Greed

by D Thomas Jewett

  Sheryl heard still more explosions up the street. “C'mon,” she said to the cameraman, “let's go report on those explosions.”

  And with that, the two of them quickly made their way up the street ...

  * * *

  Shortly thereafter . . .

  With yet another mob behind her, Sheryl stood in front of the camera as she spoke into her mic, “... and in conclusion, this was ultimately a good day for the demonstrators – as only a third of the so-called 'free trade' delegates were able to get through the demonstrators to their meeting. And so, today's meetings were canceled.”

  This is Sheryl Barclay, signing off for the University of Washington campus news station.

  Interlude

  The gradients of light danced across log walls, casting shadows hither and yon throughout the ether. Embedded in one wall, a massive stone fireplace faced into the room; casting flickering light onto five leather chairs arranged in a semi-circle. A chair was empty, but the other chairs were occupied by men, their features obscured in the shadows.

  Cigar smoke was wafting through the air, creating its own silhouettes as it drifted upward, toward the darkness of the ceiling. And as the log wall also climbed upwards, the logs seemed to vanish into the silhouettes, making a ceiling of indeterminate height.

  A tall, dark, slender man with graying temples walked into the room. He did not come here often; but when he was summoned, he knew it was important, and he knew they wouldn’t communicate with him in any other way.

  He noticed that a chair was empty. He absorbed that curious fact, but allowed no visible emotion. He stood in front of the four shadows with his head slightly bowed. “You summoned me, sir?”

  The Leader, a well-dressed and manicured man, waved his cigar in a most expansive manner. “Welcome, Daniel. I trust your travel was enjoyable.”

  The tall, dark man hesitated; he turned his head to each man in turn. And then addressed his Eminence. “Quite, sir. My passage was quite comfortable.”

  “Very well, Daniel. We called you here on a simple matter; yet a matter of great importance.”

  Lord Basil gestured to the empty chair. “Please sit down, Daniel.”

  More curious than ever, Daniel seated himself.

  Lord Basil flourished his cigar through the air. “I will cut to the issue, Daniel. The Council is in need of a war; or maybe seven wars.”

  Despite himself, Daniel lost his composure. “S-s-seven, my Lord?”

  “Yes, my Daniel – yes!” Lord Basil responded in his most robust Oxford English accent.

  “Of course, sir.” Daniel regained control over his emotions. “Are there any special considerations that I should be aware of, my Lord?”

  “Very much so, Daniel. A pre-condition of these ‘wars’ is that we motivate the American people to take up arms against these countries. You, Daniel, must first arrange for an attack on America; specifically, an attack on the World Trade Center and New York City.”

  “And then, once the Americans have been aroused, we shall take them to war.”

  Lord Basil handed a folder to Daniel. “You will find all that is necessary within this folder.”

  “Of course, sir. Is there anything else in which I can be of service, sir?”

  “Not at the present, Daniel. But, the Council wishes to congratulate you on a job well done with the transfer of $4 Trillion from the U.S. to our Asian and Indian partners. And Daniel,” Lord Basil smiled, “I wish to add my personal congratulations.”

  Daniel smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “That is all,” said Lord Basil. “You may go.”

  The tall, dark man stood up, bowed his head, turned, and strode out of the room.

  When they were again alone, Julius spoke. “Those seven countries are important. Mostly because their assimilation will send a message to the world that no country may exist without a central bank under our control.”

  “Yes,” Lord Basil chimed in. “It is amazing that those countries have been able to slip outside of our control for so long. Soon, they shall feel the wrath of the American military – our military.”

  * * *

  Daniel arrived at his room after leaving the Council’s inner sanctum. Closing the door, he pulled the summary sheet from the folder and began to read it. His brow furrowed as he scanned the paper.

  Resource Acquisition Initiative

  Target date: September, 11, 2001

  Project: World Trade Center Destruction

  Objectives:

  · Motivate American People for War

  · Recover gold/silver stored in WTC basement

  · Cover up of tungsten gold bar sales at NYNEX

  · Cover up of $2.3 trillion DoD loss[19]

  Follow-on Military Action

  · Afghanistan

  · Iraq

  · Iran

  · Libya

  · Sudan

  · North Korea

  · Cuba

  Daniel muttered under his breath, “holy shit!” He put the paper back into the folder and made ready for his departure.

  Chapter 15 – Circa June, 2001

  Josh really enjoyed the Avante style overstuffed leather chair in Charles’ office. It was so comfortable that he normally relaxed right into it. But this time he didn't relax. This time, Charles had summoned the department heads from all of the commodities’ trading desks. Something was up.

  “... so, you have done a really incredible job,” Charles was speaking, “and I’m looking forward to seeing how you do with an increase in your staff.”

  Everyone basked in the glow of Charles' accolades. His warmth and charm were infectious.

  “Now,” Charles continued, “I want to mention just one more thing.”

  Glancing around the room, Josh noticed the attendees perked up.

  “Ah, yes. All of you, I want you to ensure all your short positions are either closed out or covered by a long. In other words, you should have no outstanding naked shorts for the next few months.”

  The attendees glanced quizzically at each other and at Charles. And then Josh spoke. “Why? Is there something coming up that we should know about?”

  Charles hesitated. “Well, there’s not really a lot I can say. And most of it is rumour anyways ... So, just take my instructions to heart.”

  Josh was even more curious now. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  Charles sighed. “Not much. Just that we’ve received some information – that there'll be considerable upward pressure on commodity prices over the next two to three months; and this will make naked shorts a dangerous strategy.” Charles grimaced and then continued. “It makes no sense to swim against the tide when the incoming wave is a tsunami.”

  “And?” Josh asked.

  “I’m afraid,” Charles continued, “that’s all I can say.”

  Charles stood up signaling that the meeting was over.

  * * *

  Chet, Eddie, Natalie, and Stephanie all filed into Josh’s office.

  Josh was seated at his desk, wearing a frown.

  “All right?” Eddie was the first to ask.

  Josh was slow to answer. “I just talked with Charles. We’re on track for another banner year. Charles and all of executive management are delighted with our performance.”

  “And?” Eddie just knew that more was going on.

  “Well ... he gave me instructions. He told me to close out all of our naked short positions. It’s still okay to have shorts; but we need to make sure that we’re covered with corresponding long positions.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  Josh shook his head. “No – not really. Only ... there’s an expectation that shorts will be under considerable pressure. Apparently, they believe that something serious will happen and that it will drive up prices. I think he is concerned that we could lose a lot of money if we are stuck trying to cover naked shorts with higher priced metal.

  Chapter 16 – September 7, 2001

  Kirk
Kincaid was not getting the sleep he needed. Night after night he tossed and turned. And when he dozed, he had dreams – or nightmares – of a high-rise city in destruction. And when he awoke, it was to avoid the imminent pain or death that the nightmare offered. So late afternoon and early evening naps had become Kirk’s order of the day.

  And at this moment, Kirk was sacked out on the sofa; doing what he couldn’t do at night. Sleeping.

  Ring! Ring!

  Not really awake, Kirk reached over, picked up the telephone, and mumbled into it. “Yeah.”

  The voice at the other end of the phone sounded urgent. “Kirk? This is Daniel.”

  Kirk’s eyes opened and his brain began to work. “What’s up?”

  “We have an emergency and I need you to get some men and equipment down to the world trade center. We have some material that we need to evacuate from there, and we need to get started on it by tomorrow night. I’ve already sent you instructions via secure courier. You will need to get two trucks with tri-axle flatbed trailers – you know, the kind that has a max payload of 60,000 pounds?”

  Kirk was fully awake by now. “Shit!” Kirk looked at his clock – 4:30 pm. “How do you expect me to get it together that fast? You’ve got to be joking!”

  “No joke. We’ve got about two billion dollars in gold stored in the basement of the world trade center. It needs to be moved out by 0800 on Tuesday, the 11th.”

  “Wait – Daniel, this phone is not secure.”

  “Not to worry; this line is secure. I had it verified before I called you.”

  “What are we moving?”

  “Gold, Kirk; gold and silver.”

  “Hmmm ...” Kirk ran his hand through his scalp. “How much is there? And where is it going?”

  “There’s a shit load of it. You’ll be moving it to a Long Island dock. Other people will take care of it from there.”

  “What’s the hurry? Why now?”

  “I can’t talk about that right now. But when things happen, you’ll know soon enough.” Daniel paused and then continued. “There are about fifteen-thousand bars; so you’re going to need much more security than you’re used to.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll get that kind of personnel on such short notice. Do you have any ideas?”

  Daniel replied. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll have them there by twenty-hundred tomorrow. You take care of getting the trucks, a forklift or two, and some men to do the work.”

  “Okay. I’ll get on it now.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kirk’s mind spun a myriad of questions. Why now? What’s so important about the eleventh? He shook his head. Hell, they never tell me anything anyway.

  Kirk made some quick telephone calls and was able to line up the trucks and men he needed for the job. He told them all to meet him at the world trade center plaza at twenty-hundred hours tomorrow. And despite the short notice, he had no difficulty obtaining commitments. Money is a great motivator.

  * * *

  Walking past two guards and through an eight-inch steel door, Kirk stepped into the vault. Inside, Kirk’s gaze took in the endless array of gleaming gold and silver bars, all stacked on pallets, with each pallet occupying a shelf of a massively-constructed metal storage system. Holy shit!

  Walking up and down the aisles, he noted with satisfaction that the aisle space was sufficient for access by a forklift. He stepped back and looked beyond the gold, beyond the silver, and toward the walls and door of the vault. And he appreciated the vault's integrity – solid was the word that came to mind.

  But Kirk was not an expert on vaults, and so he did not know that the walls were eight-inch thick poured reinforced concrete; cast in a monolithic pour, and providing a minimum compressive strength of 3000 pounds per square inch after 28 days of aging. He also did not know that the 5/8-inch diameter steel reinforcing bars were laid a maximum of 6 inches on center. Nor did he know that the bars created a cross-hatched steel curtain and that they were sandwiched at half thickness of the concrete. And he surely didn’t know that the door was a Class 6 vault door – the strongest specified by the GSA.

  At this moment, Kirk was concerned with one issue, and one issue only: moving the precious metals out of the vault and on to his flatbed trailers.

  Kirk nodded at the guards as he stepped out of the vault and closed the door. He retraced his steps past an array of vaults and along a corridor toward the industrial-strength elevator. He rode the elevator from the basement’s seventy-foot depth up to ground level; where he disembarked and walked toward the commercial entrance to world trade center building number 4.

  When he came out on the street, he noticed figures dispersed up and down the complex; each wearing a black uniform and holding an M-16 rifle.

  * * *

  Kirk was waiting when the trucks pulled up to the front of WTC building 4. Kirk approached the lead truck just as Buck Fuller disembarked from the passenger’s side.

  “Hey Buck.”

  “Hey Kirk. Whatcha know?”

  “We’ve got some stuff to move.”

  Buck looked at Kirk and frowned. “Whatcha got?

  “C’mon. I’ll show ya.”

  Kirk and Buck retraced Kirk’s previous steps down to the basement and to the vault. They entered the vault; and when Buck looked around, he gave out a long low whistle. “Wow. Just wow.”

  Kirk smiled. “Think you can get your forklift down here?”

  Buck was still aghast. “Yeah – no problem. But where are we taking it all?”

  “You’ll be driving it down to one of the Long Island piers. I’ll get you the address and directions.

  “Okay,” Buck replied. “I’ll unload the forklift and get started.”

  Soon, Buck was buzzing back and forth between the vault and the trucks; carrying one pallet after another and placing each one on the bed of the truck. Meanwhile, Kirk tabulated the weight that each truck received; making sure that each truck did not go over its maximum payload of 60,000 pounds. The truck drivers were trained not to be curious or inquisitive – they lived up to their training.

  * * * * *

  September 10, 2001 . . .

  The television was turned on in the Jeffrey's den; and the voice emanating from it was incessantly droning – on and on ...

  “This is Brett McGee reporting for KTTZ news; on September 10, 2001”

  The voice continued to drone.

  “... and this just in. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld made an important announcement today. In his own words, here it is ...”

  The reporter then cut to a tape, and Donald Rumsfeld came on the screen.

  “... the adversary's closer to home. It's the Pentagon bureaucracy” ...

  “... According to some estimates, we cannot track $2.3 trillion dollars in transactions.”

  ... and no one was in the den to hear this report.

  Chapter 17 – September 11, 2001

  Sleep … Trish was wishing she could get some. Damn! Won't this pressure on my head ever go away?

  Her eyes wide open, she rolled over for the umpteenth time, snuggling up to Dwayne. Still sleeping, Dwayne let out a soft snore and cuddled closer.

  “Something’s not right” she whispered.

  Dwayne gave out a snore – but he didn’t move.

  Trish rolled over and let her foot touch the floor. Damn it! Even after all these years, getting out of a waterbed is still an exercise in gymnastics, she thought. Wrapping her bathrobe around her, she walked out into the kitchen. 5:00 am – Omaha time.

  She felt tense, anxious; and her gut was roiling, as though something really big was weighing on her. She walked into the family room and turned on the television. Flipping to a cable news channel, she watched for a moment – watched the face, the mouth of the female reporter talking about the President’s approval rating. The reporter’s mouth was moving, surreal, with her finely-tuned cosmetics and her manufactured voice – running on about things that didn’t really matter.

  D
amn! I’m feeling so sad! ... What’s this about?

  Click! She turned off the television.

  5:10 am ... at least there was coffee to keep her going through the day!

  * * * * *

  Kirk never really knew the value of the metals they loaded. He only knew that the vault at the world trade center was to be cleared by the morning of September 11 – and it was up to him to do it. And so Kirk and his crew maintained a schedule of one load per truck, per night. They maintained this schedule for several nights, until the night of September 9th. It was on this night that Kirk realized they were not going to meet the schedule unless they doubled-up on deliveries the last two nights.

  They doubled up. And at 6:00 am on September 11th, the trucks arrived at the world trade center for their final shipment.

  On this day, Kirk was perusing the last of the vault contents when a man dressed in a suit appeared at the vault door. The two guards blocked his entrance; making it necessary for him to converse from the vault entrance. “Excuse me. Excuse me.”

  Kirk turned. “Yes?”

  The man continued. “I heard a rumor that you were cleaning out this vault. What for?”

  Kirk frowned as he looked at the man. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jeff. Jeff Farnsworth. I work for the Bank of Nova Scotia. I was down here checking our inventory.”

  “So, what’s going on?” Jeff asked again.

  Kirk dropped his arms and relaxed as he walked toward the man. “We were brought on to clear out this vault. They want it clear by this morning.”