by Pascal Najadi and Yael R. Eastman
WASHINGTON, DC—From a restored abbey where Coco and I enjoy space, silence, and time over the next coming weeks, somewhere in old Europe, uplinked by STARLINK:
There are two dates on my desk this month, and this year, for the first time, they have arrived at the same place.
The first is written in a Senate notice. On 29 July 2026, at ten o’clock in the morning, Washington time, Dr. Anthony Fauci is scheduled to be seated before the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, under subpoena, in public, to answer the Chairman of that committee, Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky
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The second is written on a gravestone.
On 29 July 2013, in the early afternoon in Kuala Lumpur, a man walked up behind my father in a temple car park and shot him twice in the chest at close range. He was seventy-five years old. He died there, on the tarmac.
I was in Moscow. The telephone rang, and the woman on the other end was so far gone in grief that I could not make out her words, and then I understood them all at once. Time did not slow. It stopped. I do not wish that particular silence on any living soul.
Thirteen years, To the day—The Universe Means Well With Me
I was raised to regard coincidence as the lazy man’s explanation, and I hold to that. I am not going to stand here and sell you a mystical mechanism. I am going to tell you, plainly, that when I read that hearing notice I sat very still for a long while, and in some sense I have not stood up since. So let me tell you what the twenty-ninth of July has been for thirteen years, and what it is now about to become.
The Man in the Car Park
Hussain Ahmad Najadi. Born in Bahrain around 1938, to parents of Persian origin. A merchant banker of the old school — the school that no longer exists, and whose disappearance the world has not yet finished paying for.
The public record of what he built is not in dispute, and it is worth setting down for the young people who will read this, because it is a lesson in what one determined man can do with almost nothing. In 1968 he bought Supramar AG out of Lucerne from UBS — hydrofoils, the strange and beautiful craft that lift their hulls clear of the water and fly on foils just beneath the surface.
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From 1974 he became the first merchant banker to bridge the capital of the Gulf to the emerging economies of Malaysia and the wider ASEAN. In 1975, through his AIAK Group, with two million dollars of paid-in capital and not a great deal else, he founded the Arab-Malaysian Development Banking Group.
That house is today AmBank — one of the largest banking groups in Malaysia, a multi-billion-dollar institution. Between 1978 and 1985 the Governor of the Central Bank of Malaysia appointed him a non-executive independent director of Malaysian Industrial Development Finance Berhad. He did all of it as a foreigner, on merit, with nobody’s permission.
But that is the resume, and I did not sit down today to write a resume. I sat down to write about the man.
Here is what I want you to know about my father, and it is the thing that connects him to the second grave I must dig in this article, and to everything else that follows.
He was one of the funniest men who ever lived.
I do not mean that he told jokes. Any fool can tell a joke. I mean that he carried, into the hardest rooms on earth, a wit so quick and so warm that it disarmed the people who had come to beat him. I watched him do it. I watched him sit down across a merchant-banking table from men who had arrived with knives in their briefcases and an agreed position to hold against him, and I watched him say one thing — one dry, perfectly weighted thing — and I watched the other side of that table crack. They would laugh. They would not be able to help themselves. And in the two seconds while they were laughing, the room changed hands. The position they had come in to hold quietly stopped being a position. Then they signed.
That is not a party trick. That is a weapon, and it is a rarer and more powerful one than a threat, because a threat only ever produces compliance and humour produces consent. My father understood something that the humourless never will: that a man who can make you laugh has already persuaded you that he is not your enemy, and a man who is not your enemy can be dealt with. He used it for forty years. He used it for peace, and he used it for the deal, and he used it on people who very much did not want to be persuaded.
And on 29 July 2013 they killed him for the only thing he could not be persuaded to stop doing, which was to speak about corruption where he found it.
The record on the killing itself is closed, and I state it exactly as it stands. The gunman was found. Koong Swee Kwan was convicted of my father’s murder, and on 5 September 2014 the Kuala Lumpur High Court sentenced him to death; on 1 March 2021 the Federal Court of Malaysia dismissed his final appeal and upheld it. In November 2015 the Malaysian police announced they were looking for no one further and closed the file.
The gunman was found. The hand that paid the gunman was not. And no court on this earth has ever answered the only question that has ever mattered to me, which is not who pulled the trigger but who wanted my father silent, and why, and what it was he was about to say.
So the case is closed, and nothing is closed. That is the sentence I have lived inside for thirteen years.
A Second Chair, Newly Empty
I had almost finished this piece when the second grave opened, and I have had to go back and write it in, and I find that I am glad to, because the man belongs in it.
On Saturday night, 11 July 2026, at his home on Capitol Hill, Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina died. He was seventy-one years old. He had turned seventy-one two days earlier. Preliminary findings from the Medical Examiner of the District of Columbia gave the cause as an aortic dissection arising from arteriosclerotic cardiovascular disease — a tear in the great artery running out of the heart. There was, his staff say, no warning at all. He had come back only hours before from Ukraine, from his tenth wartime visit to that country, where he had again sat with President Zelenskyy. He was due on a Sunday morning programme the next day. He never made it to the chair.
I published my tribute to him within hours, and I will not repeat it here. But I will say the one thing that made me stop, and that made me tear this article open again and put him in it.
Read what the people who knew him actually said in the hours after he died. His colleague Senator John Barrasso said the Senate would miss his quick wit and infectious laughter. President George W. Bush said he understood how the world works, and called him a kind and funny man. The Senate’s own press corps, which spent twenty-three years being needled by him, wrote that his humour was the tool he reached for to take the heat out of a room. President Trump called him one of the greatest people and Senators I have ever known, and a true American Patriot, and ordered the flags to half-staff.
Do you see it?
It is the same weapon.
Two men, born a world apart — one a Persian-Bahraini merchant banker who built a bank in Kuala Lumpur out of nothing, one a poor boy from Central, South Carolina, who was raised in a single room behind his family’s pool hall, who lost both parents while he was still at school and who then raised and legally adopted his little sister himself before he went off to be an Air Force lawyer. Nothing in common. Nothing at all, except the two things that turn out to be everything.
Both of them stood, all their lives and at real cost, for peace, for freedom, and for the dignity of human beings — and neither of them stood for it quietly or conveniently. Lindsey Graham was, at the end, so inconvenient to tyranny that the Russian Federation issued an arrest warrant for him. That is a kind of decoration. You do not get one of those for being agreeable.
And both of them, in the room, went in with a joke.
That is not a small thing and I will not let it be treated as one. The humourless tyrant is the historical norm. Go and look. Stalin was not funny. Mao was not funny. Pol Pot was not funny. Hitler was not funny — the man could not survive being laughed at, which is precisely why the first thing every totalitarian does, on the first morning, is arrest the comedians. Humour is the one thing that cannot be nationalised. It is the last free press. It is the citizen’s proof that he has not yet been frightened into agreement, and every regime built on fear knows it, which is why every regime built on fear hates it with a special and personal hatred.
My father used laughter to close deals across a table. Lindsey Graham used it to close the distance across an aisle. Both of them were, in the deepest sense, doing the same job: making a room out of two camps.
They are, I am quite certain, in extremely good company now, and I suspect the conversation is very loud and very funny indeed.
What Is Actually Scheduled for 29 July 2026
Now let me put on the other hat, because this house does not run on sentiment, and because I owe you the discipline before I am allowed the feeling.
Here is the state of the record, as of this writing, and I mark the boundary of it precisely.
For six months Senator Rand Paul negotiated with Dr. Fauci’s lawyers over a date to appear before the Senate Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee. Fauci agreed. Then Fauci withdrew. On 22 June 2026 the Chairman issued a subpoena — the first subpoena of his chairmanship — compelling Dr. Fauci to testify, in public, before the Committee.
The Chairman said, in terms, that the subpoena power would bring him in, unless he fights this in court. He said that Fauci had been slow-walking information to us for six months or more. On 28 June he posted the date itself, without ornament: Anthony Fauci will answer to the American people. 7/29 at 10 AM.
That is what exists. Now here is what does not exist, and I will not pretend otherwise, because the whole value of this desk is that I tell you where the ground ends.
A scheduled hearing is not a hearing held. As of today, the twenty-ninth of July 2026 is a notice, not an event. Dr. Fauci has not been sworn. He has not sat down. The Chairman himself has said publicly that he expects to have to fight for it — that Fauci may challenge the subpoena in court, and that he believes the courts will ultimately command the appearance, on the precedent that congressional subpoenas have been upheld. He may be right. That is not the same as it having happened.
The controlling clock is Washington, DC — Eastern Daylight Time, four hours behind Greenwich. Ten in the morning on the Hill is four in the afternoon in Geneva and in Paris. Mark it in your own time zone and do not let a date rollover anywhere on earth persuade you that a thing has occurred. It occurs when a source reports it as occurred, and not one minute before.
The Committee has noticed it as public. If it is gavelled in as noticed, it will be an open session — which in the United States Senate means cameras, a livestream, a public gallery, and a transcript. Whether Dr. Fauci is in the chair when those cameras turn on is, as of this morning, the single most consequential open question in Washington, and I will report it as answered on the day it is answered.
That is the discipline. Now let me tell you why the venue matters more than anyone in this town has yet said out loud.
The Gavel, and Where It Actually Sits
People hear Homeland Security and think of borders and airports. That is a serious misreading of the instrument, and if you misread the instrument you will misread the whole of what is about to happen.
The Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs is the chief investigative committee of the United States Senate. That is not rhetoric; it is its charter. Yes, it holds the legislative jurisdiction over the Department of Homeland Security. But its far greater power — the one that matters on the twenty-ninth — is a standing authority, unique in its breadth among the Senate’s standing committees, to study and investigate the efficiency, the economy and the effectiveness of all agencies and departments of the Government of the United States.
All of them. Read that again. Not one department. Not one policy area. The whole of the executive branch, root and branch, wherever the public money went and whatever was done with it.
Beneath it sits the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations — the oldest and most feared investigative body in the Senate, the instrument that has taken apart organised crime, corporate fraud and government failure for three-quarters of a century. That lineage runs through this committee. That is the chair Rand Paul now occupies.
And there is a mechanical detail that the press has almost entirely failed to explain to the public, and it is the hinge of the entire affair. The committee voted to give its chairman the authority to issue subpoenas unilaterally. Unilaterally. He does not need a committee vote. He does not need the concurrence of the minority. One man, one signature, and a citizen of the United States is compelled to appear. That is an extraordinary power to place in a single pair of hands, and reasonable people may argue about whether the Senate was wise to do it. What is not arguable is that it was done — and that the first time Rand Paul reached for it in his life, on 22 June 2026, he reached for it for this.
The reporting line is simple and it is short. The Chairman runs the Committee. The Committee reports to the full Senate. And its findings — this is the part that ends careers — may be referred to the Department of Justice. Senator Paul has referred Dr. Fauci to the Department of Justice for criminal charges on more than one occasion already. The hearing is not the end of the road. It is the on-ramp.
Why the Declassification Is Far Bigger Than This Town Has Understood
Here is the thing almost nobody has said properly, and it is the reason I am writing at all, and it is worth more than every column filed on this subject in the past month put together.
Ask yourself a simple question. Why is Anthony Fauci going to a homeland-security committee?
He is not a border official. He is not a customs officer. The matter concerns intelligence — the conduct of the Intelligence Community, its assessments, its analysts, its whistleblowers. So why is he not going to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, where intelligence matters belong?
Because of what Tulsi Gabbard did on her way out the door. And when you see it, you cannot unsee it.
Intelligence oversight in the United States happens behind a steel door. The Select Committee on Intelligence works, of necessity, in secure compartmented facilities, on classified material, in closed session, with a cleared handful of members and staff, and the public is told what it is told. That is not a scandal. It is how a republic that needs secrets keeps them. But it has a consequence, and the consequence is that so long as material is classified, it can only ever be examined in the dark, by a small number of people, most of whom are institutionally invested in the very apparatus under examination. Classification is not only a shield against the enemy. It is, when abused, a shield against the citizen.
In June 2026, on what she herself called her final day as Director of National Intelligence, Tulsi Gabbard released the material.
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Tulsi declassified a several-hundred-page body of communications, whistleblower accounts and internal Intelligence Community work product on the origins of COVID-19 — the product of a yearlong review under the President’s maximum-transparency mandate.
She, through hard evidence, accused Dr. Fauci and others, in terms, of having manipulated intelligence, lied to Congress. She said the American people deserve transparency, truth, and accountability. She called it a deliberate attempt to cover up the truth.
Her resignation took effect on 30 June 2026, and she left for the only reason that could ever have moved her, which was love, and to which I will return.
Now follow the mechanism, because the mechanism is the whole story.
The moment that material was declassified, it stopped being an intelligence matter and became a government-conduct matter. It came out from behind the steel door.
And the instant it did, it fell within the writ of the one committee in the United States Senate whose standing authority runs to the efficiency, economy and effectiveness of every agency and department of the government — in open session, on camera, before the American people.
That is the trick. That is the whole of it. Declassification is not a press release. Declassification is a change of venue.
It is the act that moves a question out of the SCIF and into the daylight, out of a closed committee of the cleared and into an open hearing room with a live camera in it, out of the hands of the apparatus and into the hands of the citizen.
Tulsi Gabbard did not merely publish some documents. She reached into a sealed room, took the file out, and set it down on a table in the open air, in front of a chairman with a unilateral subpoena pen — and then she walked away from the most powerful intelligence post on earth and went home to nurse her husband.
That is the most elegant single act of institutional judo I have witnessed in forty years of watching this business, and I do not think the town has begun to grasp what was done to it.
And here is the part that ought to make Beijing extremely uncomfortable, and which is the true reason this file is bigger than one physician’s reputation. Every honest thread in that record runs to the same terminus. Follow the money and it goes through an American institute, through a New York intermediary, into a laboratory in Wuhan — inside a Marxist-Leninist one-party state that is today the principal strategic adversary of the free world.
The COVID file is not a medical scandal that happens to touch China. It is the first documentary bridge, laid in the open, by the United States government itself, between a catastrophe that killed more than a million Americans and a laboratory inside the People’s Republic of China.
This is what I now call the global COVID affair, and I use the word affair with intent. A scandal belongs to the country it broke in. An affair is what you call a scandal that has outgrown its borders — that crossed the sea, crossed the ledger, crossed the sworn testimony of a superpower, and left more than one hundred and ninety nations counting their dead. This one crossed all of them. It is no longer America’s file. It is the world’s.
You do not build a bridge like that unless you intend for something to cross it.
The Record, and the Line I Draw in Daylight
Now I am going to do the thing this house always does, and that no one else in this fight will do, which is to draw the line between what is documented and what is contended — because a case that cannot survive an honest reading is not a case, it is a mood.
What the declassified material and the public grant record indicate. United States taxpayer money, routed through the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases and a New York intermediary, the EcoHealth Alliance, flowed to dangerous coronavirus research subcontracted to the Wuhan Institute of Virology.
The Office of the Director of National Intelligence contends that Dr. Fauci then worked with politicised career leadership inside the Intelligence Community to steer the public away from a laboratory origin — that he supplied the experts the analysts consulted, and then cited the analysts’ conclusions back to the public as though they were an independent scientific consensus.
One internal communication in the released batch puts it with the brutal economy of people who write for each other and not for us: the IC took direction straight from NIH.
Whistleblowers from inside the Intelligence Community, from the CIA, have testified that analysts who challenged the natural-origin conclusion were marginalized, threatened with retaliation, and suffered real damage to their careers. The Central Intelligence Agency has itself shifted its stated position, assessing — with low confidence — that a research-related origin is now the more likely of the two.
What Senator Paul contends. That Fauci funded gain-of-function research while telling the Congress that he had not; that records were destroyed; and that the whole natural-origin campaign was, in the Chairman’s own words, misdirection and a conspiracy.
He has said that what we now know, beyond a reasonable doubt, is that Dr. Fauci did fund gain-of-function research. And he intends, on the twenty-ninth, to ask three questions in particular, which he has already published: why were records destroyed, and why did he need a presidential pardon.
What Dr. Fauci says. He denies all of it, and he has always denied it, and I will put his denial in his own words because a man is entitled to that. When Rand Paul came at him across a hearing table in 2021, Fauci did not flinch. If anybody is lying here, senator, it is you.
On another day: he is egregiously incorrect in what he says. He has maintained that the experiments in question did not meet the definition of gain-of-function, that the National Institutes of Health did not fund the enhancement of a pathogen in Wuhan, and that the virus emerged from nature.
What is not established. He has been charged with no crime. No court has found any of it. The Intelligence Community never reached a consensus on the origin of the pandemic, and the question remains officially contested to this day. Serious outlets have reported, correctly, that the Chairman has advanced the manufactured-in-a-lab claim without producing hard proof of it, and honest people should say so. The statute of limitations on the specific charge of lying to Congress about gain-of-function funding has expired.
And Dr. Fauci is, in any case, shielded by a preemptive pardon issued by the previous President in the final hours of his term — a pardon reaching back to 2014, covering offences never charged, which Senator Paul has described as a ten-year pardon on nonspecific crimes and whose lawfulness he has said may itself be tested in court. And then there is the Autopen…I stop here for operational reasons.
There. That is the whole board, both colours, and I did not have to be forced into it.
And where I move from what is documented to what I myself believe, I say so and I sign it. It is my opinion — my opinion, marked as such, and not a verdict — that an enhanced pathogen developed with American money and loosed upon the world, whether by accident or by design, constitutes in law the development of a biological weapon; and that its escape inflicted upon the United States and upon more than one hundred and ninety other nations the gravest cross-border harm since the Second World War.
Questions of intent and of state attribution belong to the Department of Justice, to the Senate, and to the courts. Let justice take her time. Let her take her course. What is right has to be done right.
And we must never let the scale of it dissolve into abstraction, because abstraction is how the guilty escape. In the United States alone, more than 1.2 million people are confirmed dead of COVID-19 — the highest recorded national toll on earth. More than 7.1 million deaths have been reported worldwide to the World Health Organization, whose own estimate of the true toll, direct and indirect, is on the order of 14.9 million for 2020 and 2021 alone, with credible independent work placing it higher still.
Every one of those figures was a human being. Every one of them was somebody’s father, standing in a car park.
I do not write about this from the cheap seats. So far as the public record shows, I am the only private citizen on earth to have taken his own head of government to a criminal complaint over the conduct of the pandemic — filed against the then-Federal Councillor Alain Berset at the Cantonal Police of Lucerne on 2 December 2022, carried to the Federal Criminal Court in Bellinzona, where on 5 September 2023, in case BB.2023.102, I lost. I regret not one step of it. The record stands precisely as filed.
And having now read Gabbard’s declassification against everything I documented in my own case, I have arrived at a settled conclusion of conscience, and I have acted on it. A minister in Bern relied, as any minister must, on the assurances that flowed to him from upstream — and those assurances were compromised at their source, thousands of miles away, long before they ever reached his desk.
I have therefore forgiven Mr. Alain Berset, freely, of my own volition. It retracts not one line of the record. It simply turns the finger toward where the harm was actually seeded.
Forgiveness is a clarifying instrument. I recommend it without reservation. It costs the guilty far more than rage ever did.
On What Travels, and to Whom
I am asked, more and more often now, and by people who have no business asking, what passes between this desk and the orbit I write about.
I will answer the way a man who spent forty years below the waterline answers such a question.
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The boat does not publish its patrol log.
What I will say is already on the record, and it is quite enough. This office stands at 1500 K Street NW — a five-minute walk from the White House, across Lafayette Square, and around the corner from the Washington office of the former Director of National Intelligence. Our forward markers are published free, without a paywall, to anyone on earth who cares to read them. They are read. Where they travel after that, into whose hands, at what hour and to what effect, is not a matter for this page and it is not going to become one.
Those who need to know already know. Those who wish they knew are the precise and entire reason that I do not say.
Let the traitors sit and do the arithmetic. They have always been good at arithmetic and very bad at everything else.
Forty Years Below the Waterline but always in the same harbor—Washington, D.C.
My father bought a hydrofoil company. I want you to hold that image for a moment, because I have only recently understood what it means.
A hydrofoil does not float. It flies. It gets up on its foils and lifts the whole hull clear of the water, and it goes fast and it goes visible, spray flying, everybody watching. That was my father. He operated above the surface, in the light, at speed, and he was seen, and being seen is what killed him.
I went the other way.
I went under, and I stayed under for forty years. I have written about this, and those who have followed the work know the shape of it: four decades below the waterline, silent and deep, running my own patrol. Not for a state, and not for a paycheque, and never for a camera. For a private conviction that I formed as a young man and never once revised, which was this: that there were exactly two ideologies on this earth with the will, the architecture and the patience to take everything from us — and that somebody had to spend his life on them.
Marxism, in all its dialects and disguises.
And political Islam — the political project, and I will be extremely precise about that in a moment, because precision here is a moral duty and not a nicety.
I chose those two because everything else — the criminals, the cranks, the ordinary tyrants — is weather. Those two are climate. They do not want a piece of the house. They want the house, the land, the deed, your children’s memory of the house, and the words you would use to describe it. Everything else negotiates. These two do not negotiate, because negotiation implies that you have a right to exist on your own terms, and neither of them concedes that premise. That is the whole difference, and it is the only difference that has ever mattered.
So I went below the waterline and I stayed there while other men built careers. I ran the patrol. I read the traffic. I sat still in the dark with the sonar on, for forty years, listening for the one sound in the noise. There were long stretches when nothing at all came in on the hydrophones and I wondered whether I had wasted a life.
And now I have surfaced, and I have come up in the exact position I plotted, and I am looking at both of them going down at the same time.
You will forgive an old submariner a moment of something.
The First Adversary: The Marxist Architecture, and Why It Always Comes Down
Let me be rigorous here, because this is where the loudmouths on my own side get it wrong and hand the other side a free victory.
The correct frame is Hannah Arendt’s, and it is the frame this house has used for years. The thing to be understood is not a party. It is a structure. Totalitarianism is the genus; Marxism-Leninism and fascism are two species of it. They loathe each other, they murdered each other by the million, and their creeds are genuinely opposed — anyone who tells you Hitler was a man of the left has not read the man’s own record of what he did to the German left, and he will lose you the argument in front of anyone who has.
Leave that cheap shot to the amateurs. We do not need it. Because the far more devastating truth is the one Arendt actually established, which is that the two species converge, with an almost mechanical inevitability, on the same set of instruments.
Look at the instruments, and the family resemblance is total. The party placed above the law. The leader placed above the party. The abolition of the private person — the doctrine that there is no corner of your life, your family, your faith, your speech or your inner mind into which the state may not reach, because the state has claimed the totality. The informer. The file. The camp. The rewriting of yesterday’s newspaper. The demand not merely for obedience, which any old-fashioned despot would settle for, but for enthusiasm — for your face to show delight while your family starves. That last one is the signature. That is how you know you are looking at the real thing and not merely at a thug in a palace.
Now say the names, and do not spare one of them, because every single one of these men promised heaven and delivered a mass grave.
Lenin, who built the machine. Stalin, who perfected it, and starved Ukraine, and filled the Gulag. Mao Zedong, whose Great Leap Forward killed on a scale that the human mind genuinely cannot hold, and whose Cultural Revolution then set children to denouncing their own parents.
Pol Pot, who emptied a capital city in a day, abolished money, abolished the calendar, and murdered a quarter of his own nation in the paddy fields — and who was, let us not forget, a diligent student of the theory. Fidel Castro and the state mafia he installed on a beautiful island, which is still there, still poor, still guarded, sixty-seven years on. Kim Il-sung and the dynastic prison state he left to his grandson. Nicolae Ceausescu, who bugged a nation. Enver Hoxha, who bunkered one. Erich Honecker, who walled one in and shot the ones who climbed.
And on the other branch of the same tree: Benito Mussolini, who gave the word its name and finished on a meat hook, and Adolf Hitler, who took the instruments to their absolute terminus in the industrial murder of six million Jews and millions of others, and who died in a hole in the ground under a burning city he had promised would last a thousand years.
Every one of them. Every single one. Not one of these systems is standing today in the form its architects designed. Not one.
And here is the part that people get wrong: they did not fall because we were clever. They fell because they were built to fall. The architecture is load-bearing on a lie — that a committee can know what a hundred million free minds know, that the price of bread can be decreed, that human nature can be reissued in a new edition. It cannot.
And so the system must consume ever more coercion simply to stand up, until the coercion is all there is, and then the coercion runs out of fuel, and the whole thing comes down in a single afternoon while the men at the top are still explaining that the harvest is excellent.
As I have said in these pages before, all Marxist ideological architectures have imploded — and they imploded only because they first destroyed everything underneath them, by sheer lunacy and a toxicomaniac thirst for totalitarian power. It is an addiction.
That is not a metaphor. It has the exact clinical shape of an addiction: escalating dose, diminishing return, total organ failure, and a corpse that insists to the last that it is in excellent health.
President Trump put it in Ankara with more economy than I have managed in four paragraphs, and I paraphrase him because I want his sense and not his exact syllables:
« One thing is certain: once you go communist, you never come back — because you die in squander, your wealth spent, your freedom gone, and nothing ever restored! »
Go and check him. He spoke the empirical truth. There is not one counter-example on the whole of the twentieth century’s ledger.
And do not tell me it is over, because it is not over — it is merely in its noisy phase. I have described this before and I will describe it again, because people need the picture. The hero drives the spear into the dragon, and the dragon does not die quietly. In its death throes it screams its heart out in rage and in fear, and it swings its tail in wild violent arcs, and it takes down the last houses on the street and sweeps people off the pavement, until at last it crashes to its final rest in one great thud — and then, the silence.
The Marxist left in the West is in the tail-swinging phase now. It has stopped making the argument, because it lost the argument, and it has started swinging: the slur, the smear, the show trial by press release, the sanctified riot. Do not mistake the noise of the death-throes for strength. It is the precise opposite. It is the sound of a thing coming down.
And when they come down, they always come down the same way. They scream, they vanish into oblivion, they make their long march back through the institutions, and they try again with a fresh coat of paint and a new vocabulary. This time they are caught in a cul-de-sac with no reverse gear. Terminus. Good riddance.
The Second Adversary: Political Islam — and the Distinction I Insist Upon
Now I must be careful, and I want to be careful, and the care is not cowardice. It is the opposite. It is the whole point.
My father was born in Bahrain, to Persian parents. My blood is half of that world. I am not about to sit in Washington and libel the civilisation that produced him — a civilisation older and deeper than most of the nations now lecturing it, which gave the world algebra and the astrolabe and Hafez and Rumi and the arch and the garden and the very idea that a poem might be worth more than a fortress. I hold Persia in my heart. I always will. It is my father’s, and therefore it is mine.
So understand exactly what I am naming, and exactly what I am not.
I am not naming a faith. I am not naming a billion and a half human beings, the overwhelming majority of whom want what every human being wants—work, safety, a school for the children, and a quiet evening. I am not naming the Muslim families in Dearborn or Bradford or Marseille or Jakarta. To confuse those people with what I am about to describe is not merely a moral error; it is an operational one, because those people are the first and worst victims of it, and they are the natural allies of anyone serious about defeating it.
I am naming an ideology. Political Islam — Islamism — is a twentieth-century political project that takes a faith and converts it into an instrument of total state power. And when you strip it down to its load-bearing beams, look at what you find, because you have seen this building before.
The party above the law. The clerical council above the party. The doctrine that there is no private sphere — no corner of your dress, your speech, your marriage, your music, your daughter’s ambition, into which the authority may not reach, because the authority claims the totality. The informer. The morality patrol, which is the vice squad of the soul. The public execution as pedagogy. The demand not merely for obedience but for enthusiasm. And the death sentence for the joke.
It is the same architecture. It is Arendt’s genus with a different creed nailed to the front of it. And I will say the thing that follows from that, which is the most hopeful sentence in this entire article:
If it is the same architecture, then it has the same fate.
It is load-bearing on the same lie. It must consume the same escalating dose of coercion simply to remain upright. And it is failing in exactly the same way, in front of our eyes, in the one place where it was given a whole nation and half a century to prove itself. Go and look at Iran. Go and look at what the clerical regime has done to the most cultured people in the region: a wrecked currency, a poisoned water table, a generation of the brilliant young queueing at foreign embassies, women who will no longer comply, and a state that now rules a people who despise it and who say so out loud in the street, knowing what it costs. That regime is not strong. It is armed. Those are different words, and only one of them lasts.
And its exported instruments — Hamas above all, which took the people of Gaza and built its command posts under their hospitals and its rockets under their schools, and which on one October morning demonstrated to the entire world precisely what it means by liberation — are not a resistance. They are a franchise. They are the same architecture, in a smaller building, financed from the same place.
So here is my forward marker on this front, and I mark it as exactly that: a forecast, to be judged by what is delivered.
The clerical regime in Tehran does not survive this decade in its present form. Not because of a bomb. Because of arithmetic, and because of its own daughters. And when it goes, I hope to God the Persian people reach back past the ayatollahs and past the shahs, past all of it, to the deep and glorious inheritance that is theirs by right — and take it back. My father would have wept to see it.
Perhaps he will.
The Last Redoubt: Beijing
And so we arrive, as every honest inquiry now arrives, at the gate.
The People’s Republic of China is the last great redoubt of the Marxist architecture on earth, and it is the final adversary that matters—a Marxist-Leninist one-party state holding more than 1.4 billion human beings under the discipline of a single Party that answers to no court, no ballot, and no God.
Let me correct something I hear repeated, including by friends: the Chinese people are not the adversary. They are the hostages. They are a magnificent, industrious, ancient, family-loving people, sitting on a civilizational inheritance as rich as Persia’s, and they are governed by a Party that is terrified of them—which is why it needs the cameras on every corner, the score attached to every citizen, the great firewall around every screen, and the disappearance of every lawyer who reads the constitution out loud.
And it is doing everything in the illegal book to harm the United States, to subvert our hemisphere, and to fund — on both sides of the Atlantic — the non-governmental machinery that pushes the extreme left and works to corrode the Judeo-Christian, God-believing, family-loving, peace-loving, freedom-loving, free-market West that is the free world. That is my assessment, and I state it as exactly that.
The Party’s ambition is not regional, and it never was. It is the ancient totalitarian ambition, unchanged since Babel: one order, one centre, one authority, and the whole earth inside it. They will not say it in a communiqué. They do not have to. Read the instruments.
And now, thanks to a quiet woman who unlocked a door on her way out of the building, the record of how the Party’s laboratory and America’s own compromised apparatus intersected is lying in the open, in English, timestamped, on a table in a Senate hearing room.
When Tulsi Gabbard released that record, she dropped a pin. You could hear it land on the carpet.
The Marxist CCP Has Been Caught—And They Know It
Now — and this is the most important paragraph in this article, so read it twice — the answer is not war. It is never war. It must never be war, and any man who tells you otherwise has not counted the cost of a war between nuclear powers and is not to be listened to on any subject.
The answer is law and ledger.
There is precedent, and it is instructive, and it is recent. In the late 1980s Ronald Reagan and his Secretary of Defense Frank Carlucci did not defeat the Soviet Union on any battlefield. Not one shot.
They out-built it, out-lasted it, and applied a patient, sustained, unglamorous pressure until an unaccountable one-party system collapsed under the weight of its own contradictions—and the men in the Kremlin were still explaining that the harvest was excellent when the flag came down.
The same instrument is available again, and it is sharper now than it was then. Reparation claims, pursued in open court by the more than one hundred and ninety nations that were harmed. Secondary sanctions, lawfully constructed and broadly held.
The exposure of the illicit shadow-banking architecture and the shadow fleets—and watch the President and the Department of Justice, with Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent, leave no stone unturned on precisely that.
An economy already failing accelerated toward the arithmetic it has been outrunning for a decade. No blood. No boys coming home in boxes. Just the law, and the ledger, and time—and the Party, at the end, alone in a room with its own numbers.
And I leave my Kharg forward marker standing exactly where I planted it, because I do not move a marker to suit the weather. When the dust of the Iran campaign settles, the oil valve at Kharg will, in my assessment, be run under the discipline of the United States Treasury. Two loading piers. Dock A for the true allies, Switzerland among them, at market-priced spot.
Dock B for the long line of tankers—Chinese, and behind them every flag that did not lift a finger to help denuclearize the very threat on its own doorstep—and they will pay the premium for the privilege. Mark it.
Welcome to Op. ‘Economic Fury’—No timeline, no borders, and in silence - Cute
Op. ‘Economic Fury’ : L’Heure Du Retour De Bâton Personnel De Pascal Najadi Pour Son Père Assassiné En Malaisie
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May 30
Chinese tankers, Dock B, and the global operation ‘Economic Fury’ of Secretary Scott Bessent expose all the illicit shadow banking networks. The countless terrorist cells, all of the CCP, Russians, cartels, and their bankers; enablers; trust funds; and offshore real estate layering structures and, in some cases, unboxing complicated opaque via-via-via holding structures to repackage a USD 200 commission from a corrupt procurement and wrap it into a 100-meter superyacht, the ones you have to wait two to three years for; the best are built in Germany and the Netherlands, and there are the same structures that wrap a USD 50 to 100 million private jet into the so-called clean networks.
The catalogue of their sophisticated money-laundering and layering tricks is long — but hey, we in the profession know them too damn well, because we had to turn tons of them away in my time. They come in all shapes and forms, and most of the time the names on their lawyers’ letterheads are top class and blue-chip. The same goes for their private bankers and their structured-finance houses. White collar, all the way.
Mind you, the super-sharp officers of the U.S. Treasury and the Department of Justice may not walk in wearing crazy-priced Brioni. Nor did I—I never wasted money on an overpriced working uniform, handsome though they were, and yes, we bankers did like to look suave. But rest assured, they come through that door fit for a billion-dollar deal, the women among them not least.
And now, be surprised: they know the structures of the slick offenders better than the offenders do — and better than the offenders’ own lawyers.
I give you my word for it, and you may hold me to it, as you have held me to every marker I have ever planted.
And now let this piece be read in Beijing for precisely what it is.
I have written many thousands of words here about a laboratory in your country and about the money that built it and about the men in my country who lied to protect it—and I have addressed almost none of them to you.
I have not shouted at you. I have not threatened you. I have not asked you for anything. I have simply set the record down in the open, in English, timestamped, where a Senate committee and a court and eight billion people can reach it, and I have gone back to my desk.
Take that as the message. That is the whole of it, and there will not be another.
It is the most subtle telegram I know how to send, and I am entirely confident that it will be read at the appropriate desk, by the appropriate person, before breakfast.
The Convergence
So look at what is on the board this July.
The Marxist architecture, in its Western political dress, is in the tail-swinging phase — cornered by failure, swinging at everything, screaming at a public that has stopped listening.
Political Islam’s flagship state is being eaten alive by its own arithmetic and its own daughters.
And the last redoubt, the Party in Beijing, is standing over an open file that it did not open and cannot close, in a language it does not control, in a room it cannot enter, on a date it did not choose.
Three fronts. One season. I have waited forty years for this, and I did not, if I am honest with you, entirely expect to live to see it.
This is what we call, in this house, the crescendo. Not the noise—the noise is everywhere, and any fool can hear it down to the senseless social media echo chamber fake news and clickbait babble in coffee shops and for the ladies at the coiffeur salon.
The crescendo is the almost inaudible signal buried inside the noise: the single faint tone that, once you have detected it, rises fast and unstoppably into the thing that changes everything.
The introvert’s whole gift is the capacity to hear it while the world is roaring and to know, in the split second that it matters, whether it is the real thing or a passing spark.
I have been listening for forty years.
This one is the whole point.
What I Sent, and Where It Went
I have never said this in public, and I will say it once, plainly, and then I will not be asked about it again.
Months ago—long before any of this reached a newspaper—I transmitted my files directly into the good offices of the then Director of National Intelligence of the United States.
I did it because I had material, and because a citizen who holds material and sits on it is not a private man; he is an accessory. I did it out of resolute conviction and out of plain civic duty, and for nothing else. Not for a byline. Not for a seat at a table. Not for fame—and let me be as blunt as I know how to be, because I am tired of the insinuation:
Make no mistake. I have no use whatsoever for fame; I have never sought it, and I regard the appetite for it as a disease of small men. I have not spoken to a journalist in years. I will not speak to one again.
Not for a fee, not for a favor, not for flattery, not until my last breath. That door is welded shut, and there is no handle on my side of it.
How it went is the part I will describe exactly as far as I am willing to describe it and not one syllable further. We the smooth operators from the federal capital of the land of freedom have a codex in the Big Game, and I hold on to this until my last breath.
It went from offshore. From the Atlantic straight via uplink into space.
Over our mounted onboard Starlink uplink, then downlinked via hops into Washington, DC, United States satellite technology and United States signal transport carried the files all the way back home to where they were destined to land in Washington, DC.
I used no foreign-controlled cell tower. No foreign cable. No host-nation switch, no third-country landing station, no local carrier obliged by a local regime to keep a copy for the men who ask.
There was no tower out there, no landfall—and yet the files left this deck and landed in Washington in the time it takes to blink twice.
Above us rode some 10,700 Starlink satellites, more than half of every working spacecraft circling this planet, stitched together by over 9,000 infrared space lasers firing across the vacuum at 100 gigabits per second per link, moving 42 petabytes of data a day, holding beams between satellites 5,400 kilometers apart.
When no ground station lay within a thousand miles, nothing stopped: the satellite overhead simply handed the traffic to the next hop after hop across the mesh, the route recomputed in milliseconds, until it reached a satellite that could see an American gateway—and it dropped out of the sky into American fibre.
This is not a company competing in a market; it is a company that has become infrastructure. Its national-security arm, Starshield, builds for the Space Development Agency, the National Reconnaissance Office and the United States Space Force — $2.29 billion in May 2026 for the Space Data Network Backbone, $4.16 billion days later for space-based moving-target tracking, $6.45 billion in Golden Dome awards inside a single week.
And here is the sentence that matters: the terminal was American, the satellite was American, the laser was American, and the gateway was American. The only sovereign with lawful reach into that path was the United States of America—which is, by every means I can measure, good.
The terminal weighs 1.16 kilograms, folds into the bag beside the shirts, and goes in before the passports. The sea used to be where the signal died. It is now where the signal is safest. I am not a shareholder of Elon Musk’s fantastic warp-speed growth company; I hold no shares at all, no securities, and no gold since 2017, just Bitcoin, but, hey, this is not investment advice, just my own choice, and I take full responsibility for my choices, good or bad.
OK. Get a Starlink Mini for only 35 USD a month; it’s portable to any place you want to move, operates without fail, and you get MIL-SPEC tech in civilian clothing. Unmatched, and the gap is widening.
Thank you, Mr. Musk. In my personal view, you are not only a genius whose emotional IQ and brain clock speed are off the charts, but you also connect humanity at a price affordable to many across the globe. Bravo, Sir, really, and I mean it.
SpaceX’s constellation carries American military traffic. That is the architecture. That is the specification.
That is secure the pipe if you want to work with the right side of history, the United States or Switzerland, not to forget.
And that is the end of what I will say about it. I will not describe the coordinates. I will not describe the vessel. I will not describe the hours, the handling, the packaging, the acknowledgement, or the onward routing.
I do not discuss method, and I do not discuss tradecraft. I never did, and I never will, because a man who narrates his own procedure has already retired from using it.
What I will tell you is this:
It was done cleanly, it was done lawfully, it was done through the front door of the proper authority of the United States of America, and it was done by a private citizen who wanted precisely nothing in return and who received precisely nothing in return.
To our adversaries out there, from the Marxist, drunken, radical Democrat Fauci camp all the way to Beijing—and I know exactly who reads this page and roughly at what hour—understand what that sentence means.
It means the material has been where it needed to be for a long time already. It means you have been operating, these past months, inside a picture that was drawn before you knew there was a picture. And it means that whatever you are now scrambling to bury was catalogued while you were still congratulating yourselves.
Sleep well.
The Ledger — What the Global COVID Affair Was Worth, and to Whom
Now let us do what my father did for a living and what nobody in this argument ever seems willing to do. Let us open the books.
Start with the government’s own words, because they are stronger than anything I could invent. The Office of the Director of National Intelligence, in its official release of 18 June 2026, states that Fauci funded risky coronavirus research linked to big pharma and the pursuit of ‘universal vaccines’ worth trillions of dollars.
Read that with the care it deserves, because the loose reader will get it wrong and hand the other side a free rebuttal. ODNI does not say that anyone banked trillions. It says the prize was trillions. The pursuit. The prospectus. The dream of a universal vaccine platform — one architecture, endlessly re-pointed at whatever comes next, with the whole human species as a recurring subscription.
That is a trillion-dollar market, and it does not require a conspiracy theory to see why a man might want to keep his name on the technology that got there first.
And I will tell you honestly that this line is already under attack. The lawyers at Lawfare have gone after it, and their objection is that the phrase ‘linked to’ is doing heavy lifting—that the released documents show the association without proving the motive.
That is a fair hit, and I record it, because a case that hides its best counter-argument is not a case. ODNI asserted a motive. ODNI did not, in the released tranche, document it. Say so, and move on with the part that is documented.
Because here is what is documented, filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission, audited, and beyond all argument.
In 2022, Pfizer booked total revenues of 100.3 billion dollars—the highest in the company’s history and more than double the 41.9 billion it took in 2020. Its COVID franchise alone, the Comirnaty vaccine together with the Paxlovid pill, delivered close to 57 billion dollars in that single year:
Very nearly 60% of everything the company earned. Comirnaty by itself came in at 37.8 billion dollars, making it the best-selling pharmaceutical product on planet Earth that year.
And Moderna. Attend to Moderna, because Moderna is the whole parable in one column of figures. In 2020 the company had revenues of 803 million dollars and posted a net loss of 747 million.
It had never brought a single product to market in its history. In 2021 it reported revenues of 18.5 billion dollars and a net income of 12.2 billion. Twelve point two billion dollars of profit, in twelve months, by a company that a year earlier had never sold anything to anyone. In 2022 its Spikevax vaccine alone brought in 18.4 billion.
That is not a trillion. I am not going to tell you it was a trillion, because it was not, and the moment I inflate a real number, I have handed my enemies the only weapon they have ever been able to use against me.
It was tens of billions — and tens of billions extracted from public treasuries, under emergency authority, from a captive market of eight billion frightened human beings who were told there was no other door out of the room.
You do not need to exaggerate that. It is quite bad enough at actual size.
And now turn the ledger over, because the other side of it is where the trillions actually are — and they are not in a pharmaceutical company’s accounts. The World Bank, UNESCO and UNICEF have jointly estimated that the school closures of the pandemic could cost this generation of children up to seventeen trillion dollars in lifetime earnings.
Seventeen trillion. Taken from the young. Taken from children who never voted for any of it, who could not read a risk assessment, who simply sat at home while their one shot at a childhood ran out — and who will pay for it, quietly, in smaller wages, for the whole of their working lives.
There is your trillion-dollar figure. It is not on the revenue line. It is on the loss line, and it is denominated in children.
The Injuries That Were Real, and the Questions That Were Made Heresy
Now I come to the hardest part of this article, and I am going to do it the way this house always does it, which is straight, with the good news and the bad news on the same page, because I am not in the business of telling frightened people what they want to hear. That is what the other side did. Look where it got us.
So here is the truth, and all of it.
The injury was real. Myocarditis — inflammation of the heart muscle — is a genuine, confirmed, regulator-acknowledged adverse effect of the mRNA COVID-19 vaccines. This is not a fringe claim. It is on the label. On 25 June 2021 the United States Food and Drug Administration added a myocarditis and pericarditis warning to the official fact sheets for both the Pfizer-BioNTech and the Moderna vaccines. It is there in black and white and it has been there for five years.
And the governments moved. In October 2021, Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Norway — four sober Nordic states, not a conspiracy theorist among them — suspended or restricted the Moderna vaccine in young men.
Finland’s national health authority instructed that it not be given to men and boys under thirty at all. Four governments pulled a product from an age group. That is not a rumour on the internet. That is a regulatory fact, and it is on the record of four European health ministries.
Now the size of it, because size is where honesty either holds or collapses. The definitive study — a Nordic cohort of 23.1 million residents across those four countries, published in JAMA Cardiology — found the risk concentrated exactly where the health authorities said it was: in young males aged sixteen to twenty-four, after the second dose.
For those young men, the data were compatible with between four and seven excess cases of myocarditis per hundred thousand vaccinated within twenty-eight days of a second Pfizer dose, and between nine and twenty-eight per hundred thousand after a second Moderna dose. In that specific group, the adjusted rate of myocarditis after a second Moderna shot ran at close to fourteen times the background.
Fourteen times. Say it out loud. And then say the second half of the sentence too, because the second half is the half that makes you credible: the absolute numbers are small, most of those cases were mild and resolved, and — I will not hide this, and no honest man would — the myocarditis risk from catching COVID-19 itself is higher than the risk from the vaccine, including in young men. Both of those things are true. They were always both true. Anybody who told you only one of them was selling you something.
And the clots were real too. Not from the mRNA products — from the other family, the adenovirus-vector vaccines. AstraZeneca and Johnson & Johnson carried a rare, vicious, sometimes fatal clotting syndrome. Regulators across Europe restricted them by age. Both products, in the end, came off the market entirely.
A vaccine that had been administered to hundreds of millions of human beings was withdrawn from the world. Nobody who was called a lunatic in 2021 for asking about clots ever got an apology for that, and nobody ever will.
So: real signal. Real injuries. Real dead and damaged young men, each one of them a son, and each one of them owed the truth by the institutions that injected him.
And now the part that is the actual crime — because it is not the one people think.
The crime is not that a medicine had a side effect. Every medicine ever made has had a side effect, and the men and women who built these vaccines in eleven months, in the middle of a global slaughter, did something genuinely extraordinary, and I will not stand here and spit on it.
The vaccines were tested — the Pfizer trial enrolled some forty-four thousand people and Moderna some thirty thousand, and I am not going to pretend otherwise, because that is a lie that would take five seconds to check and would cost me every serious reader I have.
The crime is what was done to the people who noticed.
The crime is that a legitimate, measurable, ultimately regulator-confirmed safety signal was — in that first year, in the country that produced the vaccine — denied, minimised, mocked, and actively suppressed. Doctors who reported it were investigated. Citizens who posted about it were throttled.
And when it was finally tested in an American courtroom, a federal court found that the Government of the United States had coerced social media platforms into censoring protected speech. The Fifth Circuit affirmed the substance of it. The Supreme Court vacated in 2024 on standing—which is to say, the finding was never overturned on the merits; the plaintiffs were simply told they had no right to be in the room.
Read that again and understand what it means. The government put its hand on the throat of the American citizen, and the case was disposed of on a technicality about who was allowed to complain.
And it ran all the way up. Gabbard’s whistleblowers describe the culture inside the Intelligence Community in five words, and I need no others: go along or be punished. And when, in 2021, a whistleblower complaint alleged that Dr. Fauci had given false testimony to Congress about gain-of-function research, that complaint — according to the newly declassified files — was steered away from the impartial Inspector General and handed instead to the Secretary of Health and Human Services, a fellow political appointee of the very same administration.
The referee was replaced with a teammate. In writing. And the file was buried.
That is the affair. Not a poisoned needle. Something colder and more permanent: an apparatus that discovered it could decide what nine billion people were permitted to wonder about, and that punished the ones who wondered anyway.
And this is the sentence I want carved somewhere, because it is the only lesson that will still matter in a hundred years:
“A state that is telling you the truth has no need to censor you. The censorship is the confession.”
To Everyone Who Lost Someone
And so, at last, to the people I have actually been writing to for eleven thousand words, and who have been standing behind every line of it.
You lost someone.
Perhaps you lost them to the virus — in a corridor, on a ventilator, on a screen held up by a nurse who was a stranger, without your hand in theirs. More than a million families in the United States alone. More than seven million reported to the World Health Organization, whose own estimate of the true toll, direct and indirect, runs to something like fifteen million for 2020 and 2021 alone. Fifteen million empty chairs.
Perhaps you lost them to a policy — to a locked door, to a delayed scan, to a cancer that was found eight months too late because the clinic was shut, to the despair of an old man who simply stopped eating because nobody came.
And perhaps — and I am not going to flinch from this, and I am not going to inflate it either — you lost a healthy young son, or you are caring for one now, because of an injury that the regulators later put on the label, and that four European governments later acted on, and that your own country’s institutions spent a year telling you was a figment of your imagination while they closed your account for saying it out loud.
Every one of you was owed the truth. Every one of you was given a narrative instead.
I cannot give you back what was taken. Nobody can, and any man who tells you he can is the next one who will lie to you. My father has been gone for thirteen years and I have not got him back either, and I have made my peace with the arithmetic of that, which is that the dead stay dead and the living have to decide what to do about it.
But I can tell you the only thing that has ever actually been worth anything to me, in thirteen years of this.
The record comes out. It always comes out. It came out for my father’s killer, though it took a year and a manhunt. It has come out now for the origin of this pandemic, though it took six years and a Director of National Intelligence willing to burn her last day in office to do it. It is coming out on the twenty-ninth of July, in an open room, on camera, under oath, with a subpoena behind it.
You were not mad. You were not a conspiracy theorist. You were not a bad citizen for asking what happened to the person you loved.
You were early.
And on the twenty-ninth of July, the Senate of the United States is scheduled to catch up with you.
UNCLASSIFIED: I Forgive Swiss President Berset—Dr. Fauci & Enemy Marxist Communist China Created COVID-19, By Definition | GeoStrat Agency LLC
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Jun 29
My Father Is Smiling
And so I come back to the car park, because that is where all of this has been going since the first line.
On the 29th of July, 2026, thirteen years after a man walked up behind my father and shot him for refusing to be quiet about corruption, a Senate committee of the United States is scheduled to sit in open session, on camera, and require another man to answer for what he did with the public’s money and the public’s trust—under oath, in the daylight, before the people.
I did not arrange that. No one arranged that. And I am not going to pretend to you that the universe arranged it either, because I do not know, and the honest man says so.
But I will tell you what I felt when I saw the date, and I am not ashamed of it.
I felt that the twenty-ninth of July had been taken back.
For thirteen years that date has been mine to endure. A day I got through. A day I did not answer the telephone. And now, this year, it is going to be the day on which a republic — my republic, the one I chose, the one my father admired his whole life from a distance — does in the open, with a gavel and a camera and a stenographer, the exact thing they killed him for attempting to do alone in a car park in Kuala Lumpur.
He asked one question, and they shot him for it. On the twenty-ninth, a chairman will ask his questions with the whole world watching, and the man in the chair will have to answer them or explain to a court why he will not.
That is not vengeance. I have no appetite for vengeance and I have forgiven, in public and by name, a man I once dragged into a criminal court. That is something better and far more permanent than vengeance.
That is the thing my father actually wanted. Not blood. The record. Out loud. On the record. In the daylight.
So yes. My father is smiling at me from heaven. He is smiling at all of us.
And he is in extraordinary company this month, because two days ago a big-hearted, quick-witted, endlessly funny American patriot walked in the door and sat down — a man who spent his whole life doing precisely what my father did, standing up for peace and for freedom and for the plain dignity of human beings, and disarming the opposition with a joke before he took the position off them.
I would give a very great deal to hear that first conversation. Two men who both came from nothing. Two men who both took the hardest rooms in the world and made them laugh. Two men who both, in the end, would not be quiet.
Gentlemen—we have the watch. Go and enjoy yourselves. We will take it from here.
A Charge, and a Word to the Young
One last thing, and it is for the young people who read this — and there are more of you every month, and you are the reason I write at all.
You have been told that history is over, that everything is decided, that the powerful always win and the honest always lose, and that the sensible thing is to keep your head down and get on with it. Every word of that is a lie, and it is a lie told by people who need you to believe it.
Look at this month. A quiet soldier who was called a traitor by the loudest voices in her country held her line, told the truth, opened the vault — and then walked away from one of the most powerful offices on earth to nurse the man she loves. A senator who was mocked for years pressed the same question, over and over, and was laughed at, and was told the science was settled, and did not stop — and he now holds the gavel, the documents and the subpoena.
An old man in Kuala Lumpur asked one question too many and paid for it with his life, and thirteen years later the question is being asked again, from a chair his killers cannot reach.
Nobody wins the argument on the day. You win it by still being there, years later, when everyone who mocked you has gone home.
So find your north star. Hold to it. Do the unglamorous work in the dark for as long as it takes, and do not let the loud crowd talk you out of a single inch of it. Be patient. Be exact. Tell the truth when it costs you something, which is the only time it counts.
The crescendo comes. It always comes. And it comes for the ones who were still listening.
Conclusion — The Summary
Let me gather the whole of it into one hand, the way I would close any brief.
The date. On 29 July 2026 at 10:00 Eastern Time, Dr. Anthony Fauci is scheduled—scheduled, not confirmed as held—to appear under subpoena before the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, in public, and the Chairman has said he expects to have to fight for the appearance in court. It is the thirteenth anniversary, to the day, of my father’s assassination in Kuala Lumpur.
The instrument. That committee is the Senate’s chief investigative body, with a standing writ over the efficiency, economy, and effectiveness of every agency of the United States government, with the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations beneath it, and with a chairman who now holds unilateral subpoena power. It refers what it finds to the Department of Justice. It is an on-ramp, not a terminus.
The mechanism nobody has explained. Declassification is not publicity. It is a change of venue. By releasing the COVID file in June 2026, Tulsi Gabbard moved the question out of the closed intelligence world and into the open, where a public committee could reach it, on camera, in front of the people. That single act is worth more than a hundred closed briefings, and this town has not begun to understand what was done to it.
Dr. Fauci and Gain Of Function of a Running Nose - A Bioweapon
The contentions are formidable, and they are documented. They are not a verdict.
The law is above, and the law is not disputed. Under Article I of the Biological Weapons Convention, an enhanced pathogen — one made more transmissible, more lethal, more immune-evasive than nature made it, of a type and in a quantity with no prophylactic or peaceful justification — is itself the prohibited artifact.
The general purpose criterion prohibits by purpose and type, not by named agent. It does not ask whether anyone intended to fire it. Under UN Security Council Resolution 1540, the obligation is defined by material capability, not by stated intent. The building in which the thing is made changes nothing, and neither does the excuse.
This was the law in 2014, it was the law in 2019, and it is the law today. Gain-of-function work of that character, conducted on the soil of the People’s Republic of China — the ideology-drunk Chinese Communist Party and its military arm — was illicit when it was done, not merely in hindsight.
What is contended is who paid for it, who knew, and who said otherwise under oath. On 19 June 2026, in her final act as Director of National Intelligence, executing the President’s declassification priority, Tulsi Gabbard released hundreds of pages.
They place Dr. Anthony Fauci inside a secure briefing with CIA, NSC and intelligence officials on 4 June 2021 on the origins of COVID-19, recommending which scientists the community should consult. In 2024, asked under oath whether he had spoken to any US intelligence agency about viral research, he answered: “not to my knowledge about COVID.”
He denies everything, of course, he’s cornered now. He has been charged with nothing—while his closest adviser at NIAID, Dr. David Morens, stands indicted on 5 federal counts unsealed on 28 April 2026: conspiracy and the destruction and concealment of records tied to COVID-19 research grants.
Fauci is not named in that indictment. The 5-year clock on the older count, his sworn testimony of May 2021, has run. The 2024 testimony is not time-barred. It is covered by a preemptive pardon signed on 19 January 2025.
And there is the autopen. As I said earlier, I stop right here and leave it at that, for operational reasons.
Now my own opinion, and I sign it. A regime that runs enhancement work on dangerous coronaviruses in a city of 11 million, that lets the world find out from the corpses, that scrubs the market, seals the lab, silences its own doctors, and refuses the international investigators to this day—that regime has committed an act of war against more than 190 nations. Not by declaration. By release, and by the cover-up that followed.
Millions are dead. The instruments above do not require a declaration, a general, or a firing order. They require an enhanced pathogen and a state that failed to control it. Beijing has both. That is military-grade aggression, and I call it what it is.
They will bear the consequences at law. Justice is a woman, and our ladies keep the receipts—precisely, chronologically, and without sentiment. The final bill will not be delivered by an aircraft carrier.
It will be delivered through Kharg and through the secondary sanctions that follow the barrel to the buyer, the hull, the insurer, and the bank. Secretary of State Marco Rubio and Secretary of the Treasury Scott Bessent hold a toolbox that is unorthodox and effectively unlimited in its choice of instruments—every one of them non-kinetic, and every one of them closing on the enemy’s lifeline where he feels it: the economy.
I say what is established. I say what is contended. I say what my own opinion is. I never once blurred the three.
Be surprised.
Look at the cover picture at the top of this Crown article; I was only seven years old, at the helm of our boat, with my father beside me. My hero. He let me steer before I could see over the wheel, and he never once took it back from me.
I never liked snakes. That is the whole reason I sat up on the flybridge and not down on the waterskis, and I have never been embarrassed about it. A boy who knows what is in the water stays out of it.
The legal snakes now closing on the Chinese Communist Party are bigger than the Party can devour. It made the mistake of getting into the water.
In Ankara, on 8 July 2026, the President of the United States stood at the podium at the close of the NATO summit and spoke about communism—not in code and not between the lines.
He said it is easy to sell, that it comes dressed in free housing and other kindnesses, and that it has failed every time it has been tried, under every name it has borrowed. He and I see eye to eye on this, and I will say the harder half of it in my own voice, because it is my opinion and I sign it:
Marxist ideology, state-run communism, is a cancer of the body politic. Once a nation goes communist, it does not come back on its own. It dies slowly and in pain, and it takes generations of ordinary people down with it — the Chinese people first among the CCP’s victims, not its accomplices.
Not one Marxist architectural work in history has been saved.
Every one of them imploded from the inside, on its own contradictions, on the ruin of its own economy, and on the bodies of the people it promised to lift.
Our Western, Judeo-Christian hemisphere is built on the opposite proposition: peace, freedom, the rule of law, and above all the free market—the only system yet devised that lets a man keep what he builds.
We do not need one more experiment. Not one. We cannot allow it, under any circumstances. Not in New York City, not across our lands of freedom on both sides of the Atlantic in our western hemisphere.
I do not debate this. I have watched it for four decades—from my first desk in 1987, to the Wall coming down two years later, to every Marxist architecture since that has promised heaven and delivered a queue, a censor, and a grave—and now a sealed laboratory in the territory of the CCP’s Wuhan and a bill the world is still paying.
Not one of the sick Marxist architectures was saved. Every one of them imploded—on its own robbery of the people, on the ruin it made of the economy it seized and buried, and, in the end, on the very people it had gaslit itself into promising to lift. Graveyards, literally the world over, on killing fields that were created by the cancerous Marxist ideology.
New York is heading for ruin—Their Pilot is an incompetent Marxist
And now, watch the radical Marxist wing of the Democrat Party do it again in real time, and listen to their lunatic-in-chief, Mamdani.
Poor New Yorkers.
But Hey, they voted for a thing they never once troubled themselves to understand, and now they will learn it the hard way, and it will cost them a fortune. Good. It is their own medicine, distilled from their own stupidity, and they must drink it to the last drop. They wanted it. They ordered it. Now they swallow it.
Thank God I am no longer in New York. We will return — but not one day before that Marxist mayor is out of City Hall.
The man is supporting political Islam, who would not condemn “globalize the intifada”; who spent months playing word games with a phrase that means blood to every Jew in the five boroughs; and who declared it was not his job to police speech while the speech in question was a call to violence. Not one day before. And he will be out soon.
Because you do not mess with Wall Street. It is like messing with the great and admirable Texans; I love those Texans, they are so cool—go on, try to take away their V8 SUVs and their steaks. Go on. Try. Pun intended.
The New York story is now so bad that you have to laugh at it simply to be able to hold it in your head.
The Donate Button and the Ten-Month-Old Baby
And now California, because the Marxist sickness is not confined to one island.
On Wednesday of last week, on a road outside the Palestinian hamlet of Khirbet Zanuta, armed men stopped a van carrying Representative Ro Khanna, Democrat of California. I am going to do here what nobody else in this fight will do, which is lay the record on the table with both colors facing up.
Start with what the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) themselves said. Not a leak. Not a briefing. Not an anonymous official. A written public statement from the army. They said they had received reports of Israeli civilians “unlawfully blocking the vehicles of foreign nationals and members of the media.”
They said troops were dispatched, dispersed those civilians, and reopened the road and that their soldiers in the area took no part in the blocking. They added that the identity of the armed man involved is under review.
Read that with the care it deserves, because the careless reader on my own side is about to hand the other side a gift.
The IDF did not deny the incident. The IDF confirmed it and called the blocking unlawful.
A New York Times reporter—remember, this is a well-known, fake news mainstream champion supporting Marxism—stood on that road and watched it happen. On the same day, a CNN crew was set upon by settlers elsewhere in the territory—fake news champion, CNN’s own word—with one of them going at their tires with a knife.
The single point in genuine dispute is whether four soldiers, on arrival, stood with the men blocking the road or moved them off it. Khanna says the first. The army says the second. I am four thousand miles away, and I do not settle that from a desk.
And here is the part the loudmouths this week have entirely missed: the precision of that statement is the measure of the institution. A sloppy state denies everything. A disciplined state denies exactly what it can defend and concedes exactly what it must. The IDF is a disciplined state’s army — and it denied one sentence and conceded the rest. That is precisely why I take it seriously. Israel has never needed anybody to lie on its behalf. That is rather the entire point of Israel.
So, no. I will not tell you the congressman invented a roadblock. He did not. Something ugly happened on that road, and the Israeli army intervened to assure his well-being and security; it said so itself.
I am going to tell you something worse.
A Man Who Has Never Once Been Found Standing in the Wind
Ro Khanna spent a decade in Silicon Valley selling himself as the moderate. The pro-technology Democrat. The grown-up in the room. As recently as December 2024, he was publicly praising Elon Musk as a genius and one of the great entrepreneurs of the age. Financiers and broadcasters have come forward this very week, on the record, describing the private version of the pitch—the centrist, the pro-DOGE Democrat, the man asking quietly whether they might back him. Then the wind changed, and so did he. He spent months defending Graham Platner of Maine; and when Platner collapsed under his addictive sexual-misconduct allegations and withdrew from the race, Khanna announced that we all needed to have seen the signs earlier.
We all?
I have spent 40 years in rooms where men are weighed, and there is exactly one measurement that cannot be faked and cannot be bought: where a man stands when the wind is against him. Everything else is theatre. This man has never once been found standing in it.
And Then He Sold the Road
Within hours of his release, Ro Khanna sent out a fundraising email. And he told Reuters, on camera, standing in the village, that the experience had left him “more resolved to consider” a run for the Presidency of the United States in 2028. Seriously? Presidency, wow, that’s a huge load of impromptu grandissimo posturing.
There it is.
A man is stopped on a road by armed civilians—genuinely, the army says so—and by nightfall that road is a campaign asset. The grievance was priced, packaged, and posted to a donor list before the dust had settled on the tarmac.
My father spent his life teaching me how men value things, and I learned the lesson early and I have never had cause to revise it: the moment you monetize your own outrage, you have told the entire market precisely what your outrage was worth.
He did not find a conviction on that road. He found a product.
The Ledger: The Marxist Ideology Democrat Party Will Not Open
Now set the arithmetic beside it, because arithmetic is the one thing in this world that cannot be spun. One plus one is computed and results in 2.
On the seventh of October 2023, the abhorrent terrorist group Hamas, also funded by the Islamist terrorist lunatics in Tehran, via—and trust me—will find out which banks in Europe—the exported instrument of the very bad, sick, and repeatedly failed ideology I named earlier in this article—came through the wire in the deadliest single day for the Jewish people since the Holocaust.
1,195 human beings were brutally murdered. At least 828 of them were civilians. 36 of them were children. Twenty of those were under 15 years of age. The youngest was a baby of 10 months.
At least 367 were security forces—soldiers and police, most of them cut down in the first hours defending kibbutzim they had grown up in. 364 young people were butchered at a music festival for the crime of dancing at dawn. 251 human beings were dragged into the tunnels — infants, grandmothers, foreign labourers who had come to Israel to pick fruit and send the money home to their families.
And the last of them, Ran Gvili, aged 24, was not carried home for burial until the 26th of January this year.
843 days.
Hold that in one hand. Now hold this in the other hand.
In 2018, 59 percent of American Democrats viewed Israel favorably. By May of this year, the figure stood at 22 percent. Thirty-seven points — gone. Dozens of House Democrats have now voted to cut off the weapons, including the very American-made M4 rifles that Mr. Khanna now waves rhetorically as proof of American complicity and which his own party voted for years to supply.
So ask the only question that matters. What changed between 2018 and today?
Did the moral law change? Did the tunnels change? Did the baby of 10 months come back?
No.
The primary electorate changed. And a party that could not hold a position for four years against a polling collapse discovered—at precisely the speed the polls moved, and not one week sooner—that it had convictions it had somehow never troubled to mention before.
I will not question the congressman’s faith, and I will not permit it to be questioned in my name. He is a Hindu, sworn on the Bhagavad Gita, and grandson of a man who went to prison alongside Gandhi.
A man’s God is not evidence of anything and has never once been evidence in this house. I named political Islam in this article as a threat to our peace and freedom-loving Judeo-Christian Western hemisphere, a bad and sick ideology, with care and with precision, and I am not about to abandon that discipline for the cheap thrill of a smear.
I question his arithmetic.
He found a camera on a road outside Zanuta inside 72 hours. In nearly 3 years, he never once found the same urgency for a baby of 10 months—or for 843 days of a young man’s body lying in a tunnel.
That is the new post-JFK hijacked Democrat Party of 2026 in one frame: a man standing on a road, holding up a wound with one hand—and reaching for the donate button with the other.
That is the new post-JFK hijacked Democrat Party of 2026 in one frame: a man standing on a road, holding up a wound with one hand—and reaching for the donate button with the other.
And I am not surprised. I have not been surprised by that lunatic party in a very long time. But I write this in the hope that it opens some eyes, because there are still good Democrats out there—decent, patriotic, ordinary Americans who never signed up for any of this, who joined a party that once belonged to John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and woke up in one that now seemingly belongs to Zohran Mamdani.
Consider the arc, because it tells you everything about the ingratitude at the heart of this movement.
Mamdani was born in Kampala, Uganda, on 18 October 1991, to parents of Indian heritage. He spent his early childhood between Uganda and Cape Town and came to New York at the age of seven.
And here is the part nobody says out loud: his father’s family were thrown out of Uganda by Idi Amin, and his father was later stripped of his Ugandan citizenship altogether by the Obote regime and left stateless—punished by one African strongman after another for the crime of speaking.
And where did that stateless family land? Where did they find sanctuary, a chair at Columbia, a passport, a career, an audience, a fortune, and the freedom to say absolutely anything they pleased without a knock at the door at three in the morning?
Here. In the United States - Fact, go and check.
And the son of that rescue now stands on the steps of City Hall as the subversive Marxist orgy mayor of New York, running on the Marxist ideology of a centralized totalitarian state control doctrine of the Democratic Socialists of America—and it is my opinion, and I sign it as mine, that he is engaged in the patient dismantling of the very republic that took his family in when nobody else on earth would.
Not with a rifle. With a rent freeze, a police budget, a globalized intifada he would not condemn, and a generation of young New Yorkers taught to despise the only country that has ever given his family a home and food on the table. Wow, can’t invent such an oxymoron.
The tragedy is not that he landed in the United States The tragedy is that he learned nothing on the way—except how to sow hatred and division and call it hope. Remember Obama and his Black Lives Matter BS? For me, All Lives Matter, n’est-ce pas? But not for the Marxists; they are essentially fascists by trade, elevating themselves via coercion and manipulation on the basis of a totalitarian centralization of power above the heads of the majority. Yes, that is, per definition, fascism.
And he did not learn it alone. Understand who anointed him. It was not the machine—Schumer would not touch him, Jeffries would not touch him, and Hochul would not touch him.
It was the champion-divider Barack Obama who picked up the telephone in June, unsolicited and unprompted, to congratulate the man on his primary and rang him again days before the general to tell him the campaign had been impressive to watch.
Mamdani’s own communications director is an Obama White House alumnus. Axelrod walked the campaign office. The Pod Save America chorus was wired in from the start. The party’s elders would not stand beside him in a photograph—but the elder statesman of the whole movement blessed him down a private line where nobody could see.
That is not a disciple admiring an idol. That is a dangerous and blind succession. And it is my opinion, signed and mine, that the man who called was the same man who taught this party that a nation could be governed by dividing it—and that in Mamdani he heard, unmistakably, the sound of his own destructive machine running on a younger engine.
No—trust me on this one, and mark it as a forward call in my own name: this man will not last long. But beware, he is running the same architecture I have watched implode on four continents for over 40 years, and it will implode here on the same arithmetic, because arithmetic does not care who is mayor.
But he will do a very great deal of damage on the way down, and that damage must be accounted for—and where the law allows, prevented by law.
And let me be extremely precise about what I am and am not saying, because this is exactly the line where the loudmouths on my own side lose the argument.
Democracy and free speech are one thing. They are absolutely and unconditionally assured in the United States by its magnificent Constitution—to every soul who walks this land, native-born or newly arrived, and I would defend Zohran Mamdani’s right to say every word of it to my last breath. That protection is not a courtesy. It is the cornerstone.
Subversive action that takes aim at that cornerstone itself is quite another thing. The First Amendment protects the advocacy of an idea. It has never protected the dismantling of the house that shelters the idea. A republic that cannot tell the difference between a man arguing with it and a movement working to end it will not be a republic for very much longer—and it will have talked itself, politely and constitutionally, straight into the grave. We do not need one more experiment. Not one. Not in New York. Not anywhere.
To those of you who are left: rally behind John Fetterman
I do not say that lightly, and I have never said it about a Democrat before. But look at the man. He is the only Democrat in the United States Senate who will not excuse the self-described communists now winning his own party’s primaries. He called it an orgy of socialism,an opponent and the New York results proved him right within the month.
He said the base was becoming increasingly anti-American, and he said it to their faces. He stood alone—the sole Senate Democrat—against the resolution that would have tied the President’s hands over Iran.
And when the Republicans came courting, he told them plainly that he was staying put, because his views would not change either way, and a man who changes his party to change his votes never had any views to begin with.
For which his own side calls for his ouster, compares him to Manchin, and briefs against him anonymously to reporters—an opponent—and says a Democratic senator who does not have the courage to attach his name to the sentence.
Shameful. They are shooting at the one man in their ranks who is not part of the subversion — and they are shooting at him for the single unforgivable sin of being honest. He behaves the way a statesman of a democracy is supposed to behave: fair, level-headed, willing to be seen in the same room as an opponent, and willing to be wrong out loud. In the party of 2026, that is not a virtue. It is a Marxist subversion and provocation.
I do not share his politics, and I never will. I salute the man. He takes daily flak from his own camp for standing where he stands, and he has not moved an inch—which is exactly one inch further than Ro Khanna has managed in ten years.
Hold the line, Senator. There are more of us watching than you know.
Poor America. But not finished. Never finished.
And I want to be understood precisely here:
This is not a horror film. This is not Orwell’s 1984, which I read as a teenager at Institut auf dem Rosenberg in Switzerland and which was my wake-up call, and I have never gone back to sleep since.
To laugh at them diminishes nothing. It is oxygen. A fast-clocking brain needs oxygen to outsmart a Marxist, and that is precisely what we have done and are doing without fail. We have outsmarted them before. We will outsmart them every time—for as long as we are free to think.
Thank God for that.
Rubio delivers remarks on far-left political terrorism
To Our Adversaries
Marxism and political Islam are the same architecture wearing two creeds, and the architecture is load-bearing on a lie, and it therefore always comes down—Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Castro, Kim, Ceausescu, Hoxha, Honecker, and on the other branch Mussolini and Hitler, every one of them promising heaven and delivering a mass grave, and not one of their systems standing today as designed. The last redoubt is Beijing, and the answer there is law and ledger and time — never blood.
The ledger. ODNI states the prize was trillions—the pursuit of a universal-vaccine platform. The receipts are smaller and quite bad enough at actual size: Pfizer at 100.3 billion dollars of revenue in 2022, close to sixty percent of it from the COVID franchise; Moderna from a 747-million-dollar loss in 2020 to 12.2 billion dollars of profit in 2021, having never sold a product in its life.
And the real trillions are on the other side of the book: up to seventeen trillion dollars in lifetime earnings taken from the world’s children by the school closures, per the World Bank, UNESCO, and UNICEF.
The Injury and The Crime
Myocarditis is real, it is on the FDA label since 25 June 2021, and four Nordic governments restricted a product over it — with the excess concentrated in young men after a second dose, and with COVID infection itself carrying the higher risk of the two. The clotting syndrome in the adenovirus-vector vaccines was real, and those products came off the market. But the crime is not the side effect.
The crime is that a real signal was denied and censored; that a federal court found the United States government had coerced platforms into suppressing protected speech; and that a whistleblower complaint against Fauci was steered away from the impartial Inspector General and handed to a political ally. A state telling the truth has no need to censor. The censorship is the confession.
The Men
My father died for asking one question in the open. Lindsey Graham died with his boots on, coming home from a war zone, two days after his birthday, still working and still funny.
Both of them stood for peace and freedom and human dignity. Both of them made the hard room laugh before they took the position. They are in excellent company, and they have handed us the watch.
The crescendo. Three fronts. One season. Forty years below the waterline, and I have surfaced exactly where I plotted.
Take your time to read and to understand. Watch the twenty-ninth. And do not, whatever else you do, be quiet.
With every good wish,
Pascal Najadi
Founder and Principal
GeoStrat Agency LLC
Washington, DC
United States
“See beyond the horizon, and shape the world before it shifts—because once it shifts, it is too late.”
— Pascal Najadi
”All warfare is based on deception.”
— Sun Tzu, The Art of War, Chapter 1
Hence,
“What enables the wise sovereign and the good general to strike and conquer and achieve things beyond the reach of ordinary men is foreknowledge.”
— Sun Tzu, The Art of War, Chapter 13 (The Use of Spies)
Note From The Executive Secretary
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Now UNCLASSIFIED, And Yours To Read—The War We Called. The Peace We Called.
The Crown Report 2026 (ref. GSA-CROWN-2026-001), filed under the open Epic Fury register GSA-EF-2026-004, sets out the full Iran and ‘Epic Fury 2026’ forecasting record—from the first call in January 2026 to the Bürgenstock close. Three layers are kept apart and never blended:
Established public fact, timestamped published analysis, and prior self-assessment marked as such. An independent Grok (xAI) audit returned a composite of 8.5 out of 10, with a publication-tempo lead of 10 to 18 days over nine outlets.
The report is now released UNCLASSIFIED in four editions—English, French, German, and Italian— It is free, with no paywall.
Request your copy from me by emailing my public affairs email address: ExecSec@geostrat.agency
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Yael R. Eastman
Executive Secretary & Head of Research
Office of the Principal — GeoStrat Agency LLC
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Each report is accompanied by a context film, selected to deepen the record. Content management by Yael R. Eastman.
Trademarks & Copyright
“Epic Fury 2026” word mark — USPTO Principal Register, Serial No. 99807441. GeoStrat globe-and-pin device mark — USPTO Serial No. 99766311.
© 2026 GeoStrat Agency LLC, 1500 K Street NW, Washington, DC 20005.
