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Chapter Eight
As Massimo stood in silence, his very being vibrating with rage, he made the decision to discover exactly what part Sarmer Bio-Labs had played in Arnette’s death.
He had visited the Sarmer complex only once and been impressed by the operation they were running. Sat within a newly sprawling industrial estate at the edge of a semi-rural town, the offices had been modern, the labs fitted out with the latest equipment, the production facility spotless, and their research at the cutting edge of bio-tech advancement. It was a world-class facility albeit on a small scale. They just needed his money. ‘Billions,’ Steve Quince, Chair of the Board of Directors at Sarmer, had said, his eyes shiny with excitement. ‘Your investment, Massimo, will launch us into the stratosphere.’
Although the company was a start-up, their client list and projections were impressive, and the Chair of Directors an old university friend. Steve’s credentials were impressive too, and he had several successful businesses in his portfolio—he had a knack for sniffing out the big ones, he said. So did Massimo, and since his considerable investment had been sunk into Sarmer, it had expanded rapidly. Only last week he’d had an update about the new facility capable of producing vast quantities of product that his money had helped to fund.
Poisonous product!
What in the hell had he invested in?
A bio-lab flogging more than just cutting-edge therapeutics.
Selling death?
The nasal spray was a cure. No, a blocker.
Of the poison they produced.
He mulled the thoughts over, staggered at the revelation, resisting the conclusion that it was illogical not to believe; Sarmer Bio-Labs, the start-up his money had launched, had produced the fusion inhibiting nasal spray as a counter measure to the poison they had created.
Create the problem. Provide the solution.
The poison!
He glanced to the ceiling, the lights a blur through his glasses. There could still be traces on the lights, Massimo realised. The poisonous dust, the golden shimmer that had crackled and spat in the fire, had come from above. His jaw clenched. They had rigged up something in the ceiling. With his glasses removed he scoured the chrome light fittings, but the ceiling was too high, and the shadows thrown too deep. Galvanised by his need to discover the source of the poison, he retrieved a pair of step ladders and a torch from the utility room.
Torch in hand, he stood on the top step of the ladder and pointed the light at the central chrome fitting, the one directly above the island where Chef Arnold had begun his gloating performance in front of Massimo’s guests. Guests, he now realised, who had been deliberately selected for death. Why they had been chosen was still an unknown, but he had come to the conclusion that they weren’t a random collection of players with a perversion for illicit cook-ins. Among them were politicians, defence industry contractors, and pharma executives. Nothing connected them that he was aware of, but he doubted it was a love of fried pangolin. He paused at the top of the step, his mind already wandering back to the perpetual loop of horror that plagued his mind.
The chef had been filming too, he remembered. Had it been a livestream? If it had, then the event was certain to be behind a paywall and not for public consumption. Easier for them to hide and dispose of. But odd that they allowed it to happen at all. Unless … unless that was all part of the set up. Either way, Massimo had no doubt that any trace of the video, if it existed, would have been wiped from the internet.
The stepladder wobbled and he came back to the present, his heart skipping as adrenaline began to flow. “Focus, Massimo,” he muttered then shone the torch upwards.
He swung torchlight to the central fitting, searching for any hint of reflected light. The chrome gleamed but without trace of residue of any kind—wiped surgically clean, just like the front door’s handle. He stepped back down the ladder and moved into the living room area. At the centre of the room hung an oversized crystal chandelier, another purchase they had made whilst on holiday, one of Arnette’s ‘finds’ from scouring the Monte Carlo antique shops she loved so much—had loved.
As Massimo placed the stepladder beside the chandelier and climbed, he noticed clusters of pinprick sized marks around the central fitting. He shone the torch at the collection of marks, adjusted his glasses, then stood on tiptoes. Around the light, drilled through the plaster, were groups of tiny holes, perforations, tiny gas chamber showerheads. “That is where you came in,” he muttered then turned his attention to the chandelier, skimming torchlight downwards. The poison glittered, a powdering of golden dust on the crystals.
“Fottuti bastardi!” he hissed, lapsing into his native tongue. “You will die for killing Arnette. If it is the last thing I do, I swear that you will die!”
Massimo descended the steps muttering expletives in Italian, allowing his rage to vent, and then set about collecting the poisonous dust. After taking a sniff of the nasal spray as a precaution and forcing his large hands into plastic gloves to protect his fingers, he climbed the ladder again, unclipped several of the most thickly dusted crystals, and placed them into a zip-lock bag.
One of the benefits of being involved with investing in start ups was the number of highly intelligent, skilled, and knowledgeable people within his network. Among them were scientists, biologists, chemists, and physicists who owed him. His money had given them the boost they needed to set their dreams in motion. More than a boost. For most, it had been a critical investment. Some had even become good friends. After placing the securely locked bag on the coffee table, he began to scroll through his contact lists. It was time to call in what was owed.
Dr. Susan Cairns answered after two rings.
“Massimo!”
The surprise in her voice was followed by silence.
“Dr. Cairns I-”
“I … I am so sorry for your loss.” Her voice sounded genuine. “Arnette and I … we had become good friends.”
“Yes, that is why I am calling you.”
“Anything. I’ll do anything to help. Arnette was a wonderful woman. I loved her dearly.”
As did I. Massimo clenched his jaw, a headache had begun its dull ache at the back of his head. “She was everything,” he managed. It was more than he wanted to share, but it was the truth, and he owed it to Arnette to speak the truth. He swallowed against his emotion. “Dr. Cairn-”
“Susan. Please call me Susan, Massimo. And I’m happy to help.”
“Thank you … Susan. There is something I need. In the strictest of confidence.”
“Yes, of course.” Massimo recognised surprise and caution in her voice.
“I have some powder that I need analysing. I think your lab has the necessary equipment.” He knew the lab had the necessary equipment; his investment had helped to pay for it.
“Yes, of course … I’ll have to get the required permissions-”
“No!” he blurted. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. This is a very sensitive situation. There can be no paper trail.”
“Ah, I see … Massimo, is it illegal?”
One hundred percent illegal. “No, not illegal. I can’t explain now. Can we meet at your lab. I can bring the sample.”
“I … There are protocols to follow-”
He held back a groan of annoyance; she was prevaricating. “I will explain everything when I see you and … and I will personally fund the research grant that you were turned down for last month.”
“How do you know about that?” she asked.
“It was ridiculous that they refused you the grant.”
“It was!” she blurted, her professional façade put aside. “We’ve spent tens of thousands …” She huffed then grew silent, realising her mistake. “There will be other opportunities.”
The story of her meltdown after she had been turned down was common knowledge among a select and tightknit circle and he knew just how much of her time, ego, and need to further her career was tied to the underfunded research. Massimo decided to push. “You have every right to be angry,” he said, “I know how important that funding was for you-”
“Crucial,” she agreed.
“You should also know that I have friends in many places, friends who can help.”
“Oh?”
“And I know who blocked it too.” When she didn’t reply, he continued: “I am only surprised you did not come to me first. I am happy to fund your work.”
“Massimo-”
Now to reel her in. “I will fund your project, Susan.”
“That’s-”
“I will fund the project and double your salary,” he stated.
“Well, I-”
“All I ask is for a small return on my investment.”
“Yes, of course, but-”
“I will come to your lab with the sample this afternoon. Meet me there. Yes?”
There was an audible sigh on the other end of the phone. “Yes,” she replied. “I’ll be here.”
“And Susan …”
“Yes.”
“We did not have this conversation. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Sweden: Jews Call for Ban on Nordic Resistance Movement . . .
❝I ALWAYS LIKE to take note of Jewish organizations calling for bans on immigration resistance parties. You could say “Why bother? We’re surrounded by Jews screeching for White Genocide in various, usually artfully disguised, ways. This is just another twig on the bonfire.”
This is true. But arguments about the JQ and its relationship to White minoritization are open to various kinds of objection. You can quote this or that Jewish journalist calling for open borders or abolishing White people. Objection? “It’s just one guy; no proof he’s representative of anything other than himself; besides, he’s making a legitimate argument that’s open to democratic debate.”
That is why calls for bans on political parties assume a special moral significance. It’s a demand for the suppression of debate. And when it comes from an organization that claims to be representative of Jewry, and that claim goes unchallenged, then a special moral culpability attaches to the Jews.❞
https://nationalvanguard.org/2019/03/sweden-jews-call-for-ban-on-nordic-resistance-movement/