Freijo Farjallah


This man became known to me when he was a benefactor to Helmut Alber. Helmut Alber’s story is contained within my extensive diaries and isn't touched on much here except to say that my relationship with him ended when his alcoholism caused him to assault me. Nonetheless, Helmut was the Mitimiti beachbum I befriended when he ended up on my Sydney apartment doorstep in September 1992, looking for help to see his son. He had my name from a list of people who regularly ate at his Club Mirage in the heady days before his partners Fay Richwhite shafted him. Almost the first thing Helmut did was to show me the Metro article about Fay talking of skimming rounding errors on interest from phone-number sized transactions. I didn't know I was being set up when I instantly recognized Fay's photo, from the article, as being one of the three unknown managers who called me into the office of Securitibank late one Friday night. That was twenty years earlier, when I was the Canon computer programmer for John Russell. A scheme, which I twigged to when I put a name to the face in the article and which in 1994 Russell confirmed he knew nothing about nor would ever have authorized, involved these three people, claiming to be Russell's new managers. Under protest they were instructing and watching me that night create, table-based duplicate computer programs, which I understand now could be used for double parking of Reserve Bank trades. How this was done involved adjusting the factors for calculating the bond yield for the broken six monthly rest period. It should be noted that in pre-computer days the Reserve Bank used tables to describe this calculation based upon all half year periods containing exactly one hundred eighty two and a half days. My original program, which was the first ever on a desktop computer in NZ to calculate bond trades based on Julian dates, gave Russell the advantage of cheaper prices but the clerks at the Reserve Bank couldn't check his figures and, given a similar looking printout they could check, they were happy to pay the higher prices based on their tables. My successful formula gleaned from an old Canon calculator for jullian dates was :

j=int(y*365.25)+int((m+1)*30.61)+d where m=m+12 and y=y-1 if m<3

Freijo claims that he cannot read or write or more importantly refuses to. He allegedly enrolls the help of strangers to write on greeting cards, etc., so when he met my daughter, Sally, at the Shell gas station in Williamson Road, he asked her to write something in a card for him. He struck up an acquaintance with Sally because of their joint interest in new-age philosophies. At the time, with his entering her life right at the point where she was going through a relationship breakup, he piled on his suave nature convincing her to cut her ties with this country to take flight into the greater world. Within days she was flying out on an overseas trip. What was supposed to have been a few weeks of holiday were extended indefinitely and communications with Sally dropped to a trickle. Before she left, Sally told me about her meeting Freijo. I immediately recalled him from the one or two times when I had met him in the early 1990s. I hadn't seen Freijo since then when I delivered a message from Helmut. As I walked into La Trattoria, and squeezed up past Spooky, his lanky hostess, and up to his office loft, I couldn't help noticing the results of a shotgun blast that had recently destroyed a mirrored wall in the restaurant. He made his entrance back into my life through this supposed accidental meeting with my daughter in September of 1999.

From overseas, Sally sent me an email asking me to get in touch with him to see if he could interest any of his Buddhist friends in assisting her importing of some specialized hand made paper products and religious artifacts, from her new contacts in Kathmandu. He returned my message to say he couldn't help but arranged to visit me for old time's sake. He arrived, unannounced as always. The first few times he was all dressed up in his Buddhist campaigning colors. That was sometime in November 1999 when he brought food and wine. I remember he was prevaricating his resolve to stop smoking. He told me many details of his personal life and quickly tried to enlist my help in an abusive letter writing campaign, aimed at the judge who married his ex-wife. At first I was non-committal but later advised him against these moves. However, when he became enthusiastic about wanting to get connected to the internet, in order to find his long-lost illegitimate Spanish daughter, I was glad to help and went to a great deal of effort to set up a computer for this purpose and to train him. Nothing I could do would cause him to actually take on the project. He consistently sabotaged my efforts and seemed to be more interested in my DNA and metaphysical ability than my help.

Somehow he managed to get more help out of me by providing the smoke, which he was getting from Ricky of the Great Mercury Island house building gang. This is how I learnt of the underwater entrance to that island. So it went on for another six months during which time Ricky's entire work crew became dreadfully sick, while Freijo's visits got friendlier. I did return his favors by driving him around so he could put stuff into storage, etc. Friejo's cooking skills were excellent and we consulted on his Mafia-styled AutoSnak marketing enterprise. He finally went to stay with someone in Remuera who was learning to fly big planes. His story is remarkable for its depth because within a few visits I learnt how he had been sentenced to death by Syria.

Freijo said he was a prisoner of war because he was with Interpol when he provided security for the Lebanese president. He tells of a breakout from this prison with three hundred or so killing all before them.  Before that, in Lebanon, he ran taxis so that gamblers could order extra cash to be brought to them inside his casino franchises. One of these cab drivers escaped with him up into the mountains where they performed the most bizarre ritual of cleansing their spirits before returning to civilization. This involved the young man going into nearby villages to steal a pure black cat. This he then boiled alive and, above the screams of the dying cat, he and the cat were in a strange communion. His war crimes involved forcibly triaging a village of 2000 people and pouring petrol on those who would not get the nod which included dead and dying. He had a snapshot of a rat emerging from the head of a woman.

Then there was the time during his European hotel-owning days where he knew people who ran a side operation to smuggle heroin into Britain using fake battery cavities. These cars, belonging to unsuspecting immigrants, were later traced in Britain and the batteries swapped out again. As an aside he mentions a big black man he knows who flies into cities for wet work. Freijo tells me that I am being troublesome to the CIA because I published the photo of Clinton's Russian uniform. He pointed out the listening house on the cliff overlooking where I lived at Muriwai Beach. He even said they would offer me one million dollars but only on condition that I also leave New Zealand. Not only do I fob him off saying that I don't want the money, but always took his comments with a grain of salt, of course. I knew he was worried about his future because, at times, he didn't know whether he was 62 or 57, so naturally no government could afford to give him a normal pension. Little did I suspect then that his retirement woes were behind a likely reason to get me out of the country. That Freijo came along after I scarpered upon finding Captain Bob's drawer full of identities, which was shortly after overhearing his eerie comment, that he, Bob, would bury me at the low-water mark on some tropical beach, is reason enough now to ask, "was he looking to protect a decades-long investment that was made to purloin my identity?" He drove me around the Waimauku hills and pointed out where CIA agents of his age group lived. His son, Carlos, went to King's College and at the time was working with and courting David Richwhite's daughter in London. He tried to convince me that all governments were run by actors and that the real power in this world was held by a woman. He simply referred to her as the Contessa. She, he said, was the one person who should hear the Clinton spying story.

The next part is really bizarre because, before it happened, I've already accused Freijo, to his face, of being in the pocket of some rogue CIA group, or worse. We are out on the deck, overlooking the beach, when the new neighbor is playing with her very young dog and Freijo urges me to invite her over for lunch. What I didn't know then was that it was her dog who was bringing their rubbish on to my lawn, months earlier. That habit had got so bad that I had even rung the police about it, thinking it was a hate crime. Not making any connection, I invited her over and we were soon joined by Tony, a newly arrived surfer from Nelson, who is her live-in boyfriend. He just arrived home. I learn Lisa is a "lady writer on the TV" and her young gangly dog is also winning our hearts, if not those of the house cats. I step inside, to bring out some food, and distinctly hear Freijo talk to Tony about drugs. "Shit", I thought a total stranger shouldn't talk this way within the first two minutes. I suspected they knew each other by some secret handshake. Nevertheless, Tony is coming around regularly after that because I'm fixing their old IBM 386 computer, but what he smokes is terrible. Their excuse for the obvious government epoxy covering some of the computer's ports is that a sister works for the ESR and this PC was scrap. Roger, I think that's the name of the guy on the right, is one of the voice recognition experts from there. He also helps me adjust the pitch of my Reader and examines my Clinton voice analysis. These other guys lived in the house around the corner from me where the resident, a policeman, died in a bike accident on the Muriwai road. Some of the neighbor's dog's planted rubbish was detritus from when they moved in next door. There were bills and photos and insurance instructions and even a note saying where their Counties-Manukau warehouse was. I had kept some of this rubbish and dug it out and recognized the photos as these new neighbors. That's why I knew it was their dog, so I'm more than a little cautious when at Tony's house his pot-smoking friend, a government health worker, the Ruth Hirst person who railroaded poor little autistic me a few years earlier, is quizzing me about whether I knew of a witch's coven operating in the area. If you didn't know it, autism can be induced in an MKUltra dud, like me. I said that I didn't. In the next few weeks, Tony quickly breaks up with Lisa and moves away, to Tauranga. I think so, because a big police bust takes place there a few months later. During this time I befriended some out-of-district Maori surfers, one of whom I saw on Tony's deck some time later.

One day when I'm down getting food for our seahorses I spot their familiar four wheel drive. I didn't see them anywhere but standing next to their car was a man with ARKANSAS written right across his sweatshirt. Immediately, I notice two things. Firstly, his face looks like Bill Clinton. "Simple", I thought. Most local people from a certain district have similar appearances. The girls from Texas have those bushy eyebrows, so you know what I mean. Secondly, this guy was half machine and seemed to have had no body from the waist down. He marked me in a return glance.

Freijo told me that every night about 300 scientists were examining the programming that I was publishing each day. I never heard from any of them. He said soon someone would come and tell me I would never be allowed near a computer again. I joked and laughed it off. He told me that he knew the Al Qaeda people and he showed me a green Koran signed by the Libyan ruler. Only vaguely do I remember him talking about a huge event being planned. I mention these things only now because no one cares. It seems to me that there are no good guys left.

The elaborate fish meals that Freijo cooked on his visits were always accompanied by an effort to get me to respect the value of money by demonstrating how an Arab father would bless the dish for his family, to no avail. On the third-last visit he determines which of the three house cats is my totally cool black cat called Muriwai, named after the place. I think now, he then also assures himself that my computer archives have been sufficiently sabotaged to remove all traces of the original Gemstone Files. The Opal Files have a different ending, probably put there by Freijo's handlers, which makes no mention of Fay Richwhite's 1986 dealings. So, when he casually asks if I have any copies of the Gemstone Files I now think he was pretty sure I didn't, so no fuss was made when I said I didn't think so. But Muriwai was a bit trickier because on two occasions we found her asleep in his Mercedes having got in through an open window and devoured some extra fish that he left on the front seat. On the last occasion, back on that Sunday of May 28th, 2000,  he became more demanding in that I should respect money vis-a-vis the million dollar offer. When challenged about what else I could do I said it could get to the point of me not wanting him to come around anymore. At this, he gets up and says I have gone too far then walks out stony-faced into his car. I never saw him again. Neither did I see my beloved little black mother cat again either. Although it was a day or so later that I started to panic over not finding her I do remember, a few hours after he stormed out, that an urbane gray haired man in a black Audi turned around in the driveway. I got a chill when this guy eyeballed me through the kitchen window.

You can imagine the connection I made 15 months later, after 9/11, concerning those others who took up learning to fly large planes.

And now for something completely different, relating to an ongoing claim for personal injury against the Auckland Regional Council for failing to protect the public. You will see that in the following excerpt from my email, to my then doctor of June 26, 2000 as sealed on a yahoo group, there is no mention of the fact that when I was attacked by local thugs, I had no idea that a park official to whom I went for help was, as I learnt later on, related to my attacker and that it was he who held me from behind as I was being punched in the face. This beating caused a split in the root of a tooth which has a special precision attachment made for a partial denture. The tooth is now rotting my jaw causing a particularly bad odor requiring tens of thousands of dollars to put right. I'm writing this information here because, although I was successful in getting the ARC Parks Director to listen to my story in confidence, he would not give me the benefit of the doubt and assume liability for the actions of his employee, a public servant acting out of a public office in an assault and battery on a member of the public. So, because confidential or public information is like open or closed, the only difference is that one is opposite to the other, separated by a plus or minus sign, or in my case the push of a publishing button.

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"Yesterday I heard three rifle shots from behind the house and thought it was probably a police shooting. Then today I was attacked by local criminal and drug gang leader, Split Dick, who has for eighteen months verbally threatened to kill me or burn our house because of my internet camera which is pointing at the beach; - which he thinks is his beach. Or could it be my Clinton photo? Who knows the real reason? Also, the day before yesterday there were many jet skiers on the water and the evening before that there was a light from a yacht about a mile off shore.

You know our beach; - there is no way a yacht can come ashore, so who would think to keep a look out for smugglers. Anyway these busy jet skiers were going to and fro all day, maybe even to the yacht. A TV camera was monitoring all the jet skiers. They have never been here before and yachts don't come here because of the big seas and no harbor. This drug gang has made claims to me that they are protected by the SAS group in the area.

Today I was down at the beach collecting water for a new tank for Nuit, our seahorse, and had taken her with me. I put her in a tidal rock pond but she wouldn't eat. Maybe it was the shock of being so close to the sea again. Anyway I was having trouble sealing the large water container and it was going to spill sea water inside my van. Just then Paul Wilson arrives in another van with a rather brutal thug named Ryan Dent who again threatens to kill me for days earlier returning a finger sign to this Paul Wilson. He used to rent a room here and was forcibly evicted when I found him and his gang dealing drugs from our house.

Then they moved their van about a hundred meters away and the thug gets out and heads back in my direction. As he advances towards me I take out my spear gun, look at it, and figure that because it was all tied up there was no time to load it so I jumped in the van and try to escape. The thug jumps up on the road, blocking my path, and before I could get going he starts hurling about a dozen large rocks, hitting my van, and finally one smashes through my windscreen and lands on Nuit. Then, with sea water and glass all splashing around inside my van I drive past him and stop at the Ranger's office to get help. They refuse. I ask if I can leave the van there and go back to see any witnesses. Just then these thugs arrive and it seems they have all the locals scared. He punches me in the face and says that my cat, Muriwai, is dead; - as you know from my earlier email she vanished on May 28.

I hastily retreat back home. Once there, shaking, nervous and expecting to be attacked any minute, I ring the police and it seems the thug had also rung them because he now had official witnesses who saw the spear-gun, that I had held in self defense. Their story is completely different about who started the attack.

The local policeman arrives within the hour and wants me to let the matter drop saying he has known this gang all his life and he trusts them when they say that they have no reason to want to burn our house or kill me. The local policeman, Bill Allen, says I am free to lay a complaint against his handling of the situation but he would rather I didn't and just forget the incident; - but adds there is no way he will try to get reparation for the damage to my van. He takes my spear gun. I suspect he is in cahoots with this gang. Incidentally, members of this gang follow me when I leave the house and were watching from their cafe when I post mail at the local post box.

Nuit survived; - only just. She is now back in her old tank. I have a very sore jaw and many cuts from broken glass. I am all alone.

My lawyer, Barry Hart, who is across from your office, has just returned my call and thinks I should leave things for now but keep him informed of any developments.

The gangs motto is, "Welcome to Muriwai - a good place to die".