Chapter Ten
A week later one of Conti’s good friends, a Cardinal in the Diocese of Rome, was honored on his retirement at a small gathering in the Vatican. Conti had debated going – he would rather have joined his fellow cleric in a quiet dinner and a good bottle of wine to celebrate his service to the Church, but Conti decided it was important he make an appearance at his close friend’s gathering.
As he mingled with twenty-odd guests a hush came over the crowd. All eyes turned to the door as former Pope Benedict XVI entered the room. No one had expected the current pontiff to be present. He was in Brazil. But the attendees were pleased to see the reclusive ex-pontiff out and about. It was an important statement to the retiring Cardinal – the former Pope thought enough of him to attend his retirement celebration.
What an opportunity, Conti thought. He can’t avoid me here.
Conti took his place in an impromptu receiving line as clerics walked one by one past the former Pope and spoke quietly with him. When it was his turn Conti greeted Benedict then said, “You’ve become a hard man to get hold of, Holiness.”
“It is my wish not to interfere, Dominic. The guard has changed. The seat is no longer mine. Your inquiries now must go to the new Pope.”
“I need to know what you were going to show me when I finished the Templar manuscripts.”
“Of course you are aware I will never again have access to the secret vault. I wanted to show you a parchment I came across. Although not a part of the four volumes of Templars adventures, I believe it is a key to the pages of puzzling symbols found throughout them. I think it may explain those pages.”
The Cardinal’s adrenalin flowed. “How can I see it, Holiness?”
“Ah, you’ve quickly identified the dilemma. You can’t, Dominic. Not without the new Pope’s help. I told you earlier that in my office I kept a photocopy of the register of the items in the vault. But there’s something else – another copy I made. I copied the parchment that might explain the pages of symbols in the manuscripts. It was only one page and I planned to show it to you after you finished all the books.
“Maybe that copy is still there, maybe not. If you can find the copy I made then you’ll have what I wanted to give you. But fatefully,” Benedict smiled, “I left it in the top right drawer of my desk. Now it’s the new Pope’s desk, in his office. I have no idea how you’re going to get him to give it to you, or if it’s even still there. If he came across it he would have had no idea what it was. He may have thrown it away. You have a daunting challenge, Cardinal Conti, but one that a resourceful man such as yourself might accomplish. Perhaps. It won’t be easy.” He patted Conti on the shoulder and turned to the next priest in line.
Chapter Eleven
New York City
The couple of days following the explosion became busier and busier for Brian. Working from home he handled a plethora of issues ranging from insurance claims to decisions about his lease and notifications to companies with whom the gallery had contracts for things like copiers and mail equipment.
He also pulled together audited financial statements for the past three years, plus unaudited monthly statements for the current year, and submitted everything to the Financial Services agent who had called him yesterday. He had discussed everything first with Nicole – she could have demanded a subpoena but since both of them knew Brian had nothing at all to do with the explosion, she saw no harm in producing what they wanted. His financials, prepared by one of America’s top CPA firms, demonstrated the remarkable profitability of Bijan Rarities over the past few years. Since Brian took over he had paid himself half a million dollars a year and still left a million or more profit annually in the corporation. He needed cash all the time – opportunities to purchase significant rarities came up suddenly and he wanted to be able to pounce, to beat the competition. So the gallery was flush with profits and money, all legitimate, all legal and all accounted for.
When Brian submitted his financials all Nicole required from the FBI was that the financial statements be considered confidential so long as Brian was not a suspect. Shortly Agent Underwood reported to Nicole that the documents were fine and Brian was no longer under any scrutiny whatsoever.
Brian was told that insurance investigators had combed through the wreckage after the FBI released the scene and it appeared nothing was salvageable anywhere in the gallery except perhaps the vault and Brian’s office. The massive vault door had been closed but unlocked when the explosion occurred. It was company policy that the door be closed during office hours. That may have protected the priceless antiquities inside, but no one would know until Brian opened it. Three hours after the bombing the door had automatically locked – it was programmed to lock after three hours without activity. Agent Underwood requested that Brian return soon to help them assess what, if anything, the vault held by way of clues. Brian’s insurance company had posted round-the-clock off-duty policemen outside the boarded-up front entrance. If the vault had successfully withstood the blast, it was possible the items were still intact. That would be good news to both Brian and many customers whose consignments were there. About the only good news, Brian had mused.
So sometime soon, very soon, Brian Sadler had to face the situation at the gallery. Some critical things were on hold until he came back to Bijan Rarities. Today Brian had gotten a call from the insurance company. They couldn’t wait any longer. Tomorrow was the day – arrangements were made to meet Brian at his ruined gallery.
He and Nicole had walked down Fifth Avenue yesterday, his first time since the blast to go to the site. They paused across the street to look at the boarded-up façade where Bijan had once been. Agony overwhelmed him and again he felt himself getting lightheaded. Suddenly he turned and vomited against a building, heaving and retching.
“I can’t do this,” he told Nicole as she wiped his brow. “I just can’t face it. It’s too hard.” They turned the corner and hailed a cab back to his apartment.
This morning Nicole and Brian had taken a sedan to the Episcopal Church of the Epiphany on the Upper East Side, arriving fifteen minutes before the funeral of Collette Conning. Later this week they would attend two more funerals, those of the security guard and the client from the Met who had died in the explosion. Brian connected with the grief felt by those who attended funeral after funeral when the World Trade Center tragedy occurred on 9/11.
As they stood on the sidewalk before entering the church several regular clients of the gallery offered condolences and commented about the tragic loss. Afterwards Brian and Nicole visited with Collette’s parents for a few minutes. The funeral was hard for Brian – he was in tears several times as friends gave heartfelt remembrances of a person Brian had respected and depended upon. She would be missed by many. Brian vowed to renew his strength and his efforts to help the FBI determine why this had happened.
When they left the church Brian switched his phone off mute and saw a call from Agent Underwood. On the way back to his apartment he returned the call with the phone on speaker.
“Mr. Sadler, we have a number of things to go over with you. I was checking to see when we might get together.”
“I’ve been watching the news reports. You haven’t released much to the press.”
“We didn’t want to jump the gun. We had to be sure of our information and also not release anything that could harm the ongoing investigation. We plan to do a short press conference late this afternoon. Could we meet before that?”
“We can,” Brian responded. “How about we meet up here this time instead of my coming downtown? I’ll buy your lunch.”
“Thanks but we’re not allowed to accept gratuities, and I doubt I can afford the places you frequent, frankly. May I meet you at your apartment at 1:45? And will Miss Farber be there as well?”
Brian glanced at her and she nodded.
“1:45 is fine. And yes, Nicole will be attending too.”
“One thing to consider, Mr. Sadler. In the next day or so you hav
e to look inside the vault with your insurance adjuster and us. I’d appreciate your letting me know when that would fit into your schedule. Sorry to push you but some important steps are on hold until you can get inside.”
“Actually I worked that out with the adjuster. I’m meeting him at ten am tomorrow at Bijan. I was going to tell you that when I saw you this afternoon.”
Brian and Nicole had the car drop them at Harry Cipriani’s, one of his favorite restaurants, just a few blocks from where Bijan Rarities had been. He dismissed the driver – they would walk back after lunch – and glanced down Fifth Avenue. Now that four days had passed the concrete barriers had been removed. It was just too difficult to block this major street and the danger appeared to have been isolated to the one incident.
They ducked inside Cipriani’s and were warmly greeted by the maître d’, who offered his regret and condolences at the loss of life and property Brian had experienced. Brian was a regular and Nicole often joined him when she was in town. At a restaurant of this caliber, the senior staff knew its steady patrons well. “We’re booked solid, Mr. Sadler,” he said, glancing at his reservations list, “but if you and Miss Farber will give me a few minutes I think we can accommodate you. Just have a seat at the bar and have a glass of wine on the house.”
Within ten minutes they had a table in the busy restaurant. Through the windows Brian could see the Plaza Hotel across the street. Pedestrians jostled down the sidewalk as though nothing had happened. It was a little surreal, he thought, that life just goes on. But in Manhattan, like most huge cities, that was a fact.
“Hey,” Nicole said softly. “Earth to Brian.”
“Sorry. Was I daydreaming?”
“You were gone for a minute. You do that a lot lately. I worry about you, Brian. You’ve been through a lot. When I go back what are you planning to do next?” By asking about the future she hoped to get his mind off the present.
They hadn’t talked much about what lay ahead since the event happened. Now they chatted about the new Bijan Gallery in Old Bond Street in London. It had only been open a year or so. The decision to open a second gallery had been easy for Brian. He loved London as much as New York and he thoroughly enjoyed having a business reason to make frequent trips to England. Nicole loved it too and joined him regularly when she could grab a few days here and there.
“Don’t hold me to anything right now, but I’m thinking I’m not reopening in New York,” Brian said. “I don’t know if I can handle it, frankly. There’s just too much that’s been wrenched out of my soul and at the moment, without giving it a lot of thought, I think I might relocate to London.”
He put into words what had only been vague thoughts until now. He immediately regretted it – his thoughts and ideas didn’t even address his relationship with Nicole. He felt selfish. I’m thinking only of myself, my sadness and loss, and not the person I care the most about.
“Nicole, I…I want you to know you mean the world to me. More than anything. I’m just thinking out loud – none of this is meant to hurt you or our relationship. I love you, Nicole. I wish we were together a hundred percent of the time. You know that, right?”
“Sweetie, I do know that. And I feel the same way. I think it’s too early to make long-term plans. I’d love for you to have a gallery in Dallas. I never said it before, because I couldn’t have seen you splitting your time between New York, London and Texas, but now it might make sense if you wanted it. It’s too soon to talk about anything. You need to concentrate on what you have – the gallery in London. Work from there for awhile until you come up with a battle plan. You know I’ll support you in whatever you decide…just make a little place for me in there somewhere because I love you too!” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.
As they ate, Brian talked about tomorrow. “I’m really nervous about going into the gallery. I have no idea what to expect. I’m not sure I can keep it together.”
“You can do it. I know you and I know you’re strong. You have to help the FBI figure out what happened, for the sake of your people who died if nothing else. I’m happy to go with you if you’d like.”
“I need to do it by myself, Nicole. This is going to be hard but I need to make this first step toward returning to the reality of what things will be going forward. I hope you understand. You’re my rock right now. But I have to be able to stand alone too.”
Chapter Twelve
The doorman rang Brian’s apartment and announced the arrival of the senior FBI agent. Once Underwood was settled into Brian’s living room with a cup of coffee he gave Brian and Nicole an update.
Yesterday the FBI had learned the identity of the dead driver of the stolen truck, an American citizen named Hassan Palavi born here but raised in Iran.
“He’s never broken the law in the USA and we can’t find anything about him. He had an American passport and came to the States a lot in the past few years. We searched his apartment in Queens. It’s a bare-bones place, a few pieces of furniture, the Koran and a couple of other foreign language books, and no food in the fridge. At this point I can say we’re not considering this a terrorist act. No one’s claimed responsibility and frankly, what’s the point of such destruction just so a priest can steal a book? That’s the mystery we have to figure out while we look for the perpetrator.”
The conversation shifted to the man in clerical garb – the primary focus of the investigation so far. The agent explained they were carefully avoiding calling him a priest since no one knew who he was.
“We have two good shots of his face. We first called the Archdiocese since it’s only a few blocks from you and he might have come from there. Every single person who works at St. Patrick’s or the Archdiocese offices, including the Archbishop, looked at the shots. No one recognized him and we determined his appointment wasn’t made by anyone there. That’s not to say some other church in town didn’t send a priest to blow up Bijan. But we now believe this guy was dressed as a priest to throw us off. We need to know if he was paid by someone or acting on his own behalf. What was his interest in the old Templar book, the one you originally thought was worthless. Obviously it was worth killing for.”
Agent Underwood continued. “This was a very big job, Mr. Sadler. Putting all the parts of this together, including a suicide bomber, a carefully timed operation, the shooting of Collette Conning and blowing up part of a Fifth Avenue building – all those things point to a large-scale operation with a lot of money behind it. I can’t tell you everything we’re working on right now, but I need you to think if there is someone who holds a grudge against you or the gallery. Could this have been a retaliatory strike – revenge for something? If it is, it must have been something major. If you can think of anything, it could be a tremendous help.”
The agent explained that a press conference would be held at 5:45 pm in front of Bijan’s boarded-up building. The FBI and police department would have representatives and Underwood himself would be the primary speaker.
“We’re going to release details about the pickup driver, the method by which they blew up the gallery and pictures of the man dressed as a priest. We’ll also reveal that Collette was shot prior to the bombing and the guard was run over by the pickup. Once we’re finished, Mr. Sadler, you’re free to speak to the media yourself. One thing I ask – if there’s ever anything you intend to tell the press that I don’t know, tell me first. We consider you a victim, Mr. Sadler, and your cooperation is essential.”
Brian looked at Nicole. She took his hand and replied, “You can count on Brian to work with you. He is a victim. He’s lost a great deal. And we both want you to find out what happened here.”
“I want to offer a reward,” Brian said, looking at Nicole. “Is that OK for me to do?”
“I see nothing wrong with it. Agent Underwood?”
“It’s usually a good idea. It could bring out someone who has information. What amount are you thinking?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
&nb
sp; “OK, with your permission I’ll use the standard language about requiring arrest and conviction to claim the reward. That eliminates a lot of problems.
Underwood stood and extended his hand. “Unless I see you at the press conference I’ll meet you at ten am tomorrow at the gallery. Thanks for your time. I can show myself out.”
While they were meeting Brian’s muted cellphone had vibrated several times as calls and voicemails were received. He checked it – none of the five numbers was one he recognized.
“I want to talk to you about our conversation,” he told Nicole. “Just let me listen to one voicemail and see who these people are.”
He put the phone on speaker and pressed the first voicemail number. “Mr. Sadler, this is Arlen Shadrick with the Post. I’ll be at the FBI’s press conference this afternoon. Wondered if you would be too and if I could grab you for a quick interview afterwards. Please call me back.” He left a number.
“The rest are probably his contemporaries at the other news services,” Nicole commented. “If you want to listen to them all now it’s ok with me.”
He did and she was right. They were from Fox, CNN, the Times and WNBC New York. He listened to each message long enough to ascertain who was calling, then deleted them. “I guess whichever one gets to me first will be the one I talk to,” he said absently.
“My suggestion is we develop a few talking points that you’re comfortable with. You stick to those and give a ‘no comment’ to anything else. That’ll make it easier for you.”
“I’m sure glad I have you, Nicole. You think of everything. I’d have just gone out there and winged it.”
“Yes, and that wouldn’t have been good, Brian. These people are digging for dirt. They want something juicy and good. They’d love to catch you in an error or bring out a deep emotion no one has seen. We need to role-play before you do anything. Then I think you should hold a press conference yourself. Let them all attend at once instead of your having to endure this half a dozen times. Maybe you allow questions after your statement, maybe not. That’s up to you. And just so I know, do you really think you should go to the FBI’s press conference later on?”
Brian Sadler Archaeology 04 - The Bones in the Pit Page 6
