The Octopus Deception, page 15
“You said between 1937 and 1942?”
“Beginning in 1943, most of it was shipped to Prince Chichibu’s headquarters in the Philippines.”
“What happened in 1943?”
“Stalingrad. The turning point in World War II in Europe, when the Russians stopped Hitler short of the Caucasus oil fields. The Germans lost a million men: killed, wounded or captured. The beginning of the end for the Axis powers. The most astute German and Japanese commanders understood that right away. It was simply a matter of time. Moving the treasure to Japan was no longer an option. Plans had to be changed, if only as a temporary measure. The Japanese army shipped the gold to the islands and was forced to leave it there, with the vain hope of returning after the war and recovering the loot in secret. A group of officers, with the help of a special brigade of engineers, began to bury the treasure. It took them months to excavate and construct complex systems of tunnels large enough to store the trucks and sometimes deep enough to run below the water surface.”
He stopped for a moment and walked over to a cherry wood cabinet. “I need a drink. Will you join me?” Armitage pulled the handle. A door opened to reveal a fully stocked minibar.
“Perhaps later,” Michael replied.
Armitage shrugged his shoulders and poured a healthy shot of brandy. He took a sip, held it in his mouth, savoring it, and then swallowed. “I have drunk the hemlock far too many times, Michael.” He gulped down the rest, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “To understand this story, to truly appreciate its immensity and horror, you must visualize it, taste the sweat and smell the rot. Without a visual perception of what it must have been like for the prisoners digging those tunnels under the watchful eye of the Japanese master sergeants and howling winds, up to their eyeballs in mud, starving and half naked, insects the size of your fist gnawing at you, realizing you had a snowball’s chance in Hell of making it out alive, this sordid episode cannot truly be understood for what it was.” He nodded his head at nothing in particular, then scowled.
“The vast amount of gold and other treasures were divided into 172 caches of various sizes. Most of it was buried in the Philippine Islands before the end of World War II. Here, bullion, platinum diamonds and valuable religious artifacts – including a golden statue of Buddha weighing one ton – and collectively valued by Golden Lily accountants at $190 billion back in 1943 – were buried together with live Allied prisoners who had been forced to dig the tunnels.”
“What happened to it? Where is it now?”
“Please, don’t jump ahead.” He coughed, wiped his mouth with the red napkin and poured another snifter of brandy. “The Japanese cartographers made maps of every hiding place and the emperor’s most trusted accountants marked each cache with a three-digit number representing its value in Japanese yen. One of the 172 caches was marked with a “777,” the equivalent of more than 90,000 metric tons of gold; or 75% of world’s official gold reserves and valued at 102 trillion American dollars in the year 1945, when the yen was exchanged at 3.5 on the dollar, an amount that dwarfs the current global debt.”
Again, Armitage paused.
Simone’s jaw dropped. “You are talking about trillions of dollars by today’s exchange rate.”
“Actually, quadrillions of dollars, an amount so preposterous, it defies reality.”
“It’s impossible to keep such a conspiracy hidden. Someone must have known.”
“Very much so. By late May of 1942, the United States had cracked Imperial Japan’s secret communications code, and had prepared its own plans to get its hands on the booty. Do you remember Roosevelt’s famous speech about unconditional surrender for the Axis powers?”
“Casablanca Conference, January 1943,” Michael said mechanically.
“To those panicky attempts to escape the consequences of their crimes we say – all the United Nations say – that the only terms on which we shall deal with an Axis government are the terms ‘unconditional surrender.’” The old man laughed. “The great humanitarian didn’t have victims on his mind when he surprised Churchill with his precipitous words.”
“So, the government knew.”
“Roosevelt knew. Understand the gravity of the situation. It was never made public. All those soldiers officially missing in the line of duty, and for what?”
“And Churchill?” Armitage shook his head.
“The Americans broke the codes, and they kept the information close to their vests. American intelligence agents carried out a clandestine recovery operation in the Philippines between the years 1948 and 1956. It had taken the CIA tracking team four months to find the first treasure cave, located more than seventy meters below the ground. The Japanese engineers had developed a sophisticated technique using unusual rock formations and other topographic signs as signals to reveal their location.”
“So, then, what did they do with the gold?”
“One part of the twice-looted gold became the basis of the CIA’s off-the-books operational funds during the immediate postwar years, used to create a worldwide anti-communist network. To ensure loyalty to the cause, the CIA distributed Gold Bullion Certificates to influential and well-known people throughout the world.”
“What did they do with the rest of it?”
“They left it in the jungle, for safe keeping. It is still there.”
“The Philippines. Ferdinand Marcos. Didn’t he know?”
“He sure did. Way back in 1953. That’s when he found out. Of course, he was but a lowly hoodlum and a hustler then. But he had limitless ambition, something that the American government underestimated. Between 1953 and 1970, with the help of Japanese prisoners of war captured in the Philippines, Marcos unearthed slightly over 600 metric tons of gold… that is until he found the map at the end of 1971 and really went to work. By the time he was done, Marcos had unearthed over 32,000 metric tons of the hidden treasure.”
“How did he find the map?”
“One of the Japanese prisoners. He was part of the original Golden Lily. In exchange for his freedom, he drew Marcos a small section of the map, the part he committed to memory back in 1943.”
“Twenty-eight years. What happened to him?”
“They found him in a jungle hut, arched back in his chair, his throat surgically punctured.”
“That was Marcos’ idea of gratitude?”
“I guess.”
“What happened to the Philippino gold?”
“Our government confiscated it when Marcos was deposed.”
“When did the United States government find out Marcos got his hands on the gold?”
“About a week before he was deposed in a popular uprising, if you believe in fairy tales.”
“Did anyone else know about the existence of the treasure map?”
“Our government sure the hell didn’t know. At least not back then.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“I doubt it. Most of those who were unlucky enough to form part of Golden Lily were buried with the treasure. The ultimate keepers of the crypt.”
“Even the Japanese soldiers?”
“Not one Japanese soldier or prisoner of war survived the ordeal. I have the 1982 Congressional subcommittee report on that.” Armitage sat back in his chair. “Still, it is an interesting question. With the chaos of the dying days of the war, a few of them might have slipped through the claws of the Imperial Japanese Executioners. Do you know something I don’t?”
“It’s just a hunch, but then as you said, the chances are slim.”
“If someone did survive, they would be in their late eighties or even early nineties by now.”
“Why was the gold only hidden in the Philippines?”
“I never said only in the Philippines. Chests full of gold, platinum, precious stones and priceless religious artifacts were also buried and hidden in the jungles of Indonesia. Virtually unknown to contemporary history is the fact that Indonesia’s President Sukarno, along with a number of other Third World leaders had planned to set up a secret non-aligned bank back in 1955, using trillions of dollars in contraband gold as a guarantee.”
“What was the West’s reaction?”
“The establishment of so powerful an entity whose gold reserves dwarfed those available in the West would have sent shivers of fear through Western governments as well as the European and American banking fraternity. They sent a high-level delegation to Indonesia, under the auspices of post-war reconstruction, trying to talk Sukarno out it. In return, they promised greater cooperation, protection against all enemies, low tariffs on Indonesian goods, blah, blah, blah. It was Kissinger’s first foreign relations assignment – and first unofficial fiasco.”
“What did Sukarno have to say to this?”
“After listening politely, he showed them one of the secret repositories. It was so high-tech, even by today’s standards that it made Fort Knox look like a day camp for boy scouts. There was stack upon stack and row upon row of beautifully made original precious metal storage boxes, all containing one-kilogram Johnson Mathey Hallmarked Gold or Platinum bars, each bar with a unique number and certificate bearing J.M. identification stamp. Bank certificates indicating gold and rubies on deposit; thousands of tons total. Vault Keys and Depositor ID cards made of gold. It was like the Arabian Nights. After they recovered from the shock, he told them to pound sand. Kissinger exploded and personally threatened Sukarno with an assassination.”
“Why didn’t any of the aggrieved parties sue for the wealth? There is a 40-year period in which a country can reclaim its stolen property.”
“The governments? And expose the entire conspiracy? Who would dare? Get it through your head, young man, there was no intention on the part of the people involved to return any of the plunder to the Asian Nations – Burma, Vietnam, Cambodia, China or Korea; be it Marcos, Sukarno, Roosevelt, the CIA or any of the leading banks who stuffed the treasure into their secret vaults.” Simone arched her eyebrows.
“Who controls the accounts?” Michael asked.
Armitage shrugged his shoulders. “That’s one thing I don’t want to know. Believe me, I have actively refrained from learning the identity of these people, and after all these years, I still prefer the damp comfort of my academic cave to a cozy, velvet-lined coffin six feet under.”
Hunching over, covering his eyes with his hand, Michael lapsed into thought, and before him bright, speckled images passed by impregnated with thousands of details, and yet the lineaments were now vividly clear to him. “We are very grateful to you, Stephen,” Michael said.
The old agent studied the much younger arcane historian. “So, you figured it out, whatever it is. Good for you. Time is a precious thing, Michael. And the years teach much that the days never knew. Maybe Life had in mind something totally different, something more subtle and deep. The trouble is that I am too old, and I shall never understand why evil is ultimately more fashionable than good.” He propped an ear on his trembling, white hand, cracking his finger joints with the weight of his head. “Some people don’t know what to do when their belief system collapses.”
Simone shut her eyes and seemed to go to sleep for a moment. She opened them and lifted her hand to Armitage’s face.
“I want to thank you from my brother who couldn’t finish what he started.”
“You are welcome. Now will the two of you get the hell out of my office, I’ve got work to do!”
Michael opened the door.
“Stephen.” The scholar looked up. “We are in your debt.”
They walked out of the building and into the night, their hearts pounding. Golden Lily. Simone wished she could step on the stench emanating from it again, to keep it from vanishing into a misty oblivion of dead souls.
Chapter 39
The Captain stood still, his hands on the windowsill, looking out at the garden, his face near the glass. The shift from darkness to dawn framed the surrounding countryside in all its splendor, the slanting light spreading a film of milky blue across the sandy terrain.
“What exactly are we getting ready for, Captain?” asked one of the guards.
“As much as we can,” the man grimly replied.
Beyond, on the opposite end of the estate that faced a ravine, another group of men gathered. They too were getting ready.
“Remember, tear gas will be on my remote; pipe bombs on Billy’s. They are on a five-meter kill radius.”
“Are you boys ready for some action?”
“Let’s go,” said the Colonel dressed in combat fatigues.
Villa Stanley was situated five miles north of Rome, in the midst of a series of foothills covered in olive groves. Unseen beams of trip-light threaded the wall of the compound on the south, east and west sides. The wall on the northern side surrounding the enormous estate was more for effect than protection; it was just under four meters high, but far higher from below, only accessible through a ravine heavily overgrown with bramble bushes.
The first commando crouched as his partner put his left foot and then his right on the man’s shoulders. The commando silently and effortlessly rose to his feet just as the second man gripped the top of the wall, and quietly pulled himself up over the ledge. The others followed.
Thirteen men. A baker’s dozen. They fanned out like shadows quickly gliding off into the night, blending with the surrounding countryside.
A tall man with a bald head and ears like ping pong paddles slid down off the exterior wall to the slanting ground at its base. He crawled forward some ten meters and stood up, listening, his eyes darting in every direction, scanning the darkness.
“Echo Lambda One to Base, over.”
“Go ahead Echo Lambda One,” came a reply.
A twig snapped. Three soldiers came by talking.
The commando clung to the wall, the wind strong, and waited until they passed above.
“I am inside.”
“Report Echo Lambda One.”
The first commando scanned the terrain through his TIG7 Thermal Infrared goggles. The large expanse of manicured lawn, leading from the main gate towards the sweeping circular drive some eighty meters away, was dotted with cypress trees, planted in long, neat rows and providing an important sculptural feature in this primeval landscape.
Two heavy chains suspended from thick iron posts bordered the path leading to the front entrance. At fifty meters out, on either side of the main house, the terrain eased away and eventually leveled out into a wide undulating green, spotted here and there with elm trees and spreading pines.
Through the thick branches of the tall overlapping pines, flickers of light shone from the main house.
“Two men at the entrance, three guards at your two o’clock, one at your twelve o’clock and another two at your nine o’clock.”
“What about the main house?”
“Four on the first floor, six on the second.”
“Shimada could be anywhere.”
“We’ll find him.”
“Roger that.”
Muffled sounds on gravel moving towards him, slowly and methodically; a toe of someone’s foot touched down and pressed gently against the surface, keeping the weight evenly distributed. Toe to heel, in a smooth, continuous motion.
“Danger close, two o’clock, forty meters,” crackled the voice in his earpiece.
“Activate decoy,” ordered the Colonel.
Rising to a crouched position, the man picked up a couple of small rocks, making his way toward the gravel road that led to the circular drive. The line of trees prevented the guards stationed at the house from seeing him. “Twenty meters, eighteen, seventeen.”
He threw one of the rocks near the guard, who turned around, finger on the trigger, crouched, feeling the panic of uncertainty, and slowly made his way towards the sound. “Twelve meters at your one o’clock,” the voice murmured.
He threw a smaller stone almost at the guard’s feet. The guard spun around. The instant he did, the second commando pulled himself up, clamped one arm around the man’s throat, choking off all sound as he plunged his jungle knife deep into the man’s chest. The man gasped and his lifeless body slumped onto the ground. The commando pulled him out of sight.
“Team two you are up,” came a metallic voice.
Instantly, two men rose from the dense, concealing undergrowth on the west side of the estate, and walked on a wide arc north that led them past the western side entrance and then back towards it, situated on a narrow elevation. One of the two commandos glanced at his watch. It had taken them forty-eight seconds to get in position. Two minutes later, the two guards came into view, some seventy meters away, as they walked up the path from the gate. Up ahead, team three were side by side, crouching below the wall, waiting for their signal, staring at a prearranged point, their concentration absolute, their bodies primed and trained to move instantly. “Ten seconds,” came the voice. “Nine, eight, seven.”
The two guards were less than thirty meters away, casually talking to each other, blissfully unaware of the waiting deathtrap.
“Teams two and three in position. Six, five, four.”
A searchlight suddenly swept the ground about thirty meters to team two’s right.
“Three, two—” prompted the voice from his earpiece.
Team two, positioned on the higher ground, cocked their weapons. Sound triggered instinct. One of the two guards started to raise his head.
“One, fire!” came the command, as bullets from high-powered assault weapons with infrared scopes and silencers shredded the men’s torsos. Team two descended the elevation just as team three surged up from below.
“Pipe bombs and tear gas in place, over.”
“Roger three. Team four, you are up.”
A metallic splat, then another. One of the guards on the southern perimeter collapsed as if a rug was pulled from under him. Shadows. One, two, three. A dull thud, then another. The shadow evaporated. The second guard ran forward and to his left, tripping on something solid under his feet.
