“One is a scroll like the others found near the Dead Sea. The second is a small piece of parchment which describes the third thing, a coin said to have been held by Jesus himself.”
The astonishment on Brian’s face was not lost on his guest. Excellent, Salid thought to himself.
“These things will be very costly, Sahib,” the Arab said, using the traditional term of respect. “I am a humble man. I know how to acquire the relics and for my knowledge you must pay me one hundred thousand American dollars.” As he spoke, Salid glanced around the lobby again, obviously nervous.
Brian followed his eyes, wondering what he was looking for. “That’s a great deal of money. I have other brokers who have told me a similar story. Unfortunately I doubt I can pay that much for your information.”
Brian asked how the owner of the relics had gotten them.
“I am not at liberty to say.” Salid’s evasive answer worried Brian. Third party information was always suspect. Did this man really know where the items were? Or was he merely trying to extort a fee? Darius had dealt with Salid successfully two times in the past. Those deals involved funerary relics from twenty-second dynasty tombs. They were paltry compared to the potential value of the Bethlehem relics. But then if the scrolls and coin were real, there had never been a sale that would rival this transaction.
Brian said that authentication of the relics was the key to determining his interest in making the purchase. Authenticity was not a problem, the man replied. Brian asked if he had seen the artifacts personally.
The Egyptian dodged the question. “All things in good time. I will contact you when the time is right.” He glanced right and left again, wary of everyone around him.
“I must go now.” The man stood and hurried out of the hotel to the busy street.
It was doubtful this shabbily-dressed individual really had anything to do with the relics themselves. Salid was a man who had information, perhaps enough to generate a small fee for himself. Most likely Brian would pay something and Salid would introduce him to whoever had the relics.
He walked toward the elevators to go to his room and check emails. As he passed the front desk a man called his name. Brian saw Phillip Edmonds, Sotheby’s primary acquisitions man for ancient Middle Eastern items. Edmonds was headquartered in London – Brian had met him twice in the past few months, most recently when they both were at a sale at Sotheby’s in New York. Brian considered him a fierce competitor and went on guard immediately.
“Checking in?” Brian asked as they shook hands.
“In fact I am. Fancy meeting you here. What’s up in your world?”
“Just working on some deals.”
The desk clerk handed Edmonds his passkey. He took it and said, “Want to join me in a cup of tea?”
Brian agreed and Edmonds dropped his luggage at the concierge desk so they could put the bags in his room. The men walked toward the restaurant just as the front door of the Hilton flew open and the doorman shouted in Egyptian.
“My God,” Edmonds said. “He just ordered the front desk clerk to call an ambulance!”
They walked to the door. A crowd had gathered a block away from the hotel where the short street serving it adjoined the bustling Nile Corniche. Brian and Phillip walked up the block. A policeman had just arrived at the corner and was pushing his way through the throng.
“What happened here?” the officer asked.
Phillip translated his response. “A man was struck by a hit and run driver. This is extremely common in Cairo, I’m afraid. No one watches the pedestrians and no one controls the maniacs who drive.”
The policeman gestured with a nightstick for the throng to move back. Brian looked at the figure lying on the ground. His galabeyeh was bloody but Brian immediately recognized the light blue head adornment. Salid Mushtaf’s body was twisted grotesquely.
“I…I just had a meeting with that man. Should I tell the policeman who he is?”
“My advice? Keep out of it. If you say anything you’ll spend the rest of today at the police station. Who is he, anyway?”
Brian hesitated. “Someone who said he had some information for me.”
“About the Bethlehem Scroll?”
Brian jerked his head around and stared at Edmonds.
“Hey, old man,” Phillip said, taking Brian’s arm lightly as they returned to the hotel. “You have a lot to learn about this business. It’s a small world out there, especially in Egyptian circles. Who was this guy? Was it Ahmed? Mohammed? Salid?”
The names were people with whom Collette had arranged appointments. “Yes, Salid,” he responded quietly.
They heard a siren and stood in front of the Hilton as an ambulance arrived. Medics lifted Salid’s body onto a gurney, covered it with a sheet and rolled it into the vehicle. The ambulance moved back into traffic, no siren now required.
Brian was stunned, his face ashen. Edmonds noticed and said, “Come on. Let’s have that cup of tea. Or better yet, a drink. You need to get hold of yourself.”
Over a glass of wine Phillip said, “I’m sure you and Salid were talking about what he knew, or said he knew, about the Bethlehem Scroll. I had a meeting set up with Salid tomorrow too, so don’t feel too privileged, old chap.”
“But do you think there’s any significance to Salid’s accident and our meeting just moments before?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It was a coincidence, I’m sure. I’d wager ten or twenty people a day die in Cairo after being struck by cars. You were unfortunate enough to have witnessed one first-hand.”
Changing the subject, Phillip explained that a network of people in northern Egypt made a living just watching and listening. Sometimes they had good intel, sometimes not. Darius, he said, was a master at dealing in Egypt, because he was a native and he was trusted.
“I was as shocked about Darius’ untimely passing as anyone, and he was the most formidable opponent I’ve ever had in this business. Frankly life will be easier without his one-upping me all the time.” He smiled gently and continued.
“Seriously, Darius was a good man. He played close to the edge most of the time, but he wasn’t ever a cheat. His word was his bond. You can’t ask much more than that.”
They talked about how small the world of Middle Eastern antiquities really was.
“I win some deals, I lose some to you or others. But we’re all gentlemen, graciously accepting our victories, and not crying over our defeats.”
They finished their drinks and promised to meet up again during the week if time permitted. That afternoon Brian instructed Collette to change the venue of his meetings. He had no intention of parading his guests into the lobby for Phillip Edmonds to see, and he was sure Edmonds wouldn’t either. He also told her about the death of Salid Mushtaf.
Collette moved Brian’s meetings to the Sheraton Cairo hotel in Galae Square. Over the next three days, Brian met ten other people. Some were dealers; others were middlemen, intermediaries who might facilitate a deal between a willing buyer and seller. Although the Bethlehem Scroll was of paramount interest to Brian, he didn’t bring it up with these men because he knew what would happen.
They would feign knowledge, gathering as much information from Brian as they could, then they would go into the marketplace and try to find out how to locate these relics. If they didn’t bring the subject up themselves, his doing it would just muddy the waters.
On Thursday evening Brian met Phillip for a quick drink. They kept the conversation light and neither discussed his activities during this week in Egypt. When Phillip left for a dinner meeting Brian had a steak and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in the hotel’s dining room and then went upstairs to pack for his departure the next morning.
Brian was taking the Delta flight to Paris and changing planes for New York, arriving Friday evening. His wake-up call came sooner than he expected. As he groped around for the phone he glanced at the bedside clock. It showed 3:30, three hours earlier than the time he had reques
ted.
He answered and heard the gravelly voice that had awakened him at this same time back in New York.
“I have the items you want. Go to the Muslim Quarter, to the entrance of the Citadel, at noon today.” The caller disconnected abruptly as usual.
Brian bolted out of bed, totally alert. His heart was racing. What was he getting into? There had been nothing good about the previous calls from the same gravel-voiced man. How did he know Brian was here? Or what items he sought? For that matter, what was he even talking about? The Bethlehem Scroll? Maybe. But he’d never said that.
It only took a minute for Brian to decide what to do. This was a meeting he couldn’t afford to miss.
Chapter Five
The concierge efficiently swapped Brian’s flights from Friday to Saturday. By mid-morning he was wandering the narrow, winding streets of the Muslim Quarter. Some were cobbled, others unpaved. Many people he passed held out their hands, asking for a coin. Others touched him lightly. Being an American used to his space, this very close proximity to people made him extremely uncomfortable.
He avoided eye contact and moved quickly along. He wanted to get to the Citadel early enough to figure exactly where he should go. He wondered how he would recognize his contact. He thought the caller’s accent was American, so he figured perhaps it would not be so difficult.
He moved through Old Town, as the area was known, with a map in his hand. The taxi had dropped him ten blocks from his destination so he could see the area, and he wondered now if that had been a bad decision. He consciously avoided the eastern fringe of the Muslim Quarter. The city’s worst slums were there and the concierge told him it was no place for a Westerner.
As he moved closer to the Citadel he found himself moving deeper and deeper along crowded streets full of ragged men, women and children, all pushing and shoving. He weaved his way through throngs of people who groped at his sleeves or touched his hands. At last he popped out onto the spacious square where the Citadel stood.
The building begun in 1170 by Salah-ad-Din, better known to westerners as Saladin, was built as a fortress against the invading Crusaders. Its commanding towers rose nearly a hundred feet. Brian walked to a ticket booth with signs in English and Arabic. He reached for money and realized his pocket had been picked, probably in the melee of people just before he got to the square. Thanks to prior planning he’d lost only a few Egyptian pounds.
He bent down, reached into the top of his sock and pulled out several twenty-pound notes. He bought a ticket and entered the massive fortress. There were hundreds of tourists milling about, most of whom were Westerners. He heard English being spoken everywhere and he wondered how he would ever link up with his contact. He found a shady spot and sat on a low wall.
Precisely at noon a short Egyptian in a galabeyeh approached him and said, “Mr. Sadler?”
Brian nodded and the man said, “Follow me, please.”
They walked out of the Citadel and crossed the square to a small restaurant filled with tourists. The man directed Brian to an empty outdoor table and said, “Wait here, please.” Brian took a seat and the man left.
Soon another man crossed the square. He was portly, wearing a faded suit that had been a lighter shade of tan years ago. A hat covered his face. He walked directly to the table and sat down. Brian looked at his face. The deep pockmarks were startling. Brian struggled to avoid looking surprised.
The man appeared not to notice. “You want the Bethlehem Scroll,” he said, his gravelly, raspy voice unmistakable to Brian.
“You! I want to know who’s behind those phone calls you’ve made to me.”
Without warning, the fat man slammed his hand down on the table. “You will not talk! You will listen!”
He pulled a sheaf of folded papers from inside his jacket. “This is a photocopy of the scroll. You may take this back to New York. Also I have given you copies of a rough translation. You may authenticate any way you wish.”
Brian opened the documents. The copy of the scroll was hard to read. Obviously the original was faded. It was filled with writing in a language that Brian thought might be either Aramaic or ancient Hebrew.
The other papers were copies of a notepad on which someone appeared to have taken a stab at translating the document.
“Where are these documents now?”
“Did you understand me when I told you not to talk? Say nothing to me. Nothing.”
“There are three items: the scroll, of which you have a copy and translation; a coin; and a scrap of parchment that identifies the coin as having been held by the newborn Yeshua. The price for these three items is twenty-five million U.S. dollars. It is not negotiable. You are the only person to whom I am making this offer at this time. If you do not purchase the items within thirty days, my offer is withdrawn. I will contact you on Friday, two weeks from today. You will tell me then if you are buying the items. If you, you will meet me here in Cairo exactly two weeks thereafter. I will provide instructions for the transfer when I speak to you in two weeks.”
The man stood. “Please do not be foolish, Mr. Sadler. Do not attempt to determine who I am or how I came to acquire the artifacts. You are in a truly unique position. Take advantage of it. If you fail to do so you will never see me or this opportunity again.”
Brian watched the man walk away. He turned immediately into one of the crowded side streets off the square. Brian paid the bill and hailed a taxi sitting in a queue near the Citadel. During the ride to the hotel, he recapped the man’s instructions and exactly what he had to do to make this all work.
Chapter Six
Brian could hardly contain his excitement as he read the translation on the plane home. When he got to his office he made another copy of the scroll document then used scissors to cut all but a few lines from it. He asked Collette to run the document over to New York University, where Bijan retained the services of a man who was fluent in several ancient languages.
The next day Brian received the confirmation he wanted. The translation was in fact from the Aramaic on the small portion of the scroll text Brian had sent over. He was bursting to share the news. He desperately wanted to disclose it with Collette and Jason, to tell them about the incredible good fortune that was coming to Bijan, but he had to keep things to himself. Collette knew everything about Bijan’s financial condition. She would question how the firm could afford to make this purchase. So he kept quiet.
He called Chaim Weisenberg and asked him to set in motion the Israeli bond rental in the amount of twenty-five million dollars. Since it was late July, Weisenberg suggested they date the transaction for August 1. That meant the bonds had to be on and off his books by mid-September at the very latest, to allow Bijan to present a clean balance sheet for its 9/30 quarterly report to the Securities and Exchange Commission.
Brian called the number John Spedino had given him.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling about The Project.” He told Spedino about his meeting in Cairo and the photocopies he’d gotten. “You need to see these to convince yourself of their authenticity before we move forward.”
Spedino’s casual response surprised Brian. “They’re real. How much is he asking for them?”
Brian told him and asked, “How do you know they’re real? You haven’t even seen them.”
Spedino ignored the question. “As we agreed, I’ll give you two million dollars’ profit, making my total purchase price $27 million. How’ve you arranged to take possession of the relics?”
Brian gave him the pockmarked man’s instructions.
“Call me the minute you have the artifacts. I’ll wire your money to Bijan’s account in London then you bring the items back to New York to me.”
Spedino gave him the name and number to call at First InterCity Bank. “Don’t call him until you have the bond documents and you’re ready to do the transaction.”
“You mentioned the favorable publicity which Bijan will get from this transaction,” Brian reminded S
pedino. “Do I make an announcement that I’ve purchased the artifacts?”
Spedino said no. The announcement would come, he explained, but only after Brian handed the items over to the Church.
“I’m staying out of the picture. You can arrange publicity when you hand the scroll and the coin to the Archbishop of New York for delivery to the Vatican. He’ll be expecting your call.”
Afterwards, Brian was astonished at the trust Spedino had put in him and in the man from Egypt. He hadn’t hesitated a moment before declaring the items authentic, even though he couldn’t have seen them himself. He went through each part of this deal carefully and finally began to figure out what was going on.
Chapter Seven
The same day he received the Israeli bond documents Brian took them to the First InterCity Bank. His contact there gave the documents nothing more than a cursory glance. He opened a file and had Brian sign loan documents for $25 million, including a personal guarantee. Brian hesitated; as a matter of principle he refused to put himself personally at risk for the company’s dealings. Furthermore, John Spedino hadn’t mentioned anything about signing a personal guarantee.
“It’s merely a procedural thing,” the banker assured him. “It’s a requirement the bank has for every loan.”
This deal was foolproof so Brian ignored the danger of a personal guarantee and signed the documents. It made him a little queasy to sign for twenty-five million dollars. It was a good thing this was a done deal – he couldn’t have repaid that amount in a hundred years otherwise.
The whole thing was as simple as getting a car loan. Still his hand had shaken as he signed for more money than he had dreamed possible only months ago.
Brian gave the banker the wire transfer instructions for Bijan’s London account. He had decided the entire transaction would be done there instead of in New York. Perhaps it made no difference but in a pinch, at least an infraction of U.S. banking regulations couldn’t be hung around his neck. Once again suppressing the negative thoughts that seemed to surround this scroll acquisition, Brian optimistically forged on.
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 22
