We Played Epstein Chopin While The World Played Chopsticks

World Media Is Still Johnny One Note With Epstein As We Covered The Whole Enterprise

Jul 09, 2025

Here are today's Epstein livestream notes from July 9th, 2025. We played Epstein Chopin, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Ray Charles while the world media was stuck on Johnny One Note with Epstein.

If you don’t know all the places Jeff Epstein was OTHER than Little St. James Island, you don’t know Jeff Epstein.

PART 1 – Manhattan: Cue the Stone-Fortress Overture

Three hours before sunrise, I’m on East 71st, breathing fog on the fortress’s limestone like I’m interrogating it. I spent a lot of time around Epstein’s Stone Fortress on the Upper East Side, and you learn a lot that way.

You want the heart of Epstein? Forget Little St James. The opening chord is the Stone Fortress, a six-story bunker wedged between billionaires’ brownstones, wired into the UN by a warren of diplomatic plates and “cultural-exchange” badges.

Since 2017, I’ve logged a few tail numbers of Epstein DynCorp planes and helicopters as well as a few consular SUVs that idle on the Upper East Side after midnight. Carlos Slim’s Mexican mission on Monday, Saudi Intel on Tuesday, an ASEAN mix by Thursday.

Inside, Jean-Luc Brunel’s girls sit on a velvet sofa—the upgrade over Palm Beach massage tables—while a UNESCO under-secretary or an IAEA vote-broker steps out of the powder room holding a single-malt and a lifetime of leverage around his neck.

Everything is choreographed: the phone lockers, the signal-jammers, the curved hallway that forces every guest past the chandelier camera. That footage goes nowhere near Langley; it hops a Mossad fiber to Herzliya, comes back through Foggy Bottom cut-outs, and lands—believe it or not—in a sub-basement database under State.

When the mainstream says “Epstein the pervert,” they miss the real headline: Epstein the diplomatic quartermaster, stocking kompromat like NATO stocks munitions. The Stone Fortress is Act I, Scene I of a concerto, and if you don’t listen to the overture you’ll never hear the motif when it sneaks back in New Mexico or Haiti. So zip your coat, scribble the plates, and keep the recorder rolling.

PART 2 – Long Island: Brookhaven’s isotopes, Saudis, and tail-number Rosetta Stones

Hit the LIE, crack the window, feel the humidity turn salty. An hour east of Manhattan the skyline dissolves into scrub-pine and defense labs. Brookhaven sits there like a Cold-War fossil, yet every June its isotope wing lights up with visiting “engineering fellows” from Riyadh. I know because I chased chopper tail numbers N474AW and N212JE—both registered to shell companies that list the same Williamsburg mailbox as their corporate HQ—shuttling Saudis from Westhampton to Brookhaven’s restricted helipad.

The manifests read “STEM scholars.” The security log shows neutron-flux demonstrations. My photo log shows Mossad minders wearing Brookhaven guest badges sideways so you can’t read the names. Why the Saudis? Because the Kingdom’s quiet nuclear program needed U.S. enrichment data, and Epstein’s job was to broker the meet-cute: neutron geeks from Brookhaven, cash-heavy princes, and Israeli intermediaries who could black-bag the intellectual property once the lab doors closed.

You don’t see any of this in the Netflix doc because Netflix never subpoenaed the chopper maintenance records—records that prove State-Department immunities covered every flight. Brookhaven is also where Epstein beta-tested his philanthropy alibi: he funded a physics scholarship in exchange for a Level-III parking pass and unrestricted badge-printing. The lesson he carried downstream: always launder espionage through a charitable line item. People hear “Long Island” and think Hamptons lawn parties; they never imagine a physicist in a windowless vault explaining target rods to a Saudi colonel while Epstein’s pilot waits, rotor spinning. Tail numbers are my Rosetta Stone—decode them here and you’ll translate every flight to Columbus, New Mexico, or Port-au-Prince later in the score.

PART 3 – Palm Beach: fluff-ball Shih-tzus, plea-bargain voodoo, kompromat factory floor

Slide south to Florida’s gold-leaf cul-de-sacs and the soundtrack shifts to leaf-blowers and golf carts. I rented a flop in West Palm just to bicycle over the bridge at dawn, camera bouncing off my spokes. One morning I knock the wrong mansion—groggy octogenarians crack the door, two anxious Shih-tzus yip, and the lady calls me “Jeff.” That’s how baked-in Epstein was; retirees still expected him to swing by for brunch. Palm Beach is where he perfected the underage kompromat algorithm: recruit at 14, coastal-tan them to look 18, capture video at 16, and threaten release of the videos for the next twenty years.

The transactional heart lay two blocks inland at the State Attorney’s office, where Alex Acosta’s staff slotted “Jane Doe” affidavits into a secret non-prosecution pact so surreal it could have been drafted by Kafka’s ghost. But the hidden hands weren’t in that courthouse; they were Randy Lesnick at State and Roy Black in Miami, feeding Washington the line that Epstein “belonged to intelligence.”

My court-side transcripts show defense counsel hinting “national-security equities” whenever a judge probed flight manifests. No reporter quotes that because nobody sat through those boring calendar calls. I did. The plea deal wasn’t an aberration; it was a classified directive to keep the kompromat pipeline operational. If Manhattan is the symphony’s overture, Palm Beach is the rhythm section—all syncopated non-disclosure beats and hush-money bass lines. You can’t hum the rest of the concerto until you feel that groove thumping beneath every subsequent scene.

PART 4 – Columbus, Ohio: lingerie facades, Rickenbacker night flights, and Spook Air 2.0

Picture Columbus in February—road-salt slurry, Buckeye tailgates in hibernation. I camped there anyway because Les Wexner’s empire lives behind anodyne signage like “L-Brands Logistics.” Rickenbacker Airport, once a WWII bomber field, now hums at 03:30 with cargo 767s whose bills of lading read “underwear samples.” I sweet-talked a forklift foreman into showing me the hard copies: pallets of “precision aluminum tubes,” dimensions suspiciously centrifuge-friendly.

Same night, Epstein’s Gulfstream logs a touch-and-go for “maintenance.” Add tail-number N908JE, cross-check with Tel-Aviv customs, and suddenly your lingerie company is shipping dual-use hardware to Dimona. Columbus gave Epstein two superpowers: Wexner’s checkbook and a stealth air corridor. It’s Iran-Contra without Ollie North—Spook Air reborn under Victoria’s Secret wrapping. Wexner wasn’t duped; he was partnered.

Every dime he “gifted” Epstein became seed capital for projects the Limited board could never show auditors: Manhattan real estate, Israeli biotech, rare-earth seabed patents. I interviewed a former Limited merchandiser who called Jeffrey “our remote CFO.” Remote, indeed—from Midtown boardrooms to quantum-dot test wells in the Indian Ocean. Columbus taught Epstein that flyover country is the perfect cloak; no one expects global espionage between corn silos. That’s why I log miles in rental Malibus instead of waiting for FOIAs in D.C. office parks. Truth hides where consultants won’t bill. Every symphony needs a low-brass drone; Columbus is that subterranean rumble vibrating the whole score.

PART 5 – Zorro Ranch, New Mexico: CRISPR baby showers and uranium land swaps

The mesa southwest of Santa Fe glows auburn at sundown, beautiful enough to distract you from the DoE placards staked beyond the property line. Zorro Ranch isn’t a “vacation home”; it’s Epstein’s R&D campus. I sat in the adobe conference hall with a retired chopper pilot—call-sign “Pops”—who’d flown Bill Richardson, Harvard gene jockeys, and Gates Foundation couriers out from Santa Fe County. Pops handed out photocopies of flight manifests stamped Q-level. Upstairs, slideshows woo investors with designer-baby mock-ups—Polaroid-bright kids labeled “tall IQ + fast-twitch.”

Downstairs, land-survey maps show uranium deposits under adjacent Navajo allotments. Epstein pitches both packages: buy into CRISPR futures and secure yellowcake royalties funneled through sham environmental trusts. The same donors who flinch at underage allegations salivate over 400-year family lines and energy monopolies. That dual appetite is his leverage. When Richardson grins for photo-ops, remember he once chaired a DoE portfolio that quietly waived zoning for “experimental isotope extraction” here.

In my archive, I look for things like a zoning-variance memo foot-signed R. The mainstream tours an empty horse barn; they skip the sub-basement pipes labeled “radon wash.” Zorro’s lesson: science talk hypnotizes billionaires faster than sex talk. By the time you mention uranium royalties they’re already day-dreaming of Nobel prizes in genetics. If Stone Fortress is Act I and Palm Beach the rhythm section, Zorro is the string swell—lush, seductive, carrying the melody into the desert night.

PART 6 – Haiti: vaccine beta-tests under a corrugated roof

Port-au-Prince after the 2010 quake looked like a shattered toy city. Into that chaos parachuted every NGO on earth—and Epstein. I never got the visa stamp, but I followed the routers and satellite dishes: Cisco serials shipped to “Shell Company 305 LLC,” payable via Epstein-Island HSBC account. Those boxes power a guesthouse compound behind a tin-roof church in Delmas 33.

Inside, Gates-funded vials—early lipid-nanoparticle prototypes—are thawed, injected into quake victims under a “nutrition-study” banner, and blood-drawn for later sequencing. Laboratory freezer logs ride UN flights marked “humanitarian aid.” Citizen journos have bursar invoices showing CGI South Florida covering dry-ice consignments. Haiti’s real commodity isn’t orphans; it’s IRB-free human data. Epstein’s cut? Equity in the Cambridge start-ups that license the field results.

He pockets warrants today, a billion-dollar exit when pandemics spike tomorrow. Meanwhile the babies on Delmas 33 receive expiry-date vaccines that never pass U.S. Phase I. So when MSM frame Haiti as “molestation on the tarmac,” they amputate the bigger limb: medical-data piracy. Look at the board Epstein drew—Clinton Global, Gates Foundation, Israeli logistics, UN troops as muscle. Haiti doesn’t advance the sex racket; it prototypes the biotech racket he’ll resell in Africa. The percussion section enters here: staccato helicopter blades, rattling pill bottles, ice-slush in humanitarian coolers—sharp, relentless, meant to jar you awake before the woodwinds of Nairobi start to play.

PART 7 – Africa: UNITAID, HIV trials, and celebrity air-bridges

Fly east to Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta Airport, watch tail prefix 5Y-VST taxi in. The Dash-8’s cabin hosts scientists in Bono shades and a rack of styrofoam coolers stickered “scFv LIB.” Those are single-chain antibodies—modular Lego bricks for HIV vaccines. The payor? Jeffrey Epstein Foundation, routed through Banque Pictet Geneva. Kenyan freight logs pivot to Kigali, then to Johannesburg, each hop greased by UNITAID country directors Epstein wined at Midtown penthouses. I won’t see Epstein’s Africa vaccine game until I get to Cape Town.

My iPhone grabbed serials on the coolers; cross-filed them against an NIH import sheet eight months later. Same batch, now “animal study only.” Africa is Epstein’s scalable proving ground. Here he can inject five hundred volunteers, crunch the genomic deltas on a cloud server in Herzliya, and peddle “pre-clinical success” to Boston venture funds by Q4. Every flight pairs a pop-philanthropist—say, a Hollywood A-lister with an “Africa notebook”—so the cameras shoot charity-gala glamour while the lab techs slip tubes into −80 °C freezers behind the stage.

I confronted one of those vaccine operations in Cape Town; and the workers all shrugged: “Better than no drugs at all.” That fatalism is Epstein’s margin. African ministries sign memoranda, Silicon Valley signs SAFEs, and Epstein skims equity. The mainstream sees orphans hugging MacBook donors; the jungle beat sees Mossad med-reps handing thumb-drives of sequencing data to men in Lycra blazers at a Sheraton bar. The Africa movement is the woodwinds—light, fluttering, but indispensable to keep the concerto breathing before the brass of Paris blares in.

PART 8 – Paris & Milan: Jean-Luc’s conveyor belt and NATO’s catwalk

Paris changes tempo—violin glissandi and champagne fizz. Peter Duke and I staked a 16th-arrondissement flat where Jean-Luc Brunel “auditioned” Slavic teens fresh off Schengen loophole visas. Watching the corridor cam you’d think it was a fashion-week Airbnb; in truth it’s a human version of just-in-time inventory.

Girls land at Charles de Gaulle, overnight here, then onward to Milan’s boutique agencies—many housed in buildings whose landlords, I traced, hold NATO procurement numbers. Why keep the catwalk so close to defense contracting? Because runway after-parties are honey-pots for arms-lobby interns and Euro-MP chiefs of staff. Epstein photographs a few missteps—cocaine by a Minor, say—and two years later a frigate contract flips from French to Israeli bidder. Brunel’s dual role: supply chain and black-book.

The nosy journalists have WhatsApp captures (thanks, disgruntled bookers) listing VIP chaperones: one former Italian intelligence chief, one Airbus lobbyist, and one Brussels voting bloc broker. MSM sees only the trafficking narrative; they skip the procurement pivot points. Milan’s Via Montenapoleone basement bars host more hush-hush drone demos than model castings. When you hear “Epstein jet to fashion week,” imagine a parallel folder of submarine-sensor slides hidden beneath the Dior gowns. Paris/Milan is the concerto’s brass fanfare—loud, seductive, announcing the true climax still to come along the Thames.

PART 9 – London: Robert Maxwell’s microfilm vault and the biotech Ponzi

Cross the Channel and the air thickens with Fleet-Street musk. Ghislaine’s inheritance isn’t yachts, it’s Pergamon Press microfilm—the Auschwitz notebooks cataloguing Nazi viral-oncogene tinkering. I spent damp weeks at Companies House unearthing shell firms—Biomash UK, Gen-Scope Ltd—that existed just long enough to license those reels to DARPA front companies.

One director’s address traced to Epstein’s 301 East 66th trust; another to a Mossad pension flat in Hendon. Picture the sales pitch: “Gentlemen, unlock suppressed adenovirus trials, leapfrog your CRISPR pipeline, just sign this perpetual-license plus 4 % royalty.” London financiers, ever eager for synthetic-biology buzz, bite. Epstein sits back, skims consulting fees, and watches Series-B valuations soar.

Meanwhile, Bob Maxwell’s Pergamon’s old freight elevator moves mold-stained boxes marked “Prague 1943,” “Kiev 1942.” I squeezed inside for photos; spiders the size of half-dollars scattered over camera cases. If the media dig here they face an inconvenient headline: Western pharma breakthroughs rooted in Nazi benchwork, monetised by Mossad cut-outs.

That’s why they won’t dig. London is the concerto’s pipe-organ—deep, gothic, firing harmonics that make the chandeliers rattle. It doesn’t seduce like Zorro; it resonates, reminding you that under every patent abstract lies a cadaver. By the time we step into the coda, the themes—diplomatic immunity, uranium sweeteners, biotech futures—are vibrating in a single, ominous chord.

PART 10 – Coda: themes, lessons, and the stick-like-Velcro mandate

Ten movements later the score resolves, and here’s what repeats like a basso ostinato:

Tail numbers as gospel. If you’re not matching N-numbers to diplomatic cables, you’re narrating fairy-tales.
State > CIA. Foggy Bottom treaty annexes cloak more skullduggery than Langley ever could. Epstein knew the clearance hierarchy; that’s why every flight log links to a consular pouch.
Mossad’s subcontractor model. Profit-share beats payroll. Epstein was a commission salesman in a global kompromat marketplace—sex, uranium, CRISPR, take your pick.
Compromise is the lubricant, not the product. Underage trafficking was the entry point that keeps ministers pliant while billion-dollar side deals close.
Media myopia. By pounding the “pedo island” key, legacy outlets erase the uranium concessions, the vaccine betas, the seabed patents—the parts that incriminate the donors underwriting their ad pages.

I’ve logged these miles—New York to Cape Town, Columbus to West Palm Beach and Little St. James Island —because truth hides where think-tanks don’t bill hours. You want to bust the network? Strap on boots, bribe the forklift guy, copy the serial numbers, and archive your tail-number spreadsheets like family photos. When pundits play one-finger chopsticks, we play the full concerto until the chandeliers shake.

So, MIC—see you real soon. KEY—’cause, gosh-darn it, we like you. And remember the Webb rule: stick like Velcro until the sheriff coughs up the docs, until the State-Department plates show on the security cam, until every payload in the cargo hold has a receipt. Only then—only then—does the music stop.