Brian and Nicole had the car drop them at Harry Cipriani’s, one of his favorite restaurants, just a few blocks from where Bijan Rarities had been. He dismissed the driver – they would walk back after lunch – and glanced down Fifth Avenue. Now that four days had passed the concrete barriers had been removed. It was just too difficult to block this major street and the danger appeared to have been isolated to the one incident.
They ducked inside Cipriani’s and were warmly greeted by the maître d’, who offered his regret and condolences at the loss of life and property Brian had experienced. Brian was a regular and Nicole often joined him when she was in town. At a restaurant of this caliber, the senior staff knew its steady patrons well. “We’re booked solid, Mr. Sadler,” he said, glancing at his reservations list, “but if you and Miss Farber will give me a few minutes I think we can accommodate you. Just have a seat at the bar and have a glass of wine on the house.”
Within ten minutes they had a table in the busy restaurant. Through the windows Brian could see the Plaza Hotel across the street. Pedestrians jostled down the sidewalk as though nothing had happened. It was a little surreal, he thought, that life just goes on. But in Manhattan, like most huge cities, that was a fact.
“Hey,” Nicole said softly. “Earth to Brian.”
“Sorry. Was I daydreaming?”
“You were gone for a minute. You do that a lot lately. I worry about you, Brian. You’ve been through a lot. When I go back what are you planning to do next?” By asking about the future she hoped to get his mind off the present.
They hadn’t talked much about what lay ahead since the event happened. Now they chatted about the new Bijan Gallery in Old Bond Street in London. It had only been open a year or so. The decision to open a second gallery had been easy for Brian. He loved London as much as New York and he thoroughly enjoyed having a business reason to make frequent trips to England. Nicole loved it too and joined him regularly when she could grab a few days here and there.
“Don’t hold me to anything right now, but I’m thinking I’m not reopening in New York,” Brian said. “I don’t know if I can handle it, frankly. There’s just too much that’s been wrenched out of my soul and at the moment, without giving it a lot of thought, I think I might relocate to London.”
He put into words what had only been vague thoughts until now. He immediately regretted it – his thoughts and ideas didn’t even address his relationship with Nicole. He felt selfish. I’m thinking only of myself, my sadness and loss, and not the person I care the most about.
“Nicole, I…I want you to know you mean the world to me. More than anything. I’m just thinking out loud – none of this is meant to hurt you or our relationship. I love you, Nicole. I wish we were together a hundred percent of the time. You know that, right?”
“Sweetie, I do know that. And I feel the same way. I think it’s too early to make long-term plans. I’d love for you to have a gallery in Dallas. I never said it before, because I couldn’t have seen you splitting your time between New York, London and Texas, but now it might make sense if you wanted it. It’s too soon to talk about anything. You need to concentrate on what you have – the gallery in London. Work from there for awhile until you come up with a battle plan. You know I’ll support you in whatever you decide…just make a little place for me in there somewhere because I love you too!” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.
As they ate, Brian talked about tomorrow. “I’m really nervous about going into the gallery. I have no idea what to expect. I’m not sure I can keep it together.”
“You can do it. I know you and I know you’re strong. You have to help the FBI figure out what happened, for the sake of your people who died if nothing else. I’m happy to go with you if you’d like.”
“I need to do it by myself, Nicole. This is going to be hard but I need to make this first step toward returning to the reality of what things will be going forward. I hope you understand. You’re my rock right now. But I have to be able to stand alone too.”
Chapter Twelve
The doorman rang Brian’s apartment and announced the arrival of the senior FBI agent. Once Underwood was settled into Brian’s living room with a cup of coffee he gave Brian and Nicole an update.
Yesterday the FBI had learned the identity of the dead driver of the stolen truck, an American citizen named Hassan Palavi born here but raised in Iran.
“He’s never broken the law in the USA and we can’t find anything about him. He had an American passport and came to the States a lot in the past few years. We searched his apartment in Queens. It’s a bare-bones place, a few pieces of furniture, the Koran and a couple of other foreign language books, and no food in the fridge. At this point I can say we’re not considering this a terrorist act. No one’s claimed responsibility and frankly, what’s the point of such destruction just so a priest can steal a book? That’s the mystery we have to figure out while we look for the perpetrator.”
The conversation shifted to the man in clerical garb – the primary focus of the investigation so far. The agent explained they were carefully avoiding calling him a priest since no one knew who he was.
“We have two good shots of his face. We first called the Archdiocese since it’s only a few blocks from you and he might have come from there. Every single person who works at St. Patrick’s or the Archdiocese offices, including the Archbishop, looked at the shots. No one recognized him and we determined his appointment wasn’t made by anyone there. That’s not to say some other church in town didn’t send a priest to blow up Bijan. But we now believe this guy was dressed as a priest to throw us off. We need to know if he was paid by someone or acting on his own behalf. What was his interest in the old Templar book, the one you originally thought was worthless. Obviously it was worth killing for.”
Agent Underwood continued. “This was a very big job, Mr. Sadler. Putting all the parts of this together, including a suicide bomber, a carefully timed operation, the shooting of Collette Conning and blowing up part of a Fifth Avenue building – all those things point to a large-scale operation with a lot of money behind it. I can’t tell you everything we’re working on right now, but I need you to think if there is someone who holds a grudge against you or the gallery. Could this have been a retaliatory strike – revenge for something? If it is, it must have been something major. If you can think of anything, it could be a tremendous help.”
The agent explained that a press conference would be held at 5:45 pm in front of Bijan’s boarded-up building. The FBI and police department would have representatives and Underwood himself would be the primary speaker.
“We’re going to release details about the pickup driver, the method by which they blew up the gallery and pictures of the man dressed as a priest. We’ll also reveal that Collette was shot prior to the bombing and the guard was run over by the pickup. Once we’re finished, Mr. Sadler, you’re free to speak to the media yourself. One thing I ask – if there’s ever anything you intend to tell the press that I don’t know, tell me first. We consider you a victim, Mr. Sadler, and your cooperation is essential.”
Brian looked at Nicole. She took his hand and replied, “You can count on Brian to work with you. He is a victim. He’s lost a great deal. And we both want you to find out what happened here.”
“I want to offer a reward,” Brian said, looking at Nicole. “Is that OK for me to do?”
“I see nothing wrong with it. Agent Underwood?”
“It’s usually a good idea. It could bring out someone who has information. What amount are you thinking?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
“OK, with your permission I’ll use the standard language about requiring arrest and conviction to claim the reward. That eliminates a lot of problems.
Underwood stood and extended his hand. “Unless I see you at the press conference I’ll meet you at ten am tomorrow at the gallery. Thanks for your time. I can show myself out.”
While they were meeting
Brian’s muted cellphone had vibrated several times as calls and voicemails were received. He checked it – none of the five numbers was one he recognized.
“I want to talk to you about our conversation,” he told Nicole. “Just let me listen to one voicemail and see who these people are.”
He put the phone on speaker and pressed the first voicemail number. “Mr. Sadler, this is Arlen Shadrick with the Post. I’ll be at the FBI’s press conference this afternoon. Wondered if you would be too and if I could grab you for a quick interview afterwards. Please call me back.” He left a number.
“The rest are probably his contemporaries at the other news services,” Nicole commented. “If you want to listen to them all now it’s ok with me.”
He did and she was right. They were from Fox, CNN, the Times and WNBC New York. He listened to each message long enough to ascertain who was calling, then deleted them. “I guess whichever one gets to me first will be the one I talk to,” he said absently.
“My suggestion is we develop a few talking points that you’re comfortable with. You stick to those and give a ‘no comment’ to anything else. That’ll make it easier for you.”
“I’m sure glad I have you, Nicole. You think of everything. I’d have just gone out there and winged it.”
“Yes, and that wouldn’t have been good, Brian. These people are digging for dirt. They want something juicy and good. They’d love to catch you in an error or bring out a deep emotion no one has seen. We need to role-play before you do anything. Then I think you should hold a press conference yourself. Let them all attend at once instead of your having to endure this half a dozen times. Maybe you allow questions after your statement, maybe not. That’s up to you. And just so I know, do you really think you should go to the FBI’s press conference later on?”
“No way. Let’s just watch it on TV from here.”
“Agreed. You shouldn’t be there. It’ll just put the media into a feeding frenzy and you won’t be ready for them.”
They popped a bottle of good Chardonnay and talked about the meeting. Brian pondered the agent’s question about revenge or retaliation.
“I can’t think of a reason anyone would be angry enough at me to do something like this. And the reason for the entire thing was obviously to steal the Templars manuscript. That’s clear from the video. The priest guy shot Collette just before the truck crashed in. He took the book with him. I don’t think this has anything to do with me.”
Nicole sat quietly for a few minutes, slowly sipping her wine. She racked her brain. Finally she said, “There’s one person who once was powerful enough to pull this off. He had the connections, he had the money and he has the motive. He hates both of us.” She looked Brian in the eyes. “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Sure. But that’s impossible, Nicole. He’s in a Guatemalan prison serving a life sentence for murder. Right?”
“Far as we know. Do you think we should check and make sure he’s still there?”
“I’m not sure who to call.”
“Well, there’s one person who owes you a debt of gratitude for past services rendered. I’ll bet you can call the President of the United States and get your answer.”
Chapter Thirteen
For thirty years John “Johnny Speed” Spedino was the godfather, the capo del capi, boss of bosses. Head of the powerful New York mob, he was the most dangerous criminal in America, seemingly beyond the clutches of law enforcement for decades. He was as elusive as John Gotti, who earned the nickname “Teflon Don” for his ability to slip out of the grip of federal agents. But Gotti had finally been taken down. Spedino too, as far as Brian Sadler knew.
Brian had first heard about Johnny Speed when he became involved with Bijan Rarities. Brian was a stockbroker at the investment firm Warren Taylor and Currant in Dallas. That high-flying operation attracted the attention of the Securities and Exchange Commission, then the FBI, as it led initial public offerings for companies that had no track record, no plans, no nothing. When WT&C was finished, those shell companies suddenly had millions of dollars, all of which was pushed back into the stockbroker’s next deal. The firm’s investors made money as long as new offerings could be pumped into the market. The next public offering fueled the last one. It was heady, exciting and crazy and the firm’s brokers made serious money. The risk was high – they were right on the edge of ethics and the law – but the rewards were too.
A proposal from Darius Nazir, the owner of Bijan Rarities, oddly had landed on Brian Sadler’s desk one day. Evaluating potential offerings for the firm wasn’t part of Brian’s job, but he was intrigued – he read every word of Bijan’s business plan. This was a company he became interested in personally. He loved archaeology and ancient things. Bijan was fast becoming known as a major player in the world of rarities, from Egypt to South America to Turkey and elsewhere. Brian thought this could be his ticket out of the brokerage business into something that was his passion.
Brian flew to New York on his own time, became good friends with Nazir and helped the gallery go public in one of WT&C’s last offerings before the Feds took it down over another company’s deal that turned out to be a total fraud.
In a strange, bizarre turn of events Nazir ended up dead and Brian was handed ownership of the gallery. It was the most fortuitous moment in his life – a turning point that took him from small time stockbroker to Fifth Avenue businessman.
Mob boss John Spedino had somehow been involved with Darius Nazir. Brian was certain of that although he never found the connection. Spedino had enlisted Brian’s help in obtaining one of the world’s major rarities, the Bethlehem Scroll. Brian recalled how furious Nazir had been when he learned Brian was working with Spedino. He had chastised Brian, telling him the mobster was dangerous beyond belief. Nazir knew him well, Brian thought. That was disturbing. Brian wondered how the gallery owner knew Spedino but never found out – Nazir died before Brian could ask.
Spedino had inserted himself again into Brian Sadler’s life when Brian was in Belize and Guatemala searching for an ancient lost city of the Mayas. People who were controlled by Spedino kidnapped both Brian and Nicole.
The man had even compromised Nicole’s principles, using a date-rape drug to force her into total submission, corporately and personally.
A clever Brit with a hidden agenda brought the godfather to justice at long last. Facing charges in the USA and Guatemala, the boss of bosses had ended up in the latter country’s Pavon Prison, serving a life sentence for murder.
Long story short, the problems the godfather of New York had right now were in large part due to the efforts of Brian Sadler and Nicole Farber. It was a fair statement to say Johnny Speed would hold a grudge against the people who had finally put him in prison…for life.
-----
Brian looked at the contact list on his phone, scrolled down to the name Harry and called. Less than ten people on earth knew this particular number. Brian Sadler was one who did. Brian Sadler had the private cell number of the President of the United States.
As usual, the call went to voicemail. He’s the busiest man in the world, Brian thought as a computer-generated voice said, “Please leave a message.” Short and sweet. If anyone got this wrong number they’d never know whom they’d reached.
“Hey, Harry. It’s Brian. Call me back when you can please. No rush. Just had a question. Say hi to Jennifer and the girls.”
Once his college roommate had been inaugurated President, Brian had defaulted to addressing him as “Mr. President” out of respect. William Henry Harrison IV had quickly told him to knock it off, saying they knew each other too well for such formality in private. So Brian did it the President’s way, even though it felt strange to him every time he called the leader of the free world “Harry.”
Legal pad in hand, Nicole sat on the couch making a list of talking points. Brian went to the kitchen, retrieved the Chardonnay and poured them another glass. He sat next to her, saying nothing as
she wrote.
The 5:45 press conference was scheduled strategically to coincide with the hour of local news coming up at six. Brian turned on his TV five minutes early and muted until he saw the newscaster in front of a screen. Displayed were a picture of his building and the words “Fifth Avenue Bombing.” He turned up the sound.
There was a podium in front of the plywood barrier that covered what had been Bijan’s two huge showroom windows. A newscaster recounted the events four days previously, explaining that a truck bomber had destroyed the famous antiquities gallery and part of the two floors above it, killing eleven people and injuring more than fifty, mostly pedestrians and drivers who had been unfortunate enough to be in close proximity to the blast.
Special Agent-in-Charge Underwood stepped to the podium, introduced himself and the New York City Police Chief, who stood by his side. Underwood presented the facts, explaining that most of the information they knew came from the gallery’s video surveillance equipment. He identified the driver and gave a brief background on the Iranian-American. Then he shifted to the perpetrator.
“Pictures and parts of the surveillance video were distributed to the media a few minutes ago,” Underwood said. “We enlist the public’s help to identify the person, probably a male, dressed as a Jesuit priest, who shot Collette Conning, the assistant to the owner of the gallery and who detonated the gasoline cans that caused the massive explosion.”
Next the Chief of Police spoke briefly, promising full cooperation from his agency to bring the perpetrators to justice. “This was a well-planned operation,” he said. “There is someone who knows something about this. If you have information that might help please call police or the FBI immediately.”
Underwood wrapped the conference with an announcement that Bijan Rarities owner Brian Sadler had offered a reward of $100,000 for the arrest and conviction of those involved in the bombing. As he spoke the networks broadcast the tip hotline phone number.
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 73
