Holy Ghost Writer
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That Girl Started her Own Country is a book you cannot put down after you start reading it. It is
a story that plays in modern days, but ties in with another publication from Holy Ghost Writer,
The Sultan of Monte Cristo: First Sequel to the Count of Monte Cristo. Both books connect to
the original work The Count of Monte Cristo, and they could be seen as a trilogy.
Just as in The Sultan of Monte Cristo: First Sequel to the Count of Monte Cristo, the author
makes the characters come to life, in such a way that the reader feels drawn into the story.
Besides the characters being all-round developed, the environmental description gives you
even more food for the brain to get absorbed into the story. After reading a few pages, you
might have the feeling that you have become part of the experiences the main characters
This book is the perfect NEW read for fans of the Count of Monte Cristo, and The Sultan of
Monte Cristo. It can be read as a stand-alone book, but I recommend reading all three in a row
to make it into the perfect reading experience. You can find the book on Amazon.
- Jocelyn Braunn, Reader for Pleasure.
That Girl Started Her Own Country
Sixth in the Series of Sequels to the Count of Monte Cristo
By The Holy Ghost Writer
Copyright 2012 (written in 2011)
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of
the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
deceased, entities, things, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
That Girl Started Her Own Country has been partly inspired by the death of a Swedish
investigative author and the inequity of Swedish law that prohibited the Swedish author's
common-law wife of 30 years from inheriting any portion of his estate. The author, of this book,
has authorized the publisher, Illuminated Publications Limited to donate 1% of the proceeds to
the Swedish author's common-law wife and an additional 1% to charities that protect battered
women and their children.
The author writes under pen name, the Holy Ghost Writer (The HGW). This pseudonymous
precaution is partly a way of protecting other sources of inspiration, lest powerfully, non-
fictitious toes are inadvertently stepped on find this work threatening; and to avoid his own early
demise, considering that the above referenced Swedish author died unexpectedly at only 50 years
of age, after receiving death threats. Although we have zoomed forward from the First directly to
the Sixth Sequel, the missing sequels will be published eventually in tandem with future sequels.
This, however, is not a sequel to the Millennium Trilogy of "The Girl That Kicked The Hornet's
It wasn't real, yet she enjoyed the sound of it more than her birth name. She repeated it in her
mind, 'Zaydee, Zaydee, Zaydee'. She vaguely recalled that was her maternal great-grandmother's
She worked hard to escape her ugly past. It wasn't easy to overcome the false headlines such as
'Ritual Serial Killer.'
Two more plastic surgeries made her designer look unrecognizable compared to her younger
Her ill-gotten wealth decreased her former frugality as she began spending more than her yearly
interest income on private jet-setting.
Dipping into her principal was not good, she told herself.
Her self-esteem rose with her image as an international playgirl.
She lost track of conquests, ignorant of the countless male and female hearts she had broken.
Still, she managed to keep them on a string.
There was only one man that she fell in love with but she kept him distant from her extravagant
On reflective, lonely nights, Zaydee would rarely tap into his computer's server that she had
turned into a bot slave.
He knew that she had done so when they worked together to catch his friends' killers, those she
was falsely accused of killing.
First she had saved his life, subsequently he returned the favor. He trusted her so much that he
didn't mind she controlled his computer's server. But he had no proof she still checked in on
It came as a shock to her that he entered his career as an investigative journalist under a pen
How did he get away with that for so long?
It was big news that his real name was Steven F. Larson, splashed across the headline of every
newspaper in Europe.
Taking on the Bilderbergers got some very powerful people on the offensive.
It was a preemptive strike to undermine his upcoming exposé, one that could rock the world.
One headline read, 'Steven Larson Exposed as True Name of Sweden's Top Journalist.'
Interpol and Sapo were starting to crawl up places, where the sun never shines, with every
forensic tool at their disposal.
Zaydee realized that kind of scrutiny would inevitably lead back to her.
Larson had no proof of who had been leaking a truckload of sensitive data on the Bilderbergers,
to his iPad, from an untraceable email address; yet he could not help but suspect the petite young
woman that disappeared eight years ago. He calculated she would be thirty-four by now.
He had caught wind of a wealthy princess and suspected that it could be her new persona. There
was a rare photo of this princess named Zaydee, and he swore under his breath the name that he
had known her as.
"That's got to be you"! He found himself saying out loud. "Only you could have infiltrated the
Bilderbergers disguised as a royal princess."
He recalled that she not only saved his life, but also that of his ruined career, then she put him on
the map as Sweden's top sleuth.
As it dawned on him, except for her coming into his life, she may have not risen so high
financially; she was at that moment contemplating the same idea.
'Destiny', they both concluded as they cocked their heads thoughtfully, looking up, sipping their
lattes. One at a Starbucks sidewalk cafe in Miami, the other, while a fugitive, on Katarinavagen
in a McCafe where she ate a Black Angus burger with a Dr. Cherry eight years ago when
assuming a Belgian woman's identity.
Like Sweden, that life seemed so distant now, a bad dream from which she could never fully
She drowned it out with her decadent life style.
She decided to give her multimillion dollar building at Strandvagen to Larson. The very same
building that Hjalmar Soderberg described in his 1895 novel, 'Forvillelser' as 'a defiant and
brilliant knight's poem in stone.' She said under her breath, 'Stevie Fucking Larson.'
She thought about how he would react to such a gift, the eighth one over the last several years.
Telling him he would need a hide-out might be the ticket to his ready acceptance. But if she were
not careful, it would lead back to her so she decided to have a nominee directors' corporation
with bearer shares take the ownership and send those bearer shares with the key anonymously to
arrive on his next birthday. Note to self, she thought: 'Include instructions how to move to and
from said apartment without a trace and a debit card owned by the bearer corp.' Larson could
access cash from ATM machines when needed without a trace to him.
She turned her radio on to the number one Miami hip-hop channel FM 99.1 and heard Beyonce's
new song, 'Who rules the world, Mother-F*king Girls Rule the World.'
She realized how true that is; especially since women produce and raise all of the men. The time
for women to rule the world politically and directly was long overdue.
She changed the channel to AM 61 and heard a guy named Glen Beck praise the new Spiderman
song sung by Bono, 'Rise above it' with a line sung by a giant female spider, 'And the gift you
have will give you eyes to see.'
She decided she liked the right-winged zealot and remembered hearing that the Bilderbergers
were not very happy for these types of loose cannons.
The night before, she stumbled onto AM 88 and heard the voice most dreaded by the
Bilderbergers, the inimitable Alex Jones. She liked his raspy voice and feisty spirit yet was bored
by his ranting. At least he caught himself when his rant went too far off the deep end.
She was tempted to call and feed Jones and his listeners an earful, yet she realized she would
give herself away and spoil the effect of Larson's soon to be released exposé of the world's most
powerful secret society.
Friday, June 17
Laurence Ralfsson awoke to the voice, "This is Captain Heather Fairbanks. We arrive this
afternoon over a beautiful day in Miami ten minutes early. Fasten your seatbelts for a 2:14 PM
arrival. Thank you for choosing Virgin Airlines."
Solicitor Ralfsson was nervous about his first meeting with a woman from whom he embezzled
one hundred million dollars, even though he was sure she wouldn't notice its disappearance.
The reason for his cockiness was due to the clever way he had moved her funds into securities
that on the surface appeared to cover the principal and even showed a reasonable profit. He
surmised it was smarter than a ponzi scheme. Unless a forensic accountant were able to trace the
proceeds after they went through the clearinghouses and a maze of offshore accounts in 13
countries, no one could uncover his scam, short of cooperation from international law
enforcement and the involved banks and clearinghouses. Suddenly, it dawned on him that she
might request those securities be liquidated. Then he would be in serious trouble. 'No', he told
himself, 'I can say, "No problem" then disappear before she comes looking for me. She is totally
at my mercy since she only has bearer shares and I can change the passwords after the meeting.'
Ralfsson presented his Swiss passport to immigration and was asked by the uniformed inspector
Marlsson, "Are you Swiss or Swedish?"
"Both. My father migrated to the Italian Canton of Switzerland where he met my mother, but I
now live in Gibraltar."
Inspector Marlsson gave Ralfsson a discerning look as if to say, 'I don't believe you,' but tired
and ready to go home said, "Good luck finding your pleasures here in sunny Florida" as he entry-
stamped the passport.
At customs, Ralfsson was asked if he forgot his luggage. After saying that he preferred to travel
light and buy new clothes at his destinations, he was escorted to a room and asked to wait there
to be questioned.
Ralfsson was rattled and his mind began racing with the possible reasons for the detention. The
first thought was that they didn't believe he bought clothes at his destination. Then he thought the
guy with the Swedish name wasn’t buying the story he was not on business. Or maybe it was a
routine post 9/11 procedure.
'Will they look through my briefcase? Shit! I don't need them sticking their noses in my
business.' Next, he realized that his line of business might not be appreciated by bureaucrats.
'They will see I have clients with Arabic names. I only half-ass got to know my clients according
to the new, strict, due diligence laws which could cost me my license to practice law and make
me a suspect of laundering funds for some group of Islamic extremists.'
After an hour of sweating, two gentlemen identified themselves as special agents of the FBI,
Timothy Whitehead and Michael Binder.
"FBI! What on God's green-earth would the FBI want with me?"
"We have a sealed indictment for your arrest. But, before we arrest you and take you downtown
for booking, we're going to ask for your cooperation. The way this works is that if you can give
us a bigger fish, we will let you go with a slap on the wrist, but if you want to do this the hard
way, well, when I say hard, you have no idea just how hard that is here in Miami. To give you an
example of what you are up against, the charges carry 25 years for the first count of stock market
manipulation. Do I have your attention?"
Feeling like his heart would bounce out of his chest, Ralfsson said, "But I don't even understand
what I've done that has brought about such a charge. I want to cooperate, yet I am at a loss to
know what the hell I did."
"You fucked up!"
"How, when, where?"
Does the name Regis ring a bell?"
"What about a stock symbol kgmb?"
"Yes, but that involves a guy named Michael Barduri."
Special Agent Whitehead looked at agent Binder and said, "Ah-ha! That must be his new alias."
"I just bought some shell companies from him. Is that a crime?"
"We believe we can prove you and Regis did more than that and we can, at minimum, nail you
for conspiracy to commit securities fraud."
"How can you prove that?"
"Since you already admit you bought a shell company having the symbol kgmb, perhaps you can
explain why you thought it necessary to increase the price per share from one dollar to ten
dollars since it was only a shell as you admit."
"Look, I'm just a nominee director for my client acting on instructions. I'm actually here to meet
that client to receive her next instructions."
"So, you can explain why ten million worth of stock in kgmb traded hands after the price jumped
from one to ten dollars?"
"Like I said, just following my client's instructions."
"Are you aware it's a crime to lie to us? You've heard of Martha Stewart, I presume?"
"Who hasn't, but are you suggesting I ask to talk to my lawyer now?"
"No!" said agent Whitehead, "We have not Mirandized you yet. If you are lying, you can forget
about that slap on the wrist. By Regis putting us on to you, he'll be given a get out of jail, almost
free, pass. Now, if you want to benefit from helping us nail your client, start by telling us when
the meeting is! "
"She is expecting me any time now, as I said, "That is why I am here."
"’She’! What is her name?"
At that moment Ralfsson realized he was in trouble because he was kept in the dark by his
predecessor and also noticed that Whitehead reminded him of a hyena and Binder a weasel. He
also got the feeling he was being squeezed by a couple of thugs.
He blurted, "I inherited this account from another solicitor in Gibraltar, my brother's boyfriend
whom is dying of AIDS. He is under some secrecy agreement with my client to use with me only
a code name, ‘Pippi Longstockings’. He said at first he believed her to be Norwegian, but later
suspected she could be a member of some royal family. It sounds silly, but there, you have it."
"OK", said the hyena agent, "What we are going to do is have you use this briefcase in your
meeting with her. Point this side of the briefcase towards her face so we can record your
conversation with her on video. Try to get something from her that she touches, like a glass or
hand her your cell phone to look at something on the display window like her accounts. We can
then lift her fingerprints.