An hour later Conti stepped out onto the street. He was wearing a cotton shirt, sweater and blue jeans. This was a serious breach of church rules and Cardinal Conti felt strange wearing street clothing but he couldn’t afford to be seen as a priest. He needed to blend in with thousands of other people hurrying up and down the crowded midtown sidewalks.
Careful to avoid the Archdiocese and St. Patrick’s Cathedral less than two blocks away Conti walked to Fifth Avenue and strolled past the boarded-up hole that had been Bijan Rarities. He wanted to look at the site but there turned out to be nothing to see. A lone NYPD officer stood guard on the sidewalk, nonchalantly watching pedestrian traffic go by. There seemed to be no activity – the wooden door that had been cut into the plywood was securely padlocked.
It was almost six pm and Conti was getting hungry. Thirsty too. He’d had a couple of glasses of wine on the plane but didn’t overindulge. Wearing the clerical garb pointed him out as a man of God. But now he was out of God’s clothes and he wanted a drink. It was dangerous to stay in this part of town so close to the hub of activity for the Archdiocese. Around here he could run into any one of a hundred people he knew so he hailed a cab and gave the driver a downtown address several miles away.
Traffic wasn’t bad going south and within a half hour Dominic Conti was at the bar of Vincent’s, a quiet place frequented by tourists that was across the street from the South Street Seaport. The Cardinal would have far preferred Harry’s at Hanover Square, a great old bar three blocks from Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange. He loved the place but in his position as head of the bank he was a well-known patron. Anonymity this time. Perhaps indulgence the next.
Vincent’s was noisy and he sandwiched himself at the bar between two groups of people who had just visited Ground Zero only a few blocks west. Ignoring them as best he could, he ordered a Johnny Walker Blue, water back, and enjoyed the feeling as the premium Scotch went down smoothly. Fine Scotch was one of Dominic Conti’s weaknesses. He had a few others but those wouldn’t be satisfied on this trip. This time he had a mission. He would return with the manuscript. No matter what.
The next morning at 10:30 am Dominic Conti, again dressed in black as a priest, hailed a cab in front of the Palace Hotel and was dropped on Broadway in Chinatown, a teeming, bustling touristy place just north of downtown Manhattan. A hundred tiny stores in a two-block stretch sold knockoffs of everything from Coach bags to Hermes watches to Dior perfume. Barkers called to passersby browsing the crude displays. “Priest! Hey priest!” A Chinese vendor motioned for Conti to come closer. “Want Rolex? Genuine! Only twenty dollar!”
Dominic Conti kept moving, walking slowly and taking his time. Making his way east along Broadway he would eventually come to Little Italy and Mulberry Street. He meandered, looked at the knockoffs for sale and enjoyed the sunny morning. He wanted to arrive at the restaurant ten minutes early so his apparently aimless stroll actually wasn’t that at all. He would be at Paolucci’s a little before twelve.
The Cardinal thought about Giovanni Moretti. Strange that he wanted to meet in Little Italy, a place Conti thought might frighten him at this point in his life. Moretti had a lot of history, a lot of water under a very large bridge, and much of it had involved this scenic, historic part of New York. Little Italy was an area of restaurants, shops and gelato stores today. Once it had teemed with immigrants crowded into dirty tenement buildings. La Cosa Nostra, the Mafia, had taken hold when Sicilians brought the ways of the old country to their new home in the United States. A hundred years ago many of Little Italy’s wretched residents looked up to the made men, the enforcers, numbers runners and drug dealers. They were the few who made it out of the environment of the ghetto. They became wealthy, albeit at the expense and lives of others. They were revered, honored, considered great men. But they were actually ruthless criminals – murderers, thieves, bookmakers, creators of prostitution and drug rings. They didn’t make life better. They made it worse.
He turned off Broadway onto Mulberry Street and walked north. The five- and six-story buildings that had been built in the late 1800s to house immigrants looked today much as they had then. It was an interesting, quaint part of New York with narrow streets and another group of street vendors selling clothing, purses and the like. Paolucci Restaurant was two blocks ahead on the left, just past Grand Street.
Conti arrived and saw a couple of waiters putting umbrellas on tables set up on the sidewalk. Another put place settings around – they were almost ready to open. As he walked in a couple of tourists entered behind him, hoping to catch an early lunch.
“Good morning, Father,” the maître d’ said as the Cardinal entered the restaurant. “We’re opening in ten minutes but you’re welcome to take a seat. Will there be just one?”
Conti requested a table for two in the back. He ordered a glass of Chablis, sipped and watched as arriving guests took a couple more tables. About 12:10 a man walked into the restaurant. Expecting Moretti, Conti looked closely. It wasn’t him. Or was it? He watched the man walk straight toward his table. Then he pulled out a chair and sat.
“Who are you?” Conti asked.
The man was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt covered by a light jacket. A baseball cap and dark glasses obscured his face. The man had a moustache and neatly trimmed beard. He was easily four or five inches taller than Giovanni Moretti and had more girth.
“Why, Dominic. I’m disappointed in your abilities to recognize your old friend.”
The Cardinal was astonished at the transformation. He noticed the platform shoes Moretti was wearing and saw that his jacket was well padded, giving the man a hefty look in his chest. “I didn’t think you’d pick Little Italy without doing something to alter your appearance. So why go to all this trouble, Giovanni? Why didn’t we meet in Rome?”
Moretti ignored the cleric and raised a finger to the waiter, placing an order for a bottle of Italian Chardonnay. He said nothing until the bottle arrived, was uncorked and a glass filled. He sat back, savoring the taste.
“I can get this wine all over Italy, Dominic, but somehow it tastes better right here at Paolucci. It must be the atmosphere – the scenery of Mulberry Street just outside. Or maybe it’s just memories.”
The Cardinal sat impassively, seething inside but saying nothing. He let the old man waste time talking, doing it his way.
“I love this place, Dominic. It was my favorite restaurant when I lived in New York. Our waiter – his name is Salvatore. He’s from Sicily, where I’m originally from. He knew me well five years ago. But he doesn’t recognize me now. I’ve transformed, Dominic. I’m a new man!” He looked smugly at the cleric.
“Everyone in Little Italy knew you well five years ago, Giovanni. Can we get to the subject?”
“You’ll get indigestion if you don’t stop worrying so much, Dominic. We’re going to have a nice lunch like old friends do when they get together. You’re going to be civil and so am I. And in the end maybe everything will turn out the way you hope it will.” He smiled broadly and opened his menu, ignoring the Cardinal’s glare.
Dominic controlled his emotions. Keep calm. Let him think he’s winning. All I want is what I came for. We’ll see who ultimately wins this battle.
The men each ordered a light lunch. As they ate Moretti said, “It should be obvious why we’re meeting in New York, Dominic. The manuscript you want is here. You have a diplomatic passport. You can carry it back to Rome without so much as a raised eyebrow. I, on the other hand, would have a problem transporting the manuscript that precipitated the Fifth Avenue bombing. Thanks to the press the world knows there’s a old book somewhere and a huge reward tied to it. So now do you see my logic?” He smiled.
The Cardinal was tired of all this. “All right, Giovanni. Enough games. Where’s the manuscript?”
The old man ignored the question. “This job was expensive, Dominic. I have plenty, yes, but the Knights Templars order is gaining something you obviously want very much. A pric
eless object, I think. Am I correct?”
It took all the patience Conti had to maintain his composure. What on earth was this idiot doing? Was this an extortion attempt?
“Are you holding the manuscript for ransom, Giovanni?” the Cardinal said calmly.
“The Church has unlimited assets, Dominic. And I, I’m just a poor peasant from Sicily who’s made a few fortuitous investments in the past. I’ve been blessed, certainly, but one can always use a bit more to ensure a comfortable retirement. I think five million dollars would be fair for this document you want so badly. What do you think?” Moretti smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“Bastardo! You made your millions running a drug syndicate, Giovanni. You helped untold thousands of American children become drug addicts. You smug bastardo. You and I had a deal. A quid pro quo. You owe me for your very existence and I asked you to repay the favor. Now you’re trying to extort five million dollars? How quickly you’ve forgotten how confining your prison cell was. Perhaps I can help you learn again. Eh, Giovanni?”
“Now, Now. Don’t lose your temper, Dominic. It’s not good for your heart. Do you want the manuscript or not? It’s up to you. I’m sure I can sell it elsewhere – surely someone else thinks it’s as important as you obviously do.”
The Cardinal’s mind raced and a solution quickly emerged. It made him smile.
“Yes, Giovanni. I want the manuscript. And of course I’ll pay your ransom. The Church needs the book. You don’t need to know why. Hand over the manuscript and I’ll pay you five million dollars.”
“Of course you will,” Moretti said. “I trust you implicitly, Dominic. Why shouldn’t I? I owe you everything, as you constantly remind me. But let’s be practical.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket along with a key. “Wire the money to this account in Turkey. When the money’s in my account I’ll tell you what lock this key fits. Then you can have your manuscript. I have your number. You’ll hear from me when I confirm the funds have arrived. And thank you for lunch.”
Giovanni Moretti stood, turned and walked out of the restaurant. He thanked his waiter, who registered not a trace of recognition of the man he had served often just a few years ago.
Chapter Twenty
New York/Rome
Giovanni Moretti took a taxi directly from the restaurant in Little Italy to JFK Airport. Waiting in the Alitalia first class lounge for his flight to Rome, he checked the bank account in Ankara. Nothing so far, but that was of no concern to Moretti. He knew it would take time for Cardinal Conti to move funds. As head of the Vatican Bank Conti could singlehandedly accomplish the transfer of much more than five million dollars but there were other factors, the greatest of which was the time difference between the USA and Turkey. It would be the next morning before funds arrived and Moretti would be safely back in Italy.
Riding the train from Fiumicino Airport into central Rome, Moretti checked the bank again. It was now 9:50 am in Turkey and the funds had been deposited in his account just as he had demanded. He smiled. I pulled one over on Dominic Conti. Bastardo, eh? Well, I’m a richer bastardo now, thanks to you.
He called Conti’s cellphone and said, “Many thanks, Dominic. There’s a gym at the corner of Ninth Avenue and 23rd Street. Locker number fourteen in the men’s locker room.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
Dressed again in civilian clothes to avoid attention, Conti bought a membership in the gym in order to gain access. He paid thirty dollars cash for a month’s trial, walked straight to the locker room, opened the door and saw a bulky manila folder inside. He glanced around – no one was paying him any attention. He opened the folder and saw the stolen manuscript. It was unmistakably genuine and obviously was a match to the ones Dominic had previously read. He slid the book back into the folder and walked out.
In order to carry the manuscript to Rome in a diplomatic pouch Conti would have had to visit the Vatican Consulate on West 34th Street. People would have asked questions about why he was in New York. Since he was traveling under the radar and wished to attract no attention, he took a chance that the authorities wouldn’t challenge him as he left the United States. Once he arrived in Rome his diplomatic status would give him instant passage through the immigration process. Everything went as he had predicted and within twenty-four hours he was at his office in the Vatican. The manuscript was laid out on his desk, its first page bearing the now-familiar words Opus Militum Xpisti, the same words that appeared in the Vatican’s other four Templar manuscripts. Conti flipped through to one of the pages covered in symbols – a page of code.
Dominic Cardinal Conti had one more task to complete before turning his full attention to the manuscript. He pulled up some information on his computer, called a trusted friend in the Vatican’s passport control office, and had Giovanni Moretti’s passport number flagged as fraudulent. Without a valid passport Moretti no longer had legal status anywhere on earth.
Chapter Twenty-One
London
After the events Brian had experienced the last two weeks the death of Arthur Borland affected him greatly. Two days after the apparent death by natural causes of his fellow explorer and close personal friend, Brian sat alone in the flat in Cadogan Square. It was eight pm and a martini sat on the coffee table in front of him, his third of the evening.
Arthur’s sudden death became the catalyst for a grim reality for Brian Sadler. Until now Brian hadn’t allowed himself to really let go, to fully embrace the fact of how much his life had changed in two weeks. One of his dearest friends, a man whom Brian looked forward to spending time with, a man whose calls and emails always brightened Brian’s day – that man was suddenly gone forever. Just days before, his friend and colleague Collette Conning died a tragic death along with many others and Brian lost the gallery that had been his baby, his project, his life.
In the past Nicole jokingly referred to Bijan as Brian’s “favorite thing.” Each time it came up he laughingly assured her she was also up there somewhere among his favorite things. It became an ongoing joke but it was true that Brian had never enjoyed anything as much as he had loved life and his place in it since he took over the gallery. And in an instant, in a flash, the New York flagship store was gone. So were a dozen people.
Collette was special. She had been with the gallery when Darius Nazir owned it. Collette had agreed to stay on after Nazir’s death when Brian assumed ownership. Brian had been grateful; her knowledge of both clients and artifacts made his life much easier as he learned the ropes. She was a confidant – in the know on all of Brian’s plans for the business – and he had depended on her for advice and input. Now all that was over. He felt alone, truly alone for the first time in a long, long time.
As he sat in the dark in his London flat he thought of Nicole. They had had a wonderful life when they both lived in Dallas a few years back. When Brian left for Manhattan the relationship suffered but they still worked at keeping it as good as possible.
But it’s not good, Brian thought. It’s not good. She’s not here. She never is.
The judge had postponed Nicole’s trial for ten days while she was with Brian in New York after the tragedy. Now she was in the courtroom eight hours a day representing a wealthy client whose freedom depended on her legal skills. He was the chief financial officer of a Dallas wealth management firm. The company invested hundreds of millions of dollars for its multimillionaire clients. All went well until a low-level accountant got fired for being chronically late. Mad as hell, she went to the Feds with a story about phony accounts, a Madoff-like Ponzi scheme and – just to make it even spicier – money laundering for a Mexican drug cartel. The angry ex-employee also took her story to a local TV station. It had made the evening news.
Even though her allegations weren’t true, the repercussion from the story in ritzy Dallas neighborhoods like the Park Cities was devastating for the firm. Lots of money was demanded by lots of clients. The firm was unable to sell assets quickly enough to avoid massive losses; it s
ubsequently defaulted on some of its obligations. The company filed bankruptcy but the government continued its misguided, relentless pursuit of justice. The firm had no money left – insurance companies stepped in to provide defense for the key officers indicted, but those funds proved inadequate to cover all the costs. The government’s lawyers kept after this case like wolves on their prey. And the innocent defendants were paying enormous legal fees out of their own pockets.
Nicole’s client had done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. She was certain he would be exonerated but sadly she couldn’t convince the U.S. Attorney to drop the case against him. The former CFO was now spending hundreds of thousands of dollars of his own money with Carter and Wells, hoping Nicole could keep him out of prison.
So while Brian sat in the darkened apartment in London nursing another martini she was in her fourth day of trial in Dallas, unable to be with him. They spoke every day around 5:30 am Brian’s time, 11:30 pm in Dallas. Nicole was home by then, preparing for the next day of trial and getting ready for bed. Brian was starting another day in London.
He began to cry as he pondered his life two weeks ago compared to today. Arthur was gone. Collette was gone. So were many innocent people. Brian’s pride and joy, Bijan Rarities on Fifth Avenue in New York, was gone. And for all intents and purposes, Brian decided, Nicole was gone too. As the tears flowed he said out loud, “All she and I do is pretend. We pretend to be as close as we used to be. We pretend it’s all going to be OK. Well, dammit, it’s NOT going to be OK. I might as well realize that now. My whole world has gone to shit. For what? What the hell’s going on?”
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 77
