Wise Eyed Open - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Helter Skelter', 'Power Grab' & 'Rust' - books 7, 8, & 9 in the series

Introduction

We will know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American people believe is false

William Case, CIA Director 1981


Mark Cholmondeley was seething.

Not an unknown state he had to admit but this time it was with good reason. It was intolerable that the UK Prime Minister could be summoned like a naughty schoolboy to answer to a group of doddering fools, made powerful simply because they'd been born into the world's richest banking families. Knowing that it was to them he owed his continuance in office served to increase his sense of humiliation. The only plus side of what was coming was that he would be sharing the carpeting with the similarly indebted, US president, Orland Stone.

This was why Cholmondeley and Stone were shown to a separate meeting hall at the back of the complex, whilst their peers, like them, delegates to the exclusive Bilderberg meeting, made their way to the main lobby.

To their chagrin they were made to wait on either side of huge double wooden doors for several minutes before finally being invited in.

They rose together and straightened their jackets, "After you, Mark," offered the President with a disarming boyish twinkle. Cholmondeley sighed under his breath, nodded with a tight smile and lead the way into the room.

In what was obviously a calculated plan to increase the sense of impending doom the room was dark; made so deliberately by heavy curtains drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking any hint of sunlight and every other wall lamp had been switched off.

There was a log fire burning in the magnificent fire place at the end of the room which, whilst throwing out some light, was also abetting the gothic effect. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, then they became aware of two high backed chairs in the middle of the room.

Ahead of them, above the fireplace hung a portrait sized blacked out screen.

"Take a seat, gentlemen," said a cultured voice.

As these words resonated a large letter G set in the middle of a set square and compass appeared on the screen with a flaming numeral 1 burning underneath it. Then six more screens flickered into life, three on each side of the room, all showing different graphics, each with a number underneath.

"Be seated," said the voice again, this time with a little more force to the command.

Stone did as he was bid. Cholmondeley adjusted his suit jacket again and took his seat more slowly, making a play of pulling up his trouser legs to avoid spoiling the creases, damned if he was going to jump.

"What went wrong with La Palma?" demanded the voice behind screen 1.

Whilst a dressing down and interrogation had been expected Cholmondeley had thought they would sit down round a table like gentlemen, not be made to go through this ridiculous farce with faceless TV screens. In his annoyance he left a gap which Stone filled.

"We did our bit, Mr Chairman, we provided the ordnance but the Brits messed up."

Cholmondeley was instantly furious; back-stabbing yank, "We most certainly did not, Stone."

"You drilled too deep," said Stone.

"We drilled to the depth instructed by your experts, so if anybody messed up then it was your people."

"We gave you accurate intel, pal, but you put amateurs on the job and they messed up."

"Mr Chairman," said Cholmondeley, standing up to address screen 1, "my people assure me that we drilled to the exact depth specified...."

"No way," Stone too was standing, a head to head confrontation, all pretence at diplomacy gone, "we gave you accurate figures, you messed up..."

"How can you know that?" demanded Cholmondeley.

"You blew the whole bloody island to smithereens, you idiot," snapped Stone.

The formless voice cut across their altercation, "We lost our trail leading back to Al Qaeda."

Cholmondeley and Stone froze in their adversarial positions, then sank back into their chairs.

The flames flickered on the screen with the number 2 on it, "You blew it, our justification for going into Iran."

The man had pronounced Iran as 'eye-ran'; an American voice with American directness. The skull and crossed bones on the screen made Cholmondeley shiver.

"Well?" This from another screen, one further to the back of the room, showing the number 3.

Cholmondeley was furious at not being able to say what he felt, for not having the courage to walk away from this puerile nonsense with the flames and the numbers and the icons, but then he spoke and there was a tremor in his voice, "It wasn't our mistake."

"It so was," stated Stone, "who did the drilling?"

"This whole operation was a complete fiasco," this came from screen 4 on the left, a thin, reedy voice, but no mistaking the venom, "years of planning...all for nothing."

"Do you people realise how much money has been lost?" demanded screen 5, this one portraying the all-seeing eye of the Illuminati. The bored tones were at odds with the seriousness of the charge.

The voice continued, "Everything was in place; resources, media stories, the vote to the UN for the official invasion of Iran has been prepared, palms had been greased, we were ready for the off and now we have to stand everything down and treat the whole affair like a natural disaster."

Both Cholmondeley and Stone had realised at the same moment that further protest was only delaying the inevitable. They had been brought here to accept blame not extricate themselves from it. Both men appeared to lose physical stature in that abrupt realisation.

"The primaries are approaching, Stone," said the American voice behind screen 2, "any more screw-ups and our support goes elsewhere."

Cholmondeley suppressed a smirk, he at least could not be threatened with democratic removal, not after the destruction of Parliament and the loss of so many MPs. He was necessary. It was his time to shine.

"You may leave, Prime Minister Cholmondeley," said the voice behind screen 1.

Cholmondeley's face betrayed his concern; would something important be agreed behind his back? Then he rose from his seat, looked over to his sometime friend Orland Stone, cleared his throat and left the room, his tread slow and very uncertain.

As soon as the door had closed behind him the screen 2 interlocutor spoke, "Listen up, Stone. In the coming weeks there will be an atrocity against one of the Israeli settlements in the West Bank."

Stone stared at the screen, his mouth suddenly dry.

The voice continued, "Israel will be forced to make a radical decision."

Stone spoke without thinking, "What does that mean?"

"It is not for you to question," the screen 1 voice cut in sharply, "it is for you to listen and to do as we bid."

"I am the President of the United States," said Stone, finding strength from somewhere, "and I will not be spoken to like this."

"My dear Stone, I thought we had made quite clear the tenuous nature of your position," said the thin voice of screen 4, the icon a rose with a cross inside, "perhaps we weren't clear enough."

Stone stared at the screen, impotent fury burning through his veins.

The American voice continued, "Israel will be forced to clear the Palestinians from the West Bank for the sake of security."

"All of them?" asked Stone, aghast, "Surely not, there must be some other way."

"Damn right there's another way, Stone," said the American, impatient with his errant countryman, "but this is the way it's gonna be. The West Bank will become Israeli territory, as will Gaza in due course and the US of A will support Israel in this matter. The only question is whether it's under your leadership or not, remember that."

Stone's head fell; his brief resistance over.

"Now to further business," said the voice behind screen 1, "recent figures indicate that over 75% of Americans are now living below the poverty line."

"I've followed your economic plan to the letter," said Stone, "it's not my fault, the recession has bitten deeper than anyone could've imagined."

"We have examined the details," the cold voice continued, ignoring the interruption, "and most of those living in poverty are in the South; the Hispanic South-West and the Black belt of the South-East."

Stone shrugged; this was not news.

"We intend for the US to break up into four separate countries," said the hitherto silent partner behind screen 6, a thick tone to the voice, a slight hiss to the words. Stone's instinct said South American.

"What?" said Stone, "No, that can't happen, not on my watch. Not today or any day."

"As previously stated, quite succinctly by my esteemed colleague, it will happen, President Stone," said the man behind screen 6, "with or without your help."

Stone had some difficulty understanding quite what had been said, the rich accent distorting some of the words but the key message came over, loud and clear. He asked, knowing he shouldn't, "But why? What will it get you?"

There was silence, then muted murmurings. Stone was beginning to wonder if he should leave, and then screen 1 flickered and the cultured voice broke the stillness, "We have sufficient wealth. Retaining these redundant parts of America will merely serve to drain resources, add to our tax burden."

The American voice broke in, harshly, "Cut 'em loose an' let 'em rot."

"You're talking about the United States of America," said Stone, pulling himself to his feet, "that's the name of the country, the United States."

"Well, son," said the American, his voice dry, "times change."

Stone thought he heard him snicker.

"The relevant parties have been financed and they will begin pressing for independence in the coming months," said screen 1, "your job is to accommodate them, do you understand?"

Stone stared at the screen above the fire.

"I expect an answer, Stone."

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

∞

Cholmondeley was shocked at the sight of the man who came through the doors. He looked diminished. Gone was the boyishly bouncy, all-American kid made good, with his impossibly big, white teeth and equally impossible big hair and bone-crushing hand-shake.

Stone was shaking his head and muttering, "Looks like I'm going down as the President who oversaw the break up of the good old US of A."

"Surely they don't mean....." said Cholmondeley.

"They do mean exactly that," said Stone, "and don't think you guys got away with it either."

"What do you mean? Got away with what?"

"Brexit and that Scottish thing," said Stone, "that's just gonna come back and bite you in the ass."

"Did they mention that?"

"They didn't have to. Where'd' you think the pressure came from in the first place? Where'd'you think these fringe groups get their funding and media support?"

Cholmondeley loosened his collar, "Did they mention anything else about La Palma?"

"Like what?"

"About me?"

Stone sneered, "Not to me but if I were you I'd double my security detail."

"They did say something," pressed Cholmondeley.

"No, they didn't," stated Stone, "they threatened me with the coming elections, but they can't do that to you now. They'll need another stick to beat you with, to keep everyone else in line."

"Surely you don't think they'd...."

"Let's just say, I wouldn't make any long term plans."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers for reading

Arun