As expeditiously as possible Cardinal Conti finished their discussion. Feigning a sudden lack of time, he thanked Brian for coming and offered to arrange a private tour of the Vatican for him. Brian declined, saying he was flying to London in a few hours, and then he would be going to Nova Scotia to personally find out what the Most Holy Relics were. He wrapped the manuscript in a heavy cloth, put it into his briefcase and left Vatican City.
Dominic Conti pulled out the scotch immediately after Brian Sadler left his office. He poured a stiff one and contemplated the problems that now faced him. He had to stop Brian Sadler. That would be his prime mission; solving that problem would alleviate most of the others.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dallas – two weeks ago
In a seedy lounge not far from downtown Dallas two men sat at the bar. It was four in the afternoon and only two other customers were in the place. Sammy Freeland was a punk, a decent mechanic and a lousy sports bettor. He wasn’t the brightest guy on earth but he fancied himself a winner. His drinking companion was Joey “the Barber” Barberi, a small-time hoodlum who had adopted a swagger and line of bullshit he thought made him seem Mafia. Which he wasn’t. What he was, was Sammy Freeland’s bookie.
Like many people addicted to gambling, Sammy thought he was pretty good at picking the teams. Next week – it was always next week that was going to make him whole again. Meanwhile his meager salary at the repair shop in East Dallas couldn’t match his voracious appetite for the next bet. At the moment he owed the Barber over five thousand dollars. The bookie had let Sammy ride once, then again, as ever-larger bets put Sammy deeper and deeper into the pile of shit he’d created for himself. Sammy couldn’t pick a winner if it looked him in the face, Joey Barberi thought. But he had gotten a phone call. There was a job that was perfect for this loser. Joey stood to make fifty grand for this little project. He’d keep almost all the money and not even get his hands dirty. Sammy’d do it for him.
When he was losing, which was almost always nowadays, Sammy Freeland hated having to meet his bookie face-to-face. But there was no way around it. You had to own up to your losses and recently the Barber had allowed Sammy to coast a little. He didn’t know exactly how much he was down right now – he didn’t like to think about that because it scared him. The interest was twenty percent a week and it mounted up so fast Sammy could only dig out now by picking a winner.
When the bookie came in the bartender had greeted him by name. Joey Barberi was a regular here – every Tuesday around five he sat at the bar and settled bets made the previous weekend. Men in suits, men in shorts, men in dirty work pants – a steady stream of people from all walks of life settled up with the Barber. Each week the bartender silently observed the transactions – the bookie took in a lot more cash than he paid out to other people. From what the man behind the bar saw, bookmaking was a money-making proposition. Illegal, but who cares? Everybody’s got an angle and in this one nobody gets hurt. At least not until they can’t pay up! That made him smile. These stupid chumps – betting everything they have and more on one game after another. Crazy.
When the bookie sat down next to him Sammy had started things cordially. “Hey, Joey, how about those Cowboys? I think they’re on a roll. Man, a couple of points the other way the past two weeks and you’d be handing me a wad of dough! I think this weekend’s the deal, man. I’m going all the way.”
Joey took a swig of beer and said, “You think this weekend’s the deal, Sammy? Is this the one that’s going to dig you out? You owe me five grand, buddy. How much do you want this time?”
“Five Gs more, Joey. I’ll take five Gs and put it all on Jerry Jones and the Boys. They’re going to beat the Redskins straight up, and they’re six point underdogs. Romo’s playing Monday night and they’ll win by a touchdown. This one’s a sure thing, Joey.”
“Little news for ya. The fun and games are over. I’ve personally covered you with the guys I deal with. Know what that means? I don’t owe five grand to anybody. I already paid your bet to my guys. You owe me five grand. You. Owe. Me. You get it?” There was no smile, no friendly banter. This was different. Sammy had never heard the Barber get serious with him before. It was a little scary, frankly.
Sammy took a big drink of beer and signaled the bartender for another. He figured his bookie would pay the tab; Joey always did and Sammy had the sum total of three bucks in his pocket right now. That had to last him till payday.
“I got it, Joey. I know this weekend is gonna work…”
“Bullshit!” Joey slammed his hand on the bar so hard two customers across the room looked up. Joey’s voice was loud – those guys had been here since lunch and were drunk as hell, and even they heard it. The bartender didn’t miss a beat but he stayed put behind the bar, cleaning glasses with a rag like he hadn’t heard a thing. He kept his eyes averted and his ears wide open.
The bookie lowered his voice. “Bullshit, Sammy. You’re a loser. You can’t pay me five grand, much less the five more you’ll owe me Monday night when your damned Cowboys lose another game. You’re in deep, Sammy. You’re in really deep and all I have to do is make one phone call. Your life could change forever. You can’t work with your damned legs broken. You get what I’m sayin’, smart guy? You get it?”
Shit. This was getting bad. Sammy needed to take a leak but now didn’t seem like the time to leave. He hoped he didn’t pee in his pants. That would be embarrassing.
“Yeah, Joey. Yeah, I get it. But I can’t pay you what I owe you now. Like you said. You gotta let me try…”
“No, Sammy. I don’t gotta let you try. I have another idea. I have a job for you. Something right up your alley. And you know what? You do this for me and you’ll be back to even. That five grand you owe me? It’ll be wiped away like the wind-driven snow. Whadda you think about that?”
“Sure, Joey. Sure. Anything you say. But I’m a mechanic. I don’t know much about jobs. Who do I gotta kill?” He laughed nervously, hoping that wasn’t what the job really was about.
“Come on. You been watchin’ too many movies. You’re a good mechanic. For you this is a piece of cake. Fixin’ a car that belongs to some scum-sucking lawyer. A little night job that’ll take ten minutes. You don’t like lawyers, do you Sammy? Nobody likes lawyers.”
“Hell no,” Sammy responded, perking up as the Barber lightened up on him. All he had to do was work on some lawyer’s car at night? Piece of cake, like Joey said. “Hell no, I don’t like lawyers. But if nobody likes ’em, why do you want me to fix his car?”
“It’s not a he, it’s a she. And you’re not really fixin’ her car. You’re kind of unfixin’ it.” He smiled and spoke even more quietly. “All you gotta do is a little brake job on a Mercedes. Simple, huh?”
“Sure, Joey. I’m in! Hey, can I do the job fast and then you front me five more for this weekend?”
Unbelievable, the bookie thought. This guy’s got it bad. But no worse than most of the others. This one just doesn’t have enough income to pay his debts.
“Sure thing. You can do it tomorrow night. And five Gs more for a solid player like you? Piece of cake! You’re close to a big payoff. I can feel it.” They both laughed.
When Joey talked like that it made Sammy feel important. He smiled from ear to ear. “Me too, Joey. I’m gonna win Monday! I can feel it too!”
From ten feet away the bartender heard the whole thing.
Chapter Forty-Five
The bartender pulled drafts of beer for the patrons crowding the bar. Monday Night Football would be on right after the news. Tonight was a big game – the Dallas Cowboys hosted their old rivals the Redskins. Although it was here at home the Cowboys’ season hadn’t been so great and they were six-point underdogs tonight.
The bar was busy, filled with working-class guys and a few women. Most were regulars who stopped by several afternoons a week after they got off work. This part of Dallas was home to junkyards, paint and repair shops and other places where workers got their h
ands dirty. No problem. In this bar they were welcome. And tonight they’d yell together, hoping to bring the Cowboys a much-needed victory.
The local news was wrapping up as the bartender got a short break in the action. He glanced at the screen – a story was being reported about a serious car wreck in downtown a few days ago. A car careened into a busy intersection after running a red light. The gal driving it was in critical condition. Big story, the bartender thought idly, but why give it so much press? Bad car wrecks happened all the time in a major city.
The next thing he saw captured his undivided attention. The victim’s picture flashed on the screen. Man, she’s good-looking, he thought. Then it showed her name and the place she worked. Carter and Wells. He’d heard of it. Carter and Wells was a huge law firm. She was a lawyer. A lady lawyer. Holy shit.
He turned up the volume as one of the guys yelled for another round. “One sec,” he responded, his eyes glued to the screen.
The reporter said that the brake lines on her late-model Mercedes convertible had been cut. Police called it an attempted homicide and Crime Stoppers was offering a $20,000 reward. A number flashed on the screen with a promise that callers would remain anonymous.
I’ll be damned. Twenty thousand bucks. And you can remain anonymous. I’ll be damned.
He jotted the Crime Stoppers number on a napkin and stuck it in his pocket. His disposition improved dramatically over the rest of the evening, even though the Cowboys lost by two touchdowns. He wondered if that loser at the bar the other day had actually bet five thousand dollars on the Cowboys tonight. But it really didn’t matter, the bartender figured. Once he called Crime Stoppers a sports bet would be that guy’s least problem.
Chapter Forty-Six
London/Dallas/Lunenburg, Nova Scotia
In London Brian received updates on Nicole twice a day from her mother, once by phone when Brian awoke and an email around five pm when Nicole’s mother went to bed at eleven in Dallas. She was making steady improvement, had been moved from ICU to a regular hospital room and was staying awake most of each day.
The severe concussion she had suffered was an issue. Her neurologist had performed some tests and spoken with her. As far as he could ascertain, she had no memory of the day of the accident or for several days afterwards. She spoke only single words but her comprehension seemed good. Her physician scheduled a visit with a speech pathologist. He and the neurological team believed she might need to relearn some of her mental functions.
Around two pm Dallas time Brian called Nicole’s room. Her mother answered and Brian asked if she thought Nicole would be able to listen to him. Her mom held the phone to Nicole’s ear and Brian talked slowly to her.
“I miss you, sweetie. I’m coming back to see you in a couple of days. Will you be glad to see me?” Nicole said nothing. She appeared puzzled by the sound of his voice on the phone. Her mother suggested they not try it again for a few days, as it seemed to confuse her.
Brian took the day flight from London to Dallas. Her mother and father went back to their homes in Houston and Fort Worth, respectively, for a much-needed break from the hospital routine. He stayed with her during the day and was heartened by her physical improvement. She seemed to know who he was although she said almost nothing. He talked to her about London, the gallery and what was going on with the Templars project. She looked at him when he talked but he doubted she understood much.
The middle of the next week Nicole’s sister took over duties and Brian made a quick trip to Halifax, Nova Scotia. He wanted to see Oak Island for himself and had researched online to identify its owners. There were two – Brian was most interested in Harold Mulhaney, who owned roughly the eastern half of the island that contained the original Money Pit and various boreholes dug around it over the centuries. Mulhaney bought his land from one of the men who had spent a lifetime searching for clues to the complex set of traps that protected the secrets of the pit. He had agreed to meet Brian but would offer no information whatsoever on the phone, saying merely that he would think about a proposition only when someone took the time and effort to come there in person and talk about it.
Lunenburg, Nova Scotia is nine miles from Oak Island. Brian sat with Harold Mulhaney at an outdoor coffee shop overlooking the bay. Mulhaney had grown up in the area – he was quiet and somber, as many people in the region prefer to be among strangers. He was a portly man in his seventies who slowly tamped, then lit his battered pipe, pulling contentedly on it as they sat on the patio. He let Brian do the talking and occasionally grunted what might have been responses. Brian wanted information but also he wanted to find out whether this reclusive man would let him make yet another attempt to retrieve what was in the Money Pit.
It had taken Brian a full day to get from Dallas to Boston then Halifax by plane. He drove the rest of the way to Lunenburg and spent the night in a pleasant bed and breakfast. When Brian phoned to say he was in town, Mulhaney had grunted an agreement to meet for coffee the next day.
Harold Mulhaney had started the conversation by asking Brian where he was from. That was about the only positive thing from the entire meeting, Brian later recalled. And Mulhaney’s communicative skills hadn’t been out for long.
“I was born in Texas, went to university in Oklahoma and now I live in New York City.” Brian thought the southwestern references might help the man connect with him. But they didn’t.
“New York City, eh? Never been there. Hear it’s a pretty big place. So you’re a city boy, eh?”
Of course Brian was a city boy. He smiled his best grin and said, “Nope. I’m just a country boy from Texas, Mr. Mulhaney.” The old man harrumphed at that, obviously in disbelief.
“So talk, boy. I didn’t plan to spend all day here. Whadda you want?”
Brian talked about himself, his background in the antiquities business and his interest in finding out what was on Oak Island. At one point Brian asked, “I was on a documentary aired by History Channel a month or so ago. Did you happen to see it?”
“Don’t know what that is,” the old man replied. “If it’s some kind of TV show I don’t have one anyway.”
Brian struggled to keep the man’s attention. After ten minutes of listening while he messed with his pipe, the man said, “If you don’t tell me exactly what you think you know about my property you’re outta luck, city boy.”
If this was ever going to work Brian could hold back no longer. He explained about the Templars manuscript and the coded pages. He told Mulhaney he believed the Knights Templars had built the pit in 1497 or 1498 and put something there, something they called the “Most Holy Relics.”
“I’ve been fascinated with the story of Oak Island my whole life,” he said. “I love adventure and I’m fortunate enough to be able to afford to indulge my passion for ancient things. If I were the one who cracked the mystery of Oak Island it’d be an incredible accomplishment. And you as the landowner would obviously profit from whatever I found there.”
Mulhaney said nothing for a couple of minutes. He just looked at Brian while he smoked his pipe, aromatic clouds wafting into the air. Finally he spoke.
“I want ninety percent.”
Brian’s astonishment must have shown on his face. “How much money do you want to contribute to the project?”
“Not a dime,” Mulhaney replied, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. “You’re putting up the money, son.”
“Uh, Mr. Mulhaney, I want to be fair about this…”
“Fair don’t really matter. What matters is what I want. I want ninety percent. We got a deal or not?”
“Well frankly I don’t see how that would work, sir.”
“OK then. Around here we do things a little differently than you guys in the city. Here it’s pretty clear if you’ve got a deal or not. Appears to me we haven’t got one.” He stood, walked to his pickup fifty feet away and drove off, a cloud of dust replacing the pipe smoke that lingered.
That went well, Brian thought sa
rcastically as he paid for the coffee.
Lunenburg was a beautiful coastal fishing town with very little to do, especially for someone like Brian. Driven by his ambitions, he couldn’t sit and wait for Harold Mulhaney. Frankly he wasn’t sure if the guy was bluffing. He might come back to Brian with another offer and he might not. The man was inscrutable.
Brian gave it two hours then drove his rental car to the seven hundred foot causeway connecting Oak Island to the mainland. It had been built in 1965 by one of the treasure syndicates to make it easier to get equipment to the Money Pit. He parked on the shore, got out and looked across at the enigmatic island, so near yet so elusive. He shot a few pictures with his phone even though none of the famous excavations could be seen from this side of the island.
After a few minutes he heard the sound of a car engine and was surprised to see Mulhaney’s pickup approaching the causeway from the other side. It would have been too much to hope the old man had been watching for him so he put it down to coincidence. Bryan walked over to the road and waited. Mulhaney would have to drive right past him.
The man stopped his pickup and turned off the ignition. His faithful pipe still clenched in his teeth, he said, “Taking in the scenery?”
“It’s beautiful,” Brian replied.
“No, it ain’t beautiful. It’s a scraggly little island that people have fought over for hundreds of years. It’s got nothing to say for itself except the secret a bunch of folks think is here. Well, Mr. New York City, I got a deal for you. A take it or leave it deal. No discussions, no negotiating. I’ll take five million US for my half of Oak Island and I get ten percent of the value of anything you find. I’ll even help you find it.” He started the truck, put it in gear and drove away.
When he had arrived in Nova Scotia Brian had no idea how long discussions with Mr. Mulhaney would take. Last night he’d stayed at the Oak Island Inn nearby and paid for two nights. At four pm he sat on the Inn’s patio at the edge of Mahone Bay and emailed Jeffrey Montfort in London. He needed some information on Mulhaney and the librarian was the perfect man to find it.
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 88
