The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

TOM KEPT THE CAR RACING THROUGH THE ORCHARD, THE PATH ahead clear for a good half mile. If Simon decided to follow it would not be as easy since his tires were stirring up a dust cloud in his wake. At least his instincts had proven correct. Simon was not a man to be trusted. And one other thing. When he’d glanced across into the other car he caught the face of the driver—full of flat panes and angular bones, dark hair curly and coiled—one of the men who’d assaulted Alle.

The lawyer’s job had been to retrieve what had been in the coffin. What was the driver here to do? And did that mean Alle was being held nearby? Given the possibilities of the Internet, there was no way to know where she was a prisoner. But one of her captors being here meant that she could be close. Which made sense. Simon would have had to, at some point, produce her. Or had he thought his target was so weak, so beat down, so defeated, that he would have done whatever he was told, few questions asked?

Maybe so.

And that infuriated him.

Right now, he held the cards. His blood flowed. His nerves tingled. He felt like he had years ago, on the scent of a story.

And he liked it.

Ahead, a makeshift bridge of blackened railroad ties spanned an irrigation canal. He knew orange groves were lined with canals to drain rainwater. In the old days they’d supplied the pumps. He’d spent many a summer day cleaning wet ditches of grass and debris.

An idea came to him.

He slowed, crossed the bridge designed for tractors and picking equipment, and stopped on the other side.

He popped open the door and ran back.

The ditch was a good twenty feet across, the ties extralong and supported by a center post. They sat side by side, designed, he knew, to be movable, other center posts spaced along the canal. He’d also spent time moving ties from one location to another.

Dust from the road on the other side of the ditch began to clear.

He heard the growl of an engine.

Coming closer.

The ties, about four inches thick, were arranged two together, four feet apart, just enough width to accommodate tires on either side of a chassis. He ran onto the bridge and dislodged one long pair from their rails, shoving them down into the ditch.

Then the other pair.

His muscles creaked under the strain.

He retreated to his side of the bank and slid two more from their perch.

Twenty feet of air now separated him from Simon.

Dust on the other side cleared.

He saw the car.

———

SIMON KEPT A CLOSE WATCH AHEAD.

Rócha was speeding down the lane between the trees as fast as they could go thanks to the limited visibility. But luckily, it appeared the fog was dissipating.

Then he saw.

Tom Sagan stood on a far bank before a wide ditch. A bare post rose from its center. Rócha had seen it, too, slamming the brakes, tires grabbing the earth. The car slid to a stop, his seat belt holding him in place.

Rócha cursed.

He stared out the windshield.

“Shut off the engine.”

———

TOM RETREATED TO HIS CAR AND FOUND THE GUN. HE KEPT THE driver’s-side door open, both it and the car between him and Simon. Sure, one of them could wade across the ditch, but he’d shoot them dead before they made it to the other side.

Standoff.

Just what he wanted.

A warm breeze flayed his skin, raising gooseflesh across his neck and chest.

“All right,” Simon called out to him. “What do you want?”

“My daughter.”

He stayed low, staring out through the open window frame.

“I realize you have your gun, and you chose your place to take a stand with care. We will not challenge you.”

The other man stood beside Simon and never moved.

“I should shoot your friend,” Tom yelled. “He touched my daughter.”

Neither of them moved.

“He was doing his job,” Simon said. “What I pay him to do. My lawyer failed to do hers.”

“I want Alle, then you can have what I have.”

“She’s not here.”

“How did that son of a bitch you pay get here?”

“He flew all last night.”

He was listening.

“She is in Vienna. If you want her, that is where you will have to go.”

Austria?

“That is where I live. But maybe you already know that. After all, you were a reporter.”

“Go screw yourself.”

Simon chuckled. “I assure you, I can still cause your daughter immeasurable pain. And I might just do that, simply for the trouble you have put me to.”

This guy was bluffing and where yesterday Tom might have hesitated, not today. He was Tom Sagan, Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist, no matter what anybody said.

“Then you can kiss what I have goodbye.”

Silence from the other side.

“What do you propose?” Simon finally asked.

“We trade.”

More silence, then Simon said, “I cannot bring her here.”

“How did you plan to release her—if you planned to do it at all?”

“I was hoping electronically would work, with a video of it happening, perhaps a tearful reunion afterward on your own time.”

“That won’t work.”

“Obviously not. What do you propose?”

“We trade in Vienna.”

———

HAD ZACHARIAH HEARD RIGHT?

“You are coming there?” he called out.

“And you, too.”

This might work out. He had a serious problem, considering that Alle Becket was dead. But he might be able to accomplish his objective after all.

“All right. When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, 5:00. St. Stephen’s Cathedral.”

———

TOM MADE HIS CHOICE CAREFULLY. HE’D VISITED VIENNA SEVERAL times, staying there once for nearly a month while covering the war in Sarajevo. He was familiar with the place. He knew the Gothic cathedral, which sat at the heart of the city. Public. Lots of people. A good locale for a switch. He should be safe there. The only trick would be getting away before Simon could make a move.

But he’d figure that out later.

“Five o’clock tomorrow,” he yelled.

“I will be there.”

Simon and the other man retreated to their car and left, a swirl of dust obscuring the view.

He stepped from behind the door and lowered the gun. Great patches of sweat soaked his shirt. His insides boiled like lava and air fled his lungs in harsh gasps. For the first time he noticed the scent of orange blossoms, the trees all around him dotted with white blossoms.

A smell familiar from his childhood.

Such a long time ago.

He raked a hand across the three-day stubble on his face.

None of his misgivings had vanished, but for a guy who was supposed to be dead he felt awfully alive.

———

SIMON WAS PLEASED.

“Find a way out of here,” he told Rócha. “Then straight to the airport.”

He’d call ahead and have his jet ready. He’d come here on a private charter and would return to Austria the same way. He should be leaving with the Levite’s secret, but he’d have it soon enough.

Sagan probably thought himself clever picking St. Stephen’s. True, a public locale should assure both sides an equal footing. Not a bad place to trade a daughter for a packet.

Unless.

He grinned with triumph as his mind played with an idea and the strength of his plan dawned on him.

Tom Sagan had just made a fatal mistake.

And the fact that Alle Becket was dead would not matter.

Her father would soon be joining her.