After a night spent mostly awake thinking about Oak Island, Brian got up around six, checked his phone and saw a response from Jeffrey. He’d look at it soon; first he went to the patio for a morning coffee. It was crisp and cold; the sweater and jeans he wore felt good.
Jeffrey’s online searches had turned up everything Brian needed. Two years ago Harold Watson Mulhaney purchased sixty-five acres of Oak Island, roughly half of it, for US$1.7 million. The half he now owned included the Money Pit and the shoreline of Smith’s Cove, from where many believed water gushed into the pit through elaborate booby-traps constructed when the structure was built.
Online information about the reclusive man came from only one source – his wife’s obituary. The Mulhaneys had lived on a farm near Halifax, fifty miles away. His wife died five years ago; she was the daughter of a wealthy paper baron and apparently left her husband of forty years a significant amount of money. He used some of it to purchase half of Oak Island and built a small cabin there. Nothing else had been written about this man since he moved to the island. There was no indication as to why Mulhaney wanted the important half of Oak Island – the part with the Money Pit. He certainly didn’t seem like a treasure hunter. Just the opposite. He was maybe the most blunt, stolid man Brian had ever encountered.
Brian made a decision. He was going to take the man’s offer, even though it meant a profit for Mulhaney of over three million dollars in only two years. Money wasn’t an issue for Brian; he’d made millions in the time since he took over Bijan Rarities. The thrill of the hunt and the chance to own an enigma still unsolved after centuries intrigued him immensely. He wasn’t about to let this go.
Brian called Harold Mulhaney and agreed to the deal. “Do you want me to get an attorney to draw up a contract?”
“Nope. I’ll write it. No need to spend any more of your hard-earned money. You’re gonna need it for the treasure hunt.” Brian detected a hint of humor in the comment. I haven’t seen that before in Mr. Mulhaney, he thought to himself.
They agreed to meet that afternoon at Mulhaney’s house so Brian could see the property he was paying five million dollars for. They took a half-hour tour in the old man’s pickup. Brian was fascinated to see the boreholes he had read so much about. He knew the whereabouts of the actual Money Pit itself had been obscured over the centuries by the work of others. But he believed ground-penetrating radar could find it.
Back at Mulhaney’s cozy three-room cabin Brian looked over the handwritten contract and surprisingly he felt it would work just fine. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy but it was. Obviously a real estate agent would have to draw the final closing documents and prepare a deed, but Mulhaney had done a decent job of drawing up a contract for the sale of Oak Island’s Money Pit.
The agreement called for a deposit of $100,000, upon payment of which Brian was free to begin work on the Money Pit. They drove across the causeway to town, made a photocopy of the contract at a drugstore and signed both copies. Brian retrieved his checkbook from his backpack and the deal was done.
“The folks who own the other half of the island aren’t as friendly as I am,” Mulhaney told him when they had finished. Another bit of caustic humor, Brian noted. “The road from the causeway is on their land but you have a right of entry through their property to get to yours. Other than that, I’d stay off their side. They don’t like me much and I’m a local. I don’t have a clue how they’ll take to a city boy.”
The agreement allowed Mulhaney to live in his cabin rent-free for six more months. The cabin was far removed from the boreholes themselves so it wasn’t a problem. He’d also offered to help with the project – Brian figured the man might have information he could use and he needed someone on the scene.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Dallas
Back in Dallas, Brian was buoyed by Nicole’s progress. She was released from Baylor Hospital four weeks to the day after her wreck. Her mother enlisted twenty-four hour care at Nicole’s condo. That gave the family a break now and then and ensured someone could care for her every minute, day and night. Her physical improvement was excellent but she still had major problems related to the concussion. Her speech was slowly improving thanks to daily lessons with a professional and a physical therapist came three times a week to help her build back the strength and balance in her hands and legs.
The neurologist had explained that portions of her brain dealing with memory, speech and cognitive skills suffered severe shock from impact. They would likely continue to improve, perhaps even regain a semblance of normalcy, but it would take time. In the meantime she would think, speak and react slowly, remembering some things from the distant and recent past, but forgetting others completely.
The project on Oak Island began in earnest. Brian worked from Nicole’s home office as he had previously done. Harold Mulhaney had proven to be an asset and Brian spoke with him every day. He willingly offered to be Brian’s eyes and ears on the ground. Having a local on site would be very helpful, Brian figured, and Mulhaney freely gave his time in return for his ten percent stake of the spoils.
Within a week a radar crew had been flown in from Portland, Maine. Brian knew the penetrating ability of the radar depended completely on the makeup of the materials in and around the hole. Wood and concrete would be more difficult than water, limestone and dirt. He hoped they could shoot at least 150 feet – most of the tales of the Money Pit put the bottom a little further down from there.
Harold Mulhaney had advised Brian how best to go about the shoot. He took the radar crew first to a hole about 150 feet from the Money Pit. This shaft, called Borehole 10X, was created in 1970 by another Oak Island syndicate, the Triton Alliance. The shaft was created by a rotary drill and then lined with steel casing. Its total depth was about 230 feet. Metal and some wire were retrieved along with, according to some stories, indications of a treasure chest. But no treasure had ever been brought up.
Since the location of Borehole 10X was known, Mulhaney advised Brian to let the crew work this hole first to see how the radar worked at depth. Sadler agreed.
In the hole the crew collected data for later review, then moved southwest to an indented area most locals believed was the Money Pit itself. A few others claimed it was a natural sinkhole and the original pit was lost. Wherever it was, repeated invasions of the shaft over the centuries had collapsed it. Flooding from the booby-traps installed by the builders took a toll as well. Today the area looked like a wide, shallow crater. There was no visible “hole in the ground.”
The crew shot radar at various sites in and around the crater. Finishing up, they told Mulhaney they believed they had gotten more than a hundred feet deep in one of their shots. The crew went home to Maine with a promise to deliver test results in two days.
Harold Mulhaney didn’t have a computer so Brian got the radar test results via email and called the old man. Although Mulhaney seemed dry and rough, Brian could sense his anticipation.
“Let me tell you about Borehole 10X first,” Brian began. “They went down a hundred and eighty feet to bedrock. The radar indicated some type of metal at the bottom, maybe the same metal and wire the Triton Alliance found in 1970. The crew got a good shot of the entire shaft but found nothing special.”
He continued. “Now let’s talk about the crater where the Money Pit’s supposed to be. They made a total of six shots into the ground, one of which seems to bear out the existence of a deep shaft. The radar worked perfectly for about a hundred feet. They picked up some wood here and there but I’m hoping that was the platforms made of logs that exist every ten feet all the way down. Those platforms should have been mostly demolished over the years of digging but I’m sure parts of them remain. At a hundred feet they ran into wood and possibly metal.”
“Stop right there, Brian. You recall what’s supposed to be at a hundred feet in the Money Pit?” The old man sounded excited.
“Is that where they found some kind of chests?”
“Sur
e is. In 1849 a syndicate called the Truro Company found oak and metal. They thought it was a chest with a top and a bottom, filled with some kind of metal, maybe jewelry.”
“OK. That’s encouraging because it tells us maybe the crew was shooting the actual Money Pit. So the radar gets weaker after penetrating wood and metal but it hit something at 155 feet that was stone. The shot was so deep and the signal so weak by then that they could go no further, but there does appear to be some kind of stone there. What have you heard about that?”
Harold paused a moment. “Sorry. Had to find a book I needed. Hold on a sec.” Another pause. “OK. The book says at 154 feet a cement vault was found. That was discovered sometime before 1900. That sounds like what your radar men ran into.”
“Maybe so. At least it’s consistent with the old stories. Harold, we need some excavating equipment. Can you round it up and get them started as quickly as possible?” That was the first time Brian had ever called Mulhaney by his first name. He didn’t seem to object – in fact, Mr. Sadler also became Brian from that point forward.
Two days later they set a timetable in place. A crew from Halifax would be on site the first of the next week to begin removing dirt and debris from the crater. Once they located the shaft they’d start excavating it. The closing date for Brian’s purchase of the property was that week as well, so he would fly to Halifax on Sunday and stay a couple of weeks while the crew excavated.
Sitting on Nicole’s bed that evening, he told her everything he was doing as Shelia, her caregiver watched TV in the living room. Nicole listened intently and said nothing while he told stories of Oak Island, the Templar relics, Harold Mulhaney and his plans to find what was there. After nearly ten minutes he realized he had talked too much. She wasn’t listening any more so he stopped.
“Do you understand what I told you about the new project in Nova Scotia?”
With a big smile on her face she shook her head. Tears came into Brian’s eyes – that was the most positive reaction she’d offered since the accident. She was getting better, even if she didn’t comprehend a lot.
“Eat now?” she said.
“I’ll fix it, Mr. Sadler,” Shelia called from the living room.
He looked into Nicole’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, baby. Of course we can eat now. I’ve worn you out with a bunch of talk. I love you and I love how much better you’re getting.”
That brought another smile.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The arrests of Sammy Freeland and Joey Barberi made front-page headlines in Dallas. Both got their fifteen minutes of fame although each probably hoped for different fame than this.
Nicole’s boss Randall Carter called Brian and told him the men had been arrested. At the inn Brian read the news article online and let Agent Underwood know. He promised to personally investigate if there could be a connection to the Fifth Avenue bombing.
The anonymous tip from the bartender was exactly what Dallas police had needed to determine who sabotaged Nicole Farber’s car. Facing charges of attempted capital murder, the two men were jailed in downtown Dallas. The police detective working the case was surprised when a senior FBI agent in New York called and requested information. Sabotaging brake lines on a Dallas lawyer’s convertible didn’t sound like an FBI matter to him and these two losers who were apparently involved didn’t look like major criminals. But who knew?
Sammy sang like a bird but he wasn’t the one the cops wanted to hear. His court-appointed lawyer sat next to him as he admitted doing the “brake job” on the Mercedes. He confirmed the bartender’s story word for word. Joey Barberi hired him with a promise to erase five thousand dollars in gambling debts and give him a new five grand line of credit. Which, coincidentally, Sammy had lost on the Cowboys game Monday night. That was the only good thing out of all this, Sammy figured. He might be in jail but at least Joey the Barber couldn’t break his legs when Sammy didn’t pay.
Thanks to the bartender and Sammy, the police knew Barberi ordered the job. Now they wanted to interview Joey the Barber to find out why he wanted to hurt Nicole Farber. Usually these attacks against lawyers were retaliatory, aiming to hurt an attorney who’d been on the other side of a case, but Nicole didn’t do that kind of legal work. There was nothing on the surface to indicate Joey Barberi should have had a vendetta against her but nobody could find out for sure. At the moment Joey wasn’t talking.
Barberi hired a high-profile local attorney who specialized in criminal defense, ironically the same area of law that Nicole practiced. Joey entered a plea of not guilty and conferred with his lawyer. An offer was made to the Assistant District Attorney assigned to the case. Joey’s lawyer told the ADA his client merely facilitated the job, acting on instructions from a person whom he feared.
The representative from the DA’s office refused to negotiate, pointing out that they had Barberi dead to rights with the testimony of the bartender, who saw and heard the entire thing, and Sammy Freeland, the perpetrator, himself. Things were at a standstill for ten days until Special Agent-in-Charge Jack Underwood called Brian.
“If we can link these guys to Spedino we can figure out what happened,” the agent said. “I know you’ve got friends in high places. Are you willing to use a favor?”
Brian said he’d do anything to help Nicole and made a phone call.
Three days later the Dallas County District Attorney was at his desk when his secretary buzzed him. “Sir, the White House is on line one.”
He laughed, thinking his assistant had been taken in by a prank caller. “I’m busy, Marjorie. I’ve never had a call from the White House in my life. How do you know it’s actually them? Tell them to put the President himself on the line right now. That should take care of it.”
In a moment she opened his office door. She was white as a sheet.
“He’s…he’s, uh, on line one, sir.”
“Who?”
“The President. He’s waiting to talk to you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What the hell’s this all about…” He picked up the line and curtly said, “OK, whoever you are. Start talking.”
He heard the voice so familiar to Americans everywhere. “I’m sorry to interrupt your day, Mr. District Attorney, but I need your assistance.”
Needless to say, the apologetic District Attorney jumped at the chance to help the President. Once he realized the potential magnitude of this case he pulled it away from his assistant. This would be very high profile. He wanted this exciting case and he needed the attendant publicity it was going to generate. Politics never stopped – DAs were always running for office.
The police were surprised when they learned the Assistant District Attorney who had been handling the case had been removed. The boss himself would be running things from now on. That was so unusual at this early stage of a case no one in Dallas could remember it ever happening. It made the news.
Joey Barberi’s attorney presented his demands – a lesser charge than attempted capital murder and no prosecution for unrelated non-capital crimes that might come out during questioning. To help him decide, the lawyer revealed to the DA that Joey’s boss in Kansas City had told Joey about a guy who had a job he wanted done. That second person had paid Joey $50,000. Barberi had never met that man. He had done a couple of previous jobs for him in the past, also arranged by phone. If the District Attorney approved the plea bargain Barberi would tell everything – what the job was, what he knew about the man who paid him, what bank the fifty grand came from, everything. They would turn over Joey’s phone and bank records and cooperate fully with authorities.
When President Harrison had spoken to the District Attorney he requested the DA involve the FBI Agent, Jack Underwood, in discussions about the plea bargain. Joey Barberi wasn’t the most important cog in this wheel – they were after the people at the top.
Agent Underwood and the DA talked about Kansas City, a known Mafia town, and how the bookie’s testimony might link this case to Spedino. The DA call
ed Joey the Barber’s lawyer and agreed to the terms of the plea agreement.
Special Agent-in-Charge Underwood flew in from New York to join the interview process. When he arrived the senior Dallas police detective who was leading the questioning demanded to know why the FBI was involved. Underwood explained that this case involved a top Mafia figure they’d been trying to take down for years. And confidentially, he told the detective, the President of the United States is involved.
Underwood concluded by saying, “I can’t tell you more than that, but trust me that we want to handle this interrogation by the books. This is a critically important case.”
The local cops didn’t know exactly how to take this but they cooperated fully with Agent Underwood. Especially when the District Attorney himself did something he’d never done before. He personally attended Joey Barberi’s deposition.
“I’m a bookmaker,” Barberi explained, immune from prosecution for that crime due to the agreement with the DA. “I work for some guys in Kansas City.” He named them. Underwood later ran them through the system – they were small-time criminals who ultimately worked for the mob although they weren’t Mafia themselves.
Joey’s boss in Kansas City had called a year or more ago. Joey would be hearing from a man who needed a job done, the boss told him. Given a promise it would be worth his while, Joey accepted.
“This man called me and used a series of numbers to identify himself. That’s what my boss told me was going to happen. He asked me to do something; I did it and he wired me ten thousand bucks. Done deal.”
Joey said he’d done one additional task for the man, netting him twenty thousand, and now the brake job on Nicole Farber’s car, for which he was paid fifty thousand dollars. When Sammy Freeland later learned that information it pissed him off. He’d done the dirty work and netted a lousy five grand out of the fifty Joey had made.
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 89
