The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ZACHARIAH WAS READY FOR REST. TOMORROW COULD BE THE day he’d been waiting for all of his life. Had he found the Levite? The keeper of the secret? Finally, after five hundred years?

Columbus had been a clever one, that he’d give him.

In 1504 the admiral returned to Spain from his fourth and final voyage, spending the next two years trying to force Ferdinand and Isabella to honor their promises. In 1506 he died and his sons assumed the cause. When they died, it remained for one of their widows to finally make a deal with the Crown, one that gave the Columbus family total control over Jamaica for the next 150 years.

Luis de Torres, Columbus’ Hebrew interpreter on the first voyage, never returned to Europe.

He stayed.

And for good reason.

De Torres’ birth name had been Yosef Ben Ha Levy Haivri—Joseph, the son of Levi the Hebrew—making him the first person of Jewish origin to settle in the New World. He’d been forced to convert to Christianity in order to be eligible for the voyage but, like so many other conversos, he remained a Jew all of his life. History liked to downplay the fact that de Torres was, most likely, the first person ashore that day on Hispaniola in October 1492. Since he was the expedition’s interpreter, he would have been the one who initially confronted the natives. What a thought. The first words spoken in the New World were probably Hebrew.

Some historians claimed de Torres died in 1493 on Hispaniola, one of 39 left there by Columbus at the end of the maiden voyage, part of the settlement called La Navidad. All of those men were slaughtered by natives before Columbus could return months later on the second voyage.

But de Torres had not died.

Instead he’d guarded three crates that had crossed the Atlantic with Columbus on the first voyage and had been deposited on land for safekeeping.

The first person, called the Levite, charged with that duty.

And there’d been a succession of others ever since. Each guarding their secret, remaining in obscurity.

Until Abiram Sagan.

Finally, a mistake.

Sagan had told his granddaughter things. Meaningless to her and 99 percent of the rest of the world.

But not to a Simon.

Where the Levites went to great lengths to keep their secret, the Simons had gone to even greater lengths to expose them. His father and grandfather had both searched, learning bits and pieces from old documents, especially ones found in a forgotten archive. They’d wanted to provide the new state of Israel a magnificent gift—restoring the Temple treasure. But they’d both failed. History mattered, his father would many times say. Thank heaven for the Internet. That resource had not been available before his generation. From there he’d been able to discover Abiram Sagan’s mistake.

Now he would capitalize on that error.

He climbed into bed.

His phone buzzed and he checked the display. Rócha.

“What is it?”

He listened as his acolyte told him about Alle Becket and what had happened at a Viennese café.

“It was him,” Rócha said. “Brian Jamison. He is here.”

That meant trouble.

He’d spent the past few months coddling Alle Becket, listening to her progressive garbage, all the while thinking that she embodied everything wrong with the current state of Judaism. She was naïve to the point of stupidity. But this unexpected contact directly with her signaled a problem.

He could not afford any mistakes of his own.

“Where is she now?” he asked Rócha.

“Back at the apartment. She went home. I am having it watched.”

“What did she say happened?”

“He appeared. Pressed her about you. She told him to leave a couple of times, then we showed up.”

“She revealed nothing?”

“She said no.”

But he wondered.

Brian Jamison worked for Béne Rowe. He was to Rowe as Rócha was to him. Jamison being in Vienna and connecting with Alle was a clear message that his Jamaican partner was both well informed and perturbed.

He’d been ignoring Rowe.

But Rowe had not been ignoring him.

Luckily, he and Rócha had discussed contingencies before he’d left Austria for Florida. One of those dealt with what would happen when Alle Becket was no longer useful. “Handle things with her, as we agreed. With nothing to find.”

“She may not cooperate.”

He knew what Rócha meant. With what happened on the video.

“I will make sure she does. Give me an hour. And, one thing. After that stunt you pulled today, don’t do this yourself. She will go nowhere willingly with you. Use someone else.”

And he ended the call.

———

ALLE WAS BOTH ANGRY AND CONFUSED. RÓCHA HAD FOLLOWED her back to her apartment with Midnight leading the way. The man who called himself Brian was gone, but his warning lingered in her mind. Rócha had quizzed her on what had happened, and she’d told him the truth.

For the most part.

“Zachariah Simon is an extremist.

“And those are a problem to us all.”

But how could that be? Zachariah seemed so genuine. They’d spent a great deal of time together. Thirty years separated them in age, but she found him both charming and interesting. Apart from some glowing compliments, which also seemed sincere, he’d remained the perfect gentleman and confined his attention to business. Not that she would not have minded an advance or two. He’d been nothing but open and honest in their discussions, never a hint of deceit, and he seemed to genuinely care about their religion.

She sat alone in her three-room flat, the windows open to a cool night. Vienna was enchanting after dark, and the angle afforded her an impressive view of the brightly lit and ornately patterned glazed tile roof of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.

She thought of Mount Dora, remembering all the summers she spent with her grandparents. Such a picturesque place, with its tree-lined lanes, Victorian streetlamps, parks, shops, and galleries. Later in life, she came to see how much the town resembled New England. It occupied rolling terrain that appeared downright mountainous for central Florida. Numbered avenues ran east to west and rolled steeply down to Lake Dora—both the town and water named for Dora Ann Drawdy, the first permanent homesteader. Alle had always been fascinated with Drawdy, reading about her, listening to the tales from locals.

Fiercely independent women interested her.

She considered herself one of those, as her mother had been.

Her laptop dinged, signaling an incoming email. She stepped over to the desk and saw a message from Zachariah.

All is well here, but I need your assistance. We will be traveling extensively for the next week so could you pack all of your things? Rócha will arrange for you to be driven to the airport. I imagine you are upset over what happened during the video. I am, too, and I will personally deal with Rócha. Your flight leaves in three hours with a connection through New York. I will be at the Orlando airport waiting on your arrival tomorrow afternoon. I apologize for the short notice, but will explain once you are here. Take care.

She wondered about the urgency, but she actually preferred leaving. Rócha had gone too far. Not to mention Brian, who’d appeared from nowhere. She’d feel safer being with Zachariah. Still, she wanted to know something, so she replied.

I was contacted today by a man named Brian. Rócha advised me he was a threat of some kind, but wouldn’t elaborate. What’s going on?

The reply came back quickly.

He informed me. There are people who would like to stop what we are trying to achieve. There have always been such people. For your safety, it is better if you are here with me. I will explain it all once you arrive.

She decided not to press and started to pack.

She’d arrived here a month ago from Spain with only a few clothes, not expecting to stay long. Her summer wardrobe was not exactly Austrian-friendly, so Zachariah had taken her shopping. She’d felt a little uncomfortable at his generosity, but he’d assured her that it was the least he could do.

“Consider it compensation for all your hard work,” he said.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s where you are wrong. You have done a great deal.”

That day with Zachariah in Vienna had reminded her of another, years ago, when she was only eleven. Her father, for once, had been home and took her to the mall. School was starting in a couple of weeks and he’d wanted to be there as she picked out some new clothes. They’d wandered the stores, searching the racks and tables, trying on items. In the end, they’d left with several bags full.

One of those magical days she would never forget.

Father–daughter.

What had happened to them?

How could something so natural turn so ugly?

She didn’t necessarily want to hate him, but she’d come to believe that she had to. It was her way to avoid being hurt, because there were more bad memories than good.

And she simply did not like or trust her father.

Zachariah?

Not only did she like him, she had no reason to doubt him, either.

So she kept packing.