Chapter 0
Practical politics consists in ignoring facts.--Henry Adams
Plaza Hotel New York City, NY June 1, 1993
Three months after the February 26, 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center basement garage, William Kent, a world-renowned structural engineer, finished his report. It wasn’t pretty. The Twin Towers were dead buildings. Shortly after communicating his findings to New York City Mayor, Eddie Bestla, Kent was summoned to a private meeting at New York City’s Plaza Hotel to meet with New York Governor, Simon Sharpe.
William knew the reason for the meeting but he would not be persuaded to keep his mouth shut. He had a solid reputation for doing the right thing and this time would be no different. Why couldn’t they understand that? He wanted this meeting to be over fast because his soon-to-be fiancée, Vanessa, was waiting for him at a posh restaurant where he would pop the question. He entered the Plaza Hotel and walked briskly to suite 401. The Governor welcomed him with a politician’s handshake.
“Mr. Kent, I appreciate your willingness to discuss your findings with me directly. Now tell me precisely your concerns.”
“Governor, when the van packed with urea nitrate fertilizer exploded in the basement of the North Tower, the slurry wall seven stories below street level fissured. Water from the Upper Bay and Hudson is seeping under the Twin Towers. Just a trickle, but the seepage will gradually carve out a void under the North Tower causing it to list an inch or two each year until it topples into the South Tower. This irreversible erosion has started a doomsday clock.”
“But other engineers say the damage can be rectified,” replied the Governor with an air of confidence.
“What other engineers? I was awarded the contract for assessing the damage.” William Kent was surprised and ticked.
“Government engineers,” The Governor was bluffing, but he certainly could come up with an engineering report that gave the Twin Towers a clean bill of health if need be.
“They’re wrong! Even under the most perfect conditions the Towers might last ten years. But when they fall, the destruction will be catastrophic. Imagine 50,000 people dying in a single day. That’s the number of people in both Towers on any given day, plus another 200,000 just passing through. Consider the tons of asbestos, mercury, lead, dioxin and hundreds of other environmental pollutants airborne during an uncontrolled collapse. The future health effects from breathing that chemical laden air won’t be known for a decade, and then, what? You can avoid all this by taking action now!”
“What do you expect the city to do? Evacuate them and tear them down?”
“Precisely.”
“You can’t be serious. The environmental impact study alone would take tens of millions of taxpayer dollars. Then it’ll take years to dismantle them floor by floor as to not disturb the damn environment. OSHA will have a field day with the asbestos and damn it, there are elections coming up. The last thing this city needs is to lose a major part of its tax base. It’s political suicide!”
“Governor, I’m not a politician but a world authority on structural engineering, and I’m telling you in no uncertain terms that the Twin Towers will topple into each other. It’s only a matter of time. If the Hudson or the Upper Bay rise a mere half-foot due to global warming or the sewage being pumped in from Jersey, the timing of the collapse will accelerate tenfold. Evacuate the Twin Towers and place a black mesh over them. The buildings are dead.”
“A black mesh? Like two looming widows in the city skyline? Are you crazy?”
“Two mute widows or thousands of wailing widows gnashing their teeth and screaming for answers. The decision is obvious, Governor.”
“Mr. Kent, my office is hoping to appeal to your sense of civic duty to New York City. Give us time. Maybe we can stabilize them.”
“Nonsense, Governor! I must warn you that I’ll go public with my report if your office doesn’t. You have until the end of the month to make your decision. I’m submitting my findings to several peer review journals next month. Goodnight, Governor.”
William Kent walked out, happy to be on his way to see Vanessa. The Governor felt like a bride left at the altar. The door to the left of the angered Governor opened and he nodded to the man who had been listening from behind the bedroom door. The man picked up the hotel phone and entered a number.
Carmine Albano smiled upon hearing the shrill of the ringing phone and picked up the receiver. The wait in the dank sweltering phone booth wasn’t in vain after all. “This is the Raven.” Carmen smiled and flicked his spent cigarette into the filthy gutter.
“Never more, never more,” said the man as he looked back at the Governor. In that instant he knew he’d regret his involvement in the plot to quiet William Kent.
Carmine knew what the code meant. He hung up the phone, wiped his prints and waited for his prey.
Chapter 1
The pendulum will swing back.--Joseph G. Cannon
United Nations Building
Manhattan, NY
January 28, 2001
“What the hell do you mean someone selected the William Kent file as a cold case?” asked a very annoyed Defense Secretary, Simon Sharpe.
“The Mayor’s office is pushing to solve more cold cases to show the city isn’t soft on crime. Agent Michael Doyle selected Kent from the database,” responded Patrick Dennihi, Police Commissioner of New York City.
“Why in God’s name was it in the database? And why is the FBI involved?” Sharpe couldn’t believe his ears. He immediately decided that Dennihi was either very careless or very stupid. Neither trait was acceptable.
“The Mayor augmented our force with a few Agents in order to show his commitment to the victim’s families. When IT merged files on the new server, Kent’s file got sent along. I had no idea it was on the server. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”
“Well, fix it like you did the Kent investigation.” In the same breath he added, “Just remember how you got to be Commissioner. I set the table for you and don’t you ever forget it.” Sharpe wanted to make it clear that there was no backing out, ever.
Dennihi felt threatened, but it was a small price to pay for being promoted to the leader of the largest police force in the world. The title he really coveted, however, was Director of the CIA and would do anything and everything to prove worthy.
“I’ll transfer Doyle and reassign the case. I’ll figure it out, so don’t worry.”
“I don’t worry, Dennihi. That’s why I have you. Make this go away. Only the inner circle knows that the 1993 bombing was successful. We denied Yousef Ramzi bragging rights in the name of national security and there will be no leaks ever. Not on my watch.”
“I know, sir. Speaking of which, Kent’s prediction is now a grim reality. Foundation sensors indicate the North Tower lists badly to the south. Something has to be done. We can’t let them collapse on their own. The intelligence that Rama Singh gathered from the Arabic message boards is our ticket out of this.”
“They won’t collapse on their own. The buildings are part of an intelligence plan to advance the U.S. geopolitical agenda. You’ll be briefed on how we plan to use the intelligence you sent us. We can’t wait on anti-Americans who house themselves in the UN and enjoy the comfort and protection of our flag. Yet refuse to take action against tyrants and opportunists that want to dethrone the dollar as the world’s reserve currency. I can go on and on, it just makes my blood boil.” Defense Secretary Sharpe placed two fingers into the collar of his blue shirt and stretched the fabric in order to cool off.
“I’ll meet with Singh. If there are new opportunities, I’ll contact you.”
“You do that, and Dennihi, never talk to me about William Kent over the phone. Do you understand that? Never!”
“Yes, sir. We agreed to that eight years ago when you were Governor. That’s why I asked to talk with you here.”
“Good. Transfer Agent Doyle and get rid of the Kent file for good. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.” Dennihi already had an idea how to get Agent Doyle transferred without raising a red flag.
Simon Sharpe headed into the United Nations to meet with Treasury Secretary, James Spence and some insiders from the International Monetary Fund and World Bank. He wanted to make sure they understood the new terms of any engineered bailout of foreign countries. Simply stated, all loans are now contingent on the borrower agreeing to earmark twenty-one percent of the proceeds to buy Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac securities.
Chapter 2
In the field of observation chance only favors minds which are prepared.--Louis Pasteur
Nassau County Criminal Courthouse Mineola, NY
11:15AM, February 12, 2001
The sky was steel gray and flurries were coming down and disappearing on contact with the wet street. Parking was typically horrific and the falling temperature compounded the misery. Agent Michael Doyle was a witness for the prosecution yesterday and the jury didn’t take long to make up their minds. That worried Michael; lately it seemed that jury members were from another planet. “We, the jury of idiots, find the accused not guilty, even though partially digested remains of the victim were found in the defendant’s bowels.” Michael prayed for a guilty verdict and entered the courtroom just in time to hear the verdict.
The attorney for the prosecution was Renee Modesto, a beautiful brunette who could be an Italian J-Lo, whose curvy shape was quite obvious even with her conservative business attire. As the jury Floor Man was handed back the verdict, Michael turned his attention to Renee. She had her fingers tip-to-tip at nose level and looked straight towards the Judge.
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Salvador William Smith, guilty of kidnapping and rape in the first degree.”
Renee stood up and the 15 year-old victim hugged her as a middle-aged couple behind them embraced in a muffled cry.
“Your Honor, considering the defendant’s prior rape conviction and the heinous nature in which he kidnapped, raped, and tortured the victim for two days just weeks after being released from prison, the State requests that the defendant be sentenced to Atascadero State Prison for the maximum sentence of 25 years with mandatory chemical castration.”
Salvador William Smith instinctively lowered his right hand beneath the table to guard his testicles, or to say goodbye to them. Renee knew the sentencing would be weeks away but wanted to give the Judge a very vivid picture as to what the pervert deserved. With the disinterest of thirty years on the bench only momentarily shaken by Renee’s confident and cold delivery, the gray bearded Judge stated, “Sentencing is set for March 4th at 11AM” and gavelled the trial to a close and the courtroom started to empty.
“Ms. Modesto, nice work. I think your bid for chemical castration caught a few people off guard including the Judge.”
“Agent Doyle. What a surprise to see you here! Are you due in court today?” Renee beamed with delight. She liked Michael and purposely called him Agent Doyle to hear him say the “call me Michael” bit. He was an expert witness in several of her cases and for this case he provided child pornography evidence against Smith. Renee suspected he had a girlfriend and respected that he never tried to ask her out. His athletic build was obvious through his blue dress shirt; he was handsome, but definitely not a pretty boy. He mentioned his age once and she didn’t mind that he was ten years older. She never had anything in common with men her age. But it was just as well, she had a tough time with relationships and could never let anyone too close.
“No, but please call me Michael. I wanted to be here when the jury came in because if they got it wrong, I was going to correct them one-by-one, if you know what I mean.”
“I do and thanks. Luckily they heard exactly what we told them and they didn’t morph into the OJ Simpson jury.”
“Ever consider leaving the DA’s office and branching out on your own?”
“My passion and satisfaction stems from sticking up for the victim. My pride would grow flabby as a private practice attorney. That’s why I’m a prosecutor, Agent Doyle.”
“Only rape cases… is that all you do?” Michael could immediately tell by her face and how her mouth parted, although no words came out, that he crossed some imaginary line. He recovered quickly. “I meant that’s your area of expertise, right?” He had no clue how this was being received, nor could he have known.
“Agent Doyle, my expertise is called upon with such frequency that even if I wanted to, and mind you I don’t, there would be no time. I prosecute the most heinous cases in our sex crimes’ unit and can barely keep up, whereas a few years ago I handled other sexual assaults in order to fill my court calendar.”
“Well, how about a cup of coffee? I have an hour to kill before I head to the range and practice my shooting. Last week, I aimed at some guy’s knee and accidentally nailed his left testicle. If he ever ends up in your courtroom, you’ll need only half the amount of chemicals to castrate him. It’ll save the taxpayers some money, too.”
“Are you serious or are you making fun of me?” She gathered by his expression he was kidding. She liked his sense of humor and welcomed anything that kept her mind off work.
“There’s a café downstairs. They serve government-style coffee. So if you’re a Starbucks guy, you may have a problem.”
“I avoid brand names, unless it’s whiskey, so I’m good to go.”
“Whiskey?” Renee winced. “You drink whiskey?”
“Yep, was drinking it in your courtroom. Jameson.”
“I can detect whiskey on someone’s breath and you’re clean, Agent Doyle.”
“What’s Jameson anyway?” Rene asked. “Scotch whiskey?”
“Irish Whiskey, it’s an important remnant of my Irish heritage.”
“Well then, I’ll never ask you out for drinks.”
“Why?”
“Because if you got drunk you could accuse me of taking advantage of your racial or national weakness,” Renee smiled as she led the way to the coffee shop. Michael laughed. She was quick-witted and that was important to keep his daily demons at bay. “Does your boss know that you’re prejudiced? Care to tell me your opinions on blacks and Jews?”
“Listen, Agent Doyle, or is it Michael? I’m a lawyer. I speak only the truth based on observation, testimony, and the printed word. I’ll voice my thoughts on the blacks, whites, Jews and all the rest including the Italians when generalizations are warranted and factual.”
“Whoa, easy now! Maybe I should order decaff for you,” laughed Michael. “What do you drink? In terms of coffee, of course,” Michael kept direct eye contact to avoid taking a cheap glance at her breasts.
“Regular coffee; black, two Equals,” smiled Renee clearly enjoying the playful teasing.
“Two large black coffees,” announced Michael to the girl leaning behind the counter a short distance away.
“That’ll be $2.50,” said the girl gruffly without a hint of a smile and clearly annoyed that her daydream was interrupted by a call for service.
Michael handed her three dollars and told her to keep the change and buy a smile. The girl wasn’t amused but Renee was and laughed hard enough that the girl glared at her.
“Did you catch that stare? She has a government job; she’s fat, miserable looking and probably gripes about her government coin.” Michael pulled out Renee’s chair and she sat down impressed with his gentlemanly way.
“Now who’s prejudiced? Do you have anything against overweight people?” asked Renee smiling as she raised her coffee to her mouth and blew gently over it.
“Not at all. They’re good for the economy; the healthcare industry, in particular. And what do I care? I don’t pay for their food,” smiled Michael as he stirred his coffee never breaking eye contact with Renee.
“Got an answer for everything, huh, Agent Doyle?”
“What’s with the Agent Doyle? Can’t you say Michael?”
“Of course,” She was looking at his finger to see if he normally wore a ring. There wasn’t a telltale light band of skin that busted other men. This pleased Renee.
Michael already burned his tongue on the hot coffee and was trying to sooth it by building a collection of saliva on his tongue when Renee asked if the FBI kept a database of convicts with scars and tattoos.
“Sure, it lists the location and description of the scar or tattoo, but not always a photo. Why are you looking for a date for Valentines, maybe?”
“Get real Agent, I don’t need help getting a date.” She knew Michael was fishing for information and appreciated the attention. “I’m working with a victim and had an idea, but it’s a long shot.”
“Well, tell me about it.”
Renee wasn’t about to get into this now and probably never. The question flew out of her mouth before she could censor herself. “I’ll give you a call sometime; the case is months away and too detailed to get into right now.” Renee smiled and sipped her coffee and wondered what his girlfriend was like.
“Any big plans for Valentine’s Day?” Michael asked trying to sound nonchalant.
“Bigger is not always best, Agent Doyle.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“Who said?”
Michael laughed, and in doing so, Renee got the intended message and smiled in a manner that acknowledged his bad-boy innuendo. She liked the sexual tension Michael provided.
“What are your plans?” asked Renee.
“Romantic dinner and then a clinical review of the evidence.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Could be.” Michael couldn’t lie and play the field and how the gods were tempting him. “Seriously, how about you?” pressed Michael.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because it would be unimaginable that you wouldn’t have a date and I’m taking a survey for the department.”
“Well, I’ll leave it up to your capable imagination,” Renee responded coyly.
Michael reached for his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my new card, we switched offices so my number and address changed.”
Renee accepted the card and rubbed her thumb over the raised gold lettering and placed it in her purse.
“Well, Agent Doyle, I have another victim to interview and I’m sure there are several bad guys for you to catch or shoot in the ah…groin.”
“Are you saying I should go back to the office with you and arrest your boss and shoot him in his testicle?”
Renee laughed, she found him to be not only unavailable but a wise guy, too. She accepted the former and liked the latter. But it was all probably for the best. Her dates usually ended badly soon as a certain level of intimacy was reached. Each time she hoped it would be different. It was like watching a movie where you know the ending but still hope for a different conclusion.
“Very funny, my boss is honest as the day is long.”
“Well then, knowing that you’re safe in your work environment, I shall bid you farewell.”
“Good day, Agent Doyle. And thanks for the coffee.” Renee displayed a Cover Girl smile and headed to her office.
Michael watched her walk away. It was his big test and he was confident that he passed, but he remained hopeful things would work out with his girlfriend, Kellie. He headed back into the grip of a New York winter’s day with a heady illusion that would prove false.
Back in the soft confines of her office, all paid out of her own salary, Renee plunged into her plush executive chair. On the first day on the job, she told her boss that all the cheap government furniture wouldn’t suffice. The victims didn’t deserve to sit on uncomfortable cold government steel. They deserved to be comforted by the soothing sound of a cascading fountain and the visual allure of green plants of every order.
Renee thought about the 15 year-old victim and the victory won in the courtroom this morning. The victory did little to repair the girl’s damaged world. But at least the rapist was captured, tried, convicted and would be sent away for years. And with any luck, he would be castrated. If only they sold tickets to watch that. Others weren’t as fortunate because their rapists were never caught. Renee knew this all too well because her rapist was still out there. After each courtroom victory she imagines the day her rapist is brought to justice.
“Ms. Modesto, Ms. Modesto, are you okay? I have a reporter on the line wanting an interview about the Smith verdict. Should I take a message?”
Renee did her best to recover her composure quickly. “Yes, take a message, Flora. Thanks.”
The few people who knew she was raped thought a career prosecuting rape cases was ill advised. They worried that she’d never put it behind and move on. They were partially right. She did move on but it wouldn’t be behind her until he was punished.
Chapter 3
Life is a grindstone: Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on what you’re made of. –Anonymous
FBI Field Office Manhattan, NY
8:30 AM, March 12, 2001
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” groaned an indignant Agent Doyle.
“He has the right to be pissed. You screwed his wife and then boasted to the department about it,” said Assistant Director for the Counter-Terrorism Division, Richard O’Malley, as he settled his girth into the richness of his black leather executive chair.
“The department? Richard, I told three people! I would’ve never guessed that Commissioner Dennihi could have such a beautiful wife. I wasn’t dating Kellie at the time, so I took a shot and scored. Any guy in my position would’ve done the same and you know it.” Michael locked his eyes dead straight into O’Malley’s.
“Maybe, but he wants you transferred out of the Cold Case project immediately. And it gets worse; you’re being transferred to the Fraud Division to fill a vacant post.” O’Malley had a hard time keeping a straight face. The Fraud Division was synonymous with geek dome.
“And you’re not going to bat for me on this?” Michael placed both hands on O’Malley’s desk and leaned forward clearly perturbed by the drift of the conversation.
“It’s not my call, Michael. The man’s mortified and he’s got the backing of the Mayor on this one. Hector said Dennihi went completely beet red when he heard it.”
“How’d he find out?” Michael backed off from the desk and stood with his arms crossed in a defiant defensive style.
“He wanted to recognize the FBI’s contribution to the cold case project so he took Joe, Smitty and Hector out for a few beers last week at Hooters. You must’ve been busy. Anyway, Smitty told his Hooters story and then the floodgates of sexual conquests opened.”
“I didn’t make it that night because I was working on the Kent case. And for the record, I would never tell my conquest in the company of anyone named Patrick, just in case. I always take precautions. So let me guess, Hector spewed my encounter like spoiled milk from a baby’s mouth. He’s such a lightweight when he drinks.” Michael suspected that Hector was the culprit and waited for confirmation.
“That’s right. Hector blabbed about a beautiful Cuban woman without a hint of bra fat, who was tipsy at a library fundraiser and how you convinced her that a massage would improve blood flow to the liver and sober her up. Story sound about right, Michael?” O’Malley had to zing him. It wasn’t every day that you could get Michael Doyle to hang on the tree of woe.
“Funny, Richard,” said Michael massaging his temples as if to help process what he was hearing.
“It is funny! Let me continue.” O’Malley hand gestured. “You flipped her over and you’re face to face with perfect D-cups with a tattoo of rose bud above the nipples and a “Pat” on the left and “Rick’s” on the right. She said her impotent husband wanted to name them after himself “Patrick.” And since they couldn’t have kids they were his twins. You screwed her silly and said, ‘well, it looks like the twins are up for adoption.’ ”
“Richard, how the hell would I know that “Patrick” was Patrick Dennihi, the Police Commissioner? Give me a break.” Michael thought it was ridiculous. The Commissioner should be taking Mrs. Dennihi to task and not a gifted agent busy cracking the coldest cases on file in New York City.
“Bad luck, karma, wrong place with the wrong woman, take your pick,” said O’Malley as he ran his palms over the top of his gray hair and leaned back in his chair, exhaled forcefully and shook his head with a ‘what can I say?’ look.
“I still can’t believe that’s his wife. She was like a wild woman deprived of the essential root and so much younger. It was a hotel tryst for crying out loud and I have to pay with a transfer to Fraud?” Michael paced the room trying to think of a way out.
“Listen, he’s not backing down and the Cold Case project can end anytime. I’d take the Fraud gig in a minute.”
“Great, and what do I tell Kellie? She knows I’d never transfer to Fraud.” Michael peered out of the window and watched the traffic crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge wondering if any of the occupants were having as bad a day as he.
“She doesn’t have to know why. Just tell her you were mandated to work on a special assignment. As the months go by, she’ll be begging you to stay put because the hours are civilized and conducive to family life. Or you can tell the truth and test the mettle of the relationship.” O’Malley knew Michael was being shafted but the Commissioner expected one outcome and he was going to deliver it.
“We were taking a break from each other so it’s not like I was cheating on her.” Michael knew it would be a tough sell, but it was the honest truth and it was Kellie who wanted the time apart in the first place.
“Michael, take it from me, you don’t want to have that conversation. It’s not one you can win with Kellie or any other woman.”
“This is unbelievable! I wish I was a Nassau County cop because their union could certainly get a cop back on the job, even if caught red-handed, and probably with a promotion,” shot back Michael sarcastically.
“Hmm...Maybe,” laughed O’Malley realizing there was some truth there. “But you’re not a cop, so get over it.”
“So who knows about my situation?”
“I do, the Mayor, Dennihi, Smitty, Hector and Joe and they know not to breathe a word or they’ll be shipped out.” O’Malley had a serious than death expression and would fire anyone who breached this level of confidence.
“Great, where the hell is Hector?” Michael had fleeting visions of delivering bodily harm or at least an onslaught of verbal abuse towards dear Hector.
“Don’t worry about Hector. He’s making himself pretty scarce these days,” said O’Malley laughing. “He’s truly remorseful and you know that somewhere in that thick skull of yours.”
“I guess. Where do I report for duty tomorrow?”
“Malcom Bonner on the sixteenth floor,” gestured O’Malley pointing up.
“I just got new business cards and now….”
“And now you’ll be getting newer business cards. Listen, I have a meeting with Dennihi so call me later if you need to vent some more.”
“Tell him to ask his wife to lose my number. She keeps calling.” Michael just couldn’t resist.
O’Malley laughed. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“I’ve never quit anything in my life,” Michael grabbed his jacket and walked out with his head up, determined to put this behind him as quickly as possible. He headed to the sixteenth floor to introduce himself to Malcolm Bonner, who in turn introduced him to his boss Charlie Thompson. He made a special effort to see pictures of their wives so he could avoid making the same mistake again. All the top bosses kept pictures of their wives on their desk, so it was an easy investigation. Had he taken the time to do this while working for the Police Commissioner, he might still be there. Nonetheless, they had matronly wives, the sort of women you didn’t want to get entangled with.
After the pleasantries were exchanged, he peaked at his new office and left. Working for the FBI was too sweet a gig to toss into the toilet, so he embraced his new fate and suppressed his ego that wanted to fight to the bitter end. Luckily, he didn’t give into foolish pride. Because he would’ve missed uncovering the truth about the 1993 World Trade Center bombing and what would forever be known one day as 9/11.
Chapter 4
Increased borrowing must be matched by increased ability to repay. Otherwise we aren’t
expanding the economy, we’re merely puffing it up.-- Henry Alexander
United States Treasury Department
Washington, D.C.
March 13, 2001
Secretary of the Treasury, James Spence, opened the report on his desk. He didn’t look forward to meeting with the Cabinet next week. He read the Executive Summary prepared by the Think Tank:
“If the Saudi Government agrees to price their oil in Euros as suggested by Germany and threatened by Iraq and Iran, the U.S. dollar as the World’s Reserve Currency is in jeopardy. Since 1947, the U.S. dollar has been the reserve currency for international trade. More than $3.7 trillion is in circulation around the world. Nearly all oil transactions and commodities are bought and sold in dollars creating a steady demand for the dollar. Additionally, citizens of the world hoard billions of dollars because of a lack of trust in their own currency, fortifying its status as a safe haven currency.
All of this falsely props the value of the U.S. dollar in the foreign exchange markets, enabling the Treasury to print more and more money, and run higher and higher trade and budget deficits that would otherwise pressure the dollar lower in the foreign exchange markets. If the Euro or Specific Drawing Rights (SDR) becomes a World Reserve Currency, Central Banks around the world would dump billions of U.S. dollars, and consequently, it would lower the value of the dollar, cause Americans to pay more for imports, and make the sale of Treasuries more difficult without hiking interest rates.”
Think Tank Recommendations:
“Control the supply of Iraqi or Iranian oil production to ensure oil is priced in U.S. dollars. At all cost, persuade Saudi Arabia to maintain our long established policy to price oil in dollars. Have a military presence in either Iran or Iraq to pressure the other to back off from supporting Euro or SDR denominated oil. Less vocal OPEC members will follow suit along with the European Union. It is imperative that we don’t underestimate the potential of the Euro or SDR to overthrow the U.S. dollar as the reserve currency. Any shift towards the Euro or SDR would have a domino effect that will punish the U.S. economy on the domestic and world stage, and must be prevented by all reasonable military, fiscal and policy programs.”
Noting that one of the recommendations was a “military program” James Spence called his friend, Defense Secretary, Simon Sharpe, to inquire about a modern day version of the sinking of the Lusitania, Pearl Harbor or the Gulf of Tonkin to stabilize operations at the Treasury. They needed to do something to bury the fact that the Treasury was missing three trillion dollars.
Chapter 5
Capitalism without bankruptcy is like Christianity without hell.--Frank Borman
Sacramento, CA
April 18, 2001
Senator Eddie Bestla was jolted from a dream by a ringing phone. It was 5AM for crying out loud, thought Eddie. Then he realized that it might be Vanessa calling from her Manhattan office.
“Hello,” Eddie anticipated hearing Vanessa coo ‘good morning, sleepy head.’
“Did the Holy See give us a date for divine justice?” demanded instead by Defense Secretary Simon Sharpe.
Eddie could feel that his day was already ruined and he wasn’t even up yet. “Hang on a minute. Let me clear my head. It’s 5AM, you know?”
“It’s eight here. Do you have it?” Simon wanted assurance that they had a date for a new Pearl Harbor that was divined by the Vatican. Like always, the U.S. couldn’t appear to be the aggressor.
“Here it is. JOB A. GREED 9:11 or JOB AGREED 9:11 for short. It’s a Bible acronym. The ninth chapter and eleventh verse of each book. JOB 9:11. A is Amos, G is Genesis, R is Romans, E is Ezekiel, E is Ecclesiastes and D is Deuteronomy. Below each 9:11 verse, they have a translation. Do you want me to read it? The theological thought that was tapped to construct a set of supporting scripture is brilliant.”
“Hell, no! Nine eleven or 911- that’s perfect! The CIA and the FBI are doing an emergency disaster drill that same day. The drill scenario is a plane hitting the Twin Towers and Pentagon. Imagine the emergency calls to NORAD as the real event unfolds. They won’t know if it’s a drill or the real thing and they’ll stand down. No fighter jets can shoot without my authority. I stripped that from the Generals a few months ago,” Simon was proud of himself.
“Simon, I didn’t know you could do all that,” Eddie was feeling more confident that the cover up would be successful.
“Eddie, I will do whatever it takes to clear a path for U.S. interests. I have weapons manufacturers like Lockheed and other companies in your Golden state breathing down my neck wanting their fair share of defense spending. 9/11 is a catalyzing event for future dominant force. Haven’t you read the Project for a New American Century?”
“No.”
“You better bone up! And take an interest in the new world order. We need permanent bases in the Middle East and regime changes in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran. Other’s too, but later,” Simon figured that as a California Senator, Eddie was feeding his carnal desires instead of his brain.
“I’d love to read about it Simon, but Enron is sucking the life out of me. It’s so stressful. We are bilking California for billions on megawatt laundering. Thank god the Governor is so daft or this thing would have been exposed by now,” Eddie got out of bed and pulled open the blinds.
“That was the plan! What’s the problem? Come on, Eddie! I’m the one on the hot seat if you screw this up. The Treasury is missing three trillion dollars because my department has that amount in undocumented adjustments and I don’t have audited financial statements,” Simon looked at the memo on his desk to call James Spence and jotted down another idea to help the Treasurer square his books.
“Simon, the level of fraud here is unprecedented. Enron is stacking up the grid with bogus transmissions to collect a congestion fee from California. A fee to solve a problem that Enron created solely to collect the fee!”
“Sounds like boys at Enron got a good program going. So, what’s the problem?”
“They’re causing artificial blackouts! And when California calls for backup power they get charged the higher spot rates and out-of-state transmission fees to route the juice in. Even though it’s from California plants and not Portland! The taxpayers are getting reamed with each throw of the switch to the tune of 10 billion.”
“That’s how you launder money, Senator. Weren’t you listening to Kevin Fitz? California pays 10 billion in real cash to Enron for megawatt laundering and we pull the 10 billion out the other side of Enron squeaky clean.”
“Simon, the SEC will be investigating them. Listen to the CEO on the investor’s conference call yesterday. He’s cracking, called an analyst an ‘asshole’ because the guy dared to ask why a balance sheet wasn’t available with the earnings released already.” Eddie knew Enron was going to implode and wanted to be far away from it when it did.
“The SEC is our friend in this. They aren’t too swift when it comes to forensic accounting. Show them a nice computer generated income statement and balance sheet and they’ll call it a day and have lunch. Besides, last week they did away with fractions and went to decimals on the stock exchanges. This emboldens the unsophisticated who didn’t know if seven-sixteenths is less than five-eighths to manage their own investments. These online do-it-yourselfers will be fooled into buying Enron precisely when we dump our shares,” Simon was making a killing and so were other Washington insiders.
“Simon, I know what Fitz said, but this thing has grown beyond that. These Enron guys are taping conversations and it’s all going to blow up. To accelerate profits I told Kevin Fitz to use every account he has to buy puts on Enron and start shorting the stock for us. When the ability to borrow shares dries up, he’ll start shorting Enron without ever borrowing shares. It’s called naked short selling and it’s illegal,” laughed Eddie.
“Perfect, Cui Bono? Us!”
“I didn’t know that you spoke Latin,” laughed Eddie knowing it meant “who benefits” and what’s true for the collapse of a stock is true for a building, thought Eddie.
“Simon, did Agent Rama Singh complete his part of the plan?”
“His militant behavior won him acceptance in the Jersey cell and his fluency in Urdu, Farsi and Arabic is priceless. He has everyone on board and he’ll be thrilled to pass along the 9/11 date because he’s chomping at the bit according to Dennihi.”
“This all suits him, I’m sure.”
“James Spence at the Treasury will be grateful. He won’t be happy about the raiding of the pension plans. We convinced Plan administrators to hand over billions for useless dot.com stocks, not to mention WorldCom and the abyss ahead for Enron. Thank God Fitz prints stock certificates like the Treasury prints bills. Our country desperately needs this 9/11 to go off without a hitch,” Sharpe believed in moving the whole world towards one U.S. global law and order.
The Senator wanted to say something, but nothing could change that is was a JOB AGREED 9:11.
Chapter 6
Cannibals prefer those who have no spines.--Stanislaw Lem
Karachi, Pakistan Underground Nuclear Laboratory
April 21,2001
Abdullah Amine, the top nuclear scientist in Pakistan, learned that the 9/11 attack date was deciphered intelligence. He hoped that al Qaeda had recruited the necessary terrorists from the Bosnian camps, Hezbollah, or harvested home grown jihads from America. He had only one explanation why the CIA and FBI were in a torpid state despite growing threats: al Qaeda was littered with double agents ever since the CIA developed them to fight the Russians.
In Abdullah’s mind, the February 26, 1993 bombing of the North Tower was the beginning. He fondly recalled the attack on American barracks at Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia in 1996, which was eerily reminiscent of the Beirut massacre of hundreds of Marines. His smile grew wider as he recalled the U.S. Embassy bombings in Tanzania and Kenya in 1998, and the kick in the gut bombing of the U.S.S. Cole in 2000. As great as these attacks were, they paled in comparison with the two ahead. The September attack would take care of unfinished business at the World Trade Center. The second, on November 24, 2001, targeted a city hidden within a riddle sent from Arjuna Singh:
“The four new age horseman of the apocalypse blazed up the stairs. Grace shook, trembled and gave way. Saints Peter and Paul were driven to their knees at the sign of the beast. Their shame no longer bearable having watched so many joined in sin. Mark watched both from a distance and fell like the one before him as the gateway to this Sodom and Gomorrah melted in hell’s sulfur fire.”
After struggling with the meaning he read the translation Arjuna provided. Abdullah marveled at the simplicity. It was perfect. It would have the Americans chasing their own tail. And if by chance, they solved the riddle in time and defended the location, it simply didn’t matter. The Americans would be already adrift on a course towards defeat and fall from being the world’s superpower.
Chapter 7
I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tuna-fish casserole is at least as real as corporate stock.--Barbara Harrison
Office of Fitz Financial Services 70th Floor
South Tower, Two World Trade Center, NY
10 AM, August 15, 2001
Fitz Financial Services, a premier pump and dump boiler room and U.S. Treasury security dealer, netted $275.6 million directly to Kevin Fitz last year. He earned millions more by influencing pension fund managers to buy dot.coms and ENRON. As soon as the funds bought the overpriced shares, Fitz shorted those shares reaping millions. Location, location, location applies to Main Street and Wall Street. A World Trade Center address was synonymous with business success and legitimacy. It was like lipstick on a pig.
Congressman Rincon and former Mayor Bestla helped get Fitz Financial quietly listed among the financial service companies of the Teachers Retirement System (TRS). Fitz’s employees cold called TRS members promoting Initial Public Offerings (IPO) or stocks given to Fitz, as full or partial payment, to push other penny stocks. Cold calls entailed using classic boiler room tactics and many of the securities weren’t registered with the SEC and were nearly worthless.
“Mr. Garcia, this is Ted Carver from Fitz Financial. We talked last week and I told you I’d call if I came across the next Johnson & Johnson. We gotta move on MicroTech Systems. I’m calling you first because I’m looking out for you. But I gotta tell you this one is hot. Hang on…ah… it just jumped another quarter point… I need a yes from you to authorize the trade. Tell me no and I gotta give it to my next guy.” Ted delivered his pitch perfectly as he flipped through the August issue of Maxim.
“You think it’s going to keep going up?” asked an anxious but nervous Mr. Garcia.
“Of course, it’s going to move. I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. It’s $2.25 a share now. Pick up 10,000 shares and we’ll dump it for ten bucks a pop down the road and you’ll make eighty grand. Teachers need to think about making their hard earned money work for them instead of the other way around.” Ted stared at the water stain on the ceiling and wondered if it could somehow miraculously fetch such a price.
“I don’t know, Ted.”
“You don’t know? Is twenty grand too much right now? Mr. Garcia, how much can you commit right now?”
“Umm, maybe six thousand. I should talk this over with my wife.”
“Your wife?” What a loser thought Ted as he continued flipping through Maxim. “Listen Mr. Garcia, this kind of opportunity doesn’t come every day; I won’t be calling you tomorrow or even next month. They come when they come. Get in for an even 3,000 shares. That’s $6,750.00 plus commission, hang on… man… it’s up another quarter … you want in or out? I had the ticket filled out because this is right for you, give me a yes and I’ll put it through at the lower price. Screw my manager, this is right for you.”
“Really? Okay, but just 3,000 shares at the lower price,” directed Mr. Garcia, clueless that he never had a chance in this game of fools.
“Mr. Garcia, I want to build a relationship with you. This is our first trade together, so I’m covering the commission out of my own pocket. Fitz Financial appreciates your business and your trust. I’ll send a confirmation today. Have a great week teaching.” Ted hung up the phone and raised his fists victoriously in the air.
“Nice close, Ted. Make them feel that you care and don’t mind screwing the ‘man’ on their behalf,” Fitz smiled and gave Ted a firm handshake and slap on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Mr. Fitz. That’s my eighth close between five and ten grand for a total of $102,000 in MicroTech,” Ted beamed ear-to-ear.
“Looks like you’re well on your way to a two thousand dollar day.”
“Mr. Fitz, I’m going for a three thousand dollar day!”
“Did everyone hear that? Young Ted is going for three thousand dollars in commissions and it’s not even an hour into the trading day.”
Fitz normally felt excitement before heading to India for his quarterly three-night retreat. This time was different. He was tired and worried. Agent Doyle was breathing down his neck and the inside jobs devised by Vito Sarno weren’t ready for prime time. Fitz knew Vito Sarno was a visionary whose empire was proof that mastermind criminals were extremely patient and rarely made stupid mistakes. Vito’s information was solid but Fitz would have to literally become the Invisible Man to get passed security guards and office staff within the Twin Towers.
An outside line started ringing.
“Fitz Financial,” said Fitz in the welcoming tone of a man you wanted to do business with.
“Kev, my boy! Have you figured anything out yet?”
Fitz knew the voice instantly. Only Sal Sarno delighted in calling him Kev and boy in one fell swoop.
“No, Sal, do you have a workable scam for the 70th floor?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Sal curtly.
Fitz laughed. Only mobsters worried about phone tapping because they were nailed so many times right in their own social clubs. But for white-collar crime, it would take six attorneys to decipher yards of legal jargons developed by the Justice Department. Then they would have to convince a Judge they understood it. It could never happen, thanks to the American Civil Liberties Union.
“Sal, there’s no phone tapping in the World Trade Center. Besides, the DOJ is too busy with your social club.”
“Hey, smart ass just review those skeleton plans and start putting some meat on them and make a decision. Armin’s my cousin and he’s been working on the Wells Fargo plan for two years.”
Fitz could hear Sal’s breathing getting raspy. He bet that Sal was smoking a Partagas cigar. It was Sal’s favorite and he never left home without them.
“What about his driving partner? Is he on your payroll? No, he’s not. Plus, the tracking device in the armored truck can’t be disabled.”
“I got someone on the tracking device,” said Sal clearing his throat and expectorating a wad of smoker’s phlegm.
“Light up another cigar. You sound great coughing up a lung.”
“Worry about yourself! What about the Diamond Exchange?”
“The big money jewels are in a safe in the CEO’s office and he’s the only one with the combination. He trusts no one.”
Sal had someone working on that and didn’t want to share too much information with Fitz, so he remained silent.
“Sal, God Bless the Mafia but getting people to spill their guts is one thing. Being able to act on that information is quite another. I hope you aren’t erasing their gambling markers or sparing their life in their moment of ‘Please for God’s sake, don’t kill me, I have kids and know where millions in diamonds are’.”
“Listen, Kev. Vito always says information that’s worth nothing today can be priceless the next. It just works out that way.”
“Well, tomorrow doesn’t look any better. Anyway, my business is almost done. I cleaned up $100 million of your filthy cash. And if your information bears fruit, I’ll help harvest it for a reasonable thirty-percent. But your plans are thus far impotent.”
“You cleaned $99 million! You still need to clean another million.”
“Your bag man can come by on September 11th at the close of business and pick up one million in cash.”
“I’ll pick it up myself. I’m in Manhattan that day to talk to the Cardinal.”
“The Cardinal? That’s pretty rich.” Fitz knew the ties between the church and the Mafia were probably forever intertwined.
“Sal, I have a 10:30 AM meeting with an auditor. See if you can get an Agent Michael Doyle off my back.” Sal paused when he heard the name Michael Doyle but quickly recovered. “The guy is as pure as a catholic school girl, transferred into the department couple months ago. He’s not your cookie cutter fraud guy.”
Fitz thought it unusual but not impossible for the Sarno's to have a line on Agent Doyle so fast. “He was just assigned to my case after the other two failed. How’d you know about him already?”
“It’s my damn job to know who’s poking their nose in my business.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Anyway, gotta go, Sal.” Fitz decided to squeeze in a call to Eddie Bestla.
“How’s it going on your end?”
“It’s going,” said Eddie Bestla.
“We started shorting Enron in January at eighty-three and it’s down to thirty-five and I’ve been selectively naked short selling, what are your insiders saying?”
“Don’t worry about covering. It’ll be worthless. We’ll never have to buy a single share back. It’s a hundred percent profit!” The Senator gloated.
“Are you serious? We’ve shorted millions of shares.” Fitz did a few calculations. “That’s like $250,000,000! They have a hundred million in the float, so let’s short it till they stop trading it,” Fitz howled with laughter.
“Go for it. It’s a mess. Just burn every file you have and take a hammer to the hard drive and toss it in the Hudson when you make the last trade.”
“You know the Feds got some of our computers. If they get passed the encryption we’re screwed,” laughed Fitz.
“When was this?”
“Months ago, I was in India when it went down.”
“Just make a deposit in my Cayman account and the same for Simon.” Eddie was getting a bad feeling about this. Either the boys at Enron will talk or Fitz’s computer will.
“Got it.
“Fitz, are you going to be in the office on September 11?” On one hand Eddie didn’t want Fitz to get killed. On the other hand, it was a perfect way to tie up loose ends. So he had to ask.
“I’ll be coming back from India on the September 10. I should be in for sure. Why?”
“I might be in town. I figured we could have dinner.” Eddie wanted to tell him, but if he talked outside of the inner circle he was a dead man.
“Call me first. I might be busy catching up here,” Fitz thought it was strange because Eddie never planned that far in advance. He always called the last minute, sometimes as he boarded a plane. Fitz hung up and darted out to the trading floor.
“Attention slackers, get as many of your clients into Enron. Draw them a picture of the great opportunity to pick up a Fortune Seven company at fifty percent off and I’ll give you twenty-five percent of their total investment as a bonus. Double your efforts with all pension fund managers. Joey, you call CALPERS. The California pension administrator will bite at the chance if you stage it like I taught you. He knows how much of the state budget is flowing into Enron. What could be a better investment?”
The workplace of alpha males between the ages of 23 and 45 exploded with cheers and threats of all kinds towards each other, and then got back to making calls from their trading desks. Occasionally, but certainly not with Enron, clients made big money. Because even the ugliest pig of a stock could rear up on its hind legs and take off in a perfect storm. Fitz coined the “perfect storm” as a unique and fleeting set of circumstances that align themselves to set the stage for unprecedented financial gain.
Fitz looked at the clock, it was nearly 10:30AM and the external auditor from Dana, Johansson and McMan was prompt as usual. He saw her come in dressed conservatively in a black skirt, low heels and a business jacket tailored to her obvious curves. Her long black hair was pulled back and she was wearing a diamond necklace and earrings and carried a Prada briefcase. The black framed glasses added just the right mix of business and fashion. Everyone in the trading room monitored her path to his office. It was the same routine every week, a visit to fine tune the Fitz Financial operation. Everyone knew not to interrupt them while the blinds were drawn.
“Good morning, Mr. Fitz,” smiled Kavina Dana politely.
“Hi, Ms. Dana, do you have the spreadsheets ready?” Fitz closed the door and blinds while Ms. Dana deftly unbuttoned her blouse revealing solid performance within her Victoria Secret bra. Her skin was a perfect bronze thanks to a sunless tan lotion developed by a company that Fitz promoted years ago. The active ingredient was patented and delivered a natural bronze tone, never the ghastly orange that cheaper lotions left behind.
Kavina Dana was not your garden-variety street hustler. The only street she knew was Wall Street. She didn’t know a thing about auditing but executive assistants throughout the Twin Towers were fooled into thinking that their CEO was with the “auditor” every week like clockwork. She looked the part, confident, professional, no nonsense, and the office women loved her as much as their bosses loved screwing her. When she stripped down she was pure sex underneath all that bogus business attire.
Her business cards list an address of an Executive Headquarters building nearby. She rented office space by the hour there and paid a small fee for each call the receptionist answered.
She was no longer shocked by the crocodile tattoo on his penis or the filth that spewed from his mouth. When she asked if it hurt having his privates tattooed he responded that pain was good to receive as well as give. That was enough for her to stay clear of him anywhere but here.
“Who am I today, Kevin? Am I a submissive innocent girl trying to get her green card?” Kavina laughed inside at the psychological play men enjoyed.
“Don’t say another word,” Fitz didn’t like women talking on his dime. He found Kavina extremely attractive and wished to violate her every way imaginable. But release would come by way of oral manipulation. There was no getting around it. This was his weekly battle to keep it between the lines, therapy to learn to enjoy sex without the pain. The weekly sessions weren’t considered cheating on his wife. It was akin to going to AA.
“Take it now,” demanded Fitz bluntly. Kavina slid the condom on the crocodile and commenced expert service. She was always impressed how ready he was. She could feel his heat through the rubber, such hardness could create her own wetness, but not with Fitz. She was too leery of him to relax. When he grabbed her by the hair, Kavina shot a warning look to back off. He fondled her breasts, the fullness and heft added to his excitement. He verbalized that he really wanted to take her without a condom, without lubricant, until he sighed with spent satisfaction. He wanted to slap her around and knock her out and then take her methodically.
Kavina could be turned on by dirty talk. She knew his words weren’t play so she kept herself in check. He was capable of brutality. She just could sense it. Not wanting to prolong his pleasure because she was booked solid this afternoon. She engulfed the angry looking shrink wrapped croc with the skill of a swallowing swordsman. While massaging the sac of the beast with her soft fingertips the countdown started in her head: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, …
“You better take it to completion,” Fitz withdrew at the height of ecstasy, yanked off the condom and gave forth all he had. Kavina sprang up and went into his restroom.
“You don’t know what you’re missing with me. How about meeting me at the Four Seasons next week?”
“I’ll pass,” replied Kavina, finishing up her final makeup touches and thinking he was crazy. Fitz placed $1,500 on his desk, $1,000 for the service and five hundred for breeching their agreement. He knew her terms and the therapy was worth every penny. Since it was the mob’s money, he didn’t much care.
Kavina emerged looking as professional as she did coming through the door ten minutes ago. She placed the stack of hundreds in her Prada briefcase and snapped it closed.
“See you next week, Mr. Fitz. Have the payroll ready, I’ll need to audit it.” Kavina smiled and exited with a wave of her hand. Her other clients included CEO’s from the Forbes Fortune 100 list, politicians from both parties, and a Priest at Trinity Church. She fancied that the priest wasn’t tempted by little boys and gave him a papal discount as recognition for good behavior. Her workweek was Wednesday through Friday with occasional overtime. Make no mistake, her profession was risky. That’s why she rarely met men in hotel rooms. She made that mistake once with a man named Ricardo Perez. She recalled that night at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square while walking to her next appointment on the 70th floor.
She had knocked on the door to hotel room 5406. Ricardo Perez answered dressed in a black Armani suit.
“Hi, you look even better than the Congressman described.”
“What will it be, Ricardo?”
“Whatever I want, that’s what, he said.”
“Sorry, the menu is limited to straight sex.” She knew Rincon didn’t say that because Congressman Rincon was big on manual sex. Rincon didn’t consider it infidelity because it was something he could do himself.
Ricardo seemed annoyed but so were most men when they couldn’t get exactly what they wanted from her. Ricardo removed his jacket and pants and told her to strip and get on all fours on top of the bed. As she waited she felt someone from behind get on the bed. Ricardo tried to hold her as the stranger advance himself. Instinctively, she punched Ricardo in his testicles. Ricardo tumbled off the bed in agony while she freed herself from the delicate grip of a startled slightly built Asian man. She darted off the bed while Ricardo was writhing in full fetal position clutching his groin. She pulled a gun from her purse and ordered the Asian man to his knees in front of Ricardo.
“Hey Ricardo, let’s see how you like to be violated by a man,” yelled Kavina as if possessed by the devil.
“I don’t think I can be with a man,” cried the mortified Asian.
“Just for the picture or I’ll shoot you. Got it?”
She grabbed Ricardo’s pants and removed a money clip and a Palm Pilot. The money clip was beautiful with bleeding red hearts etched on gold and within each heart were Chinese characters. It held nearly four thousand dollars and she took it all. She pulled out her camera and hung it around her neck like a photographer on location.
“Tear the bed sheet and tie him up hog style and give me his belt to tie your hands.”
After the Asian tied up Ricardo, she pushed him face first onto the bed and quickly wrapped the belt around his wrists and pulled the leather strap through the buckle to secure his hands. She ordered the Asian to stand and face Ricardo. From behind she slammed her foot into the back of his knee and he fell forward onto Ricardo, in the same instance she snapped the money shot. Realizing the ramifications of such a photo, Ricardo screamed curses at her in two languages. She took another close up of the Asian straddling Ricardo. It was double indemnity insurance to discourage Ricardo from future retaliation. She warned him that she’d send a copy to every address in his palm pilot if he ever contacted her again. With another bed sheet she tied the Asian man to Ricardo and then both to the bed frame. She quickly dressed and placed the “do not disturb” placard on the doorknob and left without further incident. It was the first time she ever stole but under the circumstances she felt justified.
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The pendulum will swing back.--Joseph G. Cannon
United Nations Building
Manhattan, NY
January 28, 2001
“What the hell do you mean someone selected the William Kent file as a cold case?” asked a very annoyed Defense Secretary, Simon Sharpe.
“The Mayor’s office is pushing to solve more cold cases to show the city isn’t soft on crime. Agent Michael Doyle selected Kent from the database,” responded Patrick Dennihi, Police Commissioner of New York City.
“Why in God’s name was it in the database? And why is the FBI involved?” Sharpe couldn’t believe his ears. He immediately decided that Dennihi was either very careless or very stupid. Neither trait was acceptable.
“The Mayor augmented our force with a few Agents in order to show his commitment to the victim’s families. When IT merged files on the new server, Kent’s file got sent along. I had no idea it was on the server. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”
“Well, fix it like you did the Kent investigation.” In the same breath he added, “Just remember how you got to be Commissioner. I set the table for you and don’t you ever forget it.” Sharpe wanted to make it clear that there was no backing out, ever.
Dennihi felt threatened, but it was a small price to pay for being promoted to the leader of the largest police force in the world. The title he really coveted, however, was Director of the CIA and would do anything and everything to prove worthy.
“I’ll transfer Doyle and reassign the case. I’ll figure it out, so don’t worry.”
“I don’t worry, Dennihi. That’s why I have you. Make this go away. Only the inner circle knows that the 1993 bombing was successful. We denied Yousef Ramzi bragging rights in the name of national security and there will be no leaks ever. Not on my watch.”
“I know, sir. Speaking of which, Kent’s prediction is now a grim reality. Foundation sensors indicate the North Tower lists badly to the south. Something has to be done. We can’t let them collapse on their own. The intelligence that Rama Singh gathered from the Arabic message boards is our ticket out of this.”
“They won’t collapse on their own. The buildings are part of an intelligence plan to advance the U.S. geopolitical agenda. You’ll be briefed on how we plan to use the intelligence you sent us. We can’t wait on anti-Americans who house themselves in the UN and enjoy the comfort and protection of our flag. Yet refuse to take action against tyrants and opportunists that want to dethrone the dollar as the world’s reserve currency. I can go on and on, it just makes my blood boil.” Defense Secretary Sharpe placed two fingers into the collar of his blue shirt and stretched the fabric in order to cool off.
“I’ll meet with Singh. If there are new opportunities, I’ll contact you.”
“You do that, and Dennihi, never talk to me about William Kent over the phone. Do you understand that? Never!”
“Yes, sir. We agreed to that eight years ago when you were Governor. That’s why I asked to talk with you here.”
“Good. Transfer Agent Doyle and get rid of the Kent file for good. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.” Dennihi already had an idea how to get Agent Doyle transferred without raising a red flag.
Simon Sharpe headed into the United Nations to meet with Treasury Secretary, James Spence and some insiders from the International Monetary Fund and World Bank. He wanted to make sure they understood the new terms of any engineered bailout of foreign countries. Simply stated, all loans are now contingent on the borrower agreeing to earmark twenty-one percent of the proceeds to buy Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac securities.
Chapter 2
In the field of observation chance only favors minds which are prepared.--Louis Pasteur
Nassau County Criminal Courthouse Mineola, NY
11:15AM, February 12, 2001
The sky was steel gray and flurries were coming down and disappearing on contact with the wet street. Parking was typically horrific and the falling temperature compounded the misery. Agent Michael Doyle was a witness for the prosecution yesterday and the jury didn’t take long to make up their minds. That worried Michael; lately it seemed that jury members were from another planet. “We, the jury of idiots, find the accused not guilty, even though partially digested remains of the victim were found in the defendant’s bowels.” Michael prayed for a guilty verdict and entered the courtroom just in time to hear the verdict.
The attorney for the prosecution was Renee Modesto, a beautiful brunette who could be an Italian J-Lo, whose curvy shape was quite obvious even with her conservative business attire. As the jury Floor Man was handed back the verdict, Michael turned his attention to Renee. She had her fingers tip-to-tip at nose level and looked straight towards the Judge.
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Salvador William Smith, guilty of kidnapping and rape in the first degree.”
Renee stood up and the 15 year-old victim hugged her as a middle-aged couple behind them embraced in a muffled cry.
“Your Honor, considering the defendant’s prior rape conviction and the heinous nature in which he kidnapped, raped, and tortured the victim for two days just weeks after being released from prison, the State requests that the defendant be sentenced to Atascadero State Prison for the maximum sentence of 25 years with mandatory chemical castration.”
Salvador William Smith instinctively lowered his right hand beneath the table to guard his testicles, or to say goodbye to them. Renee knew the sentencing would be weeks away but wanted to give the Judge a very vivid picture as to what the pervert deserved. With the disinterest of thirty years on the bench only momentarily shaken by Renee’s confident and cold delivery, the gray bearded Judge stated, “Sentencing is set for March 4th at 11AM” and gavelled the trial to a close and the courtroom started to empty.
“Ms. Modesto, nice work. I think your bid for chemical castration caught a few people off guard including the Judge.”
“Agent Doyle. What a surprise to see you here! Are you due in court today?” Renee beamed with delight. She liked Michael and purposely called him Agent Doyle to hear him say the “call me Michael” bit. He was an expert witness in several of her cases and for this case he provided child pornography evidence against Smith. Renee suspected he had a girlfriend and respected that he never tried to ask her out. His athletic build was obvious through his blue dress shirt; he was handsome, but definitely not a pretty boy. He mentioned his age once and she didn’t mind that he was ten years older. She never had anything in common with men her age. But it was just as well, she had a tough time with relationships and could never let anyone too close.
“No, but please call me Michael. I wanted to be here when the jury came in because if they got it wrong, I was going to correct them one-by-one, if you know what I mean.”
“I do and thanks. Luckily they heard exactly what we told them and they didn’t morph into the OJ Simpson jury.”
“Ever consider leaving the DA’s office and branching out on your own?”
“My passion and satisfaction stems from sticking up for the victim. My pride would grow flabby as a private practice attorney. That’s why I’m a prosecutor, Agent Doyle.”
“Only rape cases… is that all you do?” Michael could immediately tell by her face and how her mouth parted, although no words came out, that he crossed some imaginary line. He recovered quickly. “I meant that’s your area of expertise, right?” He had no clue how this was being received, nor could he have known.
“Agent Doyle, my expertise is called upon with such frequency that even if I wanted to, and mind you I don’t, there would be no time. I prosecute the most heinous cases in our sex crimes’ unit and can barely keep up, whereas a few years ago I handled other sexual assaults in order to fill my court calendar.”
“Well, how about a cup of coffee? I have an hour to kill before I head to the range and practice my shooting. Last week, I aimed at some guy’s knee and accidentally nailed his left testicle. If he ever ends up in your courtroom, you’ll need only half the amount of chemicals to castrate him. It’ll save the taxpayers some money, too.”
“Are you serious or are you making fun of me?” She gathered by his expression he was kidding. She liked his sense of humor and welcomed anything that kept her mind off work.
“There’s a café downstairs. They serve government-style coffee. So if you’re a Starbucks guy, you may have a problem.”
“I avoid brand names, unless it’s whiskey, so I’m good to go.”
“Whiskey?” Renee winced. “You drink whiskey?”
“Yep, was drinking it in your courtroom. Jameson.”
“I can detect whiskey on someone’s breath and you’re clean, Agent Doyle.”
“What’s Jameson anyway?” Rene asked. “Scotch whiskey?”
“Irish Whiskey, it’s an important remnant of my Irish heritage.”
“Well then, I’ll never ask you out for drinks.”
“Why?”
“Because if you got drunk you could accuse me of taking advantage of your racial or national weakness,” Renee smiled as she led the way to the coffee shop. Michael laughed. She was quick-witted and that was important to keep his daily demons at bay. “Does your boss know that you’re prejudiced? Care to tell me your opinions on blacks and Jews?”
“Listen, Agent Doyle, or is it Michael? I’m a lawyer. I speak only the truth based on observation, testimony, and the printed word. I’ll voice my thoughts on the blacks, whites, Jews and all the rest including the Italians when generalizations are warranted and factual.”
“Whoa, easy now! Maybe I should order decaff for you,” laughed Michael. “What do you drink? In terms of coffee, of course,” Michael kept direct eye contact to avoid taking a cheap glance at her breasts.
“Regular coffee; black, two Equals,” smiled Renee clearly enjoying the playful teasing.
“Two large black coffees,” announced Michael to the girl leaning behind the counter a short distance away.
“That’ll be $2.50,” said the girl gruffly without a hint of a smile and clearly annoyed that her daydream was interrupted by a call for service.
Michael handed her three dollars and told her to keep the change and buy a smile. The girl wasn’t amused but Renee was and laughed hard enough that the girl glared at her.
“Did you catch that stare? She has a government job; she’s fat, miserable looking and probably gripes about her government coin.” Michael pulled out Renee’s chair and she sat down impressed with his gentlemanly way.
“Now who’s prejudiced? Do you have anything against overweight people?” asked Renee smiling as she raised her coffee to her mouth and blew gently over it.
“Not at all. They’re good for the economy; the healthcare industry, in particular. And what do I care? I don’t pay for their food,” smiled Michael as he stirred his coffee never breaking eye contact with Renee.
“Got an answer for everything, huh, Agent Doyle?”
“What’s with the Agent Doyle? Can’t you say Michael?”
“Of course,” She was looking at his finger to see if he normally wore a ring. There wasn’t a telltale light band of skin that busted other men. This pleased Renee.
Michael already burned his tongue on the hot coffee and was trying to sooth it by building a collection of saliva on his tongue when Renee asked if the FBI kept a database of convicts with scars and tattoos.
“Sure, it lists the location and description of the scar or tattoo, but not always a photo. Why are you looking for a date for Valentines, maybe?”
“Get real Agent, I don’t need help getting a date.” She knew Michael was fishing for information and appreciated the attention. “I’m working with a victim and had an idea, but it’s a long shot.”
“Well, tell me about it.”
Renee wasn’t about to get into this now and probably never. The question flew out of her mouth before she could censor herself. “I’ll give you a call sometime; the case is months away and too detailed to get into right now.” Renee smiled and sipped her coffee and wondered what his girlfriend was like.
“Any big plans for Valentine’s Day?” Michael asked trying to sound nonchalant.
“Bigger is not always best, Agent Doyle.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“Who said?”
Michael laughed, and in doing so, Renee got the intended message and smiled in a manner that acknowledged his bad-boy innuendo. She liked the sexual tension Michael provided.
“What are your plans?” asked Renee.
“Romantic dinner and then a clinical review of the evidence.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Could be.” Michael couldn’t lie and play the field and how the gods were tempting him. “Seriously, how about you?” pressed Michael.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because it would be unimaginable that you wouldn’t have a date and I’m taking a survey for the department.”
“Well, I’ll leave it up to your capable imagination,” Renee responded coyly.
Michael reached for his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my new card, we switched offices so my number and address changed.”
Renee accepted the card and rubbed her thumb over the raised gold lettering and placed it in her purse.
“Well, Agent Doyle, I have another victim to interview and I’m sure there are several bad guys for you to catch or shoot in the ah…groin.”
“Are you saying I should go back to the office with you and arrest your boss and shoot him in his testicle?”
Renee laughed, she found him to be not only unavailable but a wise guy, too. She accepted the former and liked the latter. But it was all probably for the best. Her dates usually ended badly soon as a certain level of intimacy was reached. Each time she hoped it would be different. It was like watching a movie where you know the ending but still hope for a different conclusion.
“Very funny, my boss is honest as the day is long.”
“Well then, knowing that you’re safe in your work environment, I shall bid you farewell.”
“Good day, Agent Doyle. And thanks for the coffee.” Renee displayed a Cover Girl smile and headed to her office.
Michael watched her walk away. It was his big test and he was confident that he passed, but he remained hopeful things would work out with his girlfriend, Kellie. He headed back into the grip of a New York winter’s day with a heady illusion that would prove false.
Back in the soft confines of her office, all paid out of her own salary, Renee plunged into her plush executive chair. On the first day on the job, she told her boss that all the cheap government furniture wouldn’t suffice. The victims didn’t deserve to sit on uncomfortable cold government steel. They deserved to be comforted by the soothing sound of a cascading fountain and the visual allure of green plants of every order.
Renee thought about the 15 year-old victim and the victory won in the courtroom this morning. The victory did little to repair the girl’s damaged world. But at least the rapist was captured, tried, convicted and would be sent away for years. And with any luck, he would be castrated. If only they sold tickets to watch that. Others weren’t as fortunate because their rapists were never caught. Renee knew this all too well because her rapist was still out there. After each courtroom victory she imagines the day her rapist is brought to justice.
“Ms. Modesto, Ms. Modesto, are you okay? I have a reporter on the line wanting an interview about the Smith verdict. Should I take a message?”
Renee did her best to recover her composure quickly. “Yes, take a message, Flora. Thanks.”
The few people who knew she was raped thought a career prosecuting rape cases was ill advised. They worried that she’d never put it behind and move on. They were partially right. She did move on but it wouldn’t be behind her until he was punished.
Chapter 3
Life is a grindstone: Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on what you’re made of. –Anonymous
FBI Field Office Manhattan, NY
8:30 AM, March 12, 2001
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” groaned an indignant Agent Doyle.
“He has the right to be pissed. You screwed his wife and then boasted to the department about it,” said Assistant Director for the Counter-Terrorism Division, Richard O’Malley, as he settled his girth into the richness of his black leather executive chair.
“The department? Richard, I told three people! I would’ve never guessed that Commissioner Dennihi could have such a beautiful wife. I wasn’t dating Kellie at the time, so I took a shot and scored. Any guy in my position would’ve done the same and you know it.” Michael locked his eyes dead straight into O’Malley’s.
“Maybe, but he wants you transferred out of the Cold Case project immediately. And it gets worse; you’re being transferred to the Fraud Division to fill a vacant post.” O’Malley had a hard time keeping a straight face. The Fraud Division was synonymous with geek dome.
“And you’re not going to bat for me on this?” Michael placed both hands on O’Malley’s desk and leaned forward clearly perturbed by the drift of the conversation.
“It’s not my call, Michael. The man’s mortified and he’s got the backing of the Mayor on this one. Hector said Dennihi went completely beet red when he heard it.”
“How’d he find out?” Michael backed off from the desk and stood with his arms crossed in a defiant defensive style.
“He wanted to recognize the FBI’s contribution to the cold case project so he took Joe, Smitty and Hector out for a few beers last week at Hooters. You must’ve been busy. Anyway, Smitty told his Hooters story and then the floodgates of sexual conquests opened.”
“I didn’t make it that night because I was working on the Kent case. And for the record, I would never tell my conquest in the company of anyone named Patrick, just in case. I always take precautions. So let me guess, Hector spewed my encounter like spoiled milk from a baby’s mouth. He’s such a lightweight when he drinks.” Michael suspected that Hector was the culprit and waited for confirmation.
“That’s right. Hector blabbed about a beautiful Cuban woman without a hint of bra fat, who was tipsy at a library fundraiser and how you convinced her that a massage would improve blood flow to the liver and sober her up. Story sound about right, Michael?” O’Malley had to zing him. It wasn’t every day that you could get Michael Doyle to hang on the tree of woe.
“Funny, Richard,” said Michael massaging his temples as if to help process what he was hearing.
“It is funny! Let me continue.” O’Malley hand gestured. “You flipped her over and you’re face to face with perfect D-cups with a tattoo of rose bud above the nipples and a “Pat” on the left and “Rick’s” on the right. She said her impotent husband wanted to name them after himself “Patrick.” And since they couldn’t have kids they were his twins. You screwed her silly and said, ‘well, it looks like the twins are up for adoption.’ ”
“Richard, how the hell would I know that “Patrick” was Patrick Dennihi, the Police Commissioner? Give me a break.” Michael thought it was ridiculous. The Commissioner should be taking Mrs. Dennihi to task and not a gifted agent busy cracking the coldest cases on file in New York City.
“Bad luck, karma, wrong place with the wrong woman, take your pick,” said O’Malley as he ran his palms over the top of his gray hair and leaned back in his chair, exhaled forcefully and shook his head with a ‘what can I say?’ look.
“I still can’t believe that’s his wife. She was like a wild woman deprived of the essential root and so much younger. It was a hotel tryst for crying out loud and I have to pay with a transfer to Fraud?” Michael paced the room trying to think of a way out.
“Listen, he’s not backing down and the Cold Case project can end anytime. I’d take the Fraud gig in a minute.”
“Great, and what do I tell Kellie? She knows I’d never transfer to Fraud.” Michael peered out of the window and watched the traffic crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge wondering if any of the occupants were having as bad a day as he.
“She doesn’t have to know why. Just tell her you were mandated to work on a special assignment. As the months go by, she’ll be begging you to stay put because the hours are civilized and conducive to family life. Or you can tell the truth and test the mettle of the relationship.” O’Malley knew Michael was being shafted but the Commissioner expected one outcome and he was going to deliver it.
“We were taking a break from each other so it’s not like I was cheating on her.” Michael knew it would be a tough sell, but it was the honest truth and it was Kellie who wanted the time apart in the first place.
“Michael, take it from me, you don’t want to have that conversation. It’s not one you can win with Kellie or any other woman.”
“This is unbelievable! I wish I was a Nassau County cop because their union could certainly get a cop back on the job, even if caught red-handed, and probably with a promotion,” shot back Michael sarcastically.
“Hmm...Maybe,” laughed O’Malley realizing there was some truth there. “But you’re not a cop, so get over it.”
“So who knows about my situation?”
“I do, the Mayor, Dennihi, Smitty, Hector and Joe and they know not to breathe a word or they’ll be shipped out.” O’Malley had a serious than death expression and would fire anyone who breached this level of confidence.
“Great, where the hell is Hector?” Michael had fleeting visions of delivering bodily harm or at least an onslaught of verbal abuse towards dear Hector.
“Don’t worry about Hector. He’s making himself pretty scarce these days,” said O’Malley laughing. “He’s truly remorseful and you know that somewhere in that thick skull of yours.”
“I guess. Where do I report for duty tomorrow?”
“Malcom Bonner on the sixteenth floor,” gestured O’Malley pointing up.
“I just got new business cards and now….”
“And now you’ll be getting newer business cards. Listen, I have a meeting with Dennihi so call me later if you need to vent some more.”
“Tell him to ask his wife to lose my number. She keeps calling.” Michael just couldn’t resist.
O’Malley laughed. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“I’ve never quit anything in my life,” Michael grabbed his jacket and walked out with his head up, determined to put this behind him as quickly as possible. He headed to the sixteenth floor to introduce himself to Malcolm Bonner, who in turn introduced him to his boss Charlie Thompson. He made a special effort to see pictures of their wives so he could avoid making the same mistake again. All the top bosses kept pictures of their wives on their desk, so it was an easy investigation. Had he taken the time to do this while working for the Police Commissioner, he might still be there. Nonetheless, they had matronly wives, the sort of women you didn’t want to get entangled with.
After the pleasantries were exchanged, he peaked at his new office and left. Working for the FBI was too sweet a gig to toss into the toilet, so he embraced his new fate and suppressed his ego that wanted to fight to the bitter end. Luckily, he didn’t give into foolish pride. Because he would’ve missed uncovering the truth about the 1993 World Trade Center bombing and what would forever be known one day as 9/11.
Chapter 4
Increased borrowing must be matched by increased ability to repay. Otherwise we aren’t
expanding the economy, we’re merely puffing it up.-- Henry Alexander
United States Treasury Department
Washington, D.C.
March 13, 2001
Secretary of the Treasury, James Spence, opened the report on his desk. He didn’t look forward to meeting with the Cabinet next week. He read the Executive Summary prepared by the Think Tank:
“If the Saudi Government agrees to price their oil in Euros as suggested by Germany and threatened by Iraq and Iran, the U.S. dollar as the World’s Reserve Currency is in jeopardy. Since 1947, the U.S. dollar has been the reserve currency for international trade. More than $3.7 trillion is in circulation around the world. Nearly all oil transactions and commodities are bought and sold in dollars creating a steady demand for the dollar. Additionally, citizens of the world hoard billions of dollars because of a lack of trust in their own currency, fortifying its status as a safe haven currency.
All of this falsely props the value of the U.S. dollar in the foreign exchange markets, enabling the Treasury to print more and more money, and run higher and higher trade and budget deficits that would otherwise pressure the dollar lower in the foreign exchange markets. If the Euro or Specific Drawing Rights (SDR) becomes a World Reserve Currency, Central Banks around the world would dump billions of U.S. dollars, and consequently, it would lower the value of the dollar, cause Americans to pay more for imports, and make the sale of Treasuries more difficult without hiking interest rates.”
Think Tank Recommendations:
“Control the supply of Iraqi or Iranian oil production to ensure oil is priced in U.S. dollars. At all cost, persuade Saudi Arabia to maintain our long established policy to price oil in dollars. Have a military presence in either Iran or Iraq to pressure the other to back off from supporting Euro or SDR denominated oil. Less vocal OPEC members will follow suit along with the European Union. It is imperative that we don’t underestimate the potential of the Euro or SDR to overthrow the U.S. dollar as the reserve currency. Any shift towards the Euro or SDR would have a domino effect that will punish the U.S. economy on the domestic and world stage, and must be prevented by all reasonable military, fiscal and policy programs.”
Noting that one of the recommendations was a “military program” James Spence called his friend, Defense Secretary, Simon Sharpe, to inquire about a modern day version of the sinking of the Lusitania, Pearl Harbor or the Gulf of Tonkin to stabilize operations at the Treasury. They needed to do something to bury the fact that the Treasury was missing three trillion dollars.
Chapter 5
Capitalism without bankruptcy is like Christianity without hell.--Frank Borman
Sacramento, CA
April 18, 2001
Senator Eddie Bestla was jolted from a dream by a ringing phone. It was 5AM for crying out loud, thought Eddie. Then he realized that it might be Vanessa calling from her Manhattan office.
“Hello,” Eddie anticipated hearing Vanessa coo ‘good morning, sleepy head.’
“Did the Holy See give us a date for divine justice?” demanded instead by Defense Secretary Simon Sharpe.
Eddie could feel that his day was already ruined and he wasn’t even up yet. “Hang on a minute. Let me clear my head. It’s 5AM, you know?”
“It’s eight here. Do you have it?” Simon wanted assurance that they had a date for a new Pearl Harbor that was divined by the Vatican. Like always, the U.S. couldn’t appear to be the aggressor.
“Here it is. JOB A. GREED 9:11 or JOB AGREED 9:11 for short. It’s a Bible acronym. The ninth chapter and eleventh verse of each book. JOB 9:11. A is Amos, G is Genesis, R is Romans, E is Ezekiel, E is Ecclesiastes and D is Deuteronomy. Below each 9:11 verse, they have a translation. Do you want me to read it? The theological thought that was tapped to construct a set of supporting scripture is brilliant.”
“Hell, no! Nine eleven or 911- that’s perfect! The CIA and the FBI are doing an emergency disaster drill that same day. The drill scenario is a plane hitting the Twin Towers and Pentagon. Imagine the emergency calls to NORAD as the real event unfolds. They won’t know if it’s a drill or the real thing and they’ll stand down. No fighter jets can shoot without my authority. I stripped that from the Generals a few months ago,” Simon was proud of himself.
“Simon, I didn’t know you could do all that,” Eddie was feeling more confident that the cover up would be successful.
“Eddie, I will do whatever it takes to clear a path for U.S. interests. I have weapons manufacturers like Lockheed and other companies in your Golden state breathing down my neck wanting their fair share of defense spending. 9/11 is a catalyzing event for future dominant force. Haven’t you read the Project for a New American Century?”
“No.”
“You better bone up! And take an interest in the new world order. We need permanent bases in the Middle East and regime changes in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran. Other’s too, but later,” Simon figured that as a California Senator, Eddie was feeding his carnal desires instead of his brain.
“I’d love to read about it Simon, but Enron is sucking the life out of me. It’s so stressful. We are bilking California for billions on megawatt laundering. Thank god the Governor is so daft or this thing would have been exposed by now,” Eddie got out of bed and pulled open the blinds.
“That was the plan! What’s the problem? Come on, Eddie! I’m the one on the hot seat if you screw this up. The Treasury is missing three trillion dollars because my department has that amount in undocumented adjustments and I don’t have audited financial statements,” Simon looked at the memo on his desk to call James Spence and jotted down another idea to help the Treasurer square his books.
“Simon, the level of fraud here is unprecedented. Enron is stacking up the grid with bogus transmissions to collect a congestion fee from California. A fee to solve a problem that Enron created solely to collect the fee!”
“Sounds like boys at Enron got a good program going. So, what’s the problem?”
“They’re causing artificial blackouts! And when California calls for backup power they get charged the higher spot rates and out-of-state transmission fees to route the juice in. Even though it’s from California plants and not Portland! The taxpayers are getting reamed with each throw of the switch to the tune of 10 billion.”
“That’s how you launder money, Senator. Weren’t you listening to Kevin Fitz? California pays 10 billion in real cash to Enron for megawatt laundering and we pull the 10 billion out the other side of Enron squeaky clean.”
“Simon, the SEC will be investigating them. Listen to the CEO on the investor’s conference call yesterday. He’s cracking, called an analyst an ‘asshole’ because the guy dared to ask why a balance sheet wasn’t available with the earnings released already.” Eddie knew Enron was going to implode and wanted to be far away from it when it did.
“The SEC is our friend in this. They aren’t too swift when it comes to forensic accounting. Show them a nice computer generated income statement and balance sheet and they’ll call it a day and have lunch. Besides, last week they did away with fractions and went to decimals on the stock exchanges. This emboldens the unsophisticated who didn’t know if seven-sixteenths is less than five-eighths to manage their own investments. These online do-it-yourselfers will be fooled into buying Enron precisely when we dump our shares,” Simon was making a killing and so were other Washington insiders.
“Simon, I know what Fitz said, but this thing has grown beyond that. These Enron guys are taping conversations and it’s all going to blow up. To accelerate profits I told Kevin Fitz to use every account he has to buy puts on Enron and start shorting the stock for us. When the ability to borrow shares dries up, he’ll start shorting Enron without ever borrowing shares. It’s called naked short selling and it’s illegal,” laughed Eddie.
“Perfect, Cui Bono? Us!”
“I didn’t know that you spoke Latin,” laughed Eddie knowing it meant “who benefits” and what’s true for the collapse of a stock is true for a building, thought Eddie.
“Simon, did Agent Rama Singh complete his part of the plan?”
“His militant behavior won him acceptance in the Jersey cell and his fluency in Urdu, Farsi and Arabic is priceless. He has everyone on board and he’ll be thrilled to pass along the 9/11 date because he’s chomping at the bit according to Dennihi.”
“This all suits him, I’m sure.”
“James Spence at the Treasury will be grateful. He won’t be happy about the raiding of the pension plans. We convinced Plan administrators to hand over billions for useless dot.com stocks, not to mention WorldCom and the abyss ahead for Enron. Thank God Fitz prints stock certificates like the Treasury prints bills. Our country desperately needs this 9/11 to go off without a hitch,” Sharpe believed in moving the whole world towards one U.S. global law and order.
The Senator wanted to say something, but nothing could change that is was a JOB AGREED 9:11.
Chapter 6
Cannibals prefer those who have no spines.--Stanislaw Lem
Karachi, Pakistan Underground Nuclear Laboratory
April 21,2001
Abdullah Amine, the top nuclear scientist in Pakistan, learned that the 9/11 attack date was deciphered intelligence. He hoped that al Qaeda had recruited the necessary terrorists from the Bosnian camps, Hezbollah, or harvested home grown jihads from America. He had only one explanation why the CIA and FBI were in a torpid state despite growing threats: al Qaeda was littered with double agents ever since the CIA developed them to fight the Russians.
In Abdullah’s mind, the February 26, 1993 bombing of the North Tower was the beginning. He fondly recalled the attack on American barracks at Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia in 1996, which was eerily reminiscent of the Beirut massacre of hundreds of Marines. His smile grew wider as he recalled the U.S. Embassy bombings in Tanzania and Kenya in 1998, and the kick in the gut bombing of the U.S.S. Cole in 2000. As great as these attacks were, they paled in comparison with the two ahead. The September attack would take care of unfinished business at the World Trade Center. The second, on November 24, 2001, targeted a city hidden within a riddle sent from Arjuna Singh:
“The four new age horseman of the apocalypse blazed up the stairs. Grace shook, trembled and gave way. Saints Peter and Paul were driven to their knees at the sign of the beast. Their shame no longer bearable having watched so many joined in sin. Mark watched both from a distance and fell like the one before him as the gateway to this Sodom and Gomorrah melted in hell’s sulfur fire.”
After struggling with the meaning he read the translation Arjuna provided. Abdullah marveled at the simplicity. It was perfect. It would have the Americans chasing their own tail. And if by chance, they solved the riddle in time and defended the location, it simply didn’t matter. The Americans would be already adrift on a course towards defeat and fall from being the world’s superpower.
Chapter 7
I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tuna-fish casserole is at least as real as corporate stock.--Barbara Harrison
Office of Fitz Financial Services 70th Floor
South Tower, Two World Trade Center, NY
10 AM, August 15, 2001
Fitz Financial Services, a premier pump and dump boiler room and U.S. Treasury security dealer, netted $275.6 million directly to Kevin Fitz last year. He earned millions more by influencing pension fund managers to buy dot.coms and ENRON. As soon as the funds bought the overpriced shares, Fitz shorted those shares reaping millions. Location, location, location applies to Main Street and Wall Street. A World Trade Center address was synonymous with business success and legitimacy. It was like lipstick on a pig.
Congressman Rincon and former Mayor Bestla helped get Fitz Financial quietly listed among the financial service companies of the Teachers Retirement System (TRS). Fitz’s employees cold called TRS members promoting Initial Public Offerings (IPO) or stocks given to Fitz, as full or partial payment, to push other penny stocks. Cold calls entailed using classic boiler room tactics and many of the securities weren’t registered with the SEC and were nearly worthless.
“Mr. Garcia, this is Ted Carver from Fitz Financial. We talked last week and I told you I’d call if I came across the next Johnson & Johnson. We gotta move on MicroTech Systems. I’m calling you first because I’m looking out for you. But I gotta tell you this one is hot. Hang on…ah… it just jumped another quarter point… I need a yes from you to authorize the trade. Tell me no and I gotta give it to my next guy.” Ted delivered his pitch perfectly as he flipped through the August issue of Maxim.
“You think it’s going to keep going up?” asked an anxious but nervous Mr. Garcia.
“Of course, it’s going to move. I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. It’s $2.25 a share now. Pick up 10,000 shares and we’ll dump it for ten bucks a pop down the road and you’ll make eighty grand. Teachers need to think about making their hard earned money work for them instead of the other way around.” Ted stared at the water stain on the ceiling and wondered if it could somehow miraculously fetch such a price.
“I don’t know, Ted.”
“You don’t know? Is twenty grand too much right now? Mr. Garcia, how much can you commit right now?”
“Umm, maybe six thousand. I should talk this over with my wife.”
“Your wife?” What a loser thought Ted as he continued flipping through Maxim. “Listen Mr. Garcia, this kind of opportunity doesn’t come every day; I won’t be calling you tomorrow or even next month. They come when they come. Get in for an even 3,000 shares. That’s $6,750.00 plus commission, hang on… man… it’s up another quarter … you want in or out? I had the ticket filled out because this is right for you, give me a yes and I’ll put it through at the lower price. Screw my manager, this is right for you.”
“Really? Okay, but just 3,000 shares at the lower price,” directed Mr. Garcia, clueless that he never had a chance in this game of fools.
“Mr. Garcia, I want to build a relationship with you. This is our first trade together, so I’m covering the commission out of my own pocket. Fitz Financial appreciates your business and your trust. I’ll send a confirmation today. Have a great week teaching.” Ted hung up the phone and raised his fists victoriously in the air.
“Nice close, Ted. Make them feel that you care and don’t mind screwing the ‘man’ on their behalf,” Fitz smiled and gave Ted a firm handshake and slap on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Mr. Fitz. That’s my eighth close between five and ten grand for a total of $102,000 in MicroTech,” Ted beamed ear-to-ear.
“Looks like you’re well on your way to a two thousand dollar day.”
“Mr. Fitz, I’m going for a three thousand dollar day!”
“Did everyone hear that? Young Ted is going for three thousand dollars in commissions and it’s not even an hour into the trading day.”
Fitz normally felt excitement before heading to India for his quarterly three-night retreat. This time was different. He was tired and worried. Agent Doyle was breathing down his neck and the inside jobs devised by Vito Sarno weren’t ready for prime time. Fitz knew Vito Sarno was a visionary whose empire was proof that mastermind criminals were extremely patient and rarely made stupid mistakes. Vito’s information was solid but Fitz would have to literally become the Invisible Man to get passed security guards and office staff within the Twin Towers.
An outside line started ringing.
“Fitz Financial,” said Fitz in the welcoming tone of a man you wanted to do business with.
“Kev, my boy! Have you figured anything out yet?”
Fitz knew the voice instantly. Only Sal Sarno delighted in calling him Kev and boy in one fell swoop.
“No, Sal, do you have a workable scam for the 70th floor?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Sal curtly.
Fitz laughed. Only mobsters worried about phone tapping because they were nailed so many times right in their own social clubs. But for white-collar crime, it would take six attorneys to decipher yards of legal jargons developed by the Justice Department. Then they would have to convince a Judge they understood it. It could never happen, thanks to the American Civil Liberties Union.
“Sal, there’s no phone tapping in the World Trade Center. Besides, the DOJ is too busy with your social club.”
“Hey, smart ass just review those skeleton plans and start putting some meat on them and make a decision. Armin’s my cousin and he’s been working on the Wells Fargo plan for two years.”
Fitz could hear Sal’s breathing getting raspy. He bet that Sal was smoking a Partagas cigar. It was Sal’s favorite and he never left home without them.
“What about his driving partner? Is he on your payroll? No, he’s not. Plus, the tracking device in the armored truck can’t be disabled.”
“I got someone on the tracking device,” said Sal clearing his throat and expectorating a wad of smoker’s phlegm.
“Light up another cigar. You sound great coughing up a lung.”
“Worry about yourself! What about the Diamond Exchange?”
“The big money jewels are in a safe in the CEO’s office and he’s the only one with the combination. He trusts no one.”
Sal had someone working on that and didn’t want to share too much information with Fitz, so he remained silent.
“Sal, God Bless the Mafia but getting people to spill their guts is one thing. Being able to act on that information is quite another. I hope you aren’t erasing their gambling markers or sparing their life in their moment of ‘Please for God’s sake, don’t kill me, I have kids and know where millions in diamonds are’.”
“Listen, Kev. Vito always says information that’s worth nothing today can be priceless the next. It just works out that way.”
“Well, tomorrow doesn’t look any better. Anyway, my business is almost done. I cleaned up $100 million of your filthy cash. And if your information bears fruit, I’ll help harvest it for a reasonable thirty-percent. But your plans are thus far impotent.”
“You cleaned $99 million! You still need to clean another million.”
“Your bag man can come by on September 11th at the close of business and pick up one million in cash.”
“I’ll pick it up myself. I’m in Manhattan that day to talk to the Cardinal.”
“The Cardinal? That’s pretty rich.” Fitz knew the ties between the church and the Mafia were probably forever intertwined.
“Sal, I have a 10:30 AM meeting with an auditor. See if you can get an Agent Michael Doyle off my back.” Sal paused when he heard the name Michael Doyle but quickly recovered. “The guy is as pure as a catholic school girl, transferred into the department couple months ago. He’s not your cookie cutter fraud guy.”
Fitz thought it unusual but not impossible for the Sarno's to have a line on Agent Doyle so fast. “He was just assigned to my case after the other two failed. How’d you know about him already?”
“It’s my damn job to know who’s poking their nose in my business.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Anyway, gotta go, Sal.” Fitz decided to squeeze in a call to Eddie Bestla.
“How’s it going on your end?”
“It’s going,” said Eddie Bestla.
“We started shorting Enron in January at eighty-three and it’s down to thirty-five and I’ve been selectively naked short selling, what are your insiders saying?”
“Don’t worry about covering. It’ll be worthless. We’ll never have to buy a single share back. It’s a hundred percent profit!” The Senator gloated.
“Are you serious? We’ve shorted millions of shares.” Fitz did a few calculations. “That’s like $250,000,000! They have a hundred million in the float, so let’s short it till they stop trading it,” Fitz howled with laughter.
“Go for it. It’s a mess. Just burn every file you have and take a hammer to the hard drive and toss it in the Hudson when you make the last trade.”
“You know the Feds got some of our computers. If they get passed the encryption we’re screwed,” laughed Fitz.
“When was this?”
“Months ago, I was in India when it went down.”
“Just make a deposit in my Cayman account and the same for Simon.” Eddie was getting a bad feeling about this. Either the boys at Enron will talk or Fitz’s computer will.
“Got it.
“Fitz, are you going to be in the office on September 11?” On one hand Eddie didn’t want Fitz to get killed. On the other hand, it was a perfect way to tie up loose ends. So he had to ask.
“I’ll be coming back from India on the September 10. I should be in for sure. Why?”
“I might be in town. I figured we could have dinner.” Eddie wanted to tell him, but if he talked outside of the inner circle he was a dead man.
“Call me first. I might be busy catching up here,” Fitz thought it was strange because Eddie never planned that far in advance. He always called the last minute, sometimes as he boarded a plane. Fitz hung up and darted out to the trading floor.
“Attention slackers, get as many of your clients into Enron. Draw them a picture of the great opportunity to pick up a Fortune Seven company at fifty percent off and I’ll give you twenty-five percent of their total investment as a bonus. Double your efforts with all pension fund managers. Joey, you call CALPERS. The California pension administrator will bite at the chance if you stage it like I taught you. He knows how much of the state budget is flowing into Enron. What could be a better investment?”
The workplace of alpha males between the ages of 23 and 45 exploded with cheers and threats of all kinds towards each other, and then got back to making calls from their trading desks. Occasionally, but certainly not with Enron, clients made big money. Because even the ugliest pig of a stock could rear up on its hind legs and take off in a perfect storm. Fitz coined the “perfect storm” as a unique and fleeting set of circumstances that align themselves to set the stage for unprecedented financial gain.
Fitz looked at the clock, it was nearly 10:30AM and the external auditor from Dana, Johansson and McMan was prompt as usual. He saw her come in dressed conservatively in a black skirt, low heels and a business jacket tailored to her obvious curves. Her long black hair was pulled back and she was wearing a diamond necklace and earrings and carried a Prada briefcase. The black framed glasses added just the right mix of business and fashion. Everyone in the trading room monitored her path to his office. It was the same routine every week, a visit to fine tune the Fitz Financial operation. Everyone knew not to interrupt them while the blinds were drawn.
“Good morning, Mr. Fitz,” smiled Kavina Dana politely.
“Hi, Ms. Dana, do you have the spreadsheets ready?” Fitz closed the door and blinds while Ms. Dana deftly unbuttoned her blouse revealing solid performance within her Victoria Secret bra. Her skin was a perfect bronze thanks to a sunless tan lotion developed by a company that Fitz promoted years ago. The active ingredient was patented and delivered a natural bronze tone, never the ghastly orange that cheaper lotions left behind.
Kavina Dana was not your garden-variety street hustler. The only street she knew was Wall Street. She didn’t know a thing about auditing but executive assistants throughout the Twin Towers were fooled into thinking that their CEO was with the “auditor” every week like clockwork. She looked the part, confident, professional, no nonsense, and the office women loved her as much as their bosses loved screwing her. When she stripped down she was pure sex underneath all that bogus business attire.
Her business cards list an address of an Executive Headquarters building nearby. She rented office space by the hour there and paid a small fee for each call the receptionist answered.
She was no longer shocked by the crocodile tattoo on his penis or the filth that spewed from his mouth. When she asked if it hurt having his privates tattooed he responded that pain was good to receive as well as give. That was enough for her to stay clear of him anywhere but here.
“Who am I today, Kevin? Am I a submissive innocent girl trying to get her green card?” Kavina laughed inside at the psychological play men enjoyed.
“Don’t say another word,” Fitz didn’t like women talking on his dime. He found Kavina extremely attractive and wished to violate her every way imaginable. But release would come by way of oral manipulation. There was no getting around it. This was his weekly battle to keep it between the lines, therapy to learn to enjoy sex without the pain. The weekly sessions weren’t considered cheating on his wife. It was akin to going to AA.
“Take it now,” demanded Fitz bluntly. Kavina slid the condom on the crocodile and commenced expert service. She was always impressed how ready he was. She could feel his heat through the rubber, such hardness could create her own wetness, but not with Fitz. She was too leery of him to relax. When he grabbed her by the hair, Kavina shot a warning look to back off. He fondled her breasts, the fullness and heft added to his excitement. He verbalized that he really wanted to take her without a condom, without lubricant, until he sighed with spent satisfaction. He wanted to slap her around and knock her out and then take her methodically.
Kavina could be turned on by dirty talk. She knew his words weren’t play so she kept herself in check. He was capable of brutality. She just could sense it. Not wanting to prolong his pleasure because she was booked solid this afternoon. She engulfed the angry looking shrink wrapped croc with the skill of a swallowing swordsman. While massaging the sac of the beast with her soft fingertips the countdown started in her head: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, …
“You better take it to completion,” Fitz withdrew at the height of ecstasy, yanked off the condom and gave forth all he had. Kavina sprang up and went into his restroom.
“You don’t know what you’re missing with me. How about meeting me at the Four Seasons next week?”
“I’ll pass,” replied Kavina, finishing up her final makeup touches and thinking he was crazy. Fitz placed $1,500 on his desk, $1,000 for the service and five hundred for breeching their agreement. He knew her terms and the therapy was worth every penny. Since it was the mob’s money, he didn’t much care.
Kavina emerged looking as professional as she did coming through the door ten minutes ago. She placed the stack of hundreds in her Prada briefcase and snapped it closed.
“See you next week, Mr. Fitz. Have the payroll ready, I’ll need to audit it.” Kavina smiled and exited with a wave of her hand. Her other clients included CEO’s from the Forbes Fortune 100 list, politicians from both parties, and a Priest at Trinity Church. She fancied that the priest wasn’t tempted by little boys and gave him a papal discount as recognition for good behavior. Her workweek was Wednesday through Friday with occasional overtime. Make no mistake, her profession was risky. That’s why she rarely met men in hotel rooms. She made that mistake once with a man named Ricardo Perez. She recalled that night at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square while walking to her next appointment on the 70th floor.
She had knocked on the door to hotel room 5406. Ricardo Perez answered dressed in a black Armani suit.
“Hi, you look even better than the Congressman described.”
“What will it be, Ricardo?”
“Whatever I want, that’s what, he said.”
“Sorry, the menu is limited to straight sex.” She knew Rincon didn’t say that because Congressman Rincon was big on manual sex. Rincon didn’t consider it infidelity because it was something he could do himself.
Ricardo seemed annoyed but so were most men when they couldn’t get exactly what they wanted from her. Ricardo removed his jacket and pants and told her to strip and get on all fours on top of the bed. As she waited she felt someone from behind get on the bed. Ricardo tried to hold her as the stranger advance himself. Instinctively, she punched Ricardo in his testicles. Ricardo tumbled off the bed in agony while she freed herself from the delicate grip of a startled slightly built Asian man. She darted off the bed while Ricardo was writhing in full fetal position clutching his groin. She pulled a gun from her purse and ordered the Asian man to his knees in front of Ricardo.
“Hey Ricardo, let’s see how you like to be violated by a man,” yelled Kavina as if possessed by the devil.
“I don’t think I can be with a man,” cried the mortified Asian.
“Just for the picture or I’ll shoot you. Got it?”
She grabbed Ricardo’s pants and removed a money clip and a Palm Pilot. The money clip was beautiful with bleeding red hearts etched on gold and within each heart were Chinese characters. It held nearly four thousand dollars and she took it all. She pulled out her camera and hung it around her neck like a photographer on location.
“Tear the bed sheet and tie him up hog style and give me his belt to tie your hands.”
After the Asian tied up Ricardo, she pushed him face first onto the bed and quickly wrapped the belt around his wrists and pulled the leather strap through the buckle to secure his hands. She ordered the Asian to stand and face Ricardo. From behind she slammed her foot into the back of his knee and he fell forward onto Ricardo, in the same instance she snapped the money shot. Realizing the ramifications of such a photo, Ricardo screamed curses at her in two languages. She took another close up of the Asian straddling Ricardo. It was double indemnity insurance to discourage Ricardo from future retaliation. She warned him that she’d send a copy to every address in his palm pilot if he ever contacted her again. With another bed sheet she tied the Asian man to Ricardo and then both to the bed frame. She quickly dressed and placed the “do not disturb” placard on the doorknob and left without further incident. It was the first time she ever stole but under the circumstances she felt justified.
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