The Columbus Affair: A Novel (11 page)

Now he would capitalize on that error.

He climbed into bed.

His phone buzzed and he checked the display. Rócha.

“What is it?”

He listened as his acolyte told him about Alle Becket and what had happened at a Viennese café.

“It was him,” Rócha said. “Brian Jamison. He is here.”

That meant trouble.

He’d spent the past few months coddling Alle Becket, listening to her progressive garbage, all the while thinking that she embodied everything wrong with the current state of Judaism. She was naïve to the
point of stupidity. But this unexpected contact directly with her signaled a problem.

He could not afford any mistakes of his own.

“Where is she now?” he asked Rócha.

“Back at the apartment. She went home. I am having it watched.”

“What did she say happened?”

“He appeared. Pressed her about you. She told him to leave a couple of times, then we showed up.”

“She revealed nothing?”

“She said no.”

But he wondered.

Brian Jamison worked for Béne Rowe. He was to Rowe as Rócha was to him. Jamison being in Vienna and connecting with Alle was a clear message that his Jamaican partner was both well informed and perturbed.

He’d been ignoring Rowe.

But Rowe had not been ignoring him.

Luckily, he and Rócha had discussed contingencies before he’d left Austria for Florida. One of those dealt with what would happen when Alle Becket was no longer useful. “Handle things with her, as we agreed. With nothing to find.”

“She may not cooperate.”

He knew what Rócha meant.
With what happened on the video
.

“I will make sure she does. Give me an hour. And, one thing. After that stunt you pulled today, don’t do this yourself. She will go nowhere willingly with you. Use someone else.”

And he ended the call.

———

A
LLE WAS BOTH ANGRY AND CONFUSED
. R
ÓCHA HAD FOLLOWED
her back to her apartment with Midnight leading the way. The man who called himself Brian was gone, but his warning lingered in her mind. Rócha had quizzed her on what had happened, and she’d told him the truth.

For the most part.

“Zachariah Simon is an extremist
.

“And those are a problem to us all.”

But how could that be? Zachariah seemed so genuine. They’d spent a great deal of time together. Thirty years separated them in age, but she found him both charming and interesting. Apart from some glowing compliments, which also seemed sincere, he’d remained the perfect gentleman and confined his attention to business. Not that she would not have minded an advance or two. He’d been nothing but open and honest in their discussions, never a hint of deceit, and he seemed to genuinely care about their religion.

She sat alone in her three-room flat, the windows open to a cool night. Vienna was enchanting after dark, and the angle afforded her an impressive view of the brightly lit and ornately patterned glazed tile roof of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.

She thought of Mount Dora, remembering all the summers she spent with her grandparents. Such a picturesque place, with its tree-lined lanes, Victorian streetlamps, parks, shops, and galleries. Later in life, she came to see how much the town resembled New England. It occupied rolling terrain that appeared downright mountainous for central Florida. Numbered avenues ran east to west and rolled steeply down to Lake Dora—both the town and water named for Dora Ann Drawdy, the first permanent homesteader. Alle had always been fascinated with Drawdy, reading about her, listening to the tales from locals.

Fiercely independent women interested her.

She considered herself one of those, as her mother had been.

Her laptop dinged, signaling an incoming email. She stepped over to the desk and saw a message from Zachariah.

She wondered about the urgency, but she actually preferred leaving. Rócha had gone too far. Not to mention Brian, who’d appeared from nowhere. She’d feel safer being with Zachariah. Still, she wanted to know something, so she replied.

The reply came back quickly.

She decided not to press and started to pack.

She’d arrived here a month ago from Spain with only a few clothes, not expecting to stay long. Her summer wardrobe was not exactly Austrian-friendly, so Zachariah had taken her shopping. She’d felt a little uncomfortable at his generosity, but he’d assured her that it was the least he could do.

“Consider it compensation for all your hard work,” he said
.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s where you are wrong. You have done a great deal.”

That day with Zachariah in Vienna had reminded her of another, years ago, when she was only eleven. Her father, for once, had been home and took her to the mall. School was starting in a couple of weeks and he’d wanted to be there as she picked out some new clothes. They’d wandered the stores, searching the racks and tables, trying on items. In the end, they’d left with several bags full.

One of those magical days she would never forget.

Father–daughter.

What had happened to them?

How could something so natural turn so ugly?

She didn’t necessarily want to hate him, but she’d come to believe that she had to. It was her way to avoid being hurt, because there were more bad memories than good.

And she simply did not
like
or trust her father.

Zachariah?

Not only did she like him, she had no reason to doubt him, either.

So she kept packing.

B
ÉNE REMAINED UNSETTLED AFTER HIS CONFRONTATION WITH
Felipe’s widow. Her stare—distant yet piercing—was one he would not forget. But Felipe had sold him out and almost compromised everything. And if Béne had relied solely on that one double agent to supply him accurate information, he would know next to nothing as to what the Simon was now doing. Thankfully, he’d not made that mistake. He’d learned long ago the value of a spy, particularly one in a position to witness everything. Still, he wasn’t exactly sure what the Simon was after.

Supposedly, it was Columbus’ lost mine.

But he wondered.

The papers he’d obtained from Felipe’s house might help answer his questions. To get them deciphered he’d called on a man he actually trusted, and there weren’t many of those in the world.

His men drove him a few kilometers east from Spanish Town, through horrendous Kingston traffic, to the University of the West Indies, Jamaica’s premier college. He’d graduated from it almost twenty years ago, and he recalled his time on campus with fondness. While many of his friends joined gangs or languished in unemployment, he’d craved an education. He wasn’t the greatest student but he was devoted, which had pleased his mother. He especially liked history. He realized early on that he would never be a political leader—his father’s reputation was too much of a hindrance—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a difference. He currently owned or controlled nearly a quarter of the national Parliament and a majority of the cabinet
ministers. His money was appreciated, as was his congenial attitude. Jamaica was divided into fourteen parishes, and he was influential in all those that counted for his businesses. He’d become a person respected by both rich and poor. He was also feared, which was not necessarily a bad thing.

The guard at the university’s entrance waived his car through with a smile.

The man he’d come to see waited for him near the rugby field where students were hard into an intersquad match. He loved the game and had played it when he was here. The current team topped the island’s intercollegiate league standings. He was a big financial supporter of the university, both scholastic and athletic.

Professor Tre Halliburton headed the Department of History and Archaeology. He was a blond-haired, square-faced man with tight lips and clever eyes. Not native to the island, but he’d adopted Jamaica as his home. Béne met him at a university gathering a few years ago and they began a friendship. Halliburton knew Béne’s reputation, as did most of the school’s administration, but he’d never been arrested, much less convicted of anything. Rumors were just that—rumors. Reality was that the university liked Rowe’s money, and Béne liked giving it to them.

He stepped from the car into the late afternoon. One thing about Jamaica—weather always stayed the same, winter or summer. Either warm or hot, not much else. It was approaching 6:00
P.M
., the sun beginning its retreat behind the Blue Mountains north of Kingston. He needed to head that way soon, as he was due at the estate for dinner.

“Béne, you been in the jungle today,” Halliburton said to him.

His clothes were soaked with sweat and grime and he still smelled of Felipe’s stinking house. “I’ve been busy, my friend.” He held up the documents in his hand. “I need you to take a look at these.”

He kept his words to proper English. No patois here.

The professor shuffled through the parchments in a quick perusal.

“Quite a find, Béne. These are Spanish originals. Where did you get them?”

“Don’t ask.” And he added a smile.

“The Spanish ruled this island for 150 years,” Tre said. “When they left in 1655 they buried most of their documents, thinking they’d be back. Of course, they never came back which is why we have so few written accounts from that time.”

He caught the message, but could not have cared less.

“I assume you want me to tell you what they say?” Tre said.

“It would help. It looks like Spanish, but I can’t read most of it.”

He watched while the academician studied the writings, angling them to the sun for better illumination of the faint print. “It’s Castilian. That language has changed a great deal since the 16th century. You realize these parchments should not be in bright light.”

But he wasn’t concerned about preservation, either. “What are they?”

Tre knew all about his interest in the lost mine.

They’d talked about it in detail many times.

“It’s amazing, Béne, but you may actually have something here.”

———

Extremists on Both Sides, Out of Control
By Tom Sagan
,
Los Angeles Times