The Columbus Affair: A Novel (16 page)

“How’s all this doing?” he asked.

He’d not visited in a few months.

“We get people. Not many, but some. The tour guides bring ’em. Slow and steady. Every dollar we make helps keep the place open.”

Colonels headed the various Maroon communities islandwide. He knew they all met at least once a month in a loose form of Parliament. Maroon land was not subject to Jamaican taxation or much regulation. They governed themselves, treaties from long ago assuring that independence.

He liked coming here, discussing the old ways, and he’d learned many things about the lost mine from Frank Clarke.

A Taino legend told the story of two caves. One called Amayauna, meaning “of no importance.” The other, Cacibajagua, “of great importance.” Neither had ever been found. Part of the tale, which Maroons adopted as their own, included how the Tainos showed Columbus a place in the mountains, a cave, where veins of gold ran two inches wide. But after 500 years of searching no trace of any mine had ever been found. A myth? Maybe not. Something Tre Halliburton mentioned yesterday had tugged at his brain all night.

“The Columbus family’s hold on the island was gone. The Spanish had regained control, and the Inquisition would shortly arrive. No longer would anyone protect Jamaican Jews. Thankfully, the community had taken precautions, secreting away its wealth in a location known only to a man identified as the Levite.”

So he’d driven across the mountains from his estate on the south slope to here, on the north, to see a man with knowledge.

“I need to know more about the mine,” he said to Clarke.

“You still lookin’? Can’t shake it?”

“Not now.”

Frank once told him about another legend. A cave supposedly guarded by an iron gate that no Maroon had ever been able to penetrate. They called it Cacibajagua, place of importance, same as the Tainos. Many had tried to pass through the gate, all had failed. He realized Maroons, like the Tainos, lived by their stories. The more fantastical the better. Jamaicans liked to say how proud they were of Maroons, but few knew anything about them. Even stranger, Maroons knew little about themselves. Like the Tainos, Maroons left no written history, no edifices, nothing to remember them by except songs, proverbs, place-names, and trails in the forest. His hope was that this old story might be grounded in some fact.

So he asked, “The Jews. How were they with the Maroons?”

This was a subject they’d never broached, but now he wanted to know.

“The Jews were different,” Frank said. “Not really Spanish or English. Not African. Not Taino. But they were persecuted, as we were. Sure, they owned most of the businesses and made money, but they weren’t equals with the Spanish or English. They were beat down. Many laws were passed against them. Did you know that Jews could only own two slaves, no more. Unless they owned a plantation, and that was rare. And they could only have other Jews as indentured servants.”

No, he’d not known that.

“No laws, though, stopped Jews from doing business with slaves,” Frank said. “They sold goods to ’em and white people hated that. They said it encouraged slaves to steal from masters, since Jews gave ’em a place to spend the money. That led to a lot of bad feeling toward
them. Jews also sold Maroons ammunition. That was the one thing we could never make on our own. Guns we stole off dead British soldiers, ammunition had to be bought.”

“You never told me any of this before.”

“Béne, there’s a lot you’ve never asked about.”

“Where is this place of the iron gate?”

Frank smiled. “There are things I can’t speak of.”

“I’m Maroon.”

“That you are. So you should know that there are things we don’t speak of.”

“Then tell me more about the Jews.”

The colonel apprised him with a skeptical eye. “Like I said, they sold Maroons powder and shot when we fought the English. But they also sold to the English. Bad feelings came from that on both sides. Colored people acquired full rights here in 1830. After that, the Jews were the only free men without the right to vote. That didn’t come until years later, and it was the freed colored who fought against Jewish equality for so long.” He paused. “Always thought that strange. But the Jews can’t be faulted. They were businesspeople. They feared the English would lose tolerance and seize their property, expelling them. So they played both sides.”

He relieved Clarke of his
machet
and used the blade to sketch in the dirt.

“What is that?” Béne asked his friend.

Only bird twitters and humming insects disturbed the peaceful morning.

“Where did you see this?”

The words came thin, rasping, and harsh.

“What is it?”

Frank stared at him.

“The key to the iron gate.”

A
LLE STARED AT THE VIDEO MONITOR AS THE CAR SPED DOWN A
familiar highway. Orange groves stretched for miles on either side, between horse farms and treed hillocks.

“What is your man going to do?” she said.

“Good question,” Brian said.

“There’s a car on Sagan’s tail,” the voice from the computer said. “Closing fast.”

“Where are you?”

“Behind that car. But back.”

“There’s no need to be subtle anymore. Help him. You know who’s on his tail.”

Brian’s eyes confirmed what she already knew.

Zachariah and Rócha.

A lump formed in her throat that she found hard to swallow. Never had she considered the possibility that her father might be harmed.

Yet here it was.

The resolution on the dashboard camera was not good enough for them to see far ahead and road vibrations caused the image to constantly shift.

What was her father doing? Just give them what they want.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

“Simon is on him,” the voice from the computer said.

———

Z
ACHARIAH ROLLED DOWN HIS WINDOW AS
R
ÓCHA BROUGHT
the car parallel to Sagan’s, in the opposite lane. No cars were coming their way. Sagan’s hands were tight on the wheel, face tense. At first he ignored them, then he finally glanced over.

“Stop the car,” Zachariah yelled.

Sagan shook his head.

———

T
OM HAD NEVER DRIVEN A CAR THIS FAST BEFORE
. H
E WAS PUSHING
ninety. Thankfully, this road was a straight shot with few curves. His gaze darted left and right and all he could see was orange trees, their verdant leaves thick with spring blossoms. As a kid he’d worked the Lake County fields during the summer and fall, earning extra money. Back then several local families, all friends, owned the largest orchards. He knew where he was and what lay around him. One rule any good reporter quickly mastered was to learn the lay of the land.

The car behind him veered left in the opposite lane and sped up beside him.

Simon.

Telling him to pull over.

There was no evading the directness of his gaze, the eyes the same—cold and confident—so he reached across to the other seat, grabbed the box with his gun, and laid it on his lap.

Simon was motioning again for him to stop.

His hands grabbed the box and ripped it open.

He regripped the wheel as his left hand found the gun and swung it out the window.

———

“S
LOW DOWN,”
Z
ACHARIAH SCREAMED
.

Sagan was pointing a gun directly at him.

Rócha slammed on the brakes, decelerating enough for Sagan’s car to race away.

The damn fool had wanted to shoot him.

“Go,” he ordered. “Force him off the highway.”

———

T
OM WAS GLAD HE HADN’T BEEN REQUIRED TO PULL THE TRIGGER
. He’d never actually fired a gun, and shooting one while driving ninety miles an hour had not seemed the best way to start.

But he’d been prepared to do it.

He’d deal with Zachariah Simon, but on his own terms. What did he have to lose? He doubted Simon would hurt Alle, not until he had what he was after. And Tom could not care less about himself. He should already be dead, so any additional time he spent breathing was simply a bonus. Strange, though, how, in the heat of this chase, he hadn’t thought about dying. All he wanted to know was that Alle would be okay. And the sealed package lying on the passenger’s seat should ensure that would happen.

Something slammed into his bumper, jarring the steering wheel.

He regained control and held the front tires straight. He was about to run out of highway, as this county road would dead-end into another more heavily traveled state route.

Another pop to the bumper.

Simon was slamming into him from behind, staying away from any bullets. He watched in his rearview mirror as Simon’s vehicle dropped back, then sped toward him, this time veering left into the other lane and crashing into his car’s side. He struggled to hold the vehicle on the road, then decided
What the hell. Go for it
. One turn to the right and the front tires leaped from the pavement, his acceleration sending him across a narrow drainage ditch that paralleled the road and into an orange grove.

The front end pounded the earth, then rebounded, the rear tires driving him ahead. He jammed his right foot onto the brake, slowed, then spun onto a dirt lane between a long row of trees.

And raced ahead.

———

S
IMON WAS IMPRESSED
.

Quite a maneuver.

Tom Sagan was proving a challenge.

Rócha stopped the car, wheeled around, and backtracked to where Sagan had jumped.

“Do it,” he ordered.

Rócha reversed and bought himself more roadway, then accelerated, skipping the ditch, landing hard on the other side. He worked the wheel left, then right, and they found the same lane between the trees Sagan had used, a dust cloud ahead obscuring their view.

They’d have to move slower.

But they would move.

———

B
ÉNE WAITED FOR
F
RANK
C
LARKE TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF
.

The key to the iron gate?

He knew Maroons were zealous about secrets. The entire society had been born in crisis, nurtured through strife, and existed for four centuries almost totally hidden away. They’d been brilliant warriors with a high morale, their entire existence resting on the memory of their greatest deeds, the tales passed from one generation to the next.

An iron gate?

He wasn’t interested in stories.

He wanted retribution.

And the colonel should, too.

“Frank, you have to help me. I’m trying to find that mine. It’s out there, around us, somewhere, in these mountains. You know it is. It’s not a legend. That place, its wealth, belongs to Maroons. It’s ours.”

He was speaking straight, using perfect English, making clear that this was going to be a modern solution to an old problem.

“I’m not so sure about that, Béne.”

“The Spanish stole it from the Tainos. We’re the closest thing left to them. Think what we could do if the legend is true.”

His friend said nothing.

“Why is that symbol there in the ground so important?”

Frank motioned for them to walk inside the museum.

The structure cast the appearance of a shanty, similar to where Felipe lived. It was authentic Maroon except that cut lumber had been substituted for hewn logs. The floor was old-style, a mixture of clay and ash hammered to the consistency of concrete. He’d used the concoction himself on his estate in the barns, work sheds, and coffee-processing facilities. Artifacts lined the outer walls of the barnlike rectangle, all excavated from the nearby mountains. Placards explained their significance. Nothing fancy, just plain and simple. Much like the people being remembered.

They passed wooden tables displaying bowls and utensils.
Junges
stood upright, the spear’s rusted blades sharp. An
abeng
occupied a place of prominence, as it should. He’d learned as a boy how to blow the cow’s horn—once the Maroon’s version of the Internet—creating specific notes that translated into messages over long distances. There were also drums, bird traps, cauldrons, even a replica of a healing hut used by each community’s Scientist to treat the sick.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” he said. “You have more on display than before.”

Frank faced him. “You should come more often. Like you say, you are Maroon.”

Which was all a matter of birth. If a parent was Maroon, then so were the children.

“You don’t need me around,” he said.

“Not true, Béne. Nobody here cares that you make money off gambling or whores. We all know, so don’t be ashamed. We’re not. Look where we came from. Who we are.”

They stopped at a wooden stage that occupied a rear corner, upon which sat three drums. He knew music was a big part of the museum’s allure. Some of the local drummers were the best on the island. Shows were a regular occurrence here, drawing both Maroons and tourists. He even owned one of the drums, carved from a stout piece of timber found in the mountains. Frank bent down and slid out a topless wooden crate from beneath the stage. Inside lay a stone, about a third of a meter square, upon which was the same symbol he’d traced outside.