Editor's Note: Daniel Estulin and his family were expelled from the Soviet
Union on March 23, 1980, for anti-Soviet activity. His father, Isaak Estulin,
a prominent scientist and a dissident, spent 3½ years in prison for seeking
freedom of speech for his fellow citizens. Fearing for his life for his daring
exposes of corruption, manipulation and power grabbing, Estulin has voluntarily
exiled himself to Spain. His dramatic personal stories are a rare look behind
the scenes at how the most powerful secret society in the world has tried to stop
one of the most determined men in the world from discovering its secrets.
July 19, 2005—Thirty-five kilometres north-northwest of downtown Toronto
is located a $60 million CIBC Leadership Centre in the pristine town of King
City, which was the site of the 1996 Bilderberg conference.
The CIBC retreat resort is actually outside King City, in King Township—a
region of large, expensive horse farms, where members of the British Royal Family
are hosted on their private visits to Canada. This marvelous centre, privately
owned by one of Canada's main banks—Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce
sits on over five kilometers of nature trails through forested terrain and rolling
hills. It is no wonder that the Bilderbergers had decided on this exquisite
location. From spa facilities and services featuring massage and skin-care/aesthetic
treatments, saunas, and steam-rooms to a unique 200-meter in-door fully heated
track suspended roughly two meters above the ground, to an in-door and out-door
swimming and whirlpools, the CIBC Leadership Centre is located near numerous
golf courses, riding stables, hiking and cycling routes, museums and other recreation
sites. En fin, there was little chance that the Bilderbergers would get bored.
The Toronto media and news services were first alerted to this meeting by a
series of faxes, phone calls and memos from Jim Tucker and myself, especially
after it became known to me from deep undercover sources within the meeting
that the 1996 conference was to be used as a staging ground for the imminent
break up of Canada through a Unilateral Declaration of Independence in Quebec
in early 1997, intended to fragment Canada with the aim of achieving Continental
Union with the U.S. by 2000, pushed back to 2005 and now to 2007.
As a general rule, Bilderberg meetings are never mentioned in the media, since
the mainstream press is fully-owned by the Bilderbergers. The veil of secrecy
was torn off on May 30, 1996, the first day of the conference, by a front-page
story in one of Canada's most widely read and influential newspapers, the Toronto
Under the headline "BLACK PLAYS HOST TO WORLD LEADERS," John Deverell,
a business reporter for the newspaper, noted that not only had Canadian publisher
[Lord] Conrad Black offered $295 million to gain control of Canada's largest
newspaper chain and weathered the subsequent annual meeting of his Hollinger
Inc, but that—to cap his week—" . . . he's now the host for
a four-day closely guarded meeting of world leaders and royalty just north of
Deverell named some of the more than 100 hand-picked attendees from around
the world, from the list we supplied him with, as "U.S. Defence Secretary
William Perry; Prime Minister Jean Chretien of Canada; former U.S. Secretary
of State Henry Kissinger; Giovanni Agnelli, Honorary Chairman of Fiat; Paul
Martin, Canada's actual Prime Minister and the then Finance Minister; Mario
Monto, European Commissioner; David Rockefeller of Chase Manhattan Bank; George
Soros, the Prince of Belgium, the queens of the Netherlands and Spain, as well
as other business, political and academic elite."
Another article in the Toronto Sun, headlined "Big Hitters Gather: Vast
Array Of International VIP's Talk Things Over At Secretive Bilderberg '96 In
King City," noted that "[Conrad] Black, media baron and chairman of
Hollinger Inc., and other permanent members of the group, are unhappy at suggestions
by extremists of the left and right that the private event is part of a system
of secret government."
This was the first time in the history of the Bilderberg Conferences that a
major newspaper has ever scrutinized them in such a fashion. Normally, Bilderberg
meetings are not even mentioned in the major media. Bilderbergers are not accustomed
to having to provide explanations to anyone, particularly since certain of their
members own or control major metropolitan newspapers, newspaper chains and wire
However, 1996 was no ordinary conference and Canada is no ordinary country.
When the principal news outlets began checking our information through their
government and private sources, it became clear that Canada, one of the world's
wealthiest and most beautiful countries was to be ruthlessly partitioned by
the Bilderbergers and the New World Order.
Bilderbergers should have known that when one's freedom is at stake, no amount
of ownership of the press was to have prevented editors, copy editors, writers,
secretaries and investigative journalists of Canada's television, radio and
printed press from disseminating the truth for public consumption. What the
Bilderbergers imagined being a trickle quickly turned into a flood and an avalanche
that swept everyone of them off their feet. Only at the 1999 Bilderberg conference
in Sintra, Portugal, did the Bilderbergers relax the extraordinary security
measures that followed in the footsteps of their worst defeat, the 1996 conference
in Toronto, Canada.
At 7:45 on the morning of May 30, 1996, 680-NEWS´ legendary radio journalist
Dick Smythe, with the biggest metro Toronto audience, carried the following
report which was re-aired at intervals as part of their news schedule.
Dick Smythe: "Well, this sounds like the plot of a conspiracy movie, as
the world's movers and shakers meet in secret. Conrad Black is holding his annual
Bilderberg Conference. Here's 680's Karen Parsons . . .
Parsons: "About 100 notables, including the Queens of the Netherlands
and Spain, along with Henry Kissinger, the U.S. Defence Secretary William Perry
and our Prime Minister, have gathered for the conference. Also along, the heads
of Ford Motor Company, Xerox, the Bank of Commerce and Reuters. Black says there
is a ban on reporters, so discussion will be intimate and candid. He says 'exchanges
can often be quite heated.' Participants are required to take a vow of silence.
Last year's conference was held in three mountaintop luxury hotels in Switzerland.
This year, it's at a $60 million dollar luxury spa in King City."
Canadian Press also distributed a brief report on the previously-secret meeting,
which was published by, among other newspapers, the Toronto Sun, with over 350,000
The press coverage became so intense that Kissinger was overheard by one of
the staff reporters screaming at the Canadian Prime Minister, Jean Chretien
that "he will be damned if someone was going to screw this for him."
David Rockefeller pulled Conrad Black aside during a break to ask him if he
could "lean" on some people in the press to get them to "shut
up about this?" The now disgraced and bankrupt Conrad Black was in way
over his head. These boys, you see, are like schoolyard bullies. If you push
back, they are at a loss for what to do.
I doubt that David Rockefeller, the billionaire banker, or Henry Kissinger,
the consummate politician, or Conrad Black, the ultimate opportunist, or the
plethora of kings and queens and their loyal subjects understand what freedom
truly means to people who have never been enslaved.
Freedom and its loss . . . I seldom think of it during the intervals of our
destiny. What am I doing chasing these people all over the world? With what
objective? There must be a simpler way to earn a living. Except that I owe it
to my dad . . .
April 19, 1975. This is the last time I saw my father alive, a big man in housecoat
and slippers, looking at me from the photograph, my desperate eyes, the eyes
of a 9-year-old child, scared, unable to image, to understand, not old enough
to put myself in place of this bearded man, who only a few hours ago held me
in his arms, but now is gone. Our memory . . . it is a rescue of the real from
the uses the imagination might find for it. The intimacy of the moment, its
silences, its heaviness . . . you, the reader, as an outsider, can share my
feelings as long as you don't invade them.
My father was pronounced clinically dead for the first time 17 days later,
that is on May 6, 1975. As a famous scientist and a man of great personal dignity
and honor, he had spent his whole life fighting for the right of men to speak
their mind. Perhaps, that isn't such an extraordinary thing in any country where
freedom of speech forms part of a basic fiber of society. However, that was
not the case in the old dictatorship of my country, the Soviet Union. He survived
17 days of brutal torture, 19 hours of pain per day multiplied by 17 days. Three
hundred and twenty three hours of inhuman suffering, bestowed on him by the
Soviet secret police. His testicles were crushed; right hand broken in eight
places, one of his lungs was punctured from the dreadful blows he received from
as many as five beasts who were beating him senselessly. I would like to tell
you that he stood firm, that not a sound was heard from him, that he laughed
at his assailants, that . . .
As I write these lines, oodles of tears are streaming down my face, in the
name of that 9-year-old boy, in the name of that 40-year-old courageous man,
in the name of a happy family destroyed. How much more pain do we want? How
much more could we take?
As I bend over to pick up my broken pieces of recollection and proceed to carefully
arrange them within accepted limits of physical time and space—30 years
crumble between my fingers. My images of a scared child is a small monument
to the fragility of hope, a futile attempt to use love to fend off the ghouls
and dragons. How can I retain my privacy and have you accept my assertions?
Freedom and its loss . . . I seldom think of it during the intervals of our
destiny. By that I mean that I didn't love my father in order to lose him. But
I and you and we shall love our freedom most deeply if we are to lose it.
That photograph of my father still haunts me after all these years. My father
survived the beatings and two clinical deaths, one in 1975 and the other two
years later. My imagination moves beyond the flat world of a photograph which
contains him and into the realm of the imagination. He is alive, he is alive
because he moves, because he was alive at the moment that the memory resurrected
him . . . but also dead—imagined people always are, already a memory.
Several days after his undeath, obituaries began to appear in the European
press, . . . a renowned scientist dead at 40 . . . , scientist tortured to death
. . . , dark clouds gather over inakomyesliesche movement as scientist dies
of organ failure . . . , scientist in a coma . . .
Thinking back to the obituaries, to the sheets of newspaper, I think it is
quite possible to see people as neither dead nor alive, but as mere paper. The
joke I mean refers to our eagerness to leap from person to text, to forget the
person for the text and the gossip, thereby acknowledging a kind death of the
person, as if only the textual mattered to us. If textual is all that matters,
then death becomes irredeemable, an endlessly discomposing face in the confines
of our memory.
Could my obsession be an endless and futile effort, the impossibility of trying
to reverse one's direction in time, of trying to walk not forward to the unfolding
future but back into the barricaded past; all for the purpose of freeing the
man from his undue suffering? But as hard as I try, I can never reach him because
between reality itself and our limited consciousness or reality there is an
enormous gulf. My imagination can never break the physical and metaphysical
abyss that forever separates us. Since total reality is beyond our consciousness,
we have not even a language that could express it. Consciousness, by the way,
is something we each develop to the degree we feel and think for ourselves.
Insofar as we merely accept the emotional and intellectual commonplaces of others,
we remain dead.
So, Mr. Rockefeller, Mr. Black, Mr. Kissinger, the show is over. Easy, you
know, does it, son. Let´s go, let's go. You sir, help that lady into her
coat and let the door hit you on the backside. Wrong door, this show is not
for you! Freedom, you know, must be zealously guarded against all intruders.
On June 1, "Big" Jim Tucker and I along with a small group of part-time
Bilderberg chasers celebrated what was turning out to be an extraordinary success
story. Every major newspaper in the country wanted an interview, television
stations were constantly looking for updates, and radio stations were following
us all over the city. We met at the Horseshoe Tavern on Queen Street—Toronto's
version of New York's Soho district. The Horseshoe Tavern, now some 60 years
old is one of the city's original live music venues, the legendary bar where
Canadian singing legends Stompin' Tom, Blue Rodeo, The Tragically Hip and The
Watchmen got their first break; this tavern is still the place to see the bands
that put the word "road" in roadhouse. As an anecdote, it was the
venue featured on "Live on MTV" in September 1997, when the Rolling
Stones band began their No Security Tour with a 75-minute show.
Earlier in the day, I had received a phone call from one of my sources who
wanted urgently to see me before the end of the conference the next day. We
agreed to meet at Calatrava´s Galleria adjoining Canada Trust Tower, one
of the most inconspicuous places in all of Toronto, precisely because of its
immensity, with droves of tourist gawkers passing through the premises photographing
and videotaping the sites and sounds of Toronto's premier architectural attraction.
To get there, I decided to walk through Kensington Market, a Toronto version
of Madrid's Rastro, located just west of Chinatown that becomes an open-air
market on Saturday—the busiest day of the week. If anyone had been following
me, I would have surely lost them in this matrix of busy streets and densely
packed crowds. The market originated during British settlement in the 1790s
and has since undergone many permutations due to flurries of immigration that
brought in people representing more than 30 cultural backgrounds. As I turned
the corner, I could see my contact browsing the newspaper stand, a plastic bag
in left hand, with the free hand holding a rolled up magazine.
After a chance eye contact, and without acknowledging each other's company,
I moved silently towards the revolving entrance of the Tower, where a friend
of mine working for the real estate developer had arranged a room on one of
the top floors of the building, overlooking the city skyline. I got into an
elevator, nervously glancing behind me. My contact was to follow me five minutes
later. As I entered a fabulous suite, the splendor of one of North America's
most beautiful cities opened up and stood majestically before me. Toronto's
business district, unlike that of New York is relatively small and is concentrated
within several blocks.
Much had been accomplished in these last several days. For once, we clearly
had the upper hand on the Bilderbergers. Press coverage was tremendous; Kissinger
was royally pissed off, a definitive good sign. The European royalty hardly
could have complained about press coverage. To their chagrin, in this case,
it was utterly unwanted. The diabolical plans for the eminent break up of my
adoptive country were temporarily put on hold. What else could one hope to accomplish
in such a short time span? Still, I knew that this was a temporary reprieve.
That these people will be back, lessons learned and notes taken. They wanted
to crush any resistance, to rule the unwilling world with or without their consent,
by guns or butter.
From 240 meters above ground, the city stood still. I was shut off from the
bustle and sounds of this great metropolis by sound-proof window. At that moment,
once again, I felt on the outside looking in. Would all this make a difference?
Will people wake up to the imminent danger? Or will this be an "exciting
experience," "have a nice day, son" as a slow moving passer-by
replied when I patiently explained to him who was there and what they, the Bilderbergers,
My thoughts were interrupted by a discreet knock on the heavy, wooden door.
"Come in," I replied, only slightly raising my voice. The source,
wearing leather gloves, slowly crossed the threshold that separated the lightly
decorated hallway from the heavy art deco decoration of the suite. The source
intuitively moved towards the window, contemplating momentarily the extraordinary
view of downtown and the harbour front area surrounded by lakeside promenades
and landscaped waterfront, pathways—this is where downtown Toronto meets
"You stopped them this time around," said the source contemplating
every syllable as if even a slight alteration in the register might have transmitted
a different meaning. "The break up of Canada will go ahead as planned.
It is a matter of time."
"Maybe . . . ," I said. "All is well, for now, until the next
close encounter. Between now and then, quite a few of them will have died of
old age, decease and fortuitous accidents."
"Fortuitous? For whom?" replied the source. He pulled out of the
magazine he was tightly gripping with his right hand, hand-written notes, or
rather scribbles which I hardly could have deciphered on my own.
"I thought note taking wasn't allowed," I quipped, smiling a full
smile at him.
"Note taking is discouraged, my friend," he corrected me.
I glanced at the page. The familiar steady hand of a fountain pen left a blotchy
imprint here and there, but overall, I could understand it all. I knew too well
the source's writing, his fainting T´s and crooked R´s, diligently
drawn out within the confines of a lined paper. I reflected momentarily what
this courageous person was risking in meeting me and handing me this priceless
information. Why weren't there more people like this in the world? Perhaps,
there are, we just don't know them or the personal quiet fight they are waging
thousands of miles away.
"I have to go," the source uttered quietly without looking up.
I mechanically extended my open hand in the direction of the source. Just as
the source was about to meet my waiting hand with its outstretched palm, I lunged
towards the source and gave him a bear hug.
"I won't waste your time thanking you because no amount of thanks can
be enough for what you have been doing for us."
The source looked up." I have to leave."
"We'll leave as we have come up," I said, "in five minute intervals.
I'll go down first."
"Don't you worry. I left my car in the underground parking. We can take
the elevator down together," replied the source.
The source pulled on his leather gloves and pressed the designer metal elevator
button. The blue light shone through its transparent surface. I could hear the
whooshing sounds of the hydraulic lift speeding towards us from the bowels of
the building at six levels per second. I turned to my source.
"When will I see you next?" With the sound of the bell, the doors
opened. I took a step forward.
"Watch out!!!" screamed the source, grabbing at my arm and violently
pulling it toward him. I mechanically looked at the elevator. In front of me,
a chilling spectacle of an empty elevator shaft with certain death some 200
metres below awaiting me had the source not had the reflexes to pull me back
from the abyss. I shuddered all over. A cold chill ran up and down my spine.
"The floor," I muttered, "Where is the floor?"
"We have to get out of here, now!" said the source. "Someone
has jimmied the system. They have been expecting you!"
"Listen," said the source, "don't take the elevator. It isn't
safe. Walk down the stairs and call the police. When they get here, I'll take
advantage of the moment and take the elevator down to the garage. Go! Do it
I skipped down the stairs two-by-two, pulling myself around the corners in
short jerks with the wrist of my hand to get around the bend. My heart raced,
as a result of a near-death experience and trying to tackle 200 metres of height
in the shortest possible time. On one of the lower floors, I could hear the
garbled voice of an immigrant security guard climbing the stairs towards me.
" . . . er, . . . ter, . . . mister, sir. Are you all right? What happened?
I was called on the intercom on the second floor . . . someone manually to made
elevator stop . . . only in emergency can to do this . . ."
I grabbed the man's forearm. "Could you please, call the police as quickly
as you can?" I said, catching my breath in between every word.
The man pulled out his walkie-talkie. I could hear a high-pitched voice coming
through from the other end of the line. I ran on. Five, four, three, two, one,
ground level. I pushed open the heavy metal doors that opened on the main lobby.
Two police cruisers were already parked outside. The first onlookers were beginning
to gather on the other side of the revolving entrance doors.
"Are you the man who got stuck in the elevator?" said the Toronto
police constable, pointing at me with his fat index and middle finger.
"Not exactly," I muttered shaking my head in disbelief. "I was
about to enter into an elevator that was missing its principle component, that
is the floor."
The cop gave a short cry. His short companion with sharp features, clipped
moustache and hairy wrist looked over.
"You know, son, you are very lucky to be alive." The policeman stood
with his knees slightly opened, his toes pointing outwards, holding his elbow
between his thumb and his index finder.
"Only blind people survive these situations. A blind man would never step
into an elevator without checking to see if the floor is there. We, however,
take it for granted that its there. This is why it is a miracle that you survived.
When the mafia wants someone rubbed out, this is one of their preferred methods."
June 1, 1996. I was about to turn 30. Too young to die. "Fuck them,"
I thought. This is far from over. We can still win this. I gave the pertinent
details to the constable who incredulously looked at me from time to time .
. . his eyes resting on the lower part of my face as if he were lip reading.
The security guard with the impeccably bald and slightly chipped head asked
me once again if I was all right. Several people on the sidewalk recalled having
seen a stocky man in his 40s walking out of the building some five minutes before
the police arrived. A police van and two policemen on motorcycles arrived. Yes,
yes, the show had begun. It was the crowd's turn to take centre stage.
The wrong people remembered the right things and vice versa. A fat lady, who
refused a chocolate candy because "she was on a diet," one of those
colourful people who kept all she ever owned in her voluminous handbag, gave
a lurid account of how she saw someone or rather something, with layers of newspapers
wrapped on their feet storm or rather walk or perhaps stumble, no rather shuffle
out at great speed. A street violinist remembered two men carrying a medium
sized piano out of the building. A young lady with a poodle . . . but it is
useless to recount all the misadventures of what these people might have seen
or if they were even close enough to the vicinity of the crime to witness anything,
unless their hopes were to somehow, to participate. Yes, yes, and participate
they did, that large crowd of well-wishers and on-lookers and gawkers and charlatans.
Put the pen away. The show is over. You sir, downstage, put your glasses back
on! Officer, stop scribbling into your pad! Ladies and gentlemen, please could
I have you all put your personal belongings back into your imaginary suitcases
and leave the premises! The show is over!
The tramp stuck a half-eaten cigar into his mouth. A thin dapperish man with
L-shaped sideburns, slowly walked by, pretending not to notice. Didn´t
even turn his head! Two street hotdog vendors gloomily crossed the street, pushing
their sausages over tram tracks, shooed away by the beat cop with a deprecatory
shake of his sparsely populated head.
I walked out the other way, the same way I came in. That's it, easy does it,
you know. The 1st of June is summer time in Andalusia, but here, in Toronto,
summer was still two months away. A distinctly Russian man with a "hedgehog"
haircut walked hand-in-hand with his lady complaining about someone named Vanya´s
Close proximity to a majestic mountain is a mixed blessing, as someone once
said, one is at once graced by the magnanimity of its pastures and the bounty
of its slopes, and yet one can never see where one is sitting, under the shadow
of what greatness, the embracing comfort of what assurance.
As a final thought, dear reader, remember: Our knowledge of history lends this
tale a piquancy that can only come from watching people marching towards a tragedy
that they could avoid if only they remembered the past.
Daniel Estulin is an award-winning investigative journalist who has been
researching the Bilderbergers for over 13 years. Estulin was one of only two
journalists in the world who witnessed and reported (from beyond the heavily
guarded perimeter) the super secret meeting at the Dorint Sofitel Seehotel in
Rottach-Egern, Munich, Bavaria, Germany, on May 5–8, 2005. He can be reached
The views expressed herein are the writers' own and do not necessarily
reflect those of Online Journal. Email firstname.lastname@example.org Copyright ©
1998-2005 Online Journal™. All rights reserved.