The Columbus Affair: A Novel (43 page)

That was how he justified not telling his mother about his life. A betrayal? Sure. Was he a hypocrite? Probably. He resented Frank Clarke keeping things from him, but his friend had been right in the cave. He’d done the same toward his mother.

And the colonels?

Those men he resented.

That was the thing about Maroons. They’d never been able to stick together. Grandy Nanny herself led 300 of her people from the west to the east in what was known as the Grand Trek. Her goal was to reunite the two Maroon factions into one, then attack the British with a full force. But her brother, Cudjoe, who headed the east, refused. He wanted peace. So she retreated to the Leeward side and resumed the fight. And though she eventually made a truce, she never made peace.

Smart lady.

The dogs seemed anxious.

Two of them tangled.

He yelled and halted their dispute.

Both retreated, and he petted each, letting them know that everything was okay.

Maroons were taught early in life to not speak of their ways. Any knowledge dispensed should come in small increments. Trust was fragile. To reveal all of what you knew made yourself vulnerable to betrayal. Speaking freely of “Maroon things” ran the risk of incurring the ancestors’ wrath.

Best to say nothing
.

That was what he’d been taught. Frank Clarke, too.

So why was he bothered by Frank’s withholding?

Simple. He was not an outsider.

He
was
Maroon.

Frank’s statement that he was not trusted by the others—that hurt him. Who the hell were they to judge?

And to decide to kill him?

“Ungrateful bastards,” he whispered.

What to do now. The mine was nothing and, according to Frank, no one knew what had happened to the gold and silver objects.

Then again, he had no way of knowing if any of that was true.

Always guard your knowledge
.

Was Frank Clarke still protecting?

The dogs continued darting in all directions, always circling back to where he stood. Clouds had rolled in off the peaks, the sky the color of ashes.

His phone rang.

The display read
UNKNOWN
.

He decided to answer.

“Zachariah Simon,” the voice said.

He steadied himself.

“I understand you want to talk to me.”

“Actually, I’d like to kill you.”

And he meant it.

“I did what I had to do. The same you would have done. We’re both successful men, Béne. To remain that way, we make hard decisions. Just like you did when you pointed the Americans my way.”

Interesting. Simon had become informed. “I had no choice.”

“I doubt that. But it doesn’t matter. Jamison is dead. It is just you and me now, Béne.”

Which explained why he’d heard nothing more from Brian. He hoped the Americans were out of his life for good. “What do you want?”

“Let us call it even between us.”

“Would there be a point to that?”

“There’s a man named Thomas Sagan on his way to Kingston.”

“The man from Florida?”

“That’s right. He’s flying in late tonight, your time. I am on the way, but I will not arrive before he does. I need you to follow him and see where he goes.”

“And why would I do that?”

“He will lead you to the location of a great treasure. I lied to you, Béne. I am not after Columbus’ grave or even the lost gold mine. Whether or not there were crates of gold from Panama hidden somewhere on the island, who cares? I want something far more valuable that does exist. Four objects. The Jews’ Temple treasure.”

Now he was interested. Simon was telling him things he knew to be true. “This man, Sagan, knows where that treasure is?”

“I think so.”

But Frank had made clear that the objects were moved. Did this man Sagan know their
current
location?

He decided to hold that nugget and discuss it with Sagan.

“Since you already know about Sagan,” Simon said, “find his photo on the Internet, then find him. He will be on a British Airways flight from London that arrives around eleven tonight, your time. He may have with him a small black bag. What is inside is important.”

“Why call me?”

“Because you want another shot at me.”

That he did. Like Grandy Nanny and the British there might be a truce, but no peace would pass between them.

“Do this,” Simon said, “and you will get that chance, because you will have something I want.”

But Béne knew something else.

Thomas Sagan was Simon’s enemy.

And that he liked.

“There is one other point,” Simon said. “Something for you to consider before you act. I have a piece of the puzzle that Sagan does not. Without it, you will find nothing. I need to be there, with Sagan, and I will provide that piece for us all.”

He chuckled. “Always an angle.”

“It is the way of the world.”

“I’ll have a man waiting for you at the airport with a car,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll find Thomas Sagan.”

T
OM ACCEPTED HIS PASSPORT BACK FROM THE WOMAN BEHIND
the counter. He’d traveled all over the Caribbean and Central America as a reporter, but never to Jamaica. His trip had started with an hour flight from Prague to London, then another nine and a half hours east across the Atlantic. To his body it was after four o’clock in the morning tomorrow. Here, it was 11:15
P.M
.

The transatlantic flight had not been packed, so he was able to stretch out and sleep. For the first time in a few days he’d relaxed, safe thirty thousand feet in the air. He’d even eaten a meal. Not much, as he’d never cared for airplane food, but enough.

The tropical air was thicker and warmer than Prague’s. More like Florida. Like home. Funny he would think that way. He hadn’t considered the concept of home for a long time.

He headed for the rental car counters, which placards said were in the Ground Transportation Hall. Construction was evident everywhere, the terminal undergoing renovations. The gate they’d arrived at appeared new, as did the concourse. Few vendors were open this late, but a fair number of passengers came and went.

He should be jet-lagged, but he wasn’t. He’d never suffered much from that malady, adrenaline both then and now an effective countermeasure. He spotted the Hertz counter, which was lit and manned.

Two men suddenly appeared beside him.

“Need a ride?” one of them asked, an eager look on his face.

He shook his head. “No thanks.”

“Come on, man,” the other one said. “We can take you wherever you need. Quickie quick. Low cost. No problem.”

He kept walking.

They stayed with him.

“We have good car,” the first one said. “Fast. You like.”

“I said no thanks.”

The man to his left hopped in front of him. The other dropped in behind. The one in front reached beneath his shirt and produced a gun, which he nestled close to Tom’s belly.

“I think you do come.”

He now realized the seriousness of the situation. The black leather bag was tucked into his back pocket. He wore the jacket from Europe, but had left the gun in the Czech Republic. The bag was freed from his pocket.

He turned.

The man behind him carried a gun, too.

“Now, now, be cool. You in Jamaica now.”

They herded him away from the rental car counters toward the exit doors. Outside, he raked the night with his eyes trying to spot any police or security.

He saw none.

People flowed in and out of the terminal. Cars came and went. The two men kept him close. One hid his weapon and led the way, the other kept his tucked close to Tom’s midsection, shielded from view.

A pickup truck waited at the curb.

The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. He was short, black, and trim, his hair cut close, the face clean-shaven. He wore a light-colored shirt, open to a colored T-shirt beneath, and cotton trousers. No jewelry adorned his hands, arms, or neck. From the way the men reacted at his presence, this one was in charge. A smile formed on his lips and revealed pearly white teeth.

“I’m Béne Rowe.”

A hand was extended for him to shake.

He did not accept the offer.

“I understand that we have a mutual enemy. Zachariah Simon.”

No sense being coy. “That we do.”

“Then shake my hand and help me stick it to that sorry, no-good SOB.”

———

B
ÉNE SHOOK
T
HOMAS
S
AGAN’S HAND AND SAW APPREHENSION
in the man’s eyes. Good. He
should
be cautious.

His man handed him a black leather bag, just as Simon had predicted. Inside he examined an assortment of odd things, including a circular brass object with Spanish and Hebrew on its face.

“What is this?” he asked.

“An astrolabe.”

“I assume you know how to use it.”

Sagan shrugged. “Not really.”

He pointed a finger at his guest. “Playing stupid with me?”

“Just like you’re doing with me.”

He flicked a hand and dismissed his two men. He assumed Sagan was going nowhere without the black bag. He needed this man to trust him so he handed over everything. “You’re not a prisoner. Leave. Go. But if you want to stay, I’ll help you. Simon tried to kill me. I owe him. If helping you hurts him, then you have my help.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Simon told me. He knew exactly where you’d be.”

He saw the concern on the other man’s face.

“I’ve been honest,” he said to Sagan. “I have no reason to lie. He told me that you know where the Jews’ great treasure is hidden on this island. I know some about that.”

“And what is it you know?”

———

T
OM WAS MAKING DECISIONS, THE KIND HE ONCE MADE IN THE
field when sources appeared out of nowhere. You had to judge words, actions, and make a call. Sometimes you were right, others times not so lucky.

Like in Israel, eight years ago.

Not now
, he told himself.

Focus
.

He knew Falcon Ridge was located somewhere northwest of
Kingston, in the mountains, toward the center of the island. Once there, he had no idea what to look for, and Simon knowing he was here was of great concern.

How was that possible?

His parents and his ex-wife were dead. His daughter was gone. All he had left was the woman in the car.

Find the treasure. Then we will talk
.

But he needed help.

And though this congenial black man of obvious power had said he was free to leave, he doubted that was the case.

Take a chance.

He asked, “Do you know a place called Falcon Ridge?”

Rowe nodded. “It’s not far from my estate.”

An estate?
Of course. What else?

“That’s where we have to go.”

Z
ACHARIAH BUCKLED HIS SEAT BELT AND WATCHED AS
A
LLE AND
Rócha did the same. The long flight across the Atlantic was about over. They’d stopped only once for fuel, in Lisbon, then flown directly here to Kingston. His watch read 12:25
A.M.
, local time, March 9th. Saturday.

Another day had passed.

Both Alle and Rócha had slept on the trip. He’d dozed in and out, his mind unable to relax. It excited him to know there were Israelis in authority waiting for him to act. Finally, after decades of concession and complacency something might be accomplished. His father and grandfather would be proud. He was about to succeed where they each had failed. But that all depended on Béne Rowe’s cooperation.

Sagan should already be on the ground, which meant Rowe was with him, probably trying to learn all that he could. He hoped his ploy about another piece of the puzzle would at least give Rowe some pause. He was betting Rowe would limit those involved. Doubtful that he’d want any of his men trying to take advantage. Sure, Rowe had made clear that somebody would be waiting at the airport to meet them, but he’d never said where they would be taken.

So he wondered.

Could the odds be evened?

Alle stood from her seat and made her way to the lavatory. The pilot had just advised that they would be landing shortly. He waited until the door was shut then motioned for Rócha to leave his seat and come closer. In a low voice he explained what he wanted done.

Rócha nodded.

The answer clear.

Yes, of course
.

———

T
OM SAT IN THE PICKUP’S PASSENGER SEAT AND ASKED,
“H
OW DO
you know Simon?”

“I read about you on the Internet. A big-time reporter who found some trouble.”

Not an answer to his question. “Don’t believe everything you read online. Big mistake.”

Rowe chuckled. “You should read what they say about me there. Shocking. Disgraceful stuff.”

But he wondered how far off the mark that slander might be.

And already he began to question the wisdom of his actions.

They were leaving the airport on a black highway, the road smooth and straight, traffic nearly nonexistent. A full moon brightened the midnight sky.

“How do you know Simon?” he asked again.

“We met a year ago. He wanted help finding a lost mine and I offered it.”

“And Brian Jamison? You know him, too.”

“Did you meet Brian?”

“He was an American agent, working for the Justice Department. My daughter was told he worked for you.”

“That was a lie.”

“He’s dead.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’d say Jamison leaned on you. Judging by your entourage, I’d also say that you know your way around the local criminal justice system. What did Jamison want? Simon?”

“What else. He made me help, and I did what he wanted.”

“Did you have him killed in Vienna?”

Rowe shook his head. “Simon took him down. All his doing.”

“I assume Jamison never said why the Americans were interested in Simon?”

“He wasn’t the talkative type. He liked to give orders.”

“Like you?”