The conference lasted only eight minutes and the men took no questions from the media. Immediately following it, the news stations posted a picture of Hassan Palavi, the driver of the pickup. The photo had been obtained from his passport application and was two years old. It didn’t matter. Palavi was dead.
The critical photos came next. They were the two of the person posing as a priest. Before the video footage was played an announcer told viewers how graphic the material would be. The film ran, showing the “priest” glancing at his watch precisely at one pm, pulling a gun and shooting Collette point-blank a few seconds later, then the truck crashing through the front window and toppling the guard. Finally the person was shown on the sidewalk pressing the detonator and walking away as the building exploded. It was tough to watch but the FBI hoped it might stir someone to offer information.
-----
The moment the conference ended Brian’s cellphone rang. The number showed “Blocked.” Answering, he heard a voice familiar to him and most other Americans – the voice of the President. He put it on speaker.
“Hey buddy. Sorry I didn’t call back earlier. I watched your press conference first. I’m so sorry about what happened, Brian. It must be devastating for you and I hope the FBI can quickly figure something out. I’m sure pushing them from this side. Is Nicole with you?”
“Thanks, Harry. Yes, she sure is and she’s listening, so be careful what you say! FYI she gave notice to the FBI that she was acting as my attorney, just in case. I hope you don’t think…”
“Brian, come on. I think that’s a very smart move. The FBI has to check everyone out. You and I know you’re fine but they have a job to do. Nicole, you can rein them in if they get out of line.”
“Hi, Harry. Thanks for the kind thoughts for Brian right now. He’s been through a lot.”
“He sure has. And Brian, the reward is a good idea too. Glad you’re offering it. A hundred thousand bucks may bring out the information you need. So, what can I do to help?”
“The agent asked me this afternoon if I knew anyone who had a grudge against me. The only person Nicole and I could come up with was John Spedino. But the last I heard the godfather was tucked away in prison in Guatemala. I don’t know who else to call, and I know this is trivial, but could you check on him and let me know?”
“Absolutely. That’s simple and won’t take long at all. We’ll get on it and I’ll let you know soon as I hear anything. Is there anything else we can do down here in Washington to help you?”
“I think that’s it for the moment. If I get in a big jam I may call again.”
“Always good to hear your voice, my friend. And listen. Once things settle down you and Nicole come see us and let’s have dinner. We don’t get a chance to have quiet times with old friends much anymore.”
Promising to do so, Brian hung up. The President then turned to his computer and shot a message to his Chief of Staff. Within minutes Bob Parker stood in the Oval Office getting instructions from Harry Harrison.
Fifteen minutes later Brian’s phone rang again. The same blocked message appeared.
“That was fast.”
“Yeah, and not good, Brian. I’m furious at the Embassy in Guatemala City for not letting you know about this, but John Spedino went missing from his prison cell awhile back. The Ambassador said it’s possible he had been gone for a couple of weeks when someone finally decided to check on him. Ask me how a guy like that can go without being checked every day? I have no idea. He’s the godfather. I guess it’s pretty simple to pay people off in a Guatemalan prison. Money talks. He was apparently living a life of luxury, such as it was, inside the prison and then just disappeared.”
“Shit. Any clue where he might be?”
“My question exactly. And no. Nobody knows. And until my Chief of Staff called, it seems nobody gave it much attention. You can damn well bet that’s changing as we speak. I’m directing the FBI and CIA to get with Interpol and launch a worldwide top-priority search for him. Son of a bitch, it’s hard sometimes to figure out what people are thinking. You think they might have considered letting somebody know this guy was gone? This really is irritating. Hey – do you want FBI give you and Nicole protection until we find something out? I’m happy to arrange that.”
“We can’t live like that, Harry. I can’t imagine the godfather would come back to New York – that’d be pretty crazy in my opinion – and I don’t want to have an agent with me every minute.” Nicole was next to him, listening and shaking her head. “Neither does Nicole. We’ll be fine.”
“OK. For now I’m telling the FBI in Manhattan to look into the possibility that Spedino could be behind all of this. Again, Brian, I’m sorry the government dropped the ball on notifying you. I’m as upset as you are.”
President Harrison promised to call the minute any information was available. Brian thanked him for all the effort and hung up. He looked at Nicole.
She spoke softly. “Well, this one doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out. There’s your guy with a grudge.”
Chapter Fourteen
At ten am several people stood on the sidewalk in front of what had been Bijan Rarities. The police had taped off a large area outside of which several journalists with cameras watched the activity. Uniformed officers ensured those without permission remained outside the barrier.
An hour earlier a workman had removed two pieces of plywood that covered the ruined hole that had been the gallery’s entrance and windows. He set up two very large Klieg lights, the kind used in filmmaking. They filled the ruined showroom with an intense light.
Brian, an adjuster from his insurance company, Agent Underwood, a second FBI agent and an NYPD detective waited for the arrival of a sixth person – a structural engineer who had been working with the building’s owner to determine how extensive the damage to it actually was. He had observed the building over the past five days and saw no further collapse so he had declared it safe for Brian and the others to enter. As a precaution the engineer would be along with them.
Agent Underwood took Brian aside and said, “It’s not often I get a call straight from the top. The Director called me yesterday and told me the President wants an investigation into John Spedino’s possible involvement in the bombing. I’m not impressed by much any more, but I’d love to know how you got the President to intercede on your behalf. I also need everything you know about Spedino so we can move on the Director’s…ah, request, I guess you’d say. More like a directive, actually.”
“The President was my college roommate. He told me yesterday that Spedino escaped from the Guatemalan prison where he was serving a life sentence for murder.”
The last member of their group walked up. “We’ll talk later,” Underwood said as they all approached the bombed gallery.
The structural engineer led the way, pointing out dangerous areas where shattered glass and steel lay strewn about the floor. Brian thought the scene was surreal. He was surprised to see one of his display cases still intact, glass and all, while others had simply been blown away. The twisted remains of the pickup sat almost exactly in the middle of the expansive showroom. A couple of large vases lay broken in a corner next to the pedestal displays where they had once stood. Brian pointed at them and casually remarked, “There lies a half million bucks worth of busted pots.”
The day was already warm and there was no air circulating inside the bombed structure. The sickly sweet smell of decay pervaded the room. It was nauseating – Brian suddenly began to feel lightheaded.
Agent Underwood opened his briefcase and pulled out paper masks, the kind painters use, and a jar of Mentholatum. “Mr. Sadler, the coroner wasn’t able to remove everything from the site due to the extent of the damage to the driver’s body. It’s been a few hot days in here and you might want to use a mask. Just stick Mentholatum inside the mask and put it on. It’ll hide the smell.” Brian did and it helped a lot.
He turned to the others. “Anyone else need a mask?” T
he engineer and insurance adjuster gratefully accepted. The lawmen didn’t. None of them wanted to be the first to admit they couldn’t handle a death scene. For his part, Brian was glad the agent had thought to bring the masks. It made things tolerable.
Stepping over and around the debris from the gallery and its collapsed ceiling, they walked through the showroom to a hallway behind. The two FBI agents turned on powerful flashlights. On the left side was the closed door to Brian’s office. He tried the knob; it was locked. He pulled out a key and opened the door.
Fortunately the wall at the back of the showroom was made of concrete. It had withstood the blast and his office was virtually intact albeit with a fine coating of dust on every surface. His chair sat behind the desk, the dock for his laptop was exactly where he had left it, and on the side table was an empty space where the missing manuscript had been. Collette Conning had taken it to the priest just before he killed her.
“Everything looks fine here,” Brian said. “Let’s see how the vault made out.” He walked across the hall from his office to the massive door that was identical to those used in banks. He gave the large handle a tug – it was securely locked.
Explaining that the vault had a time delay, Brian entered a code on a keypad and an intermittent beep indicated the countdown process had begun. “So far so good,” he muttered to no one in particular. Brian had been concerned the vault door might have been damaged in the blast. That could have required a demolition team to break through the thick, heavy door. Thanks to its location away from the showroom itself he was now hopeful the door and its hinges were okay. In a few minutes they’d find out.
Finally a series of louder beeps announced the end of the time-delay phase and Brian entered another code sequence onto the keypad. A noticeable thunk caused Brian to smile grimly. “Sounds like it’s unlocked.” He pulled down on the large handle and it moved noiselessly. Then he tugged on the door; it easily swung open.
Brian fished out another key to open the barred door that was next. He couldn’t see inside the vault – the entrance was small and his body blocked the flashlight beams behind him.
He turned to Underwood. “Is it OK if I go in first? I’ll need a light.”
The agent nodded and handed the flashlight to him. Brian stepped inside the vault. Everything was exactly as it should have been. The vault itself was heavily reinforced like a bunker. It appeared the blast had had no effect on anything inside. Artifacts and ancient objects were lined up on shelves and pedestals and nothing had been damaged. Brian breathed a sigh of relief. The most valuable of the objects were in here, undamaged. And many of these belonged to others – they were held by Bijan on consignment, awaiting a sale or auction in the future.
The insurance adjuster said, “Will it be difficult to get me a list of the things that weren’t in here, so we can know what was destroyed as compared to these things which weren’t damaged?”
“Piece of cake,” Brian replied, explaining that every morning Collette Conning prepared a list of items to bring from the vault for display in the gallery. The list from the morning of the bombing still lay on a counter just inside the vault. Only a fraction of the items were ever brought out, and none of the most expensive ones was. Those were brought to the showroom only if a client made an appointment to see one of them. Otherwise they were always securely locked up. That had been fortuitous on the day the bombing occurred. It made life considerably easier for Brian Sadler and his clients. And for the insurance company too. The adjuster took Brian’s list with a promise to copy and return it. He also asked Brian to provide valuations and ownership details on the things that had been destroyed. That would also prove easy for Brian as everything was on the gallery’s servers.
Agent Underwood asked Brian to show him the seven books from the Nova Scotia collector. The eighth had been the reason behind the bombing. Brian pointed to a shelf with the beam of the flashlight. “They’re right here,” he said. “I never got a chance to even look inside the covers.”
Underwood asked if he and Brian could examine them more closely to make sure there was nothing in them that would help the investigation. Brian agreed and they decided to take them back to Brian’s apartment when everyone was finished here. He and the FBI agent carried the books to Underwood’s car while press photographers eagerly shot pictures of their activities.
While Brian walked around the showroom, recalling this piece or that which now lay on the floor in pieces, the FBI agents and policeman examined the area in the gallery where Collette Conning had been killed. A forensic team had previously scoured the room so new information was unlikely to be forthcoming but more sets of eyes might pick up something. The insurance adjuster jotted notes and took pictures with his phone. The engineer walked the perimeter of the gallery, checking the integrity of the steel beams.
In half an hour everyone was finished. Brian rode with Agent Underwood and the second agent to his apartment house. Over the next two hours they looked at the seven volumes from the Crane collection in Nova Scotia and talked extensively about John Spedino’s involvement in the lives of Brian and Nicole.
The books revealed nothing of benefit to the FBI. They were exactly what they appeared to be – Bibles and works of literature. No notes hidden inside their pages, no secret inscriptions, nothing out of the ordinary. They were beautiful, valuable old books, Brian commented, but at this point the missing Templars volume was obviously the one someone cared about.
Underwood and his associate left with a promise to call if anything developed.
Chapter Fifteen
Vatican City
Dominic Cardinal Conti had made a decision. He had to get the photocopy from the papal office one way or another. He had to see what information it contained. He thought it might unravel the ancient mystery he was certain rested in the missing manuscript – the one Giovanni Moretti now possessed.
Speaking of whom, Moretti hadn’t called so the Cardinal had decided to play his own game. He wouldn’t make the first move. But it had been four days since the old man had walked out of their meeting here in Rome. I’ll give it twenty-four more hours. If he hasn’t called I’ll start things moving in a direction that will make life unpleasant for the ungrateful Mr. Moretti.
Right now Conti had two choices – the overt one was to approach the Pope, tell him Benedict had left a photocopy in the drawer and ask for it. That might work but it might backfire. First, he wasn’t close to the new pontiff so he likely wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of getting the document he might lose it forever. Second, that choice meant publicizing the document. The Pope might ask questions – what was it, and why did the Cardinal think it so important? No, an overt move wasn’t the right one.
Which is why at 1:25 am the Cardinal was standing behind a tapestry in a long hallway that led to the papal offices fifty feet away. The pontiff was on a well-publicized trip back to his homeland in Buenos Aires, which meant the usual high security around here was almost non-existent tonight. The treasures of the Vatican were everywhere in the huge complex of buildings – but there was nothing that special in and of itself here in the somewhat austere papal office. If a thief sought riches he would go elsewhere.
Since the pontiff was away only one Swiss Guard sat in a chair outside the Pope’s office. Dominic knew his routine. When the Pope was gone the same sentry sat from ten pm until four in the morning, taking a five-minute bathroom break every two hours and eating a meal out of his backpack around 1:30. Tonight should be no exception and the Cardinal waited for what always happened right now.
The guard stood, stretched and walked down the hall away from where Conti hid. He was going to a tiny pantry fifty feet away. He would fix a double espresso in a coffee maker, add milk and walk back to have his dinner. Based on the Cardinal’s observation the past three nights, the guard would be away from the Pope’s door between four and six minutes. Never less, never more. Hopefully tonight was typical.
As soon as the guard entered the pantry, Cardi
nal Conti clicked a stopwatch and moved. He expected the massive office door to be unlocked and it was. He entered, shut the door and walked to the Pope’s desk. He pulled on the upper right drawer. The desk was locked. Damn the luck, the Cardinal involuntarily thought. He had brought a pick – as he looked at the drawer he saw there was no keyhole. This drawer doesn’t lock. It’s the middle drawer that controls them all.
Hoping this desk was like so many others, he pulled on the long middle drawer, the one above the kneehole space. Come on, just be shut. Don’t be locked.
As the middle drawer slid out a noticeable click indicated the other drawers could now be opened as well. Conti glanced at his watch. Two and a half minutes down. He had ninety seconds to finish, leave and hide before the guard returned.
In the upper right drawer were a number of things including a stamp pad and rubber stamps, a number of old seals, the kind that work with wax, and a plethora of papers. Conti pulled them out and rummaged through them, starting at the bottom. Hopefully what Benedict had left was low in the pile and hadn’t been discarded when the new Pope moved in.
He was getting nowhere. A quiet ding notified him there were thirty seconds left. Suddenly his hand pulled out a legal size piece of paper. It was a copy of something very old and it contained the same symbols he had seen in the four Templar manuscripts. Voila!
Conti stuck the paper in his pocket, closed the drawer and ran to the office door. He opened it carefully, glancing down the hallway toward the pantry. This was the tricky part. If the guard had been sitting back at his post when the door opened, the Cardinal would have had serious explaining to do. He would certainly have been detained, questioned and possibly sanctioned for his clandestine activities tonight.
But God was with him. At least that’s what Conti attributed his good fortune to – maybe it was the devil at work instead but this cleric chose the former. The guard was still puttering around in the closet – the Cardinal could hear him – so Conti closed the door and ran back down the hall to his hiding place fifty feet away.
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 74
