The Columbus Affair: A Novel (20 page)

Which was a problem that required attention. A spy in his midst? Without question. He also had to talk with Béne Rowe and find out why the Jamaican was stalking him. He’d underestimated Rowe’s desire to find Columbus’ lost mine. He’d volunteered only enough information to prove that he knew what he was talking about.

But maybe not enough.

“It’s a grave I am looking for,” he said to Rowe. “That’s what we must find. The grave of the Levite.”

“What does that do?”

“The Levite is the person who guarded the secret of the mine. He alone knew its location. He would pass that information on to someone else before he died. But it’s possible that may not have occurred. My father once found a clue in a Levite’s grave. Look for a pitcher carved into the tombstone. That was the symbol of the Levite. And a hooked X. That has to be there, too.”

He could not care less about any lost mine of Christopher Columbus. What he sought was far more valuable. But if thoughts of finding that mine would spur Béne Rowe into action, then why not use it? When he first approached Rowe, what he sought was a lead to the Levite. But his initial conversations with Rowe occurred long before he found Alle Becket and learned that the current Levite lived not on Jamaica but in central Florida.

And he’d been right.

The secret had been taken to the grave.

He’d actually forgotten about Rowe. They’d teamed over a year ago, the result of him trying to find someone in Jamaica who shared his passion and would search. He’d met Brian Jamison early on. Rowe’s man. Smart, resourceful, American.

The jet taxied toward the runway.

Unfortunately, he could not ignore Rowe any longer.

———

B
ÉNE SAT ON THE VERANDA AND SURVEYED HIS ESTATE
. S
TORM
clouds were rolling in from the north across the Blue Mountains, distant thunder announcing their arrival. It rained a lot here, which was good for the coffee beans.

The great house, a Georgian mansion cast in a Creole style, sat on the crest of a gentle slope. It had been built between 1771 and 1804 by a British plantation owner. White stone walls still stood in stark contrast with lush green woodlands. That Brit had been one of the first to grow coffee. The beans were initially imported in 1728 and quickly flourished. Though it took longer for coffee to ripen in the cooler air, the result was a fuller quality. Today only 9,000 acres in all of Jamaica lay above the minimum 600 meters required by national standards to qualify as Blue Mountain Coffee. His father had set those standards, knowing that all of the Rowe acreage lay high enough. Once, pulperies sat beside the fields so beans could be processed quickly. Modern transports now made that unnecessary. But what came out of the pulperies continued to be dried, graded, then sorted only after six weeks of curing. No other coffee in the world did that. He was proud of his land and the estate, especially the house, which he’d spent millions
refurbishing. No more slaves worked here. Most were Maroons whom he paid an above-average wage.

The stone from the Levite’s grave sat on a table before him. He’d cleaned it, carefully washing away the dark earth, exposing the hooked X. His drive back across the mountains from Charles Town had been troubling. Frank Clarke told him things he’d never known. He was irritated that his friend had held out on him so long, but he should not be surprised. He wondered—was there a connection between the Taino myth of the cave of importance, the Maroon legend of a place with an iron gate, the Jews’ supposed hidden wealth, and Columbus’ lost mine?

Four tales.

Similar, yet different.

Separating one from the other might prove difficult. Could the deed that Felipe found point the way? He hoped Tre Halliburton had been successful in the archives. He’d not heard from his friend.

His fingers caressed the stone.

Such a strange symbol.

What was its significance?

His cell phone vibrated. Few possessed the number, mainly his lieutenants. He studied the display and saw that the call was from Zachariah Simon. He allowed it to ring four times. Let him wait. After the seventh he answered.

“I realize that I have treated you poorly,” Simon said.

“You lied to me.”

“I simply failed to tell you what I was doing outside Jamaica. But actually, that is none of your business.”

“If it concerns that lost mine, then it is my business. And what you’re doing in Florida definitely concerns the mine.”

“I am aware,” Simon said, “that you know of my activities.”

“You lied to me,” he said again.

“There is more at stake here than simply finding lost gold.”

“Not for me.”

“I appreciate what you did when I was in Jamaica. The information you provided was interesting, but not anything I did not already know. I felt that I was offering far more than you could in return.”

He stared out at the mountains and the coming storm. “I wouldn’t underestimate what I can offer.”

Simon chuckled through the phone. “Come now, Béne, let us not be unrealistic. This quest is more far reaching than your island. It is a secret, guarded for five hundred years. Maybe some of the clues lie there, but the answer is definitely elsewhere.”

“Vienna?”

Jamison had already called and informed him of what had happened in a Florida orange grove. He assumed Simon had driven from that grove to an airport and was now aboard a plane.

“You
are
well informed,” Simon said. “What is it you want, Béne?”

“To be told the truth. To be treated as an equal. To be respected.”

“And what do you offer in return?”

“Something you may be in great need of.”

“And what might that be?”

“Alle Becket.”

I
N THE MIDDLE OF THE 6TH CENTURY THE
B
YZANTINE EMPEROR
Justinian ordered the Jews’ Temple treasure removed from Constantinople. He believed it cursed and wanted the sacred objects sent back to the Holy Land. Simply melting the gold and silver down and reusing the precious metals would not, to his way of thinking, remove the curse. Only their banishment would suffice. The emperor entrusted the task to subordinates, who contracted with local merchants to transport the treasure by boat to the south. All three objects—the golden menorah, the Table of Divine Presence, and the silver trumpets—were loaded on board
.

But once out of sight of land, the captain and crew—all Jews—turned west and sailed around the boot of Italy, then north toward Iberia. There the three treasures were brought ashore and entrusted to the Sephardim. Many were distant descendants of those forced into exile by the Romans when the Second Temple was destroyed. Finally, after 470 years, their Temple treasures had been returned
.

And these men would not risk losing them again
.

The treasures were secreted away in the mountains, where they stayed for nearly a thousand years, guarded by more descendants of those same Sephardi
.

That millennium was a turbulent one. For a while Jews flourished in safety, but by the 4th century, when Christianity finally consumed the Roman Empire, Jews were again persecuted. Many, though, had acquired prominent positions in the trades and crafts serving as tax collectors, financial ministers, treasurers, bankers, and astronomers. Kings relied on them. The Catholic Church came to resent their influence and began a campaign to destroy them. Pogroms regularly occurred, the worst in the 14th century when tens of thousands were massacred, their wealth and property confiscated. Ferdinand and Isabella finally expelled all Jews, forcing them to sell their homes, lands, shops, and cattle at low prices. No gold or silver was allowed to be taken from the country
,
so they were compelled to exchange hard wealth for goods. One hundred and twenty thousand fled to Portugal on an agreement with its king, who eventually reneged on his promise of safety and enslaved them. Others went to North Africa, but found no refuge from the Moors. Even more tried Italy and Turkey, but only pain and sorrow followed. By August 3, 1492, the day Columbus sailed from Spain on his first voyage, the situation for the Sephardi Jews seemed hopeless
.

“So they tried something desperate,” Alle said. “The only thing they thought might work.”

Brian was clearly listening.

“Their world had crumbled. They had no where to go. Europe. Africa. Nobody wanted them. So they hoped that there might be a better place across the ocean in Asia. Where Columbus was headed.”

“You’re saying that Christopher Columbus was looking for a Jewish homeland?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. There were tales at the time of a place to the east where Jews lived free. Was it real? Nobody knew. But myths were all these people had. There had to be something better than where they were. Do you know who actually financed Columbus’ first voyage? It wasn’t Isabella selling her jewels, as the story is told. The Spanish monarchy was broke. There was no money for foolish ventures, and that’s what they thought of Columbus’ idea. Instead, it was the Jews who financed that voyage.”

Brian was visibly surprised.

“Luis de Santangel was a
converso
, a Jew from Aragon, who converted to keep what he’d worked his life to obtain. His family served in government, and when Ferdinand needed money, he went to the de Santangels. Unfortunately, they were among the first targets of the Inquisition and Luis was brought to trial. Ferdinand himself finally intervened on his behalf. Luis knew the king’s deepest secrets. He took care of the most difficult state business. Ferdinand needed him, so he was spared. It was de Santangel who convinced the king and queen to support Columbus. But they agreed only after de Santangel staked 17,000 ducats of his own money on the venture. Three other
conversos
added their money. The Spanish Crown had nothing to lose.”

“Why have I never heard of this before?” Brian asked.

“Because no one wants to acknowledge that Columbus could have been a Jew, and that Jews paid for his discovery of the New World. But it’s true. I’ve seen the originals of de Santangel’s account books in the archives at Simancas. They clearly show the money being advanced, and what it was advanced for.”

This was what she’d spent the past two years of her life studying. What her grandfather had sparked inside her long ago. What Zachariah Simon had seemed so interested in understanding.

“The Jews discovered America,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Now, that would change things up some.”

“On Columbus’ first voyage to the New World,” she said, “there were 87 men on those three ships. Contrary to Hollywood’s version, not a single priest was included. Not one. But there was a Hebrew translator on board. A man named de Torres, who was probably the first person ashore that day in 1492. Columbus brought a Hebrew translator for a reason. He thought he was sailing to India and Asia, to a place where Jews lived in safety. So he had to be able to communicate with them. Also, in the hold of the
Santa María
were three crates that held the Temple treasure. When de Santangel financed the voyage, he also set a secret condition with Columbus. ‘Take our treasures with you and hide them away. Spain is no longer safe.’ ”

“So that treasure is somewhere in the Caribbean?” Brian said.

“Most likely on Jamaica. The Columbus family controlled that island for 150 years. Zachariah said his family has searched for generations and learned as much as they could. But the Levite knows it all, and my grandfather was that man.”

Brian stood silent for a few moments, clearly thinking.

She wondered. Was he friend? Or foe?

Hard to say.

“Do you want to help your father?”

“I don’t want to see him hurt.”

She meant that.

“What can I do?”

“Maybe a whole lot.”

T
OM RECLINED THE SEAT AS FAR AS IT WOULD GO, TRYING TO
find comfort in hopes of a little sleep. He’d made it to New York and boarded the overnight flight to London without a problem. They’d left the gate right at 8:00
P.M
. and would arrive, according to the pilot, about half an hour early. That would help with his connection to Bratislava, which was tight. Every seat in coach was full, the cabin lights dimmed, the plane settling down after the meal service. Some were watching movies or listening to music, others reading.

He was thinking.

On the way to the Jacksonville airport he’d passed a branch of the city library system. He had time, so he’d made use of one of their computers, surfing the Internet for thirty minutes, learning what he could about Zachariah Simon.

The man was sixty years old, born to old money. A bachelor who lived a secluded life. Little was known about him except for the philanthropic efforts of his several foundations. The family had always been a huge supporter of Israel, and archived newspaper articles described how Simon’s father contributed money to the formation of a Jewish state. Nothing existed to say that Zachariah Simon had ever involved himself in Middle Eastern politics, and he could not recall the name ever being mentioned during his time there. Simon owned an estate in Austria, outside Vienna, that hosted a Zionist gathering each year to raise money for his foundations. Nothing political, more a social event. The man clearly kept things close to his vest, perhaps recognizing that the world had changed. So much could be learned
about someone now with just a few clicks of a mouse or some taps on a screen. If you didn’t want anyone to know your business, then you had to stay out of cyber-friendly media.

Which Simon did.

The note from Abiram’s grave, the Jamaican map, and the key lay on the tray table before him, all illuminated by the overhead lamp like a spotlight on a stage. He lifted the key and studied the three Stars of David that formed one end. What did it open? He twirled it around, the brass catching the light with sharp reflections. He hadn’t examined it closely in the car, and now something on the stem caught his eye. Tiny. Engraved. He brought the metal closer and studied what was there.