Brian Sadler Archaeology 04 - The Bones in the Pit Read online

  The Bones in the Pit

  A Brian Sadler Archaeological Mystery

  Book Four in the series

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to three people who always proof my work and offer significant comments and feedback. I appreciate my sons Jeff and Ryan for taking time from busy schedules to read every word. Your help is invaluable.

  Marjorie, thanks for listening through an important step: reading the entire book aloud. Thanks for tolerating the many hours when I’m writing, and thanks for your opinions and suggestions to make my books better.

  I love you all.

  Historical Prelude

  Oak Island is a strange, mysterious place. It’s been that way for a very long time. On the surface there isn’t much to see. The 150-acre island forty miles southwest of Halifax, Nova Scotia, is covered with the oak trees that gave the place its name. Less than a thousand feet from the mainland, it’s just like three hundred other tiny islands that lie in Mahone Bay. Except for one significant difference. The Money Pit.

  The following information is true. In the summer of 1795 a teenager named Daniel McGinnis took a rowboat to the uninhabited island, wandered around and saw a depression in the ground. A huge oak tree with an outstretched limb stood in a clearing. Hanging from the limb was an ancient block and tackle, some people say, the kind used on sailing ships. Directly below the end of the limb was the depression. The place looked to the boy as though someone had purposely cleared some trees and dug a hole, probably a long, long time ago.

  Locals frequently told stories of pirates and the area is well known to have been visited by buccaneers. Captain William Kidd was rumored to have buried a fortune in treasure somewhere in the area. People also talked of strange lights seen on uninhabited Oak Island over the years. Maybe it was a crew of pirates swinging lanterns as they hauled a chest to be hidden. Maybe they were lights caused by someone, or something, else. It is likely young Daniel McGinnis thought of those stories as he returned home, very excited at the possibilities of what he had seen.

  The teenager brought two friends back the next day along with some tools. They began to dig in the middle of the saucer-like depression. The digging wasn’t difficult; the ground was loosely packed, indicating someone had filled it in at a time in the past. As they dug the boys discovered other evidence that men had been here. Two feet down there was a layer of flat stones not indigenous to Oak Island. It soon became obvious they were clearing a round hole about twelve or thirteen feet in diameter. Pickaxes had been used to build it; their marks clearly became visible as the boys removed the fill dirt.

  At around ten feet the boys hit logs that formed a floor. They were firmly inserted into the surrounding wall to create a platform. At this point they must have rushed to remove the logs, thinking they were close to recovering a treasure hidden below. Instead they found more loose dirt and, ten feet further down, another platform of logs.

  The job was too big for three teenagers. They left the island, returned home and told a few people about their discovery, hoping to enlist help. For whatever reason they got nowhere. The townspeople weren’t interested, or perhaps they feared the ghost stories and the mysterious lights on Oak Island. For years nothing further happened to the mysterious pit.

  Many fascinating books have been written about what became known as the Money Pit. Between 1800 and today several syndicates were formed to excavate the hole.

  At ninety feet workmen discovered a two-hundred pound flat stone with mysterious symbols carved into it. It’s enticing – the code is a straightforward one and the translation is generally considered to say “Forty feet below two million pounds are buried.”

  Most researchers believe it to be a hoax, probably put at the ninety-foot level in the mid-1800s by men seeking to raise money for yet another treasure syndicate. Regardless of its authenticity it can play no part in answering the riddle of Oak Island – it disappeared around 1920 and no one knows where it is today.

  Through boring, some reported finding evidence of a “chest” containing metal at a level around 100 feet below the surface. There also appears to be a concrete vault of some type, lined with wood or filled with wooden chests, below 150 feet.

  The hole was expertly engineered to keep would-be treasure hunters confused. Much earlier than 1795, whoever built the Money Pit engineered sophisticated booby-traps in the form of at least two tunnels running into the pit from the nearby shoreline. These tunnels cause the pit to flood to sea level, around thirty feet below the surface of the island. Even in recent times when modern, expensive techniques have been employed to drain the pit, close off the flood tunnels or pump it out, nothing has worked. Lives have been lost and millions of dollars spent. So far all the work that’s been done has generated no answers. Even today nobody knows anything more than the teenaged Daniel McGinnis did about what exists deep in the Money Pit. All people know is that someone went to an incredible amount of time and expense to create an engineering enigma. What does the Money Pit on Oak Island hide? No one knows.

  This book builds on one of the many theories that have been postulated over the centuries since this mysterious pit was discovered.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  New York City

  The Ford pickup easily made its way down Fifth Avenue, weaving in and out of traffic as New Yorkers habitually do. Hassan Palavi knew the route well – he had practiced it every day since he received this assignment. Hassan was a descendant of a long-ago shah of Iran but he was one hundred eighty degrees opposed to the pro-USA ideals that regime had embraced. He had aligned himself politically, religiously and in every other respect with whichever terror group was in power at the moment. He was a dedicated, committed, well-trained American terrorist.

  Hassan’s dream was to see America crushed, on its knees and begging Muslims everywhere for forgiveness. He was willing to give anything to further that dream. And today he would be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. Hassan couldn’t have been happier.

  During a carefully timed visit that had been arranged by his Al Qaeda handlers, Hassan had been born in the United States to Iranian parents who were in America supposedly visiting relatives. He was therefore a U.S. citizen and carried an American passport. Young men this dedicated to jihad who also were full-fledged Yankees were rare – almost nonexistent. His handlers had cultivated Hassan carefully as he grew from childhood, preparing him for some critical mission down the road. Today had become the time for this American-born terrorist to perform.

  Although a rarity such as Hassan was worth his weight in gold to the terrorists who had carefully molded him, his destiny today wouldn’t further the cause of jihad. He had been sold like a prized stallion. Two million dollars had changed hands. The Al Qaeda group now had money to buy weapons and foment hatred and one man, in exchange, had the talents of a suicide bomber.

  Without a care in the world, twenty-three year old Hassan listened to music on the radio of the stolen pickup, smoked one cigarette after another and enjoyed the breeze coming through the open window as he maneuvered down the crowded avenue. He didn’t speed. With the mission he had been given it would be foolish beyond belief to be stopped by the police. Hassan was on a strict timeframe. He had places to be and timing was everything. This job had been planned down to the last second.

  He stopped for a red light at 59th Street and checked his watch. He had eleven minutes to go and only five blocks left. He wanted to get past the busy two-way cross street at 57th before stopping. He pulled the pickup all the way to the left lane, passed 57th Street then pulled over to the curb. He had three blocks to go and
needed to kill a little time. Hassan glanced in his mirrors and out his front windshield. There were no policemen walking on the sidewalk to create a problem for him – only the hustle and bustle of pedestrian traffic like always during the noon hour in New York City.

  In the bed of the pickup truck sat ten ten-gallon canisters filled with gasoline. They were securely tethered to the wall of the truck and wired together, ready for the job ahead. Hassan gave them a quick glance probably for the fiftieth time today, making sure everything was still good to go. And it was.

  Hassan lit another cigarette, idly contemplating that this would be his last one. In a very short time this street would be a mass of confusion, drama and tears. Another strike at the mighty Americans. He smiled as he inhaled a deep puff. He didn’t know why he was doing this mission. He didn’t care. He only knew it was going to be a big deal. A very big deal indeed. Hassan would have been saddened to know his death wouldn’t promote jihad at all. He’d been bought and paid for to do a job for a very wealthy man.

  He saw the infidel church, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a few blocks down the street in front of him. As the church bells began to peal the hour, Hassan looked at his watch. An alarm sounded – it was one pm. Shutting off the alarm he thanked Allah one last time for the rewards in heaven that lay in store for him only a few moments from now. Then he smiled, tossed the cigarette out the window and put the pickup into gear. Showtime.

  -----

  A priest stood at a counter in Bijan Rarities, New York’s most famous antiquities gallery. Dressed in a black cassock and an old-fashioned padre’s hat, he resembled the character Father Guido Sarducci who had appeared regularly on Saturday Night Live years before. He wore sunglasses even though he was indoors but none of the staff at the gallery considered it unusual. Everyone in New York was a little different. Even the clergy.

  The priest had rung the front buzzer at 12:45 pm. The security guard on duty glanced at a sheet and noted that the Archdiocese was sending a representative to the store. Without a second thought the guard opened the door to admit him. The priest thanked the guard, who pointed to the back of the showroom where Collette Conning, the second-in-command to Brian Sadler, waited to meet with him.

  They sat at her desk and the priest explained the reason for his visit. He produced a letter with the signature and seal of the Archbishop of New York at the bottom. Collette looked it over then rose and pointed. “I’ll meet you at the counter over there. I have to get the manuscript from Mr. Sadler’s office.”

  Standing at the counter, the cleric glanced around the showroom as he waited for her return. There was only one other customer in the store. He was in a small room examining some old vases. There were also Collette and the guard. He didn’t see anyone who might have been Brian Sadler but he knew the owner could be in the back somewhere. It made no difference how many people were there. Everything would happen in a matter of minutes. He glanced at his watch. Exactly on schedule.

  Collette brought a tray from the rear of the gallery. It was about the size of a large cookie sheet and on it sat a very old book. When she first had seen the manuscript she noticed it vaguely resembled medieval bibles she had seen. But it was old, ratty and torn. The other seven books that had been dropped off with it were beautiful, almost majestic. They were valuable. Like her boss, she had immediately dismissed this one as junk.

  But one never knew. And now the Church was interested in it. So maybe there was more to this book after all. It wasn’t every day the Archbishop sent a representative to look at one of their consignments.

  Collette set the tray on the counter in front of the priest. “You’ll need gloves to examine it yourself,” she said, putting on a pair. He declined and asked her to turn to the title page.

  She opened the book. Opus Militum Xpisti, the title dimly read on the ragged page. The Work of the Soldiers of Christ.

  Collette thought it was strange that he really didn’t seem to care what the page said. He barely looked at it. They both heard a muffled ding and the priest glanced at his watch. “One pm,” he said absently as he hit a button to silence the alarm.

  -----

  Nicole Farber had been preparing for trial for three days. If she weren’t ready now she’d never be. Criminal law was a strange animal – many times the jury made its decision based on the characters in the play – the prosecutor, the defense attorney, even the defendant – rather than on the law itself. Many times those jurors – the human beings who held the futures of others in their hands – became captivated with good-looking attorneys, likeable murderers, people who could twist the truth until you hardly believed it yourself even though irrefutable facts were laid out right in front of you.

  She was one of those good-looking attorneys. The youngest partner at Carter and Wells, one of Dallas’ largest and most prestigious law firms, Nicole had made a name for herself defending those accused of white-collar crimes. She’d met her boyfriend Brian Sadler through her work. She had represented him years ago when he was a stockbroker embroiled in a massive fraud that took down the Dallas investment bank where he worked. What started as an attorney-client relationship blossomed into much more. Now that Brian lived in New York she saw much less of him but they managed to spend as much time together as they could.

  She stopped working, swung her chair around and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline of downtown Dallas. The city’s architecture was striking and she never tired of the view. As she took a moment to relax, her iPhone dinged a quiet reminder. It was 11:55 a.m. and a special program on Fox News Network would be broadcast in five minutes. She took a remote from her desk and turned on the TV on the wall in the opposite end of her expansive office. She didn’t want to miss this.

  A panel wrapped up a heated discussion about the continuing Congressional deadlock over spending and then the moderator said, “Stay tuned for a real treat. Brian Sadler, owner of the well-known New York antiquities gallery Bijan Rarities, will be on hand for a look at the most exciting discoveries around the world over the past few months. That’s right after the break – at one pm here in Manhattan.”

  Nicole grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge in a corner of her office and sat on her couch. Kicking off her shoes, she sat back to watch her boyfriend do his thing. As the Fox interviewer introduced Brian she looked closely at what he was wearing. Good for you, Brian. You’re wearing that tie I gave you for Christmas. I never knew if you liked it that much or not but I’m glad you do.

  The reporter led Brian into the topic as the screen flashed pictures from remote areas worldwide. There were shots of ancient temples in jungles, ruined pyramids in a desert, building facades built into walls in the ancient city of Petra. Brian’s voiceover explained one by one the new things archaeological teams were working on. Even knowing as much as she did because of her relationship with Brian, she found the information interesting and was watching closely. The cameras turned back to Brian from time to time as he smoothly and effortlessly guided the television audience through the film clips that were being displayed.

  About ten minutes into the program it was suddenly interrupted. On the screen flashed three words – Fox News Alert. One of the Fox regulars appeared behind the news desk and said, “We interrupt this program to bring you a special report from Manhattan. A truck has jumped the curb on Fifth Avenue in midtown and crashed into a building. This happened less than fifteen minutes ago only a few blocks from our studios. Our crew is en route to the scene and we’ll be bringing you live footage momentarily.”

  The man stopped talking and put his hand to his ear. Nicole watched him listen into his earphone. “This situation has apparently escalated. Reports indicate a massive explosion has occurred. There appear to be fatalities and the scene is chaotic.”

  The news crew arrived and suddenly a camera was capturing the scene live for viewers to see. “Oh my God,” Nicole yelled, tears running down her face as she watched her television. “Oh my God.”

  Inside the
Fox studios on 47th Street and Sixth Avenue Brian watched the scene on a large monitor as he waited to return to his segment. When the live shot was displayed Brian looked closely. His face turned from interest to astonishment, then horror as he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “That’s my gallery!”

  -----

  The Jesuit priest walked briskly away from the carnage and destruction on Fifth Avenue. He turned east at the intersection and made his way through throngs of pedestrians. Many of them were hurrying the other direction to see what was going on. Everyone on the midtown streets had heard the massive thump of an explosion a couple of minutes ago. No one gave the priest a second glance as he crossed Madison, then Park and turned left on Lexington.

  He popped into a McDonald’s restaurant a couple of blocks up and went directly to the men’s room. There was only one other person in the bathroom and he was using the urinal. The priest entered the first stall, locked the door and looked around. On the floor behind the toilet was a Macy’s shopping bag. The priest pulled out a pair of shoes, a blond wig, a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. He put the manuscript, the detonating device he had used, his hat, black cassock and shoes in the bag and put it back behind the toilet. He now wore the blue jeans and Yankees t-shirt that had been under the priest’s garb. With different shoes, the wig, hat and glasses he looked nothing like the cleric he had been only one minute ago.

  As the perpetrator left, the person standing at the urinal entered the stall, retrieved the shopping bag and checked its contents. He saw the manuscript and the small detonator device. He sent a one-word text on his phone. “Go.” He nonchalantly walked out of the restaurant to the bus stop a block away. Within an hour he and the manuscript would be safely at a house in Brooklyn. The Macy’s shopping bag with the rest of its contents lay at the bottom of a curbside trash bin miles from midtown.