The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER NINE

ZACHARIAH WAS PLEASED. THE VIDEO HAD PLAYED OUT PERFECTLY. Rócha made the point, albeit a bit more forcefully than they’d discussed.

Tom Sagan seemed to have grasped the message.

And this man was even more vulnerable than his daughter had described.

Never had there been any mention of suicide. Alle had simply told him that her father lived a solitary life in a small house in Orlando, among two million people who had no idea he existed. He’d moved back to Florida after losing his job in California. Anonymity had to be a major change for Sagan, considering that he’d stayed on the front page for over a decade. He’d been a regular on cable news, public broadcasting, and the networks. Not only a reporter, but a celebrity. A lot of people had trusted Sagan. The background investigation made that clear. Which probably explained, more than anything else, why so many turned on him so completely.

“You’re a Jew?” Sagan asked.

He nodded. “We are both Children of God.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“You were born a Jew, and that you cannot renounce.”

“You sound like the man who once owned this house.”

He noticed that Sagan never used the word father. Alle had told him of the estrangement, but the divide seemed even greater than she believed. He pointed a finger and said, “Your father was a wise man.”

“Let my daughter go and I’ll do what you want.”

He caught the exasperation in the statement but decided not to concede anything just yet. “I studied what happened to you eight years ago. Quite an experience. I can see how it would bring you to this end point. Life was especially cruel to you.”

And he wondered. Could this poor soul even be motivated to act? Was anything important to him any longer? His background work on Sagan ended a few weeks ago, and there’d been no mention of suicidal tendencies. Obviously, some major life decision had been made. He knew that another manuscript had just been completed, written so anonymously that not even the publisher or the “author” knew Sagan’s identity. The literary agent had suggested the tactic, since it was doubtful anyone would have consented to Sagan even ghostwriting for them.

That was how complete the downfall had been.

Five of the seven books Sagan had written became top-ten New York Times bestsellers. Three had been number ones. Critical praise for the cover authors on all seven had been admirable. Which was why, he supposed, work had continued to flow Sagan’s way.

But apparently, it had all taken a toll.

This man was ready to die.

Perhaps he should allow him?

Or maybe—

“Your father was the keeper of a great secret,” he said. “A man trusted with information that only a few in history knew.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“I assure you, it is not.”

He saw that, despite himself, Sagan was intrigued. Maybe there was enough reporter left inside to motivate him one last time.

So he said, “And it all started with Christopher Columbus.”

Columbus stood on the pier. The Niña, Pinta, and Santa María rode at anchor in a branch of the Tinto River, near Palos de la Frontera on Spain’s southeastern coast, not far from open ocean. It had taken months to locate, outfit, and man the three vessels, but now all was ready.

It had to be.

Midnight was approaching.

Breaking with custom, Columbus had not waited to board just before the ships sailed. Instead he’d been present all day, personally supervising final preparations.

“Nearly all are here,” Luis de Torres said to him.

Eighty-seven crewmen would man the three ships. Contrary to the gossip he’d heard, none was a convict royally pardoned for volunteering. Instead each was fully capable, as no one but true seamen would endure this voyage. There was one Portuguese, one Genoese, a Venetian, and a Calabrian, the rest all Spaniards from in and around Palos. Two representatives of the Crown were included, required by his commission, and he’d already cautioned de Torres to be careful around one of them.

“Luis.”

De Torres stepped close.

“We must have all on board by 11:00 P.M.”

He knew de Torres understood. After midnight, when it became August 3, 1492, the police, the militia, and the white-hooded Inquisitors would begin their sweep of houses. Jews had been outlawed from France in 1394 and in England since 1290. The edict expelling them from Spain had been signed by Ferdinand and Isabella on March 31. The church had insisted on the move and the king and queen had agreed. Four months had been given to either leave the country or convert to Christianity.

Time ran out tonight.

“I fear that we might not make it away,” he whispered.

Thankfully, it was next to impossible to physically identify a Spanish Jew. Among the Celts, Iberians, Romans, Phoenicians, Basques, Vandals, Visigoths, and Arabs, there’d been a thorough mixing. But that would not deter the Inquisition. Its agents would stop at nothing to apprehend every suspected Jew. Already, thousands had converted, becoming conversos. Outwardly, they attended mass, offered confession, and baptized their children. Inwardly, and at night, they kept their Hebrew names and read from the Torah.

“So much depends on this journey,” he said to his friend.

And so much depended on de Torres.

He was the voyage’s interpreter, fluent in Hebrew, formerly in the employ of the governor of Murcia, a city that once possessed a large Jewish population. But those people were either gone or converted and the governor had no further need of a Hebrew interpreter. De Torres, like a few others in the crew, had been baptized only a few weeks ago.

“Do you think,” de Torres asked, “that we will find what you seek?”

Columbus stared out to the dark water and the ships, lit by torches, where men were busy at work.

The question was a good one.

And there was but one answer.

“We have no choice.”

“Are you saying Christopher Columbus was Jewish?” Sagan asked.

“He was a converso. That is part of the great secret your father knew. He never told you any of this?”

Sagan shook his head.

“I am not surprised. You are not worthy.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what I’m worthy of?”

“You renounced your entire heritage. How could you possibly understand things such as honor? Tradition? Duty?”

“How do you know I did that?”

“Is it a lie?”

“And you?” Sagan said. “A kidnapper? Things like honor mean something to you?”

“I have staked my fortune and my life to its fulfillment.”

Zachariah reached into his jacket pocket and found the folded documents. “I need your signature. These will allow lawyers to petition a judge for an order of exhumation on your behalf. I am told it will not be a problem, provided the closest living relative consents. Your daughter has already signed, as the estate’s representative. Of course, she had little choice.”

Sagan refused to accept either the papers or the pen he offered.

“There are but a few minutes remaining for me to call and stop those men.”

He watched as his ultimatum sank in.

Finally, Sagan snatched the pen and papers and signed.

He retrieved them and started to leave. “I will need you at the cemetery, in the morning, at 10:00 A.M. An heir must be present. I will have a representative there on my behalf. Do as instructed. Once the exhumation of your father is complete, your daughter will be released.”

“How do I know that will happen?”

He stopped, turned, and apprised Sagan with a curious glare. “Because I give you my word.”

“I feel better already.”

He pointed at Sagan. “See, there still is some wit left in you.”

“I need my gun.”

He held the weapon up. “You can have it back in the morning.”

“I would have pulled the trigger. I’d be dead right now, if you hadn’t come along.”

He wondered whom Sagan was trying to convince. “Please, do not fret. You will have another opportunity, after tomorrow morning.”