Losing the Plot: (Civil War)

Maniza Naqvi Meanguy

Chapter One: The Little Coffee Shop

Chapter Two: The Hotel

Chapter 3: Dreaming Dulles

Stanley knew—Eileen would have him murdered. It was understandable. At another time he would have done the same. And the hours left to save her—someone who was life itself to him–were but a few. Madness—to have made so much of nothing—But Eileen would've and had. Eileen had been directed to find a problem. Eileen had done as she was told. Damned if the eager ambitious good soldier wouldn’t have done her job—reported success. No one on either side of the river ever admitted failure. And Eileen, when this was done, and as was the way, would move on. Up and on. Propelled by a sense of entitled good fortune. A higher calling another institution. Perhaps even a corner office and a view of the Potomac. Collateral damage would be the job left to be unearthed by researchers, decades from now—But there are no remedies, no reparations, no atonements for the loss of flesh and blood. Stanley would not be able to bear it. Not now. He would have to make it right.

Eileen had gone back and returned now—on Labor Day weekend. Must have been something pressing to miss out on a long weekend and be here instead. Missing Memorial Day and this one, was not done often by Washingtonians. A tradition revered: of saluting warriors and nodding to workers punctuating the beginning and end of a short summer. He thought back to those weekends away—affairs, of shadows and shades of verandahs and spires—–and out there on the beach—sunshine–umbrellas, dolphins–children jumping waves and gathering Cape May diamonds scooping them into empty vanilla shake cups—The crowds on the Boardwalk—families strolling in packs, clans and tribes–—crew cuts—ray bans; breasts, bleached hair–and tanned thighs— the accents speaking lines of foreign lands—and those Mason-Dixon lines. Hard candy, fudge and Southern Fried- and stomping on chickens and frogs in arcades–The flag lowering ceremonies at sunset, his hand on his heart back then—choking with emotion and pride. God Bless America—my home sweet home! A long time ago–all that. Now an echo of whatever never came to be.

And now Eileen was back—from DC–Three months later—she was back. And here he was: on a high floor looking down on Islamabad, back in her hotel room inside its safety, its remoteness, its discreet, centrality. Here he was spinning it as much as he could and proving that he had lost it because proving his madness to Eileen was the only way out. Because it would never fly, because it would have been implausible even to him, that he was just a man—sentimental, desperate to forge closeness to a person and a place so dear to him. Time carries the risk of tenderness. This was the kind of truth that interrogators would find unacceptable and would beat out of anyone until they heard what sounded right. He glanced at the attendant Sig on the nightstand, dull and thick, personally his own preference had always been a Glock. Pretty and sleek.

Meanguy Stanley sat in an upholstered armchair pulled near the window, while his fingers worried and pulled at the hardened cracked skin of his soles and toes. The right index was the only one left unwounded during his meditations. Day dreaming Dulles had taken a toll. He had pulled back the heavy drapes from the hotel window to watch the sun begin to rise over Islamabad. The night in retreat, the hills were steadily shifting in variegated shades, of cobalt, indigo, purple. Hues of green would emerge eventually. It had rained through the night and the promise of a clear day was in abundance, the air would be cool and sparkling. And the horizon in near distance appeared as though it were a finishing line. It would be a day like this. Yes, it would be a day like this. He had spent the last half hour in a self induced fog, as he persisted in trying to convince Eileen of his hunches without much success. Yet he persisted:

I was always faithful and loyal to my country Eileen—I protected it with everything I could give to it—I committed, for that loyalty, as others will surely judge, many crimes— But I cannot be loyal and faithful to crime itself. This is all about crime. Organized crime. Can you understand Eileen?

Stanley could see that she didn’t and resisted thinking differently. There was no way to overcome this—reconcile it. Yet, their exertions tonight, had been surprisingly terrific– as if it were sex between strangers, deep, energetic and uninhibited having lost its previous focus on efficiency —as if they were liberated and impassioned by their mutual misgivings of each other and differences of opinions—as if their common credo—the reveling in distrust, were a potent aphrodisiac.

Now Eileen, her tousled head, gleaming in the soft lamp light, propped up on the many white pillows continued to argue though in a purring dreamy voice: I don’t know what to make of you Stanley. But the fact is Stanley people write fiction but you actually believe it!

Really, Eileen? Just me? “Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don't know we don't know?” Remember that? We invaded a country based on that piece of logic.

Stanley—I’m talking about here and now—you in Pakistan. You’ve been here too long you’ve immersed yourself so deeply into their culture of brewing and believing conspiracies that you’ve actually started to believe them yourself. And you seem to have too much time on your hands—surfing the internet—look at you you’ve spent half the night in front of the stupid screen instead of here in bed with me. I mean I really think it’s time for you to go home. You need to get back home—Stateside—clear your head.

No Eileen—you have to listen to me. I’m on to something. I’ve been piecing it all together after I completely lost it the day she was killed Eileen.


Benazir—who else?

Well we all lost it that day Stanley—it was a really sad day for everyone.

No Eileen, it wasn’t, not for everyone. Did a private military contractor’s death squad, kill Benazir Bhutto? Was it a laser guided shot—from a drone—planned in their headquarters thousands of miles away in the US somewhere–which killed her? The day she died—the cartel came a calling—didn’t it, to warn and threaten her to not double cross them? She had a meeting just before she went out to the rally—a warning to adhere to the deal or else—

Stop! Just Stop! Stanley. Eileen raised her voice—clearly tiring of his argument: Baitullah Mesud killed Benazir, Stanley, I thought we—you had established that.

Did you hear that Eileen?


I thought I heard someone cry out!

You must have imagined it Stanley—there’s construction going on all over this hotel.—could be anything. You’re getting so paranoid! Can we change the subject please? Let’s talk about you— Stanley, we’ve never talked about the women in your life.

Eileen, I thought we’d settled that.

How come you never got married Stanley?

You were taken.

Flattering, Stanley, thank you, but not true. So why didn’t you?

Didn’t my records have an emotional analysis? You must’ve read through the files.

Yes. Not much there. A loner, emotionally isolated—perversely loyal.

Yup. Wouldn’t have been able to handle being unfaithful—good enough reason? Betrayal is part of the game you know. And I wanted to follow the example of my parents—good Iowan values—till death do you part and knew I couldn’t. Anyway who said I wasn’t married? I was, happily. I was married to the Agency. I just got divorced!

Stanley got up and climbed back into bed—he pulled back the covers enough to reveal Eileen’s naked breasts—he kissed the left breast lightly and bit her taut pink nipple. Eileen moaned, closed her eyes to avoid the red-blue flickering shadows cast on the ceiling by the TV and settled back deep into the bed as she pushed his head gently down her body and sighed: I guess it can wait.

A few minutes later—she laughed pleased —triumphant, as though this had been an achievement of sorts. God I needed that!

Stanley grinned mussed her hair and turning away from her prepared to doze off—

She glanced at the news flickering on CNN on mute—John King outside the White House: She said: Look at those blue skies–Another lovely day in DC, makes me homesick.

Stanley turned and considered the images on TV. They both watched—reading the news tape at the bottom of the screen.

It’ll be a day just like this, Eileen when it happens.

Eileen groaned: What Stanley? When what happens?

The real assault. The civil war. The surfacing of the war on our streets. It would have to be a day like this wouldn’t it? The kind of day that’s clear and crisp, not a cloud in the sky not a worry in your eyes. A perfect day—kids back at school. The kind of day, on which, nothing can go wrong. And nothing does. The kind of day that the thought of something going wrong is what makes it so much more perfect and dear. It’s the shadows that make the light. The kind of day that gives you the clarity that nothing does go wrong unless it is allowed to. Operation “ Let’s Roll”—will happen soon Eileen.

You’re losing me—Stanley.

Meanguy All the hullaballoo about the Taliban being 70 miles from Islamabad—don’t be surprised if there are militias 70 miles from Washington DC getting ready to roll in—-Hummer Trucks and armed to the teeth—live free or die—ready to march in and do some Khmer Rouge style re-education! They are the real deal—the real extremists—training for years for this—in our own hills and valleys—in our own plains and savannahs. Praying, fervently for the rapture. Frothing at the mouth about the socialist big Government. Advocating militarism—their icons for worship, Generals. Playing war with paintball guns on weekends—while lovingly stashing the real deal weapons in their secured and Armageddon ready basements. And boy oh boy are they ever getting ready for their moment! And because they’ve been training for years—driven and sustained by their fundamentalist beliefs—they paint their adversaries in the same way—of religious fanatics. But they would, they are a narcissistic nation, the ones that look at the world like they’re gazing into a mirror. No wonder they scream about extremism everywhere—they’re completely and solely nothing but this, all about it—all about it—To them the whole world appears to think and behave like they do. So get ready Eileen. They might just be rolling into a zip code near you soon—guns-and ammo in hands—drones overhead and doctrine in their hearts —cell phone operated drones Eileen—courtesy of the Prayers at Breakfasts crew and the Cartel and all the private security contractors.

A civil war in the US—Stanley you’ve really been here too long!

Yup. There’s a civil war going on—and you have to pick a side—and I don’t mean here in Pakistan—I mean there—back home in those United States of America. Do you really think those gun strapped—loud mouthed, lunatics invoking Hitler gratuitously, every chance they get–are shouting and screeching about health reform? Well I’ve got news for you—it ain’t about health reform. It’s about reform alright—a new kind of fascism—based on alpha power not race—the survival and ascendency of the most ruthless. It is about the constitution versus the National Prayer Breakfast. It is about public space and public money versus private interests. It’s the Justice Department versus, CIA versus FBI. It’s the Defense Department versus the White House—versus the State Department. It is about God versus the writ of the State. And it is this civil war that’s being played out—over there—back home. By the way Eileen have you ever had the pleasure to actually listen to any of their speeches at the National Prayer Breakfast? You can watch them all on the internet.

Can’t say I have Stanley—You're reading too much into stuff.

I’m connecting the dots Eileen—I’m triangulating.

I’d call that a very active imagination Stan.

Really Eileen? Connect the dots. We don’t know what we don’t know. Right? If we can imagine it, then it must exist. Right? That’s what took us to war in Iraq in the first place right? Our fiction against their ability to refute it? Because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don't know we don't know. We know that we don’t know and we know that what we don’t know, exits. And here-we have the facts—right here on the internet sitting in plain sight. And the fact is this: One side is propositioning endless war—-and God. This side believes that War and adversity lead people to God. It’s God’s blessed work. And they believe that they are chosen to do that work. Just listen to them yapping at the National Prayer Breakfast meetings. The other side and I’m on that side Eileen believes in the justice system—not the law of God but the law created by man.

Eileen laughed and shook her head in amusement. You’re drinking your own Kool Aid. Cartels—coalitions of dead generals disappeared—living in the Bermuda triangle—no wait—- Miami—A civil war in the US!

Stanley looked at her in frustration: Do you realize what I’m relating to you here Eileen? After everything—after the seven years of bombing and war and all our might thrown at them—a drug cartel rules Afghanistan doesn’t it Eileen? Not the Taliban—but the drug cartel. Fighting the Taliban seems to be an excuse to ensure that the cartel grows and expands unfettered—and that it continues to find new businesses. War has always been good for business. A drug cartel is in place—Isn’t it? One that we lauded, feted, fawned upon—brought back in to power? I don’t need to tell you that Afghanistan has never seen the kind of bumper crops of opium as it has in the eight years of war. The drug trade is booming. Dushanbe is thriving—and so is Dubai.

Eileen nodded in agreement: That’s true! We went to town with Karzai–over the top! Didn’t Tom Ford, the designer go as far as to refer to Karzai as the chic-est man of the year or something? And didn’t Ahmed Rashid paint him as a hero—a real leader in his book? Unfortunate! We’re up the creek for sure—-between a rock and a hard place with the constellation of characters in leadership positions in Afghanistan. But what can you do? Given the nature of the place there’s a lack of options it’s a brutal tribal society. Steeped in religion. Things we don’t understand.

Eileen reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and again Stanley’s gaze brushed over the two tone Sig P238 nestled snuggly amongst the valium, face creams and reading glasses.

Stanley laughed: Unfortunate? Brutal tribal society? Steeped in religion? Things we don’t understand? We’re busy creating things we don’t understand! And are we keeping America safe by making sure we’re protected and guarded by sex depraved, violent—orgiastic private contracted security guards! We’re keeping America safe? Or are we fucking up even more then we already have.

Stanley we’re draining the swamp!

Oh yeah—and refilling it with black water? Every pun intended! We’re putting down a military base inside a new billion dollar embassy here in Pakistan that’s going to be run by private security contractors. Gun toting fanatics and fuck ups. How long before we make sure Pakistan is run by them? How long before the US is taken over by them? Civilian contractors working for the Pentagon now outnumber our uniformed troops in Afghanistan Eileen! Just imagine–65 percent are private contractors in Afghanistan—working for the Pentagon—So who do you think is in control? These private firms are staffed by ex-military guys–guys who were trained on taxpayer money in the army–going on to make big profits for the private sector. That's how it works right? Tax payers pay for the training and the innovations on which private corporations make their profits? Sounds to me like we’re privatizing the region, handing over this entire region into the hands of the cartel—after all 70 percent of our logistics support, food and fuel passes through the ports in Pakistan to be sent to Afghanistan 300 truck loads and more a day. All this is a very booming—excuse the pun—business. The business of war—endless war—for what should have been a police operation to root out the drug mafia. War endlessly. Who do you think owns those trucks—And when those trucks return from Afghanistan to Karachi and routes in between what do you think those trucks come back carrying?

Meanguy.jpgi My God Stanley—you’ve poisoned yourself on this nonsense!

Someday in the future, Eileen, we’re not going to ask ourselves—why did they hate us? But why didn’t they hate us more.

Stanley got out of bed—grabbed the laptop and got back in. He propped himself up against the over sized fluffy white pillows: Here Eileen come look at this stuff on the internet with me. I’ll tell show you who’s steeped in religion—You tell me who sees the world only through the prism of religion. You tell me whose happy as can be here and who seems to see such good coming out of pain. Just listen to what these guys said at the National Power-I mean, Prayer Breakfast, here watch this on my computer and you tell me who can’t see past religion. Here watch Bush.

No—stop it.

Here's what Tony Blair had to say: “I only say that there are limits to humanism and beyond those limits God and only God can work.

Stanley! Stop it.

And here watch that evangelist Bono. What’s going on huh? Why are they so big on prayer and politics? And at the National Prayer Breakfast, especially when we know that the founder of this thing is that nut job group of religious fanatics—what are they called La Familia? And here’s what we know about Xe or Blackwater .

It’s all connected. God is power—God is money. God is Privatization—laissez faire, the Invisible Hand. Sovereign debt. God is Sovereign. We are indebted to God for choosing us as his special agents. He is indebted to us for doing his work. We make him in our image you see—he has made us in His. This is the holy war Eileen—the real holy warriors are on our side.

The militias are coming Eileen-there’s a civil war about to blow in our own country and its going to be financed by everything we’ve been sowing for a very long time.

This is really rich Stanley! Accusing us of fundamentalism!

Isn’t it though, Eileen, rich? We’re concerned about madrassas in Pakistan teaching a theology of hate and that’s what we’re telling the world and Pakistanis. We’re telling them and the world that Pakistanis have a crazy religious doctrine– So what kind of fundamentalism are those madrassa teaching anyways, Eileen? Could it be ours? D’ya know that most of those people—those illiterate bastards don’t even know what the Koran actually says? They can’t even read and they’ve been made to memorize it in Arabic—by rote by another guy who pretends to be able to understand. It’s the illiterate teaching the illiterate. So what if I tell you that we’ve been handing out the Bible to them—with the word Koran slapped on the front of it—in Arabic and in translation in the local languages—Do you think they know the difference?

Stanley-that’s just dangerous talk.

Might be dangerous talk Eileen, I’m sure it is. But that’s what the crusades are all about. But what if the Pentagon is involved in training madrassa teachers, along with the prayer breakfast crew?

Stanley—I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry—you need help—you seem to have isolated yourself from reality. Surely you don’t believe everything you see and read on the internet?

Eileen don’t insult me. Do you think I need the internet to know this? There’s a cartel. It controls the wars. It controls the militias and the militaries. Even we—us, the US are a pawn. The financial markets are owned by it. We—the guys I work with we managed to engineer a financial collapse last September– engineered to take the rug out from under them. Sure we have had some unfortunate collateral damage–the auto industry is a fall out but that was a good thing, the auto industry needed this type of a crisis to shake it up anyway —for it to really change. And good for the environment too!

So you’re telling me that the financial meltdown in September 2008 was somehow instigated by you?

Yup—and my buddies—we decided to deal with the mafia and climate change all in one yanking of the rug.

That’s just fiction!

There you go again Eileen—call this fiction. Well Eileen, I will say to you—that most everything we know is fiction. Just think about it—look around you—what do you know about the people on the street or in room with you. Your brain assumes that it knows about them and who they are. Same thing goes for a place, you arrive and make assumptions of what it means and what makes it tick. Until you are told something about it. Then you consider that a fact. Facts are the information we chose to believe in.

Proven, evidence based Stanley!! Facts have a basis in reality.

Yes, until it, a fact is disproved. We have an expectation of the familiar Eileen. We have a poverty of expectations. We have a routine obsession of a few familiar dangers. There have been warnings and signals—Nations can profit from war. But the Bankers will not find the money for such wars… – Paul Wolfowitz said that Eileen–predicting catastrophe—the unexpected at a graduation speech at Westpoint in June 2001. So where will the money come from if the Bankers don’t finance the wars? It all starts to point towards something dunnit?

Oh God, Stanley—

Did you hear that Eileen—what was that..?


I thought I heard a woman scream—

Again? Really? You’re just spooked Stanley. I didn’t hear anything. And screaming in a hotel room darling is de-rigeur. I hope whoever you heard has it as good as I do.

No Eileen. It was terrible—I think I just heard it again—did you hear that—I think it’s coming through the air ducts…

It’s air conditioning Stanley.

No….I better go see.

Stanley we’re in a hotel—there will be some screaming…The wedding suites are nearby you know. I’m sure I startled someone next door just a moment go–.

Eileen giggled. Stanley smiled weakly.

You asked me Stanley —Whose side am I on? I’m on our side.

Our side, you see, has many sides Eileen—and like I said they’re all at war with each other.

I’m on the side that keeps this country strong and safe.

Then make them stop the goddamn drone attacks! Is that what we’ve become Eileen an assassin nation? Assassins in the sky? Airborne cowardly murderers? Assassins R us? We’re destroying people and we are destroying our reputation! Our airpower contains the seeds of our own destruction.We are doing the cartel’s business! Why are we doing the cartel’s business?

Stanley—one minute you’re talking Wall Street then next you’re the raging peacenik! You’re looney.

Twenty five years Eileen to the day I’ve been here. I helped bring Benazir back—Met her in London on my way into the assignment here in Islamabad. We made it happen for her—brought her back to Pakistan—arm twisted Zia, got a deal—gave him no choice. And I was here when we did it again—told another General it was time for him to go and for her to come back. She liked me, she trusted me—she said I was her go to person on everything that needed fixing. She called me Jack. Did you know that? She just decided to call me Jack. She said I looked like Jack Kennedy. Now there was a naïve gal who didn’t know much about facts.

I know that Stan.

She had a bullet wound the size of baseball in her skull—where the bullet went in. I went crazy that day Eileen. You’re right—I am crazy. I lost it—lost it completely that day. I let myself free fall into information—I started to connect the dots. You know how much fiction I’ve made around here—so I know how to find my way to the facts. That was a laser guided baby, not a handheld gun. Makes me sick even now—I get dizzy thinking about the brutality—the primeval brutality of it.

That’s right Stanley these people are brutes—tribal—uneducated illiterate Neanderthals.

Yup—I’d describe them that way too Eileen—but I don’t think we’re talking about the same people.

Stanley you’ve been here too long. You think you’re talking about a cartel?

Meanguy.jpgi Yes I am Eileen. Did Blackwater kill Benazir Bhutto, Eileen? The Secret Assassination Squad sub contracted by CIA? Ever think about that possibility? Benazir had agreed to be the boss. Our man from Washington—the guy who brought in Karzai in Kabul—the drug dream team—parlayed the deal along with that perennial sleaze bag from Pakistan—the guy with the gift of gab—a Islamist turned liberal democrat who seems to have survived and flourished in every Government since Zia-ul-Haq. What is he now—heading a think tank in DC? He’s calling the shots on Pakistan from Washington. Everyone’s sitting pretty—Ambassadors, Ministers—memoire writers—obituary makers. Everyone of them is sitting pretty except Benazir—she’s dead—for turning for changing her mind. Now the only role she’s got is the usage of her mug. Her mug’s on wrist watches handed out to visiting dignitaries. The cartel has turned her into a souvenir a time piece. She’s got the role of being referred to as a martyr or “My Wife”. They’re handing out watches with her mug on it. And guess what, she was a long standing member of the National Prayer Breakfast she attended the sessions every year! They had a little remembrance ceremony for her after she died.

So what Stanley—She was a smart lady—she made the rounds in Washington, so what?

Here’s what I’m saying Eileen: What if the big boss of the cartel changes takes the operation to the next level and then gets out—retires—another identity another name —several identities perhaps, several names. Why not? The God father is who ever-makes it to the top of the food chain and manages the operation in the living world for the cartel. Benazir didn’t have the gumption—she was ambitious yes—but sweet too—very confused—just wanted to do the right thing by her name—and would do anything for that. She was hungry for celebrity. Addicted to it. Celebrity is a drug Eileen, more powerful then opium, heroine, or crack or cocaine. She knew she had to get back to Pakistan—for that drug—otherwise she was a has been—condemned to dying in oblivion as a suburban wife going to the mall for vanilla shakes with the kids in Dubai and speaking at Gender conferences in Oslo. So she agreed to become a part of the cartel–but changed her mind at the last minute. So she was taken out—for real.

And so are you saying…..

Yes ma’am I am. That’s what I’m saying. There was someone who had been the “Guest” of the ISI for eleven years. Anyone who can stay in an ISI jail for eleven years is one of them. We’re looking into the possibility—it would fit. He could be the Godfather now. We’re looking into a very interesting coincidence. It could mean something or it could mean nothing. In 1986 a PAN AM Boeing 747 was hijacked as it sat at Karachi airport waiting to fly to Frankfurt, Germany, en route to New York. There were five hijackers. And four of them were doing time in a high security prison in Rawalpindi. —same jail as the Godfather stayed in—They were released and sent back to Palestine seven days after Benazir was assassinated. They had served 14 years in jail. Is that a coincidence?

Yes, Stanley.

Not for me, Eileen, I tend to think there are no coincidences. Especially, not if seven days earlier Benazir had been assassinated.

What are you saying Stanley? Palestinians are involved in killing Benazir?

No Eileen that’s not what I’m saying—I’m saying that none of it is so simple. Hijackings—assassinations who orders them and who carries them out its not so simple. I have to save—-I mean I couldn’t save—I owe her a debt. I have to get to the bottom of this. I’m just saying….But I digress. Sovereign debt. That’s where they’re sitting, Eileen. Governments have been selling bonds—the cartel has been buying up the bonds. They’ve been buy up the bonds through private equity investment firms that belong to them based out of Dubai. Governments have in effect been laundering money for the largest criminal organization in the world headquartered in Dubai. The bonds are financing the wars. The cartel is financing the wars.

I thought China was financing our wars.

China too. But the cartel owns us. Isn’t it something!

You make it sound so simple Stanley.

It is—or it was Eileen. I mean Madoff could happen right under our noses right? With all the fiduciary regulations and all the follow the money forensics—right? Shoveling in money from people and shoveling out a portion of to others like as though these were real profits? Well why not a huge money laundering operation and more. Like A-One Ltd.

Sure why not Stanley? A-One Limited? Who are they?

A- One Ltd is a hugely significant investment company based in No- Questions Asked Zone: In who- cares-where-you-get-your-capital- Dubai. A-One just came out of nowhere at about the same time as when there was exponential amounts of drug money, gun money, stolen and stashed away money—all looking to be laundered and re-invested!


Remember all the billions of dollars going into Iraq as cash in 2003—crate loads—guarded by private security contractors? A-One Limited is hugely capitalized with an issued share capital of billions of dollars. Should ring some alarm bells no? But it doesn’t. It’s an investment outfit specializing in private equity investments around the planet. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Tajikistan, Dubai—you can say it’s all over the Middle East, and South Asia. A-One Ltd. has collectively executed some of the most unbelievably profitable business decisions in investments you could say in the history of such investments in the region. They control gold bourses and stock markets. They own shopping malls and hotels from Karachi to Kabul to Dushanbe and in places like Kirkuk and in Dubai. They organize and finance gun fairs in the United States. The second amendment baby. You name it they’ve leveraged bought it out—airlines, shipping companies—hospitals—orchards, security services—private schools, garbage utilities. Every financial and institutional investment journal raves about their performance—they seem to get all the high praise that’s possible. The firm manages equity funds deals in sovereign debt and the purchase of dud public sector companies and utilities which it miraculously turns around to garner profit percentages that would make Warren Buffet seem like a bingo player. Speaking of players—they’re big on sports events—they’re big on cricket matches—one day cricket—the betting on it—It is the perfect instrument for money laundering. Remember Bob Woolmer’s murder at the World Cup in Jamaica? Well he failed to deliver on a huge bookies betting scam. They’re big in the Bollywood film industry too—look it up—what was General Zia’s daughter doing in Bombay staying over with an Indian movie star who considers her to be like a sister to him? Say what?

Uhuh. Wow—Stanley—the plot thickens.

It does Eileen. And what if the blowing up of the Marriot hotel was a killing of two birds with One stone? Create more hotel demand in Islamabad—and increase the threat level—for military operations—war is the greatest business ever. Investors love them—A-One-Ltd. Who wouldn’t? Heck they turn a profit margin that no one else can match. Apparently they have the management expertise to identify diamonds in the rough, turn around bad management, increase and install operational procedures and systems that no one else thought about and viola miracles. But most of their investments are in a number of holding companies which in turn own a number of investment banks, asset management companies; internet online companies; logistics and courier services and of course insurance companies. Lots and lots of each.

Anything they don't own?

They own the stock market in Pakistan. When the whole world’s stock market was tanking in October 2007—the bourse in Karachi was rising…How? And they own the Gold Market in Dubai—they finance most of the media channels in the region.

Fiction!—Total fiction Mr. McMullen. Civil war in the US—endless wars—a cartel financing it all—taking over everything—-

The fact is Mrs. Costa—It is all fiction isn’t it? The point is who will believe yours and who will believe mine. I would warrant that mine has more currency than does yours.

At some point soon—Stanley we have to talk about the girl.

What girl Eileen?

There’s always a girl, Stanley—a man of a certain age and in a situation like this always has a girl.

Is there an age, Eileen and a situation?

Suppose not! She said and laughed: A man always has a girl, no matter the age or the situation. It’s the fear of… of…y’know..




[2] http://www.economist.com/sciencetechnology/tq/displaystory.cfm?story_id=14299496




Tony Blair speaking at the National Prayer Breakfast earlier this year “”The 21st century will be poorer in spirit, meaner in ambition, less disciplined in conscience if it is not under the guardianship of faith in god.” …”I only say there are limits to humanism and beyond those limits god and only god can work.” http://www.ekklesia.co.uk/node/8558