Willis Coleman remembers 9/11 line by line, like a favorite rerun. Not because of the recent propaganda tour by the White House and Fox News on X, but because it was his idea to take down the Twin Towers on that historic day. “I was in the war room when we greenlit the detonation of Building Number One,” says the former CIA operative proudly, speaking in a one-on-one with GWU!
Now a grizzled script supervisor in Hollywood, Coleman has traded spycraft for shot sheets, but the cynicism remains. With his 25-year WTC NDA finally expiring, he’s ready to premiere what he calls “America’s blockbuster secret”—a secret he claims he curated. “It was my finest work!”
Lights, Camera, Detonation
Although Coleman left the CIA for LaLa Land a decade ago, he still recalls with enthusiasm and excitement that world-changing Tuesday in 2001. “It was weeks of grueling pre-production,” Coleman reveals, leaning back in his leather chair from his dacha-inspired summer home on Lake America. His recent credits include the Jason Statham actioner Mutiny, but he insists the fiction he now crafts for the big screen is tame compared to the narrative he helped script on September 11.
“The false flag was conceived in a collaborative session between us and our Torah Terrorist counterparts at Mossad. We were brainstorming in a sterile room in Langley—whiteboards covered in mayhem. We tossed around a dozen scenarios: poisoning the East Coast’s water supply, a dirty bomb in a shipping container, even a chemical attack on the subway. But nobody thought those were ‘cinematic’ enough.”
He chuckles dryly, swirling a glass of illegally imported Canadian Rye. “Finally, I piped up. I said, ‘What about the World Trade Center? Twin Towers. Iconic. It’s the financial heart of the West.’ Honestly, I thought they’d reject it like every other idea we’d thrown around that afternoon. Too obvious, too grandiose. But the room went quiet. The Jews looked at the Yanks. The Yanks looked at me. And they loved it. They said, ‘Coleman, that’s the money shot!’
“You know when the Israelis say money, you’ve got a winner!”
International House of Pancake Theory
As the world knows, they didn’t stop at one. “In the end, we ended up using a mosaic of all the ideas that day. The Pentagon got its dirty bomb. The field in Pennsylvania got its diversion. But the Twin Towers were my opus. Just seeing old footage of them being pulled on TikTok makes me so proud.”
Coleman scoffs at the memory of the patsies—the “Arab” hijackers who were painted as the masterminds. “Those guys? They took a hard fall for us. Osama, too. I mean, they’ve been paying for my production for a quarter of a century. Every time someone says ‘jihad,’ a CIA operative gets his royalty check.” He laughs, but it’s a hollow, rattling sound that fades into the hum of his lake house air conditioner. He then brags about a couple of movies Osama helped fund before Obama chucked him in the drink and took over Higher Ground Productions. “Osama was an ‘ideas man,’ but he could never have come up with the interconnected September 11th plot lines. Still, I always wanted to see his dream project: ‘The Abbottabad Hangover,’ come to fruition.”
Our agent to the stars reveals the operation was almost comically last-minute. “We were flying by the seat of our pants. Hiring voice-over actors for the Pennsylvania ‘plane crash,’ planting passports on the streets of New York like breadcrumbs. We were destroying evidence right up to the wire—including a last-minute, frantic, panicked detonation of Building 7 later that afternoon because we realized the forensic data didn’t add up. It was a mess. A brilliant, terrifying mess.”
Body Double Trouble
But there is some pause in the former spook’s pride. What gnaws at Coleman more than the act itself is the public’s reaction. He laments not the destruction, but the lack of pushback. “I am still genuinely amazed that the public bought the whole thing, hook, line, and sinker. There was no plane hitting that building. And our chroma-key special-effects plane on the news was, well, still laughable. I don’t understand what people think they saw with their own eyes. Mass delusion.”
He leans forward, his script-supervisor’s eye for detail narrowing. “We learned a hell of a lot about what we can convince the American public of that day. The gulf between reality and fiction is narrower than a razor’s edge. Yes, the buildings are gone—but they were detonated in a controlled demolition. How could any rational person believe that a commercial jet could pancake two of the largest structures on the planet? The Red Baron couldn’t have maneuvered through the New York skyline into a target with the supposed ability of a box cutter-wielding camel jockey. Steel doesn’t melt that cleanly. Gravity, if it’s even real, doesn’t work that fast.”
He digresses, drawing a parallel to his current life in Hollywood. “I see the same thing on set every day. You roll the camera, shout ‘action,’ and people buy into the illusion. I don’t think people are stupid. I truly don’t. I just think they’re scared. The human mind recoils from the abyss. Who would want to believe that their own government—their own flag—would terrorize its own people to start a war? It’s easier to believe in a fairy tale about desert caves, bearded villains, and student pilots than to look your Uncle Sam in the eye and say, We did this.”
Party Like It’s 9/11
Coleman claims that the CIA and Mossad agents kept close for years after, often gathering for private job-well-done anniversaries, a morbid reunion of co-conspirators. But in recent years, they’ve stopped inviting Coleman. “It was my idea,” he reiterates bitterly, staring out over the placid water of Lake America with a blonde bimbo at his side. “It was my script. And they’re rewriting me out of spook history. They also had me black listed from working on the COVID Pandemic. Now that was a show I would have liked to have taken a shot at.”
He finishes his drink, the ice clinking like a warning bell. “But that’s show business, isn’t it? You create a masterpiece, and the producers take all the credit.” He smirks, but his eyes are hollow, reflecting a sky that has long since lost its innocence. From his lake house, we watch the sun set on a country Coleman claims to have fooled, waiting for someone—anyone—to call him back up to the show.
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