YELLOW BRICK ROAD OF NEWS CORPS.

After I had published my memoir of my unusual 6th sense style investigative journalising on Fleet Street; working for The News of The World, The Sun and The Daily Mail, I was doing a round of TV appearances for publicity.

I was also invited as guest author on BBC World Service and BBC News 24 – for TV, Channel Four News, Channel 5 and ITV. I felt as if I had arrived.
I became dizzy with book publicity, expounding on how I tracked evil. I felt like a fraud but ‘Girl Psychic Detective’ was the nickname my publisher’s publicity dept had boldly entitled me. I had interviewed serial killers, terrorists and my publisher felt he should give the book a subtitle, portray me as a Clarice; the hot shot female reporter who burrowed into her serial killer prey.
I got home after a round of national radio and TV interviews, flopped on my sofa with a glass of wine and felt a fraud.
Was I really a hot shot psychic investigator? Was that the real name of my game? I had an odd taste of guilt.
I looked around my tatty rented home in Twickenham – my son was asleep upstairs – a blonde blue-eyed bundle of energy called Arthur. I was a single Mother and the massive amount of publicity wasn’t shifting books so I was in trouble financially. I began to panic. I was living in a rich area having moved there after I sold my home in a poorer area whilst working for The Sun newspaper.
Bad luck struck, I lost my job after another reporter called Nick Parker had made a scam on Heather Mills then passed me a phone to speak to Mills who had sussed his fake emails. Heather then put our phone conversation on her website.
Rebecca Brooks, my boss, felt it was my fault for not slamming the phone down on Mills. I was thrown out on my ear.
The sacking hurt me; I earned 50k a year off of them, enjoyed the glamour, money and power. They and The Mail used my unique 6th sense skilled investigative reporting skills for over six years. I had many front pages under my belt. Yet when one fired me the rest followed and I pounded the streets mired in sudden unemployment and unable to pay my bills or my rent.
It was after The Sun kicked me out the door - then an unemployed investigator that I began to write the book, ‘In for the Kill.’
After five years challenging work on the book and lack of income from it and a novel I’d written, I was fast feeling depressed. Why was I unsuccessful at everything? Once I had been feted in Fleet Street and thought my life was only going to get more golden.
I looked around and saw how other women had done it properly – married got a home early and built things up together to a chocolate lab and a pebble dash drive leading up to the solid home.
My son lit up my darkness. I found purpose in him – I was a mother that was my direction. Sod everything else.
But I began to think my goals to write a best seller and get my son and I a house were just all ego. Why hadn’t I found a good man who wanted to marry me? Why hadn’t I built up property and made security.
It was round this time that a fan of my book ‘In for the Kill’ had contacted me on facebook messenger to ask me, ‘….did you know that you are a mind controlled slave - a Monarch butterfly spy.’
‘What????’ I had typed in response, feeling irritated that a stranger had sent me a well known author, something so intimate and crazy.
According to the American woman I was one of the Vatican’s ‘chainless slaves.’
I had my consciousness shattered and operated on as a child in one of their Jesuit run orphanages. One part of me – a secret alter personality - had been hypnotised to become a mind controlled spy for the State.
I didn’t believe her reader, why would I!
Mind Programming? Surely such a thing did not exist? I was curious enough to google it. It seemed a Monarch Slave’ was a person who had been tampered with as a child, usually orphans and used thereafter by the so called elite as either sex slaves or spies – some of the men were used as killers or assassins or shooters.
How weird a concept is that! One had to first believe in the hidden dark state – one that operated behind the scenes.
Yet my life was looking increasingly absurd from my point of comparison with the other women of my village.
I somehow felt so out of kilter with other women that I felt compelled to investigate what had really gone on in my days on Fleet Street amidst the chaos of the phone hacking and its links to MI6 – my intimacy with two world infamous serial killers, the notorious Real IRA Commander I had slept with and led into a prison cell.
It was true that I had been a foundling - a Vatican orphan.
I used Google –
Monarch Mind Programming – is carried out by first traumatising the child by abuse, sexual and physical and then honey combing its mind by programming one part. Often this means the victim has psychic gifts overlaying their own chakra system and meridians. The keys to unlock the way out of these bonds lay down a mysterious rabbit hole.
I knew that I must investigate my life to explore the truth.
Reader, decide for yourself whether such things exist by reading my story.
Like Persephone I rose out of the dark underworld and saw that the ones who had enslaved me had done so in lesser ways to everyone.
This was a slave planet – yet who were our masters and why did some people work for them and other not even aware of their existence?
Through dark I found light. I found a love that could heal all pain.

Last night, I dreamt I was back at work as a journalist at The News of The World.
I took the lift up to the offices, next to The Sun, and I made my way down the dimly lit, winding warren of corridors, passed a large sign,
‘Walk Tall. You are now entering Sun Country.’
I woke and thought about the book ‘Rebecca’ and how she often dreamed of Manderley and yet could never return.
None of us could ever go back to the News of The World. Like
Manderley, the newspaper been ‘burned to the ground.’ We had all been disgraced by the phone hacking scandal - and it made us ashamed that we had ever been part of the ‘family,’ that had once been so close knit.
The News of The World had been run like a cult with layers of ‘need to know.’
Some of the reporters were mere pawns; never knowing what the upper layers were up to.
One of the most important players on the chess board of the News of The World was Mazher Mahmood whose power rose all the way to the top of the Murdoch Empire.
I quickly became aware that in the scheme of things – while Rebekah Brooks was the Red Queen – her right hand man and close confidante was not Andy Coulson, but the handsome and charismatic Fake Sheik, Mazher Mahmood.
‘Maz,’ as he was known to his friends, was a much respected ‘Bishop’ on the News Corps chessboard – he was the Red Queen’s Bishop.
I often operated as his wife. I was an ‘Alice’ on the News of The World, News Corps, Rupert Murdoch chess board.
His insults when in bad temper were legendary.
‘You’re not a dirty Pk lover are you, Chris?’ he asked me.
I assumed, at the time, that he wasn’t even Pakistani - because he seemed to hate them.
He also said, ‘Let’s get that Paki,’ on more than one occasion.
He wasn’t racially insulting to other ethnic groups - he saved it for ‘Paki this, Paki that.’
It was odd. Maz could descend into vitriol in minutes that made him sound like he profoundly hated Pakistanis. It was only much later did I find out that he was Pakistani.
Often, when driving with him to a job, he would start.
How the job was about a ‘Paki' and how ‘we would get the Paki.’
I assumed he was Indian or Saudi Arabian.
I felt sorry for his ‘marks’ because he made it a bit personal.
Mazher Mahmood had Pakistani roots. He was the son of journalists but he never spoke about his parents. He never spoke about his siblings, preferring in his mind not to have come from Birmingham but some royal connection in Arabia like his alter ego – Sheikh of Arabia.
The infamous Fake Sheik was a powerful man in News Corp - a close friend of Rebekah Brooks and he name dropped about social gatherings with Rupert Murdoch.
I was stunned, when one April morning in 1997, Greg pulled me into one of the side offices at work. He sat on the desk and told me.
‘I want you to meet Mazher Mahmood, our Investigations Editor.
‘Get to know him and how he works and then work with him as a team.
‘Mazher hardly ever comes into the office, but he’s shown curiosity about you and agreed to pair up as a duo of you and he.’
My background was that I had been a private investigator for over thirteen years in ex military (MI6) agencies in London. I was unique in that since a kid I was equipped with psychic gifts. Of course this wasn’t a trusted mode of enquiry by the cynical commercial arm of the State intelligence services, but I backed it up with good on the ground training and I became known for solving things others could not. I got the nickname Magic.
I had read Mazher’s stories and I was a fan of his criminal investigations.
I had worked alongside ex-MI6 officers, joined KCS Ltd, worked for CIEX LTD – real spies in the James Bond sense of the term.
However, I have never worked with anyone so devoted to being undercover that his persona stayed with him even when he was not working.
Before our first meeting, I hadn’t even seen a pic of him. I assumed he was rather an unattractive man who devoted his life to his investigations.
I knew he had sky high salary and I had read all of his dangerous investigations for The News of The World.
Mazher apparently looked down on the office-based journalists and had a very expansive budget to stay in first class hotel suites for long periods, eat oysters and drink champagne. He travelled first class and drove a limousine with personalized number plate MAZ 1.
There was never a time when Maz was not working – which means he lived and breathed ‘His Highness.’
Mazher had kept a great distance from the journalists in the Special Investigations Dept (except me) referring to the rest of them and their sleazy phone hacking ways and amatuer investigations as - ‘Carry on Spying.’
The first time I met Mazher was on an unseasonably hot afternoon in late April 1997, my porter Alan called up to my apartment in The Circle – just around the corner from the office in Queen Elizabeth Street.
‘There’s a car waiting outside for you – a long green limousine with a personalised number plate.’
I felt nervous. I knew Mazher was coming to pick me up to take me to work on a job with him in Buckinghamshire and I had put on a smart dress and Katherine Hamnett high-heel sandals.
I put on some red Dior lipstick and frowned at myself in the mirror.
How would this work out? I was afraid of this hard-hitting, celebrity journalist. What would he look like? Mazher’s photograph never appeared in the papers – only the victims of his stings. I thought he would look tough and hard.
Mazher was a ‘secret’ and a very glamorous one at that.
I dressed up to the hilt so I wouldn’t feel inferior, yet my stomach was in knots.
He refused to mix other reporters.
When he did, he worked from a back office – gliding in like an Emperor, not looking to either side of him.
I had been a spy in the dangerous world of the ex-MI6 men, in what is known as MI6’s commercial arm in London so I considered myself his equal if not superior. Around that time I was being hired by Michael Oatley’s firm Company X – known as Cie X or rather Ciex Ltd.
I wondered whether we would compete?
Later, I was to follow in his footsteps and have my own spreads on the Real IRA and meet the Provo Godfathers in Dundalk for The Sunday Times where he had once worked.
At sixteen, I had gone into an ex-military investigation agency in London and been trained to carry out close-ops spy work.
Wanting to be a writer, I had offered my services to The News of The World.
Now it was me and Mazher working as a boy and girl team.
Would we have chemistry like a TV cop team – would we hate each other?
I was tired of the news desk investigations. Like him I despised them as they had no investigative power only intrusions on mobile phone companies and BT. I was pleased to be out with Mazher and hoped he would have some real work to do.
I took the lift from my apartment and out to the car in this smart dress and heels. It was a long green limousine, a new one.
I got in the back and settled myself down, waiting for him to make small talk with me.
I had only seen the back of his head – then he turned and looked at me as he drove off. I felt confused immediately – he was extremely good looking man – this was not what I expected.
‘Wow, you look hot, Suzy! You’ll work well at this party to entertain all the men.’
I looked back at him, worried, feeling very stressed out.
I assumed that My porter had ushered me incorrectly into the wrong car. My heart sunk – now I would be late for the great Mazher who was probably waiting for me back at my apartment block and hating me.
‘I’m sorry? Look, I’m not Suzy!’
‘Not Suzy? I’ve come to pick you up to take you to the party to entertain the lads?’
‘Oh, no. Oh, shit. Look, I’m so very sorry.’ I turned round and looked behind me as my apartment block got smaller and smaller. ‘Please – look, can you take me back home? I’m needed – someone’s coming to pick me up.’
‘Relax Suzy, you’ll be fine.’ He purred as he drove uber smoothly in the sleek dark green limousine.
‘Look, I’d love to be Suzy and come with you to your party, but I’m waiting to be picked up by someone to go to work. Could you please take me back? It’s important.’
He looked at me in his mirror for a long time monitoring my reaction, enjoying my confusion and stress with a grin on his face.
‘Chris, Chris, calm down, it’s me, Maz, God, you’re gullible.’
He laughed as he drove. My heart beat faster and I felt sick. I looked at the back of his head.
Mazher Mahmood – The News of The World. ’s secret weapon.
As we drove fast with the windows wound down a breeze cooled our faces. I looked at this legend. Maz was of Asian extraction with very clear skin, an aquiline nose, well contoured lips and well-shaped hands with long strong fingers. He was a very handsome man but the remarkable thing about Mazher was his eyes: they were amber and they actually glowed with tiny little golden flecks. When you looked into these childlike eyes, you believed all that he said. Mazher was hypnotic. He also had a regal air about him, so no wonder his Fake Sheik blag worked on Sarah Ferguson. I remember thinking, So that’s your secret weapon – your good skin. In the Asian caste system Mazher Mahmood looked Royal he also looked and wanted to be Saudi Arabian and he did. His victims wanted to believe all he said because they wanted the regal beauty to like them. They looked into those sweet honey syrup eyes and saw a childlike honesty. What they were seeing was truth – Maz wholeheartedly believed he was Royalty and an Arab. Women especially fell for his little boy honesty.
I was soon to find out that he was deeply ashamed of his Pakistani nationality
Was it beauty that had captured Sarah Ferguson? Was she and Tulisa zapped by the Mazher Mahmood sex appeal that made mugs of us all and nearly got me killed when I later went on jobs for him that were dangerous…. just because he wanted me to with the honey sweet eyes?
Mazher and I were off to a five-star spa and hotel in Buckinghamshire to entrap a creepy 60-year-old paedophile who was luring teen-year-old girls to pose naked in his house for him with money and promises of fame and fortune.
As we drove, Mazher ignored me. I was to play ‘lower level sidekick’ to his leader – Mazher was never going to accept anyone on an equal footing.
Half way through the journey he rang his buddy Rebekah Brooks, who used her maiden name Wade then.
It seemed that when I was with him, he spoke to Rebekah 4 or five times per day in the hushed tone of lovers.
He began to talk to her about me in code. He spoke to her like an equal but the rest of us were just his go-fers and slaves. I was his dum dum wife who had to keep her mouth shut. His charisma levels were extremely high and it was this he used to sucker in his marks.
In the hierarchy of the office he was part of the elite of News Int. I wanted to keep in with him – to leave the others behind.
After arriving at the hotel in the countryside, we got settled into our luxurious suites. Mazher always got the best suites for he and his people – never rooms. Champagne was always on the menu whenever you wanted it. While other journalists had to stay in normal hotels and drink beer and eat hamburger, Mazher had the budget for five star all the way.
Later, we ate a candlelit dinner as we looked out over the gardens.
Mazher was entertaining to talk to because he had met a lot of celebrities for straight forward interviews.
He had the unpublished gossip on the soap stars - the likes of Michelle
Collins, Martine McCutcheon, Sarah Ferguson and Sven Goran Erickson.
Evidently they all found him rather charming and some had even chosen him as a confidant.
He used this opportunity to weave himself into their private lives and get their drivers and nannies on the payroll, who then became an endless source of stories for him.
Celebrities often rang him and he became their confidante.
I sat spell bound as his celebrity secrets spewed out of him – most of them were cruel observations. When in gossip mode Maz became a
bitch.
‘Michelle Collins was an idiot who had let her lover beat the shit out of her.’
I cringed.
Mazher didn’t drink and being Muslim refrained from eating pork.
I could tell he was a man who liked to remain in control as he poured me more wine and regaled me with spicy secrets from lips that never seemed to stop gossiping about celebrities things that had never come into print. Sarah Ferguson had had an abortion, so had Brittany Spears, Jonathan Ross had beat his wife - according to this news machine.
I sat back and heard about the dirty washing top celebrities had that had never made it into print.
My suite had a connecting door to Mazher’s and after dinner Mazher lay on his king-size bed with his shirt off and I lay on the settee. I couldn’t help but secretly run my eyes all over his golden-skin.
I understood how he fooled his victims that he was royalty or the film producer he sometimes pretended to be because he oozed an effortless charisma that was hypnotic. I felt breathless whenever he stopped and stared at me.
All of a sudden a cache of photos fell out of his file – hundreds of photos of girls with their legs akimbo.
God knows where he got them from.
I think the story tipster gave them to Maz.
I tried not to look.
They must have been 20s or so.
They were completely disgusting.
‘Oh, sorry about that.’ He cleared them up with a superior grin.
I felt sick and retired to my room. I knew Mazher saw stuff like that all the time. Cops saw porn too in their work but they were fit for it; I wasn’t sure Mazher was.

The next morning our job was to approach the sleazy old pervert to try to buy the offending photographs from him.
The creepy paedo pensioner left his house and we tailed him slowly to the nearby bowling club. I ended up telling him I was from the local newspaper, doing a feature on bowling, and asked if he would help us out as I plied him for information. I played bowls with him so our snapper could get a good facial shot of him for the paper.
Mazher took some snaps of us pretending to be my photographer. He smiled at me.
Then Mazher spoke to him on the quiet about wanting some photos of young models.
Mazher did a deal with him about the vile pornographic photos. Then we arranged to meet him later. The job ended up as a middle-page spread and the file was passed to the cops. I didn’t get my name on it – no one shared a by-line with the great Mazher Mahmood.
Mazher and I quickly established that he was top dog and after that first time we worked together frequently.
Our fake marriage was first played out when we both attended Sylvester
Stallone’s wedding in The Dorchester on London’s Park Lane in May of

When I arrived at the luxury suite his team had booked for us to be based in, which was one floor below Stallone’s. Mazher answered the door in a Dorchester dressing gown, sipping a glass of milk and looking like Christopher Robin.
Maz looked me up and down before he let me in to his suite. I was wearing a tight and revealing leopard-print dress and I had a leopard-skin pill box hat perched on my blonde hair. This was my first time as
‘Shakira’ as he called me when I played that role as the ‘Fake Sheik’s wife’ and I had no idea what a Sheiks wife would wear but I assumed it would consist of animal print.
When I thought about it the night before it occurred to me that a tight leopard skin dress and a matching pill box hat was the way forward for an Arab’s wife.
Mazher’s dressing gown was slightly open at the front like he was some kind of international playboy in his Dorchester suite. He stared at me.
‘You look fucking absurd. What’s wrong with your head? How can anyone be as stupid as you are?’
‘What?’ I asked a bit shocked.
‘That leopard-skin shit.’ He looked me up and down as if I was a bad smell.
I’m your wife – you’re an Arab.’
‘Wow, no brains! Go home and come back dressed - yes.’
The door was slammed in my face. I wasn’t sure what to do. Why wasn’t animal print fitting?
I called a cab over to Harvey Nicks and bought a beige Nicole Fahri suit. I picked up an expensive hair fascinator with feathers on the ground floor. The plan was to get invited to the reception and wedding itself because he was Arab royalty.
‘Better – sit down and relax.’
The room was full of his men about four or five of his team that consisted of the photographer Steve Grayson laid across one of the beds fiddling with masses of long lens cameras, Colin his personal bodyguard and some others.
A phone call came in to say Sly Stallone was in the bar from one of his crew placed around the Dorchester.
I watched as up in our luxury suite Mazher dressed up in his flowing white Arab robes or ‘rags’ as he called them and tied the black rope headband into place. His men helped him dress ………………and then he was transformed. It was the first time I had seen him like it and I gasped. He really was impressive. He was such a method actor he didn’t speak to any of us after that point as Mazher – he was His Highness, like Dustin Hoffman getting completely into a role – he was now ‘in character’ and we weren’t allowed to call him Mazher or mention The News of The World.
He glided regally out of the Dorchester suite with all of us trailing behind him like servants. I wanted to prove my worth and to let him know I was in character too. I held Mazher’s hand as we descended in the lift.
I enjoyed the feel of him. For one moment there was just me and him and the lift. I went into a trance as my palm got sweatier. Mazher held on for a while then – he turned to me.
‘You’re so getting off on this, aren’t you? I can feel it that you like me but now isn’t the time or the place.’ He held up our hands that were intertwined. He looked deep into my eyes and then he laughed.
He glided off ahead of me to the bar area to meet Sylvester Stallone. I followed through the lobby with his entourage of bodyguards suited up in black suits. It was a farce but an enjoyable one. It was one of the few stings that did not involved malice. Mazher had on his full Arab robes that were white and flowing with a headband in black. One of Mazher’s men walked up to Stallone and asked him if he would allow His Majesty a few minutes to talk with him, as His Majesty was a big fan.
Sylvester Stallone grinned and was only too happy to agree. He told us he was honoured to meet us both. I watched his eyes and not at any time did he doubt Mazher was who he said he was.
We sat with the delightful Sly Stallone; Mazher had got his exclusive interview with Sly Stallone on the eve of his wedding.
What other journalist could have nailed that?
The next day we all woke up late. I had my own suite below his but we had to meet up in Mazher’s grander suite, so when me, Mazher and the star photographer Steve Grayson had all been holed up for a while waiting for orders. I slipped into his cavernous bathroom to have a bath.
Mazher’s suite was breath taking with a view over the nearby Hyde Park. I bathed then looked out the window in a white toweling robe. Some snappers looked up at me and I was enjoying seeing how the other side lives when I heard someone outside getting angry. It was Maz.
‘The wedding’s on - they’re marrying on the roof. What the fuck are you doing in there you stupid tart?’
I came straight out of the bathroom wearing the toweling robe and feeling ashamed – he was the professional I was the flake. He was grinning at me. Mazher grabbed my hand and he pulled me up over a hundred stairs of the emergency exit. The staircase seemed to never end and was at the back of the Hotel and smelt. Maz went as fast as he could never letting go of me. The steep stone stair case went on and on and I got more and more out of breath. Out of breath we finally arrived onto the sunny roof of The Dorchester on the hot summer’s day. We both leant over and caught our breaths. He was laughing again. It was rare to see him laugh so much. Mazher held on to my damp towelling robe at the back. He ordered me to lean over the roof.
‘I won’t let you drop. You have to trust me – lean out over the top of the ledge and I’ll hold you. I won’t let you drop, Chris have some faith in me.’
As I leaned out over the roof to try to get a view of the next roof where Stallone was marrying. It was tricky but I hung over the edge and shouted back to Mazher, describing what the bridesmaids were wearing and what the bride, Jennifer Flavin, looked like while he dictated by shouting all I said over his mobile to the copy takers back at the office then he finished off by taking some notes with a pencil into a tiny pad he had got from the office store room of stationary.
There was a clatter of flash bulbs as we ducked into our limousine and sped off along the M4 to Oxford and the reception.
After failing to find his name on the reception guest list like he hoped, Mazher and I ended up with the rest of the press in a countryside pub in Woodstock.
Mazher stood back from the rest who kept back from him yet formed a large circle around him. I grabbed a beer and sucked on it trying to get rid of the stress of the day. It was a hot day and the while of Fleet Street seemed to be at the little countryside pub. I had been kept a secret by the newspaper so I was aware of curious glances. I felt proud to be standing alongside Mazher and Steve Grayson.
On the way back to The Dorchester, giddy from Budweiser, I was giggling in the back of the car – it was the stress of the day coming out. Mazher sat taking photos of me and making snidey remarks about my hat that had miraculously stayed put on my head all day. Steve was enthusing about an episode of The Sweeney that was being repeated on TV that night and how he was dying to get home to watch it. He noted I had the giggles and laughed too. Maz was silent. Now and again he took pics of me as we sat together in the back of the speeding limousine.
I wondered why. He said again.
‘You like Pakis, Chris?’
I frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘I mean would you date a Paki or are you racist about them.’
Since I assumed he was Indian I wondered why he had a down on Pakistanis.
‘I have never got close to anyone Pakistani.’ He grinned and took more photos.
Back in The Dorchester in the lavish suite, I wanted to have some champagne with the boys to debrief. Mazher slumped on the bed said,

‘You can stay and have a drink if you and I can shag - if not, ’fraid you have to leave right now and get no champagne.’
My jaw dropped. Where had that come from. I thought we were making friends. His comment had ruined any chance of friendship.
He lay back on the bed, not looking at me, the Superstar Hack, the handsome hero of the day.
I had no choice. I left.
There were other stories where Maz put me in danger of being killed.
Maz woke me one morning at 8am to tell me I had to go to Coventry to see a little old lady and her grandson. I had to find out who her insurers were he told me simply. I was still in bed and felt angry at such a blatant use of me as a go fer – what was the story and was it the right thing to do. I had spent my life working as an investigator it felt off to take orders from a hack on how to investigate. I felt my stomach dip and knew it was because there was danger. I asked Maz was there danger because my 6th sense was warning me that there was.
He replied, ‘Don’t talk rubbish it’s a little old lady and her son.’
I demanded a body guard so he reluctantly gave me Colin his ex boxer minder.
I got the train up to Coventry. I went to the house and Colin took me by car and as protection waited outside. I knocked and asked what insurers there were using for their dead grandfather – she offered me to go in and when I sat down she asked who I was – meanwhile she called her husband. Sensing great danger I ran out and into the car – then Colin and
I went for a drink.
Colin dropped me at Coventry Station where suddenly a van load of Asian men carrying machetes jumped out and circled me demanding to know who I was and why I had come to their house.
They were part of a Triad gang and Maz knew all along.
Colin stood infront of me and said no one touches her they come through me – he was ready to fight. He saved my life.
Just as they went to attack him three meat wagons drew up and about six officers jumped out. The knives and machetes went away – and the cops put me in the back off the van.
Later I was made to tell the man whose house I was in exactly who I was. The cops were not on our side.
On the train Maz rang me.
‘O’ well,’ he replied in response to my story of horror, ‘Onwards and upwards kiddies. I’ve another job I want you on tomorrow so I want you up and out of bed early – no lie in for you, Chris.’
I sat on the train and half realized I had enjoyed the adrenaline and half felt appalled at him.
I once sat in on a job where Maz shocked me as he announced to his mark a Pakistani that he was from Immigration. We went up to London to see a man getting English lessons in a school near the Kings Rd.
Maz announced he was from ‘Immigration’ and he had to tell him when he knew or he’d be carted back to Pakistan. I sat in the back of car listening and when the man went I spoke to Maz angrily.
‘Don’t ever do that again, Maz – it’s wrong and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal and was it fair to scare that guy so much just to get info?’
‘Chris, you do it your way and I’ll do it mine and it’ll serve you well to mind your own fucking business.’
‘I’m stuck in the back of your car, so I’m part of this. I’ve worked in the field for decades and anyone being this one or that one official burns out or gets nicked I’m very careful to keep one side of the line when I blag people. I’m not judging you.’
He glowered at me and said nothing. The man came back to the car and Maz got out and went to talk to him as I sat in the car watching. He kept looking back at me. When he got back into the car he seemed like a kid. Our chemistry was evident that day. For once I was his equal and he leaned on my smarts to finish the job and get it into the newspaper. I knew best about HUMINT – which meant getting information out of the other persons mind. We were finally functioning as an equal partnership. We were so opposite that we balanced.
To get a pic of a girl called Donna involved in his story Maz once sent me inside a prison where I was caught by authorities taking a photo of an inmate- they grabbed me and I had no idea it was against the law Maz had told me it was allowed. The prison staff grabbed me and held me for two hours. It was his turf – and I had been hit as he knew more and I knew less.
I was doing my degree at the time at University of London – and found I couldn’t get on train as my heart began to beat too fast and I developed severe panic attacks. Little to know it was the beginning of the end for me as a hack and Mazher was to fall soon after.
We were all, as I was to find out – controllable assets. We were both programmed parts in the Alice In Wonderland world of Rupert Murdoch the White Rabbit Handler.
Both of us were to be what is known as ‘thrown from the freedom train.’
Sound crazy? Ok, I’m going too fast for you – reader, let me clasp your hand and take you back to the beginning. Slowly I will take you down the rabbit hole and we will become small together. We will chase the white rabbit.
Alice and later ‘Wizard of Oz’ characters, yes, but back then my mind was all hypnotised in the characters that made up with girls inside both books – I was a secret spy – and I will call that buried part of me that not even I knew existed - ‘Dorothy Alice.’
 
I hated losing my career when the News of The World and The Sun sacked me for a spying surveillance on Heather Mills.
The so called investigation had been the brain child/investigation of chief staff reporter, Nick Parker.
Rebekah Brooks told Nick. ‘Hart should have slammed the phone down on Mills – now she’s got her voice on tape on her website – it exposes us - we aren’t allowed to use private investigators anymore.’
Nick Parker had sent a string of fake emails to Mills with News Corps blazoned over them. Nick chucked me a mobile phone to try to sort out the mess. I had been dumb struck when Mills spoke to me and she posted our chat on her website.
I was finished. Later on ‘Hacked Off’ and Hugh Grant via my old peer Graham Johnston contacted me via the MP Evan Harris to try to destroy The Sun. Despite them offering me a large amount of money I declined when my house was burgled after Johnston had put down the first months rent on my new place and a deposit. I was stuck in a river house and I wasn’t sleeping at night – terrified of Hacked Off and their rabid hunger to destroy The Daily Mail and the other papers I had been a part of. It was only when I met the good looking rap star singer of East 17, Brian Harvey whom the press destroyed the career of, did I start to put things together about the group that was run by Hollywood’s, Hugh Grant.
Years later Mazher Mahmood was to feel the same push off of the News Corps chessboard.
It was only after this fall that I was to find out that the life I had lived was not my own. I was able to decide that the mysterious American woman Anna – who found me on facebook - who told me I may be a Monarch Butterfly Spy might be on to a long buried secret. But I had to investigate – my own life.
I could look back and recognize that my friend, Mazher Mahmood was working to the same agenda.
According to the way the Nazi made Monarch Mind Control Programs – Rupert Murdoch was the white rabbit handler and Maz and I were the ‘lost in fantasy’ pieces around him to be moved around the board of his Kingdom until he tossed us over the edge and we were chess pieces no longer.
I felt like a marionette puppet doll – a wooden pawn on the chess board who floated around the world and never built up anything. Also - there was something very wrong with me sexually – I couldn’t get turned on for the men I wanted to date, only those I had to ‘target’ to spy on and get close to - for the media or the commercial arm intelligence agencies I had worked for before Fleet Street.
I felt sad I was single and not interested in sex. The result was a terrifying loneliness and isolation.
I assumed it was because I was a sex abuse victim ….now I was being told by this mysterious yet intelligent American girl, Anna, that my sexuality was locked into the Monarch Programs and hidden inside the butterfly’s wings of a part of me that was sexualised like a genie in a bottle that needed trigger words to activate and then send on its way for a mission for the Deep State.
In other words – Dorothy Alice was a part of me who would seduce – who wasn’t afraid of anything and like the characters it was based on it would follow the yellow brick road hoping to find a rainbow and the way home and Alice who would heed the orders of any man who knew the trigger codes – any man who was senior in the Freemason cults – like the Knights of Malta.
Anna told me that one of thses men was a Colonel who had been operational in the Vietnam war in America and travelled to London and most probably my orphanage – his name was Colonel Michael Aquino.
When Anna told me to get a notebook and encourage Dorothy Alice to come forth at my behest and write in it the most I managed with this out of reach part of myself that was a stranger to me was to write in a new notebook, ‘Project Aquino. The codeword for Dorothy/Alice is ICE.
Slaves who had no idea they were slaves - were once children split into parts, each part was programmed to work as a spy or a courier or an assassin or a serial killer/shooter.
I was programmed as a seducer spy, I was a ‘Beta’ Anna told me gravely.
I googled it – not believing her - the internet was full of You Tubes and blogs about Hollywood stars said to be Monarchs – Marilyn Monroe, Beyonce, Brittney Spears and this Hollywood star and that – this pop star and that. I was shocked to see how many songs and TV shows were subtly themed on the books Alice In Wonderland and Wizard of Oz – the reports online that they were both extreme deep black occult based books by occultic authors and code for something else entirely.
I had only my life to look back over. To try to look see the invisible string pulling – if there were any to see. I had to use myself as an experiment to examine the reality of Project Monarch.
The mysterious Anna was right about her insight to my life events – it had been me who bought in phone hacking, via my ex MI6 connected boyfriend John Boyall who worked for KCS Ltd – all MI6 spooks, Boyall, my long time lover, whom I had bought in to the News of The World. Behind me there lay a trial of ruined lives – a terrorist leader in the Real IRA was in prison, I had spied on him when I had taken him as a lover on orders from the Murdoch newspaper I was employed by.
I had led an adventuresome life yet those adventures made no sense – they did however start to make sense when I considered that they may be for someone else’s agenda. But how can someone control another, it all seemed so far fetched. The way it worked was that when trigger words were used to set me off – I would follow ideas that arrived wholesale into my head …hoping it would lead to some kind of good life for me ‘along the yellow brick road’ – it never did – tornadoes took you to the emerald city – never home again.
Like all good stories, only true loves kiss can melt a frozen heart – mine just happened to be from an American serial killer in jail for killing thirteen women.
This is my story.
Excerpt From Programmed To Murder - The Chris Jo Hart Story.