The octopus deception, p.18
The Octopus Deception, page 18
“A computer program to keep track of it all,” added Michael.
“Bingo.”
Almost an hour later the door opened, revealing a pale-faced and unconscious Cristian wheeled in by an orderly and a nurse, and finally a doctor. The doctor put his index finger to his lips, indicating silence. He nodded to Simone and motioned for the three of them to come outside.
“It was a close call, but he will live. He is heavily sedated and very weak. He should wake up any moment. When he does, I’ll give you five minutes with him, and not a second longer.”
The three of them sat in complete silence for twenty minutes before Cristian opened his eyes. He saw a face, but it was blurred and out of focus. The anaesthetic fog in his mind had not lifted entirely. He made a strangled noise, and the three of them sat up.
“How do you manage to look so good with two bullet holes in you?” Curtis asked softly.
Cristian winced, then looked away. Finally the words came. “Don’t make me laugh. I can barely breath,” he replied out of the corner of his mouth. He could hear his voice; it was weak, but he could hear it.
The doctor put his right hand up. Five minutes. He and the nurse silently let themselves out.
Curtis waited for a few seconds, listening to the noises outside. Muttered sounds, hushed voices.
“Did you see who shot you?”
Cristian tried to move his body but the strength wasn’t there. “Not clearly.”
Curtis stood motionless over him, his tone controlled. “Did you see anything at all?”
“A shadow – and he spoke French.” The wounded man winced. “Curtis,” he said in a barely audible tone.
The big man squatted next to the bed. “I’m here.”
“The money is missing,” Cristian whispered in a hollow tone.
Curtis held his breathe. “What money?”
“CTP.”
Curtis checked his watch. The five minutes were almost up, and he knew there would be no point in arguing with the doctor. “How much money?”
“All of it … I think,” came a reply. “I think I know who has it.”
Cristian found the strength and opened his eyes, but just barely, his lips widely parted. “You must … If not …” And then he could not speak any more. The door opened, he heard light, cautious footsteps fading away … whispers … and then nothing.
Chapter 44
In every large city, each new wave of ethnic immigrants has its own little home-away-from-home. Brighton Beach Avenue in Brooklyn is the heart of the Russian enclave, where the dilapidated buildings are classic New York, but the sounds and the smells evoke the old country. The signs come in two languages, and the store windows have that musty Soviet-era look, with last season’s tacky holiday lights surrounding samovars and matrioshkas and the occasional undusted plastic plant. Women with high-strung temperaments and colorful aprons “talkaet” at the top of their voices in a peculiar patois of Russianized English.
One hour after leaving the hospital, Curtis, Michael and Simone strolled by Uncle Vanya, a small, smoke-filled restaurant offering all kinds of vodka, blini and caviar, past Rego Park, crossed the boardwalk, and stepped onto the wide sandy beach facing the sea.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Curtis. “Simone’s brother Danny, Octopus, Japanese World War Two witnesses, gold, Golden Lily, CTP, John Reid, and now Cristian Belucci with a calling card from a French psychopath assassin. But there is no logic that ties any of these distinct events into a common cause. John Reid is part of the cartel.”
“Was part of the cartel,” Michael noted.
“Reid was part of the cartel along with some very powerful pissheads, but someone thought it was expedient to take him out. Nothing makes sense.” He glared at nobody in particular. “And then, Belucci, World Bank’s Senior VP and one of the richest men in the world gets shot in his garage in the middle of the night. His Bentley was untouched, so mugging is out of the question.”
“Yet the press are playing up the robbery-gone-wrong scenario,” Simone added.
“Exactly. It’s the sequence of events that bothers me. Although Reid and Belucci are poles apart, one shooting followed another.”
“Two bankers. Both wealthy, both high profile. What was it? A matter of hours?”
“Less than twenty-four. Whoever killed Reid probably also shot Belucci. But why?” Curtis asked.
“All right, Curtis. You’ve asked for a thread. I’m not sure I can give you one, but maybe a thread of a thread,” Michael said.
“Danny was on the verge of tying some of the richest people in the world into a web of criminal activities that have spanned the past sixty years. A few among these rich folks would have wanted him silenced, wouldn’t you say?”
“That was the premise, all right,” agreed Curtis, nodding. “It’s why I called Reid, trying to pull others out, never expecting to find what I did. A global cartel made up of government people, intelligence agencies, mafia and rogue criminals. And above them the Octopus. That’s what Danny called them.”
“Eight tentacles, eight hearts. Can’t be killed and can’t be starved to death. I like the symbolism of it.”
“So I told Reid there was another group interested in the information, capable of blowing the head off Octopus.”
You pretended to be the middleman and that you were in it for money,” stated Michael.
“Reid was ready to turn. Then suddenly he’s killed.” Curtis said.
“It’s as if someone was watching and listening,” added Simone.
“Obviously, they couldn’t allow it to happen. Reid must have known way too much.”
“Then Cristian gets shot less than a day later,” Michael said.
“If Reid was part of the Board, and the Board is part of Octopus, then another group is using us to take over Octopus’ business. Tit for tat. Reid and then Cristian,” Curtis said.
“They have us exactly where they want us, except we don’t know anything about them, and they have all the principle and secondary players mapped out,” Michael concluded.
“Who the hell is more powerful than Octopus?” Curtis asked.
“Just hear me out. For now, it’s just a theory. This is where my arcane knowledge of symbolism comes in handy. You’re Special Forces, right? I mean, that’s your training?” Michael asked.
“10th Special Forces Group.”
“What’s the symbol on the unit coin?”
“A Trojan Horse surrounded by three arrows spinning in a circle.”
“What were you engaged in?”
“Interrogation of the most hardened Al Qaeda prisoners and sympathizers. HVS: High Value Subjects.” He paused. “Operation Trojan Horse.”
“Remember the symbolism,” Michael said. “A Trojan Horse surrounded by three arrows spinning in a circle. Now project its symbolic image into a verbal meaning.”
“A Trojan Horse surrounded by three arrows spinning in a circle … Jesus Christ! The logo of the Trilateral Commission. World government. The Commission’s purpose is to engineer the creation of global financial cartels more powerful than any single government on the planet.”
“Exactly. Three arrows spinning in a circle representing three markets led by the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council. The Americas. Which is the United States. Asia. Which would be China, and the European Community represented by Russia, Britain, France.”
“As the world economy collapses into a heap of shit, you control populations on three fronts – the Americas, Asia and the European Community, and through three markets – Hong Kong, Wall Street and the European Economic Area. That would be the first level of control.” Michael said.
“Presidents and Prime Ministers control individual countries. Individual countries under three markets of the Trilateral Commission are truly operated by Fortune 500 companies,” added Curtis, clearly thinking out loud. “That would be your World Company Limited. Second level of control.”
“The more powerful a Fortune 500 company is, the more powerful its market share.”
“Market is the Octopus,” Michael interjected. “Three. The sacred number of the trinity.”
“A mega-conspiracy theory,” Curtis added.
“The media uses the epithet ‘conspiracy theorist’ to stigmatize anyone who discusses it. This is different because we are dealing with real people and real crimes. After everything you had said about Octopus, I did some checking. The three markets combined under the Trilateral Commission. What does it mean to you?”
“The theory of the New World Order,” added Curtis. Michael nodded.
“In order to control each market you would have to own or heavily influence four things: Intelligence, Armed Forces, Banking, and Artificial Intelligence. Acquiring all four legally would be hard—” Curtis said.
“Unless an Octopus of men working towards that goal were formed,” interrupted Simone, suddenly remembering Cristian’s words.
“Every alphabet soup agency is in on the action generating spectacular profits for very little risk …. It is a form of creating money that is effectively unchallenged by any form of oversight or accountability. However, whoever set it in motion had to have been somebody at a pretty high level.”
Curtis continued, “However, you couldn’t do it through force alone.”
“Nor would you need to,” replied Michael.
“Not with the world’s most sophisticated artificial intelligence at your fingertips,” added Curtis.
“PROMIS,” Simone said.
“That’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it,” said Curtis, closing his eyes and massaging the back of his neck with the palm of his right hand. Scenarios flitted by in his mind – imagined, prodded, considered, explored, and rejected, all within seconds.
Around them, on Brighton Beach, people laughed and flashed smiles and held hands, made witty small talk and shopped and jostled, ate hot dogs and sugar-coated buns. It was as if a veil stood between them and the nightmare confronting the three friends.
“We need to find whoever created PROMIS,” Curtis said.
“I don’t expect it to be a problem,” replied Michael. Curtis’ eyes found Michael’s, and he prepared to listen to the rest.
“What do you know?” Curtis asked, hand in pockets, head tilted to the side.
“The man behind PROMIS has been living on borrowed time.”
“They call him the invisible man.”
“His name is Sandorf. Alan Sandorf. That’s the name I found in Armitage’s Golden Lily report at the reference library.”
“There were several references in the Armitage report. We didn’t see it first as the entire report references over one hundred people.”
“There are several third-person references to Sandorf but no direct quotes. Except for one place when Armitage quotes another person in reference to this technology. This person was footnoted as ‘name withheld,’” Simone added. “It has to be the same person. The invisible man hiding in plain sight.”
Chapter 45
Curtis rounded the corner, walking rapidly and turned onto Blight Avenue, a small dead-end street parallel to 135th Street, the heart of Harlem. He checked the number Michael had given him. One block up. The building was old, but in surprisingly decent shape, all things considered. Curtis put his hand on the railing and swiftly climbed the seven steps to the landing.
The name Sandorf, A. was under the fifth mail slot, a bell beneath the letters. Discretion was called for. Curtis checked the street. No cops. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin key, flat but for five tiny elevations between the cuts. It was a “bump key,” designed to hit spring-loaded stacks in the keyhole column hard enough that the top pin bounced clear of it for an instant, high enough to go past the shear line. In that same instant, before the spring pushed the top pin down again, the key would turn.
Curtis positioned the bump key in front of the hole, inserting it halfway, and banged it with the palm of his right hand, forcing it deeper as hard as he could, and then twisted it the instant it was in. The lock clicked and the door opened. He silently walked in, then shut the door behind him. He could not use the elevator as its sound might alarm Alan Sandorf.
They call him the invisible man.
He took the first, cautious step. The old staircase creaked. He went up swiftly, taking steps two and three at a time. In less than thirty seconds, he had reached the top floor. Sandorf’s apartment was at the end of the hallway. He stood still for several seconds catching his breath. He was about to ring the bell situated to the right of the door but thought better of it. If Sandorf for whatever reason decided not to let him in the sound of the doorbell might draw unwanted attention. Curtis moved to the door and gently knocked.
From beyond, he heard an odd sound growing louder and louder. Someone came to the door. Then the sound stopped. Someone was standing inside the apartment and listening. Curtis heard a click and the door opened.
“Yes?” said a short black man. He had a low-pitched voice that could have easily belonged to a baritone opera singer. He was in his mid-fifties, with a slim build but a pronounced beer belly. He looked slightly sleep-rumpled and was wearing a silk dressing gown with green sheep stretched tight across his plump midsection.
“Alan Sandorf ?”
“That depends on what ya looking for.”
“Wisdom.”
“Wisdom?” He pushed the door open. “Look around you. Can’t you see, you’ve come to the wrong place?” Curtis stopped on the threshold of the apartment. It was a large, cluttered loft, giving the impression of a flea market rather than someone’s living space.
“It has character. Looks like the war room at the headquarters of the New York Times,” said Curtis,
“Is that what you read?”
“Sometimes.”
Sandorf snorted. “Reading the Times is like attending funeral services for a notorious grammarian,” replied the strange black man.
“Is that your appraisal of me?”
“Appraisals often contain germane facts.” He turned around and faced Curtis.
“I—”
Sandorf held up his hand. “Have a chair, son.”
Curtis stared at the black man with curiosity. “PROMIS. How much of it is real and how much is a myth?”
Sandorf leaned back against the wall, studying his visitor. “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked in a whisper.
“They call you the invisible man, Alan – the genius behind PROMIS.” Curtis paused. “Please, I need to know what it can do. What it has done.”
“You should know that you have involved yourself in an extremely sensitive government operation, that’s the bottom line.”
“My scars can attest to that.”
“It’s your funeral.” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, as he shuffled his way towards the center of the room.
“Myths, by definition, cannot be proved, but facts can be understood and integrated,” he began, lowering himself with ponderous relish onto a couch. “What would you do if you possessed software that could think, understand every language in the world, provide peep holes into the innermost secret chambers of everyone else’s computers, that could insert data into computers without people’s knowledge, enter via the back door of secret bank accounts and then remove the money without leaving a trace, that could fill in blanks beyond human reasoning and also predict what people would do – long before they did it, within a one percent margin of error? You would probably use it, wouldn’t you?”
“What was it used for originally?”
“I designed it to track cases through the legislative, judicial and executive branches by integrating computers of dozens of U.S. Attorneys’ offices around the country. The more data you uploaded, the more accurately the system could analyze and predict the final outcome of the cases.”
“How does it work?” Curtis asked.
“Actually it’s quite simple. All information on someone is fed into the software – educational, military, criminal, professional background, credit history, basically anything you can get your hands on, then the software is tasked with making an assessment, then rendering a conclusion based on the available information. The more information available, the better the software will predict the outcome.” Standorf laughed softly. He got up, limping into the kitchen. “You want some coffee?”
“Sure, why not. Black, please.”
“PROMIS can literally predict human behavior based on information from the person,” he shouted from the kitchen. “The government and the spooks immediately recognized the financial and military application of PROMIS, especially the National Security Agency, which had millions of bits of intelligence coming into its facilities every day, with an antiquated Cray Supercomputer Network to log it, sort it, and analyze it.” He brought over a cup of coffee. Curtis took a sip and almost gagged.
“Good coffee, eh?” asked Sandorf.
“Great,” replied Curtis with a forced smile.
“Don’t be shy, there’s more in the kitchen.” Sandorf blew his nose into a handkerchief, folded it into a square and put it away. “The long and the short of it was that whoever owned PROMIS, once it was fused with artificial intelligence, could accurately predict commodities futures, real estate, the movement of entire armies on a battlefield, not to mention every country’s purchasing habits, drug habits, stereotypes, psychological tendencies, in real time, based upon the information fed into it.”
“Interesting, but not what you had in mind when you build it, is it?”
“My program crossed a threshold in the evolution of computer programming. A quantum leap, if you like. Are you familiar with block-modeling social research theory?”
“Should I be?”
“It describes the same unique vantage point from hypothetical and real life perspectives. For example, pick an actual physical point in space. Now, in your mind, move it further out than you ever thought possible. PROMIS progeny have made possible the positioning of satellites so far out in space that they are untouchable.”
“The ultimate big picture.”
“Now you are getting it!” Sandorf laughed. “There is another advantage and it is awesome.” He drank greedily. Curtis had never seen a person drink with such profound, concentrated relish. “I love a good cup of coffee! Anyway, Geomatics. The term applies to a related group of sciences – all involving satellite imagery – used to develop geographic information systems, global positioning systems and remote sensing from space that can actually determine the locations of natural resources such as oil, precious metals and other commodities.”
