Finally a series of louder beeps announced the end of the time-delay phase and Brian entered another code sequence onto the keypad. A noticeable thunk caused Brian to smile grimly. “Sounds like it’s unlocked.” He pulled down on the large handle and it moved noiselessly. Then he tugged on the door; it easily swung open.
Brian fished out another key to open the barred door that was next. He couldn’t see inside the vault – the entrance was small and his body blocked the flashlight beams behind him.
He turned to Underwood. “Is it OK if I go in first? I’ll need a light.”
The agent nodded and handed the flashlight to him. Brian stepped inside the vault. Everything was exactly as it should have been. The vault itself was heavily reinforced like a bunker. It appeared the blast had had no effect on anything inside. Artifacts and ancient objects were lined up on shelves and pedestals and nothing had been damaged. Brian breathed a sigh of relief. The most valuable of the objects were in here, undamaged. And many of these belonged to others – they were held by Bijan on consignment, awaiting a sale or auction in the future.
The insurance adjuster said, “Will it be difficult to get me a list of the things that weren’t in here, so we can know what was destroyed as compared to these things which weren’t damaged?”
“Piece of cake,” Brian replied, explaining that every morning Collette Conning prepared a list of items to bring from the vault for display in the gallery. The list from the morning of the bombing still lay on a counter just inside the vault. Only a fraction of the items were ever brought out, and none of the most expensive ones was. Those were brought to the showroom only if a client made an appointment to see one of them. Otherwise they were always securely locked up. That had been fortuitous on the day the bombing occurred. It made life considerably easier for Brian Sadler and his clients. And for the insurance company too. The adjuster took Brian’s list with a promise to copy and return it. He also asked Brian to provide valuations and ownership details on the things that had been destroyed. That would also prove easy for Brian as everything was on the gallery’s servers.
Agent Underwood asked Brian to show him the seven books from the Nova Scotia collector. The eighth had been the reason behind the bombing. Brian pointed to a shelf with the beam of the flashlight. “They’re right here,” he said. “I never got a chance to even look inside the covers.”
Underwood asked if he and Brian could examine them more closely to make sure there was nothing in them that would help the investigation. Brian agreed and they decided to take them back to Brian’s apartment when everyone was finished here. He and the FBI agent carried the books to Underwood’s car while press photographers eagerly shot pictures of their activities.
While Brian walked around the showroom, recalling this piece or that which now lay on the floor in pieces, the FBI agents and policeman examined the area in the gallery where Collette Conning had been killed. A forensic team had previously scoured the room so new information was unlikely to be forthcoming but more sets of eyes might pick up something. The insurance adjuster jotted notes and took pictures with his phone. The engineer walked the perimeter of the gallery, checking the integrity of the steel beams.
In half an hour everyone was finished. Brian rode with Agent Underwood and the second agent to his apartment house. Over the next two hours they looked at the seven volumes from the Crane collection in Nova Scotia and talked extensively about John Spedino’s involvement in the lives of Brian and Nicole.
The books revealed nothing of benefit to the FBI. They were exactly what they appeared to be – Bibles and works of literature. No notes hidden inside their pages, no secret inscriptions, nothing out of the ordinary. They were beautiful, valuable old books, Brian commented, but at this point the missing Templars volume was obviously the one someone cared about.
Underwood and his associate left with a promise to call if anything developed.
Chapter Fifteen
Vatican City
Dominic Cardinal Conti had made a decision. He had to get the photocopy from the papal office one way or another. He had to see what information it contained. He thought it might unravel the ancient mystery he was certain rested in the missing manuscript – the one Giovanni Moretti now possessed.
Speaking of whom, Moretti hadn’t called so the Cardinal had decided to play his own game. He wouldn’t make the first move. But it had been four days since the old man had walked out of their meeting here in Rome. I’ll give it twenty-four more hours. If he hasn’t called I’ll start things moving in a direction that will make life unpleasant for the ungrateful Mr. Moretti.
Right now Conti had two choices – the overt one was to approach the Pope, tell him Benedict had left a photocopy in the drawer and ask for it. That might work but it might backfire. First, he wasn’t close to the new pontiff so he likely wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of getting the document he might lose it forever. Second, that choice meant publicizing the document. The Pope might ask questions – what was it, and why did the Cardinal think it so important? No, an overt move wasn’t the right one.
Which is why at 1:25 am the Cardinal was standing behind a tapestry in a long hallway that led to the papal offices fifty feet away. The pontiff was on a well-publicized trip back to his homeland in Buenos Aires, which meant the usual high security around here was almost non-existent tonight. The treasures of the Vatican were everywhere in the huge complex of buildings – but there was nothing that special in and of itself here in the somewhat austere papal office. If a thief sought riches he would go elsewhere.
Since the pontiff was away only one Swiss Guard sat in a chair outside the Pope’s office. Dominic knew his routine. When the Pope was gone the same sentry sat from ten pm until four in the morning, taking a five-minute bathroom break every two hours and eating a meal out of his backpack around 1:30. Tonight should be no exception and the Cardinal waited for what always happened right now.
The guard stood, stretched and walked down the hall away from where Conti hid. He was going to a tiny pantry fifty feet away. He would fix a double espresso in a coffee maker, add milk and walk back to have his dinner. Based on the Cardinal’s observation the past three nights, the guard would be away from the Pope’s door between four and six minutes. Never less, never more. Hopefully tonight was typical.
As soon as the guard entered the pantry, Cardinal Conti clicked a stopwatch and moved. He expected the massive office door to be unlocked and it was. He entered, shut the door and walked to the Pope’s desk. He pulled on the upper right drawer. The desk was locked. Damn the luck, the Cardinal involuntarily thought. He had brought a pick – as he looked at the drawer he saw there was no keyhole. This drawer doesn’t lock. It’s the middle drawer that controls them all.
Hoping this desk was like so many others, he pulled on the long middle drawer, the one above the kneehole space. Come on, just be shut. Don’t be locked.
As the middle drawer slid out a noticeable click indicated the other drawers could now be opened as well. Conti glanced at his watch. Two and a half minutes down. He had ninety seconds to finish, leave and hide before the guard returned.
In the upper right drawer were a number of things including a stamp pad and rubber stamps, a number of old seals, the kind that work with wax, and a plethora of papers. Conti pulled them out and rummaged through them, starting at the bottom. Hopefully what Benedict had left was low in the pile and hadn’t been discarded when the new Pope moved in.
He was getting nowhere. A quiet ding notified him there were thirty seconds left. Suddenly his hand pulled out a legal size piece of paper. It was a copy of something very old and it contained the same symbols he had seen in the four Templar manuscripts. Voila!
Conti stuck the paper in his pocket, closed the drawer and ran to the office door. He opened it carefully, glancing down the hallway toward the pantry. This was the tricky part. If the guard had been sitting back at his post when the door opened, the Cardinal would have had serious explaining to do. He w
ould certainly have been detained, questioned and possibly sanctioned for his clandestine activities tonight.
But God was with him. At least that’s what Conti attributed his good fortune to – maybe it was the devil at work instead but this cleric chose the former. The guard was still puttering around in the closet – the Cardinal could hear him – so Conti closed the door and ran back down the hall to his hiding place fifty feet away.
In less than fifteen seconds the guard strode back to his post, coffee in hand, and sat down. As he turned and reached for his backpack Cardinal Conti crept quietly away around a corner and left the papal office wing. Guards patrolled the corridors – when Conti met one he bowed his head as if on a late night meditative stroll. No one stopped the Cardinal – obviously this holy man, unable to sleep, had chosen to walk these sacred halls deep in prayer.
Reaching his own office, Conti entered and locked the door. He put the photocopy in his desk, walked to a nearby couch and lay down. He would spend the rest of the night here. It would raise less questions than if his late-night departure time were noted on a sentry’s checkout sheet.
He fell asleep easily and dreamed about an ancient box so special it took a legion of Knights to protect it.
Chapter Sixteen
London
Brian preferred the daytime British Airways flight to London. Most planes from the States to Britain flew all night and arrived at the crack of dawn. That seemed counterproductive to Brian. He could leave Kennedy airport at 7:15 am, enjoy breakfast and a light lunch on the plane and arrive at seven pm local time. He rarely carried much luggage – the company flat in London was stocked with his clothes to allow him that convenience.
The express train from Heathrow to Paddington Station put him in central London by eight and he was at his flat in Cadogan Square twenty minutes later. After sitting on the plane all day he was ready for some exercise before bed – he put on his running gear and set off on a neighborhood run. Knightsbridge was busy this evening – pedestrians crowded Sloane Street, window-shopping at high-end boutiques that beckoned them and their money inside. He struggled with the crowds for a few blocks, then gave up. He turned onto Pont Street then up into trendy Beauchamp Place. Its one long block held stores, bars and Brian’s favorite Thai restaurant in London. Patara Thai’s open front door was inviting and the delicious smells wafting out made him hungry. Tomorrow night, he promised himself.
Heading east along Knightsbridge past Harrods, he turned behind the Sheraton into Lowndes Square then zigged and zagged back towards the building where his flat was located. Night had fallen and as he ran the last half-mile he took in the scenery. Street lamps created dim pockets of light along tree-lined sidewalks. This part of London had four-storied buildings in the Victorian style, each with a chimney pot backlit by the streetlights of Sloane Street a few blocks over. They reminded him of the antics of Bert, Dick Van Dyke’s chimney sweep character in Mary Poppins. London was a city and an experience he never grew tired of. Like New York but in a different way, London was another place he loved.
Back at the flat he checked his phone. One call, about an hour ago. He listened to voicemail and heard a familiar Oxford accent.
“Brian, old boy, I hope this call finds you safely back in God’s country. I know your plane was due to land a couple of hours ago so give me a call tonight if it’s not too late, or tomorrow if you’d rather. I’m anxious to see you when you have time to catch up.”
Lord Arthur Borland. The Earl of Weymouth. Brian smiled as he thought of his good friend and their adventures in Central America. He had become very fond of Arthur. He enjoyed the times with him more than with almost anyone else Brian knew. He glanced at his watch – almost ten pm. Not too late for a phone call to this night owl.
-----
The two men talked for half an hour, first about the tragedy in New York involving Bijan Rarities, then recalling the adventures they’d shared in Guatemala and Belize. Arthur was the British aristocrat who worked with Brian to bring down the Mafia boss John Spedino. At first things had appeared grim for Lord Borland in that escapade a year or so ago but it turned out well and Spedino had been put behind bars for life. At least that had been the idea when he was convicted.
“Did you know John Spedino escaped from the Guatemalan prison?”
“I hadn’t heard. That’s disturbing news. How did you find out?”
Brian explained that President Harrison had inquired and discovered Spedino had been missing for some time.
“That’s serious, Brian. Especially for us. Do you think he might have been involved in the bombing?”
“I can’t imagine how or why Spedino would have done this. It looks more like this was a very elaborate move to steal what I originally considered to be a worthless eighteenth century manuscript. You could be right but I think it’s something else. There’s no doubt it took someone with a lot of power and a lot of money to orchestrate the bombing of a building on Fifth Avenue and the murders of eleven people including a suicide bomber. All that for one volume of a set of old Knights Templars books? It just doesn’t make sense. Am I missing something?”
“Actually you are, Brian, if my hunches are right. I have an idea about that manuscript. Didn’t you tell me earlier it was one of several old books found in Nova Scotia?”
“Yes, it was. The collector bought it years ago, maybe around the same time as he acquired the other seven books. Some of those are virtually priceless – one of a kind and in unbelievable condition. All of those survived the explosion because they were locked in the vault.”
“Interesting, but I don’t think those seven have anything to do with this,” Borland replied. “I think the Templar book does, and I’m certain Nova Scotia does as well. I’ve been doing a little research over at the Monument Club and I have an interesting theory to present to you. Let me ask you, did you possibly make a copy of the manuscript that was stolen? Or any parts of it?”
“I didn’t. I just didn’t see the value in it and tossed it aside. I’m intrigued by your mysterious questions and I can’t wait to hear your theory. Are you available for lunch one day this week?”
“I know you just got to town, old boy, but I could meet tomorrow. Is that too soon?”
“For you, my Lord? That suits me just fine. How about 1 pm at the Club?”
-----
The Monument Club sits on the Victoria Embankment overlooking the Thames River. The massive building that has always been its home was erected in 1894, a few years after a group of men, linked by the common thread of archaeology, founded the club itself. There are a few women members today but its reading rooms, extensive library, bar and restaurant are dominated by men. The place is primarily a gentlemen’s club, an aroma of fine cigars lingering in the dark bar, the clink of an obligatory gin and tonic or martini preceding a leisurely lunch or dinner.
Some of the members are professional archaeologists and anthropologists. Others are amateurs or those otherwise interested peripherally in ancient things and interesting stories of the past. One of the latter, Brian had hoped for years to become a member someday. Once he owned Bijan Rarities and began to make a name for himself in the world of rarities, he petitioned his old friend Oscar Carrington for help.
Carrington, the owner of an exclusive antiquities shop in London’s posh Knightsbridge area, was pleased to put up his American friend for membership. It was convenient that the Monument Club had a location on Manhattan’s Upper East Side as well as the one in London and before long Brian Sadler found himself frequently at one location or the other for drinks, lunch or dinner. He also occasionally used its world-class reference libraries; each location contained tens of thousands of books, manuscripts and articles that were invaluable for research. If a needed tome weren’t available on one side of the pond, it was quickly dispatched from the other for a member’s use.
Lord Borland was also a member of the Monument Club. He had been invested automatically as the descendant of a member. His deceased
father, Sir John Borland, the eighth Earl of Weymouth, had been perhaps the club’s most flamboyant and outspoken representative in its history. “Captain Jack,” as Arthur’s father was affectionately known to all, inherited a vast sum of money and spent much of it on adventure and treasure hunting.
Arthur Borland and Brian had met when the former requested help finding his father who had disappeared on an expedition to Guatemala. That search revealed far more than just the fate of Arthur’s missing father. A vast horde of newly discovered Mayan codices and gold was now on display in a new museum at the ancient site of Tikal, Guatemala. Because of their significant involvements with the find, that museum bore the names of both Brian Sadler and Captain Jack Borland.
Lord Borland and Brian Sadler sat in the beautifully paneled bar enjoying glasses of Sancerre. Their table, Brian’s favorite, was next to twenty-foot windows overlooking the Thames. Waterloo Bridge was only a few hundred yards east of the club. The ultramodern London Eye Ferris wheel had been erected around the river bend to the west, out of sight of the Club’s lounge and restaurant. Brian was grateful not to have to gaze on that modern monstrosity every time he wanted to relax over a drink.
“Brian, it’s really good to see you. Given the circumstances you look well. I know this tragedy has been a burden on you. And the loss of Collette. How horrible for her family and for you both personally and professionally. She was an asset to Bijan, I know. And you lost a friend as well.”
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