“Now, Now. Don’t lose your temper, Dominic. It’s not good for your heart. Do you want the manuscript or not? It’s up to you. I’m sure I can sell it elsewhere – surely someone else thinks it’s as important as you obviously do.”
The Cardinal’s mind raced and a solution quickly emerged. It made him smile.
“Yes, Giovanni. I want the manuscript. And of course I’ll pay your ransom. The Church needs the book. You don’t need to know why. Hand over the manuscript and I’ll pay you five million dollars.”
“Of course you will,” Moretti said. “I trust you implicitly, Dominic. Why shouldn’t I? I owe you everything, as you constantly remind me. But let’s be practical.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket along with a key. “Wire the money to this account in Turkey. When the money’s in my account I’ll tell you what lock this key fits. Then you can have your manuscript. I have your number. You’ll hear from me when I confirm the funds have arrived. And thank you for lunch.”
Giovanni Moretti stood, turned and walked out of the restaurant. He thanked his waiter, who registered not a trace of recognition of the man he had served often just a few years ago.
Chapter Twenty
New York/Rome
Giovanni Moretti took a taxi directly from the restaurant in Little Italy to JFK Airport. Waiting in the Alitalia first class lounge for his flight to Rome, he checked the bank account in Ankara. Nothing so far, but that was of no concern to Moretti. He knew it would take time for Cardinal Conti to move funds. As head of the Vatican Bank Conti could singlehandedly accomplish the transfer of much more than five million dollars but there were other factors, the greatest of which was the time difference between the USA and Turkey. It would be the next morning before funds arrived and Moretti would be safely back in Italy.
Riding the train from Fiumicino Airport into central Rome, Moretti checked the bank again. It was now 9:50 am in Turkey and the funds had been deposited in his account just as he had demanded. He smiled. I pulled one over on Dominic Conti. Bastardo, eh? Well, I’m a richer bastardo now, thanks to you.
He called Conti’s cellphone and said, “Many thanks, Dominic. There’s a gym at the corner of Ninth Avenue and 23rd Street. Locker number fourteen in the men’s locker room.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
Dressed again in civilian clothes to avoid attention, Conti bought a membership in the gym in order to gain access. He paid thirty dollars cash for a month’s trial, walked straight to the locker room, opened the door and saw a bulky manila folder inside. He glanced around – no one was paying him any attention. He opened the folder and saw the stolen manuscript. It was unmistakably genuine and obviously was a match to the ones Dominic had previously read. He slid the book back into the folder and walked out.
In order to carry the manuscript to Rome in a diplomatic pouch Conti would have had to visit the Vatican Consulate on West 34th Street. People would have asked questions about why he was in New York. Since he was traveling under the radar and wished to attract no attention, he took a chance that the authorities wouldn’t challenge him as he left the United States. Once he arrived in Rome his diplomatic status would give him instant passage through the immigration process. Everything went as he had predicted and within twenty-four hours he was at his office in the Vatican. The manuscript was laid out on his desk, its first page bearing the now-familiar words Opus Militum Xpisti, the same words that appeared in the Vatican’s other four Templar manuscripts. Conti flipped through to one of the pages covered in symbols – a page of code.
Dominic Cardinal Conti had one more task to complete before turning his full attention to the manuscript. He pulled up some information on his computer, called a trusted friend in the Vatican’s passport control office, and had Giovanni Moretti’s passport number flagged as fraudulent. Without a valid passport Moretti no longer had legal status anywhere on earth.
Chapter Twenty-One
London
After the events Brian had experienced the last two weeks the death of Arthur Borland affected him greatly. Two days after the apparent death by natural causes of his fellow explorer and close personal friend, Brian sat alone in the flat in Cadogan Square. It was eight pm and a martini sat on the coffee table in front of him, his third of the evening.
Arthur’s sudden death became the catalyst for a grim reality for Brian Sadler. Until now Brian hadn’t allowed himself to really let go, to fully embrace the fact of how much his life had changed in two weeks. One of his dearest friends, a man whom Brian looked forward to spending time with, a man whose calls and emails always brightened Brian’s day – that man was suddenly gone forever. Just days before, his friend and colleague Collette Conning died a tragic death along with many others and Brian lost the gallery that had been his baby, his project, his life.
In the past Nicole jokingly referred to Bijan as Brian’s “favorite thing.” Each time it came up he laughingly assured her she was also up there somewhere among his favorite things. It became an ongoing joke but it was true that Brian had never enjoyed anything as much as he had loved life and his place in it since he took over the gallery. And in an instant, in a flash, the New York flagship store was gone. So were a dozen people.
Collette was special. She had been with the gallery when Darius Nazir owned it. Collette had agreed to stay on after Nazir’s death when Brian assumed ownership. Brian had been grateful; her knowledge of both clients and artifacts made his life much easier as he learned the ropes. She was a confidant – in the know on all of Brian’s plans for the business – and he had depended on her for advice and input. Now all that was over. He felt alone, truly alone for the first time in a long, long time.
As he sat in the dark in his London flat he thought of Nicole. They had had a wonderful life when they both lived in Dallas a few years back. When Brian left for Manhattan the relationship suffered but they still worked at keeping it as good as possible.
But it’s not good, Brian thought. It’s not good. She’s not here. She never is.
The judge had postponed Nicole’s trial for ten days while she was with Brian in New York after the tragedy. Now she was in the courtroom eight hours a day representing a wealthy client whose freedom depended on her legal skills. He was the chief financial officer of a Dallas wealth management firm. The company invested hundreds of millions of dollars for its multimillionaire clients. All went well until a low-level accountant got fired for being chronically late. Mad as hell, she went to the Feds with a story about phony accounts, a Madoff-like Ponzi scheme and – just to make it even spicier – money laundering for a Mexican drug cartel. The angry ex-employee also took her story to a local TV station. It had made the evening news.
Even though her allegations weren’t true, the repercussion from the story in ritzy Dallas neighborhoods like the Park Cities was devastating for the firm. Lots of money was demanded by lots of clients. The firm was unable to sell assets quickly enough to avoid massive losses; it subsequently defaulted on some of its obligations. The company filed bankruptcy but the government continued its misguided, relentless pursuit of justice. The firm had no money left – insurance companies stepped in to provide defense for the key officers indicted, but those funds proved inadequate to cover all the costs. The government’s lawyers kept after this case like wolves on their prey. And the innocent defendants were paying enormous legal fees out of their own pockets.
Nicole’s client had done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. She was certain he would be exonerated but sadly she couldn’t convince the U.S. Attorney to drop the case against him. The former CFO was now spending hundreds of thousands of dollars of his own money with Carter and Wells, hoping Nicole could keep him out of prison.
So while Brian sat in the darkened apartment in London nursing another martini she was in her fourth day of trial in Dallas, unable to be with him. They spoke every day around 5:30 am Brian’s time, 11:30 pm in Dallas. Nicole was home by then, preparing for the next day of trial and getting ready for bed. Brian
was starting another day in London.
He began to cry as he pondered his life two weeks ago compared to today. Arthur was gone. Collette was gone. So were many innocent people. Brian’s pride and joy, Bijan Rarities on Fifth Avenue in New York, was gone. And for all intents and purposes, Brian decided, Nicole was gone too. As the tears flowed he said out loud, “All she and I do is pretend. We pretend to be as close as we used to be. We pretend it’s all going to be OK. Well, dammit, it’s NOT going to be OK. I might as well realize that now. My whole world has gone to shit. For what? What the hell’s going on?”
By now he was shouting. He threw his glass at the fireplace as hard as he could. The Waterford crystal martini glass shattered into a thousand pieces as Brian fell back into the chair, sobbing and holding his head in his hands. Did John Spedino do all this? That’s impossible. How could he have enough power to pull something this big off? And why? What’s really behind all this?
Through the haze of vodka a thought crept into Brian’s mind. He sat up abruptly. Nicole. Was Nicole going to be harmed too?
Brian picked up his phone, dialed a number and reached the FBI’s Manhattan office. When Agent Underwood answered Brian told him about Arthur Borland’s death and Brian’s suspicion that it wasn’t from natural causes. His words slurred and he paused occasionally, attempting to arrange his thoughts. The agent finally stopped him.
“Mr. Sadler, are you all right? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m just terrific. I’m sitting here on top of the world having a martini. Everything’s just wonderful and I have yet another funeral to go to this week.” Brian stopped. He could talk no longer. He began to cry, heaving chest-racking sobs.
The agent had known it would all hit Brian Sadler eventually. No one could be a rock forever. He waited, saying nothing, until Brian composed himself.
“I’m afraid for Nicole. I think John Spedino may be behind this after all. Whoever’s doing this has hurt me and killed Arthur. Nicole’s the only one left of the three of us who put Johnny Speed in prison for life.” He paused again. “That’s a laugh, isn’t it, Agent Underwood? You put a guy in prison for life, then suddenly he’s gone! And no one gives a rat’s ass until he’s out killing people. Then it suddenly becomes important. At least to me. You know what I mean, Agent Underwood?” Brian shouted into the phone. “You get it? I think he’s going to kill Nicole next. What the hell are you all going to do about that?”
Brian hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The ringing of Brian’s phone jolted him awake. In a fog, he struggled to remember why he was asleep in his living room chair, fully dressed, with shattered glass all over the hearth. He glanced at the phone; it was 5:35 am and Nicole was doing her daily check-in. He slid the arrow to answer the call.
“Well, it took you a while to answer. I almost gave up on you,” she said, concern in her voice. “Are you OK, Brian?”
“Oh shit,” he mumbled. “Oh shit. I feel terrible.”
“What’s the matter? Are you OK? I got a call from the FBI…”
“Hell, that’s my fault. I got a little drunk…a lot drunk, actually…and I called Underwood. I was feeling sorry for myself last night. I’m still in my clothes, asleep in the chair in the living room. And my head feels like someone’s jack-hammering inside it. Give me a minute, Nicole. I’ll be right back.”
He stood unsteadily and walked to the bathroom to find a couple of aspirins. He took them with a large glass of water and immediately felt as though he were going to throw up. He forced himself to stop thinking about it and choked down the warm acid rising in the back of his throat. He returned to the living room and picked up the phone. “You still there?”
“I’m here. Brian, I talked to Agent Underwood after today’s trial wrapped up. He had left an urgent message to call him and I had no idea if you were in trouble or what was up. I’m fine, Brian. I appreciate your worrying about me but I don’t think John Spedino has the wherewithal to do all that’s been done. I think there’s something else going on here, something that obviously involves you and Arthur but I don’t see any connection with me.”
She told Brian to get in bed and rest for a few hours before tackling work. “I’ll call you sometime after noon your time when your head clears and we can talk this through. I know right now probably isn’t a good time for you to carry on a conversation.” She was right. His temples throbbed.
“I need to go, Nicole. Now.”
After exchanging I-love-you’s they hung up, allowing Brian roughly ten seconds to make it to the commode. Thankfully he arrived in time. Afterwards he felt a little better. Naked under the bedcovers with a wet washcloth on his forehead, Brian slept fitfully for three hours trying to recover and awoke vowing he would never drink again. Ever.
Around noon Brian took a taxi to the office. He’d showered and shaved and felt much better but didn’t want to tackle the subway and bounce along the tracks to Green Park Station. He had forced himself to eat some toast and drink a little club soda. He was maybe seventy percent, he told himself optimistically.
He played back the last couple of days. He and Carissa had gone to the police station the morning after Arthur’s death. She was allowed to identify the body via a video hookup with the morgue. Brian was grateful – that was far better than her having to see him in person. The coroner had requested an autopsy and she consented, hoping to learn what had actually happened to her husband.
Every train car in London is monitored by at least one video camera. Depending on where that camera is positioned they can be more or less helpful for viewing activities of riders. The Metropolitan Police had requested footage from the car Arthur Borland had taken. The officer promised to view it as quickly as possible and report back.
Carissa Borland signed a consent document allowing Brian to be notified about all aspects of the investigation of Arthur’s death. She told Brian and the officer it would be easier on her to get information through her good friend than from the police.
Carissa told Brian she would call the funeral director and have Arthur picked up once the police released his body. There was little family and she planned a graveside service in a few days. “I hope you’ll come,” she told him. “Arthur thought the world of you.” Brian assured her he would be there.
Borland’s briefcase had not been recovered. The policeman said it was not with him when his body was removed from the train, but that Carissa Borland shouldn’t read too much into that. People take things on trains, especially when a person appears to be sound asleep. Brian didn’t know what someone would gain from taking Arthur’s case with nothing but a thick sheaf of notes about the Knights Templars. The thief probably thought he might score big – a laptop or iPad, something to fence for drug money. Surely that was it. No one would steal his briefcase just for the notes he’d made.
That afternoon in one phone call Brian received both the autopsy results and the information gleaned from the camera in the train car. The autopsy was startling. In Arthur’s system at the time of death were two drugs – sodium pentothal and potassium chloride. They had apparently been injected through his clothing into his upper left arm – the coroner found tiny needle holes puncturing his jacket and shirt and an entry in the arm itself.
These two drugs were familiar to the coroner and were frequently used together. Not in the UK, where capital punishment has been illegal for years. But in half of the states in the USA these two drugs are used to execute criminals. The policeman gave Brian the coroner’s opinion. After an injection of these drugs he would have been unconscious in five seconds and dead in perhaps twenty minutes. There would have been no spasms, no outward sign of distress. He would have appeared to be asleep.
The officer turned to the next report, the video footage from the train car. At first it didn’t appear helpful. The camera was mounted in the front of the train and Arthur had sat on the first row. Therefore Arthur himself was not in the recording – the camera’s angle
didn’t include his seat but it did show the one next to him. That seat was empty at first but then an older man in a trenchcoat had taken the seat next to Arthur’s for perhaps two minutes. From the camera’s angle the police could see almost straight down onto the man’s balding pate. But they had one important four-second piece of footage that showed the man turn toward Arthur and, using his hand, possibly graze Arthur’s arm. It was impossible to tell for sure – Arthur’s arm itself wasn’t in the picture – but the policeman surmised from the seat placement and the camera angle that the man could have bumped Arthur’s arm in the place where the injection had occurred.
Five seconds later the man left his seat and ten seconds after that he exited the train. The police had very little – they knew the station at which the man left the train and they had a very vague description of a balding older probably Caucasian man with gray hair wearing a trenchcoat. There was no frontal shot from the camera so they had no idea what he looked like.
Brian asked, “Are you treating this as a homicide?”
“We are, Mr. Sadler. I wish I could be optimistic about the chances of successfully finding this man who sat next to your friend, but we have very little to go on. I promise to give it my best shot and keep you informed.” He gave Brian his phone number and email address for future contact.
Brian then gave the officer a brief background of the bombing in New York and Arthur’s connection to the vanished mobster John Spedino. He also provided the number of Special Agent Underwood in the Manhattan office of the FBI. If there were a connection between the events in New York and Arthur’s death these two men needed to communicate.
At four pm Nicole called. Brian gave her the news that Arthur Borland’s death was a homicide. Carissa wasn’t strong, he said, and he was going to try to convince her to move into central London for a week or so in order that he could be of more help to her.
Brian Sadler Archaeology 04 - The Bones in the Pit Page 11
