In this timely political thriller, CIA special agent Curtis Fitzgerald, scholar Simone Casoloro, and historian Michael Asbury, must race against the clock to find trillions of dollars worth of stolen funds to prevent global economic collapse. Since the end of the Second World War, an elite organization called The Octopus has controlled the funds hidden away in six bank accounts. As the crux of the global economy, the loss of the money threatens to send the world into pure chaos unless it's retrieved. Fitzgerald, Casoloro, and Asbury find themselves down the rabbit hole of government conspiracies and secret societies in the hunt for the missing riches. Love, betrayal, murder, and deceit play prominently in this novel following in the wake of the ongoing financial crisis.
In this timely political thriller, CIA special agent Curtis Fitzgerald, scholar Simone Casoloro, and historian Michael Asbury, must race against the clock to find trillions of dollars worth of stolen funds to prevent global economic collapse. Since the end of the Second World War, an elite organization called The Octopus has controlled the funds hidden away in six bank accounts. As the crux of the global economy, the loss of the money threatens to send the world into pure chaos unless it's retrieved. Fitzgerald, Casoloro, and Asbury find themselves down the rabbit hole of government conspiracies and secret societies in the hunt for the missing riches. Love, betrayal, murder, and deceit play prominently in this novel following in the wake of the ongoing financial crisis.
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Overview
In this timely political thriller, CIA special agent Curtis Fitzgerald, scholar Simone Casoloro, and historian Michael Asbury, must race against the clock to find trillions of dollars worth of stolen funds to prevent global economic collapse. Since the end of the Second World War, an elite organization called The Octopus has controlled the funds hidden away in six bank accounts. As the crux of the global economy, the loss of the money threatens to send the world into pure chaos unless it's retrieved. Fitzgerald, Casoloro, and Asbury find themselves down the rabbit hole of government conspiracies and secret societies in the hunt for the missing riches. Love, betrayal, murder, and deceit play prominently in this novel following in the wake of the ongoing financial crisis.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781937584245 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | TrineDay Fiction |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2013 |
| Sold by: | Bookwire |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 829 KB |
About the Author
Daniel Estulin is an award-winning investigative journalist and the author of Shadow Masters and The True Story of the Bilderberg Group.
Read an Excerpt
The Octopus Deception
By Daniel Estulin
Trine Day LLC
Copyright © 2013 Daniel EstulinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-937584-24-5
CHAPTER 1
Simone Casolaro entered the lecture hall with great élan. Ninety-five pairs of eyes watched her attentively. Ms. Casolaro's Renaissance Literature class at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York, was the most popular academic option on campus, and this was day one of Winter term.
She stomped snow from her galoshes and kicked them off, revealing a pair of Roman-style sandals. Then she removed her full-length wool coat, showing off a fine Egyptian cotton dress with a low bosom and high hemline. Appreciative male murmurs rippled through the room as she eyed her troops for a few pregnant moments. Then, abruptly, she began.
"You will buy Dante's Divine Comedy today and start reading it at once. Read every word. Don't skip the "boring bits." There are no boring bits in Dante. Turn off the television, put your computer to sleep, take the iPod out of your ear. No twittering, texting, tooting, hooting or whatever new App you're addicted to. Dante is to be smelled, savored, tasted, chewed, and digested, like a juicy Italian sausage."
The hall erupted in laughter. Simone was an exceptional performer, with a unique flamboyant style. She felt a passion for her subject and had a knack for the provocative. More important, however, she animated her students' imaginations, a gift they would carry, and many of them treasure, for the rest of their lives.
"A hundred years ago," she began, "Flaubert in a letter to his mistress made the following observation: 'What a scholar one might be if one knew well enough some half a dozen books.'" She swept the room with her gaze. "Dante's Divine Comedy is one of those worthy to be included in any short list. Dante's allegory, however, is highly complex, and we shall examine other levels of meaning, such as the historical, moral, literal, and the anagogical. The development of the art of description throughout the centuries should be treated in terms of vision, of that prodigious eye of individual genius." She paused for effect, rising to the balls of her feet. "What we call genius is an evanescent quality, gradually yielding a complex spectrum for all to see. In reading and thinking and dreaming, you should notice and absorb the details. Let's leave generalizations, well-worn clichés, popular trends and social commentary at the door."
She strode to the blackboard, quickly drawing an outline of Dante's face. "Any real work of art is the creation of a new psychic world. A great writer is always a great enchanter, and Dante is a supreme example."
A skinny girl in the front row raised her hand. "Professor Casolaro, I was told in my last year's class that we can learn a lot about people and their culture from reading historical novels. By reading Dante, will we learn about Renaissance Italy?"
Simone looked at the girl and smiled. She made an expansive movement with her hand. "Can we truly rely on Jane Austen's picture of England during the Industrial Revolution when all she really knew was a clergyman's parlor? Those who seek facts about provincial Russia won't find them in Gogol, who spent most of his life abroad. The truth is that great works of art are, in a way, fairy tales and this trimester we will focus on one of the supreme fairy tales of all time."
The stage door on her right was pulled slightly ajar and a man's head emerged. "I am sorry to disturb you, Professor Casolaro, but could I have a word, please?"
She looked at the clock. "I can see you in half an hour."
The man gave her a heavy look. "I'm afraid it can't wait."
Simone felt a chill. "All right, give me two minutes."
He nodded his head and closed the door.
She turned back to the auditorium. "Although the two great events which made the fifteenth century a turning-point in human history – the invention of printing and the discovery of the New World – were still two centuries in the future, Dante's era was unique, essentially a period of great men; of free thought and free speech; of brilliant and daring action. Now, you'll have to excuse me for a moment. Please feel free to twitter and text away, but remember that what should interest us most is not Dante the political activist but rather Dante the great Renaissance artist, his powerful poetic imagination and his peculiar vision of the world he created."
Simone exited the hall and confronted the visitor. "What is so important?"
"Ms. Casolaro," the man's voice was calm but strangely flat. "My name is Detective Lyndon Torekull." Simone swallowed hard, a sudden surge of panic jabbing her in the gut.
"What, what is it, Detective? Obviously something has happened?"
"Ms. Casolaro, I am sorry to inform you ... we found your brother's body this morning in a motel in Shawnee, Oklahoma. He appears to have committed suicide."
As the blood drained from her head, Simone felt a series of conflicting impacts reverberate through her. Shock, disbelief, grief and, worst of all, guilt. She managed to turn away from Torekull, and re-entered the classroom. Her students looked up curiously from their ubiquitous electronic devices.
"Class ... class dismissed. I have to ... go home. You, I mean. Go." As she left the room in a trance, for a brief moment, her eyes locked on an incongruous shimmer of light gliding up Dante's left cheek on her chalkboard drawing. Somehow she found herself back in the hall.
"Ms. Casolaro, from what we understand, you are Danny's only living relative. I'm sorry, but I must ask you to look at this photograph, if you can?
She sucked in a long breath. "Yes. All right."
Detective Torekull reached into his pocket and held out a 5 by 7 color photo.
"Is this your brother?"
Simone forced herself to look. A spasm of horror struck her forehead like a hatchet. She spun away and shielded her eyes with her hand. Her whole body shuddered and she thought she might pass out. Then, the word hit her. Suicide. Never.
She sucked in a long breath, and looked again. It was Danny, and, oh God, yes, he was dead. No, it wasn't Danny. It was just a picture of Danny. But he was still ... dead. Lying in a bathtub of blood. Both wrists were slashed, with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a dirty inch left in the bottom, clutched in one arm.
"This photo was taken five hours ago," the detective said. "Inside his motel room."
"He wasn't a heavy drinker. He was a devoted journalist. He said he was onto a great story. Not suicidal."
Two weeks ago, at his apartment in New York, they'd spent a couple of days together. He had told her that he was going to Shawnee. Why Shawnee? Where?
"It's the end of the quest. I'm bringing back the head of the Octopus. This is as serious as it gets. The story of a lifetime." Simone had never seen Danny so focused. The tremble in his voice scared her. "They are all corrupt. It goes to the highest level. I have a couple of contacts there, but they have no way of unmasking the corruption without compromising dozens of assets in parallel operations.
"Be careful," Simone had yelled after him. She could hear the echo of Danny's feet running, no, jumping down the stairs, two steps at a time.
"Don't worry, he will be fine, he always is," she had told herself.
Now, as her mind reeled, the image of an Octopus, its looming eyes staring implacably, hung like a gallows moon above her grief.
* * *
Danny was an investigative journalist, three years her junior, politically incorrect, idealistic and incorruptible. In the course of a five-year investigation into what Danny called "a cabal of twenty-plus people who control most of the world's wealth," he had made enough enemies to last him several lifetimes. Last year, the Memphis County sheriff's department, supposedly looking for drugs, had ransacked his car. He'd spent three weeks in the hospital the previous summer after he was hit with a crowbar by a "burglar," who was never found and stole nothing; only his handiwork remained – a five-inch scar on the back of Danny's neck.
Simone held the color printout with both hands, as if her brother's life might be saved if she held on hard enough. Could this be some kind of a cruel mistake? Could this naked corpse just be someone resembling Danny? For a moment, she thought she was going to vomit.
As Simone stared at her brother's lifeless body, her initial revulsion and shock gave way to a sudden rush of anger. "Who would do this to him?"
"Ms. Casolaro," Detective Torekull spoke, "our preliminary reports suggest that he did this to himself. I am very sorry."
She returned the photo to the detective. "Dear God, why?" she murmured.
The words kept echoing in her head. "Ms. Casolaro, we found your brother's body this morning in a motel in Shawnee, Oklahoma ... In a motel in Shawnee, Oklahoma ... Shawnee, Oklahoma." She clasped her hands again, instinctively, holding them tight.
"He is all I have ... I have been waiting for him to come home for ice cream," she whispered.
Torekull awkwardly cleared his throat. "Ms. Casolaro, did Danny tell you why he was going to Shawnee?"
"I don't know. I mean, I don't remember." Her faced twitched. Torekull frowned. She tried to blink away the tears. "No, not really. Something about high-level corruption."
Torekull checked his watch. "We found a handwritten note in your brother's hotel room." He reached again into his coat pocket and pulled out a faxed copy of what the police had found back in Shawnee. Simone stared at a two-line printed text.
"Simone, I'm sorry. I didn't mean this to happen. I just couldn't take it anymore. I love you. Danny"
"Who did this to him?" she demanded, looking at him with wounded eyes. "Danny didn't kill himself. This doesn't even look like his handwriting."
Torekull studied her. Simone's body was angled and tense, her eyes wide. He shifted his body onto his right leg, and then spoke, choosing his words carefully. "Ms. Casolaro, we traced his last phone call to Langley." He paused. "The headquarters of the CIA."
"You obviously have all the answers, Detective. Why don't you simply call that person and ask them yourself?"
He tried another approach. "Ms. Casolaro, if your brother was murdered, as you insist, you will need our help."
Simone barely heard him.
"Thank you, detective. I will keep it in mind."
"We will need a signed statement. Would you mind coming to the station?"
"Of course."
CHAPTER 2The Pinto Basin lies in California's Joshua Tree National Park, surrounded by the Hexie, Pinto, Eagle and Cottonwood mountain ranges. Running northwest to southeast through the center of the park, the Basin's north and west borders comprise the transition zone where the Sonoran and Mojave deserts meet. This arid region of southeastern California occupies more than 50,000 acres, and is world-renowned for its scented, steep-sided, bold outcrops rising abruptly from the desert floor, called monzogranite, that geologists believe to be more than 100 million years old.
All roads are marked on the Joshua Tree National Park map, which is distributed free at all visitor stations – all roads, that is, but one.
A casual traveler would not give this unnamed and unmarked road, nestled deep within the park, a second thought. Anyone who did, would be deterred by the sign reading KEEP OUT – U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE FACILITY. If someone were to inquire as to the exact nature of the operation, they would be politely told that the area is part of RDTAE, (Research, Development, Testing and Evaluation), tasked with the performance of military equipment under desert conditions.
The sector is officially part of the Chemehuevi Indian federal reservation. Unofficially, the U.S. government rents it from the Indians and uses it for clandestine experiments. The heavily guarded, double-fenced compound, twelve kilometers inside the transition zone, is called Chiriaco Summit.
State of the Art audio and video security systems blanket the facility. Armed surveillance drones hover high overhead. All staff members are thoroughly vetted. To enter or leave the U-shaped installation, the employee swipes his chip card and presses his thumb against a biometric scanner, which checks the sixty indices of resemblance. Once the thumbprint is confirmed, access is granted to the next level of control.
There is no keyhole or card reader at the second level of control. Instead, there is the virtually infallible retinal scanner. No technology currently exists that allows the forgery of a human retina, and the retina of a deceased person decays too fast to pass the scanner.
Once inside the building, a person can access only his or her office space by keying in a server-generated, unique set of custom, high quality, cryptographic-strength password strings: sixty-four digit number/letter combinations, which for additional security are changed weekly.
Every one of the passwords from a cryptographically strong pseudo-random number generator guarantees that no similar strings will ever be produced again. Also, because the number will only allow itself to be displayed over a snoop-proof and proxy-proof high-security SSL connection, this custom generated number is, theoretically, hacker proof.
Finally, security protocols stipulate that employees are never to be identified by names, but by a three-digit code.
One such employee was staffer No. 177, whose human name was Paulo Caroni, For over eleven years he had occupied a brightly lit, second floor corner office of the main building. He was forty-seven years old, about 5'9," 215 lbs, a pasty-faced, stoop-shouldered and soft-bellied man, with thinning brown curly hair parted in the middle. He had a permanent nervous tic, bit his nails and wore non-descript American-made grey suits over a starched white shirt and a badly knotted polyester tie. He came to work each day between eight thirty-eight and eight forty-three. He spent the next five minutes organizing his desk: writing instruments on the right side, paper on the left, waste basket out of sight under the desk, staple gun in a silverware tray on a burgundy leather mat along with a pair of office scissors and a letter opener. His more personal items he kept in an office cabinet under the window, which overlooked the main courtyard. Between 8:49 and 8:57 he worked the New York Times crossword puzzle, which he always finished, seldom pausing between clues for longer than a few seconds. At 8:58, staffer No. 177 would go to the bathroom and wash his hands. At 9:00 a.m. on the dot, he would turn on his computer, put on his reading glasses and activate his secure e-mail.
One day, staffer No. 177 did not show up for work between 8:38 and 8:43. The crossword puzzle remained unmolested.
9 a.m. came and went. His absence was noted by none of his fellow employees, but had a profound effect on the people in charge at Pinto Basin. Within a few minutes, the warning flags went up. At 11:22, security guards arrived in Caroni's office, piled the silverware tray, pencils and pens and paper into the waste basket, emptied his drawers and his cabinet of personal belongings, locked his office and left.
About a week after his disappearance, the woman who worked in the office next door remarked, "Has anyone seen old 177 lately?"
* * *
Seven months later, and 3,000 miles away, a man named Reid popped the last succulent morsel of black bread and mountain cranberry sauce into his mouth, washed it down with Louis Rederer's Cristal Champagne, took his place behind a hand-made oval mahogany table, and logged on to his laptop. He was the keeper of an account number. The account number. More than the money itself, what turned Reid on was the unseemly number of zeros following a three-digit number. Ah, the beauty of wealth, the knowledge of potency ... his eyes locked on the screen.
0.000000000. Zero. Zero by zero, plus zero, multiplied by a zero. Reid was suddenly seized with borborygmic convulsions as his stomach flip-flopped like a landed tuna.
He pressed his eyelids shut, counted to five, and opened them. The numbers hadn't changed.
He stood and stared out the window for a moment, as if hoping for a helicopter rescue team. Turning back to the screen, he rubbed his eyes, shook his head, and punched the return key several times for no practical reason, barely suppressing a primal urge to shake the monitor like a coke machine. Finally, Reid decided to turn the computer off and start again.
"This can't be, this can't be, this can't be ...," he murmured through clenched teeth. Trancelike, he re-booted and logged back in. Password accepted. He entered the code.
Zero.
Reid swiped the flop-sweat off his forehead wiped his hands on his pants, and grasped at straws.
Maybe it's the wrong account number. You are CEO of Citybank. You control thousands of account numbers. He reached into the top drawer and pulled out a thick, brown leather notebook. He turned to page 47, beads of sweat pouring down the back of his neck, and re-entered the numbers. The code was correct.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Octopus Deception by Daniel Estulin. Copyright © 2013 Daniel Estulin. Excerpted by permission of Trine Day LLC.
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