By Yoichi Shimatsu
Exclusive To Rense
12-21-23

Hunter Biden’s unconvincing plea of being the blameless target of conservative-hatched character assassination only verifies this guilt in a national-security scandal involving his father’s career-long role as a mole of Beijing in America’s strategic affairs. Benedict Arnold at least had the decency not to put his offspring onto a career of treason. Since the federal penalty for cohabitation with foreign powers against the American interest is quite severe, as in the case of that Israeli-paid mole Aldrich Ames. The turncoat Bidens are behind a a desperate hush campaign against revelations of Hunter’s “business activities” aka subversion in the Czech Republic and Slovakia, which until recently were happy hunting grounds for the CIA and MI6 during the post-Soviet term of then Czech President Vaclav Havel. Successive Czech presidents lack Havel’s record of national independence from Soviet domination, his eloquence, intellectual acumen and good looks, have had to find other sources of political financing from willing foreign powers, a vacuum into which Hunter stepped in as a “salesman” for Ye Jiangmin, an energy mogul and great-grandson of the general who led Mao-and-Chu De’s legendary “Long March” to escape military encirclement by the superior forces of the corrupt dictator Chiang Kai-shek (a paranoiac, who in the war against Japan, was nicknamed “The Peanut” by American hero Vinegar Joe Stillwell).

My personal interest in this treasonous affair involving that “hidden Jewish” political family (the Bidens) arose from my youthful encounter with General Ye Jiangmin (senior) in the last and final boozing contest of his long glorious life, involving about 20 shots of wicked maotai grain alcohol (which I graciously enabled to him to win with 21) in his last battle against a Japanese challenge). The other half is the secret sojourn of CIA rookie Joe Biden in China, where he was recruited as a spy by the fanatic Red Guards. The latter discovery occurred during one of my mountaineering treks in the Tianshan Mountains on the border with Soviet-era Kazakhstan. In short, the Bidens have been well-paid and coddled clan of Manchurian Candidates.

That family’s double-agent status has shielded Hunter Biden from arrest here in the USA for being a still loyal non-registered lavishly paid foreign agent of China’s controversial One Belt One Road (OBOR) project. Upon request of higher-ups in China, Hunter was recruited to join the subversion team of Yeh the Younger’s CEFC (China Energy) team, which is an oil-procurement arm for the People’s Liberation Army-Navy (PLAN). Their mission was to dispose of that company’s massive energy profits to bridge reluctant Czech officials and business leaders into welcoming right-of-way access for China’s ambitious One Belt One Road project, aimed at a single standard-gauge rail track from Shanghai to Brussels. Both freight cars and super high-speed passenger trains would then traverse, at as-yet unimaginable speed to unite Asia with Europe along a winding route through major capitals over a distance of more than three times the width of the USA. As in how the railroad tycoons cleared out the American buffalo from the West for their coal-fired locomotives, it takes ruthless determination and wads of cash to lay track through a vast wilderness, with much of that spending allocated to political bribery. Westward Ho!

History resists repeating itself. For one thing, Eastern Europeans are not a bunch of scattered and poorly armed Indian tribes. Then there are the diehard Czech anticommunists, nurthered by George Soros, who hate the color red. Then there are residual fears of Asian domination, a relic of the Hun barbarian incursions and Horde of Genghis Khan. Hungary (named after the Huns) accepts its Asiatic legacy of free-roaming and drunken dancing around a blazing fire, but the Czechs are Euro-fanatics who prefer being in a concert hall listening to Smetana’s agrarian folkloric “Moldau” river suite. Thus, the only element that might have turned Czech public opinion in favor of the Chinese rail system and consequent economic domination over the EU was the wads of money from CEFC via its well-connected American salesman Hunter Biden.

Unfortunately, media exposes of Hunter’s services to China have upset the White House cart. To suppress leaks out of China, the Beijing authorities have put the clever but reckless China Energy CEO Ye Jianming under “protective custody” and transferred the CEFC assets to the massive CITIC trade group, thus burying the financial records involved in that pair of adventurers’ subversion of the EU. And now the Bidens stand naked for all to see their inbred corruption. Happy New Year, everybody!

Vinyl LPs as an antidote to anxiety

Intermission. The Biden-in-China narrative resumes below this section on my shopping spree during the Christmastide season. As for the decline of the Ye Clan, that sorry story resembles a BBC drama on the ruination and fall of a once-great dynasty. So let’s take a brief break without losing track of time.

My Christmas holiday is being spent (and sometimes misspent) among the desert oases of the American Southwest, the heart of the military-industrial complex and its nuclear weapons and missile programs. Instead of searching for A-bomb fragments however, I’ve been looking for Santa’s reindeer droppings between the ICBMs of the White Sands Missile Range.

My escapist pastime is hunting for old vinyl disks (to be played on an ancient record player) to be discovered at antique shops and thrift stores, originals and not those flimsy digital reproductions available for wonks at record shops. Now that the sweltering summer heat has been replaced by hail and rainfall, I journeyed to Alamogordo by White Sands and also El Paso along the Mexico border. These are rich hunting grounds due to the local military bases. Posted to these outlands of brutal outdoors heat and sparse, grainy TV reception, American military personnel over several generations (before the digital era) relied on LP records for psychological relief in the evening hours when temperatures crawl down from lethal to sweaty uncomfortable and during winter to shivering cold inside non-insulated sheet metal Quonset huts or adobe shacks.

My favorite finds have been classic LP records nearly as old as me, for instance this past week’s find of the musical soundtrack of “The Bridge over the River Kwai”. In that war movie Sessue Hayakawa was brilliant in the role of a slave driver Japanese general on the Burma Front who proved to be a self-serving careerist quivering in fear of demotion for his failures, similar to the craven executives running the cover-up at TEPCO Fukushima. Lesson: The test of a man’s honor arrives when everything goes wrong, and that’s when nearly every leader crumbles. (We’ve been seeing less of the Bidens lately.)

At a vast thrift shop in Alamogordo, I found another masterpiece of cultural resistance: “The Sound of Music” (not from the movie with Julie Andrews as the guitar-strumming nun Maria but the original Broadway show starring Mary Martin, a by-now forgotten recording unattainable anywhere except else in Manhattan). The third rare find was “The Tone Poems of Sibelius”, placed as chum, sucker-bait for big spenders, in a pile of discs at a Jewish-owned antique shop on a hardly visited and run-down New York Street (yes, in dusty Alamogordo of all places). Aside from this tiny bit of Brooklyn, there was an aura of weirdness on that quiet corner, just across from the defunct and decaying “Shroud of Turin” museum, a jarring note for my Christmas shopping spree (as in beware of fakes). That bizarre body wrap with its ghostly image worshiped by millions has since been proven by radio-carbon analysis to have been woven of Italian linen some 1,200 years after the crucifixion. Oh, well, any sign of devotion is welcome. On New York Street West I had stumbled on a historical anomaly worthy of the X-files.

How did a little bit of Yiddish Brooklyn land here, of all gin joints in all the world, by the White Sands bombing range and the close to the Trinity site where the world’s first A-bomb was tested? Finding an album of folkloric songs of Finnish origin palmed off by a Jewish shyster seemed more improbable than the UFO with its midget mummified pilot that ditched in Roswell, just down the road. Then the obvious dawned on me.

Answer: Alamogordo was a key link in the Manhattan Project led by Robert Oppenheimer and his busy Jewish gnomes Edward Teller, Victor Weisskopf, von Neumann, Leo Sizlard, Jack Schlachter, Joe Rotblat, Charlotte Serber and the rest of the Yiddish gang plotting to deliver Xmas gifts to unsuspecting Germans and Japanese while they slept. Of course, those Yid eggheads demanded their bagels and lox with cream cheese, matzo balls in chicken soup, potato latkes and corned beef on rye, while listening to the latest vinyl records from Broadway musicals and comedy acts on 45 rpm discs from the Borscht Belt, or classical recordings from Carnegie Hall. Which explains the aptly named New York Street, a Jewish emigre ghetto, in this god-forsaken desert and, sadly, today a shabby row of decrepit empty storefronts without even an Einstein brothers bagel to be had. Oy veh! One of the precedents for Israel’s immunity from genocide charges related to the indiscriminate massacre of civilians in Gaza at The Hague is the fact that the postwar Nuremberg and Tokyo war-crimes trials were never followed up by a Los Alamos trial for the A-bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Proof that Jews are the Chosen People, indeed.

Along the Tracks through The Pass

After that bizarre discovery by the dunes, I drove southward to El Paso, to rob Santa’s sleigh full of ancient LPs at “The Pass”. On the approach to the older part of town, my spending spree was delayed for a half-hour by Union Pacific locomotives hauling hundreds of double-stacked boxcars packed with Made-in-China toys and electronics gadgets for last minute Christmas shoppers. Arriving from the Port of Los Angeles and bound for Dallas-Fort Worth, the train rolled slowly enough to read the logos of shipping companies Jiaoyu, Chengda, ESA, Parisi, Jhongya Baofeng, JIL and so on, all originating from China, and destined for America’s Christmas shoppers. After about 50 flat cars, I lost track of the count.

To avoid paying transit fees through the Panama Canal to the port of Houston, the Chinese shippers simply hire the ancient U.S. rail system to supply Christmas gifts to big box stores in Dallas, for instance, Jewish-owned Best Buy, Loew’s and Walmart. Not a whimper of objection is coming from the climate-change activists about greenhouse gas emissions due to transporting toys halfway around the planet in this season to be jolly. No one questions why the entire trainload of non-essential trinkets aren’t being designed and manufactured here in the USA, for example, at the many empty structures and industrial lots in El Paso and nearby Las Cruces. Merry Christmas, if you haven’t by now exhausted your credit limit. The world-dominant Chinese shippers have far more ambitious rail plans for European TikTok-ers eager for the newest Huawei phones.

American trade dependency on China is in stark contrast with my first-ever Yuletide surprise at age 4 in Los Angeles: a Lionel train set from my parents, which inspired me with American ingenuity (along with singing cowboys free-ranging on television). Today’s plaything for American kids is TikTok, whose only product is narcissism aka self-flattery for the many and influencer status for a few extroverts. Toward the end of my journalism decades in China, I attended the very first public roll-out of TikTok in Beijing at the invitation of a Chinese media scholar, who was appointed its political commissar. One might wonder why does TikTok need ideological guidance? Media is propaganda, comrades, and propaganda means ideological domination over the minds of billions.

My long experience in a bustling China has shown that Americans are being mesmerized by a Chinese takeover strategy in a new Opiate War modeled after the Opium Wars foisted on the Chinese by the Sassoon dynasty and their Jewish co-believers. One good turn deserves another, right? Now, China gets its revenge. Our national complacency results in being mass-sedated by those jolly Jewish Sacklers of Purdue Pharma and now replaced by those colorful little Chinese tablets arrive through The Pass from Juarez. So let’s start the holiday countdown: How many Americans are going to die from fentanyl overdoses during this Christmas season?

Long Distance Economic Domination

Whoa! I’m way off track from the core theme focused on Hunter Biden as a Chinese agent. Trains remain the efficiency champion as opposed all other modes of transport including trucks, planes and cargo ships (the latter increased by toll fees for canals). The Christmas train had to move the equivalent of a thousand trucks between the Port of Los Angeles and Dallas-Fort Worth. A coast-to-coast trainload travels 2,800 miles (4,500 km), a distance of 1,450 miles (2,300 kilometers). That’s peanuts compared with the Chinese leadership’s vision of hauling trainloads of Christmas toys to Belgium (or even the UK through the rails in the undersea Chunnel). The straight-line distance from Shanghai to Brussels is 7,000 miles (11,300 km), and on the ground you’d add another 1,000 miles due to swerving around mountains, lakes and smaller nations, or about three times the distance along the vast Euro-Asian landmass as compared to the little old USA.

The One Belt One Road vision is the greatest-ever infrastructure project in human history, which has unfortunately been skunked by that stinker Hunter Biden and his erstwhile billionaire paymaster Ye Zhangmin. If the American courts refuse to prosecute the drug-addled twit, then perhaps the next U.S. ambassador to Beijing can arrange for a PLA firing squad to dispose of the scoundrel’s carcass somewhere in the Gobi Desert. American taxpayers will find the latter option to be the preferable method to eliminate arraignment costs since that foreign jurisdiction changes the family only about one dollar to cover the price of a bullet. The parents receive the brass casing as a memento.

Lunatic Son of a Deranged Father

In follow-up to his brilliant career as an “artiste”, Hunter Biden on this Yuletide should be singing his swansong on TikTok, perhaps a tune close to his heart like Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine”, guaranteed millions of views. Uncle Joe might try to croon his favorite song, Maurice Chevalier’s “Thank Heaven for Little Girls”. That true confession was written by a couple of famous Yids, Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loew, better known as in Lerner and Loew. Under the Christmas tree “schene maydle” (beautiful maiden), switch on the twinkling lights for grinning old men to sing: “Those little eyes so helpless and appealing, one day will flash and send you crashing through the ceiling.” A Yiddish cultural treasure, indeed.

In the larger world outside of our puritan and hypocritical USA, I am the most tolerant observer of human foibles and sinfulness, so long as I am not sucked down into the sewers along with the pervs. Any fascination with drugs long ago was rejected by me as delusional rather than recreational. Temperance, I’ve discovered, is a financial condition involving a lack of money rather than a debt owned to the Cartel. By contrast a wastrel like corrupt old Joe’s son, Hunter was born into easy ill-gotten wealth from political bribery. His only option left to evade a prison sentence is an insanity plea. How do I know the President’s son is a madman? Because in 2015 he hooked up with a fellow lunatic, a Chinese adventurist who goes by the name of Ye Jiangmin, (Y.J.) the erstwhile multi-billionaire chief of CEFC aka China Energy.

The American and European media lack a “boots on the ground” sensibility to understand Y.J. as one of many ambitious up-and-comers of the post-Deng reform era. There are two types of Chinese tycoons: the rather insipid and boring elitist children of leading Party families aka the “sons and daughters” hired by Jamie Dimon, CEO of Morgan Stanley, versus dreamy and ambitious hustlers from the provincial fringes. Y.J. was from the boondocks of Fujian Province and his pal Hunter came from a crowded and seedy second-rate Delaware.

An escapade in a China of yesteryear

Over a spartan dinner in a blacked-out Beijing, I met the great-grandfather of Hunter’s Chinese sponsor in summer 1977, less than a year after Mao Zedong’s death, during the bitter ideological falling out of the radical communist leaderships of China and Albania in their rivalry to lead the “world revolutionary movement”. That was a delusional moment, when the CIA gasped at the possibilities of inciting the ruin of both regimes, though their secret agents, Israeli weapons dealer Saul Eisenberg and his band of PL (Progressive Labor) loonies. As a deliveryman for air tickets issued by an aging travel agent in New York City, I received a free holiday package to China, which were abundantly available at no cost due to the reluctance of wealthy Americans to travel to Asia during that time of internal troubles between rival Chinese factions.

After briefly meeting my maternal aunt at Haneda Airport, the first leg of my China tour was Guangdong (Canton), where at a poorly attended street festival I downed a dozen tiny cups of potent maotai, the local version of vodka made of sorghum. The occasion was the approach of a parade celebrating the “rehabilitation” of Deng Xiaoping following his long exile in the boondocks of Xinjiang for espousing capitalist-style incentives to get workers and managers to work instead of grousing about lousy cafeteria meals. Mao simplified the charges by calling Deng a “revisionist dog”. Deng’s actual crime was his ethnic Hakka identity, which like the Jewish minority elsewhere, implies insider tribal favoritism, stingy hidden wealth, an aversion for physical labor and a propensity to cheat and lie to outsiders. The similarity goes beyond behavior since both tribes tend to have big noses (the better for picking) and a disdain for hard-work to be assigned to naive lesser peoples. Since I’ve worked hard labor jobs since being able to walk, I qualify for the latter, and I use Kleenex tissues.

In Nixon’s Footsteps

My local digs in that southern metropolis (where water buffalo still pulled the plows in honey-bucket fertilized fields) was a mansion where President Richard Nixon and First Lady Pat stayed on their historic “Nixon in China” visit to seek Mao’s help to end the Vietnam War. The palatial western-style resort was lined with foreign-brand record players and portable radios, which served as incontrovertible proof of the Gang of Four’s luxurious westernized lifestyle deserving of the firing squad. (My collection of records would have qualified me as a fanatic supporter of the decadent West and Mao’s estranged wife.) After a brief stay in a depressed Shanghai, inside the mansion-turned-hotel of the Jewish opium king David Sassoon, I arrived in a Beijing, where the roads were devoid of cars and instead overrun by millions of bicyclists returning home from work.

My chauffeur sped westward into the gathering darkness to deposit me at a blacked-out resort in the the Purple Hills. In a candlelit room, I took my seat with the few other Americans at a round banquet table. I was the only foreigner who could tolerate potent maotai (one gets over its feral stench after tossing back a couple of swift shots). Then, unannounced, our hosts rolled in wheelchairs pushed by nurses. The trio were the last surviving generals of Mao’s famous Long March from Canton to Yenan during the civil war.

After the elderly gentlemen were helped by nurses to be seated and introduced by a young host, the other foreign guests were silent, whereas I stood and raised my glass in a toast: “Generals, you are living proof of being the world’s greatest tacticians of the art of guerrilla warfare since Zhuge Liang in The Three Kingdoms, and so I raise this toast in honor of your courage and genius.” Flattery is the foundation of diplomacy. The trio thudded their knuckles on the table top, and ordered the waiters to pour them a round of booze to welcome this perceptive foreign lad, to which the alarmed nurses reacted in silence with dour faces. It was a rout, my triumph of guerrilla warfare to break the ice, a maneuver that would have earned me an A+ at my collegiate ROTC program.

Marshall Ye, the great revolutionary hero, pushed his large body upward and raised his tiny glass and said: “Let us raise a glass in friendship between the American and Chinese peoples.” The other guests Americans and Chinese guides moaned at their rare chance to drink 150-proof sorghum liquor. As the boozing rep of the USA and Japan, I tossed the back my full quota in a single gulp and slammed the empty glass onto the tabletop as an old-style macho challenge, and the butler refilled the empties for the next round, and many more afterwards, while the others dropped out of the contest. The generals were beaming at this open defiance of their doctor’s orders. One of the Americans whispered: “How in hell do you know this sh-t?” My reply was: “ROTC forced me to study guerrilla warfare - Castro, Uncle Ho and Chairman Mao. Win with brains and not by suicidal brute force. ” Then when there were only two contestants still standing, the old War Horse and me, I sipped a half glass and conceded defeat, while he downed the 14th shot-glass in triumph to win the last battle of his life to cheers and applause.

The conversation veered to the deprivations during civil war, of having to roast rats and prairie dogs for dinner, even though they tasted great with spicy Sichuan hot sauce. Meanwhile, the generals reached their chopsticks over to the guest plates for delicious fish and beef, forbidden fare according to Chinese medicinal therapy which kept them on oats, rice and tea. Old warriors don’t die they just fade into anorexia. The vengeful nurses marched in a huff and wheeled the elders out the door, but not before my delay tactic with a final raised glass filled to the brim, enabling the Three Generals of the Long March to have their very last festive drink on this mortal coil.

Marshall Ye was a graduate of the Whampo Military Academy in Canton during the 1920s, but was adverse to serving under a paranoiac and thuggish commander as Chiang Kai-shek, president of the Republic of China. Later, during World War II, the American commander of the Asian front, “Vinegar Joe” Stillwell independently came to the same assessment of “Peanut”, as forthrightly detailed in Barbara Tuchman’s “Stillwell and the American Experience in China”.

Despite initial ideological differences, the young officer admired the mental acumen and spartan lifestyle of a robust and nonconformist Mao, who sought to end China’s era of national humiliation. Following Mao’s death, it was an elderly Ye who dared to stand up against the Chairman’s estranged widow Jiang Jing and her “Gang of Four” who advocated “permanent revolution” to wipe out the entire cultural legacy of Chinese civilization and create a crazed new world of mass indoctrination, a disciplined social order based on hatred rather than trust. The arrest of the quartet under martial law, under orders of the trio of Long March generals put an end to imminent national suicide. (That suicidal ideological regimentation is strikingly similar to the lock-step political correctness of today’s USA, and therefore must be struck down without hesitation.)

On the next day of my itinerary, on a twisting roadway descent after walking the Great Wall of China, a sniper who was either Albanian or a Gang of Four loyalist shot the right rear tire of my car, blowing it into bits of flying rubber. The careening vehicle swerved wildly toward the cliff edge and then suddenly screeched to halt sideways. Another car that was discreetly following mine, unnoticed, roared up and stopped for three armed bodyguards to point their pistols toward a nearby hill. One of the bodyguards shouted to me to drop down below the windshield and dash into the back seat of the second car. Gunshots were fired at the sniper as my new driver made the getaway in a scene from a James Bond thriller. Marshall Ye, wherever you are, it was an honor to meet a legend, now an eagle soaring far above the clouds. Meanwhile, his familial bloodline ran thin as the decades passed, with one of the general’s offspring wooing the son of that Chinese intel asset, the American traitor Joe Biden for political subversion of Eastern Europe.

Artillery barrages on balmy Xiamen

A quarter century after my encounter with his legendary granddad, Ye the Younger was based in Xiamen, a seaside town with a coastline with palms and beaches as attractive as Southern California. Prior to the arrival of the reformist party leader Xi Jinping as governor, then based in Guangzhou near Hong Kong, Xiamen had the aura of a rundown pirate haven, as I discovered while working as the English-language consultant for a local mobile phone producer. (A decade later Xi had the acumen to invite Microsoft and Dell to set up assembly plants in Xiamen, converting the front-line city facing Taiwan into a prosperous high-tech hub.)

Young Ye’s Xiamen was then a rough Navy port on the South China Sea, exactly opposite Taiwan, and every afternoon one could hear artillery barrages against the offshore Taiwanese island of Quemoy and return fire thudding on the sand. The PLAN vessels were decrepit rust-buckets from the pre-Cold War era, veterans of the Taiwan Strait crisis of the 1950s, when the U.S. Seventh Fleet blockaded the Chinese coast. Then the Sino-Soviet split (1961-1989) had shifted nearly the entirety of China’s military preparedness to army and militia units along the northern border with Soviet Siberia across the Black Dragon River (Heilungjiang) along the Harbin waterfront. During that first trip to China marking Deng’s rehab, I was impressed at lunch hour in Harbin as tiny Chinese women, actually girls with pigtail braids, left their factories with carbines casually strapped over their shoulders on the way to target practice, kittens with sharp claws.

A still isolated China, without foreign reserves derived from exports to the West, had to make do with very little in the way of energy (fuel oil) and steel (melted down from sparsely available scrap metal). Once a major pirate haven and Muslim stronghold, Xiamen reverted to its tried-and-true survival skills by converting local-grown tobacco into fake Marlboros, which were exchanged on the high seas with illicit suppliers of ersatz “Johnny Walker scotch whiskey” smuggled up from Malaysia (probably Borneo). The smugglers paid unofficial “tolls” to the Navy officers, who then suppressed “illegal” (unauthorized crooks) to maintain a monopoly on illicit income to purchase fuel for warships and supply booze to tiny bars.

On one of my coastal mountain-hiking excursions, I stumbled upon a walled compound that that been blown to smithereens by army mortar shells, its gate smashed down by a tank. Creeping insider the perimeter devoid of any human presence other than my own, I arrived at the entrance of a huge cave-tunnel. Inside, the rocky ground was covered with fake-brand cigarettes and the remnants of machinery, presumably to chop tobacco leaves and cigarette rollers, which had been blown up with grenades. That waste of good tobacco occurred soon after Xi Jinping had taken over as the local reformist governor with new ideas and an openness to trade with the West.

Zhuhai as a haven for oil smugglers

Unbeknownst to American sources about the Hunter-Jiangmin Ye partnership, the newly minted CEFC back in those dark days secretly operated out of the southern port of Zhuhai (which borders the Portuguese gambling colony of Macau) to search for foreign sources of bunker fuel and diesel for the PLAN fleet. Slightly upstream from Macau along the Dong River, one of its tributaries is the Pearl River that flows near Hong Kong. The Southeast Asian piracy network was a great place for young Ye to start his career as an oil supplier to the naval base in Xiamen and also the then-smaller PLAN docks on the southern island of Hainan, enabling its rise as home port of China’s nuclear fleet.

Between squeezing the casinos and their gangland Triads, and illicit shipments of food and maotai liquor from nearly Guangzhou, Ye’s piratical brethren had contacts with like-minded knaves in oil-rich Brunei, Malaysia and Indonesia to procure surplus diesel out of Southeast Asia for transfer to the Chinese Navy. Oil smuggling quickly became a thriving tax-free business as mini-tankers and drum-loaded barges plied the dark waters after nightfall. The vast oil derricks off the Vietnam coast were off-limits due to their ownership by Exxon, Mobil, Shell and Marathon, along with late entry Murphy.

As a reliable fuel supplier to the PLA-Navy, Ye became a rising star in energy-starved China and set up his new digs in big bad Shanghai, the nation’s financial capital and investment hub. As a rising multi-millionaire flush with foreign cash and contacts with the PLA-Navy, his connections facilitated the rise of Xi Jinping against his rival Bo Xilai in Chongqing, where the once-popular governor was busy linking his stronghold with a pipeline from the Andaman seacoast of Myanmar-Burma. Their power struggle for the Party leadership was essentially an energy contest, which Xiamen Xi and his young supplier Ye won hands down in 2013 as the governor became Party chairman.

A visionary intercontinental rail dream

Four years into his presidency, Xi began to roll out the OBOR proposal for a rail-bridge to Europe, and Ye was yoked to this foreign-policy priority. The Germans, who have had a major industrial stake and historical legacy in Shanghai, were amenable to a land-bridge between China and Europe, but there was one major obstacle to the One Belt initiative: The legacy of Vaclav Havel (and his ally George Soros) among the anticommunist CIA-backed liberal activists in the Czech Republic. As an opening shot, Hong Kong’s pro-Beijing leadership hounded Soros’ investment firm out of that port of entry into the PRC, and the mainland press denounced the Open Society’s meddling in Tibet and Xinjiang. (I never raised objections to that Nazi-Jew being kicked out of the trough.) On the bright side for China, the conservative Czech opposition welcomed any financial connections that might improve their financial standing in the post-Havel European Union. The Czech choice of being overwhelmed by German industrialists or being soft-partnered with a distant China was not difficult to comprehend

Hunter as an agent of influence in demand

Ye’s CEFC dispensed $1.5 billion worth of Euro currency to buy off Czech business leaders and reassign them as his loyal business managers.Among his local acquisitions was a majority holding in the Prague Slavia soccer club and its stadium, the Lobkowitz brewery, Le Palais Art Hotel, Empressa Media which owns a major TV station, the ZDAS engineering company and other well-chosen local enterprises. Language was his problem, with Ye having been too young to be among the millions of comfortably English-fluent Chinese students, who now as adults are overrunning and conquering the rest of the world for the New Chinese Empire.

Passing bribes to VIPs and more enticing allurements for the politicians (aka whores female and male, booze tabs and cocaine) were inappropriate for a great-grandson of The Marshall, thus passing the nightly drudgery to accomplished scammers from the USA and Britain. From his sea-eagle’s nest in Shanghai, Ye had his agents in the West, aided by the now-notorious biz consultancy Rosemont Seneca LLC, to head-hunt a top American figurehead who could lobby the EU and assure NATO of his good intentions, putting unwarranted fears of a Chinese takeover to rest.

The 2015 proposal from Ye was ostensibly for creation of a China-based investment fund beyond the reach of the IRS. Ye’s initial target for his glad-handing American “partner” was Obama’s vice president Joseph Robinette Biden, who was then preparing to retire from an overextended political career which limited his ability to receive bribes. However his long-term role as an informer for the Chinese diplomatic corps (fronting for the Guan spy service) required Joe to be cautious, since any leak to the GOP, especially Donald Trump, would have been fatal for the entire Guan Circus inside the Democratic Party leadership, which controlled Hillary Clinton’s presidential bid. Exposure of payoffs and campaign contributions from Shanghai could have been literally fatal for many of the San Francisco and Chicago Democrats on the take, who truly believed they had a lock on the post-Obama White House. (Following the election results that swept Trump into the White House, I was barraged with interview requests from stunned Chinese media outlets, since I was the sole American in the Far East to have smugly predicted a Trump landslide.)

For CEFC, there was the added incentive of Biden Senior have been a deep-cover asset of the Guan or Chinese intel agency during his youthful sojourn in Xinjiang with the Red Guards, spying on the Soviet nuclear program in next-door Kazakhstan. Joe’s hiring by a PLA-linked financial firm, however, was way to risky for the Democrat cabal, so he begged out of the offer and proposed his son instead.

On Tuesday, December 15, 2017, in Miami, FL, Hunter Biden dined with his pal Ye (they had met earlier in China), who offered his American asset a $10 million annual salary for “introductions” to VIPs. Upon consent, Hunter received a gift of a 3.6 carat diamond worth $80,000, just a bauble in Ye’s expense account. Many millions more were wired to Rosemont Seneca, the international consultancy that provided cover for Hunter, along with other business fronts, in order to evade a Treasury and IRS investigations.

Implosion from Prague to Shanghai to D.C.

Then, the bubble burst when a dope-addled Hunter failed to deliver his dad’s Rolodex to Chinese intel. China’s key agent in place was sussed out as a crazed doper. In my article series on the FTX cryptocurrency firm then based in Hong Kong, I have shown one of the other routes for Hunter-associated front companies and private bank accounts in the illegal pipeline to the Bidens and their cronies. While Hunter imploded under drug abuse, sadistic sexual trysts and then retreated his insanity into an art studio in Venice, CA, alarms bells rang in Beijing and Shanghai. CEFC assets were diverted to a holding company and business records shunted into the warehouses of the Guan intel bureau in a hasty cover-up of the Biden connection. Ye has not since appeared in public. To think his honorable and courageous ancestor and namesake had struggled so faithfully to rid China of corruption and betrayal, and now this utter disgrace for a founding family of People’s Republic.

The crackdown on the Ye-Biden scam set off a panic among every foreign citizen involved in money-laundering and illicit banking throughout China, especially along the Shanghai-Hong Kong corridor, which ran through Nanjing, where I was managing the English editing for a tiny youth-oriented news site that had limped along since its heyday during the 1988 Beijing Olympics. The Chinese finance ministry crack-down focused on tracking of outflows to Hong Kong, which delayed my attempt to convert a paltry two hundred dollars at a Nanjing bank to pay my winter-season heating bills. I sat minus my cash card for several hours in a bank office, while local police were trying to track my nefarious sponsorship of a foreign spy network and then, disappointed to find nothing there, released me at nightfall with the advice to fly to Hong Kong for help from a money-changer.

I was teed off, to say the least, about the nuisance caused by SBF crypto and Hunter Biden. Worse was yet to come, but that’s another narrative. Closing shop on one of the last free presses in China was a crushing disappointment to say the least, as I rolled a suitcase and hauled my backpack aboard the train to Hong Kong and then a flight back to the USA. All I know is that the Treasury and the FBI should throw the book at the lying cheating crooked Bidens with the added icing of massive financial penalties, and ban their Chinese paymaster from the NY Stock Exchange. Hit ‘em where it hurts most, between the goal posts!

Back to this festive holiday season for a few hours of forgetfulness about the horrific plight of the Palestinians, those inheritors of the Holy Land: Yesterday during a last-minute delivery of a large bag of cat chow donated to an animal shelter, I found to my delight in its tiny gift shop a total surprise, something left by Santa: The original 1965 recording from the Broadway musical “The Man of La Mancha”, the lyrics of which I transcribe here as my New Year’s pledge and maybe yours, too. Pray for Palestine and sing along if you will.

“To dream the impossible dream,

To fight the unbeatable foe,

To bear with unbearable sorrow,

And run where the brave dare not go,

To right the unrightable wrong,

And to love pure and chaste from afar,

To fight when your arms are too weary

To reach the impossible Star.

“This is my quest no matter how hopeless,

No matter how far!

I’ll always dream the impossible dream,

And someday reach - that impossible Star!”

Have a peaceful Christmas and a glorious New Year!