One day recently a client had given Constantin's name to a lady who wanted to consign a nice set of Georgian chairs dating to the mid-1800s. Her house was in Lowndes Square, Knightsbridge, and he had met her this afternoon to see the furniture. They agreed on a price, signed the papers, and he said he'd have the pieces picked up tomorrow.
Since it was a beautiful day, he decided to walk for a while instead of going back to the Knightsbridge tube station. He'd rather be outside than underground on a train. He strolled along Brompton Road, its sidewalks filled with pedestrians window-shopping, everyone darting here and there or just killing time like he was. He popped in to Harrods a couple of blocks away. Thanks to its Arab owners, the store always carried a good selection of books in his native language and he found one he wanted.
He left the store through its rear entrance and went down Basil Street. As he passed Pavilion Road, he glanced right and saw Sale e Pepe, a trattoria he'd enjoyed a couple of times in years back. He decided to stop in for a glass of wine, having nothing else on his agenda for the afternoon. Abdel Malouf had had good times here in the old days, but it had been long enough that the staff wouldn't remember who he once had been.
There were a few people finishing lunch in the tiny restaurant, but he had already decided to just have a drink. This time of day he was the only person at the six-seater bar and he ordered a glass of Saint Veran wine and an escargot appetizer. They had been his favorites once. Actually, they were Abdel's favorites, he thought nostalgically as he remembered what once had been. Constantin didn't have many favorite anythings, because he hadn't existed long enough and he was afraid to visit the same restaurants more than once. He had no habits anymore because habits could get you in trouble if someone was looking for you.
As he sat with his back to the entrance, he heard the door open and close. He was lost in reverie, remembering better times, when he heard the maître d' say, "Welcome back, Mr. Sadler. I have a nice table for you and your guest."
Constantin turned his head slightly as Brian and a younger man walked through the tiny bar and to the back without a glance his way. Part of him wanted to call out, to say hello to his friend and to explain everything. But that couldn't happen. Brian's table was out of sight around the corner, and Constantin did what he had to do. He finished his food and his wine quickly, paid the bill and left without telling his friend how painful it had been to see him again.
He was deeply saddened and he told himself for the thousandth time it was all his own doing. He only had himself to blame that he was lonely, bitter and depressed. If he weren't terrified of spending eternity in Jahannam, he'd probably have taken his life by now. But the Quran was clear about that, so he was doomed to hell on Earth instead.
As the months passed, Constantin became content with his new existence. He was making a living from the shop, he had enough euros to last a lifetime, and his life was peaceful and quiet. He lived in a modest flat in the Edgeware Road, a section of London near Paddington Station that was home to many Arabs. He felt at home in this area and he rode the tube to his shop and back every day.
One day he finally saw what he'd been expecting. A new Brian Sadler archaeological documentary would be broadcast soon. He wept as he watched the trailer. There was his friend standing in the cave Abdel had revealed. He was with a woman – probably an archaeologist, Constantin mused, thinking it should have been him. He watched Brian and the woman walk down the tunnel – his tunnel – and enter the low, narrow corridor off to the right. As they disappeared, he heard the deep, resonant voice of the announcer. "Join your host Brian Sadler for The Hidden Treasures of Isaiah, a fulfillment of prophecy and a fascinating look at biblical treasure hidden for a thousand years!"
Once he'd seen the teaser, his days became gloomy again. Everything he'd hoped for, worked for and dreamed about had been tossed away. Someone else was getting all the credit for what was rightfully his. Truthfully it never had been his, of course. He hadn't found it in the first place and the wonderful things that the cavern held were centuries old. But he should have had the glory, the fame and fortune. It wasn't Brian Sadler's fault; it was his own and he hated himself for it.
He tried time and again to put the documentary out of his mind, but instead – like millions of other eager Brian Sadler followers – he found himself counting the days until it aired. At last it was the day. Tonight at eight, it would happen. He told himself he wouldn't watch it. Then he talked himself into recording it in case he wanted to see it later. Then he decided he would have to see it tonight. But not alone. He was miserable enough already. He wouldn't sit in the darkness of his depressing flat all alone. He'd go out instead.
Constantin was drinking more and more these days. Although he didn't allow himself a routine, he occasionally stopped into a friendly Syrian place a block from his apartment building. He walked in, took a seat at the bar and noticed there was only a handful of customers. In his language, he asked if anyone minded switching the telly in a few minutes from a football match nobody cared about anyway to the latest Brian Sadler documentary. "It's about some lost treasure," he added, and nobody protested.
By the time the show aired, the pub was getting busy. Now every stool at the bar was occupied. Constantin was sandwiched between a chubby lady with her husband and a young man wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. There were a lot of working-class people in this neighborhood and he was one of those. He spoke briefly to everyone when they arrived and they dove into their pints.
He'd had a couple by now, and when the TV special began, he watched the first part in shock. There was Brian Sadler greeting his audience. The screen shot switched to a familiar place – his store in the Old City of Jerusalem. "Turn it up!" he shouted to the bartender, watching as the camera zoomed in on a man standing in front of the shop. Brian was acknowledging him – Abdel Malouf – as the man who'd led him to the amazing cache that was the subject of tonight's show.
Constantin began to weep, which caused those around him to cast an uncomfortable glance his way. The bartender asked if he was all right, but Constantin waved him away.
"That's me," he whispered to no one in particular. "That's me and that was once my store." He turned away, realizing it had been a mistake to watch this show in public, even though he couldn't have known his own picture would be part of the program. He threw a few pounds on the bar, got off the stool a bit unsteadily and walked out as the other patrons requested the channel be switched back to sports. Several of them wondered about the morose man who had asked to switch channels but left before his show really got under way.
The man in the dirty sweatshirt quickly tossed back his drink, paid his bill and followed the sad man home.
Weeks ago, Constantin had met a lady his age at a laundromat down the street, learned she was from the same part of Syria he was, and asked her out for coffee. Although he wasn't interested in a long-term relationship, he realized from spending time with her how starved he was for human interaction. They began to have dinner now and then.
A couple of weeks after the Brian Sadler documentary aired, he closed his shop early because he and his lady friend were going to a fancy restaurant in the Charing Cross Road for dinner. It would be the first time they were going for what might be considered a "date."
The evening went well and the time passed quickly. She was friendly and outgoing, easy to talk to and genuinely interested in him – at least the life he'd invented for himself. When the evening was over, they stood outside the restaurant and she advised him she was going to spend the night with her mother instead of returning to their part of town. He hailed a taxi, smiled as she pecked him on the cheek, and decided to ride the subway home because it was less expensive than a cab.
As he rode the crowded train under the streets of London, his mind was a million miles away. The train arrived at Victoria Station and a jostling mass of people exited the train as even more boarded. Constantin didn't pay attention to a rowdy group of youths who had enter
ed, pushing and shoving their way through the car. There were no seats available, so they stood in the aisle. His nose wrinkled as he noticed the body odor of a man just beside him, his arm in the air holding a strap. He turned his head away and closed his eyes.
The train arrived at the South Kensington station, just three stops from Constantin's destination. As the doors whisked open, the young man standing next to Constantin jabbed a knife into his throat. "Allahu Akbar," the killer whispered as his victim's life drained away. With the confusion and so many passengers jammed like cattle into the car, it took a moment for anyone to notice the blood covering the Arab man's shirt. By the time the screams began, his killer was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Monument Club in London was a refuge for Brian and other like-minded adventurers, and he made it a point to spend time there at least once during every trip. Built in 1894, the three-story building sprawled along the Thames River at the Embankment. A tranquil haven for its members over the decades, the club had been founded by a group of men linked by an interest in archaeology and adventure.
There were quiet, wood-paneled reading rooms, a bar that invited pleasant conversation, a four-star restaurant overlooking the river and a gentlemen's cigar room with an enormous fireplace. Brian enjoyed the latter immensely, sharing a before-dinner martini and afterwards a fine Cuban cigar with other members – anthropologists, archaeologists and armchair adventurers.
The club's expansive third floor housed a library of archaeological reference material unrivalled in the world. There were over sixty thousand volumes and Brian had spent many an afternoon there doing research on one project or another. It had a sister club in New York that was stately and refined, but Brian always had a special affinity for the original. It was a pleasure to sit in one's own club, fraternizing with others who were equally fascinated by ancient relics, exciting stories of treasure and suppositions as to what might appear at the next turn of a shovel in some faraway ruined city. It was a fraternity of kindred spirits.
Oscar Carrington, a good friend of Brian's and the owner of a well-respected gallery in the posh Knightsbridge area of London, had long ago sponsored him for membership and joined him often for a drink or dinner when Brian was in town. He was present tonight, as were fifty other guests who had gathered in a second-floor salon for a special tribute.
It was Carrington himself who walked to a dais in the front of the room, stood at a podium, clinked a glass and waited until the conversation stopped. "We're here to honor one of our colleagues," he began, beckoning to Brian and Nicole to join him. "Some of you are stodgy academics," he quipped to laughter from the audience as several pointed to others nearby. "Some are famous in your own right, such as Lord Aynesley here –" he pointed to a man with a cane sitting nearby "– whose work in Egypt in the 1970s led to the discovery of a long-lost pharaoh. There are those of you who were in the field long before modern irritants like cable television and alien documentaries became fashionable." Another outburst of laughter, this one more robust. "Many of you have been content to stay in the shadows, letting others receive the glory for conquests that belonged equally to yourselves. You've shunned the limelight and remained anonymous."
He saw nods and heard murmurs of agreement.
Carrington paused for a long moment and then put his arm around Brian's shoulders. "And then there's our friend Brian Sadler."
The room exploded in laughter and applause. As much as some of the members – especially the seniors – decried the commercialization of archaeology, everyone who knew Brian enjoyed his ebullient personality, his positive, cheerful outlook about every project or obstacle, and his passion for adventure. Some of the members felt people such as Brian portrayed archaeological expeditions as crass treasure hunts, but everyone had to admit that he had created a spark of interest and fascination among common people, who were caught up in the excitement every time they watched Brian's documentaries.
Carrington continued. "I'm remiss if I don't introduce Nicole, Brian's far better half and the woman who should be taming his wild spirit but instead finds herself hanging on to the tiger's tail, I'm afraid." She waved and flashed a big bright smile.
"Brian has outdone himself with the Israel documentary. Not only was the production spectacular, the revealing of the actual treasures of the Temple Mount is his crowning achievement to date." He continued with effusive praise peppered with a smattering of applause now and then from the onlookers.
Oscar motioned to someone in the back of the room and the lights were lowered. A video began playing on a screen behind the dais. Brian and Nicole turned as a familiar face appeared. There was President Harry Harrison sitting at his desk in the White House.
"Hello, my old friend. Greetings from this side of the pond and congratulations on a mission successfully accomplished. I have to admit I had my doubts about you now and then, and you put the fear of God into all of us more than once on this adventure, but once again you managed to ignore the advice of every sane person you know – including your wife, Nicole – and get yourself into and out of more jams than Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner."
There was laughter in the room and a couple of men shouted, "Hear, hear!" in agreement.
"I'm proud to count you and Nicole as my friends and I wish you well tonight. I'm told there's some big news coming next, so I must say my goodbyes and let you get on with the festivities. Best wishes, Brian!" The video went to black and the lights came up as the group applauded.
Oscar resumed his remarks. "In closing, let me say that you've brought the wonders of Israel to millions of viewers. As your colleague and friend, and as a man who appreciates rarities just as you do, I know how much it would have meant to own some of the wondrous things you saw. I know the exhilaration I'd have felt if my gallery had offered some of them at auction. There were over a thousand items in that cavern. You could have pressured the Israeli government to part with a few as partial compensation for the work you did. But instead, you did something generous and unselfish. A little bird told me you made a pledge to the Israel Antiquities Authority, providing seed money for a new museum at Beth Shean. I'm told the building will be constructed on the hill above the treasure cave. Many of the finest items will be displayed there. The more adventurous and hardy visitors – people who want to see more than relics in glass cases – will be able to descend a narrow set of stairs to the ledge outside the cave. They will walk down the same corridor you walked, enter the cavern and experience the treasures of the temple just as you did."
Brian looked perplexed. "How could you know about that? That's not public information ..."
"I know you well." He laughed. "Ever since your return eight months ago, you've gushed about Israel, the spirituality you felt at sites you and Nicole visited, and your incredible adventures there. Observing how deeply the entire experience affected you, I had an idea that you might be doing something charitable behind the scenes. I put on my Sherlock Holmes hat, gripped my meerschaum pipe in my teeth and engaged in some detective work. It took a little persuading, but your friend Dr. Rebecca Kohl finally gave up your secret. Please don't be upset with her or me. I believe you'll find the outcome satisfying."
He picked up a large envelope from the podium as he continued. "Yours is a matching pledge; the Antiquities Authority must raise the same amount to get your donation. Well, my boy, get out your checkbook. On behalf of the Monument Club, its directors and officers, I'm pleased to announce that the club is matching your donation one hundred percent." He opened the envelope and showed everyone a large mock check payable to the Israel Antiquities Authority in the amount of one million dollars.
Usually not at a loss for words, Brian stood dumbfounded in front of his fellow members, every one of whom was on his or her feet and applauding boisterously. Carrington ushered Brian to the podium and stepped off the platform. He took Nicole's hand and they walked forward.
Wiping a tear from his eye, he said, "Words can't adequately express how i
mportant this contribution is. Not only am I personally awed by such a gesture, your immediate match of my pledge means that construction can begin far more quickly. The government of Israel has already agreed to fund everything over two million dollars, so the architects and engineers can start now instead of months from now. The museum will become reality months – maybe years – ahead of our original schedule." He held up the check. "This grant ensures that the hidden treasures of Isaiah will be safeguarded and appreciated by millions. Thank you, Oscar. Thank you, my friends, and may God bless this club and each one of you."
The after party went on until the wee hours. At last it was closing time and only Brian, Nicole and Oscar were left at the bar, finishing one last nightcap.
"What's next?" his friend asked.
"I'm hanging up my spurs, as we say in Texas," Brian responded. "I think it's time to stay home for a while. I'm afraid this time I've given Nicole enough worry to last a lifetime."
"You're absolutely right," she admitted, "but there's another saying in Texas about dying with your boots on. I know you well. Don't hang those spurs too far away. I have a feeling you'll figure out a reason to use them again before long."
_____
Brian traveled to Jerusalem at least once a quarter. In these days of instant technology, it was easy to run a business from a distance, but owning a gallery required a personal touch. There were opportunities to acquire exquisite artifacts, a chance to broker a sale with a colleague in Europe or Asia, and the most important thing to Brian – on every trip he found something new in Israel, something he hadn't seen before.
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