PRISON          Copyright 2002-2006 Alex Jones          All rights reserved.


Elite are ever elusive
While there might be a few dukes inside, guards keep out our Earl


We all need a little insanity in our lives and here's mine: The Bilderberg Boogie.

Raindrops are falling on my head as I stand behind the security barricade well back of the Brookstreet Hotel where dark limos with tinted windows pull up to the front entrance sporadically throughout the day, dispatching figures who dart quickly inside through the phalanx of grim-faced guys dressed like undertakers.

Who, I ask myself, are all these undertakers, and uniformed cops dotting the landscape around the hotel, securing? The conspiracy theorists say it's the Bilderberg Group, the so-called world secret government of politicians, potentates, industrialists, militarists, and oil barons who set the real life and death agendas for us all, and have arrived for a weekend of new agenda-setting, concealed, as always, from the plebian public.

If it is the Bilderberg Group, with its paranoia for secrecy, then I'm thinking these geniuses have been struck monumentally stupid. The Internet and newspapers have had stories for weeks that the Bilderbergers will be meeting this weekend at the Brookstreet Hotel. Knowing this, which they had to, you'd think the Bilderbergers, allergic to publicity, would have cancelled the Brookstreet Hotel for a resort on a remote island somewhere.

That's if it is the Bilderberg Group. With the saturation security, maybe it's Oprah or Pamela Anderson or whoever the hell yesterday's fleeting superstar was in pop music.


Or maybe it's the "French pharmaceutical group" and the "Montreal Canadiens, Ottawa Senators, Toronto Maple Leafs charity tournament" people. When I did the Bilderberg scope-out at the hotel a week ago, manager Patrice Basille told me those were the only two groups booked for this weekend, and it was impossible for anyone to make a reservation -- all rooms were booked.

Either Basille is part of the Bilderberg grand conspiracy of silence, or the "French pharmaceutical group" and "Montreal Canadiens, Ottawa Senators, Toronto Maple Leafs charity tournament" are in need of massive security, the reason for which is beyond me.

The only way, I decide, to find out if it's Bilderberg or BSberg is to get past the security into the hotel. So, I walk two blocks down the street, cut into a parking lot of a hi-tech company, and take a circuitous route back to the rear of the hotel, hoping it'll be bereft of security.

First, though, my eyes scan the golf course adjoining the hotel, where the guests have privileges. I figure if I see Osama bin Laden napping in a sand trap, I'm Bilderberg bound. Bin Laden, when checking in, would ask for a sand trap, not a room.

I don't spot bin Laden, but, unfortunately, do spot one of the undertakers at a barricade I'd have to get through to get in. Back of the barricade is the hotel's wrought-iron fence, its locked gates extra-secured with thick, wrap-around, bike-lock wires.

If the Bilderbergers and Brookstreet can practise subterfuge, so can I. "I'm staying at the hotel," I tell him, "I need to get in."

"Do you have your security pass?"

"Security pass? I'm just an innocent guest. Pass for what?"

"All room guests were given passes by the hotel. Not even the police get by me without a pass."

"I guess they forgot to give me a pass -- why, what's going on here anyway?"

"A conference of some kind. That's all we were told. I have to stand here for 12 hours."

"Are you with the hotel?"

"No. Iron Horse Security." He shows me the photo ID card around his neck: Eric Thivierge.

"Dressed like that? You look like you're going to a funeral."

"The client wanted us dressed up this way. All in black. Why, I don't know.

"Normally, we wear company uniforms with our logo. I didn't have a black jacket. I had to go out and buy one."


"All this for just a conference? What do you do if somebody tries to get by?

"Shoot them?"

"No, I don't have a gun. It's illegal. I'll call for help." He holds up his cellphone. "See that other security guy down there? Maybe he can get somebody from the hotel to bring you your pass."

I stroll along to the other Iron Horse Security guy. Andre's his name. Black pants, black shoes, black suit jacket, white shirt, dark tie. I play blissfully inquisitive. "All I know," he says, "is that it's a think-tank of some kind with big shots from around the world."

"Have you seen any of the big shots?"

"I wouldn't recognize them even if I did. I'm told there'll be a couple of monarchs, though."

Andre says he had to buy his own shirt, tie, and pants. Cost him about $100.

"I'm hoping somebody will reimburse me."

Bill the Bilderbergers, Andre. Reimbursement is the least they can do for having you Iron Horse guys wandering the hotel grounds looking like a convention of gloomy undertakers in search of a funeral. But, of course, you'd first have to recognize these secretive publicity shunners.

Cosmetic Surgery. We are pleased to extend our range of services by offering the cosmetic surgical and on-site non-surgical expertise of Dr. Lloyd Van Wyck, M.D., F.R.C.S. (C).

-- Brookstreet Hotel brochure

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