“I’m not but like everyone else I’m overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of everything here in the Vatican. It’s such a magnificent place. I always enjoy coming to Rome. It’s one of my favorite places to visit.”
The tea arrived and the talk turned to the manuscript. The ancient volume sat on the desk between the Cardinal and Brian. Dominic opened it up to a random page and said, “It’s my pleasure to return this book to you. You may not know that in the papal archives are the other four volumes of the set to which this one also belonged. If you and your client decide to sell this book we would appreciate being notified. Of course, we could also offer a generous tax deduction for the owner if he chose to donate it.” The cleric smiled.
“I’ll pass the information along, Eminence. May I ask how you came into possession of this manuscript? You know, I’m sure, that it was stolen from my gallery in New York during a bombing.”
“I do know that and I offer my condolences at the losses you suffered. An anonymous person donated the book to the Church. I wasn’t involved in obtaining it. I apologize that I don’t know anything about that. I was assured the book itself couldn’t have been the cause of the tragedy in New York. After all, it turned up here not long afterwards.”
Although he thought the cleric’s response somewhat naïve, Brian took it at face value. It was unlikely a man as senior in the affairs of the Catholic Church as Conti would have had direct knowledge of a crime such as this. He moved on.
“On a related subject, may I ask your opinion about something?”
“Of course, Mr. Sadler. Anything.”
Brian rose and turned to the front of the manuscript. He flipped a few pages then looked puzzled. “May I?” he said, turning the book around so he could read the pages.
Brian turned one page, then another, then flipped back again. The Cardinal watched him closely.
“Are you looking for something in particular, Mr. Sadler?” Conti asked.
“This is strange. Let me show you something.” Brian opened his briefcase and took out the thick sheaf of papers that was the scanned copy of the manuscript. He flipped a few pages and came to the first page of coded symbols. Pulling it out, he laid it in front of Cardinal Conti.
The cleric’s face turned ashen. He tried to conceal his shock. Where had this man gotten a copy of the manuscript? The man in the Monument Club library assured him the only copy had been taken. Conti had destroyed that copy. Where did Brian Sadler get another?
“What do you have here?” Conti tried to appear nonchalant.
“Have you spent much time looking at the manuscript, Eminence?”
“A bit. I’ve read some diary entries here and there. It makes for interesting reading but frankly it’s a bit dull in my opinion. I had hoped for a little adventure!” The Cardinal talked more freely than normal; he was hoping to find out what Brian Sadler knew.
“This page is different from the others. There are thirteen of them in the manuscript. But this is strange. The original book doesn’t have this page. Look, Eminence.” Brian leaned over the desk and examined the book’s binding closely. “Someone’s removed this page.”
The Cardinal feigned surprise as Brian carefully turned the ancient pages one by one until he came to the place where the next sheet of symbols belonged.
“This one’s gone too. And do you see, Eminence? It’s been removed too.”
“All right, Mr. Sadler. I understand what you’re saying. Pardon me if I don’t see the significance of some missing pages. The manuscript is very old, after all. Could they have been lost along the way? Couldn’t they even have just fallen out?”
“Unlikely. From what I’ve seen here, I think the only missing pages are the ones with symbols. That seems strange, don’t you think?”
Conti was wary, cautious. He hoped the response to his next question wouldn’t create a problem.
“And what do the…what did you call them, ‘symbol pages,’…contain, Mr. Sadler?”
Brian had no reason to hide the truth. He believed this Cardinal, head of both a national bank and the Knights Templars, would be an ally in finding the truth about the Templars manuscript.
“Cardinal Conti, I need to tell you that I’m aware of your secret work.”
Dear God in Heaven. What did this man mean? Dominic felt a wave of heat sweep over his body. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He strove to maintain his composure.
“I’m not sure what you’re saying, Mr. Sadler. What do you believe is my ‘secret work’?”
“You’re head of the organization known as the Knights Templars. I wanted to let you know I am aware of that fact so perhaps you can help me.”
Conti relaxed. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Sadler. The Knights Templars were eradicated in the fourteenth century.”
“I mean no disrespect, Eminence. The Knights Templars exist today. I know that you are head of that secret Order within the Church. I want to share some potentially important information with you. I have no idea why the original doesn’t have these particular pages, but I located a copy in the archives at a library in London. Luckily my copy did have those missing pages. I’ve had them translated and I’ve read the story. It’s a fascinating tale, Cardinal.”
Conti forced himself to be calm. More concerned than ever, the Cardinal waited for Brian to continue. He must find out whom Sadler had told about the translation. Here was a new set of problems and at least one more person to deal with.
It took ten minutes to relate the mysterious story embedded in thirteen coded pages. The cleric seemed interested, Brian thought as he talked, but Conti didn’t have the anticipatory excitement he expected. Although without the pages it wasn’t possible, it seemed to Brian as if the Cardinal already knew what Brian was telling him. But maybe he was reading the cleric wrong. Maybe this man knew about the Most Holy Relics from other sources. As head of the Templars that was likely, Brian figured. One other observation Brian made was that the Cardinal looked really upset. He was nervous. Maybe this was normal – maybe it was some sort of health issue the cleric had.
Brian told about how the librarian at the Monument Club helped him find materials Lord Borland had been working on. He briefly related the attack at the club’s library and how the intruder had stolen a copy of the manuscript but not before a scan could be made.
“How fortuitous that was,” Brian said enthusiastically.
“Indeed,” the Cardinal replied warily. “So this librarian has been helping you. Please continue.” Conti jotted a note to himself.
“It’s a long story,” Brian replied. “I’ll try to make it brief.”
“I have time, Mr. Sadler. Please tell me everything. I think it’s very interesting.”
Brian told Cardinal Conti about the Fifth Avenue bombing, the death of Arthur Borland and the sabotage of Nicole’s car. He said the FBI was hard at work to see if there was a connection between all this and an Italian Mafia boss named John Spedino.
“Have you heard of John Spedino, Eminence?”
Now Dominic Conti became really nervous. This American appeared to be fitting all the puzzle pieces into place. Presumably the FBI agent had not broken his promise to him – the promise not to reveal Conti’s connection to Spedino. If Brian didn’t know that, he also couldn’t know how the Cardinal got the manuscript. He didn’t know how to respond to Sadler’s question. If the FBI Agent had told Brian about Conti’s tie to Spedino, he’d know Dominic was lying. The cleric made a choice. He’d answer with a question.
“An Italian Mafioso named John Spedino? Should I know him?”
“No, Eminence. I just thought you might have run across his name. He was very big in the Mafia in New York, I’m told.”
Conti parried. “Do you believe the Mafia was involved in the crime against your gallery? If so, what would its motive have been?”
“I think it’s personal – a vendetta against the three of us. Since you have the original manuscript, I’m inclined to think the attack on the galler
y and my assistant was aimed at me personally and the book theft was a diversion. I have a past with John Spedino. The three of us – Lord Borland, my friend Nicole Farber and I – were instrumental in putting him in prison in Guatemala. We learned he escaped and I’m certain he’s involved in the violence against all of us.”
Cardinal Conti wanted to end this meeting. Now. He was feeling sick to his stomach; his involvement with John Spedino and the manuscript was becoming more and more difficult to manage. He had told a plethora of lies to Officer Messina of the Gendarmerie Corps, in front of the Holy Father, no less. Now this American Brian Sadler shows up, obviously aware of the meaning of the thirteen pages of coded symbols and with far too many things figured out.
As expeditiously as possible Cardinal Conti finished their discussion. Feigning a sudden lack of time, he thanked Brian for coming and offered to arrange a private tour of the Vatican for him. Brian declined, saying he was flying to London in a few hours, and then he would be going to Nova Scotia to personally find out what the Most Holy Relics were. He wrapped the manuscript in a heavy cloth, put it into his briefcase and left Vatican City.
Dominic Conti pulled out the scotch immediately after Brian Sadler left his office. He poured a stiff one and contemplated the problems that now faced him. He had to stop Brian Sadler. That would be his prime mission; solving that problem would alleviate most of the others.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dallas – two weeks ago
In a seedy lounge not far from downtown Dallas two men sat at the bar. It was four in the afternoon and only two other customers were in the place. Sammy Freeland was a punk, a decent mechanic and a lousy sports bettor. He wasn’t the brightest guy on earth but he fancied himself a winner. His drinking companion was Joey “the Barber” Barberi, a small-time hoodlum who had adopted a swagger and line of bullshit he thought made him seem Mafia. Which he wasn’t. What he was, was Sammy Freeland’s bookie.
Like many people addicted to gambling, Sammy thought he was pretty good at picking the teams. Next week – it was always next week that was going to make him whole again. Meanwhile his meager salary at the repair shop in East Dallas couldn’t match his voracious appetite for the next bet. At the moment he owed the Barber over five thousand dollars. The bookie had let Sammy ride once, then again, as ever-larger bets put Sammy deeper and deeper into the pile of shit he’d created for himself. Sammy couldn’t pick a winner if it looked him in the face, Joey Barberi thought. But he had gotten a phone call. There was a job that was perfect for this loser. Joey stood to make fifty grand for this little project. He’d keep almost all the money and not even get his hands dirty. Sammy’d do it for him.
When he was losing, which was almost always nowadays, Sammy Freeland hated having to meet his bookie face-to-face. But there was no way around it. You had to own up to your losses and recently the Barber had allowed Sammy to coast a little. He didn’t know exactly how much he was down right now – he didn’t like to think about that because it scared him. The interest was twenty percent a week and it mounted up so fast Sammy could only dig out now by picking a winner.
When the bookie came in the bartender had greeted him by name. Joey Barberi was a regular here – every Tuesday around five he sat at the bar and settled bets made the previous weekend. Men in suits, men in shorts, men in dirty work pants – a steady stream of people from all walks of life settled up with the Barber. Each week the bartender silently observed the transactions – the bookie took in a lot more cash than he paid out to other people. From what the man behind the bar saw, bookmaking was a money-making proposition. Illegal, but who cares? Everybody’s got an angle and in this one nobody gets hurt. At least not until they can’t pay up! That made him smile. These stupid chumps – betting everything they have and more on one game after another. Crazy.
When the bookie sat down next to him Sammy had started things cordially. “Hey, Joey, how about those Cowboys? I think they’re on a roll. Man, a couple of points the other way the past two weeks and you’d be handing me a wad of dough! I think this weekend’s the deal, man. I’m going all the way.”
Joey took a swig of beer and said, “You think this weekend’s the deal, Sammy? Is this the one that’s going to dig you out? You owe me five grand, buddy. How much do you want this time?”
“Five Gs more, Joey. I’ll take five Gs and put it all on Jerry Jones and the Boys. They’re going to beat the Redskins straight up, and they’re six point underdogs. Romo’s playing Monday night and they’ll win by a touchdown. This one’s a sure thing, Joey.”
“Little news for ya. The fun and games are over. I’ve personally covered you with the guys I deal with. Know what that means? I don’t owe five grand to anybody. I already paid your bet to my guys. You owe me five grand. You. Owe. Me. You get it?” There was no smile, no friendly banter. This was different. Sammy had never heard the Barber get serious with him before. It was a little scary, frankly.
Sammy took a big drink of beer and signaled the bartender for another. He figured his bookie would pay the tab; Joey always did and Sammy had the sum total of three bucks in his pocket right now. That had to last him till payday.
“I got it, Joey. I know this weekend is gonna work…”
“Bullshit!” Joey slammed his hand on the bar so hard two customers across the room looked up. Joey’s voice was loud – those guys had been here since lunch and were drunk as hell, and even they heard it. The bartender didn’t miss a beat but he stayed put behind the bar, cleaning glasses with a rag like he hadn’t heard a thing. He kept his eyes averted and his ears wide open.
The bookie lowered his voice. “Bullshit, Sammy. You’re a loser. You can’t pay me five grand, much less the five more you’ll owe me Monday night when your damned Cowboys lose another game. You’re in deep, Sammy. You’re in really deep and all I have to do is make one phone call. Your life could change forever. You can’t work with your damned legs broken. You get what I’m sayin’, smart guy? You get it?”
Shit. This was getting bad. Sammy needed to take a leak but now didn’t seem like the time to leave. He hoped he didn’t pee in his pants. That would be embarrassing.
“Yeah, Joey. Yeah, I get it. But I can’t pay you what I owe you now. Like you said. You gotta let me try…”
“No, Sammy. I don’t gotta let you try. I have another idea. I have a job for you. Something right up your alley. And you know what? You do this for me and you’ll be back to even. That five grand you owe me? It’ll be wiped away like the wind-driven snow. Whadda you think about that?”
“Sure, Joey. Sure. Anything you say. But I’m a mechanic. I don’t know much about jobs. Who do I gotta kill?” He laughed nervously, hoping that wasn’t what the job really was about.
“Come on. You been watchin’ too many movies. You’re a good mechanic. For you this is a piece of cake. Fixin’ a car that belongs to some scum-sucking lawyer. A little night job that’ll take ten minutes. You don’t like lawyers, do you Sammy? Nobody likes lawyers.”
“Hell no,” Sammy responded, perking up as the Barber lightened up on him. All he had to do was work on some lawyer’s car at night? Piece of cake, like Joey said. “Hell no, I don’t like lawyers. But if nobody likes ’em, why do you want me to fix his car?”
“It’s not a he, it’s a she. And you’re not really fixin’ her car. You’re kind of unfixin’ it.” He smiled and spoke even more quietly. “All you gotta do is a little brake job on a Mercedes. Simple, huh?”
“Sure, Joey. I’m in! Hey, can I do the job fast and then you front me five more for this weekend?”
Unbelievable, the bookie thought. This guy’s got it bad. But no worse than most of the others. This one just doesn’t have enough income to pay his debts.
“Sure thing. You can do it tomorrow night. And five Gs more for a solid player like you? Piece of cake! You’re close to a big payoff. I can feel it.” They both laughed.
When Joey talked like that it made Sammy feel important. He smiled from ear to e
ar. “Me too, Joey. I’m gonna win Monday! I can feel it too!”
From ten feet away the bartender heard the whole thing.
Chapter Forty-Five
The bartender pulled drafts of beer for the patrons crowding the bar. Monday Night Football would be on right after the news. Tonight was a big game – the Dallas Cowboys hosted their old rivals the Redskins. Although it was here at home the Cowboys’ season hadn’t been so great and they were six-point underdogs tonight.
The bar was busy, filled with working-class guys and a few women. Most were regulars who stopped by several afternoons a week after they got off work. This part of Dallas was home to junkyards, paint and repair shops and other places where workers got their hands dirty. No problem. In this bar they were welcome. And tonight they’d yell together, hoping to bring the Cowboys a much-needed victory.
The local news was wrapping up as the bartender got a short break in the action. He glanced at the screen – a story was being reported about a serious car wreck in downtown a few days ago. A car careened into a busy intersection after running a red light. The gal driving it was in critical condition. Big story, the bartender thought idly, but why give it so much press? Bad car wrecks happened all the time in a major city.
The next thing he saw captured his undivided attention. The victim’s picture flashed on the screen. Man, she’s good-looking, he thought. Then it showed her name and the place she worked. Carter and Wells. He’d heard of it. Carter and Wells was a huge law firm. She was a lawyer. A lady lawyer. Holy shit.
He turned up the volume as one of the guys yelled for another round. “One sec,” he responded, his eyes glued to the screen.
The reporter said that the brake lines on her late-model Mercedes convertible had been cut. Police called it an attempted homicide and Crime Stoppers was offering a $20,000 reward. A number flashed on the screen with a promise that callers would remain anonymous.
I’ll be damned. Twenty thousand bucks. And you can remain anonymous. I’ll be damned.
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