the media coverage. Watching him, George had the impression that he loved work for its own sake. He loved to plan and calculate.

“Good, good,” Rogue muttered without taking his eyes off some sheets.

“What?” asked Geoff, wearily.

“All going perfectly.”

“Yeah, we got away with deception on a new scale?”

“If you’d ever read Hamlet, you’d know there’s always been something rotten in the state of Denmark, George!”

George saw the patronising gleam in Rogue’s eye and felt the desire to take him down a peg or two.
“I’ve read Hamlet.”

“Really?” Rogue sneered.

“What’s more I liked it. I could really identify with the guy.”

“I bet!”

“I know what he felt like seeing the a country go to ruin because the evil got into power,” continued George. “The greedy and ambitious uncle murdered the noble and enlightened king and got the crown by tricks and lies and not by merit and that’s were it all started to go wrong. The proper universal order was broken. The cosmos has its own order, you know. It loves goodness and truth. When the evil overturn that order, the whole of society and universe breaks down into chaos. There’s disorder, natural catastrophes, famines and wars.”

“What are you going on about?“ asked Rogue, staring at George, amazed.

„That’s all in Hamlet!” cried George. “I’m telling you Shakespeare saw life as a macrocosm and the microcosm. He believed a human being, nature and God all had to be in alignment.“

Rogue looked at him, affronted.

„I can tell you what the natural and divine order is,“ he said. „It’s when we put “them” back into our places!”

He jabbed his finger and pointed at the passers by outside: he said the word „them“ with venomous contempt.

“They are the one’s who’ve shown arrogance and overstepped the mark. What’s rotten is the rule of “them”, the herd, in a democracy. The people who should rule are those who are fit to rule and that’s us. We represent the greatest collective intelligence on the planet. We control much of the world’s wealth through our brains. We shouldn’t have to bow and scrape to the morons out there.”

“You don’t then believe in God, then? Not like Shakespeare?”

“Did he believe in God? You ask such bizarre questions. Sometimes, I wonder….”


“Yes, you have an odd logic?”

“You don’t?”
Rogue frowned.

“I’m a pragmatist. I do what works!”

“You’re ruthless.”

“You know I’m really starting to worry about you, George. You’re starting to sound like one of the sheep out there, who runs around confused all day long, bleating whatever sound bites the media or the church feeds them. There is no God. There is only money and power. It’s people like us who still have the warrior ethos, the aristocratic blood, the desire to command and more importantly the ability to rule who should have power. The rest of the people are just the sheep, the herd, the drones. Shakespeare knew that society had to be organised so that the people with the best ability were at the top and the rest at the bottom. He believed there was a fixed hierarchy and that the kings had the divine right to be at the top of the pyramid. He believed the subjects should accept their position and not overstep the mark out of ambition. The drones should not try to rule a nation or a state because they don’t have the brains for it. But that is precisely what’s happening today. The catastrophe of our century is that every idiot thinks he knows what the country needs. Nowadays you have every Tom, Dick and Harry wanting to be the president or the prime minister even if he’s an utter jerk. I mean just look at the guys in power in Britain, France and Germany.”

“What’s wrong with Tim Burns?”

“The guy is a jumped up no body. He’s filled with burning ambition. He wants
impress others, win admiration. He’ll do anything we ask…”

“He’s a freemason…”

“But us? We don’t need power like a drug. We have always been the top of the pile. We don’t need to prove anything. Power is not a drug we need to feel good about ourselves. Power gives us the capacity to do things we want to do. We’re in it for the money. We’re intelligent, clever, rational people making sensible business decisions about how to invest our cash so that our wealth increases.”

“That’s why we kill 3,000 people in false flag attacks…”

“You think we’re the only ones? The reality is this is a dog eat dog world. They’re all at it. The Chinese are coming up, India and Brazil are coming up. Global warming is going to wreck the planet and we caused it with our oil. We have no choice. We have to make a big push or forever sink down to the level of those people out there.”

George turned away and looked out of the window. He saw a few people walking along, all with the same functional, plain grey clothes and all with the same earnest, preoccupied expressions trudging up and down these pavements in this grey city going to grey office blocks to do grey work…

“Who are these people, George?” Rogue was saying, pointing out of the window at the stream of people. “Nobodies. They work like slaves here in New York for their Masters in Tel Aviv believe whatever lies the media tells them. What kind of a life do they have? Look at them hurrying along from their cubicles to their tiny apartments, working 14, 16 hours a day, not earning enough to even afford a room of their own. All they care about is money and a promotion and a bonus, going to bars, women and cocaine. All they dream about is getting ahead of the pack and owning a five bedroomed-suburban house with two SUV’s in the drive. If they have that, they’re totally happy. The guys have no respect for women. And the women are gold diggers with no respect for the guys. They get together and torment each other in marriages until they get a divorce. They produce more kids when our planet doesn’t have enough water and food for all those useless mouths to feed. For us to survive, the population has to go down by six billion or so. That’s the work we’ve got ahead of us.”

“You’re a bastard,” said George.

“Sometimes, I think you’re only temporary. There’s a soft spot in you that makes me worry. In this business, you have to be pitiless, show no mercy.”

“Think so?”

“There is no God, George. Don’t worry. No need to fret. We invented God to keep the masses under control. Just relax. You need to get ready to give another speech tonight.”


“This one is about the terrorist network Al Qaeda and the need to eliminate their base in Afghanistan…”

George gave a weary sigh as the motorcade rolled through the empty streets of the New York.

Chapter 5 - Now for Afghanistan

The door opened, and Ron Donnerfeld,a big man, ramrod straight with a military bearing, walked inside, beaming, holding a file in one hand. As always, he was looking accurate and precise in a dark suit, and with his grey hair slicked back.

George was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, leaning his head back, his eyes closed, massaging his aching forehead with his thumb and two fingers.

“There’s your speech,” said Ron, tossing the file over at him with a triumphant air.

George half opened his eyes, saw Ron's steel-rimmed spectacles flash at him, and moaned.

“Get up, you slacker!” Ron said, smiling in a condescending way and acting like he was talking to a third grader. "Tonight's the night! The press conference is starting in 20 minutes."

That made George fume inside, but he didn’t say anything. His head was throbbing. He shut his eyes again. He folded his hands across his stomach.

Ron walked over to Dick Crane and Aaron Rubinstein, a thin, gangly man, with cropped dark hair and brown eyes. They were standing by the French windows of the Oval Office. Twilight was falling outside. The two men were carrying on a conversation in low and tense tones. They were discussing the dramatic drop in heroin production in Afghanistan and in the Golden Crescent because of a Taliban Fatwa earlier that year banning the growing of opium.

“Those f**kers. You know, I've calculated we’ve lost a trillion dollars just since spring. If we don’t get that opium growing again in time for next years crop, we’ll lose a lot of our markets,” Rubinstein was saying.

“Don’t tell me about it,” said Dick, shaking his head, thoughtfully, as he sipped some coffee. “Burma and the other Asiatics are already muscling in on our markets. I got a briefing from the CIA that they’re making a big push in Russia and China to sell their stuff there.”

“What if they cut us out? If we lose another year of the stuff, we've had it. It's curtains!"

“Don’t panic!” exclaimed Ron, strolling over. “All 350,000 square kilometres of the Golden Crescent will soon be ours, courtesy of the US tax payer and the US army!”

“Have you been taking some of the suff yourself? You look like the cat that's got the cream!”

“Very funny! I’ve just been talking to the new chief of staff and he’s given the green light to my plans to invade Afghanistan. You know what a relief that was? When the UN and Nato went along, he agreed. Now we just have to get George to rally the public,” Ron added, glancing over his shoulder with an elusive smile.

“George looks like death warmed up!” said Aaron with a sneer.

“Come on, buddie,” said Dick, putting down his cup of coffeee, walking over to the sofa, and giving George a friendly slap. “Time to give your speech.”

George opened his eyes.

“What speech?” he muttered, confused.

“The one about how we have to get Osama bin Laden hiding out there in the caves of Afghanistan…”

“What time is it?” asked George, weary.

“Time to get going.”

Dick grabbed him under an elbow and pulled him up to his feet.

Rubinstein handed him his jacket. George slipped it on.

“You look a mess. Get someone in here to fix him up before he goes in front of the cameras,” Rubinstein snapped.

Dick pressed a buzzer and two young staffers and a make up artist rushed in, carrying various bags and equipment. While George stood in front of a mirror, the middle-aged woman with blond hair busied herself with brushing down his suit, tidying up his hair and putting on light touches of make up on his face, eyes and lips.

“Thanks,” George said as he adjusted his tie in front of the mirror.

The staffers bowed and hurried out.

“And don’t forget your speech!” cried Ron as George finally walked out of the door.

George stopped in the doorway confused. Ron picked up the file he'd left on the sofa and handed it to him.

“Shape up!” said Rubinstein, irritated and impatient. “Just take the papers. Go on take them!”

He opened the file, took out the sheets of paper and thrust them into George’s hands.

“Now get going buster or you’ll be late," he shouted, his eyes blazing.

“I’ll be late, late for an important date,” whistled George, smiling, joking.

Rubinstein stared at him in silent and angry reproach.

“What’s the matter with you?”


“You know this is serious and you’re acting like a clown.”

“Hey, I know it’s serious. I have to go out there and convince America to go to war for your drugs, Aaron. But do you really think people are going to believe this fairytale about a bunch of Afghan nomads in some cave have masterminded the destruction of the WTC?"

“Of course, of course! The goys are dumb, dumb, dumb! That's what they're hearing 24/7 on the media, and they swallow everything. You know that. Just get out there and give your speech, you jerk,” said Aaron. “And don’t talk to me like that. I don’t like your tone.”

"I don’t like yours. You're calling me a jerk, but have you ever gone up there and given a speech to the Americans.”

“Aaron has a big Jewish mug and people would wise up if they saw him up there,” said Dick, laughing amiably. "But come on, guys. We have to pull together on this one. There's too much at stake."

George took the papers and headed off. In cleaned and shining shoes, he walked down the red carpet. Marines standing at intervals in dress blue uniforms dignified the passage. Their buttons and belt buckles glittered in the light of the chandeliers. As George approached the double doors of the press room far at the other end of the long, straight corridor, he felt a pang of fear. His lips were dry. His throat was parched. His heart was thumping.

George walked past a Marine, swinging his arms stiffly, feeling as if he was carrying the weight of the universe on his shoulders. He had to keep up the façade, act the role of the patriotic president to the American people that evening. But what if they found out the truth? What if they found out that all the pomp and glory was just a cover up for detestable crimes? What if he fluffed his lines, let something slip, made an error during his speech?

His stomach flipped over in a dozen somersaults and he felt sick as he walked on into the press room. Cameras flashed. Hot lights blazed. Carl Rogue, who was waiting in the wings, immediately stepped up to him.

“Ready?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” George muttered, beads of sweat of his foreheand.

“Make sure you stay serious!”

George walked over to the pult, stopped and adjusted the microphone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Stars and Stripe flag, placed behind the stage reinforce the imperial glory of his office. He glanced up and saw on the other side of the pult, a blur of faces, hundreds of journalists, photographers and camera teams. The room was packed out, overflowing. What a crush!

Persuading the press corps was not the problem, mind you. They were all on his side – either part of the secret services and the freemasons, or blackmailed, bribed or bullied like most of Senate and Congress.

No, the people he had to persuade tonight were the millions of ordinary Americans out there, he thought to himself. Millions of viewers would be forming a judgement. They’d be asking themselves why the heck he was declaring war against some guy they’d never heard of who was far off in the remote the mountains of Afghanistan and in just a few days after the collapse of the World Trade Center? Would they have to go fight in Afghanistan? Pay higher taxes for the war?

But heck, George reflected as he shuffled his papers around, he'd been born into a dynasty, and wealth and power was his birthright. He was the rightful heir to the crown. He had to do his bit to keep the family fortune in tact.

He coughed, cleared his throat and looked at the first page. The words had been written in big, black letters so he couldn’t make a mistake. He spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable carefully, glamcing down now and then at the pages, flipping over the sheets every time he finished a sentence.

“I just want to make a statement about what I was saying to Congress earlier,” he began in a voice of such gravity and solemnity that everyone immediately fell silent.

His ice blue eyes swept the ranks of journalists.

“On September the 11th, enemies of freedom and of America committed an act of war against our country. Americans have for the first time in history been attacked on their own soil as they went about their business in a great city. In a single day, terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center and the Pentagon! The surprise attacks caused thousands of casualties. They might have caused more if our brave fire fighters and rescue workers had not reacted so swiftly to the threat.

Americans can be reassured that my administration will do whatever is necessary to stop these terrorists. I have spoken to my intelligence chiefs and they have told me that the people behind these attacks are a loosely affiliated terrorist organizations known as al Qaeda. They are led by a person called Osama Bin Laden.

Al Qaeda is a group that practice a fringe form of Islamic extremism that calls for the killing of Christians and Jews, for the killing of Americans, military and civilians, women and children. This group hates freedom and democracy and the American way of life. These extremists have their terrorist training base in Afghanistan. The Taliban regime, which controls the country, supports al Qaeda. The Taliban is one of the most repressive regimes in the world, and women can't go to school and kids can't go to school.

By aiding and abetting al Qaeda, the Taliban regime has shown it is our enemy. And tonight I sent a demand to Kabul to tell the Taliban regime acts to stop al Qaeda right now, close their bases, hand over every single terrorist, or else face war.

This demand is not open to negotiation, I repeat, not open to negotiation. This is a war on terror that America must fight. We have to fight for our freedom, our democracy, our way of life against this new and grave threat. I want to reassure the American people that we will hunt down these terrorists wherever they are in the world. Our war on terror will not stop in Afghanistan. We will go to every corner of the world to stop these terrorists from harming innocent people… I have ordered our army chiefs to take all steps necessary to prepare our military for action,,,”

George stopped. Cameras clicked. Rogue nodded approvingly.

Chapter 6 - Green Fees

“You look like you’re going to be sent to Afghanisan!” His father growled. “Lighten up, will you? It’s only a goddamn game!”

George glanced over his shoulder.

His old man was leaning on his 6 iron. With his silver hair, sky-blue eyes and high forehead, George Strong snr might have passed for an academic or even a saint - if it hadn’t been for that look of reproach and disapproval in his eyes, that is.

“Yeah, like you ordering me to lighten up is really going to help me to relax,“ George shouted back as he switched his golf club from his right hand over to his left hand so that he could roll up his sleeves.

Father and son! Always boxing, battling each other, always competing to come out top. Each of them always trying their best to beat the other one to the silverware. But wasn’t this competition healthy? Wasn’t this ruthless win-at-all costs, in fact, the secret of his family’s phenomenal success? George mused.

It was just after ten in the morning, and the cool air gave no hint of the bitter snow storm forecast for later that day which would soon drive the members of the most exclusive country club in Washington, where Wall Street billionaires, government officials, senators and TV talk show hosts mingled, indoors to the bar for drinks.

Next moment, his pager went off.

“Hear that, Dad!” George shouted. “The office wants me!”

“Just get on with it!” his father shouted back.

“Okay. You’re the one who’s always complaining I slack off.”

“I complain you never finish anything…” came the reply.
George leaned over and stuck a peg into the velvet green grass. He took a ball out of the pocket of his chinos, and balanced it on top of the peg with the tips of his fingers. He had just straightened himself again when his pager buzzed once more.

“I’d better answer,” he said. “It might be something important!”

“Like what?” His father cried. “You seem to be labouring under the delusion you’re important for this government. There are a hundred people out there who know what to do better than you do.”

“Yeah, I know! Dick, Ron and Aaron Rubinstein.”

“They planned the whole thing. Let them get on with it,” said his father.

“What if something goes wrong?” said George.

“Nothing will go wrong. They’ve been running America for years, got away with every crime in the book.”

“Yeah, but blowing up the WTC before everyone’s eyes like that!”

“You think people will realise? They’re kept too busy surviving for one thing.”

“Well, I read more nearly 70 per cent want an independent inquiry.”

“They’re not going to get it! Rubinstein has the FBI, the CIA, the attorneys and the congress in his pocket."

“Public pressure's going to build.”

“Ridiculous! The NYT didn’t even publish the poll. It fills its pages with the usual bullshit.”

George paused.

“What’s going to happen, I mean, to America, Dad?”

“By the time this is over, there won’t be an America left. They’ll be a North American Union. Get on with it, will ya? I haven’t got all day!”

George drew in a sharp breath. His heartbeat accelerated. He had to step up to the plate again! Prove himself yet again. His whole life was a series of tasks his father had set him…

Pulling down his peaked cap to shade his eyes, he gazed down the green shining in the bright October sunlight over to the first hole, flanked by bunkers on either side. What should he do? Go for broke and attack the flag? Or play it safe and lay up short?

“What are you going to do?” his father shouted over.

“Hell! It’s only a par 3!” he cried out. “Just 156 metres. No wind.”

“Careful!” said his father. “I’d lay up short.”

His father, the club champion, was standing on the edge of the green, leaning on his golf club, his profile raised to the glorious, holy light, obviously enjoying the spectacle of the sun rising up over the woods, conquering bit by bit the shadows on the first green, pointing at the best spot to aim for.

“You got to think long term, George!” he cried out. “Rubinstein and Donnerfeld think long-term, strategic!”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered George.

“I’ll show my Dad once and for all!” he thought to himself, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll whack the ball over the goddamn bunkers and get onto the green. If I’m lucky, I could get a hole in one. Yes, I’ll prove to him I’m not a looser and a slacker.”

He moved his feet to make sure they were positioned at the right distance on either side of the ball. Then mentally issued himself the command: succeed!
The command communicated itself to his arms and fingers wrapped around the grip. He pivoted on his waist, swung the shaft around his shoulder, paused a beat and then swung the club back down in a perfect arc. The head of the club made contact with the ball at the perfect angle and with the perfect amount of force. The ball went flying through the air on precisely the right trajectory to land, with a few bounces, on the soft grass a few meters from the flag.

“Yippee!” he cried out, thrilled.

“See, Dad. Sometimes it’s better just to take a whack!”

His father frowned as he walked up.

“We’ll see who finishes this course on top. It’s the long stretch that counts!” he said.

His father leaned over to put his ball on the tee with acrobatic elegance. Even in his old age, he moved with the loose, confident movements of someone who knows his own worth.

Angling his shoulders with perfect poise, he hit the ball, his arms continuing to move outwards in generous open arc. But at the last moment, he seemed to lose confidence. He struck the ball, but badly. His shot disappeared into the left hand bunker. A puff of sand rose into the air.

“Fuck!” he cried. “Fuck! Fuck! Why did I hesitate?"

He slammed down his club.

That moment, one of the White House aides approached, a clean shaven guy in a smart suit.

“What’s up?” George asked.

“Mr President, a call from the Vice President!”

“Okay, okay,” said George, taking the cell phone.

“What’s up, Dick?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Playing golf with my old man.”

“Get back here to the White House. America has just started a war and you’re playing golf?”

“So what?”

“It doesn’t look good, that's what! There’s an NFL guy whose just quit his million dollar quarterback contract to join up and fight in Afghanistan and you’re playing golf.”

“What can I do if the guy’s so dumb,” said George.

“Just get back here and make sure you’re ready to hold a press conference this afternoon.”

"You do it! I haven’t had a break for weeks.”

“Stop your whinging and get here right now.”

“My Dad’s not going to like it. We just started. You know how he is.”

“With all respect to him, he’s not carrying the can anymore. You're the prez, not him.”

“Okay, okay. I’m coming in.”

George handed back the cell phone.

“Dad, I have to go.”


“Dick wants me at the White House. I gotta give a press conference.”

“What for? Can’t Rubinstein and his crew do all that?”

George shrugged.

“They need a flag waver.”

“I don’t get it,” said his father. “Rubinstein and his guys are making a fortune out of this when you count up their killings on the stock market, the contracts from supplying the military not to mention the interest the US is going to have to pay on their trillion dollar war debts, the profits from the drugs in Afghanistan and all that."

“Rubinstein and Rotefeller can’t put their ugly mugs in front of the camera.”

“As if you’re any better.”

“Better than them.”

“That wouldn’t be hard.”

“I’m fucking tired how you’re always laying into me,” George snapped. “I’m never good enough, am I?”

His father turned pale and trembling. He was about to say something, then bit his lip. Next, he lifted his arm and put it around George’s shoulder. There were tears in his eyes.

“Look, son, I just wish we could have a good relationship. Why do we always end up fighting each other?”

George’s face stiffened. He hated it when his father came close to tears, and so suddenly, as he did more often now he was getting older.

“Maybe I had too little patience for you, too little understanding,” his father continued, turning away, overwhelmed with strong emotions.

“It’s okay, Pop,” George said, softening. “I got to go.”

“Sure, you’re a Rubinstein toy boy.”

“What am I supposed to do? I got into this because of you! You were the one who sent me into the Skull and Bones at Yale!” George shouted.

His anger and hatred was back. The emotion that filled him from head to foot: every muscle and nerve ending inside his body tingled.

“Okay,” said his father. “I meant the best for you, you know. You’re enjoying the life your grandfather and I worked for. It’s up to you to carry on the family tradition.”

“I know, but sometimes it doesn’t seem worth it, Pop. That Rubinstein doesn’t give a fuck about America. America is just there to give money and soldier's blood to the Zionists.”

“I know, but we’re in too deep. We can’t go back. It’s go on or else a bullet.”

“They wouldn’t, would they?”

“JFK got it.”


"It’ll work out, son.”

“I don’t see how. The New World Order is crazy and if Rubinstein is in charge, it’s curtains for us all.”

“I’m investing in land in South America for us," said his father, apathetically. "What else can I do?"

George sighed. He walked off over to the clubhouse. How is this all going to end? He asked himself as he walked up the steps into the interior. A TV mounted on a pillar was showing pictures of US bombers attacking Kabul.

“The bombardment of Kabul is continuing day and night,” the anchor was saying in tense voices. “This is the first step of Operation Enduring Freedom. Troops will only be committed when the resistance there has been softened up. Reports are that the Taliban regime which supported al Qaeda and the terrorists that destroyed the WTC is crumbling.”

George stopped at the bar and asked the barman for a coke. He sipped it while he watched the TV. The next report was about the "terrorists" who attacked the WTC...

“Turn it off will you?” he shouted out. “I can’t stand the stuff.”