The Columbus Affair: A Novel (44 page)

Rowe laughed. “You really were once a good reporter.”

“I still am.”

And he meant it.

“The Simon said he has information that you don’t. That’s why I’m supposed to hold you up until he gets here.”

“And you don’t believe him?”

“Not a man known for telling the truth.”

“He knows nothing.”

“Then it’s good for me that I took a chance on you.”

He wasn’t so sure if the reverse were true. “How far to Falcon Ridge?”

“In a straight line, maybe fifty kilometers. Unfortunately, roads here don’t go so straight. I’d say two hours to get there. What are we looking for?”

“A cave.”

“Jamaica has thousands of those.”

“Is there one at Falcon Ridge?”

Rowe reached for a phone. “Let’s find out.”

Tom watched as the man dialed a number, waited while the party answered, then listened as Rowe explained what he wanted to someone named Tre.

Rowe then ended the call.

“Calling and driving is dangerous,” Tom said.

“That’s what I hear. But lots of things are dangerous. Like getting into a truck with a stranger.”

“As if I need reminding.”

Rowe grinned. “I like you. Smart guy. I heard what you did to the Simon in Florida.”

He asked what he wanted to know. “Who was on the phone?”

“A friend of mine who knows about caves. He’ll call back and let us know what’s at Falcon Ridge.”

“Why are you so interested in the Jews’ Temple treasure?” he asked Rowe.

“I wasn’t, until a few hours ago. You realize Simon is coming to Jamaica.”

He nodded. “I do now. He’s probably bringing my daughter with him.”

“Your daughter? Still with him? I bet that’s quite a story.”

“You could say that. How will we know when Simon arrives?”

“No problem. I have people waiting to welcome him.”

———

Z
ACHARIAH SLIPPED HIS PASSPORT BACK INTO HIS POCKET AND
walked with Alle out of the building. The hanger sat away from Kingston’s main terminal, used by private planes, his charter now among the many parked on the tarmac. Rócha had deplaned first and disappeared.

A warm blanket of humid air soaked him.

“How are we going to get around?” Alle asked.

“I do not think that is going to be a problem.”

He pointed at two black men strutting their way, chests inflated like dogs eager for a fight. The area where they’d exited the hanger was secluded, near a small parking lot with few cars. Weak bulbs splashed pale yellow light onto dark pavement. Palm trees lining the edges rustled in a light breeze. The two men wore jeans and khaki shirts stained with moisture. They approached and stopped a few meters away.

“Mr. Rowe sent us to fetch you,” one of them said, the face beaming with hospitality.

“How kind.”

They followed their hosts into the parking lot, where one of the men motioned to a light-colored sedan.

“You not going to make any trouble, are you?” one of them asked.

“Why would I?”

Alle seemed concerned, but he allayed her fears with a slight shake of his head.

A shadow lunged from the trees.

He heard a crack, then the man to his left spilled facedown to the asphalt. The other man reacted to the assault, a hand plunging into his pant pocket, surely for a weapon, but the shadow leaped forward.

“Now, sir,” Zachariah said. “I need you to keep your hands where we can see them.”

Rócha held a gun to the man’s head.

“Are you carrying a phone?”

“Sure, man.”

“Do you know how to contact Béne?”

The head nodded.

“He wanted you to call once you had us in the car?”

Another nod.

“And he would tell you then where to bring us?”

A third confirmation.

“Remove the phone, slowly, and make the call. Tell him you have us. Keep to English. No patois. I want to clearly understand what you say and what he says to you. Any problem and you are dead.”

He saw a hesitation in complying, and Rócha jammed the gun farther into the man’s temple.

The phone was found and dialed.

Zachariah stepped close and angled the unit so he could hear. The man’s chest was thin, arms hairless, and he reeked of coppery sweat.

Three rings and Béne Rowe’s voice answered.

“We have ’em,” was the report.

“All good?”

“No problems.”

“Bring them to Falcon Ridge. It’s on the map, in St. Ann Parish. Come up A3, then west at Mahoe Hill. Get here fast.”

“We on our way,” the man told Rowe.

The call ended.

“You did good,” Zachariah said.

He motioned for Alle to enter the car.

He walked around to the passenger’s side.

Rócha used the moment to slip the hand holding the gun around the man’s neck. His arms locked, right hand came up, and the head was jerked to one side, snapping another neck.

He entered the car as Rócha dragged the body into the trees.

“What’s happening out there?” Alle asked.

Rócha returned and retrieved the other body.

“We just prevented Mr. Rowe from harming us,” he told her.

“You killed them?”

“Not at all. Just unconscious. That will give us time to leave. But, remember, Alle, those men are gangsters. They would have hurt us.”

Rócha returned with the keys to the car, two weapons, and two cell phones, which he handed over.

Zachariah said, “Now let us see if we can maintain our luck.”

Rócha drove with Alle in the backseat.

Her questions and fears were no longer relevant.

If all went right, by dawn she’d be dead.

———

B
ÉNE CLICKED OFF THE CELL PHONE AND STARED ACROSS THE
truck at Thomas Sagan.

“Simon is here. I have him.”

“And you just told your people to bring him to Falcon Ridge.”

“I want him there. I plan to deal with him. You have your priority and I have mine.”

“And if Simon is one step ahead of you?”

He chuckled. “That happens all the time, but I’m real good at catching up. Not to worry. We’ll beat the Simon there by a good hour. Plenty of time to look around and be ready.”

His phone rang again.

Halliburton.

“There’s a cave at Falcon Ridge. A big one called Darby’s Hole. It’s sealed off. The geological society categorizes it as ultra-hazardous. Three people have died in there over the past fifty years. The society’s website says to stay out.”

“That’s all I needed to know.”

“You going in there, Béne?”

“You’re out of the loop on this one. Okay?”

He hoped his friend understood.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Tre asked.

“Not really. But I’m doing it anyway.”

He ended the call.

“What’s your interest in all this?” Sagan asked him.

“I’ve been asking myself that question all day. Now it’s just a matter of pride. What’s yours?”

Sagan shrugged. “Seems to be my assigned job.”

“You were about to kill yourself in Florida. What changed for you?”

He saw that Sagan was surprised he knew that.

“I had a spy in Simon’s camp. He kept me better informed than Jamison. Simon needed you. He went after you. Your daughter lied to you. Yeah, man, I know the story. At least up to a point. Now here you are. This is more than a job. Much more. This is damn personal for you.”

“Your father alive?”

Strange question. “Been dead a long time.”

“Mine was to me, too, then he really died. I disappointed him.”

Now he could understand. “But not this time?”

“Something like that.”

“I know some of the story of the Jews’ treasure here. Maybe stuff you don’t know.”

And he told Sagan about the cave, Columbus’ grave, and the four objects that had been there, now gone.

“That cave where I went is not at Falcon Ridge. It’s a mile or so away.”

“Is there a river?”

He nodded. “Runs from one to the other.”

“Then we’re in the right place. My grandfather took those four objects out of there and moved them to Falcon Ridge.”

“So they could still be here?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

“How do you know I won’t kill you and keep them for myself?”

“I don’t. But, to be honest with you, Mr. Rowe, I don’t really give a damn. Like you said, I was ready to die a few days ago.”

He was liking this man more and more. “Call me Béne. No one calls me mister. And not to worry, Thomas—”

“I’m Tom. Almost nobody calls me Thomas.”

“Then not to worry, Tom, you’re in good hands with me.”

A
LLE SAT IN THE REAR SEAT AND WONDERED WHAT WAS HAPPENING
. She’d felt safer with Zachariah in Prague, but did not have the same feeling here. Rócha still turned her stomach, his apology not nearly enough, and it had taken all she had to ride on the plane with him.

Thoughts of the Temple treasure filled her brain.

Her family had kept a secret for a long time. One that traced its roots straight back to Christopher Columbus. Now here they were, in Jamaica, where the Columbus family had ruled for 150 years. They’d kept the Inquisition out, creating a safe haven for Jews in the New World. Was it possible that the menorah, the divine table, and the silver trumpets still existed?

Zachariah certainly thought so.

She’d heard what Béne Rowe had said on the phone.

Falcon Ridge.

That was the place.

Where, apparently, her father was headed.

Still, she was apprehensive, her body coated in a cold sweat. Outside was dark but a full moon cast an eerie light, mummifying the world. They’d stopped at a convenience store and obtained a Jamaican road map, one showing that their destination was less than an hour ahead, paved roads most of the way. In the store Zachariah had also bought three flashlights and given her one, assuring her things were under control.

But she wondered.

Brian Jamison had claimed that he worked for Béne Rowe, then
later changed that to being an American agent. Which was the truth? Zachariah had told her from the beginning that there would be people who would try to stop them. That was the nature of the prize they sought. Which was exactly why it had been hidden away for nearly two thousand years.

Would it be found tonight?

What a thought.

Almost enough to ease her fears.

———

T
OM STEPPED FROM THE TRUCK
. T
HE TROPICAL NIGHT WAS CLEAR
and bright. They were parked at the top of a ridge, where a graveled parish road began its descent to a forested valley. Miles away, to the far north, shafts of silver moonlight shimmered off the sea.

“This is Falcon Ridge,” Rowe said. “Good thing for you I came prepared.”

Rowe reached into the pickup’s bed and found two flashlights. He handed over one, which Tom switched on. He saw that the truck bed was loaded with tools.

“I brought things,” Rowe said. “Just in case. I own a coffee plantation not far from here.”

“And what else do you do?”

“If you mean am I a criminal, no, I’m not. But I do have people who work for me who can cause a lot of harm. Lucky for you none of them is here tonight. This is between you, me, and the Simon.”

“And what makes you think he’s going to play by your rules?”

“He won’t. But we’re ahead of him, so let’s stay that way.”

Rowe snapped open a metal container and removed a shoulder holster and gun, which he donned.

The sight unnerved him, but was not unexpected.

“For Simon,” Rowe said.

———

B
ÉNE LED THE WAY INTO THE TREES
. T
RE HAD TOLD HIM WHERE
the cave called Darby’s Hole was located. Not far. Down a precipitous
ridge to the valley floor, where a tributary of the Flint River raced toward the sea.

He could hear the rushing water.

His eyes were adjusted to the dark, his ears attuned to the jungle whispers around him.

Which made him nervous.

He sensed they were not alone.

He stopped and signaled for Sagan to stand still.

In the sky overhead he watched the muted flutter of bats. A few insects made their presence known. The gun he’d brought was nestled close to his chest in the holster. His right hand gently caressed the weapon. Reassuring to know it was there. Still, he could not shake the feeling they were not alone.

All of the land for kilometers in every direction belonged to Maroons, part of what had been ceded to them two hundred years ago by the British. It had remained forest, unpopulated, controlled by the local Maroon council.

He motioned and they continued to clamber down, the ground slippery with pebbles and mud. He switched on his light and tried to locate the water cascade. The river was just below them, maybe ten meters wide, the flow extra swift.

They reached the wooded bank.

He plunged the light beneath the clear, blue-green water and saw that the stream was shallow, less than a meter deep. Typical of Jamaica’s many waterways.

Sagan activated his light and scanned right and left. “There.”

He saw that, fifty meters away, the river swung. At the bend rose a vertical cliff with a crack across its face, the jagged slit signaling a cave.

“That must be it,” he said. “We can follow the bank and get there.”

A long, low wail disturbed the night.

Its tone changed several times, but continued unabated for nearly a minute.

That sound he knew.

An
abeng
. Made from a cow’s horn. By blowing into holes and working the thumb, notes could be produced. He’d learned to play as a child. Maroons in the 17th and 18th centuries used the horns to communicate. A trained ear could decipher the notes, extracting messages
that could be passed over long distances. It was one of several advantages they’d managed over the enemy. The British found the mournful sound terrifying, since it usually signaled death. But what did it mean tonight? He’d never heard one blown outside of a staged celebration.

“What is that?” Sagan asked.

The wail stopped.

Another started.

Much farther off.