Maroon Rising (5 page)

I’d been good at it, too. I’d found incalculably valuable lost antiquities, treasures worth hundreds of millions of dollars, even helped to connect missing gaps of world history for cultures that had vanished centuries ago.

While Jack and Heather had been left alone in Virginia.

Back at my room, on the bed there was an envelope with a handwritten note requesting my company for dinner tonight with Chris Blackwell and Thom Shepherd at Blackwell’s private villa. A quick glance at my ancient Rolex Submariner made me skip a shave and dash into the shower. Cocktails would be served in twenty minutes in the Bizot Bar, at the far end of the beach.

Bizot was an open-air structure overlooking Low Cay Beach. As I walked through the white sand I saw torches burning, candles flickering, and heard laughter filter through the foliage that separated the beach from the villas. Underneath the covered patio was a bar supported by columns entirely wallpapered in photographs, pictures, stories, and album covers from Blackwell’s friends and clients back in the days of Island Records. On the corner seat of the bar was a tall man in a cowboy hat with his back to me.

Chris Blackwell had a casual elegance: gray hair almost as long as mine and a trim beard, open collar, linen slacks, a deep tan from a lifetime in the Jamaican sun. Thom introduced me.

“Buck Reilly, welcome to GoldenEye.” Chris shook my hand with a firm grip that belied his seventy-plus years.

“It’s a pleasure to meet the man who introduced reggae to the rest of the world,” I said.

Blackwell gave a brief nod. “And equally, a man who has cut such a romantic and dashing swath as a treasure hunter.” This said in a British accent undiluted after his many years in Jamaica.

“It seems those days are long past,” I said.

“Not so long.” He smiled. “I’m quite familiar with the Port Royal salvage project you pursued.”

I suspected a lot of people recognized my name from coverage in the local press.

“A brief attempt to revisit past successes,” I said.

“Harry Greenbaum is an old friend,” he said. “An investor, in fact, in the early days of Island Records.”

“Really? He’s never mentioned that, but given Harry’s prolific portfolio I’m not surprised.”

The bartender handed me a Black and Stormy, Blackwell’s own version of a dark and stormy using his brand of rum.

“Your competitor has been luckless in Port Royal.”

I managed a brief smile. “At this point I’m glad Last Resort wasn’t selected.”

“You’re luckier than you know,” Chris said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“According to Jamaican island legend, it’s all a sham. The so-called Port Royal treasure, that is.”

“So called?” I said. “The evidence that Henry Morgan spirited away a vast treasure was in a document identifying the location, dated late seventeenth century, and connected to a former slave who sailed with Morgan to the raid of Panama. I found it myself nearly six years ago through various connections here on Jamaica.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. The letter you acquired all those years ago was certainly authentic.” He paused. “But legend here among Jamaicans whose family roots run back to those times has it that the content of the letter was intentionally bogus.”

I sat there in shocked silence long enough for Blackwell to take a swig of his cocktail, put it down, and smile at me.

“You still there, Buck?” Thom said.

“Ah, yeah. Well, I suppose anything’s possible, but a nearly four-hundred-year-old sham? Seems unlikely.”

Yet nothing sounded unlikely coming from this man, who had an omniscient presence about him. Who’d been around the world and back many times, had built music legends from nothing, and still had a glint of Peter Pan in his bright blue eyes.

“It’s academic for you now, of course, but as I said, lucky for you. Assuming local legend is true.”

I sat on a barstool and gulped half of my Black and Stormy, the ginger beer tickling my nostrils.

“And I thought the music business was tough,” Thom said.

Blackwell raised his empty glass.

“We should adjourn to my villa for dinner.”

“Before we go,” I said, “do you know a Professor Nanny Adou?”

Blackwell’s eyes lit up. “Of course. She’s at the University of the West Indies, and her ancestors have been here as far back as Morgan himself. Why do you ask?”

“She’s been asking to see me. Says she wants me to meet an elder from the Moore Town Maroons but hasn’t said why.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“She’s the genuine article, given her history and stature within the community. Have you met her yet?”

I shook my head.

“Well, it would be worthwhile, I’m sure. As I was saying, her family lineage goes back to the matriarch of Maroon leadership—Nanny herself.”

“A mystery, wrapped in a conundrum, surrounded by legend,” Thom said. “You’ll be right at home here, Buck.”

B
ecause Professor Adou was driving up from Moore Town, Johnny Blake suggested we all meet at the Trident Hotel in Port Antonio. I rented a Jeep through GoldenEye and set out after breakfast.

The drive east along the coastal road cut in and out of wooded areas, weaving through small bays and towns: Port Maria, Annott Bay, Palmetto Bay, Buff Bay, and Hope Bay. An hour and a half later I finally found the Trident, just past the heart of Port Antonio. It was an elegant resort, geared to recapture the success of the 1950s, when the region’s proximity to the Rio Grande had made it a strategic location for banana exporters.

Johnny was seated on one of the red couches in the courtyard out back, sipping a Coke. He jumped up when he saw me, and true to his outgoing personality gave me a quick hug and a fist bump.

“Mr. Buck, welcome back to Jamaica, mon.”

“Thanks, Johnny. Can’t say I’m happy to be here, but at least SCG is striking out.” I glanced around. We were the only ones on the patio. “Speaking of which … have you ever heard a rumor the letter you sold me might be some kind of ancient scam?”

Johnny’s ever-present smile vanished.

“Never heard nothing like that, mon. You saying I—”

“Whoa! I’m not suggesting you knew anything. But Jack hasn’t found dick, and I heard the rumor from a source who knows local history, and it got me wondering.”

Back came the toothy smile.

“Bad for your old friend Jack Dodson if it’s true, huh?”

“Wouldn’t break my heart, Johnny.”

“Things real tense in Port Royal. Their work getting sloppier, and the Heritage Trust getting pushy.”

Now that I’d seen Jack’s operation firsthand, my estimate of $25,000 per day may have been conservative.

Good.

“By the way, I found out about that blond,” Johnny said. “Name’s Heather Drake—”

“I know.” I took a deep breath. “I mean, it turns out I knew her.”

He laughed. “Why am I not surprised, King Buck?”

“Do me a favor—don’t call me that.”

A waiter in a black uniform delivered cups and a pot of coffee. Johnny requested another Coke, and once the waiter poured my coffee, he bowed and walked away. I turned back to Johnny.

“I’m still curious about Professor Adou. You haven’t told me much.”

Johnny grinned, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of Jamaican cash. He removed the rubber band and peeled back some bills until he found a five-hundred-dollar note. He held it up to show the image of Nanny, the leader of the Windward Maroons back from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.

“Named after the Mother of us all. I know who Queen Nanny is, but why’s the professor named after her? Is there any significance?”

“Plenty significance, mon. She’s the product of modern education but got a lot of old connections. Good thing you finally meet her, ’cause I’m not sure whether she be an Obeah like her great-great granny, but you don’t want to take no chances—”

Suddenly Johnny’s eyes bulged and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to stand up.

I glanced over my shoulder to see a tall, lithe woman in tan slacks and a bright yellow short-sleeved blouse walking toward us. I realized I was staring with my mouth open. Neither Chris nor Johnny had bothered to mention that Nanny was beautiful: fine features, mocha skin, short highlighted hair, gorgeous figure, and a confidence that pulled it all together. I pushed my chair back and stood up.

“Miss Nanny,” Johnny said. “Thank you so much for coming to see us.”

She nodded at Johnny and stopped in front of me, tall but not so tall she didn’t look up into my eyes.

“I’m glad you finally returned to Jamaica, Buck Reilly.” She extended her hand and took mine in a firm grip.

Johnny extended his hand too, but still focused on me, she took a moment to give him a shake.

“Thank you for arranging the introduction, Mr. Blake. But at the risk of being rude, I’d like to speak with Mr. Reilly alone.” She continued to study my face, her eyes probing mine.

I saw Johnny’s shoulders slump.

“Excuse me,” I said, then walked with him toward the lobby and patted him on the back. “Thanks, Johnny. I’ll fill you in on what I learn and we’ll see where this goes, if anywhere. In the meantime I know you’ll be keeping an eye on Port Royal for me.”

“All right, mon.” He walked away, and I returned to Nanny Adou.

“Coffee?” I said.

“No, thanks.” She sat on the couch across from me.

Questions filled my mind, but I held back. She leaned forward.

“Are you free for the next two hours? ”

“I am. May I ask why?”

“I’d like to take you to Moore Town. A man’s there waiting to meet you—Colonel Grandy.”

“You’d mentioned him before. What does he want with me?”

“You’re no stranger to Jamaica, Mr. Reilly—”

“Buck, please.”

“The way you went about your recent pursuit of the Port Royal excavation leads us to believe you might be an advocate for the Jamaican people.”

“How so?”

“Your application with its lack of … up-front fees and its promises to the selection committee was either naïve or honorable.” A faint smile. “Given your background, nobody believes you’re naïve. It’s possible you’ve changed since your days as King Buck. That’s what Colonel Grandy wants to see for himself.”

A tingle ran up from my fingertips.

“To what end?”

She smiled, revealing white, straight teeth. Her almond-shaped eyes, while narrowed, looked alert but not unfriendly.

“You won’t be disappointed, I assure you. And to anticipate your next question, yes—it does have to do with the Port Royal effort.”

I sat back in the chair and sipped now lukewarm coffee.

“A friend and I had dinner with Chris Blackwell last night,” I said. “He had an interesting theory about a legend related to the old letter that led me to the Port Royal project. What do you know about that?”

She smiled. “I’d rather you discuss this with Colonel Grandy, but I’ll be happy to share some history with you first.”

We both leaned in. A breeze swirled her light scent into my nostrils, inviting me closer.

“Some of the story is true, some parts are not. As you noted in your historical assessment in the application—”

“Wait—the applications were confidential.”

Now the smile was almost a smirk. “Many of the former slaves who sailed with Henry Morgan on his privateering campaigns were Maroons. One of these men was connected to the letter in question.”

“Connected how?”

“He wrote it. You need to understand that even though the Maroon community has been diluted over the years, there remains a core of elders who still speak the African dialects, practice the ancient ways, and curate our historic details. This piece of history has been held close, and given the value involved, you can imagine why.”

I could only nod.

“The letter you acquired some years ago was originally a diversion planned by the man, or men, who helped Morgan hide the valuables from the attack on Panama. After Morgan’s death in 1688 there was a massive search for the treasure conducted by former family members, privateer associates, and the authorities that felt swindled by Morgan. Just four years after Morgan’s death came the earthquake that sank a good portion of Port Royal, so those who had helped Morgan hide the loot produced the letter stating that it had been buried in the bowels of the Jamison House, a part brothel Morgan was known to frequent. This letter had been hidden with the rest of his papers.”

I felt as if I were filling with helium, getting lighter and lighter headed. If the treasure wasn’t buried in the sunken ruins of the Jamison House, where was it? What else did she or Colonel Grandy know?

“Of course the Jamison House had been selected because it was buried under tons of rubble a league beneath the sea.” She stopped and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “And the letter was the document you acquired.”

The wheels inside my head spun, but I could find no angle to refute what she’d said. It made a lot of sense.

“If the Jamison House was only part brothel, what was the rest?”

“I thought that would be obvious. It was a rum distillery.”

A giddy tingle danced through me with the thought that Jack might have run off with a bad luck charm when he stole my archives, but only for a moment. The professor may have been wrong about me. I wasn’t naïve, but I wasn’t necessarily honorable.