Brian Sadler Archaeology 01 - The Bethlehem Scroll
Author: Bill Thompson
Date: 2016-07-23T23:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Ascendente Books
Rights: Copyrights as per source stories

The Bethlehem Scroll

A Brian Sadler Archaeological Mystery

Book One of the Series

2011 First-place EVVY Award Winner for Fiction

Colorado Independent Publishers Association

To Marilyn

My Proofreader and Critic Extraordinaire

Still the one…

…after all these years.

Note to 2016 edition:

Marilyn died a year after this book was originally published.

She was always a staunch critic but also my wife and greatest supporter for 42 years.

Author’s Note

It is accepted by many scholars that Jesus was born in the spring, maybe two or three years “B.C.”

In this novel, rather than using Christmas Day, December 25 of the year zero, I have chosen to set His birth in the spring of 3 B.C.

Prelude

The Qumran Hills near the Dead Sea

Late 2003

It was hot, blisteringly hot, on the canyon floor. The afternoon sun beat mercilessly on the rocky hillside. Only insects and reptiles had the stamina to venture about outdoors in this heat. Mammals stayed under cool rock overhangs or sought shelter in one of the many small caves dotting the landscape.

Deep in the darkness of this particular cave the temperature was below seventy degrees Fahrenheit, far less than the searing heat outside its obscure entrance. Other than the occasional desert fox or snake seeking refuge from the afternoon sun, nothing had ventured into the cave for hundreds of years. This was no place for men.

The cave consisted of two small areas – the space inside the room farthest from the cave’s entrance was tight – less than eight feet lay between the tiny entrance and its rear wall. The room’s ceiling was no more than three feet above its floor – not even a child could have stood erect. That was part of the reason why the jar had remained untouched for these many years. The Bedouins occasionally used larger caves nearby for shelter but this small indentation went unnoticed.

The jar sat on a small ledge behind some rocks. Its tight seal, put into place long ago, guarded its contents well. Neither searing desert heat nor the cool cave created a problem. There was neither humidity nor dampness to damage anything. So the jar sat, hidden behind two stones at the back of the cave, exactly as the boy had carefully placed it two thousand years ago.

-----

National Museum of Antiquities

Cairo, Egypt

May 3, 2004

The translator had sat for two hours bent over the table, painstakingly examining the ancient manuscript that lay flat on the table in front of him. He had made astonishing progress, although translating from Aramaic into Egyptian was a slow process, made more difficult by the partial deterioration of the document on which he was working. He had to work very carefully, unrolling with great care the two thousand year old scroll.

Achmed thought to himself how much easier this scroll was to handle than the others which had been found back in the forties. Many of them were mere fragments, eroded by the passing of time. This scroll obviously had been cared for much differently, he thought. Although its condition was rough, it still was intact. He wanted to know more about its provenance, but knew the man sitting behind him wouldn’t tell him anything.

Earlier today, Achmed had been sitting at his desk, working on the translation of an old Greek parchment that one of the museum’s financial supporters had brought in. The benefactor said it had been found at a dig in Alexandria. He purchased it from one of the workmen, who apparently had whisked it away from the site in his pocket. Achmed had barely gotten started on the document – just far enough to know it was some sort of shipping manifest – when the museum director had burst into his workroom, accompanied by a pockmark-faced man who now sat behind him.

The man had produced an identity card and badge, identifying him as a Detective Inspector with the Ministry of Interior, the agency that controlled all police activity in Egypt. Achmed found that strange. He had had no interaction with the police in his entire career here. The museum director instructed Achmed to stop what he was doing and to do a quick translation of the document now before him. “He wants to know what it says,” the director said. “Not word for word, but an overview of what the scroll is all about.”

So began the ordeal that had gone on for hours. The swarthy inspector sat in a chair behind Achmed, occasionally taking or making a call on his cell phone, talking quietly while Achmed worked. His face had startled Achmed when they met. The scars might have been from smallpox, he thought. Once, when Achmed arose to go to the lavatory, the Inspector questioned him, then said, “We will both go, but do not enter this room again until I am with you.” It was obvious the man would not allow Achmed to be alone with the document.

What Achmed had translated had astounded him. Now he understood why the man was so protective of the scroll he had brought to the museum. There were groups – governments even – who would do almost anything to get their hands on this parchment.

“I have important work to do,” the inspector said to Achmed. “Finish up now, and give me the parchment.” Achmed had only a few lines left. He had hurried through the lengthy manuscript, and knew he had missed some of the words, but the meaning was as clear as day to him. His body shuddered involuntarily as he thought of the importance of what he had in his hands.

Achmed made notes on a legal pad next to him as he carefully read the ancient language. Although he wanted to make sure he got the meaning, he wasn’t concerned about every word. The document was long…a story with no ending. He struggled to contain the excitement that grew within him as he read sentence after sentence.

“What’s taking you so long?” the inspector asked Achmed. “I only want to know what it means, not to have you translate the whole thing.”

I know exactly what you want, Achmed thought to himself. And I may never see this scroll again, so I’m going to take my time and see everything it says.

“Aramaic is a difficult language, sir,” Achmed replied to the man. “And the parchment is lengthy.”

The man responded gruffly, impatiently. “Tell me, then, if the name Yahweh appears in the text.”

I knew it! He wants to know if God’s name is in the document. He answered, “I have seen no such name so far, sir.” But Achmed also knew from what he had seen that it was only a matter of time until the name appeared.

“I will be finished momentarily,” Achmed said to the policeman. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the man turned to retrieve the topcoat he had laid on a counter by the door. There was something unusual going on, Achmed felt.

Finally Achmed put down his pen, turned to the man and said, “I am finished. The document is a scroll that appears to be ancient. It is written in Aramaic, a language common two thousand…”

“I don’t want a history lesson!” the inspector interrupted. He stood, his voice loud and menacing. “What does it say?”

It’s after 6 pm, Achmed thought. I am likely the only person still in the building. He nervously stammered, “The…the scroll resembles those from the Dead Sea discoveries. It speaks of a birth in Bethlehem. The last sentence calls him a King – Yahweh.” Since Achmed knew that was the name this Inspector was seeking, he decided not to tell him the other name that appeared in the scroll, the name Yeshua, or Jesus. This was an important scroll, without a doubt. This scroll mentioned God and Jesus, Yahweh and Yeshua, together in a single document.

The Inspector smiled. “You have done well, translator,” he said quietly as he pulled a pistol from his coat pocket. Achmed had no time to think even of his wife and child at home, and he barely felt the bullet enter his chest. He died before he hit the floor.

The pockmarked man who had called himself an Inspector stepped over the body, rolled up the parchment carefully, and took Achmed’s notepad. Opening the door, he looked up and down the quiet hallway. He could hear no sounds. He moved to the museum’s entrance and left the building, making sure the door locked behind him.

-----

The director of the National Museum prided himself on his early arrival each day. He unlocked the front doors as he did every morning. There were no guards here overnight. The last massive round of budget cuts had eliminated that luxury. All the security cameras were still in place, but no one sat at the guard station watching the activity on monitors.

He wondered how Achmed’s translation had gone. That whole situation was strange – an inquiry about an ancient scroll from a policeman? It was very unusual indeed. And he had stayed in the same room with the translator all afternoon, taking a break only when Achmed did. He must have thought the scroll to be very valuable.

As he turned a corner to go to his office, he glanced down the hallway toward Achmed’s small workroom. The door was open and light spilled out from the office into the hallway. That was strange. He knew Achmed to be a fastidious person, one who never left his office with the door open. He must be there, the director thought, but it was certainly early for him. “Achmed,” he called. “Did you get finished last night?” He turned to enter Achmed’s office and saw the body lying on the floor in a pool of blood. A few flies buzzed around the room. It was obvious this must have happened several hours ago. Stunned, he ran to his office to call the National Police.

-----

The Judean hills near Bethlehem

Late March 3 B.C.

The shepherds spoke quietly among themselves as they sat on the ground around a small fire. As the sheep settled in for the night, the men smoked and talked. It was a warm spring night and a light breeze fanned the flames. Overhead, the cloudless sky was as black and brilliant as Joab had ever seen it. What a night, he thought to himself as millions of stars twinkle above him. What a beautiful, incredible night.

Benjamin, son of Joab, was only twelve, but he had been with these men many times before as they tended the flock of sheep, which was their livelihood. Although he was often unable to join them because he attended school, this was one night he was glad he had been asked to come. He lay on his back on a small mat as he gazed upward, his pack beside him. A shooting star burned a path rapidly across the sky. Benjamin closed his eyes and made a wish.

I wish for many more nights here, on this hill with my father.

Joab had been a shepherd since his youth, trained by his father as Joab had in turn trained Benjamin. As he watched his son staring up into the skies, Joab’s mind wandered from the discussion in which the other shepherds were engaged. Joab hoped Benjamin could do more with his life. It had been a struggle to send the child to synagogue school, because Benjamin could have lent a much-needed hand to the growing flock of sheep Joab owned. Instead, Joab and his wife had decided the boy’s education was the key to his future. Perhaps he could become a rabbi, Joab sometimes mused. Or maybe a shopkeeper in Bethlehem. Whatever the future held, Joab wanted Benjamin to have the chance to do something meaningful. Little did he know how important Benjamin’s education would prove to be.

The embers of the small fire died down. One of the shepherds took a stick and stirred the fire, tossing the twig on it. The talk had turned to politics, a subject about which it seemed everyone in the small group had an opinion.

“The Sanhedrin are becoming far too powerful,” Joab commented.

“Yes,” another replied, “but what can we do? They have the education…the power. Simple shepherds such as we must be content with our lot in life. But also we have the best of all worlds – we can sit here, far from the crowds below in Bethlehem, enjoying life to its fullest.”

They discussed the census that was underway. Since the Romans had occupied Judea, taxes had progressively increased for the Jewish population now under their control.

“I think Caesar Augustus is going to use the census as a means to raise taxes once again,” Joab commented. “I’ve never seen taxes go down, and the legions of soldiers they’re sending to our country require a lot of money to maintain.”

The others agreed. One of them spat on the ground and cursed. “I’ve no money for taxes. What do we receive from this Roman government? Nothing. They take, but they never give in return.”

“True,” another responded, “but we can’t fight them, and it appears the Sanhedrin have aligned themselves with the Romans.”

A third added, “The Sanhedrin are crafty. They watch the wind, and they shift with it.”

The census had created havoc in small towns such as Bethlehem, because every person of a certain bloodline was required to register in his own place of birth. This often meant travel for great distances on foot or by donkey. Since travel outside one’s own town was rare, the trip to Bethlehem and other cities where the census was taken was a diversion for many people, a time for revelry and a change of pace. The usually quiet towns swelled with people virtually overnight as they thronged in, filling the streets.

The shepherds’ city was no exception. People from miles around were crowding into the small hamlet, swelling its population to three or four times its normal size. The streets filled with masses of people. Inns, eating and drinking places teemed with tourists, and many of these visitors became loud and unruly as the long nights wore on.

From their vantage point on the hill above Bethlehem, which lay less than a mile below them to the east, the shepherds could easily hear the noise from the city. It wasn’t normal, and the shepherds hoped it wouldn’t be long before the visitors would leave and things got back into a routine. At this time, it was difficult to navigate the narrow streets of the town, because crowds moved about, drinking and talking loudly, unconcerned about the disruption they created among the residents. It was as though a holiday were underway, with all the reveling, Benjamin thought. Having never ventured more than a couple of miles from Bethlehem, he hadn’t seen such activity and it frightened him somewhat, although his father had told him to merely avoid the strangers as much as possible, and things would be fine.

Yesterday when Benjamin had gone to the synagogue for school, two burly strangers had stopped him in the street, loudly asking him if he knew a lodging place in the area. Benjamin hesitantly responded that, as far as he had heard, everything was completely full.

“We’ll just stay at The Four Horsemen,” one laughed to the other. The Four Horsemen was a drinking place not far from Benjamin’s school, and he wondered how someone could stay there, since there were only a couple of shabby rooms that the owner occasionally rented to those who had imbibed enough that they could not make it to their homes afterwards. Maybe they weren’t going to sleep, he thought, but just drink and be noisy instead. It was a time of change, the boy mused, and his father always told him change might be good, or bad, but it would always occur nonetheless.

None of the shepherds on that starlit hill could have conceived what changes they would see over the next few hours, and how much a part of it they would become.

Benjamin lay on his back on the soft grass. A few of the sheep milled about, bleating softly, unable to settle down and rest. Another shooting star streaked across the crisp, clear night sky and Benjamin waited for its filmy trail to begin to evaporate. Suddenly he became aware that, instead of disappearing at the end of its journey through the heavens, the star had instead become brighter. In fact, it had stopped, and seemed to be directly overhead!

“Look, Father. That was a shooting star, and now it’s the brightest one in the sky!”

Joab and the other shepherds stopped talking to look up. The star was pulsating and had become so luminous that it lit up the entire field on the top of the hill as if it were midday, but without the searing glare of the sun. It had a soothing glow but equally was as bright as the sun’s rays.

“What do you make of this?” Joab asked the other shepherds, who were awestruck. No one had an answer. No one had ever seen a phenomenon such as this before.

“God is giving us a sign,” one whispered.

Benjamin stood. The bright light from the star shone around the men, but outside its circle of light the area was dark, from the hill down to the town below.

“Father! Look at Bethlehem!” Joab and the shepherds turned their eyes away from the heavens to behold a most unusual sight.

The same star whose rays created a bath of light directly on the Judean hilltop suddenly developed a second shaft. Piercing the darkness like the first, this second ray of bright, glowing light shone down into the bustling town of Bethlehem below. It seemed to pinpoint one area of town, an area Benjamin knew well. It was the part of town through which he walked to synagogue each morning, his part of town, near the inn known as The Four Horsemen.

As the shepherds stood on the hillside, their sheep, thinking it was daytime, were now fully awake. Both men and animals were perplexed and afraid, not knowing what was happening to them. Joab became aware of movement in the sky above them, and could hear a soft sound of singing through the quiet night. His mouth fell open and he grabbed Benjamin to his side as he knelt with the other shepherds, the sheep now forgotten.

High above the men seemingly floating in the night sky were several ethereal figures. Although they were human in appearance, they were the most beautiful creatures the men had ever seen. Their garments were golden and behind them, barely visible in the light, were what appeared to be wings, moving slowly about as they smiled down on the small band of shepherds kneeling on that lonely hilltop. The men felt a warmth from these figures such as they had never experienced before. Their fear had been transformed into a sense of wonder.

“Hosanna, Hosanna,” the figures sang, in voices that sounded so beautiful the men could hardly believe their ears.

“Tonight is the most special of nights,” they announced. “Tonight in Bethlehem the Messiah comes to men, just as it was prophesied.”

As the shepherds stared, astonished, the beautiful figures began to ascend directly toward the light until they were so high it was impossible for the men to see them any longer. When they were gone the light on the hilltop disappeared suddenly, leaving only the small campfire to light the night.

The shepherds knelt in silence for several minutes. They were awestruck and each man knew something had happened tonight, something that would make things different for time immemorial. But none understood what he had seen.

Benjamin hesitantly spoke. “Father, do…do you think we should follow the light from the star to Bethlehem? The star still shines there.” He pointed toward the hamlet, where the second stellar shaft was still beaming down.

“Yes, my son. It may be that we are the only people who were given this sign from the heavens, and I think we must go and see for ourselves what is happening in the town.”

He instructed Benjamin to take his pack, knowing that the boy’s parchment, quill and ink rested inside, and knowing that on this special night a record of the events transpiring would be required.

The dazed shepherds arose and uncharacteristically left their sheep to graze on the Judean hillside as they moved down toward the bustling town. It was well after midnight, a time when on an ordinary night the town would be dark and quiet, its residents slumbering. The shepherds knew that many of the inns and taverns remained open late now that the tourists were in town. As they approached the low gates that marked the edge of Bethlehem the group noticed that the streets were as busy as if it were midday but no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual.

“They do not know of the sign,” Joab murmured. “They go about as if nothing has happened.”

It was harder to discern the destination marked by the star from this vantage point, since the streets of Bethlehem were lit by oil lamps and were crowded with drunken revelers. People pushed and shoved.

“Where are we going?” one of the shepherds asked.

“I know,” Benjamin answered. “I think I can get us very close to where the star’s light was shining.”

He took the lead, guiding them through narrow, winding streets, making one turn after another through the familiar avenues of his birthplace. Several times they pushed through throngs of pilgrims laughing and talking among one another.

“I think it’s just around the next corner,” Benjamin said at last to his father.

They turned the corner and immediately noticed a significant change. For about three blocks in front of them the street was strangely quiet. Several shuttered businesses stood on the left side of the street, and most of the next block was taken up by The Four Horsemen, the old tavern that had been in existence for many years on that site. The few people in the area were staring, dumbfounded, at the establishment’s entrance.

Most nights this area was dimly lit but tonight the area shone with an unearthly glow. Benjamin looked up. There was the shaft of light coming from the bright star overhead, shining down directly on The Four Horsemen!

Joab knew Ishmael, the proprietor of the inn. He occasionally went there to catch up on the news and talk politics with other patrons of the tavern. As the group moved to the entrance of The Four Horsemen, they encountered a small throng of people milling about and looking inside.

“What goes here?” Joab asked the people.

A tall bearded man answered. “We don’t know. We were drinking inside when suddenly everything got very bright and I was struck down. I fell to the floor and saw that my friends had done the same. In fact, everyone in the tavern was lying on the floor as though we were unable to stand.”

He continued, telling the shepherds that after a few moments the group found themselves able to stand. They had moved outside, where they were astounded by the brightness of the sky. It was as though it were morning.

Something else happened, the man related, something involving another person who came into the tavern. But he was unable to put his thoughts into words.

“From whence do you come?” one of the tavern patrons asked Joab.

“We were tending sheep on a hill west of town. We too saw the light and we followed it here.”

Looking around, the men from the tavern suddenly realized that the light was in fact a shaft, and that by moving only a few feet away they could step out of the bright glow, and the street became as dark as it had been before. Only directly around the tavern was the beautiful light streaming down from the biggest, most splendid star any of them had ever seen.

“Why is this happening?” the shepherds asked each other. Joab wanted to learn more. He took Benjamin’s hand and walked into The Four Horsemen. Ishmael, the inn’s owner, was standing behind the empty bar, wiping his brow with a towel. He was perspiring heavily and was obviously in a state of shock.

“Ishmael, it’s Joab, the shepherd. What has happened to you?”

“Joab. I don’t know. I just don’t know. One minute I was serving drinks to a crowd of people, the next minute my tavern was lit up as though a thousand candles were burning. Look at the place now – it’s brighter in here than it usually is on the street at noontime!”

Joab led Ishmael by the arm to a nearby table. He and Benjamin sat with the innkeeper and asked him to recall anything unusual that happened during the evening.

Ishmael gathered his thoughts. “At first there was nothing different. This is the best time of all for me. Every room in town is full of out of town guests here for the census, you know. A man did come to the bar a couple of hours ago, looking for a room. He was very tired and said he had come a long way, from Nazareth, I believe he said. I brushed him away – I was busy at the time – and told him there were no more rooms available here. He was insistent, however, saying that his wife was about to deliver a child after having ridden on a donkey all day. He was concerned for her welfare.”

“What did you do?” Joab asked.

“I started to tell him to leave, but I looked up for a moment, into his eyes. Then I saw his wife standing in the doorway. She was about to have her baby, all right. But,” Ishmael stopped for a moment, “but Joab, she looked like an angel. Her face glowed. She was a plain village girl, but at that moment, for some reason, she looked like the most beautiful woman on earth to me. I felt sorry for the couple, and something in my heart told me to take care of them.”

“But you had no rooms.”

“No, but you know that little cave off the courtyard, behind the tavern? We used to store food in there and now I use it as a stable for my cows. I told the man – Joseph, I think he said his name was – that he and his wife could use the stable for the night at no charge. I gave them some blankets and sent my servant out to fluff up the hay. He came back and told me the man and woman had settled in and seemed content with the accommodation.”

Ishmael looked up at Joab. “What have I done?” he said despairingly. “The light. The light.”

“What do you mean?”

“After the couple went to the stable, about an hour had passed. I had completely forgotten about them. This was the busiest night I’ve had in years, Joab, and I was serving drinks and food as quickly as I could. I sensed another patron standing at the bar and looked up to serve him. I…I can’t tell you what happened next,” Ishmael said, stammering.

Joab coaxed the rest of the story from Ishmael. As the innkeeper looked up, he saw a figure standing in front of him, dressed completely in golden robes and bathed in an unearthly light. The figure appeared to be a man, although his skin was whiter than anything Ishmael had ever seen. Ishmael recalled being able to see through the man, as though he were a specter. But Ishmael was not afraid. He felt instead an incredible sense of peace and well-being when the figure smiled at him. Ishmael was aware that every other person in the room had fallen to the floor for some reason. He himself was standing but he felt as though he should be kneeling before this most unusual apparition.

Ishmael had become aware of a bright, soothing light that filled the room. Through the windows it made the outside look as bright as noontime. The light had begun when the figure approached Ishmael’s bar.

He said that the figure then spoke to him in a melodious voice that sounded incredibly beautiful.

“Hosanna. Innkeeper, you have joined the historical thread of the Messiah on this night. You have given the birthplace to the Savior of the World.”

“What does it mean, Joab? I’m afraid to go out in the back courtyard. The light’s so bright around the stable that it scares me. But the animals aren’t afraid. I can see my cows and Joseph’s donkey milling about. What does it all mean?”

Joab told Ishmael what he and the shepherds had seen on the hilltop less than an hour before. It seemed that at the exact time the shepherds were being visited by the heavenly angels, the ethereal figure was speaking to Ishmael in his inn.

“Do you know what I think, Ishmael? I think we are part of prophecy fulfilled. I think the Messiah has returned. It must have been Him you saw – that man Joseph – and He must be in the stable now!”

Despite the late hour, Benjamin was wide awake as he listened to his father’s words. Ishmael, the proprietor of The Four Horsemen, stood aghast as he stared blankly at Joab.

Ishmael stammered. “You think…you think…you’re saying that man in my stable is the Messiah?”

“I have no other explanation, my friend. If we both believe our eyes, if you believe that the man in your tavern was not of this world, if I believe the figures we saw in the sky were from Heaven, then I have no other answer. Look outside even now.”

The men stared through the open window into the rear courtyard and the rude stable on the other side. It wasn’t a deep room, and the shaft of light shining into the courtyard made things very bright.

“The light seems to be centered on the stable itself,” Joab noted. “Let’s go have a look.”

The patrons in the street were slowly making their way back into the tavern. They seemed dazed by the events of the last ten minutes, and were talking among themselves, trying to make sense of something they had never experienced before. Ishmael sent his daughter out into the room to take orders as Joab, Benjamin and the other shepherds walked through the back door into the courtyard. While he was inside the tavern, Benjamin had felt afraid, not knowing what awaited them if they ventured outside. But once they were in the courtyard, they all remarked about the incredible sense of peace and calmness they felt as they stepped into the bright light.

The courtyard was fairly small – no more than fifty meters separated the back door of the inn from the small stable. Benjamin saw two adults – a woman and the man his father had said was the Messiah, kneeling beside a small manger. As the shepherds drew closer, they too knelt – not from a sense of obligation but because something inside caused them to drop to their knees. Benjamin felt his skin tingle, and he became light-headed. As he drew close, he saw a tiny baby lying in the makeshift crib on a bed of hay, wrapped in a beautiful white cloth.

The man and woman looked up at the shepherds who now knelt in front of the manger. Joab spoke to the man.

“Messiah. We have seen your heralds in the skies outside Bethlehem.”

The man smiled. He spoke with a soft, gentle voice. “Good shepherd, I am not the Messiah whom you seek.” Gesturing before him, he continued. “The King lies before you.”

Benjamin’s mouth opened in astonishment. It was the baby whom they were claiming as the Messiah! His mind was filled with the things he had been taught in synagogue school about the coming of the Messiah. Never had anyone dreamed it would be a small baby. How could this be? What did it mean?

Joab and the other shepherds had the same thoughts. Although these were not educated men, all Jews awaited the Messiah, and all knew he was to come one day.

“Joab,” one of the shepherds whispered, “should we believe the man?”

“I think we had better. Look at the back of the stable.”

In the rear of the stable stood a figure whom the shepherds had not noticed previously – in fact, Benjamin was certain it had not been there a few seconds ago. It was in the form of a man but its countenance was so bright that its clothes and skin literally shone with light. Although it stood behind the man and woman, out of the light of the piercing shaft from above, it radiated light itself so that the immediate area surrounding the figure was bathed in a soft glow.

The figure spread its arms wide, encircling both the woman and the man, and smiling down upon the baby lying before the three of them.

“Behold,” the figure said in a melodic voice that seemed to Benjamin to be the essence of joy itself. “Behold your Messiah! Bow down and honor Him, sent by the Father to fulfill the promises of the scriptures!”

Without willing it, the shepherds and Benjamin found themselves prostrate on the ground in front of the baby’s manger. After a few seconds they looked up. The figure of light was gone.

“Rise up,” the man called Joseph said. “Worship the King. Yahweh is with us.”

Part One

Chapter One

Over the Atlantic Ocean

The present

As soon as the huge British Airways 777 lifted off the runway, Brian Sadler had reclined his first class SleeperSeat. His body was tired and his muscles tense. Only hours ago he had completed the most important deal of his life. His limo driver had raced down the corniche to deliver him to the Cairo airport, dropping Brian off just in time to check in and make the flight.

Since he’d taken over Bijan Rarities, flying was becoming old hat to Sadler. He knew all the tricks. The luggage he’d needed for the trip to Cairo was securely stowed in the overhead bin above him. He never checked bags, reasoning that he’d rather spend a fortune on the hotel laundry than take the time to retrieve his gear, or even lose it. He couldn’t have checked the briefcase anyway, especially not on this trip. It was uncomfortable having it lightly tethered to his wrist and the pliable plastic was a constant reminder that he was attached to the case, but it was essential this time.

Since he’d joined the gallery, not a day passed that Brian didn’t unconsciously think about the sad turn of events that resulted in his incredible good fortune. As he lay fully reclined in his seat, he thought once again about the future he would have once he finalized The Project. Brian Sadler was a satisfied man. He was thirty-five years old and on top of his game.

As CEO of Bijan Rarities, Brian had participated in the purchase and sale of some of the most priceless items ever to appear in an auction house or a museum’s collection. His computer contained profiles on Trumps, Rockefellers, Hunts and Buffetts. He knew them all – knew what they collected, what they wanted, what they couldn’t live without.

He knew other collectors too – the ones who would pay a fortune for an item that was unique, even if it meant the public would never see it again. Those people didn’t ask the questions that might break a deal, questions like “How did you get this piece?” or “Wasn’t this in the Children’s Museum of Baghdad before the war?” They wanted the best at any price, no questions asked.

Chapter Two

The plane landed at Kennedy Airport thirty minutes behind schedule. It was a gorgeous autumn day. The New York skyline had been breathtaking as the plane banked for landing. Brian never stopped loving New York. It had been a couple of years since he had moved here from Dallas but the Big Apple had quickly become home.

As the jet bridge moved to the plane’s door the flight attendants blocked the rear of the forward cabin so the first class passengers could disembark ahead of them. Brian waited, a family of Middle Eastern descent just in front of him. The wife was wrapped head to toe in a burka. She and her children talked excitedly, and he wondered how they’d enjoy New York, so different from their part of the world yet still a melting pot that welcomed everyone.

They moved quickly along the passage that snaked through the bowels of the airport, heading toward Immigration. Eventually the hallway opened into a wide room with separate aisles for U.S. Citizens and Non-Residents. Brian moved around the Arab family but a Customs officer noticed his briefcase, detained him briefly and asked for his declaration form.

“You’ll have to remove the tether from your case now and take Lane 4 at Customs.” He made a mark on Brian’s form and returned it to him.

As he waited in line, Brian removed a small key and unlocked the band from the handle of the briefcase. It looked thin and pliable but had the tensile strength of steel. The handle would have broken before the tether and he would have had plenty of warning that someone was tampering with it. He bent, set the case on the floor and stood, putting his customs declaration form in his jacket pocket so he could easily get to it.

He saw the Arab family from the plane move by in a line just next to him, separated only by a thin cloth rope that allowed American citizens to use what was normally the faster lane. Today, however, the slight delay in Brian’s arrival time meant that three other planes had unloaded hundreds of passengers at the same time. The arrivals hall was teeming with people and the line for citizens was slower than the one for foreign nationals.

After a few minutes Brian moved to the Immigration desk and presented his form to an agent.

“Welcome home, Mr. Sadler. What countries have you visited on this trip?”

Brian said he was on a business trip and had been to Egypt and England.

“And what business are you in, sir?”

“I own an auction house and trading company.”

After noting that Brian had only carry-on luggage, the officer again glanced at his form and advised him to go directly downstairs to Customs, proceed through the hall and take Lane 4, the area that would get him more than the usual wave-through. Brian knew he’d be talking to an inspector. It was unavoidable this trip since the tether from hand to case was required and it had obviously raised red flags in Customs already.

As he came to the Arrivals Hall exit, just in front of him stood a bank of doors that automatically opened and closed as people approached. Beyond those doors were hundreds of well-wishers meeting and greeting passengers who had just come through immigration and were now in New York City. At the final checkpoint, one more officer took a look at Brian’s paperwork and pointed to the area where a number of inspectors stood behind low counters.

He approached an officer who asked him to put his luggage on the table. Taking Brian’s Customs form, the officer asked, “Do you have anything to declare?”

“Yes. I’m a dealer in antiquities and I have three items I’m legally importing into the United States.”

Taking his paperwork, the agent asked to see them. Brian took the small key he had used to remove the tether from his briefcase handle. It also opened two locks on the case itself. He stuck the key into the first lock. It wouldn’t fit. As the agent watched closely, Brian popped the lock open – it hadn’t been locked after all. His adrenalin began flowing; he knew without a doubt he had locked the case in Cairo after clearing customs there and now it was unlocked. His heart sinking, he popped the other lock and raised the lid.

His face turned ashen as he stared into an empty briefcase. His mind raced.

“Stop the Arab family!” he yelled at the officer. “They’ve switched my briefcase!”

He ran from the inspection area toward the exit doors. Two armed officers grabbed his arms and held him as he yelled, “You don’t understand! You have to let me find them!”

As he fought them, one agent removed a set of plastic cuffs, much like the tether Brian still had around his wrist, and shackled his hands behind him.

“Let’s get your luggage, sir. You’re coming with us.”

Chapter Three

Bethlehem

Benjamin held his father’s hand. The shepherds stood in a semi-circle in front of the manger where the child lay on a blanket. The baby’s face shone radiantly.

As they stood in silence a commotion of sorts arose in the courtyard behind them. Benjamin was astounded to see three camels in the small area – they must have been allowed in through a gateway to the street – and a trio of tall men dressed in fine clothing. These men were obviously wealthy and deserved respect. The shepherds bowed their heads in the presence of the three and moved away from the child’s makeshift crib.

Joseph said, “Enter, strangers. All who have seen the star are welcome here.”

“What is this star?” the tallest of the men asked. He was of African descent and Benjamin thought he was the most impressive human he had ever seen. “We were traversing the countryside near your town when we saw the shaft of light shining on this place. We felt compelled to come here. What magic is afoot?”

“There is no magic, sir,” Joseph answered.

Then the woman looked up. She spoke in a voice that sounded almost musical to Benjamin. “This is the Messiah,” she said softly as she smiled at the baby. “Come worship him.”

The important men fell to their knees, as had the shepherds moments earlier.

They believe her, Benjamin thought. But in his heart he knew it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t that they believed. It was as though it WAS. It was as though they had known it before they arrived. It is in their minds and hearts too, just like mine.

Soon the men rose and returned to the courtyard. They rummaged through their saddlebags and each returned with an item in his hand. As they knelt before the small child they presented offerings of those things. They laid them before the Messiah.

Benjamin wanted to offer a gift too. They were poor people and he knew he had nothing which would possibly equal the value of the things those three men had given. In his pocket was a single shekel, a coin he carried for luck that Joab had given him long ago. He came forward and said to the child’s mother, “May I give him a gift?”

“Look at him, child. He accepts your gift.”

The little baby looked into Benjamin’s eyes and amazingly reached his hand toward Benjamin. He placed the coin in the child’s hand; the baby it to his chest for a moment. Then he held it out to Benjamin.

“The coin is blessed by the Messiah,” the lady said. “Take it and keep it safe. The hand of God has held this coin.”

“I…I will,” Benjamin stammered. He put the shekel in his pocket and stepped back.

Joab smiled at him and patted his head. “That was a wonderful gift, son. My, we will have much to tell your mother when we get home tonight!”

Chapter Four

Dallas, Texas

Eight years ago

February 2001

The oil boom was making millionaires overnight and nowhere was it happening as fast as it was in Dallas. A major financial publication listed the metroplex as home to more millionaires under thirty than any other city in the USA. The dot.com boom that had made literal billionaires of a few twenty-somethings had begun to fizzle in California, but things were still in full swing here in Texas, where it seemed everyone had more money than sense. They called oil Black Gold. For thousands of Texans in the right place at the right time, the gold was there for the taking. And now was the right time.

Brian Sadler saw all of this happening from his vantage point as a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch in Dallas. To look at Brian across a room, six feet tall, brownish blond hair, a physique kept honed by three days a week at the gym – he looked like a football player. And he had been, back in Longview, Texas. He played high school ball before heading to the University of Oklahoma. He had been good but not great. Good was enough some places but at OU, consistently ranked in the top two or three teams nationally, Brian hadn’t even merited a glance.

He majored in finance and minored in archaeological studies. It was an odd combination, but archaeology was something Brian had always been interested in. Not so much the digs, but the results – he loved to read and watch documentaries describing the incredible finds that archaeologists made. People such as Howard Carter with King Tut, Schliemann with the city of Troy and even Napoleon’s team of mummy hunters who dug up Egypt in the nineteenth century – all of these fascinated Brian.

After graduation Brian understood that making a living involved using his finance degree, not his archaeology minor. He interviewed and landed an entry-level position as a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch. After being at the firm two years he now had settled into a routine that paid the bills. But he knew this job was never going to make him rich.

While he was at Merrill, Brian observed a phenomenon that accompanied the steady rise in oil prices – the Rolls Royce and Bentley automobiles appearing regularly outside Capital Grille and Del Frisco’s. At these trendy restaurants the booze flowed freely until the wee hours. There the prices were as high as oil futures, with the customers often equally as high. But it wasn’t drugs fueling those people – it was money, deals and more deals. Everybody, it seemed, lived for the next deal. Kids as young as twenty lit Cuban cigars with hundred dollar bills while beautiful girls hung on their every word. And Brian wanted to be one of those people.

Amid some fanfare two Merrill Lynch brokers had defected a month ago, moving to Warren Taylor and Currant. WT&C, like Merrill, sold stocks to customers too, but the similarity ended there. Merrill managers talked openly about the firm’s rumored problems with regulatory agencies like the Securities and Exchange Commission.

“You go there, you sell your soul to the devil,” one manager remarked disdainfully about the departure of the two brokers.

Brian listened but he also had heard the rumors about how people made incredible incomes at WT&C just by selling the deals the firm seemed to always be offering.

Last week Brian had met the two defectors at Martini Park, a hip new bar in Legacy Town Center not far from Brian’s apartment. Sipping XO Vodka martinis and sitting on the patio, the guys told Brian about life at Warren Taylor and Currant.

“WT&C is a crazy place,” Jeff Spivey said. “We’re raising money for everything you can think of. I’m working on a deal right now to help a guy who’s twenty-five buy an electronics manufacturing company in Austin. He hasn’t got a dime and we’re doing a public offering to raise $25 million for the acquisition. And he’ll own 70%! Instant millionaires. We’re a factory creating instant millionaires!”

The other broker, Sam Cooper, was thirty, five years older than Jeff. “I’m the old man on the trading floor. The other guys make fun of me. It’s like a party all the time – they brought me a cane last week so I could get around the office.”

He told Brian that he was on the oil and gas team. Their job was to identify companies that could be acquired and then make the deals happen.

“I’m working on a deal now to take Marciano Resources public,” Sam said. “It’ll happen in the next sixty days and I’ll get a hundred thousand bucks bonus, plus a million options. If the stock jumps on opening day like our offering last week did, I’ll be a millionaire on day one!”

It all sounded too good to be true. Jeff and Sam talked about the party atmosphere at WT&C, the excitement when the company’s deals came to market, the champagne that flowed like water after the closing bell, and the chance to make serious money.

Jeff said, “You should come over. This won’t last forever. While it does, you should be on the bandwagon.”

Jeff picked up the two hundred dollar tab at Martini Park. When they had ordered their second round Brian fervently hoped he would. Brian’s credit card was close to the limit and there was over a week left until payday.

“No big deal, a tab like this,” Jeff joked. “You’ll find out for yourself if you come over and join the A-Team!”

Brian’s mind raced with thoughts about everything he had heard as he drove home in his Jeep. That had been a sleepless night for Brian. He lay in bed, imagining what it would be like. Sure, it sounded good. But there were no free lunches. At what price did that kind of money come? What was the cost to risk everything?

Chapter Five

Bethlehem

The sun was rising, its first rays casting a dim light into the courtyard where perhaps twenty people remained standing slightly dazed. They had been that way all night, occasionally speaking quietly to each other about the event they had witnessed. They had learned that of the three wealthy individuals who had come by camel, only the dark-skinned man spoke their language. But he spoke another as well. As the three shared a table in the inn, he conversed easily with his two friends in a tongue none of them could understand.

Benjamin and Joab looked at one another, suddenly aware that the sun was rising above the buildings in Bethlehem. It was as though they had awakened from a dream, one in which all who were standing around them had participated.

“We must return to our sheep,” Joab said, gathering his thoughts. As he rounded up his fellow shepherds, Benjamin went back to the small cave one more time.

The shepherd boy stood by the door, the room in half-darkness, and watched the baby sleep in the manger. His father rested on a mat nearby and his mother sat behind the cradle, smiling as she softly sang to her newborn baby.

Looking up, she saw Benjamin. “Yeshua sleeps.”.

“Is…is that his name, Yeshua?” Benjamin asked. He felt small, somehow inadequate, in front of this woman and child, even though their dress and situation made it obvious they weren’t people of high standing. No wealthy person would have dreamt of delivering a baby in a stable!

The woman looked at him, and Benjamin averted his face. He found he could not look her in the eyes – they glowed with both sweetness and an intensity he had never imagined before.

“Yes,” she responded to him. “The heralds from heaven told me he is named Yeshua.”

Bowing his head, Benjamin approached the child once more, wondering if he would ever see him again. He touched the baby’s soft cheek and felt electricity in his fingers.

“Thank you for coming to see our child,” the mother said to him. “God bless you all.”

Benjamin turned and went back into the courtyard.

Ishmael, the proprietor of The Four Horsemen, had made pots of steaming coffee for everyone, and delicious pastries cooked by his wife were on the bar. Benjamin found his father and the others drinking and eating. Benjamin joined them at a table and shortly they left The Four Horsemen to return to the hills outside of town.

Chapter Six

Dallas, Texas

Brian looked at the employment ad he had pulled up on Monster.com. Although you couldn’t believe what anybody said in this business, it appeared his two friends who’d defected were making much more than Brian was. And not just a little more – they could make more in a month than Brian could hope to make this year.

So Brian called Warren Taylor and Currant. Since he held a Series 7 securities license he was given what the firm called a fast-track interview, which, if he accepted a job there, could put him on the floor at WT&C in less than two weeks. That kind of speed was unheard of in the traditionally stuffy, get-to-know-you world of investment banking.

Brian had struggled with his wardrobe the morning of his interview. He told his boss at Merrill he had to take care of some personal business – he didn’t think now was the time to say what he was really doing – and as he stood in his bathroom in his boxers, Brian wondered what was appropriate dress for an interview at Warren Taylor. In the end he decided conservatism was best. It wouldn’t be good if he was in jeans and everyone else was dressed in a suit. The other way around was much safer. So he brought out one of the Brooks Brothers pinstripes that were part of his daily regimen.

Brian hit the Dallas North Tollway at 8:15, an hour later than he usually did. Traffic was light as his Grand Cherokee headed downtown. The traffic on the Tollway always invigorated Brian – he thought of the drivers around him as his competition, fighting him for deals and dollars. He had read somewhere that you need to picture yourself in a situation in order to make it happen. He tried to picture himself as a WT&C broker but he was totally clueless what that scene actually looked like. He had no idea what he would see and how different the operation would be from Merrill Lynch. He figured it would be pretty striking. And he would be correct.

WT&C’s offices occupied the thirty-fifth floor of The Strand, a new office building on McKinney Avenue in the Uptown district, where Dallas’ construction boom was in full swing. On almost every block there were high-rise apartment buildings and offices, restaurants, bars and glitzy shops.

Walking through the firm’s glass entry doors, Brian picked up a faint rumble coming from inside the office suite somewhere. The firm’s name was emblazoned across ten feet of wall behind two receptionists who sat at a massive curved desk made of stainless steel. Both were answering calls as Brian approached. Glancing around the lobby, he saw half a dozen people, some dressed in suits, some in jeans, all obviously waiting for one appointment or another.

One of the receptionists took Brian’s name and paged Carl Cybola.

“What’s Carl’s position?” Brian asked.

“He’s the floor manager.”

The other receptionist laughed and said, “We call him the ringmaster. He’s in charge of the circus!”

As they returned to the frenzied answering of incoming calls, Brian took a seat.

Right on time, a gorgeous girl dressed in Seven Jeans and a top maybe from Bebe came to the lobby to retrieve Brian. She opened a door and held it for him.

The noise increased tenfold as they entered a cavernous room crammed with cubicles. It was maybe two hundred feet long and a hundred wide. Each held a guy or girl, most energetically shouting into phone headsets. The ones who weren’t on calls were yelling at each other.

From his work at Merrill, he understood the lingo. They were on sales calls – taking orders from customers – although in a way a hundred eighty degrees opposite from Merrill’s style.

“Don’t call me bitching about this deal if you miss it today,” one shouted.

Another said, “Think it over? Are you a wimp? Make a damned decision and be a man!”

And it was working. They were closing deals in record time, quickly moving to the next one. Brian knew his bosses at Merrill would have been horrified if they saw these techniques. But, he had to admit being on this trading floor gave him an incredible rush.

The interview with Carl Cybola was in a glass conference room insulated from most of the noise but situated so a candidate could see the action.

Cybola started by saying, “We make dreams come true here. Our clients’ dreams come true, but yours can too. We’re going to give you a base salary of $25,000 a year.”

Carl saw Brian’s face fall. “What’s the matter? “

“That’s less than half the base I make now at Merrill. My friends who work here talk about making six figures already.”

Carl laughed. “The base is nothing. It won’t make the payments on my Maserati. The base pay only serves to weed out the stars from the rest of the pack.”

He explained that Brian could work on deals he dug up on his own, but he’d also make money when other brokers’ customers did deals. The red-hot oil market in Dallas meant there were lots of people with lots of money, and Warren Taylor and Currant had ways for them to make a great deal more.

They discussed what was expected of a WT&C broker. Carl said they were looking for young, motivated self-starters who wanted to get rich quick.

“We make no bones about it. If you aren’t primarily motivated by doing deals and making big bucks, you don’t belong here.”

Then he looked Brian in the eye and said, “Do you do drugs?”

The question came up frequently in interview situations but it took Brian by surprise. He had figured it wasn’t a big deal here, given the frenzy and pace of the sales floor.

“I’ve tried stuff,” he responded honestly. “But I don’t do drugs now. If you’re asking me can I pass a drug test, yes I can.”

Carl leaned back in his chair, letting out a booming laugh. “No, that really wasn’t the reason I asked. A lot of guys and gals here use drugs recreationally. Some of our people are pretty strung out on drugs sometimes. I just wanted to tell you if you use drugs, you might want to tone it down during the workweek. You’ll get plenty of high here without ‘em, and in my opinion all they can do is make you not think as straight or as fast as you should.”

Brian assured him it wasn’t a problem – and it wasn’t. Brian’s experiments into drugs in college and afterwards left him with an empty feeling every time he came down off a high. And the loss of control while he was doing drugs was something he just wasn’t willing to allow, even for the short-term rush he got.

The interview drew to a close and Carl said, “I want you here, Brian. Go back and think about it…but don’t take much time. I have seats to sell in that room out there and if you don’t want one, there’s a dozen more just like you salivating at the opportunity to be a WT&C broker.”

He tossed what looked like a credit card across his desk to Brian. “Here. When you show up the first day, don’t be wearing that Brooks Brothers suit. Go to Stanley Korshak and ask for Doug. Tell him you work for me and he’ll fix you up. When you work here, you gotta look like one of us.”

Korshak, the upscale men’s clothier in the Crescent Court Hotel, was a place Brian couldn’t afford. Although it might help, he figured the Korshak gift card he held in his hand wouldn’t pay for all of a suit – and the rest would surely be out of Brian’s reach.

He had more to think about than what clothes to wear. A move from Merrill to WT&C was a big decision. This firm had a reputation for being cutting edge – and not necessarily in a good way. The old-school traditional brokers were conservative. You developed a client base and slowly built a book of business, often becoming a client’s broker for life. The big brokers considered Warren Taylor a bucket shop – a place where deals got done by hook or by crook.

Chapter Seven

The Judean hills near Bethlehem

When the shepherds arrived at the hillside where they had abandoned their flock, they found the sheep milling around and grazing as though nothing had happened. Not one was missing. Joab remarked that it was as though someone had watched over the flock while they were in Bethlehem all night.

The shepherds led the flock downhill to a nearby stream. Joab and Benjamin walked ahead of the others.

“Father, what we saw last night was a miracle, was it not?”

“My son, I am still not sure what to make of it. I must have time to think, and perhaps talk to the Elders at the synagogue about what we saw. Whether to mention it, I am not sure. However, one thing I do know. As soon as we are home you must take your quill and parchment and write the events of last evening.”

Since Benjamin was the only member of the group who could write, his father asked him to record everything, beginning with the bright light that had first alerted the shepherds.

Leaving a couple of men to tend the flock, Joab and Benjamin walked about a mile down a dusty road to their home. When they arrived, Joab said, “Go, son. Write now, lest you forget even a single event of last night. I must speak with your mother.”

Joab’s wife Rachel was washing clothes in the yard behind their small house. They had two hectares of land – not much, but enough to raise some sheep and a small garden of vegetables for the family to eat.

“Good morning, husband,” she said when she saw him. “Did you and Benjamin have a good night’s rest?”

Joab took her in his arms and held her tight. “My,” she smiled. “What is that all about?”

“My darling. Neither Benjamin nor I slept for one moment last night. I have something to tell you which I hope you will believe. Even though I saw it myself, I hardly can believe it.”

It took nearly an hour for Joab to relate his story. Rachel sat, hands folded in her lap, saying nothing until he had finished. By then Benjamin had joined them.

When Joab was finished, Rachel said, “I think we must pray now. If you speak the truth, you and Benjamin have witnessed a miracle which will change the world forever.”

Chapter Eight

Brian started at Warren Taylor and Currant four days after his interview. He had thought about the offer all that day, and spent most of the afternoon at Merrill online, researching deals the firm had done in the past year. He was astonished. The broker had done ten times more deals than Merrill had. Each of them was far smaller but still none was less than $10 million. Significantly, most of the companies WT&C had taken public were trading today higher than the offering price, which meant that investors had to be happy because they were making a profit on their investments with the high-flying brokerage firm.

The morning after his interview he gave two weeks’ notice to his manager, whose response surprised Brian.

“If you’re going to WT&C you’re not the guy I thought you were. We don’t need you here any more. You’re released today. Pack up and get out.”

“What…what do you mean I’m not the guy you thought I was? I’m who I am.”

His manager looked at him sternly. “Get out, Brian. I’d wish you good luck but what you need more than luck is a bulletproof vest. I’ve always liked you. I hope you can stay out of trouble.”

Stunned but determined, Brian cleaned out his desk and walked out of Merrill Lynch for the last time, assuring himself as he got in his Jeep that the Merrill guy was just spouting sour grapes.

Every stockbroker has to play by the same rules as the others. Trouble? Brian thought to himself as he pulled out of the parking lot. Bullshit. I can handle anything.

Intrigued by the gift card Carl had given him, Brian dropped by the Stanley Korshak men’s store after he left Merrill’s downtown office. He asked for Doug and when the impeccably dressed salesman approached him, Brian decided he must have been a linebacker in college. He was a rugged, handsome guy. He took a look at the gift card Brian offered, and laughed.

“So Carl sent you my way? You think you can cut it at WT&C? Make a million like the others?”

“Sure,” Brian replied confidently. “But if it’s the place to make a million, why are you selling suits instead of stocks?”

“The truth? WT&C’s the hottest place in town. You can make a killing there faster than anywhere else – even faster than the oilies can. But I’m looking at tomorrow. I can make my fortune selling clothes to you guys who have to have it all and I’ll still be here when it’s all over.” He smiled broadly and Brian wondered how much of that revelation had been in jest, or if any of it had.

“So how much will this card buy me?”

“Pick yourself out a couple of suits,” he replied, explaining that the card itself had no value at all. It was a ticket – a passport – carte blanche for the holder to buy up to $5000 in clothes from Stanley Korshak, all charged to Warren Taylor and Currant. Two Hugo Boss suits later, Brian left both the store and his old life behind.

-----

Driving up the Tollway after his first day at Warren Taylor, Brian compared it to his last job. He couldn’t think of a single thing that was remotely similar to this first day and that first day at Merrill two years ago.

At Merrill, Brian Sadler’s first six weeks had been spent in training sessions where he learned the basics of the company and its modus operandi. Observed by a supervisor for weeks, he had made calls to existing customers who had been reassigned to him and to potential new leads who had been identified from various advertising methods. Not a stone was left unturned to create a professional from a novice. Brian was self-assured and confident as he was released to become a broker on Merrill’s sales floor.

Part of WT&C scared Brian but most of it fascinated him. He knew this place could be his stepping-stone to the stars. He also knew he would make that happen.

When he had accepted Carl’s offer, Brian was told to be at the office by eight. He rose early that morning, showered, shaved and had a bagel and coffee. He donned his new shirt, tie and suit and drove to work.

Brian pulled into the garage under his new employer’s office building and took the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. Although the receptionists weren’t there yet, the front door was unlocked. He walked to the sales floor, heading for Carl’s office.

“Fresh meat! Fresh meat!” He heard catcalls from the salespeople as he made his way through the office. Several stood, pointing and laughing. He smiled back and made his way across the vast sales floor. Carl and three other guys were in his office. One told a story as the rest howled uncontrollably with laughter. He stuck his head in and Carl waved him to an empty chair.

“Sit and give me one sec,” Carl said.

“So he took my dare,” the storyteller continued. “While we sat in the bar having drinks, he left and then came back a half hour later in jeans and a t-shirt, wearing one of those tool belts like he was a damned plumber or something! He walked over to the painting, took it off the wall, and just walked out with it. He just walked out. Everybody there thought he was a maintenance man or something. Nobody challenged him. Nobody said a word!”

The guys were almost bent double, laughing at the story.

“Then he came back, ten minutes later, in his suit and tie. He sat down at our table, told me the painting was in the parking garage under my car, and held out his hand.”

“Did you pay off on the bet?” someone asked him.

“Yep. A thousand bucks. Laid it right in his hand. I never in a million years thought he could get away with that. And I never thought he would even try it! He stole a damned painting that had to be worth serious money!”

The guys guffawed while Brian smiled in astonishment not only at the deed done, but at the size of the bet made and paid for such a stupid stunt.

Carl introduced Brian to the group, pulled two sheets of paper from his desk drawer, and then said, “Sign this. It’s a confidentiality agreement required on the first day of everyone’s employment. It’s no big deal – just says you won’t leave here and steal our stuff.”

Brian wanted to take a few minutes to read the document, which was in small print and had the usual “whereas” and “therefores” that showed it had been created by a law firm. Carl saw him start reading.

“Just sign it so I can show you where you are going to be sitting,” Carl said impatiently. “You can read it later. It’s bullshit anyway.”

Brian signed, gave Carl one copy and kept the other.

On the sales floor Carl led Brian to a group of cubicles with a huge sign hanging above them that read, “Team Bravo.” He introduced Randy Perkins, Team Bravo’s group leader.

“You guys are going to be stars by the end of the week,” Carl said to the team. “So get off your butts and get that Malco Energy deal done!”

“You got it, boss!” Randy shouted back. “Team Bravo – start those calls. It’s 9:30 am in New York City. The market is O-PEN! Let’s get it done NOW!”

A frenzy erupted among the ten or so cubes that made up Team Bravo. Randy turned to Brian and pointed to a nearby cubicle. “Here’s home, buddy.” It was about six feet square, just like the other hundred in the room, and it had a chair, computer monitor, keyboard and mouse. There was nothing else.

“Our intranet will be your homepage,” Carl said, gesturing to the monitor. “Look up Malco Energy and read the S-1. Get yourself up to speed fast, pardner. You got a million bucks to make.”

Seated at his new desk Brian brought up the internal website of Warren Taylor and Currant. “Pending Deals” was one of the selections he saw; with a click he chose Malco Energy and brought up a folder of documents. He clicked on “S-1 Registration Filing” and brought up a document over a hundred pages long. This was the form that a law firm had prepared for Malco Energy and filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission. Through WT&C, Malco Energy was going to become a public company very soon.

It was hard to concentrate at first. Having come from the quiet of a small office at Merrill, he was now thrust into the circus of a hundred voices in a cacophony of noise. He could hear the broker next to him shouting, “You can’t afford NOT to do this! I guarantee you Malco will be up ten bucks the day we bring it public. It can’t lose.”

Then he heard, “Ten thousand shares. Done, Dr. Samuelson. Drop me a check – do it today. We have to have everything in house by Friday.”

Brian looked back at the screen and the registration document open before him. Malco was projected to come to market at twenty dollars a share. The doctor had spent two hundred thousand dollars. Sweet, Brian thought. That broker must have a great relationship with his customer to get an order that big, that fast.

Sticking his head up over the cube wall, Brian said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your quick sale. Nice job. How long have you worked with the doctor?”

The broker stood up, smiled and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jim Palmer. I’ve worked with him maybe eight minutes. You heard the entire relationship in that one call.”

Brian thought about what he had just witnessed. That a broker could get an order from someone he had never talked to before, and could guarantee the stock would go up on offering, was incomprehensible to Brian.

“Can I ask a quick question?” Brian said to Jim.

“Shoot.”

“When do I fill out my initial paperwork, like my withholdings, and sign an employment agreement, and all of that?”

Jim said WT&C wasn’t much into things that didn’t make the firm money. He said he had been with the firm over a year, and still hadn’t been given his offer letter. “They backdate everything,” he explained. “You’ll probably have to fill out your withholdings form the day paychecks are cut.”

Unbelievable. He began to read the Malco offering document closely. An S-1 registration document was designed to tell the SEC everything it needed to know about the company: its history, officers, directors and shareholders. It explained the work the investment banking firm would do to sell stock to the public, and what its remuneration would be.

WT&C had chosen $20 a share as its target offering price, although that price wouldn’t be final until the day the SEC approved the deal and Malco went public. Malco was selling 2 million shares to the public. Before expenses, the deal would give Malco $40 million. Brian turned to the financial reporting section of the S-1, to see what kind of profits Malco had been generating. For a deal this big, he figured he would see a seasoned company run by veterans in the oil and gas industry, making steady profits every one of the past few years.

What he saw instead astonished him. The offering document said Malco was a company formed in the last two years by two men whose experience in the oil business consisted of having owned some royalty interests. One of the owners was actually a former Warren Taylor broker and amazingly, he had left the firm because his securities license was in jeopardy.

The Securities and Exchange Commission had accused this broker of fraudulently inducing people to invest in securities for which they were not qualified. Brian knew that this usually meant pushing elderly people with lots of money but little understanding of the market, to invest in high-flyer deals. As a settlement with the SEC, the broker had agreed to leave Warren Taylor and Currant and give up his license without admitting fault.

According to the document Brian was reading, the broker formed Malco less than a month after leaving WT&C. The firm had virtually no assets, a lot of liabilities in the form of loans by various people to keep the company’s bills paid until the public offering, and nobody had any experience. Given the extent to which companies were required to disclose everything in an offering document, Brian wondered how in the world WT&C could, or would, sell a deal like this to investors. It looked like a good deal for the owners of the shell company, for the brokers who made commission on it, and for a bunch of lawyers who did the paperwork. Brian couldn’t see how the new shareholders were going to make anything, given the company’s lack of history and prospects.

Brian stood, looking over his cubicle wall. “Jim, I just read the S-1 on Malco. How in the hell can you get anybody to buy this piece of crap?”

“Hey, man. Don’t be too quick to judge. We’ve done forty deals like Malco in the past year and people have had the chance to make money on all of them. They all went up a lot right after they went public. WT&C makes it happen.”

He went on to explain that people who were astute, watched the stock closely and got out at the right time stood to make profits – in some cases, huge profits.

“It’s not my fault that the stupid ones stay in too long,” he laughed. “I’ll guarantee you one damn thing. I’m out at the right time!”

“You? You get stock yourself? I thought we all worked on commissions, selling this stuff.” He’d heard from his friends earlier that they could get stock options, but he really hadn’t believed it was true. That was really over the top.

“That’s just part of it. There’s a little pot of stock hidden away on each deal and those of us who push it the hardest get to share in it. The stock never even ends up in my name; I just get cash money for my share of the profit. And do you want to know the best thing? I don’t even have to pay income tax on it!”

Brian sat down, astounded at what he had heard. None of it sounded legal but surely WT&C had figured out a way to make it be above board. This firm wouldn’t risk its existence just to do deals…would it?

It was the first time Brian Sadler was surprised at the guts of a Warren Taylor deal, but certainly not the last. He had no idea that very soon he would not only be pushing deals like Malco, he would someday be yet another ex-broker who owned a public company.

Chapter Nine

Brian pushed himself to the limit from his first day at the firm. He quickly “unlearned” the techniques he had been so carefully taught at Merrill Lynch and he found unbelievable exhilaration from cold calling. He learned that his new employer charged much higher commissions than other firms because they weren’t competing for the same business. Its deals were usually successful, people knew it, and they were willing to pay the price to get into a WT&C public offering. Higher commissions from the buyers of stock meant the firm could offer top commissions to its best performers. And they did. The percentage increased exponentially as a broker’s sales increased.

The firm bought lists of high net worth individuals worldwide who had previously been big investors in the risky deals that could allow very high returns on investment.

Every morning at Warren Taylor and Currant began with “The Push”, the name for the eight am sales meeting nobody wanted to miss. On Brian’s second day, he arrived at the building at 7:45, eager to attend his first meeting of The Push. He was surprised to find the parking garage filled with incoming brokers. Everyone was yelling, laughing or gulping Starbucks as they left their cars and headed for the elevator bank. He and a dozen other brokers, male and female, entered the next car.

“You the new guy on Team Bravo?” the guy next to him asked.

“Yeah, I’m Brian Sadler.”

The guy stuck his hand out. “Jim Poteet. I’m glad you’re here. Your team has to get Malco done this week and they’ve been short of people. The last guy who occupied your cube took a dive out the window last Thursday. Thirty-five stories down. Wow. Just couldn’t take the pressure!”

Brian’s mouth dropped open as he stared at the guy. He couldn’t think of a response and the entire elevator car was totally quiet. There was a ding and the door slid open. Suddenly everyone burst out laughing.

“Just messin’ with ya, pal,” Poteet said, slapping Brian on the back. “We’re all too damn rich here to take a dive.”

Everyone continued laughing as they walked onto the sales floor. Brian forced a laugh too, even though he had to overcome the knot that had just formed in the pit of his stomach. I’m the new kid. I have to get used to this stuff, and I’m damned sure not at Merrill Lynch any more.

Brian had just dropped into his chair and fired up his computer when he saw Carl Cybola run to the middle of the sales floor, jump on a large round desk and yell, “This is THE PUSH!”

All around him people in every cubicle stood up, shouting and cheering. Brian had never seen such frenzied enthusiasm. Guys were waving their suit coats around over their heads. Hands were held high in the air. It was like a football game. These people are crazy about this place!

Carl let the cheering continue for a minute or so, then held up his hand to shush the group.

“This is Tuesday of Malco week,” he said to the crowd. Brian could hear Carl through the overhead speakers used for paging, and he noticed Carl was wearing a lapel microphone.

“Team Bravo, you have 9 million bucks of Malco left to sell and you have three days left to sell it. We’re going public on Friday morning, and I want this damned boat floated and on the high seas by then.”

He told the group that Bravo had pre-sold $31 million in shares by close of business yesterday. “You guys know what happens on the Tuesday of offering week,” he yelled to the crowd. More cheering erupted, interrupting the discussion for a full two minutes.

“OK, OK, calm down. Today’s the day Team Bravo gets a little competition. Teams Alpha and Charlie, it’s your turn to see what you can do. Bravo continues to sell but you other two teams can make some big bucks pushing this baby cart around the park. Malco’s hotter than a dog in heat, folks. This thing sells itself. And here’s the kicker. We have nine million bucks to go. The person who sells the most Malco between now and the market close on Thursday gets…”

He paused and the crowd again went wild.

“Diamonds!!” a girl near Brian yelled.

“Trip to Paris! Trip to Paris!” a guy shouted.

Carl once again got the crowd under control. “Here’s the deal, kids. The person who sells the most Malco between right now and four pm Thursday gets…a brand new Lamborghini!”

This time the yelling and screaming went on for a full five minutes. Carl tried in vain to hush the crowd and finally he got things back under control. “Here are the game rules. Your customer’s cash has to be in house by Thursday night. The car will be a new Lamborghini Gallardo worth $189,000. And it’ll be yours. No lease, no nothing. Titled in whatever name you wish. Watch out where you title it, though,” Carl yelled, his arms waving wildly. “All together now…” and the group in unison shouted, “Everything offshore…means no tax man knocking on your door!”

The pandemonium was incredible. Brian wondered how people working on the floor below the firm’s offices could hear themselves think. And he wondered how anyone could win a two hundred thousand dollar car and not pay tax on it. But he wanted to find out the secrets this firm obviously knew. He made a pledge to himself to be a star within six months.

The meeting ended when Carl yelled, “Get to work, everyone! You have calls to make, people to separate from their hard-earned money, and a Lamborghini to put in your garage!” Yelling and clapping, everyone sat down in their cubicles.

Chapter Ten

The week was the most incredible adventure Brian had ever been on. The days were filled with calls, many of which resulted in sales. The firm’s intranet had a page where lists of names were posted and from which the brokers could pull names. As he called these people, Brian discovered most were professionals or executives. All had gatekeepers, like an executive assistant or a front office receptionist, but when he mentioned Warren Taylor and Currant, almost all of the potential clients took his call.

Discussing it later with his cube-mate Jim Palmer, he was told that WT&C had a reputation for making people money. “Most of our deals are still hot months and months later. We do a lot to make sure the price stays up. We make the owners of the company sign in blood that they won’t dump stock for a year, even if it’s up a thousand percent. The tradeoff for the owners making a shitload of money is that our investors have to make a shitload too. That way, everybody’s happy…including us brokers!”

Brian’s calls went very well and many people seemed pleased to be offered the chance to invest in the next hot WT&C deal. Almost no one asked anything specific about Malco Energy itself, even though Brian had prepared a fact sheet he was ready to use if someone wanted to know something. In reality, he had had trouble finding selling points, since the company had no seasoned management, no business and nothing but hopes and dreams, but he at least could fall back on the firm’s success with prior offerings, most of which had looked just like Malco when they hit the street.

After the market closed on Tuesday, the trading floor was uncharacteristically quiet.

“I wonder if everyone else is as exhausted as I am,” he thought.

Jim Palmer stuck his head around the wall and said, “How’d you do, newbie?”

“I made some sales. When do you guys get the report that shows how you did? Tomorrow?”

“Is that how they did it at Merrill?” Jim explained that WT&C didn’t want people to go home wondering how well they’d done. They needed the rush of knowing they were successful, or the need to push harder, before tomorrow.

He showed Brian how to go on the intranet to a page that had a number of listings and names posted.

“This stuff is all in real time. As soon as you post an order, it hits the sales sheet, showing the amount you sold and your commission.”

Brian saw several lists on the page. At the top was a ranking of the firm’s top brokers for the month. There were ten names listed. The top guy had already put a half million bucks in his pocket as commission income. Brian’s throat got dry as he scrolled down the list, making himself a promise that he would do anything, anything in the world, to be on that top ten list.

Other “top ten” lists showed the various deals the company was working on. Since this was Malco Week with the company set to go public on Friday, Malco’s list was at the top. Not surprisingly to Brian, a couple of people who were on the Malco top ten list were also top sellers company-wide. Jim Palmer was one, with sales over $4 million and commissions of nearly $25,000 for the month. He knew Jim had other sales than Malco so he figured Jim’s total income for the month had to be way over fifty grand. He suddenly was more impressed with Jim.

“Have you found the Malco rankings for today?” Jim yelled through the wall.

Brian said he hadn’t so Jim showed him how to scroll down below the master Malco list. There was a smaller grouping, showing all of today’s sales for Malco with each salesperson’s numbers. Jim explained this sub-list would be posted from now until Thursday, and had no purpose other than to determine Carl’s contest winner.

“Speaking of the contest, Jim,” Brian asked, scooting his chair back into the aisle so he could see into Jim’s space, “WT&C must be making big bucks in order to give away a Lamborghini.”

“Did you look at the registration statement?” Jim responded. “WT&C will make millions on the deal but they’ll also put our chairman on Malco’s board and pay him a couple hundred grand a year for that. Plus Malco will become a client of ours for investment management. Don’t forget, we’re handing this company thirty-five million bucks after expenses and they don’t have a damn thing in mind to do with the money except look for some oil sometime. It’ll take a while to spend that kind of money. And while they’re sitting on it, guess who’s going to be investing it for them? You got it. Good old WT&C. And a bunch of that money we just raised for them will go right back into other new deals of ours, because in our infinite wisdom, we’re recommending our own hot stocks as the best investments for Malco!”

Sliding back into his cube, Brian pondered how all that worked. No wonder these stocks continued to be high flyers after they went public. People buy Malco. The company doesn’t need their money for a while so WT&C puts that money in the next deal. Malco doesn’t need to sell its investments so when the stock goes up after the public offering, a lot of shareholders, like Malco, just hold on to it, because many of those investors are WT&Cs own companies, holding all that stock.

“This is a dream deal,” Brian thought. “Investors can almost be guaranteed to make money as long as the market stays hot.”

Turning back to the screen, Brian saw that a broker named Gillian Jensen was top seller of Malco for today, earning thousands of dollars for her effort. He didn’t recognize any of the other names, and saw that only two of them were Team Bravo people. Obviously opening the floodgates to allow the other teams to sell was a good thing. It was working. He also saw his own name, far down the list, showing total sales of fifty thousand dollars and commission under a grand.

“Not bad for day one of sales,” Brian thought. “If I do this same thing for twenty-two business days in a month, I’ve made over twenty grand. In a damn month!”

A final Malco screen showed the tally for total sales at $34.5 million, which meant that $3.5 million had been sold today. They had five and a half million bucks of Malco stock to sell, and two days left in which to do it.

Chapter Eleven

Brian went home exhausted. He ordered Chinese food for delivery, popped a beer, and settled back. His mind was racing. The sales calls today had been easy. He really hadn’t pushed himself. He thought of himself more in the Merrill vein – calmer, more reassuring to customers, confident about his product, and with a good solid pitch to make.

I don’t need to be a hotshot like some of these other guys. I can do this my way, and I can make half a million a year.

At that moment, on day two, he set a personal goal. I’m going to have forty grand in commissions in my third month. And I won’t ever have less than forty grand a month after that for as long as I’m a WT&C broker.

If he had known then what the next two years would bring, he would have been astounded at his lack of vision.

Chapter Twelve

Dallas, Texas

Two years later

January 2005

In two years, Brian had paid his dues at Warren Taylor and Currant. The place was a madhouse and he was one of the madmen. He’d paid a price but what a reward awaited those who were good at this, he thought as he left the garage of his apartment building and pulled on to Turtle Creek Boulevard. He passed the Mansion on Turtle Creek a block from his place. Brian thought about how far he had come in so short a time. His entire lifestyle had changed. He had gone from living paycheck-to-paycheck, to having not a worry in the world about money, ever. His only concern was whether he would be number one in sales each month. I eat the competition for breakfast, he thought satisfyingly. I am the threat at WT&C.

He only had to drive a few blocks to work; the Porsche 911 convertible made it in less than ten minutes. Traffic was light before eight and Brian always got to work before The Push started. It was his time of day to shine, to be recognized for the success he’d always known he was, and to get energized for the day.

“Hey, Carl,” he said to his boss as they both entered the elevator in the parking garage. “Have you tried Usa yet?”

“The new Japanese place? No. I hear they have some kind of exotic beef.”

“Yeah. It’s Akaushi beef. It puts Kobe beef to shame – they have a New York Strip there that’ll set you back a hundred and fifty bucks.”

Brian went on to explain that he and a girl he was seeing had drinks and dinner there last night and ended up with a tab of nearly eight hundred dollars.

Some of the newer guys at WT&C were in the elevator. Brian saw surprised looks on the faces of some of them.

“Hey guys, I was where you are two years ago next month. I was wondering whether my next meal would be McDonald’s or Burger King. You guys have the world at your feet. If you can sell, you can make a fortune. If you can’t, you’re in the wrong elevator!”

Everyone laughed, and the opening of the door ushered in a new day at Warren Taylor and Currant.

Chapter Thirteen

Malco Energy, Brian’s first sales effort, had given him something far greater than the few thousand dollars he had made in commissions. He hadn’t made the top ten list for Malco. He hadn’t made the top anything list. He was just one of the guys, selling some stock to some people. But the gift he got from Malco was the knowledge, deep inside, that Warren Taylor and Currant would make him a star – a success in everyone’s eyes – and he was ready to grasp it. At whatever cost.

He watched from the sidelines as a girl he’d never met won the Lamborghini and got over fifty thousand in commissions besides, all for being top Malco salesperson in the final week. Malco went public, the former WT&C broker who owned most of it was an instant multi-millionaire with an annual salary of nearly a million dollars, and he didn’t have to work very hard since the company didn’t have any business. All he really had to do, Brian knew, was let the firm handle his company’s investment portfolio. Nice work if you can get it.

WT&C had invested most of Malco’s money in new hot deals and the company’s stock skyrocketed, reflecting the increase in its investment portfolio of the broker’s other companies. There were a few losers, sure. There always were. But, Brian thought, an average of nine winners out of ten ain’t bad.

The Push that morning started with Carl Cybola’s usual frenzied announcements, followed by the usual screaming session, and ending with discussions of the deals the company had working that week. Now WT&C was taking fifty companies public a year – about one a week. The firm had nearly two thousand employees, seventy percent of whom were brokers. The rest spent their time pushing paperwork for the salespeople. The firm occupied five floors of The Strand and things were absolutely going crazy, every single day.

Chapter Fourteen

Six months later

The day the Feds walked in was a gorgeous one. It was the middle of June and already nearly ninety degrees every day. Brian had lowered the top of his convertible so he could enjoy the breeze during his brief drive to work. The Push that morning had been just like always. There had been yet another crazy contest and a young hotshot who’d only been there a month won a thousand bucks just for correctly spelling the name of the latest hot deal’s CEO. At least it was a contest, Brian thought; the guy’s name turned out to be Khalim Salamandi, not your household name.

Brian had known there were a few things going on that weren’t all rosy. There had been several investigations into the marketing techniques of WT&C’s salespeople. The Securities and Exchange Commission had even fined the firm $25,000 for allowing its people to be overly aggressive, in the SEC’s opinion. That news was greeted with guffaws at The Push the morning after it was announced.

“Twenty-five grand they fine us,” Carl yelled through the overhead intercom system that now piped his meeting to brokers sitting in cubes on three floors of their building. “Twenty-five grand is what I wipe with in the morning!”

People went nuts; they were laughing, yelling and clapping. Brian Sadler was clapping right along with them, giving and receiving high-fives from the people around him.

A bigger concern was the SEC’s investigation into a couple of public offerings WT&C had done in the past six months. There was beginning to be pressure for the firm to stop doing so many “blind pool” deals, which was the term used for companies that raised money but didn’t have any immediate use for it. The firm’s logic was that all their public deals ended up doing one thing or another, mostly in the fields they were supposed to be doing it in, and everybody made money, so what was the big issue?

The broker’s biggest problem at the moment was a major issue indeed. It seemed investors were a little upset when Bellicose Holdings, one of the firm’s offerings, turned out to be headed by Francois Rochefort, a Canadian who was both a coke addict and a convicted felon. Turns out he had served ten years for fraud in a French prison.

Investment banks are expected to do an incredible amount of due diligence on the companies they’re bringing to the public market. Brian knew that when a company like WT&C did an offering a week and was so lax in paperwork they hadn’t yet even provided Brian an employment letter, something had to eventually crater. The firm had done limited checking on the background of this joker, Brian figured, and their inattention had finally caught up with them.

The blowup had come very quickly. Within a week after the company went public, WT&C was awaiting the customary very large check from Bellicose so it could do its usual investing of the company’s funds. About three days late, a company check for twenty-two million dollars had arrived at the broker’s offices, but when the firm deposited it, Warren Taylor’s Chief Financial Officer got a call from the bank.

“The check is no good,” he was told. “There aren’t sufficient funds to cash it.”

It turned out that Bellicose Holdings had less than ten thousand dollars in the bank. Two days earlier, virtually all of its assets, nearly twenty-four million dollars, were transferred to an account at a large New York bank and then moved again to a bank in the Caribbean.

A day or so later Brian read a news release. Two subsequent money transfers had been made. The money finally stopped in a dead-end account in the European country of Andorra. It was withdrawn by a woman who had presented false identity to the bank and promptly disappeared, as had the company’s majority shareholder. That was all anyone was going to find out from Andorra, a country whose secrecy laws were legendary.

Brian was particularly interested in this company, because it had been his first big success. He had been hailed as Bellicose’s Numero Uno – the top salesperson at WT&C on this thirty million dollar stock sale. Brian had gotten in the groove, calling doctors, film stars, TV actors and real estate investors. Over the two years he’d been at the firm, all of these investors had become good clients and each one had made millions on WT&C deals.

It was easy to raise money when you’d been successfully doing it for a while, and Brian rose to the top with over $6 million in personal sales to his clients on this deal. Including bonuses but not counting the Porsche he was given, he’d made over six hundred thousand dollars in six weeks.

Now both the SEC and the United States Attorney’s office were looking into Bellicose. As sloppy as things were at WT&C, Brian felt certain that at least there had to be sufficient records and information to keep the firm in compliance with the complex securities laws. Small violations had occurred in the past. Brian knew when a firm’s doing this much business lots of little things could fall through the cracks. But Bellicose wasn’t a little thing. Someone was going to end up in jail over this one. And lots of investigation was going to occur before it was over.

Brian himself didn’t waste much time crying over Bellicose. He’d gotten his commissions and after the company nosedived he made calls to all his big investors. He convinced them that the big tax write-off they’d get now that Bellicose was cratering would help them lower their tax bills for the home runs they’d had prior to that one. And the ones to come. Not a single client was upset. Every single one talked about how you win some, you lose some – and at WT&C they’d all won a lot more than they’d lost.

As a precaution, Brian talked to Carl Cybola and got the OK to guarantee each of the Bellicose investors preferential treatment on the next public offering. They’d get the chance to invest more than usual, risking more to gain a potentially greater bonanza than usual after the price rose.

“That’s a no-brainer,” Carl had said as he gave the approval. “Allowing these putzes to increase their purchases only makes it easier for us to sell the next one. Nothing like having a loser to make the winners do even better!”

After The Push that day, Brian had sat at his desk and made an online payment to a shell company in Aruba that owned his Porsche. About a week after he’d won the car, a mousy looking girl showed up at his cubicle after the close of business one day, took him in a nearby conference room, and handed him a packet of information along with the keys to his new 911 convertible.

She had told him that Warren Taylor and Currant had a number of shell companies set up to do things like owning cars for star salespeople.

She explained further. “It’s actually your company. There’s just no paper trail to ever tie it to you.”

She showed him documents that would demonstrate that he had located the leasing company online, signed an arms-length, third party lease agreement and would make monthly payments. There was no way anyone would know the company was his all along, she assured him.

The girl explained how the sham transaction worked. “Since the car is used by you to come to work, you should claim a tax deduction for the lease payments. That way, you own the car but you also get to write off the payments on it that you’re making to yourself!”

She had told Brian that’s how all the other people did it at WT&C. So he did too.

Everybody’s doing it.

That had been Brian’s rationale for taking his first step over the line.

On that fateful morning Brian had attended The Push like he had done several hundred times before, gotten some recognition for his sales this week, heard the latest deal being explained and gone back to his desk. Around eleven he became aware that the place suddenly was a lot quieter than usual. There were no loud catcalls, no music from cubicles and no light banter between people. He stood and looked toward the front entrance. One of the receptionists was backing into the sales room. It looked as though she was trying to keep three men from following her – she had her hands up in a halting gesture. As they pushed by Brian could see badges hanging from lanyards around their necks. This was serious.

The guys stopped at Carl Cybola’s office door. From where he sat, Brian could hear them ask him to identify himself. Then he heard, “Mr. Cybola, you’re under arrest.” They moved inside his office and shut the door.

Brian’s heart rate skyrocketed. He got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he sat down in his cubicle.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jim Palmer leaned around the wall. Brian’s mouth was so dry, he could hardly respond.

“I…I bet they’re from the SEC.” Just as he did, one of the guys showed up at his cube.

“Brian Sadler?”

“Yes.”

Brian stood up – he watched the other two guys move Carl toward the front door, his hands cuffed behind him. As they opened the door into the lobby, he could see camera flashes. Brian knew the FBI often tipped the newspapers that an arrest was coming down. The press put fear into people who were considering breaking the law themselves.

There’s nothing like being arrested and getting your picture on the front page of the Dallas Morning News to halt your career.

“I’m Special Agent Myron Callender with the FBI.” He flashed an ID and badge in a wallet holder.

Brian’s knees almost buckled. He grabbed the cube wall to maintain his balance.

“FBI? What do you want with me?”

The agent replied that Brian was not under arrest at the moment but there was an ongoing investigation of a company called Bellicose Holdings. Brian was considered a person of interest.

“Do you have a passport, Mr. Sadler?”

“Yes, of course,” Brian stammered, feeling sweat running in a bead down his back.

“Don’t use it,” the agent told him harshly. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few weeks. We’d better be able to find you; if we can’t, we’ll have no problem issuing a warrant.”

Brian assured the agent he had no plans to leave the United States. The agent gave Brian his card.

“A subpoena’s being served as we speak. You need to be in my office next Monday with everything you can get your hands on about Bellicose Holdings. And Mr. Sadler, I mean everything. No funny business. No shredding, no nothing. You don’t want to end up being the next guy walking out of here in cuffs.”

As the agent walked away, Brian collapsed into his chair. He was stunned, speechless. Jim Palmer glanced over at him but said nothing. For the first time in his life, Brian felt terror. He felt as though he were about to jump out of an airplane without a parachute.

He made it through the rest of the trading day with no sales. He continually came back to the thought that he also might be going out in handcuffs. But he knew the Feds were targeting the wrong guy. He just needed to convince them of that.

Before leaving his apartment the next morning, Brian checked the Internet for any information about yesterday’s events at WT&C. There was a brief story in the Dallas Morning News website’s financial section. It referred to a Federal raid on the offices of WT&C and the arrest of the firm’s sales manager. Carl’s name did not appear. The story implied that a much more detailed account was being prepared for the print newspaper. The charges, the story related, revolved around money laundering for organized crime. Brian was shocked. He had been there for two years and had never seen, overheard or been told a single thing that would indicate the firm had anything to do with the mob.

Brian headed in to work. When he arrived, he noticed Carl sitting in his office as usual. It looked like many of the brokers in the office were avoiding contact with him. The Push that morning was run by someone else and was much more subdued than usual. An element of fear permeated the office. You could almost smell it.

Brian emailed Carl, asking him to lunch. Taking time off the floor during the trading day was a rare occasion at WT&C, but both the offer and acceptance showed how much things were changing in the lives and minds of these two men. They left the floor around noon, walked around the corner to Zen, the area’s most popular nightspot, and went straight to the bar.

The place had customers but most of them were in the dining area, so the bar wasn’t crowded. Only a couple of tables were occupied and those people were eating lunch. Brian glanced across the room and saw two drop-dead gorgeous girls chatting over their meals. Any other time, Brian would have tried to find out more about them. Today he wasn’t in the mood to try out his pick-up lines.

The bartender looked up as they entered, surprised to see them here during the day.

“Brian, Carl. Good to see you guys. Market closed early today?”

“Hey, Jason,” Brian replied. “The market’s open. We just need a break.”

“The usuals?” They responded affirmatively and he went to work fixing two martinis, one with Bombay Sapphire gin and Brian’s with XO Vodka. When the drinks arrived, Brian raised his glass in a toast and said, “Here’s to luck, Carl. Looks like we’re going to need some.”

“Right back at ya, buddy,” Carl responded morosely. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Chapter Fifteen

Carl began by saying that the agents wouldn’t tell him anything during the ride downtown. He discussed the humiliation of his time at the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, where he was booked, fingerprinted and photographed.

“It was like I was a damned criminal. They pushed me around, stripped me down, stuck me in a cell, and treated me like shit.”

Carl said that a clerk called him to a window and told him he was under arrest for fraud, conspiracy and money laundering.

“I saw something about that on the news this morning. What the hell is that all about? We’re not money launderers!”

Carl looked at him and raised his eyebrows. He spoke slowly, deliberately. He looked in Brian’s eyes as he responded.

“The Feds told me I was treading on thin ice, and if I talked about this to anyone in the office I might be charged with interfering with a Federal investigation. So what you hear about the charges you’re going to have to find out from somebody else. I’m scared shitless. I’ve never been in jail before. They had me crying like a girl. I’ll admit it.”

Carl told Brian he had hired Andrew Sweeney, one of Dallas’ premier and most expensive white-collar criminal lawyers. Sweeney had arrived at the Justice Center, stopped the discussions between the Federal agents and Carl, and arranged his $100,000 bail. Carl said he had gotten out after about four hours split between the interrogation room and a holding cell.

“You have to help me out a little here. Are these guys going to come after me? An agent talked to me yesterday while two of them were taking you out. They said they’re looking at Bellicose Holdings. They gave me a subpoena and told me to be in their office Monday. You have to help me figure this out!”

Brian was practically begging at this point. He knew the firm had lots of dealings that were on the edge, to say the least. He just wondered which thing had triggered the investigation which had led to Carl’s arrest, and if he too was going to end up in jail when he showed up on Monday.

Carl looked at Brian intently. “I don’t know anything about the specifics of what they want. All I know is I’m charged with a shitload of felonies and if Warren Taylor and Currant thinks I’m taking a fall for Johnny Spedino, they have another think coming. My recommendation to you, buddy, is to hire the best damned criminal lawyer you can find.”

“Johnny Speed? What the hell does a New York Mafioso have to do with us?”

Carl just looked at him, saying nothing more.

As he had felt in the office, Brian again found himself losing control. He began to shake and felt clammy. His heart rate spiked again.

“I’m not a criminal!” Brian suddenly shouted. The bartender heard him from across the room. So did people sitting at tables nearby, who were staring his way. When Brian returned their looks, everyone immediately averted his or her eyes.

“Neither am I, Brian,” Carl said quietly. “All that matters right now is whether some FBI agent thinks you are. He can screw up your life, at least for a while, even if you’re lily white, and nobody’s lily white. Get a lawyer, Brian. You damn sure don’t want to show up there holding your balls in your hand so they can put them on the table and cut them off for you.

“I gotta get back.” Carl rose from his chair. “I’ll pick up the tab on the way out. See you at the office.”

Without another word he turned and went to the bar, leaving a dazed Brian sitting at the table. As Carl paid the bill, Brian saw him glance up at the CNN broadcast on the television hung above the bar. The exterior of WT&C’s building was being shown. As Carl watched, his picture flashed on the screen, with the word “INDICTED” below it. Carl looked down, finished paying his bill, and left.

Brian watched his boss leave the restaurant. He slumped as he walked. He shuffles along like an old man, Brian thought. That observation scared Brian as much as anything Carl had told him. Carl’s giving up on this. And that means it’s every man for himself.

As he rose from his chair, Brian remembered what Carl had said. He wasn’t taking a fall for Johnny Spedino. What the hell did the New York godfather have to do with Carl’s arrest? He knew he wouldn’t find out from Carl. He had to figure this one out himself, and fast.

Chapter Sixteen

As Brian left his table he became aware of someone right behind him. Turning, he saw one of the girls he had spotted earlier from across the room.

She smiled. “Sorry to interrupt. I couldn’t help but overhear your comment earlier. I don’t judge whether anyone’s a criminal or not. I just help out the people who don’t know what to do next.”

She handed him a business card, turned and joined her friend who was waiting by the front door.

He walked to the bar. “Jason, do you know those girls?”

The bartender said they worked nearby and came in for lunch every week or so.

“I think the one who talked to you’s a lawyer. I know she’s a looker!”

As he walked back to work, Brian read her card. She was Nicole Farber, an attorney with Carter and Wells, a firm so big its name was a household word in north Texas. If not the biggest law firm in the metroplex, it was certainly in the top three.

A block from the office Brian made a decision. He sent a text message to Carl, advising he was taking the afternoon off. He walked to the garage, retrieved his car and drove home, heading straight for his computer. He was determined not to let fear overcome his reasoning.

This is America, dammit. You’re innocent until proven guilty, and I haven’t done anything at WT&C that a hundred other guys haven’t done.

First he went to Carter and Wells’ website. Scrolling down a list of several hundred names, he clicked on Nicole Farber’s. Her webpage appeared with a picture of her that was great but really didn’t do her justice, Brian thought. This girl was truly one of the most beautiful people he had ever seen – long blond hair, green eyes, maybe five foot five…he found his mind drifting, and forced himself back on the subject, glad for a brief interruption from the serious business he knew he faced.

He checked the year Nicole Farber graduated from Southern Methodist University Law School, and calculated her age at around thirty. Her specialty at the firm was corporate criminal defense – exactly the specialty Brian figured he was going to need. And she had served as an intern for the Federal Prosecutor’s office while she was in college. That might help too, although Brian wasn’t sure. He just didn’t even know what to look for.

Brian switched gears, googling John Spedino’s name. There were several pages of results. Spedino was a well-known man who was often referred to as Teflon Two, a takeoff on the “Teflon Don” title associated with the late mobster John Gotti.

Brian read several news articles from the New York papers about John “Johnny Speed” Spedino. The man was Brooklyn-born, in his mid-sixties and had been charged with more crimes than one could count. He was the boss of the Mafia in the United States – the top man.

The government’s success rate in prosecuting Johnny Speed was zero. He had never served a day in prison, although the charges against him at various times in the past had included murder, assault and battery, running a prostitution ring and jury-rigging.

An interesting story in the New York Observer noted that Spedino seemed to be immune from successful prosecution mostly because anyone who was slated to testify against him either changed their mind, or failed to appear…ever again. The story said although law enforcement insiders viewed Spedino as the top guy to catch, his record remained clean.

Brian searched more articles, trying to find some association with any deal WT&C had done. He got nowhere, even after looking at Warren Taylor and Currant’s own list of shareholder owners. Having never done this before, he did find it interesting, but seemingly of no value to him in his present situation. The SEC required that brokerage firm ownership be public information. WT&C’s shareholder list consisted of seven names – three corporations and four individuals, none of which Brian had ever heard of before and all located in New England.

Since WT&C was not itself a public corporation, Brian couldn’t get more details about the shareholders other than the list of names, which he printed off in case he might need it in the future. Then he glanced down at the business card lying next to his keyboard. He called Nicole Farber.

Chapter Seventeen

Brian slept very little that night. Several times he awoke with a start, aware that he had been dreaming. One dream involved being locked in a cage like an animal. He was sweating profusely after that episode. Around five he gave up and arose, turning on the TV. Channel Four Sunrise News had a brief report on the arrest of Carl Cybola at WT&C and said the FBI was looking for several other people to whom they wished to talk about the incident. The announcer said at least one subpoena had been issued requiring an employee of the firm to produce documents.

The FBI also issued an arrest warrant for a Canadian whose whereabouts were presently unknown and who was CEO of a company recently taken public by the broker. Brian knew that company was Bellicose Holdings. He also knew they’d been unsuccessfully looking for Rochefort for a while.

Nothing Brian saw, heard or thought gave him the slightest comfort. He had no idea what the Feds had on him, or even what they wanted, for that matter. He thought about what they might find – the car leased from an overseas shell corporation, the expense accounts he’d turned in when, instead of clients, the diners and drinkers had been girls he and his friends had picked up. All this seemed like peanuts compared to taking a guy out of the office in handcuffs, but Brian had absolutely no idea how all this worked. Feeling himself spiraling out of control again, he fought to calm down.

The workday began quietly at WT&C. Again today the morning sales meeting was run by someone else, and to say it was subdued would be a gross understatement. All day long Brian tried to concentrate, but he could think of nothing else other than what faced him at the FBI meeting on Monday. He began to make notes of what files and other information he should give them about Bellicose. Since he’d signed a confidentiality agreement at the firm, one of the few pieces of paper apparently deemed important enough for a new hire to complete, Brian knew he couldn’t just take the information. It belonged to the firm, and he made a note to find out who could tell him what he could and could not produce for the Feds.

Around eleven, Brian stuck his head in Carl’s office. As Cybola looked up Brian said, “Taking your advice, Chief. I’m heading to my lawyer’s. Out for a few hours, I guess.”

Carl wished him well. Brian took the elevator to street level, hit the sidewalk and walked three blocks north on McKinney to the mirrored tower that housed the offices of Carter and Wells. Entering the building, he headed toward the building directory but an attractive lady behind a reception desk in the lobby said, “May I help you, sir?”

She advised Brian that Carter and Wells’ reception area was on the fortieth floor. Glancing at the directory as he headed to the elevator, he saw that a listing of the firm’s lawyers took up several columns, and it appeared the firm occupied a number of floors of the building.

Brian checked in with the receptionist and took a seat. After a brief wait a man in his early twenties and dressed in a conservative pinstripe suit entered the lobby and called Brian’s name.

“I’m Ms. Farber’s assistant, Ryan Coleman. Come right this way, please.”

Following the young man, Brian snaked through cubicle farms, not unlike those at WT&C, but he was struck by how quiet everything was. There was an underlying buzz of activity, certainly, but nothing loud.

They arrived at another, smaller reception area which was tastefully decorated in old wood. It reminded Brian of a fine men’s club. Six office doors encircled the room, and there were two desks in its middle. Brian figured one of those was Ryan’s. A female about the same age as Ryan sat at the other one, and smiled as he glanced at her. Ryan opened one of the office doors and stood back to allow Brian to enter, closing it behind him.

Nicole Farber’s office was about fifteen feet square. Her desk sat in the middle and a window behind her reached from floor to ceiling. The day was clear, and he could see the buildings comprising The Galleria several miles to the north.

“Hi, Brian Sadler,” she said as she came around her desk. She had a big, sincere smile on her face as she gestured to a small sitting area with a coffee table, couch and chair.

“Let’s talk here, where it’s not so formal.” Coffee was offered and accepted and her assistant Ryan brought a silver pot, two china cups and saucers on a tray, which he sat on the coffee table. After pouring, he left the office.

“So I know something about you already,” Nicole said, touching his sleeve gently.

A toucher, he thought. Well, if she and I don’t hit it off as lawyer and client, maybe I’ll ask her out. That thought briefly ran though his mind as he switched back and concentrated on the subject at hand.

“What’s that?”

“You’re not a criminal,” she laughed.

Brian remembered his outburst in the bar at Zen yesterday and smiled too.

“I’m really not.”

“OK. Tell me what’s going on in your life that made you say that and let’s work backward from the day the FBI agents came to your office. I’m all ears.” She sat back in her chair, folded her arms and looked intently in his face.

Brian began by giving Nicole every detail he could recall of the day the Feds arrived at WT&C. He handed her Agent Myron Callender’s card and the subpoena papers. He related what he had heard from Carl Cybola at lunch and everything the agent had told him. He also told her a lot about Warren Taylor and Currant; he mentioned most of the specifics he could recall about Bellicose Holdings.

He talked about Bellicose’s principal shareholder, who had disappeared after receiving the net proceeds from the broker’s successful public offering. Although she said nothing while he spoke, apparently content merely to make notes on a legal pad now and then, he got the feeling Nicole knew more about both WT&C and Bellicose than he would have thought. Her body language, however, told him nothing. She never nodded her head or smiled knowingly. She just listened.

He told her about Johnny Spedino, and asked her if she had any idea what link he might have with WT&C.

“It’s your turn to talk now. I’m making notes about things we’ll talk more about later. Just keep going.”

After about an hour, Brian was finished. Nicole looked at her notes and said, “OK. You have a decision to make, after which I may have a lot of work to do. I’m busy as hell right now but I’m willing to take your case. I’m really good at criminal defense. My track record the last three years for acquittals is ninety percent, and I’m pleased to say none of the other ten percent ever served a day of jail time.”

“Jail time? I’ve never so much as gotten a traffic ticket. Do you seriously think I might be facing jail time?”

“I don’t want to scare you so let me just tell you this. These guys live to make examples out of rich guys who prey on the little man, in their opinions. They will try to bankrupt you with legal fees first, and then take away a chunk of your life by putting you in jail. Even Club Feds aren’t a country club. Are you seriously facing jail time? Who knows? I don’t even know what kind of case they may have against you. For that matter, I don’t even know if you’ve told me the whole story up to this point.”

“So what’s the decision I have to make?”

“I charge $450 an hour. I need fifty thousand up front as a retainer and I promise you we’ll burn through that within a few weeks, so be ready to pony up more. You haven’t told me much about yourself personally but I gather fifty grand now and then won’t be a problem for you.”

“Money’s not the issue. The issue is, are you the best I can find? I can’t take a chance on having a big blemish on my life that might cause me not to be able to work in securities, or finance, or somewhere else. I need to skate this deal and come out without a hitch.”

Brian paused and looked at her. God, she was beautiful, he thought. She smiled at him and he glanced for the first time at her left hand. No ring. That didn’t always mean anything, but it was a start.

Focus, Brian. You don’t need good looks right now. You need brains.

“I’m good. The track record I mentioned is the best in town. I interned in the Federal Prosecutor’s office when I was in law school at SMU. I handle mostly white-collar securities criminal defense, and I’ll put in the time and effort to provide you the best defense possible, given the facts we have to work with. In return you’ll have to work closely with me. I know you have a job so we can meet after the market closes. Don’t plan to have much of a nightlife for a while if you hire me. We’ll be burning the midnight oil on this one.”

She told Brian to think about it, but not for long. The deposition with the FBI was set for Monday.

“I can get that meeting moved out a week or so but no more than that. I need to know what you have to show them and we’ll talk about what you plan to say. You need to be totally ready for that deposition.”

Brian looked at her. He had never put his life, his future, in the hands of a stranger before. Somehow he felt Nicole could be the person to get him out of a situation he didn’t even understand in the first place. He trusted his gut every day in the marketplace. It was a big part of what made him the confident, successful person he was today.

“Done. We have a deal.”

She walked to her desk, buzzed Ryan and asked him for new client papers. Within minutes, the assistant opened the door, laid two documents on the coffee table, and stood nearby, awaiting instructions.

“Take these with you and bring them back tomorrow afternoon after the market closes, around 3:15. One of these is an agreement for representation. The other is the firm’s wire transfer instructions. Wire the retainer tomorrow before you come. Ryan, clear my appointments after 3:15 every day the rest of this week, and put in a call to Myron Callender at the FBI.”

Ryan replied, “Ms. Farber, you have the mayor’s dinner tomorrow night at the Art Museum, and you’re attending with Mr. Carter.”

Brian figured Carter was the name partner of the firm. He was impressed with how far this female lawyer had come in so short a time.

“I can’t do it, Ryan. Of all people, Randall will understand. Just let him know. It won’t be an issue.”

Ryan turned and left the room.

Nicole stood, extending her hand. Brian took it, and she clasped his hand with both of hers.

“You’re in the best hands possible. No one will work harder to make this come out well for you. I’m not intimidated by the FBI, and you won’t be either. You’ll know your rights and if you’re really not a criminal, I’ll help make sure they don’t make you out to be one.”

As Brian rode the elevator down, he thought about the whole situation. Nicole’s aggressively positive attitude had him convinced she really was the best he could get, and he didn’t know anyone else anyway.

So I’ll put my future in the hands of a beautiful girl I met in a bar, one I’d like to end up in bed with, and give up control while I let her drive the train which either exonerates me or puts me in a cell.

He continued to think as he walked back to his office. One thing was certain. Brian Sadler felt a lot better now that he had someone on his side who obviously had done this before.

Chapter Eighteen

Brian had intended to return to work after leaving Nicole’s office but since it was already 3:30 the market had closed for the day. He wasn’t in the mood to call customers and push stocks. He had a gnawing in his gut that made him scared to do anything the same way he had done things up to now – he had no idea why he was in trouble or even if he was in trouble, over the Bellicose Holdings deal.

After all, I was only a salesman. I didn’t create the terms of the deal, I’ve never met the guy who skipped out with all the dough, and I didn’t price the offering. I know nothing about this deal except the documents my employer provided me.

Instead of going to work he drove home – it was a beautiful June afternoon and he put the top down to enjoy it.

I’ve got to start pulling documents together. I need to start making a list of things I can give the FBI on Monday. The more I give, the more they’ll see how much I’m trying to cooperate.

He began a mental list of things he could give the FBI. He had a lot of handwritten notes he’d made to use as selling points for people who generally bought with nothing more than a gentle nudge anyway. And like most of the firm’s offerings, there had been little to know about this one. All he told clients was that this was just another WT&C deal. Hold on for the ride and get off when you’ve made enough profit. He’d known that this deal, like all the others, would be pumped up, inflated by the investments of previous WT&C public offerings. It was really a no-brainer. He just had to decide which of the high net worth clients he had so carefully cultivated would be the recipients of this latest offering of manna from heaven.

One thing nagged at Brian. There was a nasty little secret behind all of the firm’s offerings. Everybody knew about it, but nobody talked about it. He had to figure out how to keep The Millionaire’s Club from becoming an issue.

Every morning newscast carried a little more news about Warren Taylor and Currant. As he showered Brian could hear the sound from the TV mounted in his bathroom. The newscaster reported that unnamed sources close to the matter revealed that one of WT&C’s recent public offerings was the target of the entire investigation. The company’s name wasn’t given but Brian knew it was Bellicose.

When he got to work he saw an urgent email in his account from the firm’s corporate headquarters. It had gone to the entire staff, instructing everyone to say nothing to the media. Employees were to advise the legal department of any contact from outsiders seeking information. The email referenced the confidentiality document each new employee had signed. That reminded Brian to get it out; he dropped it into a portfolio to take to Nicole.

Brian went online and checked his banking. He had almost twenty grand in his checking account and another hundred thousand in the money market. He initiated a wire transfer for $50,000 to Carter and Wells. He read over the documents Nicole had given him. They seemed to be fairly straightforward.

One interesting paragraph in the retainer letter was highlighted in bold, impossible to miss. “If at any time, in Carter and Wells’ sole opinion, Client fails to be forthright in every respect, including disclosure of all information requested and required by his or her attorney, Carter and Wells may terminate this relationship immediately, refunding the balance of Client’s retainer, if any. Client acknowledges that termination of representation, if at a critical point in the timeline of Client’s defense, may cause Client to require new representation quickly. Such new Counsel may not have the same level of knowledge and expertise about Client’s situation.”

Brian thought about that. It seemed fair – if he failed to tell Nicole things she needed to know she should have the right to dump him as a client. Then he thought about a movie he’d recently watched. On the witness stand, the prosecution exposed the defendant – he’d been lying all along. His own attorney stood, pointed a finger at the witness stand and yelled, “You lied to me!”

What if I accidentally forgot something, and Nicole dumped me as a client right there in the courtroom? Mulling it over, he decided he would deal as openly as possible with her, and this would all work out. Brian was an optimist. He always saw the glass as half full. I can do this, he said to himself, turning to his computer screen and trying to concentrate on work for a change. He signed the retainer documents and stuck them in his portfolio.

Chapter Nineteen

Around two Carl sent Brian an instant message asking him to drop by his office. All day long Carl had been sitting at his desk with his office door closed, staring out at the trading floor. He looked like a defeated man. Brian knocked and entered.

“Sit down and shut the door.”

“What’s up, man? You doing OK? You really don’t look so hot.”

“The firm is putting me on leave. Apparently they got a call from the SEC. Since I’m facing Federal charges involving securities fraud, the SEC very strongly suggested I wasn’t the kind of person who ought to be running an investment bank’s sales division. So much for innocent until proven guilty.”

Brian was surprised. “They can’t fire you, can they? Like you say – you haven’t been convicted of anything!”

Carl had gone through all that with the firm’s legal department this morning. WT&C couldn’t afford any more negative press. The decision had been made to put Carl on paid leave until this matter was settled.

“At least you’re getting paid.”

“I make forty thousand a year base pay. My real income is my commission on sales. All I’m going to get is base – $3,400 a month. That’s my car payment. Thirty-four hundred a month.”

“I don’t know your personal business, but I know you’ve made a shitload of money over the past year or so. You may have to live on savings for awhile but you can beat this deal.”

Carl was sweating profusely. “Easy for you to say. I live pretty high. You know how it always seems to work out that whatever money you make, you need just a little more? That’s how it’s been with me. I bought crap I didn’t need. I have an apartment that costs me ten grand a month and I bought a condo in Belize about two months ago. Paid cash for it – four hundred grand – so I’m really in a bind. I’ll owe the IRS about six hundred thousand next April and my lawyer’s saying I’ll need at least two hundred grand over the next sixty days so he can prepare for my defense. I don’t have eight hundred thousand dollars. I was planning on paying the IRS out of the money I made the rest of this year.”

Brian sat in the chair, speechless.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

Carl looked at him, leaning across the desk. A desperate man, Brian thought.

“You gotta help me, Brian. We have to stick together on this deal. I have no desire to hurt anybody and I don’t think you want to see me hurt either. I need some money.”

“Wait a sec. Are you trying to blackmail me?” Brian stood and walked to the door. “I don’t know what the hell just happened, but you better figure out somebody else to push around, buddy. As you well know, I have my own set of expensive problems right now. And hurt me? What do you mean, Carl? You think you can hurt me?”

He walked out of Carl’s office, slamming the door behind him. People in nearby cubicles looked up then quickly down again as he strode across the sales floor.

Brian suddenly felt dizzy and nauseated. He felt the mantle of terror creeping over him again. His world was changing in a nanosecond, right before his eyes. Forcing himself to concentrate, he pulled all his notes on the Bellicose deal. There was no need to make copies of any of the offering documents. All that information was on file with the SEC and available to anyone with a computer. He knew the FBI had all that stuff already.

Finally he’d had enough. He left the office and walked to Zen and sat at the bar. He was the only customer in the place – it was almost three pm and the rest of the world was going about its business, blissfully unaware that people like him had problems that were about to swallow him whole. He felt nausea sweeping him again.

The bartender greeted him. “Hey man, what’s up?”

“I need a quick drink. Give me the usual, straight up.”

While Jason prepared Brian’s martini, he commented, “Brian, if it’s none of my business just tell me so. I hear the news like everyone else about WT&C and Carl. Are you going to be OK over there?”

Brian thought for a minute. He wondered that very thing himself.

“Sure,” he responded with a smile and bravado he didn’t really feel. “Sure I am. I’m bulletproof and invisible.” As he said the words, he hoped and prayed they would be true.

Chapter Twenty

As he made the short trek from Zen to Carter and Wells’ building on McKinney, Brian thought how unusual his life had become. He hadn’t had a drink before five pm in years – except on weekends and vacation, which didn’t count. And this week he’d had a martini, maybe two, twice during the workday.

He arrived at the law firm right on time. Ryan escorted him to Nicole’s office. She stood in front of her desk, leaning back on it slightly. An incredibly sexy pose and an incredibly sexy outfit.

She was dressed in a St. John suit and looked as though she had just stepped out of a Nordstrom window.

“You look absolutely terrific.” Brian felt the words come out as though he couldn’t help himself. He was like a kid in school, instantly infatuated.

“Why, thank you, sir,” she laughed. “You don’t look so bad yourself. And now that we’ve boosted each other’s egos, let’s get down to business. Do you have the retainer document?”

Brian handed the executed agreement to her. She laid it on her desk, grabbed a yellow pad and gestured for Brian to sit where they had talked last time.

As she sat, she said, “OK, I have some good news and some not so good news. The good news is that I spoke to Agent Callender and got your deposition moved. I need more time to get you prepared for this. I don’t know if you realize what a deposition’s all about, but you’re pretty much on your own. I can be in the room but I can’t discuss each answer with you. But with my help and the time we have to prepare, you’ll be ready to go.”

She told him they now had two weeks before the deposition. “Put the date on your calendar. It’s one of the biggest events in your life so far.”

Brian was nervous. “Got it. So what’s the bad news?”

“We don’t often see the FBI involved in cases like this so early. What I mean is, the SEC usually comes in first and noses around, gathers information and that sort of thing. The SEC is an enforcement agency on its own. It can issue subpoenas, perform depositions, and recommend charges be filed against individuals and corporations. And it’s definitely involved in this case – right up to its eyeballs. But so is the FBI and that’s highly unusual. So I asked Callender exactly why they were so interested. I hope his answer surprises you.”

Bellicose Holdings’ CFO had reported Rochefort’s disappearance as a potential kidnapping. The man was a citizen and resident of Canada and the FBI was brought into the picture since a crime could have been committed across international borders.

She leaned in toward him and her tone turned serious. “As you know, Francois Rochefort has a less than stellar past. He has a prison record. So how, you ask, did he become the beneficiary of over $25 million? What on earth prompted an investment bank, even one as crazy as the one you work for, to do a public offering for his little shell company, which had no business, no prospects, no hopes or dreams or anything at all?

“Well, here’s how. Hold on to your seat and if I’m telling you something you already know, then honey, you and I may be finished before we’ve even gotten started!”

Brian sat up in his chair, amazed at what she was saying. He knew everything she had told him so far about Rochefort. It made sense the FBI was involved. But what the hell was she talking about now?

“Here’s the rest of the story. Rochefort is a shill. He’s never had an independent thought in his life. His actions are directed by a puppeteer, a man who pulls his strings. Everything he does, every shady deal, even the crime for which he went to prison…everything was directed by someone else.”

“Johnny Speed,” Brian blurted out. Since Brian knew John Spedino fit into the picture somehow, he figured this had to be the way.

Nicole frowned as she heard Brian utter the correct answer. “You got it. The godfather runs Francois Rochefort. He always has. So the FBI tells me they’re interested in all this because for once they’re going to make a case that is going to nail John Spedino and put him in prison.

“So here’s the big question that makes you either my client or my former client. Level with me right now. Did you know there was a connection between John Spedino and your firm before I told you?”

Brian answered truthfully. He only knew about Spedino because of the conversation with Carl Cybola.

Thank goodness I told her about that yesterday.

“So that’s all you know? That’s OK, then. I’m really glad you mentioned Spedino’s name to me before the Feds did. If it had been the other way around it would have made me nervous as hell, and I would have suggested we completely change our course. I’ve represented lots of people accused of crimes in my time, and I’ve done a damned good job getting them little or no jail time. But with you my tactic is that you’re an innocent bystander. If that’s not true you’d better tell me now.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“So how…” Brian began.

Nicole interrupted him. “If you’re wondering how Rochefort got to WT&C and ended up with millions of your clients’ money, that’s the big question. As you well know, every deal your firm does has to have due diligence. What the hell happened this time?”

She was referring to the stringent investigation required by the Securities and Exchange Commission on every new public offering. An independent law firm not otherwise affiliated with the investment banker would be hired to look into backgrounds, verify facts in the offering documents, and give a thumbs-up to the public offering being what it appeared to be. It was not a guarantee that things were as they should be but after due diligence, there should have been no surprises. Tens of thousands of dollars were spent on due diligence for each new stock offering. Those funds were paid out of the offering itself, so they reduced the amount the newly public company would receive from its offering.

The investment-banking firm hired the lawyers, who shouldn’t previously have been the primary lawyer either for the broker or for the company. The idea was the firm doing due diligence was independent. At least that was the theory. Brian knew that sometimes the company itself recommended the law firm. Since the company ultimately paid the substantial bill, it was sometimes in its interest to steer a big piece of business to a firm that could be helpful to the newly public company in the future. Maybe a side deal would be cut where the company would receive a discounted service fee down the road, or perhaps a promise from the lawyers to somehow help the company push its products or services. These side deals were never committed to paper because both parties had to certify to the SEC that the due diligence law firm was truly arms length, with no business or other ties to the company.

Nicole continued. “One of my first steps is to find out who did the due diligence on this deal, what it turned up about Francois Rochefort, and if it was bad news, who at your employer agreed to let the deal continue anyway. This is a big deal, Brian. As long as you’re not a criminal, like you told everyone in the bar last week, then it’s news to you like it is to me. Now it’s your turn to talk. What do you know about all this?”

Brian looked her with an ashen face. “I knew bits and pieces. You have to realize my role in this entire Bellicose scenario. I got information from the firm, passed that information on to my client base, and happened to sell more Bellicose stock than any other broker. I read some of the S-1 offering document but not all of it.”

“Help me understand how this works, Brian. You have a client base who will buy stock from you even though, as you admit you, the selling broker, only knew ‘bits and pieces’ about the deal? How much money are these people investing, on average?”

“Some invest over a hundred grand, many invest around fifty grand, a few invest a little bit. You have to realize something. These people are rich bastards. Really rich. I have heart surgeons, the guy who invented the latest laser surgery techniques, chairmen of oil companies, three women who run their own public technology companies, and at least two dozen Hollywood stars. They don’t want to know a lot. They want someone with a track record telling them this is a deal they should invest in.”

“And they usually make money, don’t they? Even though you know only ‘bits and pieces’ about a company that has no track record, no plans for using the money, a president with no experience running a company, and nothing else you normally would see with a company going public, you felt comfortable pushing a million dollars of stock off on these rich bastards, as you call them? Explain to me what made you so confident that this particular stock would make money? What made you feel sure you could pitch your existing client base on Bellicose? Explain that to me because I just don’t get it. This stock is a piece of shit. You know it, I know it and I presume even your clients knew it.”

Suddenly her entire demeanor had changed. Up to this point, Brian had seen a smiling face, a calm assurance, and total control of her actions. Now Nicole was angry.

“I…I guess my clients know they’re going to be OK overall if they stick with me on deals. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose. WT&C has made money for its clients more often than not.” Brian stumbled for words.

“What are you not telling me, Brian?” she asked pointedly. “Something’s missing here. What makes these people so loyal, to buy stocks in shitty little companies that no one else would take public in a million years? And how do these stock prices manage to stay above the offering price so the original investors can make money, like you said, ‘more often than not’?”

Brian told her he was a sales guy – he didn’t know what went on behind the scenes to keep stocks propped up. He had wondered the same thing sometimes and Carl Cybola had told him to shut up and enjoy the ride.

“I’m not an officer of WT&C. I’m a stockbroker. I’m selling deals. I don’t know why you or the FBI would expect me to know so much.”

“Because you’re a smart guy. Too smart to just do deals and take the money without wondering why things are how they are and thinking about the consequences attached to your actions. You either know, or think you know, a lot more than you’re telling me. So let’s hear it. I want it all.”

Man, you’re beautiful when you’re mad, Brian thought, involuntarily smiling at her. That didn’t help a thing.

She got up, slammed her note pad on the table and said, “Listen, hotshot. I don’t know what you’ve done in this deal but you are about an inch away from needing another lawyer. No secrets. By the time the FBI deposes you I have to know every single thing you know. And you’re spending four hundred and fifty bucks an hour sitting here grinning at me like a goofy schoolboy. Get it together and start talking.”

She sat down, folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.

A quiet buzz from the phone on an end table next to Nicole interrupted them.

Saved by the bell, Brian thought for a second.

She picked up the phone, listened and then said, “Nothing more tonight, Ryan. Have a good evening.” She put the phone down.

“You were saying?”

“OK, OK. Here’s how it works.”

He told her once brokers had been at WT&C awhile and had proven themselves both to be loyal to the firm and successful at what they did, they were invited to join the Millionaire’s Club. Nobody ever talked about it and Brian had never even heard it mentioned until one day after the market had closed.

“Carl asked me to stop by his office and when I did, he shut the door and said, ‘You’re a player. From what I see I think you’re in this to make big bucks for yourself and to be a major success. Am I right?”

Brian had responded affirmatively, and Carl had talked obliquely about how many different ways there were to make money without breaking the law.

Brian recalled that Carl had said, “Think how many people go through life making thousands of dollars, or even hundreds of thousands, but never realizing their potential. That’s a shame. Guys like you have to take advantage of every means available to you if you want to realize what you can really do and see what kind of sales guy you really can be.”

Nicole sat immobile, continuing to listen to him, her eyes never leaving his. She’s studying me to see if I’m lying.

“Then Carl told me he wanted to make me an offer – to take me to the next level. ‘I’m going to tell you something not a dozen people have ever heard, Brian’, he told me.”

Brian told how Carl had offered to let him join the Millionaire’s Club, explaining that it was nothing more than a stock trading concept Carl and some others in the firm had developed that was a foolproof way to make profits. He first swore Brian to secrecy, telling him he was going to make him a millionaire within thirty days.

Carl also told him if he ever told another living soul what he was being said today, Brian would discover problems in his life from places he didn’t even know existed.

“What do you mean? Maybe I don’t want to be in the Millionaire’s Club.”

Carl had laughed and said, “You want to be a millionaire. I can see it in everything you do. You’re a lot like I was a few years ago. You want it all. And I can help you get it.”

He told Brian that a few brokers in the firm who worked for Carl were involved in a program whereby their customers couldn’t lose money.

“The way it works is that certain clients get orders filled for them only after the outcome of a transaction is known.”

Nicole leaned forward, a surprised look on her face.

“Brian. Are you saying they backdate fill orders to buy and sell stock for customers at a guaranteed profit?”

“That’s the deal in a nutshell.”

“And you’re a member of this neat little fraud club?” She stood. “Party’s over, buddy. You were wrong. You ARE a criminal.”

“Hey, wait a minute! I never told you I was a member of the Club. I didn’t join. I mean, to be perfectly honest nothing’s been done about it yet.”

“You expect me to believe that? You were the top salesperson on Bellicose Holdings’ offering. And that happened just because you were that good, all by your little old self?” She walked to her desk. He followed her.

“Not exactly. All of WT&C’s clients usually make money. That’s because the firm has so many blind pool offerings.” He was referring to the companies that went public with no immediate plans to use the proceeds.

“And blind pools make people money? In my experience it takes profits and real business operations and solid management to make company stocks rise. How do WT&C companies do it with none of that? Does your Millionaire’s Club also have a crystal ball?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Brian explained the way the firm’s reinvestment program worked. He told her that the firm took these companies public then managed their portfolios of newly acquired cash for them, putting almost all the money right back into the next WT&C deal.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought. I have no doubt it’s legal so long as it’s fully disclosed. And it is. Always.”

Outside the window behind Nicole, Brian could see the sun setting through pink clouds. He glanced at his watch. It was 7:30.

“Got something else to do?”

Damn, she doesn’t miss a thing.

“No, just getting a little hungry.”

“We’re not finished. Don’t start drifting away just yet.”

She spent another hour asking him question after question about the reinvestment plan WT&C had created. He told her he knew of more than two dozen companies that had gone public and had their proceeds invested in each other.

Finally she closed her notebook. “Here’s what I think. It’s like a Ponzi scheme, but legal so long as it works.”

She was referring to the classic scam created in the early twentieth century by Charles Ponzi, where people were guaranteed high returns by investing with him. Instead of generating true returns, he used money from future investors to pay interest to the earlier ones. As long as he had new investors from whom to generate dollars, his scheme stayed afloat. Once he couldn’t pay interest any more, however, it all collapsed and Ponzi went to prison.

“It’s not a Ponzi scheme. First of all, everything that’s being done is clearly spelled out in the offering documents. The SEC approves the offerings. It’s just a series of blind pools, one after another.”

“I know what it is. But it’s a Ponzi scheme in one respect. If the flow of new deals ever stops, there won’t be anything to continue to prop up the older ones. They’ll all collapse like a house of cards. And I’ll bet then the SEC won’t be looking favorably on these deals. But you already know that. You’re a smart guy.”

She stopped taking notes. It was almost dark outside. “Let’s call it a day,” she said, standing and stretching.

“Want to grab a bite to eat?”

She smiled. “Thanks but no thanks tonight. I have plans.”

The disappointment must have shown on Brian’s face. Plans? He had never considered that she might be involved with someone.

She started laughing. “Wow! I rarely have that effect on people!”

He stammered, trying to think of a save.

“I got here at six this morning. I had Ryan bring in lunch so I could work through. Moving my day around to accommodate you didn’t mean I could drop my other stuff. I put in a normal workday and added time for you too. So I’m heading home to a martini and a good book in my pajamas.”

“None of my business,” Brian managed to blurt out. “I’m sorry…”

“No problem. I’d love to have dinner with you sometime. In fact, we need to do it. I want to learn more about Brian Sadler the person instead of just Brian Sadler the stockbroker. It’ll happen, just not tonight.”

She told him that the next two days would be devoted to Bellicose Holdings. Together they would look at everything they could find about the company and its elusive founder. She grabbed a briefcase and they walked toward the reception area. Only a few people remained at work in their cubicles or offices. Riding down together in the elevator, she touched his sleeve.

“I can help you even if you are a criminal. That’s what I do best. But it’s much more rewarding for me to exonerate people who don’t deserve the treatment they’re getting.

“At this minute I’m fairly certain you truly don’t think you’re a criminal. I’m also fairly certain the government thinks you might be. I’m also totally certain you are in the middle of a bunch of deals that, to put it really mildly, can’t pass the smell test. Do the SEC or the FBI have something on you already? Only time will tell. But if you tell me absolutely everything I can at least know which direction we’re heading and spend my time and your money the way I should be.”

When they were outside, he offered to walk her to her car.

“I’m in the garage just next door.” She touched his hand. “Have a good night. See you tomorrow afternoon. Get some rest.”

She turned and walked away.

He stood for a minute, watching her go, not wanting to let the reality of her fade into a memory.

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was the Saturday before deposition day. The evening before, Nicole had told Brian they needed to spend several hours wrapping up all the loose ends. They would role-play – she would ask him questions and he would answer using techniques and methods she taught him.

She said she wanted to run some errands and go to the gym so they agreed to meet front of her building at 2:30 pm.

“I’m coming from a workout so don’t plan to dress up for our meeting. It’ll be a workout too. Count on it.”

Brian was able to park on the street since it was a weekend afternoon. A few strollers were on the Uptown sidewalks, window-shopping or sipping lattes outside of Starbucks. She came over from the garage, looking incredible in a tank top and a pair of gym shorts. Her hair was wet and she wore a Red Sox baseball cap. She was stunning, he thought. Brian had gone to the gym too; he wore a t-shirt and shorts.

They worked all afternoon and as usual it was dark when she called it a wrap.

“You’re ready. You’ll be fine.”

“And you’re great at this,” Brian said, leaning back in the armchair.

“I’m great at a number of things. I can cook like a master chef. I’m a marathon runner, when I take time to do it. And…” she stopped and smiled. “Well, let’s just say in bed I think I’m pretty good too.”

Brian looked at her. They had never even had the dinner she had promised him.

“That last part sounds interesting.”

She stood and pulled her tank top over her head. She wore no bra. Her breasts were small but perfectly round. Her nipples stood erect. She walked to the office door, locked it and turned off the light. There was a full moon and the half-light in her office clearly illuminated her as, putting her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts, she dropped them to the floor. Now she wore only a thong.

She went to her desk, leaning back on it so that her hips were thrust forward. Brian leaned down and took off his gym shoes and socks. He pulled off his t-shirt and stood up. He walked over to her, his erection clearly outlined through his shorts.

“Well, what have we here?” She pulled down his shorts and briefs, taking him in her hands and moving up and down slowly. He uttered a groan as he reached to cup her breasts in his hands. He played with her rock-hard nipples as she gently rubbed the tip of his penis. He moved his hands down to her thong. She raised her hips to allow him to take it off.

Moonbeams played over her naked body as she leaned further back on the desk.

“I want to feel you inside me,” she said. He moved closer and she guided him into her. She was totally ready and he began to thrust slowly, in and out. She panted, her hands on her breasts, pinching her nipples.

“Give it to me,” she said hoarsely.

As he moved deeper inside her, his cell phone suddenly rang.

Not wanting to break the rhythm, he ignored the ringing until…

…he woke up. His phone rang again. It was on the nightstand next to his bed. He shook his head, not wanting to lose the momentum of the dream he had just experienced. He had a massive erection but he was all alone in his apartment. It was 3:30 am.

He answered the phone, and a raspy, gravelly man’s voice he had never heard before said, “Listen closely, Mr. Sadler. I know you’ll do well in your deposition. You help us, we’ll help you. You hurt us, and well, it’ll work the same way. I hope you clearly understand me. You’ve never done anything as serious as you will do a week from Monday. Don’t screw up the rest of your life. Be as smart then as you’ve been up to now and you’ll be healthy, wealthy and wise.”

The caller hung up.

Brian lay in his bed, his heart racing. All thoughts of the dream were erased as his adrenalin flowed. His heart was beating so fast he thought he might be having a heart attack.

What the hell am I in the middle of?

There was a lot of cold sweat, but no more sleep for Brian Sadler that night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The days at Warren Taylor and Currant went by quickly as Brian anticipated the close of the market each afternoon. The firm was always working on deals; although his focus was on the upcoming deposition, Brian continued to place stock in the hands of his clients, generating thousands of dollars a day in commissions for his own account.

Each day’s closing bell marked the beginning of his next meeting with Nicole Farber, who was quickly becoming an obsession. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. All day long he found himself recalling how she smelled, how she smiled, how she walked, how her naked body glistened in the moonlight.

I’m like a kid in high school, Brian thought as he walked to her office the Friday afternoon before his Monday deposition. But I have to concentrate. I can’t let my fantasies about her fog my thinking about the reason we’re meeting.

He had decided not to tell her about the phone call he had gotten during the night. Once he had calmed down and thought about it, he decided that it was best to keep this to himself for now. Brian wasn’t sure what the man had meant about his helping them, or even who “they” were. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew both from the tone of voice and what the man had said, that it was dead serious stuff. He had looked at the call record on his phone to see the caller’s number. The call originated from the 212 area code. He googled the number; it came back as unknown. So the call came from somewhere in New York City. No real help there.

Yesterday he and Nicole had gone into great detail about Bellicose. She had a computer-generated list of over a hundred questions, most of which arose from reviewing the S-1 offering document.

“When did you have time to do all this research?” Brian asked.

“It wasn’t me, babe. I have two paralegals dedicated to nothing but Brian Sadler right now. We’re spending your hard-earned cash like it’s going out of style but we’re making sure we’re fully prepared for deposition day.”

The next few days’ meetings were spent going over all the records Brian could locate. He gave her a copy of the WT&C confidentiality agreement. After reading it she placed a call to the FBI, telling Agent Callender if he wanted documents subject to the confidentiality agreement, he should subpoena them directly from the brokerage firm. She knew it was a long shot – a judge would likely force Brian to turn over the records, agreement or not, but she wanted to keep Brian out of a fight with his employer if possible.

Nicole had told Brian to bring all his records to her even if they were not going to be shown to the FBI because of the confidentiality agreement. He brought cold call scripts, client lists, all of his written notes and copies of a few emails he had gotten from the company about Bellicose during the offering. She looked at everything, made extensive notes and gave them back to him to return to WT&C.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Things moved along quickly. Nicole and Brian reviewed everything once, twice and a third time. Except for the few things Brian had chosen not to reveal to her, they had covered it all. And in his opinion, she had done a masterful job of preparing him.

They sat in her office on the Friday evening before his deposition on Monday.

“We’re almost ready. You’re going to do fine because you know exactly what to expect. Let’s meet here tomorrow afternoon and do some role-playing; I’ll ask the questions. It’ll help you get used to the style of questioning and the answers you need to give. I’m going to the gym before we meet…want to meet here around 3?”

Brian’s mouth fell open. It was the dream taking the form of reality.

“What’s wrong?”

He stammered an answer. “Nothing, nothing at all. I…uh, I’m going to the gym tomorrow too. I’ll see you here at 3. Gym clothes OK?”

She said yes and that she would meet him in the lobby, since the elevator required special access on weekends.

He walked out of her office, a déjà vu experience having unfolded before him. He went straight to Zen, where the evening crowd on a Friday night was noisy. The bar was jammed. He saw Jeff Spivey and Sam Cooper, the two brokers who had first told him about WT&C, sitting at a bar table nearby. They waved him over.

“How are you guys? Haven’t seen you in ages.” They worked on different floors at the brokerage firm and rarely ran into each other at the office.

“Let’s cut the small talk, Sadler,” Jeff answered. “Everyone in the firm’s about to shit bricks waiting to find out what the hell the FBI is looking at you for. What’s going on?”

Brian told them he didn’t know much except that Bellicose Holdings seemed to be the focus of their attention, and that was all he had been asked to produce records about.

“You going to be OK?” Sam asked. “I feel a little bad since I think that night at Martini Park is what got you interested in coming to WT&C in the first place. And you made a hell of a success, no doubt about it. But how’s this going to turn out, do you think?”

“I’m OK, guys. First place, I didn’t do anything wrong. All I did is sell a deal the bosses told me to sell. I sold it to people whose names I got from WT&C and I used techniques I learned from watching other people at the firm. There’s nothing they can accuse me of that everyone in the firm didn’t do. Now let me buy a round and let’s talk about the Cowboys. I’m sick of talking about Bellicose.”

The trio had dinner in the bar and continued to drink and talk until after eleven. During the evening Brian had gotten a number of calls, all from Carl Cybola. His phone was set to vibrate and he chose not to take the calls. He wouldn’t let Carl ruin his evening with the guys. He needed the break.

“Gotta go, guys,” Brian finally said, signaling for the tab. “This one’s on me.” He considered the irony of his paying the $400 tab this time, compared to his concern the last time they’d met as to whether he had enough room on his credit card to even buy his own drink. Things had certainly changed, Brian thought. He wanted to keep it this way.

Chapter Twenty-Six

As Brian retrieved his car from the garage, he called Carl’s number and it was answered immediately.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Hey, lighten up. I’ve been out for a few drinks and now I’m headed home. What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you what’s up. My time’s up. I’ve agreed to cooperate with the U.S. Attorney. I’m not supposed to be calling you or anyone else but after I acted like a shit at the office and tried to threaten you I thought it was the least I could do, to tell you before your deposition on Monday.”

“How did you know I have a deposition?”

“You think the U.S. Attorney’s not in the middle of this whole thing?” Carl went on to say he had a lot of information on the firm’s involvement with Bellicose and he had agreed to testify against several people at WT&C whom he could tie to Francois Rochefort.

“Let me give you a little tip. I told you awhile back I wasn’t taking a fall for John Spedino. And I’m not. He was Bellicose. It was completely his deal from the start. And you know how he got our firm to take his company public? I know, but I’m not telling you now, before your deposition. You don’t need to hear that from me. On Tuesday I’ll be telling everything I know to the U.S. Attorney, and I’ll be a free man. No worries, no problems, no Feds on my back.”

Wishing Brian good luck, Carl hung up. Brian thought he sounded upbeat for the first time since all this had begun. He’d tell Nicole all this tomorrow – it was critical information and could have a bearing on his own situation.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

He awoke on Saturday morning at 7:30, sunlight streaming through the window. Before he got out of bed, Brian thought about what this afternoon would bring. How close to reality would his dream turn out to be? Deciding to do nothing to change it, he went to the gym, timing his arrival at her building for 2:20 pm even though she had told him to meet her at three. In the dream, he had gotten a parking spot on the street at 2:30. Today there was nothing available. He circled the block three times then saw a couple heading toward a car parked in front of Nicole’s building.

He waited patiently while they backed out their car, then took their space. He had a half hour to kill so he went across the street to Starbucks. He sat outside where he had a clear view of Nicole’s parking garage.

I don’t even know what kind of car she drives and yet I’ve had sex with her. Well, not real sex. But it had seemed like it at the time, until his rude awakening with his phone call from the mystery man.

About five minutes before three, he saw her drive by Starbucks directly in front of him. She was at the wheel of a white Mercedes convertible and was wearing the ball cap he’d dreamed about! As she drove into the garage he walked across the street and was standing in front of her building when she walked up.

He had made fun of himself this morning as he dressed in exactly the outfit he had been wearing in his dream. She wasn’t in her tank top and shorts, however. She wore a polo shirt tucked into a pair of yellow cotton shorts. She was wearing gym socks and yellow tennis shoes. She was color-coordinated but somehow when you looked at her it didn’t make you think she had actually given that any thought. It was just as though it was how she was supposed to look.

She smiled. “Hey there. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Brian involuntarily shuddered but quickly recovered. “Me too!”

There were a lot of people in her office. Everyone was working; no one looked up as they passed down the hallway. She motioned Brian to sit down while she got some water. He sat in the armchair, as in the dream, hoping she’d sit on the couch again.

She gave him a water, kicked off her shoes and sat on the couch, curling her feet under her.

“Before we get started I want to tell you something that happened last night after I left here.” He told her everything he could remember about Carl Cybola’s phone call.

She took notes. When he finished, she said, “Is there anything you’ve told me about Carl Cybola, his relationship to you or the firm, or anything about Bellicose, that you want to change now? I’m not saying there should be but if there is, for God’s sake now’s the time to tell me.”

Brian assured her there was nothing Carl was going to say to the U.S. Attorney that would be harmful to Brian’s situation in any way.

“I’ve told you the entire truth. Carl knew a lot of inside stuff that I didn’t. And I never participated in it. I was about to but I hadn’t yet.”

The afternoon and early evening were spent much like the dream. She asked pointed questions to which he gave direct answers. She asked him things about the firm that were outside his direct knowledge. As she had taught him, instead of offering conjecture or opinions he said, “I have no knowledge of that.”

It was dark when she finally closed her notebook. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you. I want to tell you a few rules and I want you to remember them.” She picked up a yellow pad.

“First, you’ll be sworn in like you’re in court, and a court reporter will be in the room just like in court. My job will be to object, but only rarely, which is not like in court. In a deposition, a judge will decide later whether most of your testimony will be allowed, if this ever gets to that point, which I think it won’t.”

She told him that she also could be a resource for him. If he was asked something and wasn’t sure how to respond, he could whisper to her and she would help him if she could.

“Don’t volunteer information. If they ask you a question, answer the question. Don’t give them more information than they asked you. If they ask you something close to the truth, don’t help them get where they want to be. If they ask you if Carol did it, and it was Mary, don’t say ‘No, Mary did it.’ Instead, you just say, ‘No, Carol didn’t do it.’ See what I mean?”

He nodded, trying to concentrate on this important last information while wondering what was going to happen next.

“If you don’t know something for sure, say ‘I don’t recall.’ You should never be reluctant to say that if you aren’t sure. And Brian, you can never be certain what someone said exactly, even if it just happened. They can’t kill you, they can’t touch you, they can’t beat you up. If they ask you about a conversation and they say, ‘What did Carl say next?’ your answer should be what?”

“I don’t recall,” Brian replied.

“Right, but even better say ‘I don’t recall specifically.’ Because even if the conversation happened this morning there is no way you can recall it word for word. If you say ‘I don’t recall specifically,’ you’ll make them have to say, ‘Can you relate it in words or in substance?’ That’ll take a lot of time and frustrate the hell out of them. Just keep your cool and you’ll be fine.”

“You’re really great at this.” He steered the conversation as it had happened in his dream.

“You’re paying enough to get the best and I’m good at what I do. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing.” She stood, putting on her shoes. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”

He stood, resigned that the dream now was nothing more than that. He agreed that dinner was a good idea, and they soon ended up in Papa’s, a casual Italian place a couple of blocks down the street just off McKinney Avenue. She had a pasta salad, he had a calzone, and they drank a couple of beers each.

As they walked back to their cars, she said, “Get some rest tomorrow. Come to my office Monday at nine and we’ll ride over to the FBI’s field office together.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

On Sunday Brian bought groceries, worked out for an hour at the gym and read the Dallas paper by the pool at the Mansion on Turtle Creek. Since his apartment building was next door the tenants had privileges to use the facilities at the Mansion. Brian didn’t eat there much but he met people in the bar for drinks fairly often, and on warm weekends he enjoyed the scenery around the pool.

Around six he went back to his place, starting a DVD he’d ordered online. It described the new archaeological finds at Petra in Jordan. Several mummies had been unearthed and there was speculation that one of Jesus’ disciples might have been buried in the area. He found it difficult to concentrate. For once his mind was racing not about Nicole, but about the deposition. He found challenge invigorating and he felt confident he could do a good job tomorrow.

After all, I really can’t help them much if they’re trying to hang the Bellicose deal on somebody. For sure they can’t hang it on me.

Around eleven, he called it a day and went to bed. He was in a dead sleep when the cell phone rang. Awaking suddenly, he glanced at the clock. 3:30 am. Same time as the last call, he thought. He picked up the phone and saw the caller ID said “unknown.” The same gravelly voice as last time started talking before he said anything.

“Listen closely. You have an important job to do tomorrow. You have to help us, so we can help you. We take good care of our friends. Don’t hurt us. You don’t want us to be angry. Do well tomorrow. Your future depends on it.”

He was gone before Brian had even fully grasped what he said. He lay in his bed, thinking of what he was involved in. How could he help? He didn’t even know what these people wanted from him. It was over an hour before he fell asleep again. He tossed and turned the rest of the night.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

At six he arose, turned on the bathroom TV as usual and stepped into the shower. He could hear the newscast in the background as the water ran down his body. Suddenly he stopped and turned off the spigot. He had heard Carl’s name.

He opened the shower door so he could see the TV. Carl’s picture was on the screen, then a cutaway to a street scene where a reporter stood, emergency lights flashing in the background.

“Cybola was arrested at Warren Taylor and Currant only a few weeks ago, and was under indictment by the U.S. Attorney for a number of crimes, including fraud. It appears he was out for an early morning run when he was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver. The vehicle was found about a mile away and turns out to have been stolen. Police have no clues about the driver. Anyone who may have information about this crime is urged to call Crimefighters.”

Brian started shaking. He dropped the towel and sank to the floor as his legs gave way.

No way was Carl Cybola out for a morning run. This guy hated exercise. Carl was killed because he was about to cut a deal with the Feds.

For over an hour Brian sat at his kitchen table in a pair of briefs. He took a sip of coffee now and then but mostly he stared into the air. The guy on the phone had said, “do well – your future depends on it.” Was that why Carl no longer had a future? What the hell had he been involved in? Brian didn’t know what to think, what to do. He knew he had to concentrate on the deposition but he could only think of the veiled threats he had received and how Carl was now dead, probably because of what he was about to tell the Feds.

His cell phone rang. He started to ignore it then saw it was Carter and Wells, Nicole Farber’s firm. He reflected for a second that he didn’t know her cell number but obviously she knew his.

“Hey.”

“You’ve seen the news?”

He said he had, and she asked him how he was doing.

“The truth? I’m scared to death, Nicole. I think somebody killed him.”

“It looks that way. But you don’t know what he knew. And you really don’t know how much he knew. You also don’t know it wasn’t an accident. So I want you to settle down, pull yourself together, and let’s get through this morning and on with your life.”

Chapter Thirty

Dressed conservatively in a dark suit and tie, he arrived at her office at nine and she met him in the firm’s reception area. They had a cup of coffee and then she said, “OK, you’re ready for this. You’re an honest guy, not a criminal. You said so yourself and you’ve got me believing you now. So you’re going to go in there and be the honest, straightforward, sincere guy you are. There’s nothing like the truth to make things right.”

She had arranged a sedan and driver to take them to One Justice Way, the offices of the FBI a few miles west of them near Stemmons Freeway. “I want you relaxed, not worrying about traffic,” she had said when she told him she was spending some of his money on a limo.

Brian was surprised at the high security in the FBI’s office. Thick, heavy glass separated the receptionist from the waiting room. A carrier like the one in a drive-in bank was used to deliver documents back and forth. They were told to take a seat, and shortly Special Agent Callender opened a door to allow them in.

They went into a conference room where a court reporter sat at one end of a long table with her machine in front of her. Two men dressed in dark suits sat at the table. They rose and Callender introduced them as field agents who were working on this case. He explained that their role would be strictly as observers and they would ask no direct questions although it would be possible from time to time they might pose a question for Agent Callender to ask.

For the record, Nicole established her position as Brian’s attorney. They were served coffee and then asked if they were ready to begin. Brian was told to raise his right hand and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God.

The deposition started with nearly an hour of incredibly routine background questions. The agent made detailed inquiries about Brian’s college days, his degree and his time at Merrill Lynch, and then he turned to Warren Taylor and Currant. Callender began a series of questions aimed at determining how Brian had found out about the position at WT&C. He asked some specific questions about dates.

Brian answered, “I don’t recall specifically.” He glanced at Nicole, whose face remained impassive.

Callender rephrased the question, making it more general as to timeframe, and Brian said, “I really don’t recall.”

Callender hesitated for a moment and said, “Do you even recall the month to which I’m referring, or what year it was? You haven’t been there that long.”

“I’m afraid not. I do a pretty poor job at recall.”

Suddenly Nicole sat up in her chair. “May I have a word with my client?”

“Of course. Let’s take a ten minute break.”

The agents and the court reporter left the room.

Nicole whispered to Brian, “This room is bugged so talk quietly. Want to explain just what you think you’re doing?”

“I really don’t remember much.”

“Don’t screw around with these people. They don’t take well to games.”

“Believe me, this is no game.”

He stood and walked down the hall to a restroom, leaving her sitting in the conference room alone.

The deposition began again and, except for a few questions of little significance, Brian’s lack of recall was total. He didn’t remember anything that had happened; the more Callender asked, the more Brian couldn’t tell them. Finally the agent said, “May we go off the record?”

Nicole responded, “OK with me.”

“Mr. Sadler, I really thought you had nothing to do with any of this, that you were just a broker who happened to sell a lot of this crap and made some money. My hunch was you weren’t part of the fraud itself. Now I don’t believe that. You’re deliberately refusing to answer my questions and this outcome isn’t going to be something you’re going to be happy with, I’m afraid. I’m going to ask you point blank, right now. Do you intend to give us any more information, or is this deposition effectively finished?”

“I don’t know what other questions you have, so obviously I don’t know whether I will recall anything or not. So far you haven’t hit on subjects I remember much about. I’m sorry that my answers aren’t as helpful as you had hoped.”

Callender turned to Nicole. “Ms. Farber, have you advised your client to respond to my questions this way?”

“Absolutely not,” she responded, anger apparent on her face. “But in fairness, if he has no recollection he can’t answer your questions.”

The agent turned to the court reporter, asking her to take the proceedings back on the record.

“For the record, the client is unable to respond to relevant questions with any answer except that he cannot recall. For this reason, I am now considering this deposition finished.”

The reporter began to dismantle her machine and the two agents in the room stood. One of them looked across the table at Brian and said, “I hope your lack of recall is not a serious tactical error. We will undoubtedly see you again. Perhaps it will be in a deposition room like this. Maybe it’ll be in the booking room of a jail. Who knows?”

The three agents left the room.

Neither spoke as the car headed back to Nicole’s office. Brian stared out the window. Nicole sat with her arms crossed, an angry expression on her face. His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, glad for the distraction. The caller ID showed a number in the 305 area code, which he knew was Dade County, Florida.

“Good job today, Mr. Sadler,” the gravelly voice said. “Now we’ll help you.” The call ended abruptly.

Brian pocketed his phone and Nicole said, “Do you get calls often where you only listen?”

“Pardon me if I seem abrupt. I don’t think my calls are your concern.”

“Your life is my concern at the moment. I don’t know what you think you were doing in there today. I’m not sure if you thought it was the smart thing to do, or a cute idea to snub your nose at the FBI. These guys can make your life miserable just because they’re pissed off at you. They can sic the IRS on you for no reason at all and you’ll end up getting audited. They can show up often enough at your office that your boss finally gets nervous and fires you just to keep them from taking a look at him. But you – after all our meetings, you chose the high road. You decided to be a smartass with the damned Federal Bureau of Investigation. You just didn’t recall anything.”

She sat back in the seat, arms folded. And she wasn’t finished.

“I’ll say one thing; I’ve never had a client do that before. Most of my clients at least respected the power the government has. But I’m sure you have a good reason for giving the finger to the FBI. And once we get to the office I absolutely can’t wait to hear what it is.”

Chapter Thirty-One

The sedan dropped them in front of Nicole’s building. As the driver opened the back door for Nicole, Brian hopped out the other side. They stood on the sidewalk. “Come on up.”

“You know what, Nicole? I’m not a kid in school. I paid you a lot of money to get me ready for today and I probably owe you even more than I’ve already paid. I chose a course of action today for reasons you don’t know and I’ll live with the consequences of my actions. I’m not a kid whose mom has caught him doing something bad and I’m not interested in your review of how things went. So I hope you’ll continue to represent me going forward and if either of us finds a reason we need to talk, let’s talk.”

“I’ll think it over.” She turned and walked into her building.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Six months later – December 2005

It had been an eventful six months since the last time he saw Nicole Farber. That had been on the sidewalk in front of her office after his deposition. The FBI had advised the U.S. Attorney, who had advised Nicole, who had advised him, that he was no longer a person of interest in the Bellicose case. It seemed once Carl decided to become a witness for the government, he had turned over every document he could get his hands on, including hundreds of pages of highly confidential information that belonged to the firm. If Carl had been alive he would have faced a lawsuit of immense proportion from his firm, and his estate still might. He had stolen much of the information but at this point nothing mattered except that the U.S. Attorney and the FBI had evidence that gave them cause to issue arrest warrants for WT&C’s two top executives.

The word around the office was that one of these two men was an associate of the mobster John Spedino. That connection had allowed WT&C to be used as a conduit for the laundering of tens of millions of dollars of mob money through the blind pool public offerings. It probably would have continued if someone hadn’t decided it was time for a little payoff.

When Spedino decided to make a withdrawal from his WT&C deals he apparently did it through Bellicose Holdings. On the surface that one had looked like just another blind pool offering, with one exception no one knew about. As soon as the proceeds, which as usual contained a lot of laundered money of Spedino’s, made it to the company’s coffers, Francois Rochefort withdrew the funds and disappeared. Everyone presumed the company president was in hiding under Johnny Speed’s protection and that Spedino himself had received back twenty-five million of his dollars.

When the Chief Executive Officer and Chief Financial Officer at Warren Taylor and Currant were arrested it sent shock waves throughout the company and the industry. The firm’s principal shareholders were three hedge fund managers from Boston. Each had been in the securities business for twenty years or more without so much as a hiccup. They immediately appointed Chief Operating Officer Robert Overton to the post of CEO. Overton also had many years in the business and his integrity appeared above reproach. The SEC had sent a team to Dallas to monitor the transition, and they stayed on premises at WT&C for over a month until things began to settle down.

Six months later it appeared that WT&C was going to live to fight another day. For awhile people wondered if almost everyone in the firm was involved with the money laundering scheme and that the investment bank itself might collapse. Only through full disclosure to the SEC and calm assurances to customers had WT&C managed to continue in business.

Brian reflected on how much more conservative the firm was today. Two blind pool offerings in the works had been withdrawn in the days immediately following the arrests and six months later only six deals had been done by WT&C. That was a far cry from one a week like before.

Six new public companies, and not one of them a blind pool. Each of the offerings now was a real operating company with real people and real substance behind it. Each company had plans for using the money it got in its offering and so far it looked as though each company had done exactly what it was supposed to.

The first company after the fall of the firm’s top executives had been the test case. No one knew if the firm could successfully bring another deal to the market. Would the SEC over-scrutinize the offering until it just dried up and died? Would WT&C’s previous client base still support the firm’s salespeople by investing in deals? And once the company went public would its stock price go right into the tank given all the negativity surrounding the firm that took it public?

Everyone held their collective breaths at Warren Taylor and Currant that day in September when EvenGlow Cosmetics hit the market. The deal was small by WT&C standards – only $5 million – and the SEC had given its approval without delay. The Houston-based company was a fledgling multi-level cosmetics company that had hopes to be the next Mary Kay. It planned to use the public money to expand its existing product line and recruit salespeople to buy and sell its products through downlines of individuals.

Brian and the other salespeople had found it more difficult to sell – there were many former customers who wouldn’t return his call – but with a smaller deal and a solid business idea the company’s stock finally ended up all pre-sold. On offering day things went off without a hitch.

He reflected on how things had been that day. It was far more subdued. Nobody made a hundred thousand bucks in commissions. No Lamborghinis were won. It was more like the offering days at Merrill Lynch, Brian decided. Much calmer and much more professional.

Chapter Thirty-Three

As far as Brian knew John Spedino remained free and charged with no crime. The two WT&C executives had been released on $500,000 bail each and had immediately disappeared from view. No trial date had yet been set on the numerous laws they had been accused of breaking. At both Warren Taylor and in the press, everyone assumed the Feds were diligently trying to work a deal that would put Spedino in the slammer in exchange for the two execs going free. Everyone also figured the Feds had these guys in a secret place, hidden away from Johnny Speed’s friends.

Brian thought what a difficult decision it would be to turn state’s evidence and rat out a guy like Spedino. He was Teflon Two for sure – people around him frequently ended up hurt or dead for no apparent reason. This time Spedino might have had all the reason in the world to keep these guys quiet. That was why, according to the rumor mill, they were in a safe house somewhere far away.

The most important thing for Brian had happened within a week after WT&C got the word he was no longer going to be pursued by the FBI or the U.S. Attorney. It was October – the same month that the firm had successfully taken their second company public under the “new plan,” where companies actually were real operating entities.

One morning the mail clerk made his way from cube to cube on the sales floor as usual, dropping off packages and mail. A thick Fedex package landed on Brian’s desk.

“Probably a big deal for ya,” the mail guy said.

Brian ripped open the envelope and shook out the contents. There was a nicely bound investment-banking proposal for a company called Bijan Rarities Limited in New York. Brian looked at the envelope and saw that it was addressed to him and sent from New York. He wondered why someone had sent it directly to him, since there were people in the firm who got these things every day from companies needing money. It was those peoples’ jobs to make the decision which ones WT&C would look at and which would go in the trash. Guys like Brian never saw a deal on the front end like this. It just wasn’t part of his job description.

He decided to send it downstairs to the corporate guys but first he opened the front cover to see how much money these Bijan guys were looking for. There was a yellow sticky note inside.

It said, “For Brian Sadler. Payback time.”

Now, six months after he’d received the Bijan proposal, he sat in his apartment on a blustery, cold winter afternoon in Dallas. Rain pelted the window and streaked down the glass. Thunder rumbled occasionally. The forecast called for snow showers later as the temperature would drop into the thirties after dark.

Brian was hard at work on his new project – the antiquities gallery called Bijan Rarities. Dressed in sweat pants and a shirt, he sat in his favorite oversized leather chair, feet propped up on the matching ottoman. He’d been reading the most recent draft of Bijan’s offering document all that Sunday afternoon. The New York law firm he’d hired to prepare Bijan’s registration statement had been working for him for nearly six weeks. Now they were on draft number four and they had emailed him the latest version late yesterday. He had gone to WT&C this morning and printed the document; he found it easier to proofread in hard copy format.

Although he had gone garage-to-garage from his apartment to the office he was glad he didn’t have to get outside in the weather. It was damp and chilly and the sky had settled into a gray pallor that hung over the city.

This afternoon his pen and yellow highlighter were close at hand along with a mug of coffee. He’d painstakingly read each draft the firm had prepared and then he generated a spreadsheet with his comments, emailing it each time to Samuel Lowe, the attorney at the Karr Dandridge law firm who was handling this project for him. Today would be no exception. He needed to get finished with the proofing so he could generate his list of changes and get it sent off. Tomorrow promised to be a busy one at WT&C and he didn’t have time to work on this stuff at the office anyway.

His mind ached from having read nearly three hundred single spaced pages and making yet another round of corrections, additions, deletions and changes. At this point most were minor but all of them were critical. Within two weeks WT&C expected to submit the offering documents to the Securities and Exchange Commission and have yet another public offering pop out of the oven a few weeks afterwards.

Part Two

Chapter One

January 2006

Reflecting, Brian was surprised it had taken him two days to link the word “payback” to the phone call in the limo that day after the deposition. The voice had said, “Good job. Now we’ll help you.” He had forgotten about it since nothing had happened for months.

Brian had taken the Bijan Rarities investment banking proposal home with him the night it arrived. It was well done and very thorough. The document outlined the company’s current operations, its need for $4 million and its prospects for the future after the infusion of new capital. It included three years of audited financial statements and the most recent six months’ unaudited numbers. As he read, he learned about the world of ancient artifacts and it fascinated him.

Bijan was on the tip of everyone’s tongue in the world of archaeological relics at the moment because of the upcoming sale of the sarcophagus of Inkharaton, a pharaoh who had been missing from the line of kings for thousands of years until the discovery of his tomb in 2005. Because of Brian’s interest in the subject, he knew that the sale would put Bijan on the map as one of the top names in the rarity auction field.

Within three days Brian had devoured the Bijan document, spent hours poring over Bijan’s website and phoned Darius Nazir, the owner of the gallery. Early the next week Brian put in for three days off and headed to New York City to talk to Nazir himself.

Bijan fascinated Brian. His love of ancient things, his interest in reading archaeological adventure fiction, his secret fantasy to be the twenty-first century Howard Carter, unearthing the next King Tut tomb in Egypt – all of this came to the forefront as he immersed himself in this company’s information. From a Fifth Avenue storefront Bijan sold some of the greatest and most interesting rarities of the ancient world to discerning collectors everywhere.

Throughout the document, reference was made to Darius Nazir’s contacts. In this business it was your connections – who you knew – that made the difference. You had to be on top of discoveries in order to be the one who got to broker their disposition. You had to be there virtually from the discovery itself, to beat out the other firms who would do whatever they could to land a hot piece of history with the attendant publicity for the selling firm, not to mention hundreds of thousands of dollars of potential commissions on the sale itself. It was fascinating stuff to Brian Sadler, the armchair archaeologist.

Brian was not a frequent flyer and didn’t feel like paying a thousand bucks each way for the privilege of sitting in the front of the American Airlines 767. He therefore occupied a cramped aisle seat in coach, all six feet of his frame trying to balance between knees stuck in the seat in front, and the kid behind kicking the back of Brian’s seat. He thought how much flying had become a hassle in the years since 9/11. Not that he used to fly so much before then. It was just easier, before the Transportation Security Administration hired a bunch of people with no tact, no interest in being helpful and a bored attitude, who moved passengers through lines like cattle going to the slaughterhouse.

He pulled out some web pages he had printed. Brian copied Bijan’s announcement of the sale of the sarcophagus of Inkharaton and a lengthy article from Archaeology magazine that gave details of the amazing discovery of Inkharaton’s long-forgotten tomb. Although he had read it before the story of how this tomb was discovered and how the priceless sarcophagus came to be offered for sale by a New York rarities dealer still fascinated him.

Chapter Two

In mid-2005 the announcement was made that a new tomb had been discovered in the Valley of the Kings, the first since Howard Carter had found Tutankhamen’s burial place in 1922. For a brief period the press had given a lot of attention to the find, because such things tended to grab the attention of mainstream people everywhere. It was a chance to read about a time long gone, to hear about a man who walked the earth and ruled a nation three thousand years ago.

Inkharaton was the forgotten pharaoh. His name had been obliterated from hieroglyphs by jealous successors, and even the lists of kings that scholars had developed had a hole where Inkharaton’s name belonged. For all this time, it was known only that a nameless pharaoh ruled Egypt shortly before King Tutankhamen, around 3500 years ago. Archaeologists had looked for the tomb of this missing individual for forty years. Not having a name, they were virtually at a standstill until that day in 2005 when a workman’s donkey shied away from a snake and pawed the ground.

The man was helping dig a new roadbed for the tour buses that brought needed dollars to bolster Egypt’s economy. The government had decided to create a roadway that snaked among the tombs, to be used to lure tourists who wanted to see the locations of long-dead pharaohs without braving hundred-degree heat. Buses could traverse the new road and tour guides could point out tomb entrances as people watched from the air-conditioned comfort of the bus. It was a plan that horrified the Director of Antiquities and many scholars, but one the President, in his desire to generate revenue, pushed through the legislature.

A side effect of excavating anywhere in Egypt was the distinct possibility that something would turn up. Ancient inhabitants of this land had possessed almost unfathomable abilities in architecture, government and art. While much of the world was in the twilight of emerging civilization, the dwellers of this barren country were under democratic rule, they built monuments that lasted longer than any other thing on earth, and they used a beautiful language of pictures called hieroglyphs to record for posterity what they did during the days of their lives.

The excavation of the Valley Tourway was no exception. As men moved rocks and rubble by donkey, a base was created which would be smoothed and covered with asphalt. On that fateful day the worker led his donkey toward a dumping ground. Large baskets on both sides of the donkey’s back were loaded with stones so that walking was difficult for the burdened animal. As the man pulled him along with a rope a snake suddenly twisted across the path in front of the beast, causing it to try to rise up. With the weight on its back, it could not do so. Instead it pawed at the snake.

The reptile moved on but a small hole appeared in the ground where the donkey had struck it with his hoof. By chance the worker had turned to see what was causing the problem and noticed the hole. He knelt and picked up a rock, using that to enlarge the hole. The man grew excited. He stood within eyesight of the tombs of Seti I and Ramses X and knew this could be important.

What should I do?

By then another man had moved up behind him, pulling his own donkey along toward the dumping ground.

“What is it?” he called to the first worker. And the rest, as they say, was history.

Brian read how the worker had stayed at the site while the second man informed their team leader. As is required in the Valley, the Department of Antiquities was immediately notified. Given the location and potential importance of the hole, the Director himself had shown up about two hours later. By chance he had been in Luxor for a meeting and was therefore close by.

All work stopped on the roadway. The workers smoked cigarettes and milled about, watching as the Director’s driver pulled his SUV close to the site.

“It’s here, Director,” pointed the man who worked for the official as overseer of the Valley of the Kings.

Chapter Three

Within a week excavation had begun in earnest. The road project was put on hold and a wooden fence erected to keep prying eyes and sticky fingers away from the site. Armed guards patrolled the area at night. No one knew what to expect from a new tomb. Usually the looters had gotten there first, thousands of years ago, and what was left was in total disarray. Rarely, as in the case of King Tut’s tomb, treasure of inestimable value was found. Artifacts, hieroglyphs and pictures gave a stunning glimpse into the lives of the ancestors of today’s Egyptians, and today excitement was in the air.

The small hole had led to a stairway mostly filled with rubble. It was painstakingly cleared, stone by stone, in the stifling heat. At the bottom of thirteen steps was a stone doorway encased by a lintel made of three enormous blocks. Carvings were literally everywhere on the lintel and work again stopped as interpreters were called from Cairo to come to the scene.

Within days there were front-page headlines. USA Today reported that interpreters read the words on the lintel that were written fifteen hundred years before Christ.

They were intended to invoke fear. “An eternal curse will befall he who defiles the death temple of the great Inkharaton, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, brother to the gods, pharaoh of the people.”

The curses placed on tombs always grabbed the reader’s attention but in reality many tombs had them. Researchers believed they were used in hopes to ward off tomb robbers, who usually arrived within a year or so after the burial of the pharaoh. Sadly, most defiled tombs bore witness to the fact that robbers were more greedy than superstitious.

The Director of Antiquities looked closely at the door. All the pictures had been taken, all inscriptions carefully recopied to paper by hand, and it was time to open the tomb. To him the lintel and doorway appeared intact. There were no telltale holes where a grave robber might have sneaked into the tomb and brought out gold and jewels. But the Director also knew the chances of finding another Tut treasure were a million to one.

“Let us open this tomb.” He gave detailed instructions to the crew chief on how to remove the door with as little damage as possible to the carvings and the lintel.

For a week the work continued on the stone door. The Director of Antiquities was lucky to get a room at the Nile Sheraton in Luxor, no small feat during the height of tourist season. Each morning he crossed the Nile where a driver with a Jeep met him to take him along the west bank to the Valley of the Kings. When he arrived his first task was to interview four armed guards who were stationed at the site every night, making sure nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The night guards were sent home, replaced with a fresh set. The job of the day guards was to keep tourists, reporters and busybodies away from the staircase and the door at its bottom.

By the seventh day the door had been loosened and small hooks placed on its four sides. A cable was attached and strung up the stairway, where it was connected to a winch on the front of the Director’s Jeep. At his signal the driver began to very slowly draw in the cable. It stiffened as it pulled all four hooks taut, then the winch ground noisily as it struggled to move several tons of solid rock.

The winch broke, and a decision was made to connect the cable to a backhoe. The machine was then slowly moved backwards as it pulled the giant stone forward into the area at the foot of the stairway. The rock was over two feet thick and it took several hours to move it sufficiently to offer a chance to peer into the black opening behind it. While the work progressed, the Director asked that three reporters be allowed in. The first was from Al-Ahram, Cairo’s oldest newspaper. Next were a BBC reporter and one from CNN. The director wanted complete coverage worldwide. He told the reporters to stand to one side, which was somewhat difficult in the cramped area at the bottom of the stairway. To make more room he sent away all but one of the workmen who had helped prepare the stone for moving.

As the senior man present, the Director had the right to be the first to see inside. But he deferred. He motioned to the workman whose donkey had created the hole.

“You found it. You may have the privilege of being first to view the tomb. Please look inside and tell me what you see.”

He handed the man a flashlight as a ladder was propped up against the door. It filled the stairway almost completely except for a couple of feet at the top.

Shaking, the workman climbed the ladder until he reached the top of the rock door. He leaned forward across it, stretched the hand holding the light in front, and stuck his head into the inky darkness. He switched on the light.

Chapter Four

“Sahib…” he stuttered.

“Speak up, man!” the Director said loudly. “We cannot hear you!”

“Sahib, there is a small room here, full of furnishings, with another door beyond. All the furnishings appear to be upright. Nothing seems to be disturbed.”

As the workman came down the ladder, the Director could hardly contain his excitement. He wanted to appear professional before the world’s news agencies but his imagination raced as he prepared to see the interior himself.

Peering into the darkness, the Director turned on his flashlight and shined it around the room. The area was about six feet square, and another door indeed stood at the rear wall, just opposite his current position. Two large statues of Anubis, the canine-like God of the Dead, flanked the next doorway. The lintels and door itself did not appear to be made of heavy stone as the entrance was. Instead they looked to be carved from the same sandstone that surrounded the tomb.

As the workman had described, the room was full of furnishings and pottery. Things were sitting in no particular order but were all upright and intact. The Director recalled that the first sign that Tut’s tomb had been desecrated was the disarray in which the robbers had left the furniture, which had held no interest for them. They had turned things over, pushed them aside and cleared a path to the next doorway. In the room before him the Director could plainly see that the items of furniture sat just as they had been positioned by priests who placed them there and then sealed the room for eternity.

His heart raced as he moved down the ladder, making way for the news reporters to climb up, take pictures and prepare a story that would interest the entire planet.

Chapter Five

Over the next couple of months the excavation team worked feverishly to open rooms, catalog items and bring the findings to the world through the Internet. Since the pharaoh’s burial, the tomb had not been entered – a first in Egyptian archaeology – and although its finery was not the magnitude of King Tutankhamen’s, the historic significance of the find was unparalleled.

The hieroglyphs revealed that the pharaoh Inkharaton had held the title Pharaoh of the People. In stark contrast to any other tomb ever discovered, he was shown pictorially walking among his people, sitting by the Nile and talking to them. He was a god among men.

Although many hoped for the gilded treasures seen in Tut’s tomb, the items chosen by the priests for burial with Inkharaton were things people used in their daily lives. Instead of gilded chaise lounges there were beautifully painted wooden chairs arranged around a table. Tack for horses was ornate but not excessive. It was as though even the things which surrounded him in death, the things that would accompany him to the afterlife, displayed his desire to be a man like other men around him, instead of a god, hidden away in a palace-prison, insulated from his subjects.

At last the burial chamber itself was opened. Inside a stone coffin there was an ornately painted wooden sarcophagus, depicting the countenance of the god-king, but with almost no gold. All the colors of the rainbow were used in the incredibly beautiful artwork that adorned every square inch of the seven-foot casket. In its own right it was as beautiful as Tut’s. Like everything else, it was a tomb for a man the people revered. It was a casket for one of the people, made of wood, not gold.

The mummy itself was tightly wrapped in linens as expected. The Director ordered a portable x-ray machine to be brought to the burial chamber. Electric lines snaked up the stairway as everything was readied, the mummy carefully removed and laid on the smooth surface of the machine. Befitting this modest pharaoh, under the linens were only a few items of jewelry. Both arms had bracelets and there were earrings. All were probably made of gold, although the Director did not intend to cut into the wrappings and examine the mummy, so they would remain where they were.

As the beautifully decorated walls in the funerary chamber were photographed and cataloged, one of the workers noticed a small door cut into the wall. It was only about four feet square and bore no seal or markings. It was like a door to a storage closet, and the supervisor wasted no time in ordering it to be opened. When the supervisor peered into the long chamber he ordered all work stopped and called the Director of Antiquities.

“Sir, you must come quickly. We have found a second sarcophagus!”

For the first time in history, a second burial casket was found, and this one was lavishly decorated in sheets of gold, lapis lazuli stones and a lifelike depiction of the pharaoh Inkharaton. An inscription on the wall of the burial chamber, next to the door behind which the golden casket had been stored, explained the unusual situation.

Two sarcophagi had indeed been made for Inkharaton. The high priests intended for him to be buried in the one befitting his status as a god. According to the hieroglyphs, they were unhappy when before his death the pharaoh chose the less impressive one, denoting his love for his common people and his desire to be more like them than the gods. So the beautiful golden casket, emblazoned with Inkharaton’s likeness, was relegated to a storage chamber in the burial vault itself, to play second fiddle for eternity.

Chapter Six

Once everything had been cataloged, photographed in situ, checked and double-checked, the Director of the Department of Antiquities came up with a novel plan. He took it to the President of Egypt, who saw no flaw in it, so the Director proceeded to put his remarkable idea into place.

The Director knew that there were collectors and institutions that would pay an enormous sum to be the rightful owner of a sarcophagus from 3500 B.C. He also knew that Egypt didn’t have a lot of extra cash to fund his department, the new Valley Tourway project and to dig for undiscovered sites and tombs. Finally, he knew that Egypt should and would be the rightful resting place for Inkharaton’s gilded sarcophagus even though his body had never lain in it.

An announcement was made that the golden sarcophagus of Inkharaton would be offered for sale at auction to the highest bidder. While the new owner would hold title to the relic, a stipulation was put on the sale. For a period of one hundred years the object must remain in Egypt, on display in the tomb, or at the Museum of Antiquities, or at any other place designated by the then-current Director of Antiquities.

After that time, so long as the government continued to display the casket at least half of the year, the requirement continued. If Egypt decided to remove it from display, the owner was free to take possession and move it, but it could go only to another museum where it would continue to be enjoyed by the world.

To fuel the ego of the new owner, all information about Inkharaton’s sarcophagus would include the name of the person or entity who owned it. A plaque in the display area would stand next to the casket. It would say, “The sarcophagus of Inkharaton displayed here is owned by…and is on permanent loan to this museum.”

The Department of Antiquities created a list of firms approved to sell such an object. The usual names – Sotheby’s, Christie’s and the like – were there. The Director’s former second-in-command, a man named Darius Nazir, also made the list. And amazingly for Egypt, it was not a political favor that had allowed Nazir’s firm, Bijan Rarities, to be included with the giants of the auction industry. Nazir was a genius at marketing rarities. He had a sixth sense which allowed him to pair an object with the perfect potential owners, create a frenzy of bidding among them, and realize the greatest return for his sellers. Since leaving Egypt for New York, Nazir and Bijan Rarities had quietly become power brokers in the ancient relic auction arena.

After proposals were reviewed, Nazir’s firm was selected by a committee from the Antiquities board and the museum. His commission charge was five percent of the sale price – right in the middle of the group of bidders. The government would pay all marketing costs, which in this case could run over a half million dollars. This sale would be advertised in all the right places even though it might end up being a museum whose bid caused the final rap of the auctioneer’s gavel.

The idea was to advertise the concept the Director had dreamed up. It was unique, it could create a win-win situation, and it was fair for all.

Chapter Seven

Brian stopped reading. He had about 45 minutes before landing at La Guardia Airport. Putting his reading materials back in the briefcase, he glanced to the back of the plane. One person was in line for the restroom. He knew that post-9/11 rules prohibited the passengers from congregating anywhere on the plane, so he waited until that person went inside the tiny bathroom before he rose and strode to the back.

A flight attendant was dumping trash into a plastic bag and closing down the galley’s food service trolleys, preparing for landing. She was younger than he was and also really attractive. She smiled at him and said, “Heading home?”

He told her he was from Dallas and in town for only a day or so on business.

“I hope you have a great time,” she said. “Have you been to Quo?”

Brian hadn’t, and she told him it was one of the city’s hottest nightspots.

“You should stop by. It’s on 28th Street in Chelsea. If you’re in midtown, grab a cab. It’s worth the trip.”

He promised to give it a try if he had time. She smiled at him and he glanced at her left hand. No ring. He decided to go to Quo if he could, just to see if she might be there.

Back in his seat Brian thought about Bijan and how everything fit together. The firm had landed the biggest sale of an ancient relic since Schliemann’s discoveries at Troy had hit the auction market seventy years ago. From the material he had found online, he knew the opening bid for the sarcophagus of Inkharaton was set at ten million dollars. The auction was only a month away. It would be held in a tent in the roadbed immediately outside of Inkharaton’s tomb.

This decision had been a mastery of marketing. Discovery Channel had paid the Department of Antiquities a half million dollars for the privilege of filming the event, which would be held at night and preceded by a tour of the tomb itself. Only qualified bidders who had posted a good-faith deposit of one million dollars were allowed on the scene, so the live television show would be watched by literally millions of people around the globe, most of whom could ever otherwise hoped to have seen the tomb and its contents.

The captain’s voice came through the overhead speakers, announcing landing in about twenty minutes. People around Brian began shutting down laptops, stowing carry-on luggage above their seats and retrieving jackets. Brian stood and pulled a topcoat out of the storage bin. He’d need it in the December weather after he landed.

Chapter Eight

Luggage came through more quickly than usual and Brian was in a cab headed for Manhattan within thirty minutes after landing. It was noon and snow was falling steadily. The roadways were a slushy mess and the cab driver complained in broken English about how lousy the weather was in New York.

Truth was, Brian loved cold weather. Dallas summers made him irritable and he hated the sticky feeling you had all the time when it was a hundred degrees in the shade. He looked outside at the dark day and watched the snow fall as the cab made its way from Queens into the Midtown Tunnel, then out on Manhattan island. Turning north on Third Avenue, they moved slowly uptown to the mid-fifties, winding over to Fifth Avenue and stopping at the address Brian had given the driver. It had taken nearly an hour to get to town from the airport.

He paid the driver, stepped from the cab, and retrieved his briefcase and rolling bag. He walked to the entrance where a small sign instructed him to press a button to request entrance to Bijan Rarities.

A buzzer sounded and a guard opened the door. Brian entered the room and was immediately enraptured. Directly in front of him was a full-size replica of the sarcophagus of the lost pharaoh Inkharaton. It was incredibly beautiful. He paused, setting down his cases as he stared at it.

A young lady walked to him. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

He gave her his business card and asked for Darius Nazir, telling her he was a little early for his appointment. She advised him that Nazir was still at lunch and the weather was slowing everything down, but he was certainly expecting Brian and would be back shortly. She unlocked Nazir’s cramped office, where he dropped off his coat and luggage and returned to the showroom.

He was like a kid at the circus. The place was tastefully decorated and only thirty or so objects were displayed. It looked like a museum. Each artifact was in its own Plexiglas case or on a pedestal. A discreet card noted its description and selling price. Besides the girl who had greeted him, a man in his twenties worked at a desk toward the back of the showroom.

He stood before a beautiful silver knife that dated from the third century B.C., the time of Alexander the Great. It had been found in a cache of treasures at Alexandria, Egypt, the city founded by the hero. Although he knew no artifacts had ever been linked to Alexander himself, Brian liked the way Bijan created the mystique and possibility that this very relic could have been held in the hands of Alexander. He glanced at the card for a price. In small letters at the bottom were the letters P.O.R. Price on request. If you can afford to come in here the price is not likely to be an issue.

A quiet bell rang and Brian turned to see a man standing at the entrance. The security guard buzzed him in. The man was in his mid-sixties, dressed in a dark three-piece suit and overcoat. He strode purposefully to Brian and said, “I’m Darius Nazir. It’s nice to see you.”

“Thank you. How did you know who I was?”

“Oh, Collette called me on my mobile to let me know you’d arrived and hopefully to rush me up a bit!” The girl smiled from across the room.

“Come, come,” Nazir told him, removing his coat. “Have you met Jason, my other assistant?” The young man shook hands with Brian, took Nazir’s coat and his umbrella and whisked them away.

“Pardon the mess in my office. You may have heard we have an auction coming up shortly,” he said with a smile. “Lately I’m finding myself spending a lot of time on it.”

Brian tried to place his accent. His English was flawless and cultured. Maybe Oxford or Cambridge.

They talked about the Inkharaton sarcophagus. Nazir was impressed by Brian’s knowledge. Brian explained that it was as much an interest in ancient relics in general as it was research for this project that had caused him to read the lengthy article about Inkharaton.

Collette opened the door, stuck in her head and said, “Coffee, anyone?”

“I need to warn you that the coffee is Turkish,” Nazir advised. “It’s very strong but it’s perfect on a cold day like this.”

Soon they were both having coffee in small cups. They had dispensed with last names, and now were Brian and Darius.

“I’d like to know the level of interest Warren Taylor and Currant has in my proposal,” Darius Nazir said at last.

“Let me ask you a couple of questions first. There’s something I’d like to know. How did you find our firm and what other investment banks are you working with? The reason I ask is that we certainly aren’t well known in the northeast, nor have we ever done an offering for a firm remotely like yours.”

“Two fair questions,” Nazir responded, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands across his vest. “Although part of what I do for a living is auctions, I don’t believe personally in having too many people in a deal at one time. What may work for selling the Greek vase out on the floor doesn’t necessarily work for selling Inkharaton’s sarcophagus. I think you must gear the deal toward the situation you’re facing.”

In the next hour, Nazir explained that he had a close friend, a man who knew one of WT&C’s hedge fund owners. Nazir’s friend had mentioned that Brian’s firm was aggressive, had just come through an ordeal and had emerged with its reputation intact. The man also said the firm was looking for business.

Brian’s radar went up at once. “May I ask the name of your friend?”

“I doubt you would know him, and in his position his name usually isn’t in the forefront of conversations. His involvement really isn’t important in considering the proposal I sent you.”

Brian replied that although that might be true, the firm had an obligation to ensure its dealings were with honest individuals whose backgrounds and histories would not create issues down the road, either for WT&C or for the public offering itself. There was nothing as bad as a deal on which hundreds of thousands of dollars had been spent, then one secret became public – one untruth in the offering document came to light – and the deal fell apart in a wave of negative publicity.

Darius Nazir looked at Brian intently. “The man is a client of mine, one I have known for twenty years. He is an American who lives in my native Egypt. He was in town and offered to send my proposal to you and a couple of other firms. His name is Patrick. Carlton Patrick. I’d like you to keep his name confidential. I’m not accustomed to revealing things I don’t think are necessary. But if it will put you at ease, I’m happy to tell you.”

Brian’s stress level decreased visibly.

“Do you know him?” Nazir asked.

“I don’t.”

Brian felt that the “payback” might involve John Spedino. Nazir’s statement that this Carlton Patrick was living in Egypt made him more comfortable that Nazir’s friend wasn’t the godfather himself.

He asked one more question – one that could end the entire adventure with Bijan Rarities before it had hardly begun. He might as well get things on the table up front.

“Have you ever heard of John Spedino?”

“The godfather? Of course I’ve heard his name – hasn’t everyone in New York? I’ve never seen him in person. Why do you ask?”

Brian settled into the chair and told Nazir the real reason for his visit.

“To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not one of the people at WT&C who makes a decision on proposals like yours. I’m in the sales department but somehow your document was sent to me. It had a cryptic note attached – something about a ‘payback’. The FBI says John Spedino was involved with one of the companies our firm took public, and it was a big deal around the office. They arrested our sales manager and he turned up dead on the street one morning shortly afterwards. It’s scary stuff. I’m interested in Bijan Rarities for a personal reason and I had to come see you to satisfy myself I wasn’t getting involved with one of Spedino’s deals. Now that I’ve spent time with you I feel much more comfortable.”

And that was true. Darius Nazir was an engaging man with a quick mind and a ready smile. Brian had liked him the moment he met the gallery owner. He knew things might be different than they appeared but Brian had a gut feeling Nazir was an honest businessman and a good person.

“I understand your caution, especially given how the prospectus reached your desk. I have no idea about the ‘payback’ note on it. But trust me, the godfather of the Mafia is no friend of mine!”

Brian smiled. “That’s reassuring. Now I’m inclined to think my getting your prospectus was a fortuitous coincidence – and I’m not usually a man who believes in coincidence.

“I’m probably the most interested layman in Texas in the concepts of your business, and specifically in the relics you handle. I’d like to help you on the public offering if I can, but I also would like to approach you about my becoming a shareholder.”

They took a break at four. Walking into the showroom they saw through the tinted front windows that the snow was falling much harder now. Darius asked Brian if he had checked into his hotel. He hadn’t, and Darius suggested he should do so as soon as possible.

“When the weather is like this people get stranded in Manhattan, and desk clerks have been known to let a room go to a man with a hundred dollar tip in his hand.”

Darius offered to send his young associate to the Inter-Continental Hotel a few blocks away to check Brian in. He took Brian’s suitcase and a half hour later the man was back, room key in hand.

Meanwhile Brian and Darius continued talking. Brian explained that he was relatively certain the firm would do the Bijan Rarities public offering, but that he himself had been considering a change in his personal life.

“I’ve never had a feeling like I had when I read your proposal. I must admit I’m fascinated by your business.”

Brian explained that he was willing to help Darius Nazir raise the money he wanted. But even more, he hoped Nazir would entertain the possibility of Brian’s investing his own money in the firm.

Snowy afternoon turned into wintry evening as the men chatted. At six Collette popped in to say she and Jason were leaving for the day. Nazir saw them off and dimmed the lights in the showroom. A series of spotlights continued to brightly illuminate the beautiful sarcophagus so that it could clearly be see by passersby on the sidewalk. There won’t be many of those tonight, Brian thought to himself.

Chapter Nine

“Would you join me for dinner so we may continue our conversation?”

Brian agreed enthusiastically. They decided to walk the few blocks to his hotel since there was little chance of getting a cab as the snow intensified.

Darius loaned Brian a pair of rubber galoshes. “You’ll need these for sure.”

As they stepped from the building onto the sidewalk, Darius turned, locked the door and set an alarm. Brian looked down the street at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He couldn’t see the top of the spires in the swirling snow. It’s like a wonderland.

As they began the trek to East 48th Street, Darius apologized for the walk.

“It’s no problem at all,” Brian responded. “I’m a big fan both of snow and New York City. So I’d rather be out here than in a cab any day!”

Foot traffic was light and they made the trip in less than twenty minutes. Darius sat in the lobby bar while Brian dropped his briefcase in his room and freshened up.

Brian joined Nazir in the bar and ordered a martini. The Egyptian said, “First things first. I don’t know what foods you like, but my favorite restaurant in Manhattan is a Chinese place not far from here.”

Brian enthusiastically agreed. Chinese was one of his favorites as well. They settled in to their martinis as Darius returned to the discussion they had been having at the office.

He told Brian that it actually was a good time to consider bringing a partner into Bijan Rarities. Darius wanted to travel for pleasure more and his adult children lived in California. He told Brian his wife had died ten years before, not long after he founded Bijan.

“There are a lot more things we need to know about each other before we can determine if it’s a fit, but I’m open to the concept of bringing in a minority partner.”

“I read in the proposal that you previously worked for the Antiquities Department in Egypt. Tell me about that. It must have been fascinating!”

They talked about the interesting work Darius had done for twenty-five years and the digs he had been privileged to be involved in. He captivated Brian with stories of ancient ruins uncovered as infrastructure improvement projects caused streets to be dug up in Cairo.

“Early civilizations built literally everywhere in northern Egypt. It’s difficult to dig anywhere without uncovering a lot of ancient things.”

As a bachelor in his late thirties, he had vacationed in London and met a beautiful Syrian girl. They had fallen in love and for several years maintained a long distance relationship. She worked for a large American bank and told him one day she was being transferred to New York. Devastated, he spent days calculating how he might get a job in America himself and marry this girl he had come to love.

The Director of Antiquities at the time was very well connected. He made some calls to a wealthy New Yorker who had been a benefactor of the Museum in Cairo. He was also an archaeology buff and the Director had allowed him behind the scenes at a number of excavations on the man’s trips to Egypt.

A few months later Darius was placed at the Carlyle Museum, a privately funded institution where the Director’s friend served as a board member. Darius married his Syrian sweetheart and settled in to his work, remaining at the museum for ten years. He arranged acquisitions, helped prepare exhibits and guided the fund-raisers the museum regularly held. One day, he said, the man who’d helped him get his job came to him and said that a rare opportunity had opened up. A storefront had become vacant in a Fifth Avenue building the man owned, and he offered to back Darius in a rarities gallery.

Art galleries abounded in New York, but the concept of an upscale store selling antiquities was something novel. Darius said he had jumped at the opportunity. The man had provided sufficient capital to allow them to purchase a number of interesting pieces, and some friends of Darius’ benefactor had put other objects in the store on consignment. At last Bijan Rarities opened with a black tie event, a string quartet from the Met, and that night Darius sold four pieces for over a hundred thousand total.

“I’ve had a wonderful time ever since. Five years ago my backer told me he wanted to get his money out. Although the place was worth many times what it was the day we opened, he always treated his investment as nothing more than a loan and I paid him interest every year. So I used the company’s bank line of credit, borrowed a couple of million dollars, and paid him off in full. That was a good feeling, owning my own very successful business. But at that time I was already over sixty years old, and I knew I had to eventually think of a succession plan of my own.”

His children were professionals. One was a doctor, another a dentist, in San Francisco and La Jolla respectively. They visited New York regularly but neither had any interest in the gallery or in living in the city where they grew up.

The men left the bar for dinner, continuing the discussion as they walked in the intensifying snow. They went five blocks north to 53rd Street, then a couple of blocks east to Peking Duck House. Once inside, the warm inviting place, Brian found himself really hungry as he smelled the aromas wafting from the kitchen. After one more martini they enjoyed dumplings and a wonderful meal.

From that first evening the men became good friends. It was as though a bond was formed which had been forged in destiny. Brian’s exuberance and enthusiasm for the subject balanced his lack of knowledge of the business itself. He could raise money while Darius taught him the ropes and ran the gallery’s successful auction and sales business. By the time dinner and coffee were finished, the two had created a real bond.

Darius was heading north on the subway while Brian was going back to the hotel. They parted ways in the subway station, agreeing to meet the next morning at ten at the gallery.

Once Darius boarded his northbound train Brian briefly thought about going to Quo and the flight attendant who might be waiting there. He decided he had had enough excitement for one evening. His head was spinning with possibilities. He boarded the southbound train and exited at Grand Central, walked the few blocks back to his hotel and spent a night dreaming of Inkharaton and the upcoming auction of his sarcophagus.

Chapter Ten

The Judean hills near Bethlehem

Benjamin sat in his room, quill in hand, carefully writing on a piece of parchment. He shivered involuntarily as he recalled the events of last night. He could hear his father in the other room telling his mother what had happened to the small band of shepherds.

Benjamin’s mother asked Joab if he was going to talk to the priests about what he and Benjamin had seen.

“I don’t know,” he heard his father reply. “There is no doubt the story will be told everywhere in a very short time. Not only did we see the event but dozens of others did as well. It may be better that the priests hear it from another than I.”

In truth Joab feared telling the priests. He knew it could be viewed as blasphemy or worse. Many times last night he had heard the baby proclaimed as the Messiah. He even knew the child’s name – Yeshua. What if the priests chose to take action against the parents of this child? They could be imprisoned for the words they had spoken. Or the baby could be hunted down and killed. Joab did not wish to tell a story which could result in such drastic retaliation against this poor family. And to relate what they had seen…it was such a fantastic story it would likely be believed by no one who had not also witnessed it.

“I will ponder these things,” Joab said to Rachel.

She rose and walked to Benjamin’s room. She hugged her son tightly and said, “I am so proud of you. I believe every word your father told me and I only wish I had also been chosen by God to be part of the miracle you witnessed.”

Benjamin was glad she believed the story, but was also certain there were many who would be greatly angered by it. He continued recounting the events on his parchment until he was finished. He laid down on his cot and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Eleven

New York City

Brian slept fitfully. Although his mind was filled with the excitement of his discussion with Darius Nazir, he could not ignore the fact that someone had orchestrated all this and that payback, whatever that meant, would come with significant strings attached. Brian figured John Spedino had to be involved, but this deal was too good to pass up. He put aside his nagging doubt and chose to focus on how to make a deal for Bijan Rarities.

This is happening for a reason. It’s the best career move I could have ever hoped for – perfect for me in every way. And I can deal with Spedino or whoever it is when or if that ever comes up.

He looked out the hotel window. The snow had stopped and the morning sun’s first rays appeared over the East River. Six inches or more of snow had fallen. It was a winter wonderland on the streets outside. New Yorkers being what they were, people were already going about their morning chores. He could see a grocery store across Lexington Avenue from the hotel. The shopkeeper was sweeping his sidewalk free of snow as best he could. Some people were actually jogging. For them it was slow going, given the combination of heavy clothing and deep snowdrifts, but they were slogging it out anyway.

Brian spent the day at Bijan. He had a seven pm plane back to Dallas, and he cut it so close he almost didn’t make it through security at LaGuardia in time.

Flying home, he thought about everything that had transpired. The day had begun with a discussion of Bijan’s financing needs. Darius wanted $4 million from a public offering to supplement the company’s existing $5 million line of credit. On top of that Bijan had a net worth of over $3 million – most of that was tied up in inventory, store fixtures and the cash the company had on hand to buy and sell items as they came in. The company was in good financial shape already – the new $4 million infusion would merely improve the gallery’s stature in the rare world of antiquities. It would also provide funds for acquisitions.

Brian admitted he didn’t bring expertise to the deal. Darius countered that he had plenty of that himself. What he needed was a partner who knew how to finance acquisitions and sales, how to deal with banks, lines of credit, and all the alternative sources of financing that a company might be able to tap if a truly monumental, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity came along. From college through Merrill to WT&C, Brian knew enough about these subjects to be an asset to the company.

Darius mentioned something else that interested Brian. “What I also want is a partner who can be my acquisitions man. With your obvious interest in rarities, you’d be a natural.”

Before noon Brian and Darius had put together the outline of a deal whereby Brian would become a 40% shareholder and have the option to buy Darius out if he ever decided to sell. For this investment, Brian was prepared to put $1 million of his own money in the company. Darius asked for more. Since the company’s current net worth was $3 million, he suggested 40% was at a minimum worth $1.2 million, and in reality the company’s real value was far higher than its net worth. It was profitable, well established in its field and virtually unique in the types of ancient rarities it sold. All of those intangibles added to its value.

Darius therefore countered at two and a half million and they finally settled on $1.5 million, plus Brian’s guarantee that the $4 million public offering would be accomplished by WT&C in the next 90 days. If that didn’t happen, the employment deal was off. They also set Brian’s annual salary at four hundred thousand dollars plus ten percent of the net proceeds on any deals he brought to the gallery. Darius made everything contingent on a background check he would order up on Brian. Brian figured it would be no problem, hoping the FBI inquiry had truly gone away as it appeared to have done.

Darius was obviously excited about this deal. Likewise Brian was thrilled about the arrangement they’d hammered out. It was his ticket out of the investment banking business. Even more importantly, working at Bijan would be more like pursuing a hobby rather than putting in hours at a job.

They spent the afternoon on the upcoming Inkharaton sale. Darius showed Brian everything he had been doing to get things ready. If a bidder wished to remain in New York instead of traveling to Egypt where the sale would take place, he or she could attend by closed circuit satellite feed in Bijan’s gallery. Although Darius thought there would be a very limited bidder list, and every bidder would probably want to have a representative at the site in the Valley of the Kings, it never hurt to have an alternative venue for a potential multi-million dollar participant.

In a few short hours Brian had learned a lot about what made a gallery run seamlessly. At the same time he and Darius Nazir learned about each other. By the end of the day they had found the mutual respect that made a natural fit for two partners.

Chapter Twelve

Dallas

Brian’s first move the next morning was to go to the CEO’s office two floors below the trading floor. Robert Overton’s assistant, a girl named Julie whom Brian had occasionally seen in the elevator, smiled at him.

“I’m Brian Sadler and I’m a trader upstairs. I’d like to get an appointment with Robert sometime today.”

Julie promised to get with Overton when he arrived and give Brian a call. He was back at his desk ten minutes later when Julie emailed him. His appointment was a couple of hours later – Brian used the time to get his thoughts together. He outlined bullet points on a legal pad and photocopied the Bijan investment-banking proposal for himself. The original would go to Carl Overton.

Julie ushered Brian into the CEO’s spacious wood-paneled office. Like Nicole’s, this office also had commanding views, this time to the south. Dallas’ architectural marvels, some of the most beautiful office buildings in the world, stood like soldiers in formation only a couple of miles away.

Brian had not met Robert Overton. Introductions were made and then Brian launched into his discussion. He told Robert that he was ready for a change. He had done well at WT&C, gotten scared like everyone else in the recent tough times, but had emerged a team player who continued to support the firm in whatever form it took. Robert glanced at a file on his desk. Brian presumed it was his personnel folder.

He continued, explaining that he had inadvertently received an investment proposal from a company whose business interested him. Brian laid out the entire story to his boss – his quick visit to New York, his immediate interest in working with the company and its founder, and his belief that this company deserved the proceeds from a public offering. He outlined the company’s strengths, gave highlights of its strong financial position and laid Bijan’s proposal on Robert’s desk.

“I’d like to help sell this deal as my last one at WT&C. And if you agree, I’d like to consider WT&C to represent Bijan as future funding’s required.”

Robert asked a number of questions, each of which Brian had anticipated. He had studied the company’s proposal so well he virtually knew it by heart.

Finally Overton said, “A group decides which deals we do. I’ll take this to the investment committee next Monday. If they like it, we’ll do it. It’s as simple as that, and you’ll have an answer Monday by three pm. Good enough?”

Brian answered affirmatively. The men discussed Brian’s tenure and success at Warren Taylor and Currant, and Robert seemed genuinely hopeful that Brian would do well in his future endeavors.

“However things turn out, I wish you good luck in the future,” he said, standing and extending his hand over his desk. “You’ve done well for the firm and yourself during your time here and I personally appreciate the contribution you’ve made.”

Riding the elevator upstairs, Brian felt a sense of exhilaration. This will work out. I’m going to be a partner at Bijan Rarities.

Chapter Thirteen

The Judean hills near Bethlehem

The next day Benjamin finished writing his first-hand account of what the shepherds had seen. He carefully rolled the two parchments and tied them with a string. His father was gone all day. When he returned that evening, Benjamin asked what he should do with the parchments.

“I too have wondered that very thing. At first I thought of asking the Sanhedrin where we should place this account for safekeeping. Then I decided against mentioning our adventure to anyone at the synagogue.”

He told Benjamin that just in the past two days rumors had begun to arise. People were murmuring that a band of shepherds had had an unusual experience. Nothing was tied to them yet and he didn’t intend to be the one who brought it up.

“I worry that they will take it out on you, my son,” he said, as he tousled the boy’s hair with his hand. “If the priests think we are heretics, they will surely stop your education. It’s best that we say nothing. And as far as the parchments go, I will think of a plan.”

Joab took Benjamin’s scroll into the other room with him.

Benjamin went to synagogue school the next day and things went exactly as they had every day before. But today he was practically bursting inside. When school was dismissed that afternoon and he was walking home with his friend Saul, he felt he could wait no longer. He had to share what he had seen.

“Saul, can you keep a big secret?” His friend made an oath after Benjamin told him this was the biggest secret he had ever known.

The boys sat under a tree in the shade beside the dusty road that led to their homes. Saul lived about a half mile further down this road than Benjamin’s family. His father was also a shepherd. Benjamin told him the entire story, omitting nothing. Saul sat in rapt astonishment.

Once Benjamin finished, Saul asked if he could have been dreaming.

“I was there, doing all those things! It was no dream!”

He told Saul that his father had cautioned against telling the priests because they would probably think his family were heretics and blasphemers. Benjamin even thought they might put his father in jail if word got out. He again made Saul promise not to tell a single person and Saul repeated his oath. The boys continued their journey home.

Saying their goodbyes, Benjamin turned into his yard. His mother greeted him with a smile and said, “Your father is feeding the animals behind the house. I think you and he are going on an adventure tomorrow!”

Excitedly Benjamin pressed his mother for more information. She told him Joab had come home after spending the day in the village, and announced that he was going to Qumran to talk to the Essenes about what to do with the scroll.

“And he’s taking you with him. Here he comes now.” Joab turned the corner from the side of the house.

He hugged Benjamin. “Did your mother tell you we are going on a mission tomorrow?”

“Yes! But what kind of mission?”

“Wait and see. We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the trip tomorrow, since we are traveling almost twenty miles. I’ll tell you everything. Now come with me. We have to finish preparing our donkeys for the trip and then pack our bedrolls. We may be sleeping under the stars tomorrow night in Qumran.”

Chapter Fourteen

Shortly after the sun rose Joab and Benjamin put blankets on their donkeys and began their journey. Rachel had given them dates, flat bread and dried meat so they wouldn’t go hungry, and there were skins with water and wine. Not knowing what to expect when they arrived, they were prepared to eat and sleep alone, although Joab thought it was likely the Essenes would offer them food and lodging, however meager each of those might be.

Benjamin was excited. He had never ventured this far. He looked forward to making a trip of this magnitude and being trusted by his father to join him in his visit to the Essenes.

As they trod the dusty road, Joab told Benjamin of his discussion with the priests yesterday at the synagogue. Careful not to mention the event the shepherds had witnessed the other night, he had inquired in general about the Essenes, who were known to be compilers of Biblical information. The priests with whom he spoke did not act surprised or inquisitive about the discussion. Joab had told them he was thinking of visiting the Sea of Arabah and had heard of Qumran nearby, so he wanted to know more about it.

The priests had told him that the Essenes were a strange lot, living in a dusty town in the Judean hills. It was a rather desolate place and it was said that once the Essenes had inscribed Biblical writings on parchment, they secreted them in caves that dotted the landscape around Qumran, the community where they lived.

Benjamin had heard of this place only in tales. The stories said that a sect of odd but very well respected Jews, the Essenes, lived in isolation in this desolate village near the Sea of Arabah (author’s note: today it is called the Dead Sea). The group was known for its righteous behavior in a time of unrest and turmoil. In synagogue school Benjamin had been taught that the Essenes sought to keep Moses’ laws from being corrupted by foreign influences. Judea was a hodgepodge of ethnic groups today. Each brought different interpretations of the laws of Moses. The Essenes strived for purity in teaching, in acts and particularly in the written word, which in their opinion could never be modified.

The Qumran sect of Essenes spent their days copying the Holy books onto scrolls, their particular goal being to ensure no man or popular religion of the day would or could usurp the very words of God as handed down to His prophet Moses. They accomplished this goal by copying ancient, crumbling texts onto modern parchment, sealing the finished works into earthen jars, and hiding them in nearby caves. Someday, whether soon or hundreds of years into the future, men would gaze upon the scrolls of Qumran and know how the law had truly been written, without the corruption of man.

Joab told Benjamin that he had brought the boy’s parchment in hopes that the Essenes would add it to their trove of historical documents, to be kept and read by people of the future.

“It is important, Benjamin, that the chronicle not be lost. You may be the only person who both saw it and wrote about it. It is our duty to preserve your words.”

They stopped for lunch near a small lake. The donkeys drank the cool water while Joab and Benjamin sat on a blanket, shaded by a grove of trees.

Joab talked quietly. “Since that night we haven’t talked much about what we all saw. You have had time to think about it since then, and you have even written it on parchment. What thoughts do you have?”

Lying on his back in the shade, Benjamin thought for a moment, then told his father that the events of that night formed part of his dreams every single night thereafter.

“Do you believe, father, that the baby was truly the Messiah we have been awaiting?”

“Yes son, I do. If it had been a man and woman claiming their child was the Son of God, that would be one thing. But we were given a sign by angels, led to the place by a heavenly light, and we saw for ourselves the unearthly events that happened. Do you remember that figure in the back of the stable?”

Benjamin nodded. “That was another angel, father. He was the herald angel, telling us of the Messiah’s arrival. He even told us to bow down and worship Him whom God has sent.”

“I believe just as you do, son. And I am ashamed that I cannot spread the word to everyone I see. But I am afraid. Not for myself, but for you and your mother. The Sanhedrin are powerful men. The news you have written on your parchment would threaten their very existence. And they would strike out. I am certain of it. We would find ourselves persecuted, perhaps we would even have to leave our home and settle where we would not be known. For now I think it is best that we keep in our hearts the things we have seen, and make sure your record of the events is maintained for generations to come.”

They rose and continued to Qumran, arriving in the early afternoon. Joab introduced himself to a man who met them at the gate and said he wanted to talk to the leader of their group. The man said he would take them there.

As they walked through a courtyard, Benjamin was struck by how dusty and brown everything was. It was as though nothing had any color. A thick layer of sand covered everything. Some men led Joab’s donkeys away to be fed and watered. Their meager packs were set in a corner of the walled yard.

Their guide ushered them into a large room, where men sat on stools at high desks, copying documents onto parchment with large quills. Each desk was positioned in front of a window to afford maximum light to the scribes. At the end of a room sat a man dressed in a brown robe identical to the others. He stood as they approached him and said, “I am Onias, called ‘the younger.’ It is my great fortune to oversee the important work of our brothers here.”

Onias ushered them out into the courtyard. They selected a cool place in the shade and a young man brought fruit to them. He also served steaming hot coffee to the men, and offered a fruit drink in a cup to Benjamin, who gratefully accepted it. Once they were settled, the Essene said, “I am pleased to welcome you here, and I am interested to know what brings you to our community.”

Chapter Fifteen

Joab explained to the man that his words might sound heretical, and he wished no ill will toward anyone.

“I tell what I saw, and God’s hand was everywhere that night. I can only believe He wanted the events of that night made known.”

As Joab related the story Benjamin wanted to add a comment now and then, but it would have been very improper for him to do so. Most Jews believed children’s opinions were of no value. Benjamin was glad his mother and father always were interested in what he thought, and his father had spent a lot of time on the trip to Qumran listening to Benjamin relate his thoughts about that evening on the hill and at the Inn.

Joab’s story took two hours. Onias sat quietly, saying nothing, moving only to gesture for more coffee and some sweet cakes.

When Joab finished the Essene looked at Benjamin and said, “You were with your father throughout this entire time, child. Is your account the same as his?”

The boy was pleased to have been asked. He nodded his head then asked, “Do you believe us?”

“Pardon the boy’s impertinence,” Joab said quickly.

Benjamin looked down, rebuked, but Onias replied, “He is worried, and rightly so. Both of you should be. If your story is true, you have seen events that will change the world forever.”

He went on to explain that two things made him believe the fantastic story Joab had told. “First, I have already heard news that this event happened and I hoped someone would bring a first-hand account. Many, many people saw some or all of what you experienced. Their stories are spreading throughout our lands as eager men find themselves unable to contain the wonder of what they experienced.”

“If I may ask, how would you have heard so quickly, here in this remote community?”

Onias laughed. “We are not as isolated as one might think. Members of our sect and outsiders alike visit Qumran daily. They bring us materials to translate or rewrite for posterity. Some stay with us while on a journey. Either way, we are always anxious to know the events happening outside our walls.”

Benjamin spoke. “You said that two things made you believe our story. What is the second one?”

Onias looked at him with a warm smile. “My father was Onias the Righteous. He was the best man I ever knew. He earned his title because he was upstanding and fair in everything he did. This was unusual in a world of turmoil. He prayed constantly and many things he prayed for came to pass. This enraged the Jewish leaders of the time and when I was still a young boy, he was stoned to death for making it rain by praying.”

Onias’ eyes misted as he spoke of his father. He said that Onias the Righteous had set a prediction onto a scroll seventy years before.

“I located that scroll three days ago when I first heard of the events in Bethlehem with the child. I have read it many times since. The scroll is a prediction by my father, given to him in a dream. It speaks of a baby who will be born within a century and who will become the savior of mankind. It speaks of God’s son coming as a child in a stable. It speaks of an earthly mother and a heavenly father. And it speaks of you.”

“It…it speaks of me?” Benjamin was astonished. “A scroll written seventy years ago speaks of me?”

Onias laughed. “Not just you. The most exciting thing about your visit today was when you told me you were shepherds. The scroll of my father says that shepherds in the hills outside Bethlehem will be visited by messengers from God and will be shown where the newborn King lies.”

No one spoke for several minutes. Joab dropped his head and began to pray. His eyes closed, he took his son’s hand and held it tightly. Tears fell from Joab’s eyes.

The moment passed. Joab asked the Essene what they should do.

“Why did you come here?”

“I was in hopes that you would believe us and would put our scroll with the ones you have hidden away for future generations to see and know.”

“You were right to do this, Joab. I believe you saw and heard everything you have told me, and it was good to have your son commit the events to parchment. Your scroll deserves to be part of the historic records.”

Night was falling quickly. “You must be very hungry.” Onias took them to a room off the courtyard and asked one of the Essenes to bring their packs.

“You may stay here tonight, and tomorrow we will place your scroll in hiding. But first, come. We must eat.”

They walked into a large room where perhaps fifty men were eating. There were heaping plates of hot food on a long table and the men sat on benches on either side.

“Sit here,” Onias guided them then he moved to the head of the table. Joab and Benjamin were offered lamb and chicken, chickpeas, fava beans and many other vegetables, and flat brown bread. There was wine with which to wash everything down. Benjamin hadn’t realized how hungry he was. The food tasted absolutely wonderful.

The men sitting around them asked where they were from and then inquired about the political climate in Bethlehem. Everyone knew of the census, of course. Even the Essenes were not exempt from making the journey to their birth cities, although none had yet gone.

“We will wait until the last moment,” one man joked, “until perhaps the Romans will have decided there’s some new way to kill us besides taxing us to death.” Several others laughed.

The talk continued for nearly an hour. It was obvious to Joab and Benjamin that these men were glad to have word from the outside whenever possible, and it was a pleasant evening talking with them. No one questioned the reason for their visit to Qumran. Joab presumed many visitors like themselves had secrets of one type or another to entrust to this sect of Holy scribes.

At last the men began to disperse. Stars shone brightly overhead as Joab and Benjamin made their ways across the courtyard. Onias had left the dining hall at some point and was nowhere to be seen. The two travelers fell onto their cots, suddenly exhausted. They slept a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

A rooster’s crowing was the first thing Benjamin heard next morning. He sat up on his pallet and saw that his father had already left the room. The sun was already well up and he heard voices in the courtyard. He went to a water bowl in the corner, splashed his face and donned his robe.

Joab and Onias were sitting outside near a small fire drinking coffee. Joab waved to his son and Onias greeted Benjamin as he sat by his father. Onias told them that he had given their situation much thought during the night. Benjamin saw that Onias held the parchment they had brought. The Essene called to a man walking by and said something to him in a quiet voice.

“We will prepare your scroll now,” he said to the boy. “Come with me.”

They entered the room where the scribes were working on transcriptions. The man to whom Onias had spoken had an earthen jar on a table in front of him and he was carefully wiping it with a cloth to remove any dust. Onias handed Benjamin the scroll.

“It would be my honor for you to lay it in its resting place,” he said.

Benjamin inserted the rolled-up parchments into the jar’s narrow neck. Then he reached into his pocket and said, “I would like to place something else in the jar.”

He took out a small piece of parchment with writing on it. He also brought out a coin.

“So what do we have here?” Onias asked.

“This is the coin the Messiah child held in his hand. I wrote a short description of it on this parchment. The coin belongs with the scroll.”

“Indeed it does. Some day this coin and scroll will have an impact of unbelievable proportions. It will not be in my lifetime, or yours. Maybe not that of your grandchildren or great-grandchildren. But someday what you have written will change the world.”

The man sealed the top of the jar with a plug of mud and smoothed it out with a small knife. Onias then took the jar and said, “Your donkeys are readied. Let us take a short journey and place your jar.”

Benjamin was excited. He hadn’t known this was going to happen. “It’s your privilege, my son,” Joab said. “You may put the jar in its safe place.”

For over an hour the trio rode their donkeys up into the hills that surrounded the community of Qumran. Onias led them to a rocky mesa and dismounted.

“We must walk from here.” He pointed to a narrow path that wound downhill in front of them. They had to be careful not to lose their footing – it was a rough trail. At last Onias stopped. He pointed to a clump of shrubs clinging to the side of the hill. Benjamin saw nothing until Onias moved the scrubby plants aside, revealing the entrance to a cave.

“Ever since my father knew that the Messiah was coming, he kept this special place prepared for the document that would reveal it to the world. He passed the responsibility of putting your scroll into this cave to me. And now, Benjamin, it is time to place the jar.”

The boy crawled into the tight space. He felt cramped – he couldn’t stand. At the back of the room was a small entrance into an anteroom of the cave. He crawled through and saw an indentation in the back wall. There were two stones lying on the floor of the cave in the sand. He carefully placed the jar in the area at the rear of the second room. His small hands trembled as he sat it on the ledge. He noticed that the two stones perfectly covered the hiding place. Obviously, long ago, someone truly had prepared the cave for this very day.

His task complete, Benjamin backed out of the cave. Emerging from the coolness back into the harsh sunlight, Onias said, “Let us pray.”

They held hands, praying that God would bless the depositing of this jar, and thanking God for the baby He had sent.

“May this scroll remain safe until it is time…time for the world to see it,” the Essene prayed.

Then they returned to Qumran.

Chapter Seventeen

Dallas

The next few days moved slowly for Brian Sadler. Although he had to wait until Monday afternoon for the investment committee’s decision on Bijan’s proposed public offering, he wasted no time working on the details of his personal investment in the gallery. He prepared a memorandum outlining his proposed deal with Darius Nazir – 40% of Bijan Rarities Limited for $1.5 million and a guarantee that $4 million would be raised in a public offering no later than 90 days from the date of signing. He called Nicole and left a message asking her to call.

It was nearly six when his cell phone rang and he saw Carter and Wells’ name on the display.

“Nicole,” he answered.

“Mr. Sadler, it’s Ryan Coleman. Miss Farber apologizes that she can’t return your call today and asked that you email whatever you need and she’ll respond when she can.”

Brian asked if she was in the office.

Ryan hesitated a moment, then said, “Do you need her email address or do you have it?”

Obviously she wasn’t speaking to him.

He emailed the memorandum and asked if she would prepare a Letter of Intent to send to Nazir. Given her specialty in criminal law he wasn’t sure if she would handle something like this. He figured at the least she would shuffle the project off to someone else in the firm. Having not received a bill for more money, he figured he had funds left from his initial payment and decided it was worth a try.

On Friday Nicole called him at work. “Glad to see you’re planning a move to make an honest living,” she quipped.

“How are you?”

“Not bad, but busy. Let’s talk about your deal. I’ve put together your Letter of Intent and I’ll email it in a few minutes. Your proposal sounds exciting. Is WT&C going to do an offering for Bijan?”

He told her about his discussion with Robert Overton and that he was waiting for an answer.

“Want to meet for a drink tonight after work?”

“I’m working late tonight.” Fueling his hopes slightly, she said, “But I would like to see you again sometime. Bye.” And she hung up.

Chapter Eighteen

On Monday Brian had trouble concentrating as he waited to hear from the investment committee. He wasn’t worried – he knew from experience that the Bijan deal had merit. It was something another firm would take even if WT&C didn’t. But he had a nagging fear that his involvement with the FBI might come back to haunt him, even though he had done nothing to hurt WT&C.

At four pm his phone rang. Robert Overton told him that the committee had approved his deal and work would begin the next day on preparing for a public offering. Overton congratulated Brian and again thanked him for a good run at the firm.

On the way home he called Darius and told him the letter of intent would be emailed shortly. WT&C would prepare agreements to represent the company as its investment banker in the upcoming public offering. Even with these assurances, nothing was set in stone. All investment banks had out-clauses that would allow them to exit a deal at any time, for any reason, or for no reason whatsoever. However when this stage was reached, a deal was all but done, save a major catastrophe like a market crash.

Darius was thrilled. He told Brian the background check had come back clean and everything was ready to proceed from his side. He reiterated how much he looked forward to working with Brian and promised to read the letter of intent, sign and return it immediately.

“So when will you join the gallery?”

“I should stay here for at least a few weeks. I can keep things moving better if I’m still at WT&C than if I’m an outsider.”

They set a timetable to have a contract in place for Brian’s $1.5 million investment by the end of the week and to have his funds wired to Bijan in 30 days or less.

Chapter Nineteen

Brian wasn’t concerned that the Bijan public offering might not happen, except for one thing that was out of everyone’s control. If the stock market took a major tumble between now and offering day, WT&C could pull the plug on the offering. And they would. It happened regularly in the investment-banking world. If investors were in panic mode those who had agreed to buy Bijan stock could back out and the firm would be left having to spend millions of its own money to pay Bijan the offering proceeds. There was nothing anyone could do about that possibility, so Brian, the optimist, refused to consider it as a possibility.

It turned out the market, fueled by continuing success in the oil and energy sectors, steadily rose over the weeks before Bijan’s offering date, which had tentatively been set by the firm for mid-May. Meanwhile, their contract finished and signed, Brian prepared to buy his shares of Bijan.

He converted almost all his investments into cash, used a line of credit he had established at Chase to finish things up and wired $1.5 million to Bijan Rarities’ bank account in New York. They spoke daily – Nazir was working feverishly to finish the auction of the sarcophagus, set for next weekend. He was leaving for Egypt in a few days and asked Brian to join him there. It was tough for Brian to turn down that offer but he knew his time was better spent keeping the deal on track. Every day at the office meant dozens of new questions to answer, drafts of documents to read and forward on to Darius, and handling a million small things that were part of the process.

“Come to New York, then,” Darius offered. “As an owner of Bijan, and its new acquisitions man, you should be here to represent the gallery.”

“Acquisitions man?” Brian was surprised.

Darius explained that he had given much thought to the roles each of them should play and if Brian were agreeable, Darius wanted to slow down his constant travel schedule and spend more time in the gallery. Darius would run the store and oversee all auctions while Brian handled the financial side, traveled the globe chasing leads and brought home the antiquities which would fuel sales at Bijan.

Brian thought it sounded great and promised to come to New York for the simulcast of the Discovery Channel broadcast a week from Friday. The auction was set for one pm New York time, which was nine in the evening in the Valley of the Kings.

Chapter Twenty

Brian was in touch daily with Sam Lowe, the New York attorney representing the gallery on its offering. They had finalized the offering document and sent it to the Dallas lawyers hired by WT&C. Everything was moving along. The firm was negotiating with Brian at this point over stock options, rights buy Bijan stock at a fixed price for a period of time. If the stock went up during that period, WT&C would make a bunch of extra money. Usually deals that could be tough to sell commanded a lot of options. Those were an incentive for the investment bank and a way to potentially make money even if things didn’t go exactly as planned.

Brian argued with his colleagues at WT&C who were putting together the finishing touches.

“Bijan’s a jewel, a company any broker would be proud to take public. It’s one deal that doesn’t need options tied to it.”

WT&C resisted. Time was on their side, because Brian wanted the offering finished and done with sooner rather than later, so he could get on with the new aspects of his life. He negotiated less options for the brokerage firm, cleared it with Darius and the deal moved ahead.

-----

“I’ll join you for a drink at seven. Meet me at Steel.”

Steel was one of Dallas’ newest establishments and Brian was glad Nicole had agreed to join him. He had called her to advise that the letter of intent and contract she had prepared were now signed and finished.

His real motive had been to have dinner with her but she declined, saying she had trial the next morning and wanted to be ready. But at least she had agreed to drinks.

The men in the bar noticed Nicole as she walked in. She was dressed in a red suit. With her blond hair she was impossible to miss. He stood as she approached the bar. She took his hand and squeezed it.

“Hi, Brian Sadler, who is not a criminal.”

“Get over that!”

An hour later they had caught up. Brian knew from news reports that Nicole was defending the Chief Operating Officer of a pharmaceutical company in Fort Worth. He was the subject of an investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission, who claimed her client had masterminded a plot to hide poor earnings. There was basis to their claim.

They talked about how, like in Brian’s situation, Nicole’s defense was that her client wasn’t part of the problem. In this case, he had instead tried to formulate a solution. Finally she stopped – she’d said as much as she could without violating attorney-client privilege. They ordered another drink and talked about Brian’s work.

“I got the invitation to Bijan’s simulcast of the auction. Thanks for inviting me.” Brian had put her name on the list after Darius asked him to submit names of people he wanted to invite. Hers was his only one.

Brian told her about his visit to the gallery and his excitement over the business and its prospects.

“It sounds like love at first sight,” Nicole commented.

He looked into her eyes and responded, “Love at first sight. That pretty well sums it up.” There was a long pause as neither of them looked away.

“Ahem,” Brian cleared his throat. “Well, I am now the acquisitions officer and minority shareholder of Bijan and WT&C is going to bring the company to the public market in a couple of months.” He asked if she had heard much about the auction of the sarcophagus of Inkharaton.

She’d learned about it from the memorandum Brian had sent her to create his letter of intent. She recently saw advertisements in the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times, and commented that the sale seemed to have generated a lot of interest in ancient things and Egypt in particular.

He mentioned the Discovery Channel broadcast and said he would be in New York for the simulcast.

“Why don’t you come up?”

“My goodness, sir,” she deadpanned in a Scarlett O’Hara voice, “I feel I hardly know you!”

He smiled. “Really. I’m serious. That invitation is your pass to an incredible event. The guest list is strictly limited and there are people who would pay a lot of money for that pass. Selfishly, I’d love to have you come see the gallery.”

“There was a time in our professional relationship when I’d have bet money we could really click together personally, so I need to tell you something. What you did that morning in your deposition was a slap in the face to me. I was blindsided. I was your counsel and I looked like a fool. I’ve tried to let it go but what it said to me was, ‘Brian Sadler’s not at all what you think he is. There’s a side to him that may show itself at any time and you have no idea what it’ll do to you.’ I’m a careful girl with my feelings. And I’m going to be really careful this time.”

He tried to apologize. “My entire decision on this was because of Carl’s murder. I knew you wouldn’t walk in that room and represent me if you knew what I was going to do but I still needed your help.”

“Really?” she responded sarcastically. “Which parts of ‘I don’t recall’ did you need help with?”

“You’ve got to understand that I did what I thought I had to do to survive. I had no intention of pissing you off or causing you grief. It was a matter of living to fight another day. And apparently it worked.”

She conceded he was right, but he should consider himself forever on the FBI’s radar screen. “One step in the wrong direction and they’ll be all over you. Don’t ever forget it. The Feds have long memories, and you’re indelibly etched in their bureaucratic minds.”

She told him she had to go.

“Please consider coming to New York.”

“I don’t know where this is all going. I don’t know if there’ll be anything between you and me. I do know there’s a lot of work to do before I’ll feel I know you well enough to spend much time with you.” She stood, leaned over and kissed his cheek, turned and said, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re a sexy guy.”

She walked out of the bar.

Chapter Twenty-One

Brian talked to Darius four or five times a day as the week of the auction arrived. He made reservations for an arrival on Thursday around noon. Darius would already be in Egypt handling final preparations for the sale the next night.

“Collette will handle everything you need. She’s extremely bright and very capable. I know you’re new to all this but with her help you’ll be fine.”

Brian could hardly contain his excitement as he walked off the plane at LaGuardia Airport. This was truly the beginning of a new life – a chapter closing and a new one opening in the book that was Brian Sadler. As he walked to the baggage claim area, he saw a man holding a sign that said “Sadler.” He stopped, confused.

“I’m Brian Sadler.”

Darius had sent a car and driver to pick him up.

“I took Mr. Nazir to Kennedy Airport earlier this week for his trip to Cairo,” the driver told Brian as they stood in the baggage claim area. “He told me you’re his new partner. I’m Dov and I’m pleased to be assisting you.”

This is truly a new chapter in my life. A driver picking up Brian Sadler, the new partner in Bijan Rarities.

The driver dropped him at the Inter-Continental where he checked in and dropped off his luggage. He walked over to Fifth Avenue. It was a gorgeous spring day – the time of year when one day might be cold and dreary, and the next sunny and warm. This was one of the latter and Brian found himself gazing upward at the skyscrapers like a tourist as he walked along 48th Street.

Arriving at the gallery he saw a large sign in the window announcing Discovery Channel’s broadcast tomorrow afternoon. There were over twenty people in the showroom, looking not only at the sarcophagus but also at the other items on display. Collette waved when she saw him, broke away from a customer and approached.

“Just in time! Things have been crazy all week. Mr. Nazir prepared these for you.” She handed Brian a series of printed sheets. At the top of each was a picture of one of the antiquities on display in the showroom. Below it was a lengthy description and at the bottom a set of numbers and a price.

Collette explained, “Those numbers shown above the price give you our cost code.” She showed him quickly how to interpret it.

“Although I’m sure the rules don’t apply to you, Jason and I aren’t allowed to sell anything for less than fifty percent markup over cost. We get a 10% bonus if we sell anything at 90% or more of its retail price.”

Brian thanked Collette, waved to Jason across the room, and went to Darius’ office. In the middle of his desk was a brown envelope with Brian’s name on it. Inside was a note from Darius telling Brian to make himself at home, use the office as his and get ready for an interesting auction. The packet contained detailed information about the auction, including a timetable of events listed in Egyptian and New York time. There was also a corporate credit card with his name on it. A sticky note asked Brian to take one of the gallery’s invited guests to dinner after the simulcast, if he could arrange it.

The phone on the desk buzzed quietly and Collette said, “Mr. Nazir is on line six for you. Just press the blinking light.”

Darius welcomed Brian to New York. He expressed his appreciation and assured him that he’d do fine, even though he was receiving a trial by fire, since the auction was his first official duty as a shareholder in the gallery.

“As I told you earlier, bidders had to be pre-qualified. There are only six; they’re listed on a sheet in the packet I left for you. Have you seen it?”

Brian pulled it out. Darius said that two of the bidders, whose names were highlighted in yellow, would be at the New York gallery. The others would be in Egypt with him.

Brian looked at the names. One was a representative of the National Museum of Canada; the other represented Marilyn Lukonen, a New Yorker who was one of the wealthiest people in America. Lukonen had founded the wildly successful magazine “In Touch,” and now hosted her own television show. Products bearing the “Marilyn” logo were in upscale boutiques across North America.

Darius said Lukonen was a collector of Egyptian art and had expressed interest in the sarcophagus after Bijan was approved to sell it.

“She’s a really reasonable person, not one of these who wants to accumulate everything just because she’s wealthy. Her stated goal is to provide this piece for the world to see, in its original tomb, for generations to come.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Darius explained more about the auction. “There will likely be several reporters there. I sent invitations to both the newspapers and the trade press. But have no worries. Collette and Jason are fully prepared to handle everything. I’m just glad you’re there representing Bijan.”

Brian made a quick call to Karr and Dandridge, Bijan’s law firm handling the offering, and arranged to meet Sam Lowe for a drink at seven. Sam’s office and the gallery were both in midtown, so they chose the Oak Bar at the Plaza for a convenient watering hole.

The rest of the afternoon went quickly. Brian stayed on the floor as much as possible. Occasionally Collette or Jason would pull him aside to meet one of the firm’s clients.

“This is Brian Sadler, Mr. Nazir’s new partner in the gallery,” they said to each client. Brian was thoroughly enjoying his first day at his new profession.

That evening he and Sam caught up on the progress of Bijan’s public offering. From the lawyer’s standpoint, everything was ready to go. They chatted a few more minutes, finished their drinks and Brian picked up the check.

“Sorry to cut it short but tomorrow’s a big day. I have to be at the gallery at five am so I’d better get some sleep!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Around midnight a tractor pulling a semi-trailer parked just off Fifth Avenue on 53rd Street, the closest intersection to Bijan Rarities. Emblazoned on the sides of the trailer were the name and logo of the Discovery Channel. Two men exited the cab, opened the trailer and began to raise a satellite dish that extended from panels in its top. Once the dish was twenty feet high one of the men went to a console in the trailer and tested satellite reception in the concrete canyons of Manhattan. If a link to Discovery Channel’s satellite couldn’t be accomplished the truck would move and the process would be repeated until they were successful.

Reception was good so the other man began to snake thick cables along the curb from the truck to just in front of Bijan’s front door. He pulled them across the sidewalk and covered them with a metal arch that would allow pedestrians to cross over the cables without tripping. He also set out four large yellow caution signs.

The truck was now in place for the broadcast. For the rest of the night the two men sat in the trailer and communicated with their counterparts in the Valley of the Kings near Luxor, Egypt. Everyone’s job was to be sure the simulcast scheduled for one pm New York time would come off without a hitch.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Brian’s 4:15 wakeup call jolted him from a deep sleep. He jumped out of bed, dressed in slacks and a sweater, and took a complete change of clothes for later in the day.

There were few people on the streets at this time of morning and Brian walked quickly to the gallery. Collette had posted a sign last evening that the gallery was closed for the morning and would open for invited guests at noon.

The showroom was ablaze with light. Brian knocked; Collette ran from the back and let him in along with two uniformed police officers that arrived at the same time. These were off-duty policemen hired to guard the front door until noon. The door would have to be unlocked, even open, a good deal of the time while the TV people prepared everything, and Nazir had wanted to ensure passersby didn’t wander in during the hubbub.

The morning was busy. Collette, Jason and Brian cleared the center of the showroom and set up over a hundred folding chairs while the Discovery Channel team installed a huge screen in the back of the store facing the front windows. They brought in projection equipment, which they connected to the cables that now ran through the front door. Then they tested the video and audio feeds from Egypt.

A split screen was set up. The bulk of the screen would show the live Discovery Channel broadcast. A smaller screen on the lower right would display the feed from a camera aimed at the podium in the tent where the auction was happening. Similarly, the tent in Egypt had a small television monitor that showed a view of the dais that was in place at the New York store. Each location could see the other.

Caterers brought in canapés and refreshments and set up a champagne bar. Just before noon they unloaded a beautiful ice sculpture in the likeness of the pharaoh Inkharaton as depicted on his sarcophagus. Brian thought it was a great addition to the upcoming celebration.

Brian moved about the showroom doing last minute adjustments on chair rows, when he heard, “Good morning, Brian,” through speakers set up by the electronics crew.

He looked up and saw Darius on the small screen, standing in front of the podium in Egypt. One of the workmen asked Brian to walk to the dais at the back of the showroom. When he did, the camera in New York picked up his image and he sent his greetings to Darius. The men could now see each other on the TV monitors.

“It’s good to see you! We’re just making last minute preparations here in Egypt – I know you are too. I think everything’s ready to go. As you know, we begin with a tour of the tomb at one your time, then precisely at 1:30 we’ll emerge to conduct the auction. That’ll be the last thirty minutes of the hour Discovery has allotted for the broadcast.” They chatted briefly and Darius signed off.

Brian checked his watch. It was less than half an hour until the gallery opened. There was a table at the front of the store to register guests and the media, including the two bidders they were expecting. Brian went to the back office and changed into a suit and tie.

By noon a number of people stood in line outside the gallery. Precisely at twelve guest check-in began and Collette offered them champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Within twenty minutes the gallery was full. Jason’s primary job was to make sure Brian was aware when the bidders arrived. By 12:30 neither had arrived, but by then the room was filled with well-known clients and friends. Major corporate CEOs had been invited to see the auction and a few actors had flown in from California to attend this monumental event. Bijan had hired plainclothes security guards and a few guests arrived with bodyguards of their own.

Brian stood on the dais checking the microphone while a technician worked a monitor. Brian noticed a man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties with a head full of wavy gray hair who had completed the check-in process. Collette pointed the guest in his direction and the man strode confidently through the gallery toward him. His suit, Hermes tie and Gucci shoes were impeccable. A gold Rolex peeked out from under a highly starched French cuff white shirt.

Brian decided this must be the bidder from Canada. He stepped down from the podium, extending his hand, and said, “Welcome. I’m Brian Sadler.”

“Good day, Mr. Sadler. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m John Spedino.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brian’s face must have betrayed his astonishment. He was at a loss for words.

Spedino said smoothly, “I’m looking forward to seeing the auction. I’m a great fan of ancient art and relics and this is shaping up to be the sale of the year.”

Brian stammered, “I…I suppose I should thank you.”

“For what? Have we met?”

Brian stumbled with his words. “I have a feeling you’re behind my move to Bijan.”

The godfather of New York gave him a puzzled look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps you’ve confused me with someone else. I’ve been a customer of Bijan in the past but it’s only been through an agent, so your firm has no record of me as a purchaser in my own name. Regardless, I was pleased to be invited to the event and here I am.”

He smiled at Brian, excused himself and moved to the champagne bar.

Brian had a million thoughts running through his mind. Why would Darius invite him? What does he have to do with Bijan? Why didn’t I bring up Bellicose and WT&C? The FBI said Spedino was involved in all this – Carl said it was basically his company. I should have said something to see what his response was.

The producer interrupted. “Twenty minutes to air time, Mr. Sadler.”

Within the next ten minutes both his bidders arrived. Collette introduced Brian to Paul Lecroix, the bidder representing the National Museum of Canada. Brian thanked Lecroix for attending and offered assistance if the bidder needed anything.

The second bidder arrived soon after the first. Collette caught Brian’s eye from the front of the room and gave a slight nod in the direction of a man picking up his credentials from the table. She introduced Brian to a New York attorney who would be bidding on behalf of Marilyn Lukonen. Collette quickly checked the power of attorney that would allow him to bid. The dollar amount that was his top bid authorization was in a sealed envelope she handed to Brian. It would be opened only if Lukonen were the winning bidder.

The producer held ten fingers in the air and began a countdown. Brian went to the podium and spoke into the microphone.

“Please take your seats. The tour of the tomb of Inkharaton will begin momentarily.”

He read from a script. He advised the crowd that the tour and auction were being broadcast live to a worldwide audience on the Discovery Channel. He asked everyone to please remain in their seats except during four commercial breaks. As he finished he looked up and saw one late attendee signing in at the desk. As she found a chair, she caught Brian’s eye, smiled and waved to him. Nicole had come after all.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A couple of minutes before one the gallery lights were dimmed. The live broadcast suddenly appeared on the huge screen. There was an excited murmur from the guests as the tomb in Egypt was shown. A deep, commanding voice read the words displayed on the screen – ‘Inkharaton: The Forgotten Pharaoh.’”

An announcer welcomed viewers to the first live broadcast of a new tomb in the Valley of the Kings, to be followed by the auction of the pharaoh’s unique second casket. Introductions were made and the program was handed over to the Director of Antiquities, whose role it was to be the master of ceremonies for the tour. While the broadcast continued Brian stepped off the dais and went to the back of the room. Nicole was seated on the last row. He bent to speak to her. She looked at him, put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh! I want to watch this!”

When the tour ended there was a commercial break. The producer gave Brian a finger in the air at exactly 1:29, indicating one minute until the auction would begin. Both bidders had been given auction paddles. Brian would call out any bid on his end and Darius would do the same in Egypt.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At 3:30 it was all over. Brian took a breather and reflected on the hectic afternoon. During a wrap-up phone call Darius confirmed what he already knew – the auction had been a huge success. The opening minimum bid was set at $10 million and things progressed quickly. At the final stroke of the gavel only four of the six registered bidders had joined in the auction. The golden sarcophagus of Inkharaton sold to the British Museum for $19.5 million. The Museum’s Director of Egyptian Art was present in Egypt; he gave a brief interview at the end of the program.

The sale gave Bijan Rarities a commission of slightly under a million dollars. Darius told Brian he estimated the gallery’s total expenses at about three hundred thousand, which netted the gallery a lot of money but more importantly, publicity that was impossible to value. In the past month alone calls had begun to come in from places around the globe, offering rarities to Bijan for outright purchase or auction. These were opportunities that the gallery might not have seen otherwise. Even before it happened the Inkharaton sale put Bijan on the map as one of the major galleries in this field. Now that it was over, things promised to be very exciting indeed for Brian’s new employer.

Brian invited the Canadian bidder to dinner but he declined, saying he was catching a flight back to Montreal. He had never bid but the attorney for Marilyn Lukonen had. That man departed immediately following the auction’s close. Once Brian had a chance to glance around the room, John Spedino was also gone and Nicole was up front talking to Collette.

On the sidewalk, the paparazzi snapped pictures as some of Bijan’s most famous clients left. Donald Trump and Jack Nicholson were deep in conversation as they walked out. That photograph made the Post’s the front page the next morning.

Several clients approached the dais and spoke briefly to Brian. Many of them had heard from Darius about his new partner. Each mentioned how pleased Nazir was at having a partner for the first time. Brian received hearty congratulations and promises of lunch and drinks down the road.

Jason quietly whispered, “Mr. Nazir is standing by in Egypt. He’d like you to give him a ring as soon as you can, please.”

Brian looked again at Nicole and unsuccessfully tried to catch her eye. He went to the office and called Darius for their wrap-up meeting. Nazir would be exhausted and by the time he got back to his hotel in Luxor it would be long after midnight so this call had to happen now.

After a short review of how everything went, Darius again told Brian how pleased he was that they had partnered.

“I’m staying an extra day in Cairo before I head home. There’s a rumor that something’s been found that’s the biggest rarity to surface in years. I have no idea what it is. Everything’s hush-hush right now and I want to look further into it. More news as I hear something.”

Brian raced back into the gallery, hoping to find Nicole. There were only a few people left. Collette said Nicole would catch up with him later. He would have tried her cell phone, but although she knew his number, he still didn’t know hers. How, he wondered, did she intend to catch up with him? Hopefully she’d call.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hoping she might to stop back by the gallery, Brian stayed an extra hour finishing a summary memorandum of observations about the auction. He emailed it to Darius. At six Collette and Jason stuck their heads in the door, asking if he was ready to close for the night. Since Brian had neither key nor code to the gallery’s sophisticated alarm system, he had to leave when they did.

He stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, hoping Nicole might stop by. Finally he called Ryan Coleman. He asked for Nicole’s cell number and Ryan responded that his instructions were, if you don’t already have it, I’m not allowed to give it to you. He briefly considered asking Ryan to call her and pass along a message, but Brian had to give up. She knew how to get in touch with him, but she hadn’t. That was it.

As he walked through the Inter-Continental’s lobby toward the elevators, he glanced right and left to see if she was waiting for him. The bar was completely open to the lobby, so he would have easily noticed her blond hair but she wasn’t there. He unlocked his door, put his briefcase in the hallway, and heard, “It’s about time you got here.”

He turned the corner and looked at his bed. Nicole was lying on it, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny pink panties.

Part Three

Chapter One

The Hills near Qumran

January 2004

Two teenage boys hiked in the midday sun. Sons of shepherds, they were no strangers to the hills around the ancient ruins of Qumran. They lived at the edge of the Dead Sea only a few miles from where they stood today and had spent their lives roaming the hills and valleys nearby.

Since 1947 when the first scrolls were found, the residents of this area had become de facto treasure hunters. Not many days went by without at least a few people combing the hills near Qumran, hoping to uncover the next cache of earthenware and parchment. These boys were no different. They had packed lunches and planned to spend the day enjoying the outdoors and searching for caves. Everyone in the area laughed about it but secretly many of them believed there were more hiding places than the few found so far.

After hours of roaming they stood on a hilltop overlooking the Dead Sea.

“It looks as if there is an old trail below us, maybe,” one said. They worked to find handholds as they inched down the rocky hillside. Finally they landed on an area about fifteen feet below the mesa on which they had stood.

“Doesn’t look much like a trail to me,” the other boy said. They walked twenty feet to the east and saw a small hole at the side of the makeshift trail. One of the boys found a stick, knelt and began to dig out the hole, careful lest a snake emerge. They dislodged rocks to make the hole bigger – the rocks fell down inside the hole, a sign there could be a cave.

Once they’d enlarged the hole they could see that a tunnel went down and then straightened out into a small room. There was an opening in the rear of the cave into a second room.

The rooms weren’t big enough for both of them. Renewing their pact that whatever one found belonged to both of them, they drew straws and one was soon sliding down through the hole. He crawled on all fours to the second space.

“It looks like just an empty room,” he yelled. He directed a flashlight through the hole in front of him. He didn’t want to stuff himself through the small opening only to come face to face with a snake.

The second room was empty so he squeezed through the doorway. It was claustrophobic. The walls were within a foot on each side and the ceiling was not far above his bent back.

“I don’t see anything,” he said, turning slightly so his friend could hear.

“Look around closely.”

The boy rose up off his hands, holding the light in one while he ran the other along the back wall.

The sandstone wall was smooth until he came to a ridge in the middle. He dug his finger into an indentation running up and down maybe eighteen inches. Along the top the ridge continued left and right. These are rocks, not the wall, he thought excitedly.

He took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and inserted it into the ridge. The knife went in easily, all the way to the hilt. His adrenalin began to pump as he ran the knife around the seam.

“What’s going on?” his friend yelled into the cave.

“I…I’ve found something! I’m trying to dislodge a rock. Give me a minute.”

As he pried, one of the rocks suddenly began to pop out toward him. It wasn’t particularly large but as it fell in the tight space it startled him. He let out a yell.

“Are you OK?” his friend asked.

“Hang on!” The boy’s voice resounded with excitement. He could see the corner of an earthen jar in a space the rock had covered. It was sitting on a ledge, hidden by two rocks carefully smoothed over.

Now he had no trouble moving the other rock. The earthen jar stood in front of him. He stared at it, transfixed.

“What’s going on in there?”

“I think I’ve found a scroll jar! I’m going to try to get it out without breaking it!”

He crouched with his back against the low ceiling, reached forward with both hands and brought the jar down to the floor. There wasn’t room for him to turn around. Instead he had to back out just like he had come in. He slithered backwards on his stomach and carefully pulled the jar with him.

When he reached the larger room he turned around. For the first time, his companion got a glimpse of the jar, tightly sealed with an earthen plug. The boy handed the jar out to his friend and emerged.

“Let’s look inside!”

“No! We have to make sure we are believed when we show this to someone who might buy it. Let’s take it to the market and let someone there open it!”

That plan in place, the boys walked to their homes, carefully carrying the jar between them.

Chapter Two

A few days later the boys and their fathers drove to the marketplace in Jericho. Although the town was small many tourists came through on their way from Jerusalem to the resorts of the Dead Sea. Consequently there was a thriving market run mostly by Arabs who sold bananas and citrus fruits, spices and rugs, along with a hodgepodge of miscellanea as you’d expect in any large bazaar in the Middle East. People ate in garden restaurants that lined the town’s main street. No one gave a second glance to the four, one of whom was carrying a large earthen jug.

The fathers had agreed that the jar should remain sealed. Although they didn’t know what was in it, they could hear a muffled sound inside when they shook the jar. There was something solid inside. That sound was disheartening – every other authentic scroll jar had held only Biblical scrolls of the Essenes. It was clear that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to hide the earthenware pot so they had hopes something good would emerge.

They decided not to reveal exactly where the jar had been found. They would refer generally to the Qumran hills but that was it. The first dealer to whom they had gone told them they stood to gain far more by opening the seal than by selling it as it was now. “No one knows its true value,” he said. He offered to open it but they declined.

Another dealer had the same opinion and so did a third. Finally they agreed to allow the man to remove the plug that sealed the vessel.

The dealer, a corpulent man with a scraggly black beard, took a sharp knife and began to pick carefully at the seal, careful not to damage the pot itself. It took nearly twenty minutes before he had dug out the chunks, careful to keep debris from falling inside and damaging whatever was in the jar. Once it was open, the boy who had found the jug used a flashlight to look inside.

“There’s a scroll in here!”

The dealer tipped the jar on its side and carefully slid the scroll onto a table. Shivers of anticipation went down his back as he thought of what he might have in front of him.

I must be calm. If today it is my destiny to become wealthy, I must be able to bargain well with these simple people.

The scroll was rolled, but not tightly. They upended the jar and out fell a round black object that resembled charcoal, along with a much smaller piece of parchment. The dealer looked at the object. This is a coin.

“What is that?” one of the fathers asked.

“I don’t know,” the dealer replied casually. “It looks like a small piece of coal.” He handed it to one of the boys and the visitors passed it among themselves.

While they looked at it the dealer held the small scrap of parchment in his fat fingers, closely examining the writing on it. It was obviously very, very old, and was not a language he immediately recognized.

It looks a bit like Hebrew but somehow different. Maybe Aramaic?

Without a translation no one could estimate the value of these things. It was now his job to part these strangers from their find for as little money as possible.

He said offhandedly, “What do you want for these scraps of paper and this chunk of coal? I have no use for them but perhaps I could find some tourist on which to pawn off the jar. It’s obviously very old.”

One of the fathers responded. “We want to know if this is one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. And this round black thing…I think that might be a coin, although I don’t think coins were found in any of the other scroll jars.”

The dealer tried to appear disinterested.

“To save you the time and trouble of finding people to interpret the writing, I will offer you five hundred shekels for all of this. I hope I can recover my money by reselling it but who knows. It is a generous offer, I’m sure you will agree.”

Five hundred shekels, around a hundred U.S. dollars, was a good deal of money to the men. But they were shrewd. In this society nothing was finished until the negotiating was done.

“Thank you for your time. I think we will take the items to the university in Jerusalem and see if someone can translate them. If the scroll happens to be another of the Biblical texts it could have even more value than your generous offer.”

One of the men started putting the things back in the jar.

“I have an idea,” the dealer said. “I will take these things to a friend of mine who is here in Jericho but who specializes in ancient artifacts. He can value them without your having to make the trip to Jerusalem. For this service, I would like a reasonable percentage of the ultimate sale price, perhaps forty percent?” He sat back and folded his hands in front of him.

“That is a very good idea, sir,” the father replied. “I am certain you are completely honest and trustworthy beyond measure. However, we have only just met and so we would have to accompany you. For your service, we would be pleased to offer ten percent of the ultimate price.”

The dealer did not want them tagging along. After considerable haggling, they agreed that he would take only the small scrap of parchment, leaving the four with the jar, the large scroll and the small black lump. If it turned out they had something of value, the dealer would receive fifteen percent of the ultimate sale price. If not, he would receive nothing. He called to the shopkeeper across the way to watch his stall. Lifting his enormous girth with some difficulty, he stood, took the small piece of parchment and walked away.

Chapter Three

Via a circuitous route the dealer ended up in a stall less than two hundred feet from his own. He spoke quietly in Arabic to a man there who was smoking a cigarette, then handed him the small piece of parchment. The fat dealer knew that this man could speak Aramaic. If this scroll were from the period as the others, this would be the language written on the scrap.

The man sat, staring at the parchment, then handed it back. “It is nothing,” he said, looking down.

“Look in my eyes!” the dealer said sharply. “I am not your customer. I am your friend. What do you see on this scrap?”

“Friends come and go,” the seated man said quietly. “Sit down. The writing is Aramaic. If it is genuine, and it certainly appears so, there are three interesting sentences written on this scrap. But before I tell you what it says we must talk about compensation for me. I want you and me to be good friends.”

Once the fat dealer managed to get himself seated, the haggling began. The dealer was at a distinct disadvantage. He was negotiating for something about which he knew nothing. After a cigarette and more discussion, the dealer asked the interpreter to tell him more.

Taking a long puff on his cigarette, the interpreter said, “Where is the coin that you found with this parchment?”

He refused to say more and the excited dealer wouldn’t admit there was a coin. At last the two agreed that they would equally split the dealer’s commission on the sale of the items. The fat man lied, telling the interpreter the total commission was ten percent. Since it was really fifteen, the interpreter would get five percent more than the dealer. After all, he rationalized, I am the one who brought this opportunity to the interpreter. Allah would wish me to have the lion’s share of the proceeds.

The interpreter said, “I will tell you generally what this scrap says. If I need to give you the exact words it will take more research.”

Suddenly a breeze arose, quickly cooling the bazaar as the man uttered words two thousand years old.

“I, Benjamin, saw with my eyes the baby Messiah in the stable behind The Four Horsemen in Bethlehem. I handed him this coin, which he held in his own hands. Yeshua, the baby, returned it to me.”

The wind was blowing much harder now. The sunny sky suddenly darkened and the day became cloudy and cool. The interpreter struggled to hold the parchment as the brisk wind rustled it.

“What is happening?” the fat dealer said. “The sky has been clear all day. Where did these clouds come from?”

Within a moment the clouds had passed and the day was bright and warm again, the air as still as it had been before. The men made no sense of the event, although it had sent chills down their spines.

At last the dealer said, “You say this scrap talks of the baby Yeshua and a coin?”

“It does. You do have the coin, do you not?”

Without responding, the dealer stood, retrieved his scrap of parchment and said, “I will come back to you when I know more.”

Indeed you will, thought the interpreter. I will make certain of it. He reached into a pocket of his galabeyeh and took out his cell phone.

Chapter Four

The fat dealer created a story for the four visitors as he waddled through the narrow lanes of the bazaar. Back at his own stall he saw them standing in the passageway, showing the rolled scroll to another dealer. Startled that he might be losing his customers, he grabbed one of the men’s arms and whispered, “Come with me!”

He ushered the four into the back room of his tented stall.

“My friend could not read the parchment. It appears to be an unknown language or perhaps only a lot of markings. He does say it is old, perhaps as ancient as the Dead Sea Scrolls that were found earlier. It therefore has value, although nothing like if it were easily translated, say from Aramaic.” One of the fathers stared at him and the dealer shifted his eyes.

“Thank you for your trouble. Let us go, children. This man has been kind to give us his time.”

“One moment. As I said, the scroll likely does have value. I can give you five thousand shekels for it right now and I will take the chance that perhaps I can recover that huge sum from these things of yours.”

“No, thank you. We will continue to search for an answer to the scroll,” the father said. They rose and walked out of the despondent dealer’s tent, one of them carrying the jar with the scroll, scrap and coin now back inside. As they walked down the narrow passageway the interpreter followed them out of the bazaar, speaking quietly into his phone as he walked.

Chapter Five

“That fat swine was lying. I could tell it by looking in his face,” one of the men said when they were out of the bazaar. “He knows more about the scrap of parchment than he was willing to tell and he was trying to cheat us!”

“But father. What do we do now?”

“I think we must go to Jerusalem and see what the scholars at the university can tell us. At least they will be honest.”

They’d spent most of the day in Jericho and didn’t need the expense of a night away from home. As they drove, the men agreed to take off work in a couple of days and go to Jerusalem, about thirty miles from home.

Not far outside Jericho a black pickup moving at a high rate of speed passed them. One of the fathers cursed at the man and shook his fist at his dangerous driving. Topping a hill a few miles down the road, they saw the vehicle parked at the side of the road, its hood raised and a man looking at the engine.

“I’m going to tell this idiot a few things.” He stopped behind the pickup.

As he approached the pickup driver greeted him with a small pistol and instructed him to return to his truck. Then he said, “Do as I say and no one will be harmed. Give me the jar.”

One of the boys saw the man’s gun and screamed. He held up the vessel.

“Open your door slowly, and hand it to me.”

The boy did as he was told. The man took it and gestured for the driver to get in the truck. “Go down the road now, and do not stop until you reach your homes. If you contact anyone I will come to your houses and kill you all.”

The fathers and sons drove quickly away, certain that they’d lost any chance to ever profit from this incredible find.

Chapter Six

Three days later

Alim Shakir was the name of the man who had interpreted the Aramaic writing for the fat dealer. He sat in the restaurant of the Hilton Hotel in Jericho, a few miles from the bazaar. Today he did not want to be spotted by other dealers in the marketplace.

Shakir waited for one of the hotel’s guests to join him for coffee. For today’s meeting he had traded his galabeyeh for a western suit. As he waited he nervously rechecked the shopping bag he had set in the chair next to him. It had cost him a small fortune to hire his nephew to follow the strangers out of town and steal the jar.

After Shakir had seen the writing on the scrap he knew that the stupid dealer would never understand the true value of what he had. And until the nephew brought the jar back to him, Shakir was not aware that the large parchment existed. He was expecting only the shard he had seen plus an old coin.

As soon as his nephew dropped off the stolen urn, Alim took the items from the earthenware jar and sold the urn immediately for one thousand shekels to a dealer nearby in the bazaar. Ancient pots were not that rare, but they did command a decent price. He therefore immediately recovered all the money he’d paid his nephew for snatching the jug. Now the jar was just one of several sitting on display in the marketplace and no one would ever identify it as this particular scroll jar.

A man walked into the coffee shop. He was obviously not Arabic although his pockmarked face made him hard to miss. There were no other customers in the restaurant at this mid-morning hour.

Alim stood and asked in English, “Mr. Jackson?”

The man approached his table and sat down. Prepared for the usual banter prior to discussion of business, the Arab asked, “Would you like sweets and coffee?”

“Show me the things you have,” the Westerner responded curtly.

Alim looked in his face. The man looked menacing. “Of course. It is so typical of you Americans to want to do business first. You are American, correct?”

“Did you hear me? I have come a great distance. Show me what you have. Now.”

Alim showed him the small scrap of parchment and the blackened coin.

“Do you read Aramaic, Mr. Jackson?”

“What does it say?”

Alim gave him the translation of the three sentences.

The man pointed to the parchment still rolled up in the shopping bag. “What does that scroll say?”

“I have not opened it, sahib. It is fragile and should be handled very carefully. Since it was found with the scrap and coin, I am certain it is also of the time of the Christian Messiah, around two thousand years ago.”

“What is your price for these items?” From his accent, Alim wasn’t sure whether the man was American or not. He dealt often with Westerners and was prepared for their “get down to business” attitude, but this man had been with him only a few minutes. This was disconcertingly fast and the man was being unbelievably rude.

“I want five hundred thousand US dollars for the three items.”

Jackson looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’m sure you do. I am going to give you ten thousand dollars cash today. Then I am going to take these items to be authenticated. If they are what you say, you will receive one hundred thousand dollars more.”

“No, that is much too low…”

The pockmarked man interrupted him. “Mr. Shakir, listen carefully to me. I am not a man who negotiates. And you are not a man who wants to trifle with me. I am offering you more money than you have ever seen in your miserable life and you want to sit here and barter with me?”

The man stood, pulled a thick envelope out of his inner suit coat pocket and tossed it on the table. “Here’s your down payment.”

Alim made a sudden decision. He would fight aggression with aggression. He picked up the shred of parchment and the coin and dropped them back in his shopping bag.

“You cannot have the item. I will call the authorities if you attempt to steal them from me. You will never leave Jericho if you do.”

Alim Shakir threw a few shekels on the table to pay for the coffee. He walked confidently out of the hotel without looking back, and strolled toward the town square a couple of blocks away. He was certain the man would catch up with him and give him far more money than he had offered.

As Shakir walked, the driver’s door of a car parked parallel to the sidewalk suddenly opened just next to him. A Semitic man emerged from the car, closed a cell phone and said, “Mr. Shakir, please do not be too hasty. Mr. Jackson just called. He has what he thinks is an acceptable trade for you to consider.”

Reaching through to the back door, the driver lowered the darkly tinted window slightly. “Take a look inside.”

Shakir stooped slightly and looked through the window opening. In the back seat his wife lay stripped naked, bound and gagged. He could see the terror in her eyes.

“We will release her once Mr. Jackson has left Israel,” the man told Alim.

“All right. I’ll take the deal. Give me the ten thousand.”

“Oh no. The deal now is that you get your wife back. That’s all, you greedy bastard.”

He took the shopping bag, looked inside to confirm its contents and drove away, leaving Alim Shakir standing on the sidewalk.

Even though he knew it was futile, Shakir memorized the license number of a car that had been stolen only moments before and which would be found in the desert a few days later, with his wife’s naked, ravaged body in the back seat. He never related his story to the authorities. He knew his only hope to live was to keep quiet.

And he too knew he would never see this amazing find again.

Chapter Seven

Cairo, Egypt

2004

The pockmarked man who had posed as a police inspector yesterday at the museum now sat in his apartment in the fashionable Giza District of Cairo. It was appropriate that he could see the Great Pyramid outside his bedroom window. In the past few years he’d become somewhat of an authority in antiquities.

Over the past five years he’d acquired nearly a dozen priceless objects. Some he had purchased. Most had been stolen. Until now, he had thought there would never be an item he couldn’t sell, but this time he had something that might prove to be the exception.

He had a network of people in bazaars across the Middle East. Even as Alim Shakir interpreted the small piece of parchment, he already knew where he’d sell the item. He had called a contact in Jerusalem, who in turn called Cairo.

The man in Jerusalem had received one thousand dollars for simply passing the information along to Cairo. Everyone was happy, the pockmarked man knew. Well, maybe not the pig Alim Shakir, who could have briefly had ten thousand dollars before he lost his own life. Instead he lived but his wife was dead.

The man was an American but he’d lived in Cairo for so long that he spoke Egyptian like a native. He sat on his couch with the three items in front of him. He’d used one of his fake credentials to convince the Museum director to have the scroll translated while he waited. “It’s key to solving an important case,” the fake policeman had said.

And even though he already knew what the two sentences on the small shred of parchment said, he was truly unprepared for the scroll’s translation.

In his lifetime he had dealt with some truly unique artifacts, highlighting the glories of ancient Rome, Greece and Egypt, his adopted country. But never in history had anyone imagined the eyewitness account of a person who had seen the baby Jesus, the Messiah Yeshua.

He took his time to determine the best course of action. He’d been working lately for a client in America, doing mundane tasks, none of it related to his real business, brokering artifacts. This client treated him like a servant. He was paid well to make phone calls and tie up loose ends, but with the artifacts he had in his possession he could break the tie with this client forever. That was a good thing. A continued association with this particular client could come to no good.

The American had plenty of money in several bank accounts across Europe. He would be in no hurry to dispose of these three things. They would provide him a comfortable retirement and the ability to enjoy life to the fullest for once. He put the items back into the shopping bag and went to the Giza branch of the National Bank of Scotland, where he maintained a large safety deposit box. The items were safely tucked away until he needed them.

Two days later the man placed a call to New York City. He described in detail the three artifacts he possessed and faxed a copy of the notepad from Achmed, the translator at the museum. As he anticipated, the client in America was very interested in the items.

What he didn’t anticipate was that he would be paid just a simple finder’s fee for his efforts and the items would then belong to the client. But the man in Cairo had had no choice, and quickly agreed that he would turn over the items to his New York client for less than a hundred thousand dollars. He was afraid of his client – he’d seen what the man could do to get what he wanted. The pockmarked man was not interested in having his client’s tactics applied to him personally. Although he lost the chance for huge money, he chose deference over danger.

Chapter Eight

New York City

April, 2006

It was after midnight. Brian and Nicole sat in the middle of the king sized bed in hotel bathrobes, eating hamburgers and French fries they’d ordered from room service.

“I’ve been starving for an hour,” she said, laughing. “I thought you were never going to get around to buying me dinner.”

“Who was the one that kept pulling me back every time I tried to move even an inch?”

“Hey! It didn’t seem to be too much of an inconvenience for you.”

Up to this point, nothing had been said about her being in the hotel room when he had arrived four hours ago. He’d undressed quickly – his clothes were lying all over the floor – and joined her in bed. It took only a few minutes of intense kissing before her pink panties joined the pile of discarded clothing. They took their time for the rest.

For over an hour they explored each other, touching, gently rubbing and lightly moving over sensitive skin and moist areas ready for more. She took him in both her hands, rubbing up and down for long minutes as he groaned. He felt her hard nipples and tight, firm buttocks.

There was nothing they missed as the hours passed and one orgasm came after another. Finally around eleven they came together, she on top. Her back arched then she fell off him onto the bed. Both of them were sweating and exhausted.

“Wow,” she said. “I need a cigarette.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t, but now seems like a hell of a good time to start.” They laughed and lay on the bed as the moonlight through the hotel window played across their naked bodies.

Finally she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She emerged wearing nothing except for a towel around her wet hair.

“You forgot your clothes!”

“I have a towel. That’s enough.”

He looked at her. She was a beautiful, clearly natural blond. She stood at the end of the bed and said, “Let’s order something to eat.” They did, and in the thirty minutes he had to kill, Brian had showered too.

Brian looked at her and smiled.

“What?”

“How did you get in my room?”

“It was easier than I thought it would be. I told Collette I was your attorney and of course I was on the guest list. I asked her where you were staying so I could get a room there too. I ended up here and gave one of the bellmen $100 to let Mrs. Brian Sadler into your room as a surprise. The rest is history.”

“Where’s your luggage?”

“I have a hang-up that has everything I need. It was at the gallery during the auction and now it’s in your closet!”

He smiled. “What made you think I would be alone, and that I’d be interested?”

“That part was strictly woman’s intuition. I think I can tell when there’s chemistry, and there damn sure is between us. And were you alone? I checked the room when I got in, saw nothing but man-things, got undressed and waited for you. If you’d shown up with some bimbo I guess my intuition would have been wrong. But you didn’t, and I wasn’t, and I’d like to congratulate us on the great sex we just had!”

They drank a six-pack of beer that had come with their order from the restaurant, turned on a classic movie and watched very little of it. They laughed and talked for a couple of hours, then turned off the lights and ended up right back where they had started.

Chapter Nine

On Saturday morning Brian retrieved the New York Times outside his hotel room door, ordered coffee and bagels and got back in bed. He’d put on his bathrobe while Nicole dived under the covers to let the room service waiter in, but now they were naked again, lying next to each other drinking coffee and reading.

“I have to say, in Dallas I received distinct vibes from you indicating you didn’t like me very much.”

“I still think you’re a total idiot for what you did in your deposition. But I have a professional side and a personal side. My personal side thinks you’re hot and I wanted to sleep with you.”

“Well, it looks like you got what you wanted.”

She laughed. “I think maybe you also got what you wanted.”

“No doubt about that,” he said, kissing her deeply. One thing led to another and shortly the action started up once again.

They awoke with sunlight streaming into the room. Nicole sat up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was after two pm.

“Shit. I have a flight in two hours.”

“I’d say you’re screwed.”

“That’s an understatement! But I’m going to miss my flight. When are you going home?”

He gave her his return flight information and she switched to the Sunday flight Brian had booked. She upgraded to first class and said, “I’ll sit by you. We’ll make whatever little hottie’s in the seat next to you switch seats with me.”

“Actually, you’ll be the little hottie in the seat next to me.”

“Oh. How rude of me. I forgot to ask first if you’d care if I stay one more night.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She smiled and lay back on the bed, running her fingers down his chest until she reached where she wanted to be.

Chapter Ten

They were watching the news when Brian’s cell phone rang. It was Darius.

“I hope you’re outside enjoying the beautiful day I hear you’re having in New York.”

“Actually I’ve stayed in until now, catching up on some things.” Nicole’s muffled giggle came from the pillow where she’d buried her head. “But I am going out shortly.” He hit her playfully on the back to shush her up.

“I told you I was chasing a rumor about something big that may be coming on the market. I wasn’t able to confirm anything. This type of thing happens. Shadows, whispers, rumors may be all you hear for days or years. Then something hits the street that makes your heart race. All I’ve learned is that there may be some ancient Jewish relics that have never been offered before.”

That often happened. A reclusive collector dies and his collection sees the light of day for the first time. A relic stolen by the Nazis and presumed lost for decades suddenly turns up in a Bavarian mine.

“Don’t get excited about this yet,” he cautioned. “If it happens, it happens. That kind of thinking keeps you from getting off course.”

Darius hoped if the relics did exist, that the publicity generated by Bijan over the sarcophagus sale would give the gallery a chance to be on the short list of potential buyers.

He repeated how pleased he was with everything. “Collette gave you the complete stamp of approval. That means a lot to me. She’s a discerning woman and I trust her instincts about people. She’s helped me land a big deal more than once, and also to steer away from some that could have caused headaches.”

Nicole went into the bathroom and turned on the hair dryer as Brian and Darius talked. The offering was tentatively scheduled to go public in two weeks. Brian said he would quit the firm then, move to New York and hopefully be settled in a month or less.

When he was finished Brian knocked on the bathroom door.

“Come in,” Nicole yelled over the buzz of the hair dryer. She stood naked in front of the mirror.

He walked over and stood directly behind her, pushing against her back.

“My God, Brian,” she said, turning off the dryer. “I’m not going to be able to walk by tomorrow.”

“That’s my goal!” He led her back to the bedroom.

Around four they went outside and walked around. The day truly was gorgeous, warm and breezy. They window-shopped, ended up on Madison Avenue in the 60s, and popped in to one of the small Italian sidewalk cafes that were everywhere. They sat on the sidewalk, had a few glasses of Pinot Grigio and some pasta.

Brian mentioned there was an open house tomorrow for a new apartment building in Gramercy Park.

“I have to find a place soon, so let’s go down there tomorrow morning before we head back to Dallas. That is, if you can keep your clothes on long enough.”

“Me? It takes two to tango, buddy. I’m up for it if you are. And while I’m on the subject, I’ve noticed you’ve been up for it very well so far!”

Chapter Eleven

Dallas

Four weeks later

Bijan Rarities Limited went public the third Friday in May without a hitch. Brian submitted his resignation from Warren Taylor and Currant effective the same day. The guys on the trading floor threw a combination celebration and going away party at Cru, a wine bar down the block. As the party got into full swing, Brian searched the room for Nicole.

They’d seen each other often since their time in New York. She’d thought the Gramercy Park apartment looked great, and he put a ten thousand dollar check down to pay for deposit and rent. He was planning to move next week.

His impending relocation to New York had made their relationship a little awkward. They couldn’t make serious plans for the future and both of them knew long-distance relationships were difficult to maintain. They’d gone out for a few dinners, spent a few nights at one apartment or the other, and met for drinks every other day or so.

This afternoon he left her a voicemail asking her to come to Cru for the party. He’d been at the bar for over an hour already and she hadn’t arrived. He found himself desperately wishing she’d show up. They hadn’t talked much about feelings, but he was getting seriously interested in her. He was glad he had both the money and the upcoming travel schedule that would allow him to get together with her at least every few weeks. He didn’t like the idea of time away from her.

His reverie ended suddenly. “Snap out of it, buddy!” his cube-mate Jim Palmer said. “I get someone new next to me. I should be the one daydreaming about the beautiful college graduate who’s going to sit next to me, fall in love and whisk me away to her daddy’s villa in France!” Brian laughed and clinked glasses with a number of well-wishers.

At eleven the party was over. Brian grabbed a cab. He’d come back and get his car tomorrow. As much as he’d had to drink, driving wasn’t a good idea. He checked his phone and saw he’d missed a voicemail earlier. In the noisy bar he hadn’t heard it.

“I’m not coming to your going-away party. We have less than a week before you leave. I’ve never lost control of my emotions before but it’s happening to me now. I don’t want to share the time we have left with anybody else. Let’s have dinner tomorrow night someplace quiet. Call me Saturday and let’s figure it out. Hope your party was fun. Oh and…” there was a long hesitation. “…oh, nothing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Chapter Twelve

New York City

Five months later

Brian left his Gramercy Park apartment at eight and walked to the 23rd Street subway station. He exited the northbound train at Grand Central. The trees had lost all their leaves and a crisp fall wind heralded the beginning of the winter season.

He emerged from the cavernous station on Vanderbilt Avenue and zigzagged north and west, moving with pedestrian and vehicular traffic until he reached Bijan’s building on Fifth Avenue. He punched in a security code, went in and locked the door behind him.

In the back of the building there was a vault with a time-delay lock. That was always his first stop. The rarest objects in the gallery were in this vault; they’d be removed and put in their places prior to the gallery’s ten am opening. A twenty-minute wait was required before the security system released and the combination could be entered to open the huge door. Brian pushed six small buttons in sequence to start the countdown and then walked to his office.

There had been a lot of excitement in the five months since he had come on board. Brian had been to China and Western Europe once each and to London twice a month. Darius had introduced him to many of the firm’s contacts for the purchase of rarities. Their newfound fame after the Inkharaton sale had resulted in dozens of new opportunities for Bijan. Darius was thrilled to turn over the international travel and that suited Brian just fine. Travel was something new and exhilarating, just like his new career. He started every morning energized and mobilized for action.

Darius held nothing back. He gave Brian reams of documents to read. There were customer profiles, showing who bought what, worldwide lists of contacts and sources from whom the firm had bought objects or received important information. Brian learned the firm had bank accounts in New York, London, Geneva and Cairo and shortly his signature was added to the accounts.

Brian also learned the secrets. Darius said, “Sometimes it’s necessary to make a discreet payment to a high-ranking public official to gain information we need. We also have untraceable funds in cash stored in a safety deposit box in London.”

Darius had explained the horde of cash in the UK only after careful discussions to see how open Brian was to doing things on the gray side of right-and-wrong. Darius paid his taxes but he also believed there were many ways to circumvent such payments. He believed most companies engaged in such practices and unhesitatingly did so himself.

Brian learned how untraceable cash got into Bijan’s hands. Darius often purchased groups of items from estates or individuals. The more prominent of those were listed on Bijan’s records. The rest were not. The full purchase price was allocated to the few items that were on the books. That meant that the others were shown nowhere and had no purchase price associated with them.

When the time came to sell, Darius made sure those transactions were outside the United States to insulate Bijan from possible tax consequences, and that those sales were in cash. That cash, stored in London, was Bijan’s own private slush fund. At the moment there was a half million dollars in it. It was money that had to be used carefully to avoid creating even a hint of suspicion of unreported income in the United States.

Darius and Brian’s personal friendship blossomed. Although there was a thirty-year age difference they bonded immediately and regularly had dinners together. Darius became Brian’s mentor in business but also in his personal life.

Nicole, the primary focus of Brian’s life away from work, had come to New York at least once a month since he moved from Dallas. Her hectic schedule, combined with his travel around the world, made it difficult to get together very often. Darius had met Nicole several times. He joined the couple for drinks or dinner every time she came.

Learning how much she meant to him, Darius insisted that the firm pay for first class tickets for the trips she made to New York. “It’s important for your well-being. Think nothing of it. Besides, you’re a shareholder. Forty percent of that ticket price comes from your share of Bijan.”

Brian absorbed everything Darius could teach him. The older man told him how good he was becoming at every aspect of the gallery’s operations. “I’m confident if I were to retire this moment you could carry on Bijan’s work with not a single interruption.”

One evening the talk turned to Nicole. “It’s none of my business, so feel free to tell this meddling old man to shut up. What discussions have you two had regarding the future?”

Brian explained that things were a little strained, as could be expected when two people saw each other occasionally and lived two thousand miles apart.

“She told me we should date other people, and we’re pretty open about discussing that. Only trouble is, I have to make up the ones I’m dating but I’m certain she’s really doing it.”

Darius asked him if he wanted to consider opening a gallery in Dallas.

Brian was amazed and flattered that he would suggest such a move. But he dismissed the idea. “I love New York and I want to work here with you. Dallas could never be the same for me.”

“If you are truly in love, and I think you are, then you should let nothing stop your quest to win her heart.”

Brian finally told Darius that he agreed he probably was in love with Nicole, but until they could find long stretches of time to spend together there was no way either of them could know for sure. “And I’m not even certain how she feels,” he admitted.

Darius said, “I believe in fate. If your love is meant to be, something will happen to allow it.”

Chapter Thirteen

One day in December John Spedino called. The gallery was adorned with beautiful golden Christmas decorations and Fifth Avenue was crowded with shoppers and tourists. A few blocks to the south, the windows of Saks portrayed animated scenes of Christmas past while across the street the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree was ablaze in lights as ice skaters glided around the frozen rink below it.

Darius had left the store early to pick up some presents in anticipation of his trip to California in a couple of weeks. He was spending the holiday with his children, both of whom had adopted the Christian religion after marriage, and their families. Brian was in the office working on paperwork when Collette buzzed him.

“John Spedino’s on line two for you.”

Brian hadn’t heard a word from Spedino since the auction last May. Spedino explained that he had a job for Brian. “I want to acquire some artifacts and I want Bijan Rarities to act as my agent on the deal.” He refused to say more on the phone and requested a meeting soon.

Brian agreed that he and Darius would meet Spedino. The godfather said no.

“This has nothing to do with Darius Nazir. I want you to say nothing to him about this until I give you approval to do so. Is that clear?”

Brian agreed without hesitation. They would meet in the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel the next day.

Afterwards, Brian felt ashamed for having so easily agreed to keep a secret from his partner, who couldn’t have been more open with him. He was flattered that a powerful man like Spedino entrusted a confidence to him, but he promised himself he’d inform Darius about everything after the meeting.

Brian arrived right on time but Spedino was twenty minutes late. He said, “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m going to give you some information and I want you to get back to me as soon as you have worked out the details.”

A waiter stopped by their table. They both ordered coffees, and Spedino started talking.

“Have you heard that a scroll was found a couple of years ago, rumored to be a complete account of the visit by shepherds to the inn on the night Jesus was born? And that two other relics accompany it? Apparently one’s a scrap of parchment identifying a coin that a shepherd boy presented to Jesus in the manger, which He held in His hand. The other object is the coin itself.”

Brian’s stunned told the godfather this was news to him.

“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard it,” he said. “I think your boss has heard a few rumors but he probably doesn’t know as much as I just told you.”

“How do you know about this?”

“This isn’t a question-and-answer session. I’m going to tell you what you need to know. So listen.”

John Spedino had confirmed that the relics did in fact exist. He wanted to acquire the objects and present them to the Vatican so they could be exhibited in the holiest place in Christendom.

“Call it an atonement for my sins. I’m Catholic and I’ve done things in my life like everyone else. This is my payback.”

Brian’s head shot up. “Why did you use that word – payback? What’s…”

Spedino interrupted. “Your job here is to listen, not to talk. Why did I use the word ‘payback’? What the hell kind of question is that? I use words all day long. So do you. Get over it. I want Bijan to acquire the relics and then sell them to me. And if your first question is why, then don’t waste your breath asking. I have my reasons and your gallery will benefit from the transaction. The publicity will be even greater on this one than on the Egyptian sale. There’s a huge fee for Bijan with no risk.”

Spedino told Brian there were several loose ends to tie up, including determining how much money it would ultimately take to buy the relics. Brian asked if he had a guess.

“I think possibly twenty-five million.”

Brian looked at him blankly. “How could Bijan ever swing a deal like that? The gallery doesn’t have that much money.”

“Oh, but you will. I’m going to put you in contact with a friend of mine who has Israeli government-issued bonds for rent. They’re used to prop up balance sheets so companies can make deals like this.”

He told Brian that the plan was that Bijan would never actually put out any cash. The entire transaction would happen very quickly – in a matter of days. A bank would issue a letter of credit for say $25 million, based on Bijan’s balance sheet that suddenly is improved by $25 million in Israeli bonds. The letter of credit allows Bijan to buy the relics and pay for them immediately. Bijan then has time to flip the relics before having to come up with the cash to pay for them.

“When you sell to me at a guaranteed profit Bijan then pays for the relics, cancels the letter of credit, returns the borrowed Israeli bonds and pockets a fee of two million dollars. It’s all cut and dried. Nothing can go wrong. And I’m even paying the rental fee for the bonds.”

“I’ll need to talk to Darius. This is a complicated deal and I need him to fully understand it. I’ll also have to get a lot more information about all this. Renting bonds to prop up your balance sheet sounds risky and I don’t have the authority…”

Spedino interrupted again. “You’re wrong. In fact, you won’t be talking to Darius. This is strictly between you and me. It’ll be over and done with before Darius hears about it and you’ll be the hero of the day at Bijan Rarities.”

“Not only is Darius the majority shareholder, we’re also a public company. There’s no way I can get by with rented assets on my balance sheet, and no bank will loan money against them without asking how we got them in the first place.”

The godfather laughed. “Lighten up. I’ve done this before, more than once. It works perfectly and here’s how. Bijan has to make quarterly reports to the SEC. All that matters to a public company is what’s on its books on the last day of the quarter. Anything that happens between day one and day eighty-nine makes no difference at all. The public never sees it.

“This transaction will take place during a quarter, not over the end of a quarter. These bonds will be on and off the books before you file your quarterly report with the SEC. As to the bank, that’s all handled. You’re going to borrow the money from First InterCity Bank. They’ll be happy to serve a new client of your caliber. And one of the loan officers there owes me a favor. Just relax. I’ve covered everything and you’re going to do this for me. End of story.”

“I’m not saying yes…”

Spedino smiled. Not a friendly smile. Cruel, scary somehow. Regardless, Brian wasn’t sure. This was a crazy deal. Maybe even illegal – he had no idea about that.

Spedino said that this transaction would be code named “The Project” and that someone would call soon to discuss the transfer of the bonds. He stood, handed Brian a card with his phone number on it, and left.

Thoughts raced through Brian’s head. I never agreed to this. But this guy says it’s a done deal anyway. He didn’t feel right keeping this from Darius, although the way Spedino laid it out the whole thing really did seem foolproof. Moreover, when it was done Darius would see that Brian truly did have the capacity to make decisions on his own – to do what was best for the firm.

His mind full of doubt, he noticed his hands shaking. On the surface John Spedino seemed like a cultured, sophisticated businessman. But Brian knew what he really was and that people like Spedino could never be trusted. With that kind of guy things are never as they seem.

He ordered a martini, giving himself a few minutes to think this through. Ever the optimist, Brian Sadler began to formulate a plan. With some planning he could make certain nothing went wrong on this deal. He could also tell Darius just enough so that he wasn’t betraying him.

Chapter Fourteen

A week later Brian sat in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons Restaurant at 52nd and Park, having lunch with Chaim Weisenberg. The man had set up the lunch to discuss the short-term transfer of Israeli bonds to Bijan.

Weisenberg wore a yarmulke and a black suit, and appeared to be in his forties. Pleasantries out of the way, Brian asked who had given Weisenberg his name.

“Actually I get a lot of second-hand introductions. I’m not certain, but I think it was from a friend of mine at First InterCity Bank.”

“And not from John Spedino?”

Weisenberg raised his eyebrows. “John Spedino, the Mafia boss? Do you know him?”

Brian replied that Spedino was an occasional customer of the gallery and an acquaintance.

Without further response Weisenberg launched into an explanation of the bond loan. The instruments were bearer bonds – they belonged to whoever had possession of them. The owner, a European company, allowed short-term rental of its assets to make a significantly higher return on the bonds than interest alone would have garnered.

“Here’s how it works. You’ll pay a commitment fee of half a percent of the face value up front and the bonds will be transferred to you on paper. Physically they will remain in the vault of a major British bank but any lender, CPA or auditing firm who wants to verify their existence may do so by contacting the bank.”

He explained that the bonds would pass muster as an asset for any company because in reality they were exactly what they were supposed to be – authentic bearer bonds issued by the Government of Israel, in the amount of twenty-five million dollars. The only hitch was that they were temporary assets – on a company’s books for the short period during which the company needed a hike in assets for a particular project. They never really belonged to the company using them since they were merely borrowed.

Once the project was over the transfer agreement was cancelled, another fee of half a percent was paid, and the parties went their own ways.

“In your case, you’ll have borrowed $25 million in assets for a sufficient time to do whatever it is you need them for. You’ll have paid $250,000 for the loan and presumably made much more than that on the deal you consummated.”

Since Spedino had agreed to pay all fees Bijan itself would pay nothing. No risk, just like the godfather had said.

“I’ll need to get an attorney to review the documents. When can I get them?”

“I have a sample set here for you,” Weisenberg said, handing a thick manila envelope across the table. “But you can save yourself some money. There’s a letter inside on the letterhead of Maurins and Catchpole, one of Britain’s largest law firms. The letter confirms the validity of the transaction and certifies that the bonds are in existence as stated. That’s all the verification you should need.”

As they dined Brian asked Weisenberg what sort of business he was in. The man said he was a facilitator for the party who owned the bonds. He received a fee for deals he closed.

“Will these bonds pass a certified audit by an accounting firm if they’re on my books?”

“A yearend certified audit? I wouldn’t do that. In reality you’ll never have them that long. This is what you have to keep in mind – you’re borrowing these bonds for a very short period of time. That will be clear to anyone reviewing your books since you didn’t actually have $25 million on hand to pay for them. The transaction is perfectly legitimate. It just needs to be on and off your books as expeditiously as possible. And definitely during a calendar quarter – not over the end of one.”

They left it that Weisenberg would be in touch in a week or so. As Brian walked back to the gallery he realized he had no way to contact the man himself. No business card, no phone number, nothing.

Chapter Fifteen

Brian left a voicemail for Nicole to call so he could go over the Israeli bond deal. Collette copied the documents Chaim Weisenberg had given him. He added a cover letter and overnighted them to Nicole.

He didn’t hear from her that night, although he checked his cell phone every hour or so to make sure he hadn’t missed the call. He knew she had a deposition – it must have run overtime. His mind began to wander; what if the client had taken her to dinner or maybe they were working late at her office?

He had to force himself to concentrate on something besides her. He got Chinese food delivered at ten pm and finally went to bed, wondering why Nicole was so busy she couldn’t return his call.

The next morning when he checked his cell and office phones. No messages, no voicemails. Around noon he couldn’t wait any longer. He called her again.

Nicole’s assistant said, “She’s not in yet. She’s pretty tied up with this deposition and I think she and the client were huddled up somewhere last night working on strategies. It’s a big case.”

Brian wanted to ask who the client was, but what did it really matter?

“OK,” he said as cheerfully as he could. “It’s nothing, really. I Fedexed a package yesterday. Just ask her to call when she takes a look at it.”

Ryan confirmed that the package was there and promised he’d give it to her first thing.

Darius returned from a trip to Chicago the evening before. Today he and Brian met for an hour so Brian could hear the latest on a deal to sell an Etruscan vase to the Field Museum. Darius was excited about this opportunity, citing the positive press that resulted from Bijan’s sales to major museums.

Darius asked if anything eventful had happened while he was out and Brian told him about the revelation from John Spedino that there were three relics that could be acquired. He kept to himself the Israeli bonds and that Bijan might briefly become the owner of the items. He rationalized that he didn’t fully understand the transaction himself, so now wasn’t the time to explain it to his partner. But he also knew he was consciously withholding important information.

Darius reacted differently than Brian had expected. His eyes darkened and narrowed and for the first time ever he raised his voice at Brian.

“Do you know who John Spedino is? Do you know how dangerous it is to even talk to a man like John Spedino?”

Brian stammered a response. “I’m not saying we’re going to be partners with the guy. I’m saying he’s got a legitimate deal for us to be part of, that’ll give us more press than the Inkharaton deal ever did.”

“I absolutely forbid you from talking to John Spedino again!” The man’s voice cracked as he continued. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him. He’s dangerous. You need to start fresh with Bijan. Don’t play with fire.”

Without another word he walked out of Brian’s office.

Brian could hardly believe what he’d just seen. He knew Darius had done deals that, to put it mildly, wouldn’t pass a close inspection. Darius had told him about artifacts from questionable backgrounds, things he thought might have been stolen, but he bought them anyway because on the surface things looked OK. Brian also knew John Spedino received an invitation to the auction. That could only have come from Darius Nazir himself.

What was going on? What about Brian’s conversation with the godfather made his partner so upset?

Darius often told Brian to rely on his gut. He wanted this deal to work and his gut was telling him to go for it. He had to prove to Darius that he could perform on his own. And he would.

Chapter Sixteen

Darius Nazir was furious. He left Brian’s office and stormed out of the gallery. He went a couple of blocks to the Peninsula Hotel and sat at a table in the lobby. He made a call on his cell phone. John Spedino answered.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing, involving my new man in one of your projects?” Darius hissed. “It’s bad enough I’m involved with you. Now you’re pulling Brian into your deals too!”

“Wait a moment, Darius. If it weren’t for me and my deals, as you call them, you wouldn’t have met Brian Sadler in the first place, so you wouldn’t have his million and a half personal investment. Nor would you have $4 million of public money that Warren Taylor and Currant raised for you. Thanks to me this archaeology buff got the investment proposal from Bijan Rarities in the first place. Thanks to me WT&C did the offering without hesitating. Keep all that in mind, my high and mighty friend, and remember that you have deals of your own. Think about whether you want Sadler involved in those.”

“Listen to me, Johnny. Back off this transaction now. Stay away from Brian Sadler. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years. Keep your greasy hands off him.”

There was silence on the phone for perhaps thirty seconds. Then John Spedino said calmly, “Darius, if you ever call me Johnny again, I’ll send someone around to talk to you. You know what I mean. You’ve seen my people talk to others. What nerve you have, telling me what to do. And calling me greasy. Are you trying to make me angry?”

Then his voice turned hard, cold. “You would be nothing without me, you little prick. You needed help with money and I helped you. Not once, but over and over. Now your prestigious little gallery and Brian Sadler are going to help me.”

“You leave me no choice. I’ve dealt with you too long already. I’m not going to be your hostage any more. Maybe you can take me down, Johnny. I’m not scared of you. You won’t take the firm and Brian Sadler down. I won’t let it happen.”

He hung up.

-----

By five pm the man who would cause Darius Nazir to die had spent a half hour looking at the alleys behind Nazir’s apartment building. Earlier today the man received a call and began to prepare for the job he was assigned. He learned that Nazir ate dinner out every evening around 7:30. Armed with a photo, the man stood at the intersection of Park Avenue and 86th Street, half a block away from Darius’ building and watched until he left.

Shortly thereafter the intruder used a lock pick and easily gained access to the building through a back entrance in the alley. He took a service elevator to Nazir’s floor and was in his flat in seconds.

The man had a number of ways he could do his job. He hoped for the best – the easiest way. Medicine bottles sat by the bathroom sink. One had large capsules filled with liquid. The label said, “Take three before bedtime.”

Excellent. The man counted five capsules in the bottle. He took one, held it in his gloved hand and injected it with liquid in a syringe he took from his pocket.

There was no guarantee Darius Nazir would take his medication tonight or that one of the three he took today would be the right one. In a day or two he’d take the right pill. Death would occur within a couple of hours, leaving no suspicion of foul play.

Chapter Seventeen

Brian spent the afternoon in his office. He went through the contents of Weisenberg’s envelope – a description of how a sample transaction worked, photocopies of the bearer bonds themselves, a sample transfer document and the letter of attestation from the London law firm.

He read everything, made notes and laid out the transaction in a flowchart. That made it easier to understand. It was nearly six when he finally took a break. He had to tell Darius good night – this had been their first argument and Brian wanted to smooth things over.

Collette and Jason were closing things up. She had just shut the vault and set its alarm.

“Is Darius here?”

“He left around noon, right after he talked with you. We haven’t seen him since. I presume he had errands to run since he just got in from Chicago. Should I try to reach him on his cell?”

Brian said he’d catch up with him in the morning.

He put on his overcoat and muffler and walked out into a light snowfall. He checked his cell phone once again to see if he could have missed Nicole’s call. As he held it in his hand it rang. He saw her name and number displayed.

“Hey. I thought you’d forgotten about me.” As they talked he made his way toward the Lexington Avenue subway station.

He words were clipped. “I’ve been busy, Brian. I read these documents you sent me. What the hell is all this about?”

“What do you mean?”

“My God. Borrowing somebody’s bearer bonds? Who in hell would do that? If this deal blew up, whoever did this would be stuck holding a huge bag of problems.”

Brian’s intention had been to explain Spedino’s proposition to acquire the ancient relics. Instead he said, “I was talking to a guy the other day and he told me about this method of using assets short-term. I thought the firm might borrow some assets, make a major acquisition, pre-sell the deal to a client before we buy it and be paid by the buyer, all in a matter of days. Sounded like a win-win deal to me.”

“Are you serious? This sounds like a wishy-washy deal to me. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Who the hell dreamed this up? If you have a guaranteed pre-sold deal just take it to the bank and they’ll loan you the money.”

His explanation was weak but he hardly understood it himself. He tried to make it simple, as much for his own edification as hers.

If a theoretical opportunity required $25 million, Bijan’s bank wouldn’t loan that much because something could go wrong, leaving the gallery at risk of default. But a huge deal carried with it the opportunity for Bijan to make a correspondingly huge profit, he rationalized.

She wasn’t buying it. “Here’s a little free advice for you. If it looks too good to be true, it usually is. You can choose to take my advice or leave it – it’s up to you – but to say this kind of deal is out of the ordinary would be a massive understatement. Even more dangerous, you say a traditional bank won’t loan the money because of the risk! Red flags everywhere! Do you see where I’m coming from?”

Of course she was right. He tried to rationalize, explaining that he was merely considering every opportunity that came along. He casually ended that discussion with a blatant lie.

“There’s nothing we’d need that kind of money for anyway. I’m just thinking about the future.”

He changed the subject. “I thought you might return my call last night.”

She told him she was in a deposition with a client who owned one of Texas’ largest private oil companies. The Federal Equal Employment Opportunity Commission sued him, alleging he employed illegal aliens.

“He’ll lose a couple of million dollars if the EEOC prevails. We’ve been working night and day to get his testimony nailed down. But it’s nice you missed me.”

He was overcome with jealousy as he listened to how she worked so closely with another man. He pushed for information, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He asked if she and the client had gone to dinner last night.

“No, Brian. We skipped dinner completely. We went over to his place and screwed until after midnight. I was so exhausted I couldn’t talk so I didn’t call you. Satisfied now?”

Brian stopped walking suddenly, thrown by her flippant answer. A pedestrian nearly ran into his back, giving him a gesture as he stormed around Brian on the busy sidewalk.

Nobody said anything for a few seconds. At last she spoke tersely. “I’m a lawyer. I have clients and I have to work late sometimes. I’m also a red-blooded American female. I have drinks with guys now and then. I have dinner with guys now and then. We agreed that we would do that since we’re so far apart. I’m not screwing my clients so lighten up on the junior high jealousy. I’d rather be with you but I’m not. So long as we both want to keep up this here-today-gone-tomorrow relationship, we have to live with being apart.”

He crossed Park Avenue as a cold wind picked up and the streetlights came on. “I don’t like this. Come up here this weekend. I miss the hell out of you.”

“I miss the hell out of you too. Christmas is next week. You’re coming home, right?” Both his family and hers were in Texas, so he’d undoubtedly be there over the holidays.

“Yeah, but with your schedule I feel like I need an appointment to spend a day with you.”

She laughed and said she’d reduce her rates for him. “I’ll call you in a day or two, but I have to go now.” She had to attend a cocktail party at the office of the firm’s largest client, a major South American oil cartel. “I’ll be home late but don’t worry about me. I’ll be good if you will. Let’s spend some quality time together next week when you’re here.”

Another cocktail party. Another client. Another chance to lose this girl.

“Good night, Nicole.”

“I miss you a bunch, baby. See you soon.”

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning Brian arrived at the gallery earlier than usual. It was the week before Christmas and there was a major sale in the works. A long-time customer who ran a large mutual fund had stopped by to look at a gold necklace once worn by Anne Boleyn. Although not ancient by Bijan’s standards, it was a truly historic piece that the firm had on consignment from a client in London. The provenance for the piece was a portrait painted in 1535, the year before Anne literally lost her head when Henry VIII decided it was time for a new wife. In that painting she was wearing this same necklace.

A London conservator confirmed the piece dated to the sixteenth century. That was enough for most collectors. The mutual fund executive had an appointment this morning for his third and perhaps final visit to view the $1.5 million necklace.

A half hour before the customer’s appointment Darius still hadn’t arrived. Coming in late without calling was unprecedented – missing this appointment was unbelievable. They also couldn’t reach him by phone – it went straight to voicemail.

At 10:30 the customer arrived and Brian spent an hour with him in a private viewing room. The fund manager used a jeweler’s loupe to examine the piece and examined the paperwork that authenticated it. He’d seen all this before, but there was no place for buyer’s remorse on a purchase this large.

They consummated the purchase at $1.3 million. This would be a stunning Christmas gift for his wife, the man said. Brian heartily agreed.

A good Christmas gift for Bijan as well, Brian thought. The profit to the firm on this item would be over four hundred thousand dollars. The man took Bijan’s wire transfer information and set a time to pick up the necklace the following day. He left to arrange the money transfer and purchase insurance on the priceless piece. Until then it would remain in Bijan’s vault.

By mid-afternoon Collette, Jason and Brian were very concerned about Darius. There had been no word whatsoever, which was totally unlike him. Brian sent Jason to Darius’ apartment house while Collette called hospitals in Manhattan. She got nowhere, and neither did Jason.

The doorman at Darius’ residence hadn’t seen him all day. He had sent the super upstairs to ring Nazir’s doorbell. No one had answered and they weren’t allowed to enter the apartment.

Brian called Darius’ son Christopher Nazir, an internist in San Francisco. Brian told the receptionist it was an emergency and Christopher answered quickly. Darius had not been in the gallery today and they couldn’t reach him, Brian told the physician.

“Have you heard from him?” Brian asked.

The doctor hadn’t but said he would call his brother and phone Brian right back.

Within ten minutes Brian knew there had been no contact. He and Christopher agreed Brian should call the police and they exchanged cell phone numbers.

Around five pm a plainclothes detective from the Eighteenth Precinct rang the front buzzer. Collette admitted a modern version of Columbo dressed in a gray suit and a heavy black wool topcoat. He dusted snowflakes off and Jason took his coat. Brian introduced himself and the man said, “I’m Detective Simon Patterson. Is there some place we can talk?”

They went to Brian’s office. He gave the detective as much information as he could about Darius – his home address, home and cell numbers and contact information for his sons. The officer asked about Darius’ typical routine on a workday. Brian explained that today’s sale had been extremely important. Darius wouldn’t have missed that appointment without calling. He described the fruitless visit to Darius’ home and Collette’s calls to area hospitals.

The detective asked Brian about himself, how long he had been with Bijan and how he had come to be there. He asked about the ownership of the gallery and how it was doing financially. He told Brian he might need financial statements.

Brian was surprised. “Why are you asking all these questions that have nothing to do with the man who’s missing?”

There are lots of possible reasons for a person to disappear and it was his job to think about all of them, the cop replied. Sometimes people disappeared when things were going badly. Other times people disappeared when things were going well but someone wanted them gone.

Brian assured him the gallery was doing very well financially and promised balance sheets and income statements if the detective wanted them.

After an hour they wrapped up. The detective explained they must wait twenty-four hours from the last known contact before they could use force to enter Mr. Nazir’s home. Later this evening they’d do that if he hadn’t been found beforehand.

“You’ve been very helpful,” the policeman continued. “I may need to talk to you again soon. Do you plan to be in the City over the holidays?”

Brian said he would be in New York until the middle of next week, when he was flying to Texas for Christmas. He and the detective exchanged contact numbers. Patterson left with a promise to call when he had information.

Chapter Nineteen

Brian left the subway station for Gramercy Park as his cell phone rang. It was Christopher Nazir.

“My brother Tom and I are coming on the redeye tonight. We’ll be at JFK tomorrow morning at 6:30.” They agreed to meet up at the gallery around ten.

At 2:45 am Brian awoke from a fitful sleep, filled with disturbing dreams he couldn’t quite recall. His phone was ringing.

“This is Detective Patterson, Mr. Sadler. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. We’ve found Mr. Nazir’s body.” Brian fell back in bed, tears welling in his eyes.

The police went to Nazir’s East 86th Street apartment after his meeting with Brian, but got no response from repeated knocking. Once the twenty-four-hour timeframe ended the super used his passkey. That was around midnight.

Nazir appeared to have died in his sleep. Initial post-mortem examination by the medical examiner indicated he’d been dead for maybe 24 hours and there were no visible signs of trauma.

Brian told him that Nazir’s two sons were en route to New York and furnished their cell numbers. The detective said he would get the final medical examiner’s report in a few days but it looked as though death was from natural causes. He would post a uniformed officer at the scene until the sons arrived and determined where the body should be taken. Then Patterson wanted to meet with them to close his investigation.

Brian hung up, dialed Christopher Nazir’s cell and left a voicemail for him to call as soon as their plane landed.

There was no more sleeping that night. Around four Brian gave up. He turned on his TV and sat transfixed on his couch, hearing nothing and thinking only about what would happen to Bijan Rarities now that Darius was gone. Brian couldn’t possibly afford to buy Nazir’s stake so it was certain Brian would shortly be finding something else to do. Nazir’s sons would sell the gallery. With Brian’s limited experience in the business, it wasn’t likely new owners would be as enthused about him as Darius had been.

He recalled wistfully how much fun it was to go to work every morning. Life today was just the opposite of the turmoil at WT&C. He was so happy traveling around the world to make acquisitions for such a respected gallery – his gallery – that working anywhere else was almost unthinkable. Now, however, the clock would start ticking. His time at Bijan was nearly over.

Chapter Twenty

Christopher called Brian as soon as the plane landed at JFK. Brian gave him the news and offered heartfelt condolences at the loss of their father. Christopher decided they’d go directly to their father’s apartment instead of coming to the gallery. Later today the men would meet with Brian.

When Collette and Jason arrived at the gallery, they hugged and cried together, mourning the loss of an employer, a business partner and a good friend. Each tried to work but ended up remembering Darius with a few long-time customers who dropped by after hearing the news. It was hard for Brian – he felt enormous pain and sadness. He would miss Darius Nazir very much. He would also miss the opportunity this unique man had given him.

At 2:30 pm Christopher rang and made arrangements to meet at the gallery. Collette and Jason had met them previously; they hugged the brothers and more tears were shed. Brian was surprised at how much they resembled their father. He told them sincerely how much Brian’s mentor and friend had meant to him.

Brian wasn’t sure what the subject of conversation would be so he seated them in his office and waited for them to begin. Christopher said Detective Patterson asked if there would be an autopsy. Given the circumstances of his death, they decided against it. His body had been taken to a funeral home. Tom Nazir explained that his father wasn’t a religious man. He would be cremated and a memorial service held Monday at the funeral parlor.

Tom told Brian his father spoke of him and commented on the sincere friendship Darius and Brian had forged in such a short time.

“My father is a fairly private man but we could hear the delight in his voice every time we talked. Once you arrived he was truly happy, which he hadn’t been in a long time, perhaps even since our mother died.”

The Nazir brothers revealed astonishing news to Brian. Just in the past month their father had made provisions for succession. He’d told his sons he had done this only after he was convinced Brian was the right partner for him and the gallery.

“The company owns a $5 million life insurance policy on my father,” Christopher explained. “It’s payable to his estate for the sole purpose of repurchasing his stock.”

Brian sat dazed as he heard what his partner had done for him. It was a simple plan – once the gallery paid $5 million to Darius Nazir’s estate, the share certificate owned by Nazir would be cancelled, leaving Brian with nearly seventy percent of the shares, everything not owned by the public. That majority interest meant Brian had absolute control of the company.

A simple solution, Brian reflected, put into place by a very generous man. Darius had created a way for Brian to own the gallery without having to pay anything. And he hadn’t even mentioned it to Brian. He sobbed uncontrollably, his head in his hands. “I can’t believe it. An hour ago I had no idea what I’d do next. What a gift your father left me. What an incredible man.”

Tom spoke softly. “He was, for sure. It’s exactly what my father wanted for you. He would be so proud to have you carry on the Bijan tradition.”

They talked for another half hour, then the Nazir brothers left to visit relatives and prepare for the funeral of their beloved father.

Chapter Twenty-One

Bijan Rarities was closed Monday for Darius Nazir’s funeral. Once it was over Brian turned on his phone and saw a text message.

“Payback completed.”

Suddenly he was lightheaded. He swayed and Collette grabbed his arm. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Are you all right?”

“Yes…yes, I’m OK,” Brian stammered, pocketing his phone. “I…I just…”

At that moment John Spedino approached him, extending his hand. “My condolences at the passing of Mr. Nazir.”

Jumbled thoughts swirled through Brian’s head. First there’s a cryptic text message. Then Spedino appears thirty seconds later. Brian didn’t say a word. He just stared at the godfather, speechless.

Spedino turned and walked to the curb. His driver opened the car door for him and they drove away.

That afternoon Brian took his cell phone to a computer center and asked a technician how he could tell the number from which the message was sent.

The tech checked a few settings and said, “It appears to have been sent from a blocked number in the 306 area code.” He looked at a cross-reference guide. “That’s Saskatchewan, Canada.”

As he walked back Brian thought about the earlier calls from the man with the gravelly voice. They seemed to have come from all over. Anyone could route a call to hide its origin by using Skype or something else. Just like those calls, there was no way to know where the text originated.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The death of Darius Nazir started a new chapter in the life of Brian Sadler. In less than seven months he had gone from investment banker to business owner. For a boy from Longview, Texas, he had come a long, long way. Sitting alone in the darkened showroom after the funeral, gray afternoon slowly turning to drizzly winter evening, he looked around him at the gallery Darius Nazir had created, a thriving business that now was his. Thoughts swirled through his head.

It was Monday, December 18. Christmas day was a week away and he found himself randomly moving from highs to lows in his mind. Things had happened almost too easily: one day he worked for Darius. The next, thanks to a fortuitous set of events, he owned the gallery. One day he was a guy still learning the ropes, next day he was the boss, calling the shots.

Once again he recalled the words on his cell phone. Was someone saying they’d killed Darius to pave his way to becoming Bijan’s owner? The police said Nazir died of natural causes. If there had been any hint of foul play wouldn’t the detective have been all over it? Now the body was gone, cremated. None of that made sense anyway. Who would want to kill Darius Nazir?

Brian put aside the negative thoughts and began thinking about Christmas.

Nicole called to see how he was doing. She would like to have been with him but her trial couldn’t be delayed. At the time of Darius’ funeral she was in a courtroom defending her client.

Earlier they’d talked about Darius’ generous method for Brian to assume ownership of Bijan. Today they spoke of the generosity of the man she’d come to enjoy and appreciate spending time with. He had been a true friend and a great partner.

He didn’t tell her about the cryptic “payback” message. Maybe later, he thought, once he figured it out himself.

Tonight they discussed the holidays. Her office and Bijan would both be closed Friday through Tuesday. He’d fly to Dallas Thursday night and stay with her. By late Friday he would go home to Longview, about a hundred miles east. She would go see her dad in Fort Worth, then fly to Houston on Saturday to spend the holiday with her mother and sister. They’d meet back up in Dallas on Christmas night and he would fly to New York on Tuesday.

“Get some rest, honey,” Nicole said. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure and now you’ve got a new set of things to think about as the sole owner of the gallery. I’m pleased for you, and I can’t wait to see you. Just a few more days!”

Brian took a quiet, dark walk through the gallery, thinking of Darius everywhere he looked. Finally he locked up and walked to Peking Duck House on 53rd Street. It was the place Darius had taken him the day they met and it had become his favorite Chinese restaurant. He considered it a fitting place to be on the day of Darius’ funeral.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Thursday came and Brian headed to Texas for Christmas. He picked up a rental car at DFW and drove to Nicole’s apartment. She’d only been home a few minutes when he arrived but she’d worked fast. She had his XO martini waiting. They had been apart for weeks and there was a brief period of hesitation. Nicole had consciously decided not to bring up the bearer bond proposition he’d outlined. We don’t have much time together, she thought. Let’s save business for later.

They talked about dinner, decided neither was that hungry and shortly ended up where they both wanted to be, naked and entwined in her bed.

Friday morning was crisp and cold. Nicole went for a run most mornings. Today Brian joined her, noting how few cars there were on the streets. A lot of people had obviously already started a long Christmas weekend. They ended up at Starbucks for coffee and then walked a block back to her place.

“I’d like you to open your gift,” she said, back in bed with the morning paper and a fresh cup of coffee. She handed him an envelope. “It’s not much, but I think it’s something you’ll like.”

Brian tore it open. Out fell two tickets to what had been advertised everywhere as the Honest-to-God, last ever, Pink Floyd Final Concert. Entertainment websites said the concert, scheduled for London in the spring, was the hardest event in history to snag a ticket for.

“Incredible! I can’t believe it! How on earth did you get these?”

“I know what a fan you are from the posters are on your bedroom wall, and I’ve obviously been in your bedroom,” she laughed. “The firm represents a company that booked the concert and I was able to get two tickets. Do you like my gift?”

“It’s fantastic! I can hardly wait. But there are two tickets. I wonder who I can get to go with me?”

She hit him on the arm and jumped on top of him. “I’m going with you unless you have some little twenty-something up there in New York you’re hiding away.”

“Well, I guess I have to take you. After all, you gave me the tickets. Seriously, thanks so much. This will be a wonderful trip.” He kissed her deeply.

He pulled an envelope from his computer case by the bed. “Now open your present.”

“Another envelope? You’re copying me!”

Inside was a booklet Brian had created on his computer. The front cover said, “Join me at the 4-S Resort.”

Nicole stared at it for a minute. “The 4-S Resort? I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?”

“Keep going.”

The first page had a big S, and a clip art picture showing snow falling. “So the first S is snow,” she said. The next page featured another big S and a picture of people skiing.

“Oh, boy!” She turned the page. There was another S and a scenic shot of the Alps. At the bottom were the words, “Welcome to Switzerland.” Now she was really excited. She turned to the last page.

The last big S had no picture. At the bottom were small words that said, “Let’s go to Switzerland and Ski in the Snow. When we get back to our room, I bet you can figure out what the fourth S is.”

She looked at him, laughing. “Yeah, I would say our sex is so good it deserves a capital S.”

“You got it, babe.”

She turned to him, pulling off her sweatshirt and unhooking her sports bra. “That’s a great present, sweetie. And you’re so incredibly clever, making the book yourself. I just love the idea of a ski vacation! I’ve never been to Switzerland, but I’m ready to go with you whenever we can work it out.”

She tugged down her sweatpants and panties, kicking them off onto the floor. “Get your clothes off, buddy. Let’s practice on the last S, then we can talk about when we’re going skiing!”

Part Four

Chapter One

Eze Village, French Riviera

Eze Village is a beautiful medieval town situated high on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The busy Moyenne Corniche, one of three main roads between Nice and the principality of Monaco, runs below it. Tourists come to see the ruins of the twelfth century castle and have lunch at taverns along the town’s narrow winding streets.

The man sat outdoors, sipping coffee and reading Le Monde, as was his routine. He lived nearby and walked here every day. He didn’t notice two men standing half a block down the little street. They used a photo to confirm his identity and then crossed the street.

There were only a few patrons sitting in the outdoor restaurant at this early hour. The man looked up from his newspaper as they approached.

“Francois Rochefort,” one said, “we are from the Surete and you are under arrest.”

Chapter Two

Including the long weekend they spent in London for the Pink Floyd Final Concert, Brian and Nicole managed to see each other only four times in five months. Twice Brian returned from a trip to Europe on the American flight to Dallas instead of going to New York. They spent the weekend together those times. She had had a business trip to New York once and went a second time on the spur of the moment.

The date for their ski trip had been set and postponed twice. They finally decided to put it off until the fall because of the difficulty coordinating their schedules. Nicole and Brian talked about where things were going with them. They decided their relationship, if it could be called that, was far less than ideal, but with their careers, if it were meant to be, it’d happen.

One evening in New York Nicole said, “If we’re supposed to be together then it’ll all work out. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.”

Brian snorted, agreeing that this beat nothing, but not by much. Neither of them could see a way to change things so things stayed as they were.

Chapter Three

In mid-February Chaim Weisenberg left Brian a message, asking him to call regarding “The Project.”

Interesting, Brian thought. That was John Spedino’s code name for the bond deal. How did Weisenberg know the name since he’d said he didn’t know the godfather? At this point it really didn’t matter. Brian was confident everything would be fine, and he no longer had a reluctant partner to convince.

The bonds were ready for transfer whenever Brian executed the paperwork, Weisenberg told him. The transaction would take about ten days from start to finish.

Brian had heard nothing from Spedino about the relics themselves. The rumors of the existence of a Bethlehem scroll, an account of Christ’s birth, surfaced from time to time. And in the past couple of weeks a man had called from Cairo asking for Darius. Brian looked him up in Darius’ massive Rolodex as he explained that Darius had passed away and he was now owner of the gallery.

The Egyptian responded, “But I do not know you. We must meet when you are next in Egypt. Until then, I will say that I have some information about a scroll naming Jesus himself that may become available. I will tell you no more until we can meet.”

Collette had been urging Brian to make a trip to Egypt. “You’ve met so many of our contacts and sources already, but only in Western Europe and China. I can set all your appointments. In a week you can establish a relationship with everyone Mr. Nazir dealt with in Egypt.”

Soon Collette had set up an appointment for Brian with the man from Egypt. The new owner of Bijan Rarities would be in Cairo soon.

Salid Mushtaf spent hours considering how best to approach the sale of the rarities. He was merely an intermediary but he knew who owned the three relics. He placed a call to the man. As always, the man’s voice shook Salid for a fleeting moment. It was rough, gravelly and menacing – impossible to overlook.

Salid said he could help him sell the relics. Without admitting he had them, he replied, “What business is this of yours?”

Salid was in contact with one of the top galleries in the world, he said. It was a firm that could and would purchase the items.

The man laughed. “You? Do you think a man like yourself has contacts that I do not already have?” Then the man paused. “Perhaps a worm like yourself may have value to me after all. Meet the person from this gallery. If you have anything interesting afterwards, call me at once.” He hung up, leaving Salid to wonder if his having made the call was a good idea or not.

Chapter Four

Three weeks later Brian sat in the lobby of the Nile Hilton. Tastefully decorated in white marble, the expansive area was a quiet haven from the bustling activity just outside the front doors. He wore a tan linen suit with a yellow tie. He had described what he would wear to the man he was meeting. Soon someone approached him – a man wearing a white galabeyeh and a light blue scarf on his head.

“Mr. Sadler?”

Brian stood, introduced himself and asked if they should move into the bar for a drink.

“Not for me, sir. I am a practicing Muslim and I must abstain in order to be ready for evening prayers shortly.”

So they sat in the lobby. The man said his name was Salid Mushtaf. He asked Brian about Darius. He said how much he had respected Nazir, a fellow Egyptian and a man of integrity in his dealings.

“I have located artifacts for him. I have given him clues about the whereabouts of others. I have passed along rumors. He has always generously rewarded me for whatever thing I did to help him. He made we Egyptians, his fellow countrymen, proud to be associated with him.”

Brian had heard similar comments from others. Nazir had played the relics game close to the edge – even over it sometimes. Regardless, he treated his contacts well, paying careful attention to those who could help most. In turn they might call him first when that unique artifact appeared.

After coffee and small talk about America, Brian eased into the topic.

“Tell me about the Bethlehem Scroll.”

Mushtaf looked all around him and lowered his voice to a whisper, even though there were only a dozen other people in the massive lobby, none nearby. He told Brian that there was a man who had three relics associated with the birth of Jesus.

“One is a scroll like the others found near the Dead Sea. The second is a small piece of parchment which describes the third thing, a coin said to have been held by Jesus himself.”

The astonishment on Brian’s face was not lost on his guest. Excellent, Salid thought to himself.

“These things will be very costly, Sahib,” the Arab said, using the traditional term of respect. “I am a humble man. I know how to acquire the relics and for my knowledge you must pay me one hundred thousand American dollars.” As he spoke, Salid glanced around the lobby again, obviously nervous.

Brian followed his eyes, wondering what he was looking for. “That’s a great deal of money. I have other brokers who have told me a similar story. Unfortunately I doubt I can pay that much for your information.”

Brian asked how the owner of the relics had gotten them.

“I am not at liberty to say.” Salid’s evasive answer worried Brian. Third party information was always suspect. Did this man really know where the items were? Or was he merely trying to extort a fee? Darius had dealt with Salid successfully two times in the past. Those deals involved funerary relics from twenty-second dynasty tombs. They were paltry compared to the potential value of the Bethlehem relics. But then if the scrolls and coin were real, there had never been a sale that would rival this transaction.

Brian said that authentication of the relics was the key to determining his interest in making the purchase. Authenticity was not a problem, the man replied. Brian asked if he had seen the artifacts personally.

The Egyptian dodged the question. “All things in good time. I will contact you when the time is right.” He glanced right and left again, wary of everyone around him.

“I must go now.” The man stood and hurried out of the hotel to the busy street.

It was doubtful this shabbily-dressed individual really had anything to do with the relics themselves. Salid was a man who had information, perhaps enough to generate a small fee for himself. Most likely Brian would pay something and Salid would introduce him to whoever had the relics.

He walked toward the elevators to go to his room and check emails. As he passed the front desk a man called his name. Brian saw Phillip Edmonds, Sotheby’s primary acquisitions man for ancient Middle Eastern items. Edmonds was headquartered in London – Brian had met him twice in the past few months, most recently when they both were at a sale at Sotheby’s in New York. Brian considered him a fierce competitor and went on guard immediately.

“Checking in?” Brian asked as they shook hands.

“In fact I am. Fancy meeting you here. What’s up in your world?”

“Just working on some deals.”

The desk clerk handed Edmonds his passkey. He took it and said, “Want to join me in a cup of tea?”

Brian agreed and Edmonds dropped his luggage at the concierge desk so they could put the bags in his room. The men walked toward the restaurant just as the front door of the Hilton flew open and the doorman shouted in Egyptian.

“My God,” Edmonds said. “He just ordered the front desk clerk to call an ambulance!”

They walked to the door. A crowd had gathered a block away from the hotel where the short street serving it adjoined the bustling Nile Corniche. Brian and Phillip walked up the block. A policeman had just arrived at the corner and was pushing his way through the throng.

“What happened here?” the officer asked.

Phillip translated his response. “A man was struck by a hit and run driver. This is extremely common in Cairo, I’m afraid. No one watches the pedestrians and no one controls the maniacs who drive.”

The policeman gestured with a nightstick for the throng to move back. Brian looked at the figure lying on the ground. His galabeyeh was bloody but Brian immediately recognized the light blue head adornment. Salid Mushtaf’s body was twisted grotesquely.

“I…I just had a meeting with that man. Should I tell the policeman who he is?”

“My advice? Keep out of it. If you say anything you’ll spend the rest of today at the police station. Who is he, anyway?”

Brian hesitated. “Someone who said he had some information for me.”

“About the Bethlehem Scroll?”

Brian jerked his head around and stared at Edmonds.

“Hey, old man,” Phillip said, taking Brian’s arm lightly as they returned to the hotel. “You have a lot to learn about this business. It’s a small world out there, especially in Egyptian circles. Who was this guy? Was it Ahmed? Mohammed? Salid?”

The names were people with whom Collette had arranged appointments. “Yes, Salid,” he responded quietly.

They heard a siren and stood in front of the Hilton as an ambulance arrived. Medics lifted Salid’s body onto a gurney, covered it with a sheet and rolled it into the vehicle. The ambulance moved back into traffic, no siren now required.

Brian was stunned, his face ashen. Edmonds noticed and said, “Come on. Let’s have that cup of tea. Or better yet, a drink. You need to get hold of yourself.”

Over a glass of wine Phillip said, “I’m sure you and Salid were talking about what he knew, or said he knew, about the Bethlehem Scroll. I had a meeting set up with Salid tomorrow too, so don’t feel too privileged, old chap.”

“But do you think there’s any significance to Salid’s accident and our meeting just moments before?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It was a coincidence, I’m sure. I’d wager ten or twenty people a day die in Cairo after being struck by cars. You were unfortunate enough to have witnessed one first-hand.”

Changing the subject, Phillip explained that a network of people in northern Egypt made a living just watching and listening. Sometimes they had good intel, sometimes not. Darius, he said, was a master at dealing in Egypt, because he was a native and he was trusted.

“I was as shocked about Darius’ untimely passing as anyone, and he was the most formidable opponent I’ve ever had in this business. Frankly life will be easier without his one-upping me all the time.” He smiled gently and continued.

“Seriously, Darius was a good man. He played close to the edge most of the time, but he wasn’t ever a cheat. His word was his bond. You can’t ask much more than that.”

They talked about how small the world of Middle Eastern antiquities really was.

“I win some deals, I lose some to you or others. But we’re all gentlemen, graciously accepting our victories, and not crying over our defeats.”

They finished their drinks and promised to meet up again during the week if time permitted. That afternoon Brian instructed Collette to change the venue of his meetings. He had no intention of parading his guests into the lobby for Phillip Edmonds to see, and he was sure Edmonds wouldn’t either. He also told her about the death of Salid Mushtaf.

Collette moved Brian’s meetings to the Sheraton Cairo hotel in Galae Square. Over the next three days, Brian met ten other people. Some were dealers; others were middlemen, intermediaries who might facilitate a deal between a willing buyer and seller. Although the Bethlehem Scroll was of paramount interest to Brian, he didn’t bring it up with these men because he knew what would happen.

They would feign knowledge, gathering as much information from Brian as they could, then they would go into the marketplace and try to find out how to locate these relics. If they didn’t bring the subject up themselves, his doing it would just muddy the waters.

On Thursday evening Brian met Phillip for a quick drink. They kept the conversation light and neither discussed his activities during this week in Egypt. When Phillip left for a dinner meeting Brian had a steak and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in the hotel’s dining room and then went upstairs to pack for his departure the next morning.

Brian was taking the Delta flight to Paris and changing planes for New York, arriving Friday evening. His wake-up call came sooner than he expected. As he groped around for the phone he glanced at the bedside clock. It showed 3:30, three hours earlier than the time he had requested.

He answered and heard the gravelly voice that had awakened him at this same time back in New York.

“I have the items you want. Go to the Muslim Quarter, to the entrance of the Citadel, at noon today.” The caller disconnected abruptly as usual.

Brian bolted out of bed, totally alert. His heart was racing. What was he getting into? There had been nothing good about the previous calls from the same gravel-voiced man. How did he know Brian was here? Or what items he sought? For that matter, what was he even talking about? The Bethlehem Scroll? Maybe. But he’d never said that.

It only took a minute for Brian to decide what to do. This was a meeting he couldn’t afford to miss.

Chapter Five

The concierge efficiently swapped Brian’s flights from Friday to Saturday. By mid-morning he was wandering the narrow, winding streets of the Muslim Quarter. Some were cobbled, others unpaved. Many people he passed held out their hands, asking for a coin. Others touched him lightly. Being an American used to his space, this very close proximity to people made him extremely uncomfortable.

He avoided eye contact and moved quickly along. He wanted to get to the Citadel early enough to figure exactly where he should go. He wondered how he would recognize his contact. He thought the caller’s accent was American, so he figured perhaps it would not be so difficult.

He moved through Old Town, as the area was known, with a map in his hand. The taxi had dropped him ten blocks from his destination so he could see the area, and he wondered now if that had been a bad decision. He consciously avoided the eastern fringe of the Muslim Quarter. The city’s worst slums were there and the concierge told him it was no place for a Westerner.

As he moved closer to the Citadel he found himself moving deeper and deeper along crowded streets full of ragged men, women and children, all pushing and shoving. He weaved his way through throngs of people who groped at his sleeves or touched his hands. At last he popped out onto the spacious square where the Citadel stood.

The building begun in 1170 by Salah-ad-Din, better known to westerners as Saladin, was built as a fortress against the invading Crusaders. Its commanding towers rose nearly a hundred feet. Brian walked to a ticket booth with signs in English and Arabic. He reached for money and realized his pocket had been picked, probably in the melee of people just before he got to the square. Thanks to prior planning he’d lost only a few Egyptian pounds.

He bent down, reached into the top of his sock and pulled out several twenty-pound notes. He bought a ticket and entered the massive fortress. There were hundreds of tourists milling about, most of whom were Westerners. He heard English being spoken everywhere and he wondered how he would ever link up with his contact. He found a shady spot and sat on a low wall.

Precisely at noon a short Egyptian in a galabeyeh approached him and said, “Mr. Sadler?”

Brian nodded and the man said, “Follow me, please.”

They walked out of the Citadel and crossed the square to a small restaurant filled with tourists. The man directed Brian to an empty outdoor table and said, “Wait here, please.” Brian took a seat and the man left.

Soon another man crossed the square. He was portly, wearing a faded suit that had been a lighter shade of tan years ago. A hat covered his face. He walked directly to the table and sat down. Brian looked at his face. The deep pockmarks were startling. Brian struggled to avoid looking surprised.

The man appeared not to notice. “You want the Bethlehem Scroll,” he said, his gravelly, raspy voice unmistakable to Brian.

“You! I want to know who’s behind those phone calls you’ve made to me.”

Without warning, the fat man slammed his hand down on the table. “You will not talk! You will listen!”

He pulled a sheaf of folded papers from inside his jacket. “This is a photocopy of the scroll. You may take this back to New York. Also I have given you copies of a rough translation. You may authenticate any way you wish.”

Brian opened the documents. The copy of the scroll was hard to read. Obviously the original was faded. It was filled with writing in a language that Brian thought might be either Aramaic or ancient Hebrew.

The other papers were copies of a notepad on which someone appeared to have taken a stab at translating the document.

“Where are these documents now?”

“Did you understand me when I told you not to talk? Say nothing to me. Nothing.”

“There are three items: the scroll, of which you have a copy and translation; a coin; and a scrap of parchment that identifies the coin as having been held by the newborn Yeshua. The price for these three items is twenty-five million U.S. dollars. It is not negotiable. You are the only person to whom I am making this offer at this time. If you do not purchase the items within thirty days, my offer is withdrawn. I will contact you on Friday, two weeks from today. You will tell me then if you are buying the items. If you, you will meet me here in Cairo exactly two weeks thereafter. I will provide instructions for the transfer when I speak to you in two weeks.”

The man stood. “Please do not be foolish, Mr. Sadler. Do not attempt to determine who I am or how I came to acquire the artifacts. You are in a truly unique position. Take advantage of it. If you fail to do so you will never see me or this opportunity again.”

Brian watched the man walk away. He turned immediately into one of the crowded side streets off the square. Brian paid the bill and hailed a taxi sitting in a queue near the Citadel. During the ride to the hotel, he recapped the man’s instructions and exactly what he had to do to make this all work.

Chapter Six

Brian could hardly contain his excitement as he read the translation on the plane home. When he got to his office he made another copy of the scroll document then used scissors to cut all but a few lines from it. He asked Collette to run the document over to New York University, where Bijan retained the services of a man who was fluent in several ancient languages.

The next day Brian received the confirmation he wanted. The translation was in fact from the Aramaic on the small portion of the scroll text Brian had sent over. He was bursting to share the news. He desperately wanted to disclose it with Collette and Jason, to tell them about the incredible good fortune that was coming to Bijan, but he had to keep things to himself. Collette knew everything about Bijan’s financial condition. She would question how the firm could afford to make this purchase. So he kept quiet.

He called Chaim Weisenberg and asked him to set in motion the Israeli bond rental in the amount of twenty-five million dollars. Since it was late July, Weisenberg suggested they date the transaction for August 1. That meant the bonds had to be on and off his books by mid-September at the very latest, to allow Bijan to present a clean balance sheet for its 9/30 quarterly report to the Securities and Exchange Commission.

Brian called the number John Spedino had given him.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling about The Project.” He told Spedino about his meeting in Cairo and the photocopies he’d gotten. “You need to see these to convince yourself of their authenticity before we move forward.”

Spedino’s casual response surprised Brian. “They’re real. How much is he asking for them?”

Brian told him and asked, “How do you know they’re real? You haven’t even seen them.”

Spedino ignored the question. “As we agreed, I’ll give you two million dollars’ profit, making my total purchase price $27 million. How’ve you arranged to take possession of the relics?”

Brian gave him the pockmarked man’s instructions.

“Call me the minute you have the artifacts. I’ll wire your money to Bijan’s account in London then you bring the items back to New York to me.”

Spedino gave him the name and number to call at First InterCity Bank. “Don’t call him until you have the bond documents and you’re ready to do the transaction.”

“You mentioned the favorable publicity which Bijan will get from this transaction,” Brian reminded Spedino. “Do I make an announcement that I’ve purchased the artifacts?”

Spedino said no. The announcement would come, he explained, but only after Brian handed the items over to the Church.

“I’m staying out of the picture. You can arrange publicity when you hand the scroll and the coin to the Archbishop of New York for delivery to the Vatican. He’ll be expecting your call.”

Afterwards, Brian was astonished at the trust Spedino had put in him and in the man from Egypt. He hadn’t hesitated a moment before declaring the items authentic, even though he couldn’t have seen them himself. He went through each part of this deal carefully and finally began to figure out what was going on.

Chapter Seven

The same day he received the Israeli bond documents Brian took them to the First InterCity Bank. His contact there gave the documents nothing more than a cursory glance. He opened a file and had Brian sign loan documents for $25 million, including a personal guarantee. Brian hesitated; as a matter of principle he refused to put himself personally at risk for the company’s dealings. Furthermore, John Spedino hadn’t mentioned anything about signing a personal guarantee.

“It’s merely a procedural thing,” the banker assured him. “It’s a requirement the bank has for every loan.”

This deal was foolproof so Brian ignored the danger of a personal guarantee and signed the documents. It made him a little queasy to sign for twenty-five million dollars. It was a good thing this was a done deal – he couldn’t have repaid that amount in a hundred years otherwise.

The whole thing was as simple as getting a car loan. Still his hand had shaken as he signed for more money than he had dreamed possible only months ago.

Brian gave the banker the wire transfer instructions for Bijan’s London account. He had decided the entire transaction would be done there instead of in New York. Perhaps it made no difference but in a pinch, at least an infraction of U.S. banking regulations couldn’t be hung around his neck. Once again suppressing the negative thoughts that seemed to surround this scroll acquisition, Brian optimistically forged on.

Within an hour First InterCity’s $25 million was in Bijan’s account. He instructed Collette to wire $250,000 to a bank account in the Isle of Man. That was Chaim Weisenberg’s first bond rental fee. Collette had no idea what the money was for, but Brian was the boss. Obviously he was working on another acquisition.

Brian awoke at 3:30 am the Friday morning that was two weeks after his meeting in Egypt with the pockmarked man. He stared at his cell phone but no call came.

Around ten that morning Collette advised Brian he had an overseas call. The raspy voice said, “Do we have a deal, Mr. Sadler?”

“You already know we do.”

There was silence for a moment. “Whatever you think you have figured out, remember this. Curiosity kills not only cats. And people who become too smart are liabilities, not assets.”

The man told him to be at the same restaurant outside the Citadel in two weeks and gave Brian instructions to transfer $25 million.

Chapter Eight

A few days later Brian received a call from an attaché with the Israeli Embassy in New York. The man said that the government had learned word that Bijan was acquiring artifacts found near the Dead Sea and attributed to Jesus that had been removed from Israel. The Ambassador wished to speak with Brian before the relics were sold. He concluded by saying, “It is our belief that these items may have been exported illegally from Israel.”

This could be a major problem. Brian told the man that he couldn’t comment about such artifacts or even confirm whether a transaction was imminent. He was certain this wasn’t the end to this inquiry.

Brian made a quick call to a lawyer he used for importation issues. Then he called John Spedino who confirmed that when the artifacts were delivered, original export documents signed by Israeli Customs would accompany them. Those documents made everything legal.

Chapter Nine

On the British Airways flight to Cairo, Brian ran through the scenario he now understood about this entire transaction. The first clue that something was fishy was a set of notes Brian had found in Darius Nazir’s desk.

John Spedino was far more than an occasional, indirect customer of the gallery. He had invested significant money in the venture and prior to the public offering Darius had bought him out. Even though Spedino was no longer an investor and partner, anyone who got into bed with a Mafia figure had to plan on staying there forever. There was never a way out. It was a deal with the devil, made for life. And Darius Nazir apparently had made it. Brian surmised that Nazir had paid the ultimate price. As concerning as all this was, it was Nazir’s problem, not Brian’s, he told himself.

The pockmarked man with the raspy voice must work for John Spedino. All of his calls and text messages were either veiled threats or payback announcements – things Brian had decided long ago were the orchestration of the mobster. But if the man from Cairo worked for Johnny Speed, why the need for this complicated set of financial transactions, where Spedino basically ended up paying $27 million for something he could have had for nothing?

The answer had come to Brian late one night. It was all a big, complicated money-laundering scheme – a way for Spedino to use clean money for a massive tax write-off. Brian figured John Spedino had stolen around $25 million from the Bellicose Holdings public offering. When Francois Rochefort, the puppet head of the company, disappeared with the company’s funds, everyone – even the FBI – believed the cash went to Spedino. But no one could ever prove it.

And now Spedino was paying $25 million plus a two million dollar kicker to Bijan for the privilege of buying artifacts he already owned. That purchase established that the scrolls and the coin had been purchased legitimately, and it created an established value in the marketplace for the relics. Both of those would be required in order for Spedino to make a tax-deductible donation to the Catholic Church.

Twenty-seven million dollars of Spedino’s legitimate income was therefore going to be paid out in a tax-deductible transaction. He could earn a great deal more legitimate income without paying income tax on it, thanks to this one donation.

And when things were all finished, Spedino still had $25 million, all of the money he had paid less his commission to Bijan, because whatever Brian wired to the pockmarked man ultimately went right back to Spedino.

Brian felt certain that delivery of the artifacts would be accomplished without a hitch. Since the pockmarked man was actually Spedino’s associate there was no way things could go wrong.

Chapter Ten

The gravelly-voiced man had set the meeting time for noon, presumably so that a wire transfer could still take place that same day. Brian sat at the same table near the Citadel. The massive building blocked the sun, throwing that side of the square into shadows. He looked for the portly man. Instead a ragged beggar approached his table. Brian reached into his pocket for a coin but the man whispered, “Follow me.”

The beggar took Brian through winding streets, stopping suddenly at a wooden door. He pushed the door open, motioned for Brian to step inside and disappeared down the street. Brian found himself in a courtyard. The fat, pockmarked man sat in a chair under a date tree about fifty feet from him. A briefcase rested on the ground beside him.

Brian sat in an empty chair next to the man. From his case the man pulled out an oilcloth and a small cloth bag. He dumped the black lump into Brian’s hand and said, “This is the coin. In the cloth are the scrolls.”

Brian opened the cloth and gazed with wonder at the larger scroll. Shivers went down his spine as he thought of the hands that had penned its words two thousand years earlier.

The man handed Brian a set of formal documents printed in Hebrew and English, the export papers the Embassy would require. Brian looked them over. They were identical to many others he had seen since he had begun his work with Darius Nazir and they appeared to be genuine.

As agreed, Brian then called Collette in New York. It was early there but she was standing by. He gave her the go-ahead to initiate a wire transfer from Bijan’s bank in London, per instructions he had left for her.

He then called John Spedino and told him to wire his money to London. Within minutes Brian received a confirmation on his cell phone from National Bank of Switzerland’s Geneva head office. Spedino’s $27 million was in Bijan’s account.

While they waited for money to move around the world the fat man took out a cigarette and lit it. He said nothing.

Brian looked around. There appeared to be no one around. There were no sounds from any of the second-story windows that opened into the courtyard. The entire building seemed to be deserted.

About twenty minutes later, the swarthy man’s phone rang. He spoke rapidly in Egyptian then hung up.

He said one word. “Done.” Then he walked out of the courtyard leaving the briefcase and the artifacts behind.

Brian picked up the valise and followed him. By the time he reached the narrow roadway the man was gone.

Chapter Eleven

Once I’m finished with this transaction, I’m sticking with the straight and narrow, Brian thought to himself as he lay in the first class SleeperSeat. The British Airways 777 was winging its way from London to New York, the last leg in his trip from Cairo with the artifacts. Brian kept the briefcase lightly tethered to his wrist even though the first class section was quiet and people were napping or watching movies at their seats.

He had decided to break ties with John Spedino. If his theory was correct the transaction between the godfather and Bijan was an incredible windfall to Johnny Speed. He could now declare an incredible amount of legitimate income without having to pay income tax on it and still have almost all the money left.

Even though dealing with Spedino was distasteful, perhaps even dangerous, Brian felt a sense of pride in knowing that he was helping ensure that the world’s most precious documents, the account of Jesus Christ’s birth, would end up in the Vatican where they would be preserved and kept safe for generations to come.

The afternoon sun shone through the windows of the restricted area as Brian walked from the plane to the customs booths in the Arrivals Hall. After removing the tether from his briefcase as instructed, he sat it on the floor next to him as he waited in line. The Semitic family who had also been in first class moved along in a line next to him. The man smiled and nodded absently as Brian’s eyes met his for a moment. Then their line curved away from his. Brian picked up his case and moved along in line, thinking of nothing but the bright future ahead.

Now only a few minutes later Brian sat in a small interrogation room with only a table and two chairs. He was in the airport’s holding area for United States Customs.

“Why are you detaining me? The Arab family who stood next to me in line has switched cases with me. Why aren’t you trying to help me? I’m a U.S. citizen and the items in that case are priceless!”

The agent explained carefully that although Brian now apparently had nothing to declare his earlier statements, the tether on his wrist and his agitation at seeing the empty briefcase caused them concern. They decided to detain him until they could review videotapes and confirm his story. The Customs officer took detailed notes as Brian described the three artifacts that had been in the briefcase.

Brian asked if he could call his attorney. The agent said that was fine but that Brian probably would be there less than a half hour longer if everything turned out satisfactorily. Brian decided to wait. From her location in Dallas Nicole couldn’t have moved things any faster anyway.

The agent left Brian alone for about thirty minutes. When he returned, he handed Brian his passport.

“Let’s go see the Airport Police. Your story checks out in every respect. The videotape clearly shows what appears to be a Middle Eastern family next to you in line. The man does in fact switch briefcases with you and then a moment later he changes lanes. The people who earlier posed as his family are now in their own line and he is in a different one. He moves quickly through Customs since he has no baggage to declare. We have his information but weren’t able to locate him. Video footage shows him leaving in a car with diplomatic license plates.”

“Diplomatic plates from what country?” Brian asked.

“Israel.”

The agent continued. “The man’s so-called family is a different story. We have video of them too. They exited Customs but then went straight to check-in for Air India’s flight to London and presented return tickets. We have them in custody now.”

The agent accompanied Brian to the JFK Airport Police desk, where it took thirty minutes for an officer to complete a report. The agent gave the policeman everything he had earlier told Brian, including the license number of the Israeli embassy vehicle that had whisked away the thief.

As Brian left the police desk the Customs agent gave him a phone number and promised to be in touch if they heard anything more. He apologized for detaining Brian and wished him luck in finding the artifacts.

Once the agent left Brian stood outside the terminal and called John Spedino’s number on his phone. He told the godfather everything, hoping Spedino’s vast resources might locate the Israeli thief faster than the police could. But Spedino’s response wasn’t what Brian expected.

Chapter Twelve

“You don’t have the artifacts?” John Spedino said slowly. “You’re telling me the goddamned artifacts were stolen?”

Brian could feel his venomous hatred.

“Let me tell you something, mister. You are going to wire my money back on Monday morning. Do you understand me?”

Brian was speechless. He couldn’t do that.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Spedino was shouting now.

Brian’s voice quivered. “Mr. Spedino, you know all about the bank deal I had to sign to get this whole thing done. You know those Israeli bonds won’t stand up to scrutiny if I have them on my books September 30th. You helped me set this whole thing up. You know I can’t wire your money back. I already sent $25 million to Egypt to pay for the artifacts. Your money has to repay the Israeli bonds you arranged for me. You know all that already. I need you to help me find the guy who stole them.”

There was a lengthy silence. Then came words that made Brian more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

“Your mother and father live in Longview, Texas. Your father runs the newspaper there. They’re nice people. They’re both healthy. I presume you’d do everything in your power to keep them that way. Listen to me. It’s Friday. On Monday you are going to either deliver the artifacts to me or wire my money back, you little bastard.”

Brian began to sob. “I need your help. You have to find the relics. You have the resources to do it. I don’t. I can’t do what you ask. I don’t have the money to do it. I would if I could.”

Spedino said nothing else. He merely hung up. Brian stood at curbside, staring at his cell phone. He was terrified and he had nowhere to turn.

As Brian’s cab headed to Manhattan his mind raced. He had to figure a way out of this mess he was in. And he had three days to do it. He needed help.

Chapter Thirteen

Brian lay in bed, another 3:30 am call just finished. He was almost to the breaking point. The raspy voice had said, “Remember how Darius Nazir just died in his sleep? Do you know why he died? He dared to tell somebody to stay away from you, Mr. Sadler. Something as simple as that, and now he’s dead. For you it’s much more serious. If you don’t perform on Monday you’d better never sleep again with both eyes closed.”

Brian responded in a burst of anger. “Hey! Remember me? I bought the scrolls from you.” There was no sound – the caller was gone.

This time the call was from the 319 area code. Brian didn’t even bother to look it up. He knew the caller was in Egypt.

On Monday Brian called the Customs agent and learned the woman and children had been deported to Israel.

“We spent quite a bit of time with them. Bottom line – they were recruited to do nothing more than accompany the thief on the flight and pose as his family. The woman’s family was given ten thousand dollars and she got a free ride to New York City and back along with her two kids. The Mossad has agreed to investigate her family further for us but we don’t expect any new information.”

He said that the Israeli Embassy had gotten involved in the mechanics of her deportation, as was customary, so he had also asked them about the diplomatic vehicle that had taken the man away from JFK.

“That license plate wasn’t registered to the Embassy. We figure the driver could have altered a stolen plate. At any rate we have nothing on this individual. His passport was a very good forgery but it was bogus.”

Brian confirmed that Spedino’s funds were still in Bijan’s London bank account. Although the money was there, Brian couldn’t return it to Spedino. If he did, he would be required to cash in the Israeli bonds to repay his bank loan with First InterCity. That couldn’t happen. Those bonds weren’t his and he didn’t have them anyway. Whether real or not, the bonds were good for only one thing – as assets to prop up a balance sheet. The only thing certain was that those bonds weren’t going to be cashed in. Period.

If he defaulted on the loan with First InterCity his personal guarantee would kick in and he would lose Bijan Rarities. If the SEC or any other agency looked closely at the bond transaction and it failed to pass muster Brian could easily face jail time for fraud. He’d known when he did it the bond deal was tainted, but this was a quick in-and-out deal and nobody would get hurt. At least that had been the plan. Spedino’s plan, that is.

At one pm Collette forwarded a call to Brian. “The caller says it’s urgent, and he won’t tell me who he is.”

Brian took the call and heard John Spedino’s voice. “I don’t have my money and I don’t have my artifacts. So what’s the plan?”

“Mr. Spedino, do you have any idea where the artifacts are?”

“I’m not your errand boy. I’m your client. I wired you the money to buy me some relics and you failed to deliver. But I’m going to do you a favor. Why? I don’t really know why. I’m going to give you twenty-four more hours because I think I do know where the relics are. If I find them before they leave the United States you’re off the hook.”

Chapter Fourteen

A junior clerk at the Israeli Embassy encoded a transmission going to Tel Aviv. It confirmed that Lev Cohen, an Israeli citizen on a mission for the Mossad, had in his possession a set of artifacts he had stolen from a man at JFK Airport. Although the clerk had no idea the background of what she encoded, she was surprised that her government was involved in a crime and that it was being encrypted. Coded messages usually involved high security transmissions with strategic, usually military, significance.

The message made such an impression on her that she mentioned it her boyfriend Eli in bed that night. She was surprised that he appeared interested in something besides sex for once. He sat up in bed and asked her to tell him everything about it. She told him all that she could recall. The name of the man and the location of the safe house where he was awaiting return to Israel were two of the things she remembered.

-----

It was impossible to keep information from John Spedino once word got around that he was interested. The rewards he gave to those who furnished what he wanted were legendary. To collect a ten thousand dollar bounty, Eli Avraham, a member of a local gang of Jewish thugs involved in petty crimes, called a man who wanted to know where the artifacts were. This man had put the word on the street only a few days before. Because of the information from his girlfriend, Eli received a cash payment of more money than he had ever before had in his possession. He promptly dumped the girl, spent the cash on drugs and booze, and was broke again in three weeks.

Spedino moved quickly. He had no idea how much time remained before the thief would be on a plane to Israel and the artifacts lost to Christianity forever. He made a phone call and put things in motion. Within hours the three relics were safe and the thief was eliminated.

-----

John Spedino’s house was in a gated community far out on Long Island. It had an expansive view of the Sound. Spedino and his wife enjoyed sitting on their patio, a fire blazing in their outdoor fireplace, watching sailboats move serenely past.

The godfather heard the distinctive ring of the phone from the gatehouse. One of his staff answered the call and walked from the house to where the couple sat.

“My apologies for the interruption, sir. There are two Federal agents on their way to the house now. The guard at the gatehouse called to advise he had admitted them.”

His wife asked what this was about. Like many other wives in her position she asked few questions about her husband’s business. She was a modern woman in many respects but had become content in one area that was a throwback to the old days. She had a great life and John Spedino cared for his family well. She listened to the news and saw the tabloid headlines. But she chose to ignore what the public said and what in her heart she knew was true. She knew a different John Spedino, her provider and husband. A good man. That was enough for her.

“As usual, it’s a harassment visit. I probably will have to go into the City, but expect me back soon. You know how it works by now.” He smiled and kissed her cheek.

John Spedino went into the house. He changed into a sport coat and tie, finishing just as he heard the doorbell ring. He knew from past experience he would be taking a ride into Manhattan. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. But he also was certain he would very quickly be making the return trip to his house. He had never spent time in jail. Thanks to very good lawyers and very careful activities John Spedino was sure this would be no exception. He was made of Teflon, after all.

Chapter Fifteen

Having nowhere to turn for help, Brian could do nothing but wait. Panic overwhelmed him. He desperately tried to think of something he could do but there was nothing. He lay in bed in a cold sweat.

Around ten pm his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the Dallas number. When he answered he heard his former cube-mate Jim Palmer’s voice. “You’d better consider yourself lucky you bailed when you did.”

Palmer told Brian that after close of business that afternoon, a cadre of U.S. Marshals, along with agents from the FBI and the SEC, had arrived at Warren Taylor and Currant.

“We’re shut down. Finito, baby. Nobody knows exactly what happened but the rumor mill has it that Francois Rochefort has turned up. I don’t know if that has anything directly to do with us or not.” He said that the Feds had removed records and computers from the firm. “We can’t survive another round of negative publicity. I got a call about an hour ago from one of the VPs. He says don’t bother coming to work tomorrow. The firm’s closing and filing bankruptcy.”

Brian surfed the business channels but couldn’t find any news about WT&C. Likewise the Internet sites that usually carried this type of story had no news about it. He finally went to bed but lay awake almost all night wondering how everything was going to play out.

Around six Brian began checking the Internet while he listened to CNN News. The business sites had nothing but the homepages of all the news agencies displayed versions of the same major headline. “MAFIA GODFATHER ARRESTED,” read the article’s banner. John Spedino, the reputed head of New York’s crime families, had been arrested the night before on charges of extortion, fraud and murder. Brian felt a glimmer of hope.

The story said that the Federal case against Spedino was based largely on the testimony of Francois Rochefort, a convicted criminal and former associate of Spedino’s who had been sought for his role in the downfall of a public company called Bellicose Holdings. Earlier in the week officers of the French police agency, Surete Nationale, had arrested Rochefort. He had been living in hiding in Eze Village, a medieval town in the south of France nestled on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was a perfect place for a French-speaking Canadian to hide. He would have fit in well.

Spedino was being held in a Lower Manhattan jail without bail, Federal agents having convinced a judge that the mobster was a flight risk. A related story advised that authorities raided the Dallas brokerage firm of Warren Taylor and Currant yesterday. Two years ago WT&C’s top executives had provided damaging testimony and records, all revealing the firm’s ties to organized crime, specifically John Spedino.

The U.S. Attorney’s office believed the testimony of the firm’s executives alone was not sufficient to corner Spedino for good so the FBI had bided its time, waiting for the right opportunity. They kept the men in protective custody in Canada since Spedino would have had them murdered if he located them.

Now that Spedino was in custody the Feds raided WT&C to get computer and hard copy documents which both Rochefort and the two executives had told them about. These records confirmed the firm’s financial ties with Spedino. The SEC had withdrawn WT&C’s license to sell securities pending a hearing. Brian knew that meant the end of any firm, just as Jim Palmer had said last night.

Rochefort had waived extradition and returned to New York. Once the cooperating agencies had him safely inside the United States they offered a plea bargain would allow him to serve a few years in prison. In exchange, Rochefort agreed to testify against his boss and mentor, Johnny Speed, the man everyone wanted to put behind bars. And Rochefort had the goods, including where the bodies were buried. He had already begun talking to the FBI and this time the U.S. Attorney was certain Spedino was down for good.

Buoyed by the news, Brian went into the gallery with a plan in mind. He had Collette wire the twenty-five million dollars to First InterCity Bank, which then released the Israeli bonds Brian had offered as collateral. That transaction was now finished.

She then wired $250,000 to Chaim Weisenberg. After an hour, Brian called and Weisenberg confirmed receipt of the money. He emailed Brian a release. That transaction was also completed.

Except for John Spedino’s artifacts, things were all as they were intended to be. And so long as Spedino was in jail, he had other things to think about, Brian figured, than getting his money back.

Chapter Sixteen

That afternoon Brian received an unexpected call from Archbishop Francis McGann, head of the New York Archdiocese of the Roman Catholic Church.

“Mr. Sadler, I’m calling to thank you for your efforts in helping get the priceless Bethlehem Scroll and its accompanying artifacts into the hands of the Church. I’m confirming that the relics are in my possession and I will be taking them to Rome tonight to deliver them to the Pope himself.”

Brian stammered, totally taken by surprise. “You have the artifacts? How did you get them?”

Surprised Brian didn’t already know, the Archbishop explained that a man had delivered the relics in a briefcase to the Diocese office around four pm yesterday.

“Was it John Spedino?”

The Archbishop replied sharply that he had never dealt with John Spedino in his life.

“The Vatican advised me months ago that I should expect the artifacts someday. The donor would be a wealthy Catholic and the gift was given anonymously. I have no idea who the man who dropped them off was. I only knew to contact you because the Vatican said an intermediary – Bijan Rarities – would handle the transfer. I presumed the drop-off was arranged by you.”

A short time later the Customs agent who had detained Brian at JFK called him.

“I just wanted to give you some news. The man who stole your briefcase was on a high-priority watch list. He turned up last night. His body floated to the Queens side of the East River around six pm. Some boys were fishing there and it scared the hell out of them.”

Brian figured Spedino’s guys must have found the man, killed him, retrieved the artifacts, and had them delivered to the Archbishop. Later that day John Spedino was arrested, all of that happening within about an eight-hour period. Regardless of exactly how it all transpired, things had certainly fallen into place for Brian Sadler, the eternal optimist who had almost played the game for keeps.

Brian looked back on the last few days with relief. Determined not to repeat his past, he vowed to concentrate more on the things that mattered to him – building a relationship with Nicole and building a business of which he could be proud – and less on the glamour and fame that required living too close to the edge. Brian Sadler had almost paid too high a price to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t do it again.

Epilogue

One Year Later

Brian and Nicole sat in the Grill Room of the Savoy Hotel having lunch. It was autumn in England, a beautiful time when trees changed color and gusty winds announced change in the air. Outside the window by their table, boats moved lazily down the Thames River.

Brian was in London more and more these days and he decided to open a branch of Bijan Rarities here. Collette was being promoted to gallery manager. She and Jason would run the New York operation while Brian headquartered in London. He was negotiating for space in Old Bond Street and was excited about the prospects of spending more time in his favorite city.

Nicole had taken a week off to join him. They were hopeful of having at least a few free days to visit the countryside. Brian had developed a friendship with Oscar Carrington, owner of a gallery in Knightsbridge. Carrington invited the two to his country home in Oxford, a twelfth-century structure reputedly built by a son of William the Conqueror.

The publicity John Spedino promised Bijan for handling the hottest artifacts in history never materialized. It was for the best, Brian figured. The gallery was doing very well and was rapidly becoming recognized as one of the world’s top resources for ancient pieces. Furthermore, the Vatican was obviously not interested in revealing the existence of the Bethlehem Scroll.

As Brian and Nicole sipped glasses of Sancerre a man entered the dining room with a cardboard mailing tube under his arm. He searched for a moment, eyes landing on Nicole, and he made his way to their table. Without waiting for an invitation he sat, extended his hand and said, “I’m here at the direction of David Cardone.”

Brian and Nicole knew who Cardone was. After the fall of John Spedino, the man had taken over as New York City’s new godfather.

“We’re having lunch,” Brian said curtly.

“I can see that. I have a message for you from John Spedino. He asked me to look you up. He has something he knows you will be interested in.”

“Spedino? He’s in prison.”

“Of course,” the courier responded evenly. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t communicate.”

Irritated, Nicole looked at Brian. “Can’t this be dealt with at another time?”

“We’re going to finish our lunch. I’ll be happy to talk to you at my hotel if you’ll make an appointment through Bijan in New York.”

The man ignored him. He took a yellowed sheet from the tube and laid it on the table.

“Mr. Spedino would like to sell this document to you.”

Brian glanced at it. “What is this?”

“It’s a copy of the Declaration of Independence.”

“Of course it is. It’s the same copy anyone can buy in the gift shop at the Capitol.”

“Mr. Spedino is certain you will be willing to buy this copy of such a revered document. He is asking one million dollars for it.”

Brian laughed aloud, noticing that the courier did not smile. “It’s worth a couple of bucks tops.” He tossed the yellowed parchment to the man.

“You made a two million dollar profit when you did the deal on the relics. And now they’re locked away somewhere, hidden forever. Mr. Spedino finds himself needing to sell some assets to, shall we say, pay his expenses. He therefore insists that you buy this document.”

“You want me to give a million of Johnny Speed’s money back?” He was incredulous.

“His name is John Spedino, Mr. Sadler. And no, you aren’t giving anything to anybody. Mr. Spedino is going to sell you this document for a million dollars, wire transferred to a Swiss account within a week. And you’re going to buy it.”

-----

The Vatican

Joseph Ratzinger sat in his favorite chair in the library, reading for the hundredth time the translation of the Bethlehem Scroll. Known to the world as Pope Benedict XVI, Ratzinger thought of himself as nothing more than a humble servant of God, not the leader of the Roman Catholic Church, every time he read the electrifying words.

As soon as the artifacts were safely in the Vatican the Pope had assigned experts to create a detailed translation of both the scroll and the parchment scrap that accompanied the coin. Those men spent painstaking hours checking and double-checking every word of Aramaic, ensuring the meaning was exactly as it had been intended. The result was the English translation of an incredible story, told through the eyes of a child, who spent a night of wonders like no other in history.

A second team of experts used the latest techniques to clean the coin. After the residue was removed it turned out to be a common shekel dated to the Herodian era around the time of Jesus’ birth. This particular shekel, however, was anything but common. It had rested in the Messiah’s hand. The Pope believed it with all his heart.

The three relics were placed in an airtight container and locked in a vault that contained other priceless things collected over the centuries by the Vatican. Only a few trusted individuals knew of the vault’s existence. Each Pope learned about it only upon his succession to the papacy.

Benedict wished that the artifacts that confirmed Jesus’ birth could be viewed by humanity but he knew that keeping the unique relics safe and secure was the only way to protect them. There were many who would steal and destroy them to extinguish the message contained in these relics. So he chose to keep them locked away, never to be seen again unless another Pope, sometime in the future, wanted to view them.

Benedict had placed the relics in the vault himself. No one had accompanied him and only two others knew what they were. Inside the vault a yellowed ledger sat on a table by the door. The pontiff made three entries on the list, describing the artifacts and the date of their addition to the vault.

Looking at the entry just above them, he noted that the last time the vault had been opened was in April 1946, when treasures stolen from churches by the Nazis were shipped to the Vatican. Benedict therefore surmised that no eyes would likely see these relics again for decades. They would rest on a shelf, hidden from everyone.

Now, sitting by the fire, he looked again at the translation. Every time he read the story it filled the pontiff with wonder. He never tired of hearing the first-hand account of Benjamin, a Jewish boy who saw the Messiah with his own eyes. The Pope slept well that night, comforted, as always, by the knowledge that locked away in the most secret vault on earth, the original account of the Messiah’s birth was safe and secure inside the Vatican forever.

A few moments after the vault door was closed and sealed, the artifacts simply disappeared from the shelf on which the pontiff had placed them. The three entries carefully penned by Pope Benedict XVI on the list remained, the only clue that the Bethlehem Scroll ever existed.

Far away, a wealthy Lebanese and his wife wondered who stole an ancient urn they had purchased in the Jericho marketplace. It was now missing from their front porch.

-----

The Qumran Hills Near the Dead Sea

It was hot and dusty along the little trail that ran down the side of an outcropping in the hills near the ancient site of Qumran. The entrance to the small cave had been virtually obliterated over the years. It would take some effort for anyone to locate the entrance.

In a wall of the small cave’s second room stood two stones. They blended well with the wall, so completely in fact that no one could tell they hid a clay urn, sitting on a small ledge behind them. Except for a short time, the jar and its contents had sat in the cave for over two thousand years. Now they were here once again.

It was not time.

Table of Contents

The Bethlehem Scroll

Author’s Note

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four