He found himself opening his middle desk drawer and peering into the back of it perhaps a dozen times during the morning. Every time he thought maybe he’d overlooked the pad or maybe it had slipped behind the drawer – a quick withdrawal of the entire drawer proved that theory wrong. So far he had no idea where it had gone but he still hoped against hope it would turn up. It had to.
At noon he went out for lunch. A plate of pasta with shrimps and two glasses of Chianti at a nearby sidewalk café made things much better. By two pm he decided he would live to fight another day.
Conti blocked off the remainder of the afternoon for the book project. He settled down at the worktable in his office and started decoding the remainder of the page he had worked on yesterday. His headache was gone and he felt practically human again; it would have been hard to work on this project earlier today, he knew. The intense concentration wouldn’t have been easy.
Three hours later he was well down the page of symbols. His secretary gave a brief knock. Conti unlocked the door and bade the young cleric good evening. He decided to give it one more hour to see how far he could get. Today he hadn’t stopped to read what he was decoding. He wanted to concentrate on the difficult part – decoding each single symbol into a letter. He wouldn’t stop to read the decoded words until he was finished.
It was nearly seven pm when Dominic put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and stretched. He had taken short breaks several times but for the most part he had been at the decoding job for four hours straight. It was tiresome at best; today it was doubly so given Conti’s lack of sleep the night before and his rather precarious condition before lunch.
He put the manuscript and code page back into the credenza. As he turned he dropped his pen on the floor beside his desk. He bent to pick it up and saw something under the desk pedestal that held its drawers.
On hands and knees he peered into the small space and saw a pad of paper. He pulled it out; it was his notes from the night before.
He thought for a few minutes and then shook his head, relieved beyond belief that the pad was safe and sound. I must be losing my mind, he thought to himself. Undoubtedly the pad was exactly where he had hidden it. He gathered it and the couple of pages of words he had written from the code in the book. Sticking them both in an underarm leather satchel he walked home.
Dominic fixed a light dinner and a glass of wine and then returned to the project. He picked up the folio into which he’d scribbled hours of translated material and began to read from the beginning of that page. He’d read the prayer yesterday but wanted to see it in context with the translation.
O Lord, hear our prayer. By the grace of God our Father and his Son Jesus the Christ our Lord we have been appointed defenders and guardians of the faith. Let our words and deeds be pleasing to Him and through His holy guidance may we steadfastly continue our mission, guarding the secret with which we have been entrusted for these three hundred sixty-seven years.
Now Conti read the new words he had decrypted.
Carrying on the tradition of our forefathers, Pauvres Chevaliers du Temple, we the Templars risen from the ashes of our brethren like the Phoenix, do pledge to uphold the secrets given to us, to be faithful stewards of the wealth and treasure amassed and hidden by our forebears and to continue the good works of the Order.
Conti paused. Pauvres Chevaliers du Temple was one of a number of titles by which the first Knights Templars were known. It meant “poor Knights of the Temple” – others called them simply the “Order of the Temple” or the more scholarly title Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.
In the twelfth century, the early days of the Order, the Templars truly had been poor. They did services for people as they traveled and received donations in return. One important aspect of their work was to serve as escorts or guardians for people making pilgrimages from Europe to Jerusalem, Conti recalled. Over a few years as the organization grew and received sanction from the Church their fortunes took a major turn for the better. It was well known that the Knights Templars were immensely wealthy when they finally were rounded up and murdered through the efforts of a weak Pope and a jealous French king.
Dominic was intrigued by the paragraph he had just read. The writer spoke of the Templars’ pledge “to be faithful stewards of the wealth and treasure amassed and hidden by our forebears.” Very interesting. Many legends spoke of significant Templars treasure and money amassed during their crusades and put in secret places before their demise in 1310. None of it had ever been found, but here was yet another indication that the stories might be true. He resumed reading the medieval French, considering every exciting word carefully.
We have willingly assumed the responsibility to maintain the precious objects, religious artifacts, silver and gold we have been given through the grace of God our Father. As the ancients have written in the Bible, “Through wisdom is an house builded; and by understanding it is established. And by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riches.” We the sixteen who lead the Templars are humbled by the mighty weight of the responsibility God has laid upon us.
A quiet ding on Conti’s phone interrupted the fascinating words pouring off the page in front of him. He had received an email, a rare event for him this time of the evening. Conti picked up his phone and read the message. The words were few but frightening. His hands shook and the phone fell to the carpet beside him. He leaned back in his chair, his chest contracting as breathing became labored.
Calm down, Dominic.
He forced panic from his mind.
Everything will work out. You just have to think this through.
Dominic Conti had developed a good plan on paper to explain the events that transpired between him and Giovanni Moretti. But he hadn’t thought about this.
The email was from Frederico Messina, the head of the Gendarmerie Corps who had grilled the Cardinal earlier this afternoon.
“Eminence, I’d like the original of the recording you made of your meeting with Giovanni Moretti, please. I’ll arrange to have it picked up from your office. Let’s say ten am tomorrow. If you’re not available please leave it with your secretary. Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.”
In a panic, the Cardinal put aside the decryption project. Lying in bed he ran scenarios through his head. He slept an hour at most, only when he forced himself not to think about what a deep hole he had dug for himself.
At last daylight arrived. Despite a second restless night, Dominic was ready. His plan wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. He would tell the officer he couldn’t find the recording. He was sure he’d put it in his desk at the office but it wasn’t there. Perhaps it had been stolen – more likely he had misplaced it. After all, he had given the relevant portion to the FBI – there actually hadn’t been any need to keep it. So that was believable. Hopefully.
The more he went over the explanation the better it sounded. It was weak – there was no question about that – but he couldn’t think of anything better.
He arrived at his office around nine and walked to a beautiful eighteenth-century inlaid wood table sitting by a grouping of chairs. He opened the top drawer, pulled it out and reached into the space behind it. His hands wrapped around the microcassette that contained the entire recording of his meeting with the godfather. He slipped the incriminating tape it into his pocket. Tonight at home he would crush it with a hammer and throw the pieces into the dumpster behind the apartment complex.
He composed an email in response to Officer Messina’s request.
“I’m afraid I have misplaced the cassette. I’ve searched my office but it’s nowhere to be found. Fortunately the FBI has the relevant portion I provided and by now I’m sure you do too. That’s what you need. If at some point the cassette turns up I will let you know.”
A short response appeared within seconds.
“I will be at your office at ten am.”
Precisely at ten the Cardinal’s
secretary advised Conti that the policeman was here to see him.
“I’m sorry but I’m not available this morning,” was Conti’s cocky response. This man needs to learn who’s in charge here. I’ll call the shots, not him.
In a moment his assistant replied. “He’s choosing to stay, Eminence, in hopes you can work a few minutes into your schedule.”
Fine. Let him stay. Let him sit here all day, for all I care.
For two hours Dominic read reports, made calls and found himself unable to concentrate on anything. Every few minutes his hand went into his pocket to ensure the microcassette was still there. He was afraid to start working on the decoded Templars information with the policeman sitting just outside his office door. What he needed desperately to do was to copy the manuscript. He couldn’t do it here in the Vatican without arousing suspicion. The head of the Vatican Bank personally using a photocopier, instead of having a subordinate do it? And copying an obviously ancient book? No, that wouldn’t work. He had to copy the book elsewhere.
At 12:30 Cardinal Conti emailed his secretary and learned that the policeman was still in the waiting area. Dominic was getting hungry but so was the officer, he presumed. Five minutes later his secretary called, advising that Officer Messina had gone to the bathroom. “Instead of letting him use the one here, Eminence, I directed him to the public restrooms on the second floor. I thought it might give you a chance to leave your office if you wish.”
“Good thinking,” Conti said to himself. He put the Templars manuscript in his satchel along with the legal pad containing the story he’d created about his involvement with Spedino. Laying the code solution sheet in his desk drawer he walked out of his office with the satchel under his arm.
In the hallway outside his office he turned to go to the elevator. Frederico Messina was standing just across the hall, obviously waiting for him. Damn this man. He was clever.
“I’m so glad to have run into you, Eminence,” the officer said as though it were purely by chance. “I won’t take long but I need to ask you more about this missing tape. This is very disturbing news at this point in my investigation.”
“I’m actually on my way to a luncheon,” Conti replied breezily, his hand involuntarily closing around the tape in his pocket. His other arm clutched the satchel tightly as if he thought Messina was going to grab it. “Perhaps another time.”
“I’ll just walk with you if you don’t mind. We can talk a moment while we go downstairs.”
The Cardinal had no options if he wanted to appear helpful. They took the elevator then walked across the expansive square toward the walls that separated Vatican City from the sprawling mass that was Rome. As they walked the policeman talked.
“Do you mind if I offer some assistance, Eminence? I have a team of men who are experts at finding things. I’d like to have them do a complete search of your office. We can be in and out in an hour. Perhaps this afternoon? Would that be satisfactory?”
Conti looked at him coldly. “No, it wouldn’t. I’ve told you I will let you know if the tape turns up. And I will do just that.”
“It’s critical, Eminence, because it will give me a feel for exactly what was said by you both. I can hear the conversation before and after the segment where Moretti admits complicity in the New York bombing. I really must insist on your cooperation, sir. It’s so much easier with your help than…well, than getting a search warrant, for instance. I’m sure the Pope…”
The Cardinal’s face went ashen. He swallowed hard, hoping the officer couldn’t see his discomfort.
“Don’t you think you’re carrying all this a bit too far?”
“Eminence, in my business you follow every trail as far as you can and see where it takes you. This missing cassette is vitally important in my opinion. It may gain us nothing but I really do intend to hear it. And I’d appreciate your cooperation.” He touched the Cardinal gently on the sleeve and Conti involuntarily jerked back. His satchel fell on the ground and the top came open. The legal pad was partially exposed.
“My apologies, Cardinal Conti, if I startled you.” The policeman bent down to pick up the case. He was close enough to read the words on the pad.
Conti stooped, retrieved the case from the ground and stuck the legal pad inside. He closed the flap, tucked it under his arm and said, “I have nothing to hide, Officer Messina. I get the impression you think I do, but you’re wrong. I’m a very busy man, as you can imagine. I will cooperate with you. I have told you twice I will keep looking for the cassette. There will be no policemen searching my office. There will be no search warrant, my friend, unless you can convince the Pope himself to allow it. You have nothing on me. I have done nothing but assist you in bringing a violent criminal to justice. And your thanks for this is to harass me?”
Conti walked to the taxi line in front of him, Messina following behind. “Eminence, my apologies but I am not harassing. I’m doing my job…”
The Cardinal entered the cab and shut the door as the policeman was talking. The car drove away leaving Frederico Messina standing at the curb wondering why Dominic Conti was so afraid.
Conti had the cab take him to a restaurant a few miles away. He had intended to go home but once Messina saw him the cleric had no choice but to get away. He spent an hour having lunch then took another taxi to his apartment.
At home Conti destroyed the cassette, crushing it into tiny pieces, putting all of them in an envelope that he placed in his satchel. He changed from his robe to a sweater and jeans, tennis shoes and a ball cap. With dark glasses he looked like a tourist instead of a Cardinal. Perfect. No one would recognize him.
He took the satchel, walked downstairs and hailed another taxi. Soon he was in a photocopy shop far from the Vatican and people there who might know him. He paid some Euros and began to copy the two hundred-page book. Some of the pages were brittle so it took time. He was careful.
When he left the shop he emptied the envelope containing the crushed pieces of microcassette into a trash bin on the street. No one would find the tape now. That put him at ease.
Back at home Cardinal Conti did something that pained him deeply because he loved old things – he loved the history that surrounded the Church and his Order, the present-day Knights Templars.
He carefully took the Templar manuscript that had been stolen from Brian Sadler’s gallery, turned through it carefully and removed the thirteen pages of coded symbols. They came out easily – the book was old and the binding was in poor shape at best.
Cardinal Conti would now skim the diary entries one last time while he still had the original. Then he’d give the FBI the manuscript. “They’ll never know it had extra pages,” he told himself.
That evening Dominic flipped through the entire book and read the entries from the 1400s to the late 1600s. He saw nothing except historical exploits, pillaging of enemy villages and references to tribute paid and booty claimed. At this point the Cardinal believed the coded pages would tell specifics of where all that treasure was. And when the time was right he would get back to deciphering the code.
The next day Conti called Agent Jack Underwood in Manhattan. Underwood thanked him for his efforts to get the manuscript back to its rightful owner. He suggested Conti contact Brian Sadler, the man from whose gallery the book was stolen. The Cardinal and Brian could deal with it going forward. Underwood gave the cleric Brian’s cellphone number.
Conti felt as though he already knew Brian Sadler from his conversations with Giovanni Moretti. He would call Mr. Sadler and work out the handover of the document.
Chapter Thirty-Five
London
The stranger in the Monument Club’s library surveyed the situation. Brian was reaching for his cellphone and the librarian’s back was turned as he monitored the scanner’s progress.
Suddenly Brian became aware of someone standing just behind him – that was the last thing he was aware of. Everything suddenly went black as he slumped onto the desk in front of him.
> The man withdrew a tiny needle from Brian’s neck. He’d be incapacitated for fifteen minutes and wake with a headache, but he’d be fine. He turned and saw the librarian looking at him from across the room.
“What are you doing?” Jeffrey Montfort shouted. “What do you want?”
The man walked quickly toward the librarian, another tiny needle tight in his fingers. He smiled and said, “You really need to cooperate and everything will be fine.”
Montfort backed up, his fingers grazing the top of the scanner. As the man plunged the needle into the librarian’s arm Montfort pressed a button then collapsed in a heap. The man took the pages from the scanner tray and threw the machine to the floor. It crashed into a dozen pieces.
Next he rushed to Brian’s carrel and attempted to lift Brian’s upper body off the laptop where it lay, but the tiny booth was too small. He’d have to pull Brian backwards onto the floor. He didn’t know if the laptop was important or not; his boss hadn’t mentioned it but he thought he’d get it if he could. Since it was found in that locker with the copy, maybe it was important.
As he grabbed Brian’s shoulders and prepared to give a heave the front door of the library suddenly swung open. Engaged in conversation, two men entered the room and walked toward the front desk. They hadn’t noticed him. Now he had no time to get the laptop; he moved to a shadowed corner and waited for the chance to escape.
The newcomers stood for a moment at the desk. “Jeffrey?” one called out. “This is odd,” he told his friend. “Jeffrey’s always here.”
“Look! He’s there, on the floor!”
The men rushed behind the front desk area and knelt down to feel the librarian’s pulse. As they did the stranger calmly walked out, took an elevator to the ground floor and left the building. He had accomplished exactly what he was told to do – he had the copy of the manuscript. He was certain he had destroyed the scanner. Hopefully the pages that had been scanned wouldn’t be retrievable from the ruined machine. Too bad that he had been interrupted, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d make his fee by delivering the copy. He wouldn’t mention the laptop or the scanner. What the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt me, the man thought.
Brian Sadler Archaeology 04 - The Bones in the Pit Page 16