The Octopus Deception, page 7
“A river? You can’t buy a river. Not yet, anyway.”
The next day, his father gave Danny a spool of blue ribbon. “This is a magic ribbon,” he said, “If you spread it, it will become as long as a river.”
From that day on Danny slept with the ribbon under his pillow, and he dreamt all night long.
“Simone.” Michael went to her.
She yanked the bottom left hand drawer of Danny’s desk open, rummaging furiously among the papers. “It isn’t here! He always kept it in this drawer.”
There was an edge to her voice Michael didn’t immediately recognize. “Check that large pile of books over in the corner. It has a black leather spine.”
Michael began vigorously working the pile.
“Why did you bring Curtis? Please, tell him to go away,” she said quietly.
“No, we can’t do this without him.” Michael replied.
“I don’t trust him.”
“Don’t be so harsh with Curtis. He didn’t have to help us.”
“Then why is he?”
“Simone—”
“I found it!”
Chapter 18
His name is Paulo Ignatius Caroni,” said Robert Lovett, a senior analyst for the State Department. “This is the man who holds the future of the world’s financial system in the balance.”
“That’s quite a statement,” said Edward McCloy, senior representative of the world’s most powerful banking cartel, a man in his early fifties. He was of average build and average intellect. McCloy was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and black cotton trousers. He owed his position to his uncle, John J. McCloy, now deceased, former Chairman of Chase Manhattan Bank, former President of the Rockefeller-controlled Ford Foundation and member of the infamous Warren Commission.
“Not bad, J.R.,” snorted Henry L. Stilton, an associate director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Mustn’t be too critical though. Just a bit nonplussed, aren’t we? No more Russian bear to bite you on the ass, no more Reds under the bed at night. No, just a crazed freak deep-sixing our plans. Sheer genius. Did he pinch the codes off of you somehow or did he actually break into the system?”
He drew a deep breath. “Henry, we have made some headway, but I need more time,” John Reid said, with the odd feeling that he was exposing his bad hand to a Bridge partner.
“Tell me, Bud, if we hired a wet rag, would we have to pay it as much as we are paying you?”
Reid’s eyes flashed with anger.
“No need to take it personally. I’m just asking.” Stilton sat back in the chair and crossed his legs.
Reid wrinkled his nose, and then blinked a few times. “The system is airtight. Nobody could have foreseen it. It was a fluke. Even if he tried, he could never do it again,” he insisted.
Lovett uncrossed and crossed his legs. “He doesn’t have to do it again. Because he has already done it. Once … that’s all it takes. The consultants with outrageous fees and fancy lingo who set up the systems are up shit’s creek without a paddle. You can take that to the bank; that is if you can keep Caroni away from it.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Secretary.” Taylor turned and spoke to the man seated on his right. “The matter at hand is urgent.”
The former Secretary of the Treasury was David Alexander Harriman III – a lawyer, investment banker and philanthropist. His gaunt, mask-like face, the result of three cosmetic operations, was betrayed by several deeply imbedded lines around the eyes and mouth. Some believed him to be in his late seventies; others, in his early fifties. In the end, his age was never an issue. He was the point man for some of the world’s most powerful and secretive individuals. That was his presentation card. The only one he needed. Although his accent was most definitely Midwestern, he spoke English with the eloquence and lilt of someone who spent a considerable length of time at the world’s finest boarding schools. “It might be a good idea if we begin at the beginning, as the good Queen told the little girl.”
“Very well, sir,” said McCloy, nodding to everyone around the table.
“Mr. Secretary,” intoned Taylor.
A hardly perceptible wrinkle of condescension materialized in the crease around Harriman’s mouth. Just for a moment and then, it was gone.
“Robert?” Taylor gestured to Lovett; inviting him to speak. “Thank you, Jim.”
“Twenty-four hours ago, a former government employee by the name of Paulo Caroni overrode multiple highly sophisticated security systems and came into possession of the funds linked to the off-the- books government-run collateral trading program.”
“Secretary, are you familiar with it?” asked Lovett.
“Vaguely, at best. Names are of no consequence to my clients. Only one’s deeds and the bottom line. Perhaps, for the purposes of being concrete, gentlemen, you can fill me in … along very general lines as I have purposely stayed out of the loop on this.”
“The sanctioned purpose of this particular trading program, Mr. Secretary, was of a macro-economic nature,” added Taylor.
“Yes. And?”
“Meaning, the government was recovering dollars of one description or another that had accumulated through the Second World War.”
“When defeated nations steal valuable assets during wartime it is called plunder but when the victors grab those same assets they call it recovery,” Secretary Harriman said.
“Very perceptive of you, Mr. Secretary,” added Taylor.
“How were these funds repatriated, exactly?” asked Harriman. “Through parallel or mirror off-ledger accounts,” replied John Reid.
“You have been speculating with the government’s money,” Harriman added. “Two sets of accounts. One for public scrutiny and an- other set for private viewing only.”
“That is to say J.R. here was running two sets of books,” added Stilton.
“Something like that,” replied Taylor.
“Do tell me, Bud. Which set of books were you showing me?” asked Stilton.
“I don’t remember you ever complaining, especially in view of spectacular profits the Agency was generating for very little, in fact minuscule, risk.” John Reid responded.
“So this is what collateral trading is all about,” said Stilton.
“Jesus, Henry. You have only been part of this operation for over a decade. Clue in, will you,” replied Reid.
“I was told this was a great investment opportunity,” answered Stilton. “Few details, little risk, great return on the investment.”
“You don’t borrow money, even on an automobile, unless someone puts up the collateral, whether you are talking about buying and selling a car or a nation. Everybody wanted to get in on the act,” said Reid.
“When you say everybody, would that include CIA?” asked McCloy.
“You might say that.”
“FBI?”
“Also.”
“The U.S. Treasury?”
“For Christ’s sake, everybody means everybody! Every government entity in the country wanted in on the action, including the Federal Reserve, international financial institutions and wealthy investors,” said the irritated Citybank’s C. E. O.
“How much money might we be talking about?” asked Harriman.
“Ballpark figure? Around 200 trillion.”
“Dollars?” chimed in Stilton.
“Yes, U.S. dollars. The actual amount is $223,104,000,008.03.” But who’s counting.
“I see. And this is the money I presume has been stolen by a for- mer employee of the United States government,” asked Stilton.
“Yes,” answered Reid.
Stunned, Stilton looked around the room for moral support. “Except for profits, Henry, you have never shown any real interest in it before,” added Reid derisively.
“That’s because you have never screwed up before.” There was a long pause. “And this is the money you lost, Bud.”
“We didn’t lose it. It was temporarily expropriated. We will break Caroni and get back the money.”
“And how exactly are you planning on doing that?” He blew two streams of grey smoke through his nostrils and fixed his companion with hard eyes. “Sorry to bother you, love, I am just a stickler for detail.”
“Look, we are working on it around the clock, retracing his steps, tracking the binary codes through the system’s back up. The entire operation took no longer than seven minutes. He was obviously in a hurry. He might have made a mistake, in which case we will get the money back.”
“If he was able to short circuit the system and overcome every one of the bullshit security flags of a supposedly unbreakable system, what makes you think he will leave you an opening so you can sneak up and bite him on the ass?” Stilton said.
“Look, if you are so damn smart, why don’t you book a torture chamber and maybe you could talk him into submission,” sneered Reid.
“Enough, gentlemen. In times of crisis we are supposed to hold intelligent conversations and look for common solutions, not squabble like six-year-olds” Throats were cleared, looks exchanged around the table. David Alexander Harriman III was to be taken lightly only at one’s own peril.
“Gentlemen,” broke in Reid, “there are several problems which we need to address. A percentage of the proceeds generated from this were used to finance a wide variety of clandestine activities.”
“You mean the money is gone, but the government’s obligations remain outstanding,” added Harriman.
“I don’t get it,” Stilton replied scratching his head.
“To have access to the money the government has to put up something as collateral. The collateral is the guarantee that the money will be repaid. Now that the money is gone, we lose the collateral but are still under the obligation to return the missing money,” replied Taylor, and then added somberly, “now do you understand?”
Harriman sat up. He looked over at Taylor. “Let me see if I can fill in the blanks, Jim.” He tapped impatiently on the table with the tip of the pencil. “This is the money that would have been used by the government to shore up the American economy, which is about to default on all its obligations to its international creditors, rendering our dollar worthless and effectively condemning us to a third-world status.”
The silence around the table was deafening.
“I have been sitting and listening to the five of you describe an operation that has been going on for over a decade involving intelligence networks, government agencies, both public and private money and God knows who else.
“I want to know: what was used as collateral to tap into the government’s money and bankroll this entire operation worth untold trillions of dollars?” asked Secretary Harriman.
“The name and the operation I am about to give you remains classified, on the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and an unbroken executive order from five successive presidents.” John Reid responded.
“That’s quite a pedigree, isn’t it?”
“I think you will agree Mr. Secretary, once you know what is involved, that the scale of the operation itself and its overall purpose was felt to be in the national interest of the United States government,” said Stilton.
“Mr. Secretary, the assets in question are large volumes of gold plundered by the Japanese during WWII. The operation was called Golden Lily. Officially, the government’s position has always been to categorically deny any link to this asset base,” said Lovett.
“So, let me see if I understand you.” Harriman got up and paced. “You have used vast quantities of gleaming gold bars, bearing the triple-A chop as collateral in an off-the-books cloak and dagger operation which has, as creditors, every government agency in the country. And now, that the money is gone, you’ve lost the collateral. But we are still on the hook for principle and interest payments on $223 trillion dollars…” His voice trailed off.
Everyone nodded silently.
Chapter 19
Back in Curtis’ apartment, Simone gently opened the book to the title page. Across the top, something was written in Danny’s hand. She scanned the line, her eyes riveted to the page – “Has Hell a geometry?” In the margin, there was a doodle of a cone-like Hell with a tiny figure of Satan in the center. Behind him, in the shape of his wings, a tree grew out.
For a moment, she thought she saw Danny’s ghost standing over her in his frayed jeans, twisting his pencil around, moving it faster and faster.
“What are you looking for?” inquired Curtis.
“The Inferno is an intricately planned, rigorously symmetrical narrative poem. It tells of the poet’s descent into Hell, and how he passes through the center of the world, and then ascends Mount Purgatory. From Mount Purgatory he proceeds to Heaven itself into the presence of God,” replied Simone sounding almost trance-like.
“The poet tells of his travel through the three realms of the dead. His guide through Hell and Purgatory is the Latin poet Virgil, and the guide through Paradise is Beatrice, Dante’s ideal woman. Virgil guides Dante through the nine circles of Hell. The circles are concentric, each one representing further and further evil. The end of Dante’s trip through the Inferno is the center of the earth, where Satan is held, bound.”
“God is the only safe thing to be,” muttered Curtis under his breath.
She didn’t hear him. For a long time, she stared at the doodle as if in a trance, trying to remember something. “What do you make of this, Michael?” She showed him Danny’s doodle.
The silence lasted precisely ten seconds.
“A Tree of Life!” Michael clapped his hands and pointed to Satan’s wings.
“Dante’s texts are consistent with what might be termed Christian Kabbalah.” Michael slipped off his jacket and dropped it on the back of the chair.
Simone unlocked a chain she was wearing and showed the two men a magnificent pendant. “This was my birthday present from Danny. He found a man in Palestine who sold it to him.”
“So Danny knew about Kabbalah and mysticism?” asked Michael.
“What is it?” asked Curtis.
“The Tree of Life is a mystical concept within the Kabbalah of Judaism which is used to understand the nature of God and the manner in which He created the world out of nothing.” Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper. He folded it in half and drew something on it. “Banks or vaults work on a code system. These codes could be numbers, letters or a combination of the two. Unless your brother physically hid a piece of paper with a code within the pages of a book and we just missed it.
“If Danny was aware of the Kabbalah, he must have known the mystical Kabalistic number 142857,” said Michael. “It comes from an ancient drawing with nine lines called an enneagram, a New Age mandala, a mystical gateway to personality typing.”
“Danny mentioned that the secret account could only be opened with a number-word combination. 142857 could be the number,” said Simone.
“I’ll bet I know what the phrase is,” Michael said smiling at both of them.
“Tree of Life,” the three of them said in unison.
“Even if that was true, we still don’t know where the money is hidden,” said Curtis.
The first rays of mild light were beginning to seep through, moving diagonally, rising like the wall of a distant monastery. Into the cool of morning dripped the smell of yesterday. Someone hurriedly moved across the street, their raincoat bearing epaulets of raindrops. New York was alive as ever, even at this late or early hour, full of sounds. Dawn was coming, and all the trees bowed low to the ground, bending their knees in silent worship. Michael left the window slightly ajar, catching a faint sound of music playing somewhere, not too far off.
Chapter 20
Does anyone outside these four walls know anything about this?” asked Harriman.
“An unemployed former journalist,” admitted Stilton.
“An unemployed former journalist is redundant, Henry. Does it imply he was gainfully employed before or after disclosing the facts?”
“He was unemployed, and former because he is deceased. Found dead in his hotel room.”
Lovett took out a thin manila envelope from the breast pocket of his tailor-made sports jacket. He opened it and handed it to the Secretary of the Treasury. Harriman studied it, a sigh accompanying his first glance.
“Jesus H. Christ.”
It was a photograph of a corpse, slumped in a bathtub full of crimson water. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels was cradled in his arms. Another photo showed the man’s wrists exposed, both slashed. Silently he pushed the ghastly evidence back to Lovett.
“The coroner ruled it a suicide,” added Taylor. “ Was it our operation?” asked Harriman.
“We had a team on the way to capture and interrogate,” repliedLovett. “Except…”
“Except someone beat us to it.” There was no reply.
“Someone’s gone rogue on us?” The possibility lingered briefly.“Highly unlikely,” replied Lovett. “Those in the know are the people in this room. Period,” he said, eyeing his colleagues. “And every one of us has too much to lose if this thing were to blow up in our faces.”
“What about somebody on the team?”
“Negative. This was sequence operation. Which means they were working blind. Complete compartmentalization of data.”
“Still, the journalist is dead,” Taylor said.
“How much did he know?” asked Harriman.
“Obviously, enough, or at least that’s what someone thought,” said Reid.
“Suppose they got spooked,” added McCloy.
“Just like that, Ed. Spooked. So they go and kill a man on the off chance he might know something?” Harriman pushed the photograph in the direction of Edward McCloy.
“Let me guess,” added the former Secretary of the Treasury. “Nobody saw or heard anything. Casolaro’s motel room door was locked from the inside. There were no fingerprints, no signs of a struggle, and no traces of poison in his body. How am I doing, Henry?”
“Batting a thousand.”
“Thought so,” said Harriman. His reputation was as murky as his gaze was clear.
“Presupposing that none of us are responsible, let’s leave whoever did this out of it for a minute.” Harriman stood up and walked over to the far wall. “How much did we know about the journalist’s activities?”
