“It is.”
“And you’re certain of this how?”
“Because I’ve seen all the volumes except yours. Not originals, of course, but I have seen copies of them. Right here in this very building.”
“The Club has copies of these volumes? Where are the originals?”
“The originals are in secret papal archives in Vatican City.”
Brian was astonished. “Now I see why you hoped I had made a copy of my volume too. Arthur, I know the Monument Club’s library is something special, but tell me how in hell they could get copies of ancient manuscripts that are in the Vatican’s archives?”
“A very wealthy Italian named Marco Caboto donated the originals to Pope Pius IX in 1875. But not before he paid to have them copied by hand. He secretly kept those copies in his own collection. After Caboto’s death in 1930 one of his heirs, a member of our Club himself, donated this man’s entire book collection to the Monument Club. Among thousands of old works were the copies – the four ancient manuscripts describing centuries of Knights Templars activities.”
“But the volume I had wasn’t copied.”
“Up to this point everything indicates it wasn’t. But I may have found something, Brian. In fact I just discovered it yesterday in the library. I haven’t looked at it yet so I don’t want to discuss it until I do. The book you saw covers the time from roughly 1475 to 1700. Until yesterday I believed the wealthy Italian never had that volume. He may not have known his four volumes were a chronological set. Or that a fifth book was missing. I think the manuscript you saw has been separated from the others for a very long time. But the jury’s still out on whether Marco Caboto ever owned the volume that’s now been stolen. One thing’s for sure – he copied four volumes of the Templars. If he ever had the fifth I’ll wager he copied it too.”
“Why is this particular one, the missing one, so important?”
“Think about it, Brian. Think about the time period it covers.”
Once again Arthur sat back in his chair, impassive, watching Brian’s face as the American’s mind raced. He said nothing, letting Brian reach a conclusion.
“It’s important because it records what happened at Oak Island. It’s when they built the Money Pit. That’s your theory, isn’t it, Arthur?”
“Exactly. And I’m close to proving it.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was nearly four pm when Brian and Arthur left the Monument Club. They set a dinner date for the day after tomorrow.
The men walked to Charing Cross train station.
“I’ll be waiting for a report on the mysterious thing you found yesterday in the library, Arthur. Don’t keep me in suspense!”
Borland promised to get on the project in the morning. They parted company, Brian heading one direction and Arthur another, his briefcase in his hand as he waved goodbye.
Brian’s mind was racing as he took the subway back to Green Park station, then a short walk down Piccadilly to the Bijan gallery in Old Bond Street. He took out an access card, opened the front door and stepped into the showroom. Although smaller than the New York gallery, it was tastefully appointed with displays of priceless artifacts for sale.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sadler. Nice lunch?”
Jason Hardesty had been with Bijan for a couple of years, working with Brian and Collette in New York before being moved to London a few months ago to assist the new UK gallery manager. Jason loved history. As a twenty-something single he jumped at the chance to work in London. He had been grief-stricken to learn of the loss of his good friend Collette and the destruction of the company’s New York headquarters. Brian and Jason had spent an hour talking about the Fifth Avenue bombing earlier this morning.
“A very interesting lunch, Jason. As every meeting with Arthur Borland is. I always end up with more food for thought than nourishment!”
“Sounds interesting! FYI Cory’s at the Connaught Hotel meeting a client who wants to discuss consigning some pottery.”
Brian went to his office. He glanced in the one next door. It belonged to Cory Spencer, the manager of Bijan’s London location. Overcoming a very difficult youth, Cory had worked for Brian several years ago while he was in undergraduate school in New York City. Later as a Sussex University graduate student in archaeology Cory had led a dig at Palenque, Mexico. He discovered an incredibly strange, ancient artifact that had almost gotten him killed. Brian had become involved in that project to help the government after John Chapman, the President of the United States, disappeared deep inside a tomb at Palenque.
Not long after the Palenque adventure Cory graduated and called Brian about employment. It was a perfect fit – Brian trusted the man implicitly and had put him in charge of the growing London gallery. Brian was grateful to have Cory as his second-in-command especially now that New York was history. The Old Bond Street location was critical – it was the only one left.
There was a large FedEx box sitting in the middle of Brian’s desk. It contained most of the things Brian had been working on at the time of the bombing. Rather than checking the bulky, heavy box on the plane Brian had shipped it overnight to the London gallery. For a half hour he went through everything, sorting and arranging the contents for handling over the next couple of weeks he planned to be in London. This was his office now. His headquarters. It seemed odd but it was the new reality.
Around 5:30 Brian heard the soft buzz that indicated the front door had opened. Ten seconds later a voice boomed loudly from the showroom. “I hear the boss is back in town. Best behavior, everyone!”
Brian stood as Cory Spencer came into his office. They hugged each other – although they had spoken several times a day since the tragedy in New York Brian hadn’t seen Cory in person. Tears welled up in both their eyes as they patted each other on the backs and Cory offered his condolences over the loss.
Pulling back, Brian composed himself and said, “I’m glad we’re a team, Cory. I need your help and I’m deeply grateful to have you.”
“Ditto, boss.” Cory had the utmost admiration for Brian Sadler and appreciated the opportunity to learn from him and work at one of the nation’s most respected antiquities dealers. Bijan had made quite a name in the past few years thanks to its involvement with the world’s rarest objects such as the Bethlehem Scroll, Mayan codices long thought extinct and Egyptian mummies. The science networks, Discovery and History especially, had done several documentaries featuring Brian. And national news networks in the US and abroad called on him frequently for commentary about new discoveries around the world. Brian Sadler and Bijan Rarities were well known to those who loved the thrill of archaeology and ancient things.
“Are you free for dinner? We need to catch up and it might be easier outside the gallery than during the work day.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Cory had hoped this would happen. He relished the time with his mentor and took every chance he could to be at Brian’s side.
Jason locked up at six as Brian and Cory wrapped up the afternoon’s work. They stopped by the Ritz Hotel on Piccadilly, three blocks from the gallery. In the beautiful Rivoli Bar they ordered martinis, clicked glasses and talked about how things were progressing on the case in New York. Brian brought Cory up to speed on the stolen manuscript and gave him a brief synopsis of the story Arthur Borland had told this afternoon. Cory was fascinated.
Brian and Cory walked to Chinatown, just the other side of Piccadilly Circus less than fifteen minutes away from the Ritz. Soon they were seated at Dumplings’ Legend, Brian’s favorite place in London. It was nothing fancy but Brian considered it the best Chinese place in the world. He tended to eat here several times a week when he was left to his own devices in London.
Two glasses of wine and a couple of dim sum plates got them started.
“What’s next on the manuscripts?” Cory asked. “Is it possible that rich Italian copied the stolen volume too?”
“I’ve given that a lot of thought since I left the lunch with Arthu
r. Arthur’s not sure if this one was copied. Maybe the Italian never even had it. But I wonder. It’s worth doing some digging. I’ll get with you in the morning – I need your help to start the search. Think about it tonight and I’ll do the same. I’m supposed to meet Arthur for dinner the day after tomorrow. I’d like you to join us. We can lay out our ideas to him then.”
Cory was thrilled – the chance to meet Lord Borland was important to him both personally and professionally. He was of course fully aware of Brian’s earlier adventures in Guatemala with the Earl of Weymouth and knew Brian had a great friendship with this man, the son of the late, great Captain Jack Borland, one of the world’s most flamboyant explorers.
Brian’s phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” he said, glancing at the screen. “It’s Arthur’s home phone.”
He answered with a smile. “Hello old boy. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”
Brian was suddenly quiet. Cory waited as his boss listened intently, his smile now gone.
“Brian, this is Carissa Borland. I’m so sorry to be a bother but wonder if you and Arthur have wrapped up yet. I know sometimes you both go on for hours and I hated to disturb you but his dinner’s been on the stove for an hour and he’s not picking up his mobile.” He noticed her attempt to be lighthearted but could sense the concern in her shaky voice. She was worried.
“Carissa, we left the club shortly before four pm. We went to Charing Cross Station and I took the tube to the office. I’m pretty sure he was heading home then.”
“He should have been here before five. That’s three hours ago. I’ve tried his mobile a dozen times. It goes to voicemail.” Her voice broke. “I’m worried, Brian. This isn’t like him not to call and check in. And he’s really late. Really late.” She was crying now.
“What can I do to help?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure you’re at dinner and I’m probably imposing on you for nothing. Let me give it another half hour or so. If I don’t hear anything by then I’ll start checking hospitals, I guess. But I’ll call you back first.”
Brian filled Cory in on the situation as they snagged tiny dim sum pieces with chopsticks. They decided they would take on the task of calling the police and hospitals if Arthur hadn’t shown up in a half hour.
Twenty minutes later Carissa Borland’s home phone rang. She took the call, hung up and dialed Brian’s number.
Brian’s phone vibrated and he answered immediately. “Any news, Carissa?”
He heard nothing but heaving sobs on the other end.
“Give me a moment,” she finally whispered.
A few seconds later she composed herself and began to speak. “My phone rang – it was Arthur’s number and I was prepared to give him a piece of my mind. But it wasn’t him, Brian. It wasn’t him.” She sobbed. “It was an officer from the Metropolitan Police in London. He was calling me…” She stopped again. “Oh, Brian. He was calling me because he saw my number on Arthur’s phone. He’s dead, Brian.”
“Oh God. Carissa, what…how did it happen?”
She was so overcome she couldn’t speak. Brian knew she was probably by herself. They had no children and lived in a nearby suburb, in one of the row houses so common in outlying parts of London. She would need someone to be with her.
Finally Carissa Borland took a deep breath and said, “All right. I have to get through this. He was riding the train, Brian. All this time. Sometime after he got on at Charing Cross Station he died, somehow. The officer said his head was slumped on his chest and everyone thought he was asleep. He had just been sitting there riding the train for hours, Brian. Dead. His phone kept ringing – those were my calls, of course – and finally one of the passengers heard it and alerted a policeman on the train. That policeman called my number.”
Brian pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and jotted things down as she continued. The body was being taken to a London hospital where the coroner’s office would investigate the cause of death. The policeman had assured her there was no reason to think foul play was involved but Carissa wondered. She said he had no real health issues other than being slightly overweight, in his fifties and maybe drinking a little too much now and then. Brian agreed with her. The officer had given her his contact information and promised to call her in the morning.
“Carissa, one thing that might be important, or maybe not. Did the policeman tell you he had Arthur’s briefcase? When I last saw him at the station he was carrying it.”
“He didn’t mention it. I’ll check with him tomorrow about that. I can’t imagine anything in it’s very important. Arthur spent a lot of time researching a lot of strange things. I doubt anyone would want what was in his case but people do steal. Someone could have taken it.”
Carissa thanked Brian when he offered to come be with her. “Thanks but I’ll be OK tonight. I’m still in a daze and my dear friend next door is coming over to stay with me. I told her I didn’t need her to do that but…oh, Brian, I’m going to miss Arthur so much.” She cried.
Brian told her how much Arthur’s friendship had meant to him. “A lot of people are going to miss him too, Carissa.”
Brian said he would have a car pick her up first thing tomorrow to bring her to London. They would go to the police station together and talk to the investigating officer. He told her once again how sorry he was and renewed his offer to help, any way, any time. His words came from the heart – Arthur Borland had been one of Brian’s best friends.
-----
“He’s dead. He died peacefully on the train heading home this afternoon.”
“Very good. Everything’s nice and quiet there?”
“Oh yes. He just went to sleep. Like we’d all want to go. All’s well and no one will ever be the wiser.”
“It seems so.” The man hung up, satisfied.
One score settled, this one about halfway wrapped up, and one to go.
Chapter Nineteen
Vatican City/New York
Cardinal Conti gazed for the hundredth time at the photocopied page he had taken from the Pope’s office. He was anxious to compare it to the ancient manuscripts to see if it really represented a way to break the coded pages, but he was forced to be patient. He was playing a game of cat and mouse with Giovanni Moretti.
And when I am through playing the old man will be dead like the rat he has turned out to be. The Cardinal smiled.
As leader of the Church’s Knights Templars, Dominic Conti knew that the four volumes in the papal archives weren’t the ones he needed. He had read each one – they were for the wrong time period. The single volume that mattered was the one that had been missing for over a hundred years, the one that Moretti had. That volume held the coded secrets Conti needed to unlock. Something had happened between 1475 and 1700 – the years covered by the missing manuscript – and Dominic Conti believed he knew what it was. Nova Scotia. Legends of priceless treasures guarded by the Templars. A relic so important it required an engineering accomplishment almost beyond comprehension in the 1600s.
Oak Island. The Templars somehow went to Oak Island. That’s what’s in the missing manuscript, along with the answer to the riddle of what the relic actually is.
While the waiting game with Moretti was going on, it would have been good to see one of the existing volumes of Knights Templar exploits from the archives. Without one of the coded pages in front of him Conti couldn’t try out the decryption page he had stolen from the papal office. He had to wait for Moretti’s manuscript and the others were locked up in the secret archives. Pope Benedict would have retrieved a volume for him but that pontiff was gone. He couldn’t ask the new Pope. Such a request would require too much explanation. And at this point Cardinal Conti was very close to unlocking a mystery. He needed to keep things quiet. So he had to be patient.
Two days later the Cardinal received a call on his cellphone.
“Hello, Giovanni,” Conti answered. “Have you come to your senses?”
“Meet me day after tomorrow at
Paolucci Restaurant in Little Italy on Mulberry Street. Twelve noon. You’ll get what you want.”
And you’ll get what you deserve, my friend. “New York, Giovanni? I’m not sure I can clear time so quickly for a trip…”
“Your choice, Eminence. If you want the manuscript you’ll be there.”
“Isn’t it a little dangerous for you to be traveling to the States, Giovanni?”
But there was no response. Moretti had hung up.
Fuming at the continued insolence of this man whose very existence Conti had saved, he forced himself to calm down. He summoned his secretary and booked a seat on tomorrow morning’s Alitalia flight from Rome to New York. She also noted the Cardinal’s request for a room at the Palace Hotel on Madison Avenue. It was unusual but not unheard of for Conti to stay somewhere other than the Archbishop’s residence so she didn’t question his instructions.
His next statement did surprise her, though.
“I’ll notify the Archbishop in New York that I’m coming. Leave that with me.”
It was policy that the Archbishop be notified when high-level members of the clergy would be spending the night in New York. She couldn’t recall a time when Cardinal Conti had reserved that right to himself. Something was different this time but she didn’t know what it was. And she certainly wasn’t going to ask.
Wearing the black shirt and slacks of a priest instead of the distinctive red garb of a Cardinal, Dominic Conti flew to New York. He carried a Vatican City diplomatic passport, a privilege accorded to the highest members of the Church’s entourage in Italy, and it enabled him to clear Customs in seconds. Ordinarily the Archdiocese would have had a limousine whisk the cleric to midtown but since no one had been told he was coming, he took a cab.
The desk clerks at the Palace gave the priest no more than a brief glance as they checked him in and swiped his personal credit card. The Palace dealt daily with dignitaries from around the world. When he presented his diplomatic passport from the home base of the Catholic Church no one so much as raised an eyebrow. The clerk might have recognized Conti’s name but discretion was the byword at this posh New York hotel. No one said a thing and Cardinal Dominic Conti, the head of the Vatican Bank and one of the Church’s most powerful people, was soon unpacking his light valise in his room, staying under the radar of his fellow clerics in Manhattan.
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