“I feel so sorry for her, Nicole. She has nobody but some neighbors. Her mother lives in South Africa and is very old and Arthur’s mother is in a dementia facility north of London. She hasn’t been lucid in months. I want to help Carissa but I have to work too. It would be so much easier if I could have her staying nearby. I’m going to offer the second bedroom in the flat. If she refuses I’m going to try to put her up in a hotel near here. That’s the least I can do for old friends.”
Nicole changed the subject. “Agent Underwood called me again and reiterated your concerns for my safety. I wish you’d talked to me first, Brian. I’m a big girl; I don’t need you arranging a baby-sitting service for me.”
“I know it’s no excuse but I told him all that when I was drunk. I agree I should have called you but I knew you wouldn’t do the security if I asked you. Are you going to do it?”
“No. I don’t want to live like that, watching over my shoulder every second. I agree with you John Spedino might have had something to do with the bombing and Arthur’s death. But remember something. In fact, I’m sure you remember it every single day. I do. John Spedino got his revenge on me already. He raped me, Brian. He violated me like the animal he is. His score with me is even already.” She began to cry.
“I don’t think about it, Nicole. I know how traumatic that was and I love you more than I ever have. You were a victim. And you’re right – he was an animal. That doesn’t mean he thinks the score’s settled. But it’s your decision. I can’t do it for you.”
After his conversation with Nicole, Brian called Carissa Borland. To his surprise, she immediately accepted his offer to use the second bedroom at the flat in Cadogan Square.
“I won’t be a bother,” she told him, “and I think I need to be in the city to deal with everything right now. A hotel would be expensive for me but your flat would be a welcome change to this old house where Arthur and I have lived for decades.” Her voice quivered. “It’s really hard without him, you know.”
“I know the loss I feel,” Brian replied. “I can’t comprehend the depth of yours.”
Brian sent a car to pick up Carissa late that afternoon. He arrived at the flat before she did, cleaned things up from his episode last evening and presented her a key when she arrived. By seven pm she had settled in so they popped around the corner to a quiet pub for a pint and a sandwich. So much for Brian’s vow to stop drinking.
Earlier Brian had told Carissa about the lunch with Arthur and the manuscripts he was working on. Now he brought up a subject he’d been waiting for the right time to broach with Carissa. “Would you mind after things settle down if I come out to your house and look through Arthur’s papers? I’m wondering if he might have photocopies or other notes. This Knights Templars thing somehow is involved with the crimes that have been committed.”
She was more than happy to have Brian come out. “Arthur was a bit of a packrat, Brian, as you may know. When he’s on a mission, like he has been lately with this Knights Templars thing, he has his laptop, books, papers, you-name-it, all over the place. I can’t even dust in his study, it’s so cluttered! I guess…” her voice broke, “I guess I can clean it up now, can’t I?”
“Leave everything until I come, please. Let me go through things. I need to know what he’d been researching – it might help figure out the reason for his death.”
They agreed Brian would come to the house soon, after the funeral was over and things calmed down a bit.
-----
“There was nothing in the briefcase other than his notes, sir. Maybe fifty pages of scribbling about this and that.”
“Any reference to manuscripts?”
“Everywhere. Apparently he was working on something involving copies of old manuscripts. You want to see the notes? I can scan and email them to you.”
Copies of old manuscripts? There are copies? “Yes. Do that but do this too. Get in his house and find those copies. I didn’t know copies existed so I need you to get them. This is critical. Don’t let anyone know you were there.”
“His wife lives in the house – right? What about her?”
“What about her? Find the copies of those books. Do I need to tell you how to do this job or can you handle it by yourself?”
“Yes, I can handle it, sir. Just wanted to be sure how big a priority finding the copies is. Dirty work costs more – but you already know that. It’ll be done. Tonight.”
-----
At three am the ringing of the cellphone on his nightstand awoke Brian. He listened, speechless, responded briefly and hung up. He walked down the hallway and knocked softly on the second bedroom door.
“Carissa, it’s Brian.”
She was a light sleeper, especially in a strange place. “Come in,” she immediately responded.
She saw the grim look on his face and cringed. No news in the middle of the night was ever good.
“I just got a call. I’m so sorry, Carissa. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this but your house is on fire. Totally engulfed in flames. It’s a total loss, the policeman said.”
“Oh Brian. What’s going on?” She cried quietly.
“I wish I knew. Dear God, I wish I knew.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
As police and arson investigators combed through the ruins that had been Arthur and Carissa Borland’s house outside London, Giovanni Moretti sat at his office desk in his apartment in Rome. It was a beautiful morning and he had his French doors open wide. The bustling noises of the street below were somehow soothing. He had come so far – on top of the world, down again and now back up. At this point nothing could go wrong and he was going to make sure it stayed that way.
On his desk lay a cheap cellphone he had bought yesterday on the street. It was a throwaway – the kind people use who can’t afford a cell plan. The phone rang and Moretti picked it up – only one person had the number so he skipped straight to business. “What did you find?”
“Nothing. We tossed the entire house, top to bottom. We spent a lot of time in his study and looked for anything that might involve manuscripts. Especially we looked for copies of books, like you requested. I didn’t see a laptop, although there was a computer desk and some wires. It looks like he used his study for research – there were open books all over the place – pretty messy. But no copies of manuscripts. Oh by the way, his wife wasn’t there so that wasn’t an issue. So we torched the house. They’ll never know we were there.”
Moretti digested that information. “Before you set the fire you made sure there was no evidence that could tie this to you or me. Is that correct?”
“Are you kidding?” the man said haughtily. “This ain’t my first job, mister.” He didn’t know who his employer was and frankly could care less. After the job he was to call this number and report. Then he would receive fifty thousand Euros in his Swiss account. Same as the last time. Regardless, nobody questioned his abilities. He was good at this and that made him angry. “You do your job, buddy, whatever it is, and I’ll do mine. Capisce?”
Moretti hung up, made a few keystrokes on his computer and transferred the money to the arsonist’s account. He hadn’t expected the man to find anything and frankly could care less about the manuscript. That was Cardinal Conti’s baby, not his. He just wanted Borland’s house searched with no loose ends. He had hoped Borland’s wife would be out of the picture too, just for the sake of wrapping everything up neatly. That last part hadn’t happened but he felt satisfaction anyway. An eye for an eye. Vindication. Job complete.
After the call Giovanni Moretti concentrated on the next project. He furiously jotted notes on a legal pad, finalizing a plan for vendetta number three. The first two, he mused, had gone exceedingly well. He had wanted Brian Sadler dead but the antiquities dealer was too high profile for that. One of Sadler’s best friends was President of the United States. Even an accident would have been given the highest possible scrutiny.
No, Moretti mused, I handled that correctly. Conti wanted th
e book, the book was in Brian Sadler’s beloved gallery, and now both it and his associate Collette Conning were gone. The investigation appeared to be geared completely toward the theft of the manuscript, and why not? Blowing up a Fifth Avenue store was a big deal, but that just added an element of mystery to everything. No one had a clue that it was in retribution for what Brian Sadler had done to him. Yes, that one had gone well.
So did Arthur Borland’s unfortunate demise. Moretti had checked the Internet for any information that might indicate Borland had been murdered – there was nothing. Being an Earl and a member of the House of Lords, his obituary understandably had been prominently featured. His flamboyant father Captain Jack Borland was also mentioned, but from what Moretti read in the newspapers the Earl’s death was presumed from natural causes.
All’s well with those two, Moretti thought. Two people who have caused me more inconvenience than any others on earth have now been dealt with satisfactorily. And there’s only one left to teach a lesson. And what a lesson she’s going to get!
He picked up his throwaway cellphone and made a call to the 214 area code in the United States.
Dallas, Texas.
After a twenty minute conversation the plan was in place to exact retribution from the third of his enemies.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The morning after Cardinal Conti returned to Rome Giovanni Moretti’s cellphone rang.
The Cardinal sounded ecstatic. “I just wanted to offer my apology. The manuscript is everything I hoped it would be and more. It’s undoubtedly the most interesting thing I have ever read – without your resourcefulness I wouldn’t have it. Although your late-stage negotiating irritated me, everything was worth it. Five million US was a small price to pay for what I’ve seen so far. And I’ve hardly begun, Giovanni.”
Moretti was surprised but cautious. He and Cardinal Conti had been good friends once but everything had gotten strained over the manuscript. Giovanni Moretti owed the cleric a debt – there was no doubt about that – and he had decided to demand money for the ancient volume mostly as a matter of principle. Moretti had plenty of money already but everyone could use a little more, he reasoned, and the Church had plenty to spare. Besides, he could keep his friend the Cardinal on edge. That was always pleasant. A little game he played.
Choosing to take Conti’s statement at face value, he said, “Thank you, Dominic. I regret your anger earlier but I’m glad to see you feel you got value for your hard-earned money.” Moretti laughed and, surprisingly, so did Cardinal Conti. Moretti’s initial concerns eased.
“You drive a hard bargain, Giovanni, but you had me in a tight place and you bargained well. I want to show you what the manuscript revealed. I think you will be astounded. The information in this book will change history, and you were an integral part of bringing it to light. Meet me for lunch on Thursday and I’ll give you the revelation of your life.”
Moretti couldn’t help but be intrigued. He agreed and they picked a time and place.
At the appointed hour Cardinal Conti sat in a booth at the back of Ristorantino Moccia facing the entrance so he could watch for Giovanni Moretti. The tiny place near the Coliseum had only eight tables. Except for Conti the place was empty when Moretti entered, a tinkle from a bell over the door announcing his arrival. He slid in the booth across from Conti and smiled.
“Good to see you under better circumstances, Eminence.”
“And you, Giovanni. It’s good indeed to see you as well.”
Moretti was pleased to see the cleric so happy. He had been concerned when they met in New York that this powerful man might try to retaliate. But it seemed they were back on familiar ground – two old friends who had just consummated a deal that benefitted both sides.
Moretti recognized the folder sitting on the table, the one he had placed in the locker at the New York gym, the one that had held the manuscript. The old man motioned to it. “What do you have to show me?”
“Patience, my good man. A friend once told me to have patience.” Conti laughed heartily and Moretti smiled.
“I suppose I had that coming, my friend.”
A waiter took Cardinal Conti’s order for a bottle of Chianti as the doorbell tinkled lightly again. Conti glanced up then looked at Giovanni Moretti.
“I don’t know how I can repay you for all you’ve done, Giovanni. I can only hope I’ve been fair with you.”
“Fair? I got exactly what I asked for, Cardinal…”
The cleric’s face beamed with a broad smile as he quietly said, “And now, my friend, you’ll get exactly what you deserve.”
“What did you say?” Moretti stopped as two men came to their booth. They were dressed identically in black suits and ties with white shirts.
One of the men acknowledged the Cardinal, looked at Moretti and pulled out a badge and ID card. “I am Inspector Gamboli and this is my associate. We are from the DIA.”
Moretti blanched. The Direzione Investigativa Antimafia is a branch of the national Italian police force aimed at fighting organized crime. He was well familiar with the DIA.
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.”
The Inspector looked at Cardinal Conti who jovially replied, “John, you know there’s no mistake.” He gestured expansively toward Moretti. “This is your man, inspector.”
“John Spedino, you’re under arrest for murder, drug trafficking and unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.” The men pulled Moretti out of the booth, handcuffs ready.
And suddenly John Spedino, the missing godfather who had become Giovanni Moretti, was a fugitive no longer. He glared at Dominic Cardinal Conti who was positively beaming with delight. If looks could kill, as the saying goes, there would have been one dead Cardinal in the restaurant.
As the officers began to roughly usher Spedino out, he turned to Conti and hissed, “Don’t I even get a kiss, Judas?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vatican City
Now that Giovanni Moretti had been properly repaid for his insolence Dominic Cardinal Conti could get to work. Conti was amused at how easily he had flushed Moretti into the hands the DIA. The man had grown old and complacent. There was a time, the Cardinal reflected, when Spedino would have been too wary and crafty to be caught like a fish in a barrel. But not this time. John Spedino wouldn’t get away again – after the godfather’s escape from Pavon Prison in Guatemala the President ordered the FBI to find and recapture him. The drug trafficking charges lodged against Spedino in the States hadn’t gone away when he was convicted of murder in the Central American country. The American government wouldn’t let him go now. He was going to prison in the United States this time.
Getting the attention of the authorities had been simple. Once Cardinal Conti arrived back in Rome with the manuscript he placed a call to the FBI’s Manhattan office. Once he mentioned the reason for the call and who he was, it took only a moment for the prestigious official of the Catholic Church to be connected with Special Agent-in-Charge Jack Underwood.
Apologetically Conti explained that he might have inadvertently helped precipitate the bombing in New York because of his request to a man named Giovanni Moretti.
“I wanted a manuscript for the Vatican Archives – one volume that had been missing from a set for hundreds of years,” the Cardinal said. “The Church has the others. Once I read in the New York Times that the last volume was extant I asked Mr. Moretti to obtain it for us. In past years he has been a major benefactor of the church and I was aware he collects rare works of literature. It seemed natural to use him as an intermediary. We do this often. When sellers learn the Church wants something the price usually skyrockets. It happens all the time when we evidence interest in an antiquity. So we use middle-men to help us discreetly acquire items of interest.”
Conti continued his lie. “I became concerned as I spoke more with Mr. Moretti about this project. He seemed eager, like a schoolboy almost. When I saw the news and realized he had obviously been behind the bombin
g on Fifth Avenue, not to mention having someone steal the manuscript itself, I recorded my next meeting with him.”
He had heavily edited the recording. At this point it had become simply an excerpt from the middle of their conversation during the aborted lunch meeting in Rome. Regardless, Moretti’s language was clear. What was omitted completely was the rest of the conversation – the part that showed Conti’s complicity in the crime.
Underwood asked the Cardinal to play the recording.
As it began the agent listened closely. First he heard Cardinal Conti’s voice.
“I asked you to get a manuscript for me, Giovanni. Not to kill eleven people and blow up a building. Are you crazy? Did you think I would condone this atrocity?”
“I followed your direction, Your Eminence. My enthusiasm in creating such a scene wasn’t because of you. It was an old score that needed settling. Someone needed a lesson and through my efforts, that person got one. You needn’t worry about how I handle my responsibilities. By now you should know that. We’ve worked together a long time, Dominic. Don’t start second-guessing me now. You’ll have your manuscript. Let it go, my friend.
“Although I utilized what appeared to be a priest in the operation, it will ultimately be clear to the authorities that the Church was actually not involved at all. The man will easily be recognized as an impostor once they investigate.”
Agent Underwood was speechless. Here was the major break he’d needed – convincing evidence that Giovanni Moretti, whoever he was, had masterminded the Fifth Avenue bombing. He spent another few minutes talking with Conti, who advised nothing of substance followed that dialogue and he had erased the balance. If it had been anyone else, Agent Underwood might have been suspicious. But this man was one of the highest-ranking people in the Vatican, head of the Church’s bank. He was above reproach.
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