Brian Sadler Archaeology 04 - The Bones in the Pit

by Bill Thompson

  “No way. Let’s just watch it on TV from here.”

  “Agreed. You shouldn’t be there. It’ll just put the media into a feeding frenzy and you won’t be ready for them.”

  They popped a bottle of good Chardonnay and talked about the meeting. Brian pondered the agent’s question about revenge or retaliation.

  “I can’t think of a reason anyone would be angry enough at me to do something like this. And the reason for the entire thing was obviously to steal the Templars manuscript. That’s clear from the video. The priest guy shot Collette just before the truck crashed in. He took the book with him. I don’t think this has anything to do with me.”

  Nicole sat quietly for a few minutes, slowly sipping her wine. She racked her brain. Finally she said, “There’s one person who once was powerful enough to pull this off. He had the connections, he had the money and he has the motive. He hates both of us.” She looked Brian in the eyes. “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “Sure. But that’s impossible, Nicole. He’s in a Guatemalan prison serving a life sentence for murder. Right?”

  “Far as we know. Do you think we should check and make sure he’s still there?”

  “I’m not sure who to call.”

  “Well, there’s one person who owes you a debt of gratitude for past services rendered. I’ll bet you can call the President of the United States and get your answer.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For thirty years John “Johnny Speed” Spedino was the godfather, the capo del capi, boss of bosses. Head of the powerful New York mob, he was the most dangerous criminal in America, seemingly beyond the clutches of law enforcement for decades. He was as elusive as John Gotti, who earned the nickname “Teflon Don” for his ability to slip out of the grip of federal agents. But Gotti had finally been taken down. Spedino too, as far as Brian Sadler knew.

  Brian had first heard about Johnny Speed when he became involved with Bijan Rarities. Brian was a stockbroker at the investment firm Warren Taylor and Currant in Dallas. That high-flying operation attracted the attention of the Securities and Exchange Commission, then the FBI, as it led initial public offerings for companies that had no track record, no plans, no nothing. When WT&C was finished, those shell companies suddenly had millions of dollars, all of which was pushed back into the stockbroker’s next deal. The firm’s investors made money as long as new offerings could be pumped into the market. The next public offering fueled the last one. It was heady, exciting and crazy and the firm’s brokers made serious money. The risk was high – they were right on the edge of ethics and the law – but the rewards were too.

  A proposal from Darius Nazir, the owner of Bijan Rarities, oddly had landed on Brian Sadler’s desk one day. Evaluating potential offerings for the firm wasn’t part of Brian’s job, but he was intrigued – he read every word of Bijan’s business plan. This was a company he became interested in personally. He loved archaeology and ancient things. Bijan was fast becoming known as a major player in the world of rarities, from Egypt to South America to Turkey and elsewhere. Brian thought this could be his ticket out of the brokerage business into something that was his passion.

  Brian flew to New York on his own time, became good friends with Nazir and helped the gallery go public in one of WT&C’s last offerings before the Feds took it down over another company’s deal that turned out to be a total fraud.

  In a strange, bizarre turn of events Nazir ended up dead and Brian was handed ownership of the gallery. It was the most fortuitous moment in his life – a turning point that took him from small time stockbroker to Fifth Avenue businessman.

  Mob boss John Spedino had somehow been involved with Darius Nazir. Brian was certain of that although he never found the connection. Spedino had enlisted Brian’s help in obtaining one of the world’s major rarities, the Bethlehem Scroll. Brian recalled how furious Nazir had been when he learned Brian was working with Spedino. He had chastised Brian, telling him the mobster was dangerous beyond belief. Nazir knew him well, Brian thought. That was disturbing. Brian wondered how the gallery owner knew Spedino but never found out – Nazir died before Brian could ask.

  Spedino had inserted himself again into Brian Sadler’s life when Brian was in Belize and Guatemala searching for an ancient lost city of the Mayas. People who were controlled by Spedino kidnapped both Brian and Nicole.

  The man had even compromised Nicole’s principles, using a date-rape drug to force her into total submission, corporately and personally.

  A clever Brit with a hidden agenda brought the godfather to justice at long last. Facing charges in the USA and Guatemala, the boss of bosses had ended up in the latter country’s Pavon Prison, serving a life sentence for murder.

  Long story short, the problems the godfather of New York had right now were in large part due to the efforts of Brian Sadler and Nicole Farber. It was a fair statement to say Johnny Speed would hold a grudge against the people who had finally put him in prison…for life.

  -----

  Brian looked at the contact list on his phone, scrolled down to the name Harry and called. Less than ten people on earth knew this particular number. Brian Sadler was one who did. Brian Sadler had the private cell number of the President of the United States.

  As usual, the call went to voicemail. He’s the busiest man in the world, Brian thought as a computer-generated voice said, “Please leave a message.” Short and sweet. If anyone got this wrong number they’d never know whom they’d reached.

  “Hey, Harry. It’s Brian. Call me back when you can please. No rush. Just had a question. Say hi to Jennifer and the girls.”

  Once his college roommate had been inaugurated President, Brian had defaulted to addressing him as “Mr. President” out of respect. William Henry Harrison IV had quickly told him to knock it off, saying they knew each other too well for such formality in private. So Brian did it the President’s way, even though it felt strange to him every time he called the leader of the free world “Harry.”

  Legal pad in hand, Nicole sat on the couch making a list of talking points. Brian went to the kitchen, retrieved the Chardonnay and poured them another glass. He sat next to her, saying nothing as she wrote.

  The 5:45 press conference was scheduled strategically to coincide with the hour of local news coming up at six. Brian turned on his TV five minutes early and muted until he saw the newscaster in front of a screen. Displayed were a picture of his building and the words “Fifth Avenue Bombing.” He turned up the sound.

  There was a podium in front of the plywood barrier that covered what had been Bijan’s two huge showroom windows. A newscaster recounted the events four days previously, explaining that a truck bomber had destroyed the famous antiquities gallery and part of the two floors above it, killing eleven people and injuring more than fifty, mostly pedestrians and drivers who had been unfortunate enough to be in close proximity to the blast.

  Special Agent-in-Charge Underwood stepped to the podium, introduced himself and the New York City Police Chief, who stood by his side. Underwood presented the facts, explaining that most of the information they knew came from the gallery’s video surveillance equipment. He identified the driver and gave a brief background on the Iranian-American. Then he shifted to the perpetrator.

  “Pictures and parts of the surveillance video were distributed to the media a few minutes ago,” Underwood said. “We enlist the public’s help to identify the person, probably a male, dressed as a Jesuit priest, who shot Collette Conning, the assistant to the owner of the gallery and who detonated the gasoline cans that caused the massive explosion.”

  Next the Chief of Police spoke briefly, promising full cooperation from his agency to bring the perpetrators to justice. “This was a well-planned operation,” he said. “There is someone who knows something about this. If you have information that might help please call police or the FBI immediately.”

  Underwood wrapped the conference with an announcement that Bijan Rarities owner Bria
n Sadler had offered a reward of $100,000 for the arrest and conviction of those involved in the bombing. As he spoke the networks broadcast the tip hotline phone number.

  The conference lasted only eight minutes and the men took no questions from the media. Immediately following it, the news stations posted a picture of Hassan Palavi, the driver of the pickup. The photo had been obtained from his passport application and was two years old. It didn’t matter. Palavi was dead.

  The critical photos came next. They were the two of the person posing as a priest. Before the video footage was played an announcer told viewers how graphic the material would be. The film ran, showing the “priest” glancing at his watch precisely at one pm, pulling a gun and shooting Collette point-blank a few seconds later, then the truck crashing through the front window and toppling the guard. Finally the person was shown on the sidewalk pressing the detonator and walking away as the building exploded. It was tough to watch but the FBI hoped it might stir someone to offer information.

  -----

  The moment the conference ended Brian’s cellphone rang. The number showed “Blocked.” Answering, he heard a voice familiar to him and most other Americans – the voice of the President. He put it on speaker.

  “Hey buddy. Sorry I didn’t call back earlier. I watched your press conference first. I’m so sorry about what happened, Brian. It must be devastating for you and I hope the FBI can quickly figure something out. I’m sure pushing them from this side. Is Nicole with you?”

  “Thanks, Harry. Yes, she sure is and she’s listening, so be careful what you say! FYI she gave notice to the FBI that she was acting as my attorney, just in case. I hope you don’t think…”

  “Brian, come on. I think that’s a very smart move. The FBI has to check everyone out. You and I know you’re fine but they have a job to do. Nicole, you can rein them in if they get out of line.”

  “Hi, Harry. Thanks for the kind thoughts for Brian right now. He’s been through a lot.”

  “He sure has. And Brian, the reward is a good idea too. Glad you’re offering it. A hundred thousand bucks may bring out the information you need. So, what can I do to help?”

  “The agent asked me this afternoon if I knew anyone who had a grudge against me. The only person Nicole and I could come up with was John Spedino. But the last I heard the godfather was tucked away in prison in Guatemala. I don’t know who else to call, and I know this is trivial, but could you check on him and let me know?”

  “Absolutely. That’s simple and won’t take long at all. We’ll get on it and I’ll let you know soon as I hear anything. Is there anything else we can do down here in Washington to help you?”

  “I think that’s it for the moment. If I get in a big jam I may call again.”

  “Always good to hear your voice, my friend. And listen. Once things settle down you and Nicole come see us and let’s have dinner. We don’t get a chance to have quiet times with old friends much anymore.”

  Promising to do so, Brian hung up. The President then turned to his computer and shot a message to his Chief of Staff. Within minutes Bob Parker stood in the Oval Office getting instructions from Harry Harrison.

  Fifteen minutes later Brian’s phone rang again. The same blocked message appeared.

  “That was fast.”

  “Yeah, and not good, Brian. I’m furious at the Embassy in Guatemala City for not letting you know about this, but John Spedino went missing from his prison cell awhile back. The Ambassador said it’s possible he had been gone for a couple of weeks when someone finally decided to check on him. Ask me how a guy like that can go without being checked every day? I have no idea. He’s the godfather. I guess it’s pretty simple to pay people off in a Guatemalan prison. Money talks. He was apparently living a life of luxury, such as it was, inside the prison and then just disappeared.”

  “Shit. Any clue where he might be?”

  “My question exactly. And no. Nobody knows. And until my Chief of Staff called, it seems nobody gave it much attention. You can damn well bet that’s changing as we speak. I’m directing the FBI and CIA to get with Interpol and launch a worldwide top-priority search for him. Son of a bitch, it’s hard sometimes to figure out what people are thinking. You think they might have considered letting somebody know this guy was gone? This really is irritating. Hey – do you want FBI give you and Nicole protection until we find something out? I’m happy to arrange that.”

  “We can’t live like that, Harry. I can’t imagine the godfather would come back to New York – that’d be pretty crazy in my opinion – and I don’t want to have an agent with me every minute.” Nicole was next to him, listening and shaking her head. “Neither does Nicole. We’ll be fine.”

  “OK. For now I’m telling the FBI in Manhattan to look into the possibility that Spedino could be behind all of this. Again, Brian, I’m sorry the government dropped the ball on notifying you. I’m as upset as you are.”

  President Harrison promised to call the minute any information was available. Brian thanked him for all the effort and hung up. He looked at Nicole.

  She spoke softly. “Well, this one doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out. There’s your guy with a grudge.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  At ten am several people stood on the sidewalk in front of what had been Bijan Rarities. The police had taped off a large area outside of which several journalists with cameras watched the activity. Uniformed officers ensured those without permission remained outside the barrier.

  An hour earlier a workman had removed two pieces of plywood that covered the ruined hole that had been the gallery’s entrance and windows. He set up two very large Klieg lights, the kind used in filmmaking. They filled the ruined showroom with an intense light.

  Brian, an adjuster from his insurance company, Agent Underwood, a second FBI agent and an NYPD detective waited for the arrival of a sixth person – a structural engineer who had been working with the building’s owner to determine how extensive the damage to it actually was. He had observed the building over the past five days and saw no further collapse so he had declared it safe for Brian and the others to enter. As a precaution the engineer would be along with them.

  Agent Underwood took Brian aside and said, “It’s not often I get a call straight from the top. The Director called me yesterday and told me the President wants an investigation into John Spedino’s possible involvement in the bombing. I’m not impressed by much any more, but I’d love to know how you got the President to intercede on your behalf. I also need everything you know about Spedino so we can move on the Director’s…ah, request, I guess you’d say. More like a directive, actually.”

  “The President was my college roommate. He told me yesterday that Spedino escaped from the Guatemalan prison where he was serving a life sentence for murder.”

  The last member of their group walked up. “We’ll talk later,” Underwood said as they all approached the bombed gallery.

  The structural engineer led the way, pointing out dangerous areas where shattered glass and steel lay strewn about the floor. Brian thought the scene was surreal. He was surprised to see one of his display cases still intact, glass and all, while others had simply been blown away. The twisted remains of the pickup sat almost exactly in the middle of the expansive showroom. A couple of large vases lay broken in a corner next to the pedestal displays where they had once stood. Brian pointed at them and casually remarked, “There lies a half million bucks worth of busted pots.”

  The day was already warm and there was no air circulating inside the bombed structure. The sickly sweet smell of decay pervaded the room. It was nauseating – Brian suddenly began to feel lightheaded.

  Agent Underwood opened his briefcase and pulled out paper masks, the kind painters use, and a jar of Mentholatum. “Mr. Sadler, the coroner wasn’t able to remove everything from the site due to the extent of the damage to the driver’s body. It’s been a few hot days in here and you might want to use a mask. Just stick Menthol
atum inside the mask and put it on. It’ll hide the smell.” Brian did and it helped a lot.

  He turned to the others. “Anyone else need a mask?” The engineer and insurance adjuster gratefully accepted. The lawmen didn’t. None of them wanted to be the first to admit they couldn’t handle a death scene. For his part, Brian was glad the agent had thought to bring the masks. It made things tolerable.

  Stepping over and around the debris from the gallery and its collapsed ceiling, they walked through the showroom to a hallway behind. The two FBI agents turned on powerful flashlights. On the left side was the closed door to Brian’s office. He tried the knob; it was locked. He pulled out a key and opened the door.

  Fortunately the wall at the back of the showroom was made of concrete. It had withstood the blast and his office was virtually intact albeit with a fine coating of dust on every surface. His chair sat behind the desk, the dock for his laptop was exactly where he had left it, and on the side table was an empty space where the missing manuscript had been. Collette Conning had taken it to the priest just before he killed her.

  “Everything looks fine here,” Brian said. “Let’s see how the vault made out.” He walked across the hall from his office to the massive door that was identical to those used in banks. He gave the large handle a tug – it was securely locked.

  Explaining that the vault had a time delay, Brian entered a code on a keypad and an intermittent beep indicated the countdown process had begun. “So far so good,” he muttered to no one in particular. Brian had been concerned the vault door might have been damaged in the blast. That could have required a demolition team to break through the thick, heavy door. Thanks to its location away from the showroom itself he was now hopeful the door and its hinges were okay. In a few minutes they’d find out.