The Columbus Code (31 page)

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It will announce the end of the age.”

Winters tried not to roll his eyes. “Forgive me, Professor, but how many times have we heard people predicting the end of the world?”

“Not the end of the world,” Hirsch corrected. “It will note the time when the end will begin.” He moved to the edge of the chair. “Remember, tetrads announce the beginning of something. In the past they have ushered in an era, but the dawning of those earlier ages were not cataclysmic events.”

Sophia put a hand on Hirsch's arm. “So, Jacob, the set of four would have been completed sometime between 2014 and 2015. What does that mean?”

“It means, my dear, that the age of the end will have arrived.”

“Everything will be in place?”

“Everything necessary for the end to begin, but the dawn of the age will not be that ending point.”

Sophia gently turned the pages of the journal. “This signature,”
she said, pointing to the page, “could it be a key to who the Antichrist is today?”

“I don't think so,” Hirsch responded. “Signatures are personal. This has the feel of something between Columbus and his descendants. An inside communication.” Hirsch smiled. “I wouldn't be surprised if his sons knew precisely what it meant. Maybe a message that reached back into their family history.”

Sophia glanced at Winters with a knowing look. “And into yours, John.”

Hirsch gestured toward the journal. “But I still think the prophecy of Jacob ben Isaac is the most important part of what he has written here. And it can be correctly understood only by properly applying the principles of Kabbalah.” He looked at Winters and Sophia in turn. “Think of it this way. The prophecy is an encoded message. Kabbalah is the key.”

Winters grinned. “The Columbus Code.”

“Excellent,” Hirsch said. “You take my meaning perfectly.” He leaned toward Winters. “Deciphering the message of that prophecy will be a lifelong task for you.”

“For me?” Winters seemed surprised. “No, Professor, I'm leaving that part to you.”

“The journal was not put into my hands, but yours,” Hirsch said. “Beginning with your mother and carried out by all the people who led you to it.” He nodded to Sophia. “I am sure you've told him that the kind of information that was given to him by Vespucci and old Jacobo and our unfortunate monk is not easily passed, especially to ‘foreigners.'”

“I have tried, Jacob,” she said. “I have tried.”

“I don't think so.” Winters backpedaled. “You're talking about
deciphering this code and figuring out who is the evil one, the person opposed to the fulfillment of the prophecy.”

“I am,” Hirsch said, nodding once more. “I believe that the two are tied together. Find one and you will find the other.” He continued even though Winters was shaking his head and already backing toward the door. “I would begin with this group of businessmen in Barcelona, the ones who opposed Columbus.”

“That was over five hundred years ago.”

“Then seek out organizations that have been around that long.”

“Come on—”

“Spain is not the United States,” Sophia explained. “Our history goes back more than two centuries.”

Fine
, Winters wanted to say.
Let somebody in Spain figure it out
. But Aasim was suddenly on his feet. He circled Hirsch's chair and then placed his paw on his knee. “Will you excuse us?” he said and followed Aasim out of the room.

When the door closed behind them, Winters came to Sophia's side, a troubled look on his face. “I don't see him being able to protect you.”

“He is in worse condition than the last time I saw him. I see other signs of failure.” Her eyes were wet. “I cannot be responsible for another man's death. This was a mistake, John. I am sorry.”

“No, you're right. And I can't leave you here.” Winters looked away, thinking.

The more Hirsch had talked about an Antichrist, the higher the sense of dread Winters felt. He'd never thought about it much—perhaps Episcopalians didn't—but the attachment to the troubled history of the Jews and the power this journal seemed to have . . . it was too concrete to ignore now. And as over-the-top as all this prophecy
stuff sounded, the fact remained that someone desperately wanted the journal. They needed a plan—preferably one that kept Sophia
and
the journal safe. But if staying with Hirsch wasn't going to work for Sophia, it wasn't going to protect the journal either. As much as he wanted to be rid of it, leaving it here was no longer an option.

“All right,” he said, turning back to her. “Let's have the driver take us back to the hotel. We'll regroup there.”

“I'll tell Jacob,” she said. “And John?”

“Yes.”

“I think we must take the journal with us.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I think you're right.”

Hirsch protested their departure but Winters was sure he saw relief on his tired face. As they made their way back toward the center of the city, Sophia looked over at him. “Jacob is a good man,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” Winters replied. “He seems okay. How do you know him?”

He meant it as a casual question, but he felt Sophia stiffen in the seat beside him. “Am I poking in where I don't belong?” he said.

“No,” she said. “I poked into your life.”

“Yeah.” Winters grinned at her. “But if you don't want to answer, you don't have to.”

“I think you should know.” She glanced out the window. “Jacob and I did postgraduate work together at Stanford University in California. You know it?”

“Yeah,” Winters said. “I know it. Impressive school.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “The education was excellent. My personal choices were not.”

Winters couldn't imagine her making a bad choice but he nodded her on.

“I met and married an American. A very charming man. Handsome. Smart.”

“But manipulative, unfaithful—”

“I will save you the list,” she said, looking at him again. “He was abusive. In every way.”

Winters twisted in the seat. “Did you call the cops? Get protection?”

“No. I called Jacob Hirsch. I was in a trap with my husband. Jacob knew people and he helped me escape back to Spain.”

“This guy never came after you?”

Sophia shook her head. “He died not long after I left.”

“You don't think Jacob's ‘people'—”

“No, no, no,” Sophia responded. “Nothing like that. We were living apart by then but still were married. A woman my husband was seeing found out that he had a wife and . . . she killed him. Shot him in cold blood.”

“Will you think I'm a jerk if I say he deserved it?”

“I thought that a few times myself.” Sophia attempted a smile, but the pain was obvious. “I told you that because when I first saw you on Skype, I almost said that I could not work with you.”

“Don't tell me I look like this loser.”

“No.” Her hand touched his arm. “He became to me the ugliest man alive. You are far from that. I was simply afraid to trust an American man ever again, even in a business arrangement.” Sophia looked down at her hand still on his sleeve. “But you have shown me that I was wrong. Not all Americans are like that.”

Winters even leaned toward her, eyes already beginning to close as he leaned in to kiss her. But at the last possible moment something
caught his eyes. He glanced out the front windshield in time to see a white van swerve in front of them. Their driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting it and the car screeched to a halt in the center of an intersection. Seconds later, a faded black BMW squealed to a halt behind them.

Winters banged his fist against the door lock button and shouted to Sophia, “Do exactly what I tell you.”

“Why? John, what's happening?”

“Exactly what we were afraid of.”

In less time than seemed possible, men from the van and BMW were at the car. One opened the driver's door and placed the muzzle of a pistol to the driver's head. Two shots rang out, and Sophia screamed. Blood spat across the windshield and Hirsch's young driver lurched forward against the steering wheel. The car horn blared in response.

At the same time, a second gunman jerked on the handle of the door next to Winters. Finding it locked, he shouted to the others for help. A moment later, the window on Winters' side cracked into a mosaic of glass.

But before the gunman could break through with the butt of his gun, Winters reached across Sophia and shoved open the door on the opposite side. “Run,” he said. “Run as fast and as far as you can.” And he shoved her toward the open doorway.

With Sophia on her way, Winters reached for the door lock and flipped it off, then lunged toward the door with all his might shoving it back against the gunman. The force of the collision sent the man backward and he stumbled to the pavement.

As Winters climbed out from the backseat, the man who shot the driver came around the open door. By then, the first man was off the pavement and both of them grappled for Winters to wrestle him under control. Winters struck the one nearest him with a fist to the
side of the face and felt the jaw crush beneath the force of his blow. As the first one writhed in pain, the second brought his pistol around to end the fight once and for all. Winters threw an elbow to his gut and the man doubled over, gasping for breath. Winters pounded him on the jaw, too, and the pistol clattered to the street. Winters reached for it, scooped it up with one hand, and ran toward the opposite side of the street in the direction Sophia had gone.

Maria spent more time in front of the mirror than usual that morning. Not because the setup in this guest bath—one of many in Tejada's mansion—was beyond luxurious, but because she wanted to hide the fact that she hadn't slept one moment in the sumptuous bed. All through the night she lay awake, certain that at any moment Molina would burst into the room holding the listening device she'd stuck to the underside of the bar in Tejada's study the evening before.

Did guys like Molina make regular sweeps to make sure Tejada wasn't being bugged? Why hadn't she asked Donleavy that question?

Maria leaned closer to the mirror and dabbed concealer at the dark circles beneath her eyes. Makeup wasn't going to help her with the next step, which was to stay long enough to convince Tejada that she was revived by her twelve hours in his home and was ready to face the world again. She wanted to go back to her apartment, set up her laptop, and listen for incriminating conversations.

She padded back into the bedroom and checked her briefcase for the thousandth time. If she could have carried it around the house with her she would have, but that was sure to raise Tejada's suspicions.

Assured that her laptop was still in place, Maria slid the briefcase under the bed and checked the gold Chelsea clock on the bedside
table. She should stay until midafternoon, then she had to leave. Suddenly there was a sense of sadness to that. Despite her nervousness over planting the bug, her evening with Tejada had been . . . lovely.