by John Schou
unforgettable experience and I am happy, that he practically never left the house. I am driving the old Bentley from time to time; otherwise it would stand unused in the garage.
“I am certainly not going anywhere, neither is Mr. Gusto. By deduction, there is a simple solution to the problem. First, we shall find out if it is possible that your son was not onboard the plane which crashed in Pennsylvania. Second, it is cheaper to send Mr. Stewart some money and let him fly here – obviously, he knows your address as he knows mine – than it would be to send any of us to find a Mr. Stewart, of whom we only know that he lives in Australia.”
“I can arrange for the bank transfer right away, if you recommend it,” Mrs. Wilson said.
“Yes I do, but send him only half of the amount, which is much more than he needs for the plane-ticket. And write that he shall get more when he comes to Denmark, provided he fulfils certain preconditions,” Mr. Smith continued.
“Which preconditions?” she wanted to know.
I answered that: “That he is your son, but you shall not write it. Does the surname ‘Stewart’ occur in your family?”
“My mother was baptised Stewart.”
“We are indeed in a hurry. Mr. Gusto and I shall perform some research before Mr. Stewart arrives. If you make the transfer today, he shall get it tomorrow and could be here probably within two-three days. I suggest that we meet tomorrow at five p.m. to exchange information and demonstrate our preliminary recognitions – if you agree, of course. Mr. Gusto will make the contract with you, I hope you will agree upon a cheque of 5,000 $ or the equivalent in Danish Kroner, to cover our initial expenses.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded: “Of course.” She seemed relieved that Mr. Smith was taking her problems serious – for 5,000 $, I can also take quite a lot of problems serious.
“Eric, can you deal with it in the music room and send Juanita in right away with Rosinante?”
I nodded. The reason was clear to me: he had drunk quite a lot of coffee in the morning and now it wanted to get out again. Rosinante was the nickname of his wheelchair, named after the horse of Don Quichote. He certainly did not want to show his gymnastic efforts for getting out of the chair to the visitor, let alone to mention that he was going to the toilet. “Mrs. Wilson, this way please,” I ordered.
When I came back, after having fulfilled my tasks and Mrs. Wilson had departed, Mr. Smith had not yet arrived. When he did, I could inform him: “Our new client made a preliminary payment of 10,000 $. Shall I bring it to the bank?”
“Certainly not. We are in kind of a hurry. If it is really her son and he comes soon, Mrs. Wilson will lose interest in our work. We must deliver something in two days. This is where your promise comes in. Find out what happened with this plane on 9/11 2001, passenger lists and so on. The Internet is full of 9/11 stuff.”
“How do you know? You never touch the computer.”
“I simply know it. You shall know it soon, too. What is your working theory?”
“Her son ran off with an Australian girlfriend and missed his plane home. Now their relation is broken and he needs money. Since he was declared dead and lots of money was paid on that behalf, he makes this mysterious approach, in order not to make it worse, paying back all of it.”
“I only agree with your assumption that Mr. Stewart is really her son. But we shall see,” he said. Afterwards he could always claim, ‘Exactly as I thought.’ But to my surprise, he continued: “Juanita will bring you some meal to your bureau at noon and perhaps later. There is no time for a big break, you must work concentrated.”
That was rare. Mr. Smith was very concerned that also I got my meals, but now he condemned me to work like in a treadmill in front of the computer. “We must work concentrated,” I answered.
“You wanted to deal with this case all alone; I am just making it possible. When you leave, would you just tell Juanita to bring some other editions of ‘Lohengrin,’ I must recover after yesterday’s shock and rediscover the good old hero.”
I did as told, happy that the sounds from the living room did not penetrate to my office.
2 - Shocking Revelations
So far, this was nothing unusual. Mr. Smith had told me, it was my job, and I had to do all the work. I always do all the work, well perhaps not all but quantitatively the bulk of it. My boss makes little work what the quantity is concerned but – I hate to admit it – a very important part what the quality is about. If this was indeed supposed to be my case, he was certainly mixing up everything. This had been my chance to go to Australia, and finding Mr. Stewart would at least take some weeks (I would take care of that). Instead, I was supposed to perform a miracle in less than two days while the genius was listening to a Wagner opera that offered him no surprise.
Mr. Smith had said that “the Internet is full of 9/11 stuff,” and that was no exaggeration. It was really a problem to find the most interesting, as finding a special tree in a forest, and repetitions were frequent, with everybody quoting everyone. A large part was dealing with the official version, ‘Ali Ben Atta and the 19 hijackers,’ the planes and the collapse of the World Trade Center, the plane in Pentagon and the brave passengers’ struggle, bringing the fourth plane to fall in Pennsylvania, just to cut it short. But then there were a lot of alternative views to the story, with considerable variations in details but I managed slowly to create a picture, selecting (I must admit) between the available versions. This study was finally completed in some hours.
The following day, I started early so that our mutual breakfast was really a break. At 10 a.m., I went back to my office and skipped the common lunch. Shortly after 1 p.m. I heard a sound as if a dead-body was dropped from a considerable altitude on the floor above, and I knew then that Mr. Smith had gone to bed. Only at 4 p.m., I saw him again alive, giving him the result of my preliminary study on print – he hates to look on a computer-screen – and started to prepare a visual presentation of the many pictures and videos, I had downloaded from the net. Our guests, Mrs. and Mr. Wilson, arrived fifteen minutes early and were sent to the music room for punishment, where Mozart failed to dampen their impatience. At least, it was the last time they arrived early, but Juanita had a hard time, preventing their invasion of Mr. Smith’s inner temple. Exactly at 5 p.m. sharp, I welcomed our impatient guests.
Mr. Wilson’s appearance was a slight surprise to me; I had become accustomed to Americans being rather, and sometimes extremely fat, and judged from their immodest car, the Wilsons should have rich possibilities to participate in luxurious dinners. His wife had indeed some pounds above the norm on the weight, but Mr. Wilson himself looked as if he was close to malnutrition. He was very tall, adding to the impression of a lengthy and bony fellow. In addition, he was completely bald. Baldness gives the impression of a round head, what all of us should have; it is indeed the hair that has a strange effect to our perception, i.e. with men having a square head. Mr. Wilson sought this impression given by square gold-framed glasses, but these underlined the general impression rather than leading it in another direction.
Mr. Smith was, of course, sitting immobile on his throne and a table in front should prevent any handshaking, a ritual he disgusted, thereby saving his guests the sensation of his ever-humid right hand. He started right away.
“Dear clients ...”
Mr. Wilson interrupted: “I am not your client. Unfortunately, my wife cannot accept the fate of our beloved son; therefore, please accept a distinction, I am here to hear what you tell her.”
“Very well,” Mr. Smith continued. “Dear client, dear Mr. Wilson. According to the official story, your son entered the Plane United Airlines UA93 on September 11, 2001, in Newark and bound for San Francisco. His presence is confirmed by the list of passengers, not the list of persons who booked the plane – a very short list, by the way. He was expected to take another plane but that was overbooked. Although the majority of passengers were transferred by other means, UA 93 flew with only 16% of its seat capacity occupied. That is just a small pec
uliarity, we found, one among very many.”
Mr. Smith needed an intermission, but we were all listening, so he continued after a short break. “We were soon made aware in our research that the official story of 9/11 is extremely flawed. That is also what gives your son a faint chance of having survived the crime. In order to understand it – I am not talking of acceptance, – it is necessary to consider also the other attack areas of 9/11. I shall give you only a brief presentation, the complete report will demand additional research and take several weeks to prepare.
There were four planes disappearing and three official attack areas. At least the last two plane crashes and probably all four took place without the planes claimed involved. Eric, the first video, please.”
I darkened the room slightly and let the beamer throw pictures from the computer on the wall. This gave Mr. Smith two minutes to humidify his lips before commenting on, what is seen. “The first video shows you a perfect controlled demolition of a skyscraper ... and the second shows a demolition where something went wrong and the house fell obliquely ... In the third video, we see again a perfect demolition of a house, which disintegrates simultaneously from bottom to top. Later, the rubble of the house is largely limited to the original ground space, the so-called ‘footprint.’ In seven seconds, it is all over, the skyscraper is dissolved in open air, the time a stone thrown from the top would previously need to reach the ground. What you just saw – Eric, play it again – was the collapse of WTC-7, or building 7 of the World Trade Center, around 5 p.m. The building was owned for two years of Mr. Larry Silverstein and was not hit by any airplane. But now to the two towers that were hit by some airplane, the North Tower, WTC-1, .at 8:46 and the South Tower, WTC-2, at 9:03. Although the South Tower was hit on a corner and most of the Kerosene exploded outside the building, it was the first to collapse 56 minutes later, just as fire fighters reached the area of impact and reported, that there was no ferocious fire there. Adjoined by severe explosions, the tower collapsed in a similar way as we saw before – Eric, South Tower demolition, please – and certainly not gradually according to the pancake theory, as claimed from the official side. Among the proofs of controlled demolition were the explosion witnesses, the rapid disintegration and the massive production of dust. You see how this is ejaculated just from the top – Eric, play it again. Now notice the production of dust. Also as the North Tower collapsed, 103 minutes after impact, we see a similar picture, even more rapid disintegration and massive production of dust. Notice that the antenna starts going down before the underlying structure collapses – Eric, repetition again. The dust has already claimed many lives among the New Yorkers, apart from the approximately 2,500 who were murdered in the towers, see now some pictures. I have reason to believe that the show-effect of two planes hitting the towers involved remotely controlled planes, but it is not essential to your case. The way, the steel columns were not examined but all melted and then exported to China and India is just one admission of guilt, one among several others. You can look forward to our final report.
Let us go to the next place of attack, the Pentagon. The alternative media have been split over the question, whether or not the alleged plane, American Airlines AA77, was the flying object that knocked on the back door. I have reached the conclusion that it was not. It was probably some kind of missile, which exactly is not important if you accept that it cannot have been a Boeing. You will look in vain for the plane on the many pictures from Pentagon – Eric, will