(President Kennedy, President Sukarno of Indonesia, and Lyndon Johnson)
“St. Michael the Archangel is with you. St. Michael before you, St. Michael behind you. St. Michael to the right, St. Michael to the left. St. Michael all around. Remember this. And go forward into your true work.”
With these words of blessing from a clairvoyant friend, I set off for Indonesia on March 1st, 2013. The exact nature of my duties was still to be determined. The title of “Communications Director” left a lot of room for definition – especially given the free-wheeling one-man-show nature of Neil Keenan and his work. The high profile of Jean Haines’ blog at that time gave us a platform for quasi-journalistic updates which could be quickly reposted across the alternative web. I saw a chance to share with the world my perspective on the day-by-day unfolding of this effort to shift the global balance of power in the direction of freedom and healing. But I knew it would all depend on Keenan, and how well we might get along – it was already clear to me that while he could be affable and engaging, it was “Neil’s way or the highway” when it came to his work.
That was fine with me – Neil was the boss, and was handling a complex web of contacts across the worlds of diplomacy, world finance, intelligence, and organized crime which he kept close to his vest, guided by a long-term strategy of his own which he only occasionally chose to share with me.
He made his home in Bulgaria – by accident it seemed. He had married Sonia, a beautiful Bulgarian Olympic swimmer, and had visited Bulgaria when Sonia’s mother appeared to be on her deathbed – whereupon she lingered in that condition for years and Keenan stayed on in a country he would never have chosen as a home. The crisis of the Global Accounts required him to spend long stretches of time in Jakarta, but his long-range plan (once the assets were correctly placed to fund humanitarian programs) was to retire with his wife and son to a small island he had purchased off the coast of the Dominican Republic. “We’ll have our own little country, Michael – we’ll have a blast!”
During his last visit to Bulgaria, just before he returned to Jakarta in February, 2013, he had been attacked by two men armed with knives on an open street. As luck would have it (Keenan has more than his share of it), the attack took place in front of a shop owned by a military veteran friend of Neil’s. Keenan prides himself on his street fighting abilities – and he does retain the physical confidence of a top athlete, despite a bad knee from his pro basketball days. He told me the story with relish and a gleam in his eye.
“Those poor guys! Thought they had a pudgy old man to deal with! Ha, ha – I took one out with a kick to the knee, and was working on the other one when my buddy came out from the shop – he’s one of those ex-military guys with sharpened teeth, you know what I mean? Those guys ended up in the hospital. Turns out they were hired from Europe by you know who.”
Around the same time, he brushed against a stranger on the street, and hours later was at death’s door in a hospital – apparently a standard intelligence community inoculation with a deadly poison. As he told it, only his contacts in the Bulgarian intelligence community (who knew what had been used on him) allowed him to obtain an antidote which save his life.
Later, he told me of a visit from no less a personage than the ruling scion of a notorious banking family which had founded the central banking system in the late 18th century. It was presumed that this refined aristocrat was Keenan’s principal enemy - and may well have been behind the attempts on his life.
As Keenan told it, the two men met for a pleasant cup of tea. Keenan asked the Cabal kingpin bluntly, “What are you doing here? You guys are trying to kill me, right?”
Two centuries atop the elite of European aristocracy has given this family the disarming air of courteous and civilized sophistication.
“I like to get to know the people I do business with, Mr. Keenan. That’s all.”
Whereupon, Keenan was offered a signed blank check, and invited to fill in whatever amount suited him, in exchange for walking away from the Global Accounts. He had already turned down bribes of $50 million – and ten times that amount – and this appeared to be the ultimate offer.
This may be hard to believe, and in truth I only have Neil Keenan’s word for the story. But it jibed with the evidence I had seen, and also fit with what I came to know of Keenan’s personality.
“I had to turn it down, Michael. No way could I stand to be working for that guy.”
In fact, (apart from a few pro basketball contracts in Europe) Neil Keenan has never worked for anyone but himself in his whole life. From his first paper route as a working class kid in Rhode Island, he had always been his own boss. I would find that, as our peril increased (and with it the need for more funding to move forward with security in place), he would be under increasing pressure to accept funding from various sources, but that he would prevaricate and ultimately turn them down time and again – perhaps because it meant he would be working for someone other than Neil Keenan.
For some reason, I intuitively felt that I would be safe in this hazardous world, despite certainly being under surveillance by multiple intelligence agencies, and now – side by side with Keenan in Indonesia - subject to the kind of threats he had already survived. Call it blithe stupidity, or some inner reassurance from my angels, but I never thought of quitting due to danger.
Later, back in Los Angeles, I ran into an old friend from my meditation community, a man from India known for candid statements. As I told him of my adventures and continued work, he shook his head, and said, “Well, every man has to follow his death wish – I mean, his dream!”
Years later, another trusted clairvoyant friend would tell me of a past life she perceived I had lived in Athens during the Golden Age of Pericles – in which I had rejected an influential political position arranged by my father, had become an actor, and had to flee Athens for my life when I offended the power elite with my satirical plays.
“You might want to be more careful this time, Michael,” she warned gently.
I knew that Jakarta was one of the most densely populated cities in Asia – and one of the most polluted and congested. Whenever there was a significant rise in the price of gasoline, there would be a corresponding decrease in the number of cars on the road – and a manifold increase in the number of scooters, of which there were millions in Jakarta alone. Geographical constraints exacerbated the situation, as did government corruption, widely known to be endemic throughout the country. An impressive new elevated roadway arched above the smelly, scooter-jammed street by our hotel – empty and incomplete, as the funding for it had mysteriously run short. The sanitation system was likewise compromised by the population density. The smells of Jakarta were not pleasant, and could occasionally reach up even to our 24th floor hotel suites.
(Scooter traffic jam in downtown Jakarta, Indonesia)
But the people were for the most part kind and friendly and I have fond memories of the place, despite the stress. It was my first visit to a majority-Muslim country, and my monastic streak resonated to the call to prayer of the Muezzin which would blare from loudspeakers around the city at dawn and near sunset. And always there was the tantalizing possibility that the work would call us down to the idyllic Hindu enclave of Bali to meet with the Elders. I had heard many accounts of the all-permeating spirituality of Balinese culture, and I eagerly looked forward to this pilgrimage…which sadly never came.
On the day I arrived, Keenan’s confidence was high that he would soon obtain Nelu’s freedom and be back on track, meeting with the Elders, and finalizing an agreement to place the assets into “trading programs” which he was confident would assure a steady flow of billions to fund the humanitarian programs.
I would later learn from Templar contacts that these programs are in fact Cabal-run shell games into which the Global Accounts assets would have disappeared, never to be recovered. At the time, I was intuitively dubious about this, but chose to keep silent and go with Keenan’s lead – he was the boss, and I was the writer. I had earned a securities license in a three-year stint in financial services, but had essentially learned only enough to be dangerous…and had left the field once this became clear to me amidst the global financial collapse of 2008. So I was able to grasp the broad outlines of Keenan’s work, but of these trading programs I knew nothing, except that it smelled like the usual Cabal scheme of something-for-nothing, backed by nothing.
Keenan’s small team in residence in Jakarta consisted of Tiko, a tall and gangly gregarious Bulgarian with a banking background; Inchul, an intrepid and courteous Korean involved in alternative energy work who had had some experience with Global Accounts assets buried in Korea, and a solidly-built Sicilian in his mid-20’s whom I will call Giuseppe (not his real name), who was our on-scene “muscle” acting as Keenan’s bodyguard.
We made for a motley crew as our taxis crawled through the maddeningly slow Jakarta traffic on our first mission – a visit to Nelu in prison. Keenan was conscientious about keeping up Nelu’s spirits, intending to reassure him that all efforts were being made to obtain his freedom. I would soon become accustomed to the routine of these visits: hours of waiting in hot and malodorous prison waiting rooms, surrounded by the families and friends of other prisoners; the security check, the frisk, and the temporary surrender of our passports, the stamp of ink on our hands to guarantee our passage back out from prison into freedom; the search for the anxious face of Nelu among the crowd of prisoners in the visiting room – a place of randomly placed picnic tables in a large and humid space.
Another routine of waiting also emerged: court dates. Neil Keenan and his attorneys had successfully worked cases in the justice system in Rhode Island on behalf of friends over the years, and he appeared confident that he could do the same in Jakarta. Hearing dates came and went, delays were routine, and frustration mounted as Nelu lingered in prison. The Indonesian justice system is known to be one of the most corrupt in the world. I found that anyone on the street even knew the “menu” and prices to buy a judge (10 million rupiya minimum I seem to recall – about $10k).
Meantime, my role emerged as essentially the PR guy to the alternative web – and to the watching factions in various banking, government, and intelligence circles who had an interest in suppressing the story of the Collateral Account assets, and who were following the story. I needed to maintain the momentum of interest and the revival of hope stirred by the “Changing of the Guard” video.
I was well suited to the task. An entertainer at heart, I was able to credibly emulate the literate style of what I hoped was a New York Times level geopolitical reporting/commentary, while telling a compelling story of a colorful character embarked on a fantastic quest, grounded in gritty details.
And the Keenan saga continued to generate dramatic developments – for a while. It would emerge that “Giuseppe,” Keenan’s bodyguard (who had been hired through a “family” contact in Sicily) was actually working for the other side, reporting on Keenan’s activities for the faction which had framed Nelu by planting the counterfeit notes. Amid threats and bluster on both sides, he was sent packing back to Sicily.
As I sat with Keenan in the living room of his suite in Jakarta, I would watch him handle a stream of incoming calls from various alternative journalism contacts, such as Benjamin Fulford, Drake Bailey, David Wilcock, as well as high-level contacts such as a former Chinese finance minister, and intelligence community contacts. An ongoing battle with the faction which had framed Nelu resulted in a death threat called into Neil personally in his suite from someone Keenan called “a rogue CIA agent.” Neil called me over to his suite in the middle of the night to give me the update.
“It’s OK, Michael – I called my own people.” He then held up his cell phone so I could see the name of the man he had called for help – a well-known name at a high level of the intelligence community from the Iran-Contra affair.
“They traced the call on the death threat, and he was told to back off. So now he knows if any of our people are hurt, he’ll have his throat slit.”
I swallowed hard. “Oh, that’s good to know.”
I did not, somehow, sleep more easily that night. The next day I wrote an article on this latest development, detailing the back story of the factions behind the threat, and their interest in preventing Keenan from completing his work. I ran it past Neil, as I customarily did, before posting. He immediately had a correction.
“No, Michael, this is all wrong.”
“You say here, ‘he was told he would have his throat cut if any of our people were hurt.’”
“Right – that’s what you said, right?”
Keenan shook his head bemusedly. “No, no. Not ‘cut.’ The word is ‘slit.’ He would have his throat slit, not ‘cut.” That’s not how they talk.”
On such authentic details does a credible story on rogue CIA agents hang.
Keenan would occasionally share with me details of conversations he had had with global players in the corrupt elite.
“Henry Kissinger? Oh, that guy is so boring! Talk, talk, talk…the guy never shuts up. I could hardly stand him.”
Another time: “Yeah, I had Bush on the phone. Dubya, I mean. I was playing with him, got him ticked off. He says, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ I said, ‘Yeah, you’re that cheerleader from Connecticut, right?’”
(George W. Bush as a cheerleader at Yale University)
Neil always had an instinct for the jugular, whether it was in a street fight or a deadly serious geopolitical negotiation. George W. Bush was indeed merely a cheerleader at Yale – while Keenan was an elite athlete at a nearby college – and Neil knew just how get under his skin.
Being Irish, my favorite Keenan phone call story concerned the time when at attempt was made by one of Queen Elizabeth II’s sons to deposit a trillion dollar check at a Japanese bank, made out to a member of the Dutch royal family. A Dutch prince went in first – the Brit arrived a bit later, with both Cabal lordlings coming up empty.
Keenan ended up getting a phone call from the Queen, who made her displeasure known in peremptory tones. Keenan cut to the chase, and interrupted Her Majesty.
“Ma’am, you need to understand something. I’m Irish. You’re not my Queen!”
Be it Pope or Queen, Keenan was always Keenan.
My stream of articles on the unfolding Keenan saga in Indonesia gained an increasing readership, especially among the conservative audience following Drake Bailey, the colorful “redneck philosopher” (he is actually a far deeper fellow than that label implies). The American militia movement in the rural areas loved Keenan, and became protective of his team’s welfare as our perilous situation became clear. We received word that the Obama administration was informed by a prominent militia leader in Michigan that there would be a serious backlash if Keenan or any of his people were harmed.
But while our audience increased, our progress was stalled. Nelu was looking at two years, and our efforts to free him had failed. One last desperate attempt was launched, in which Neil actually issued a worldwide call for people to make protest calls to the Indonesian court building where Nelu would be tried. The court’s phone number was conveniently provided, as tens of thousands of calls shut down their communications for two days.
I was dubious of this effort, doubting that brash American bluster would somehow transform the corrupt Indonesian justice system. We had widely advertised the fact that Nelu’s freedom was crucial to the forward movement of Keenan’s work. How hard would it be for Cabal agents to drop a measly ten grand on some corrupt Indonesian judge to see that Nelu stayed in prison? But I had learned by this time that Keenan was not responsive to suggestions from his team. We were not there to give him advice.
The question kept coming up – how could we apply meaningful pressure to free Nelu?
Then the idea arose that there might be an international court which could get involved, shine an uncomfortable spotlight on the case, and create the necessary pressure to release our friend.
Looking at the overall strategic situation of the effort to move the Global Accounts Assets, I was also dubious of our ability to exert meaningful leverage. I ventured to quietly ask a time or two, “Neil – what about the Consortium? What about those sixty nations we have on board? Don’t we need to strengthen a global alliance if we actually expect to free the assets from the grip of a corrupt faction which, after all, controls NATO, and is behind the military-industrial complex of the U.S.?”
Again, it was made clear that I was not there to give advice.
“You’re good at diplomacy, Michael. A time will come for that later. We’ll trot you all over the globe once we’ve got things in hand.”
Meantime, my savings were dwindling, my employers at the monastery back in Los Angeles were becoming concerned over my prolonged absence…and my girlfriend was understandably growing nervous over the whole situation. And the currency seized by the court when Nelu was arrested (around one million dollars) remained in the court’s hands, once even placed on a table in Keenan’s sight by a court official. But Keenan knew better than to walk into a trap by laying claim to the money.
And I watched Neil turn down offers of funding several times because he didn’t want to answer to anybody but himself. Foremost in my mind was the fact that the lives and safety of his loyal team was at risk, and that we had no cover whatsoever, while making it our business to antagonize virtually every major player among the powerful corrupt elite. We needed security, and we needed to make progress – and for that, we needed funding. And Neil Keenan, it seemed, was turning it down over and over.
I reminded myself that he saw a bigger picture than I did, that he had information he did not share with me – information I would probably not want to know anyway. My visa would expire on May 1st. In my mind, I made that the drop-dead date by which I would return to Los Angeles. But my doubts were growing.
I saw that we were performing a huge service by exposing the hidden story of the corruption of the financial elite. I knew that we were fanning the embers of hope for that small percentage of humanity which was following the story. And I began to see that the leverage of Keenan’s lawsuit would slowly disappear if there turned out to be no viable jurisdiction in an international court in which the case could be tried without being rigged by Cabal interference. And still we hoped to free Nelu from prison.
One day in Neil’s suite, he said, “Michael, there’s a guy I want you to meet. He’s a high level international lawyer and judge, and he used to work for Putin in cleaning out the Russian mafia.”
“Oh – he’s a Russian guy?”
“No. American. He’s gonna help us with this international court thing. Very smart guy – he helped me with the Cease-and-Desists
against the cabal.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said.
“Oh, yeah – and word is he’s the Grand Master of the Knights Templar.”
(next week - The Templars)