The Columbus Affair: A Novel (42 page)

An unprecedented time called for unprecedented actions.

He was alone inside a room off the nave in the Maisel Synagogue. An older woman had opened the glass display case and removed the silver box, never saying a word. She’d laid it on a wooden table and left, closing the door behind her. His thoughts flew back to the room at the cemetery and Abiram’s coffin, lying on a similar wooden table.

A lot had gone unsaid between the two of them.

Now there were no more opportunities to right any wrongs.

True, as Berlinger had said, time had brought everything into focus, but it was not an image he wanted to see. Even worse, it seemed the same mistake he had made twenty years ago was being repeated by his own daughter toward him.

He flushed those troubling thoughts from his brain and opened the lid.

Inside was a black leather bag, identical to the one from Abiram’s grave that had held the key. He pressed the outside with his finger and felt something hard beneath.

He lifted out the bag and opened the top.

What came out was spherical, about four inches wide, and looked like a large pocket watch with a brass face.

But it wasn’t.

Instead it was an assemblage of five interlocking disks, one above the other, held together by a central pin. On top were pointers that could be rotated and lined with symbols that appeared on the disks. He noticed the lettering. Some was Hebrew, some Arabic and Spanish. It weighed maybe half a pound and seemed of solid brass. No tarnish marred its exterior, and the disks freely turned.

He knew what this was.

An astrolabe.

Used for navigation.

Nothing else was inside the box.

No explanations, no messages—zero to explain what he was supposed to do next.

“Okay, Saki,” he whispered.

He laid the astrolabe down and found Abiram’s note and the Jamaican road map, laying both on the table. He added the key from the lock.

All of the pieces of the puzzle.

He opened the map and pressed its folds flat, careful not to tear the brittle paper. He saw again the ink additions to the map, numbers scattered around the island. He made a quick count. Maybe a hundred written in faded blue ink.

He lifted the astrolabe and tried to remember anything he knew about the device. Used for navigation, but how he had no idea. Across the rim of the outer disk were symbols laid out at intervals. A pointer, notched like a ruler, stretched from one edge to the other and connected symbols from opposite sides. All of the writing was either Hebrew or Spanish. He knew no Spanish and only a smattering of Hebrew.

He turned it over.

The back side was a grid of rows encircling the disk, five in total, everything in Hebrew. One row he recognized.

Numbers.

As a child Abiram had insisted he study Hebrew. Unlike many languages numerals were formed using letters, and he recalled the number combinations. He recognized 10, 8, 62, 73, and most of the others. Another pointer stretched from one end to the other. He rotated the disks, which spun easily on their central axis. His gaze drifted to Abiram’s message and the main point Saki had explained.

3. 74. 5. 86. 19
.

He searched the astrolabe and found 3, amazed that he could still translate. He twisted the pointer and lined one end with the symbol for 3. At the opposite end was Hebrew for 74.

Not a coincidence.

The second number from Saki’s message was 5. He twisted the pointer and found the symbol for 5. The opposite side rested at 86.

One left, which seemed the whole point. The first two were there simply to confirm,
Yeah, you’re on the right track
.

He searched the grid for 19 and found what he thought was correct.

The opposite number was 56.

He immediately surveyed the map, looking for 56. He found it east of the center of the island, south of a town called Richmond, adjacent to the Flint River. Small print on the map, just beside the inked number, noted that the area was called Falcon Ridge. He searched the remainder of the map. The number 56 appeared nowhere else.

He smiled.

Ingenious.

Absolutely no way existed for anyone to know which of the hundred or so numbers was relevant without the sequence and the astrolabe.

He gathered up the map, note, key, astrolabe, and the black leather bag large enough to hold them all.

He left the building and walked back toward the Old-New Synagogue.

He debated trying to find Alle. But how was that possible? And what was the point? She’d made her choice. He’d done all he could for her, but she was Simon’s now, and he only hoped that she’d be okay. He could go to the police, but what would he say? He’d sound like a crazed nut, and he doubted Berlinger would back him up.

“My duty is done. The rest I leave to you.”

The only thing for him to do was leave.

He glanced around one last time. The clusters of buildings that at first seemed protective in their familiarity were now cold and unappealing. His stay had been short, but memorable. Like his parents’ home, there were a lot of ghosts here, too. But he wondered. What waited ahead, in Jamaica, at Falcon Ridge?

There seemed only one way to find out.

But his heart sank in disappointment.

“Take care, Alle,” he whispered.

And he walked away.

Z
ACHARIAH WALKED BACK TO THE RESTAURANT WHERE
A
LLE
was waiting. He’d locked both doors that had led out of Berlinger’s house before leaving and would be long gone before the body was discovered. He’d had no choice but to kill the old man: He knew far too much and could definitely link him to the ambassador. Prayer?

That had never been enough and never would be. Force, or at least its threat, was what offered real security. Jews had never possessed enough force. Only once, at the time of the Second Temple, had they risen in revolt and ousted the Romans, but that victory had been short-lived. The empire returned and crushed them. In modern times the state of Israel had enjoyed more success. Twice invasions were tried, and twice the invaders were defeated. But Israel’s will to fight had waned. The thoughts of rabbis were heeded over the advice of generals. There was no room in this world for any more Rabbi Berlingers.

He found the restaurant and saw Alle. Noontime was approaching, and the tables were beginning to fill. An aroma of dumplings and roast duck enticed him, but there was no time for lunch.

“Did you learn anything?” she asked.

He wondered if she truly believed that he would share with her whatever he may have discovered, but he showed no irritation and simply shook his head.

“He is a stubborn old man. He told me about your father, but nothing we did not already know.”

His phone vibrated.

He found the unit and saw that it was Rócha.

“Sagan is on the move. Back to his car, I think.”

He stood from the table and motioned for Alle to follow.

“We’re coming your way.”

“Avoid the old square. He’ll be there shortly.”

He ended the call.

“Your father is leaving. That means we are, too.”

He’d not lied to Berlinger. This young woman meant nothing to him any longer, but he would not be as quick as before to kill her. He’d keep her close until he was certain she was of no further use. With Tom Sagan on the move to who-knew-where, that time had not yet arrived.

So he smiled and led her away.

———

A
LLE WAS UNSURE ABOUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING, ONLY THAT
her father seemed to be leaving Prague. He’d apparently decided to press on without her, but what choice did he have? He had no way of finding her. And she was glad. She preferred being with Zachariah. She had a purpose here. Felt a part. Like she had with her grandparents.

They were making their way back toward where she and her father had left their car, worming through traffic and thick streams of pedestrians.

“We followed you from Vienna,” Zachariah said as they walked, “and parked nearby. Illegally, so I hope the car is still there.”

He motioned left.

“We have to avoid the town square. This route will take us where we want to go, away from there.”

They kept moving.

Interesting how her father leaving actually bothered her. Like another slap in the face. A rejection. For all he knew, she was looking for him.

Yet he’d decided to leave.

“Does my father know that I’m with you?” she asked.

Zachariah nodded. “The rabbi told me that he saw us earlier, together on the street.”

Which explained some.

“Where’s he going?”

“That’s what we have to find out. I am assuming he will head to an airport. I am hoping it will be the one in Prague.”

———

T
OM DROVE WEST SIX MILES OUT OF TOWN TO
P
RAGUE’S
R
UZYNE
airport. He left the car with the rental agency and found the British Airways ticket counter, thinking that might be his best bet to get to Jamaica. There was a flight leaving for London in two hours with seats still available. After a two-and-a-half-hour layover, another flight would take him to Kingston. The ticket price was outrageous but he could not have cared less. He paid with his credit card and obtained a day pass for the airline’s lounge.

Before settling down inside to wait, he bought a few toiletries. He should call Inna and see what she may have discovered, but what did it matter anymore? Everything he needed to know was here, inside the black leather bag. He looked like crap. He needed a shower and a shave, just like in the old days while on the hunt. Thankfully, appearances mattered little to a print reporter. The byline. That’s what counted. And where the story was positioned. Front page, above the fold, the Boardwalk and Park Place of the newspaper business, and he’d owned that real estate.

But those days were gone.

Never to return?

He thought of the woman in the car.
Find the treasure. Then we will talk
.

Was it possible?

He was actually tired, but he’d sleep on the plane. Once in Jamaica he’d rent a car and head to Falcon Ridge. A lot was at stake here. For himself and for others.

A war?

Was that Simon’s intent?

Something came to mind he read once while in the Middle East.

From the sacred
Midrash Tanchuma
.

People believed that to the point of fanaticism.

Plenty enough to start a war.

———

Z
ACHARIAH WAITED WITH
A
LLE IN THE BAGGAGE CLAIM AREA
. They’d made it to the car, where Rócha had been behind the wheel with the engine running, watching from across the street as Sagan found his car and climbed inside. They’d followed him out of town, his destination immediately obvious.

The airport.

So he called Vienna and told the charter service to fly the jet to Prague. The flight time was less than an hour. All he needed to know was Sagan’s destination.

Which Rócha had left to find out.

He spotted his man on the down escalator and watched as he walked over. He caught Alle’s apprehension.

“Not to worry,” he told her. “I spoke to him. He will not bother you again.”

Rócha approached.

“It cost me £500 but the ticket agent told me Sagan booked the three o’clock flight to London, then on to Kingston, Jamaica. I have the flight times.”

Jamaica.

Why was he not surprised?

Rócha faced Alle. “I want to say I’m sorry for what happened in Vienna. I took things too far. I was only trying to do my job.”

He watched as Alle accepted the apology. He’d told Rócha what to do in the event that she was back with them and was pleased that his man had followed directions.

She seemed more at ease already.

“Our jet will be here soon,” he said.

“Sagan went through Customs, then security,” Rócha said. “He’s gone, waiting for his flight.”

Zachariah’s mind was on a greater problem.

Sagan would beat them to Jamaica. They’d have to refuel at least once, probably twice. Even with a layover, Sagan would arrive first. Which meant he had to have someone there, on the ground, ready and waiting.

And there was only one candidate.

“I have to make a call,” he said.

B
ÉNE WAS AT HIS ESTATE, THE LONG NIGHT OVER, THE
J
AMAICAN
morning barely beginning. Halliburton had returned home, too, and Frank Clarke was back in Charles Town. He’d changed out of his wet clothes, now outside at the kennel, where his dogs waited. They were glad to see him, Big Nanny especially. He petted them all and accepted their affection.

He thought about Grandy Nanny herself.

She’d managed to escape not long after arriving in Jamaica and took her five brothers with her. One set of siblings came east and became the Windward Maroons. Nanny and the others traveled west and became the Leewards. She built Nanny Town, clearing 600 acres of raw forest. She fought the British and, while her brothers and most Maroons sought peace, she merely signed a truce. Legend said that immediately afterward she asked the British to shoot her. They obliged, but Nanny spun around, then straightened up, walking to a British officer and returning the bullets that had been fired her way. She pointed toward the sky and told him, “Only one can kill me.”

He smiled. That was the thing about legends.

You wanted to believe them.

He stared out at the mountains, packed with a profusion of lush vegetation, a sea of green, the morning sun casting the thick slopes in a purple glow.

What beauty.

He gathered the dogs and opened the gate. The animals fled the kennel, stretching their legs, readying themselves for a hunt.

He was still bothered by the attempt on his life.

Being born Maroon was an initiation into a secret society. His mother taught him as a child
“never tell more than half of what you know. That’s not lying,”
she would add.
“That’s smart.”
His father had been more practical. Hammering into him more of Maroon culture. Secrets shared become secrets betrayed.
“Go to your grave,”
his father said,
“with your secrets.”