Leaving the funeral site, Dias took a car back to the Departnt of Holand Security on Nebraska Avenue. The hypocritical condolences and hollow speeches at the funeral made him uneasy.
Concealing the "excess deaths" was simply not sothing a senior intelligence analyst like him could decide.
This was an order from the White House, from that president who spends all day ranting on social dia.
The president is currently busy fostering his personal cult of personality, with applause constantly filling the congressional reports, and the White House website daily announcing "victory" news. Even the smallest things are inflated into "historic achievents" by him.
In this environnt, who dares to be a "whistleblower"? Who dares to question the governnt’s decisions? Anyone who dares to do so would probably find themselves in Heaven with the Ministry of Efficiency’s Thomas.
The White House actually understands everything but has chosen the dumbest path—issuing death orders forbidding anyone from discussing governnt failures, adhering to an "ostrich ntality."
Of course, the pandemic can’t be hidden, and the "excess deaths" will surely be exposed.
Now, the United States intelligence agencies are trying their best to find a way to survive this storm. The best approach, naturally, is to find a scapegoat.
Is there any need to search? Of course, it’s—"Dongda"!
The Eastern Great Power developed a biological weapon to exterminate humanity, which has now spread to the United States. Accusations must be made, claims for compensation must be filed, and divine retribution must be carried out!
Launch the propaganda machine and turn the funeral into a celebration; it might even stir up populism and raise so support.
Dias had already planned to use a ready-made scapegoat—the president of Holy Light, Zhou Qingfeng.
"The premise is to catch that kid."
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While in deep thought, Dias’s phone suddenly vibrated. He looked down to see a brief ssage from Monica:
"The latest topic among the political and business circles is how to find a safe ’pandemic haven.’"
"What?!" Dias’s pupils shrank suddenly as he stared at the screen, rereading the simple two sentences several tis.
"Haven" was a bombshell that exploded in his mind instantly. His back went cold, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.
"Discussing this topic is out of the question now..." he murmured softly.
A haven? What does that an? It ans mistrust in the United States’ society and economy! It ans so people are already preparing for the worst!
But now the Holy Emperor is in power, and everything is peaceful and prosperous. How could there be any trouble? Any crisis? Who dares to spread such unsettling rumors?
Dias imdiately dialed his subordinate’s number, his voice urgent and severe: "Keep an eye on all dia channels for , especially the internet!
Not a single word about ’havens’ is to appear!"
On the other end of the line, his subordinate sounded a bit helpless: "Sir, we’ve already checked. There isn’t any discussion about ’havens’ on the internet.
This topic... seems to be circulating privately in certain small circles. They even have their own developed private social apps, which are difficult for us to access."
Dias’s heart sank. This was powerful and influential people discussing internally, impossible to censor.
Just then, Monica sent another ssage: "A group of people related to ’Holy Light’ is selling off their assets.
For example, Pioneer Holdings chairman Jeff Connally is dumping stocks, even his mansion in Miami is up for sale.
From the bank transaction records, he is also frantically selling US Dollars, buying up gold, and even converting funds into RMB through offshore financial centers in Europe.
"Has this guy gone mad? How is he so certain the US is dood?" Dias muttered a curse, his fingers quickly swiping on the tablet to bring up detailed records of Jeff Connally’s transactions.
The data on the screen slithered like cold snakes, revealing a disturbing truth.
Indeed, Jeff wasn’t just selling his stocks and real estate; even his luxury yacht in Miami had been tagged for sale.
What shocked Dias even more was that Jeff had already booked a flight to "Dongda." His actions were swift and decisive, with no hesitation.
Dias’s fingers swiped quickly across the screen, pulling up a list of personnel associated with Jeff.
In Miami’s circle of wealthy elites, similar operations were rampant—liquidating assets, seeking shelters, and even fleeing directly to "Dongda."
These usually dazzlingly glamorous wealthy elites now resembled a group of animals sensing danger, scrambling to flee the collapsing nest.
"What are these people doing? Escaping a calamity?"
However, before Dias could delve deeper, another piece of news made his heart tighten—the "stock gods" of Congress were also massively selling off stocks.
These political elites, who usually called the shots, were now using their privileges to wildly offload their assets, trying to preserve their wealth before the crash.
"Panic, trampling panic." Dias suddenly felt utterly powerless; this was beyond his intervention.
The White House’s "ostrich" policy was very effective, with the masses completely unaware and still shouting "MAGA" until their deaths. Yet those betraying the "blond-haired" president were his very own supporters.
"No one is blowing the whistle, but the whistle has already echoed throughout the United States."
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An unexpected yet logical situation arose—the virus apocalypse had not yet descended, but the stock market crash erupted first.
Capital abhors risk and is extrely sensitive.
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