The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ZACHARIAH SETTLED DOWN BEFORE THE COMPUTER. HE’D ARRIVED back in Vienna four hours ago and Rócha had driven him straight to the estate. He’d dozed in and out for a couple of hours during the transatlantic flight, anxious.

Today was the day.

The Levite had left something in his grave, just as Zachariah’s grandfather and father had predicted might happen, and he’d found it. Tom Sagan’s stunt in Florida had actually worked to his advantage since disposing of two bodies, once this day was over, would prove far easier here than in America. He’d even made a deal with Béne Rowe. No choice, really. Having Alle Becket to show Sagan would make things much easier. But there was still the matter of the spy within his household. He employed thirty-two people at the estate, including Rócha. The traitor’s identity was obvious, and he’d learned on returning that the man called Midnight was gone.

As he should be.

Part of Rowe’s bargain was that his asset not be harmed.

Ordinarily, he might not have honored such a request, but Rowe had tantalized him with what had been found at another Levite’s grave in Jamaica. A hooked X. And documents that might point the way to the lost mine. Keeping every avenue open seemed important.

At least for now.

The computer came to life and a man’s face appeared.

He was middle-aged and bearded, with long sideburns.

“How are things today in Israel, my friend,” he said to the screen.

“Another day of negotiations. We are making progress, finally, toward a true peace.”

And he knew how. “What are we giving away?”

“Such an attitude, Zachariah. There is nothing wrong with talking to your adversary.”

“Provided you do not concede.”

“Now, that I cannot promise. As of yesterday, the Knesset was considering more concessions. The United States is pressuring. More so than ever. They want movement on our part. Significant movement. We stall but, in the end, there is a feeling that perhaps we should concede.”

This man headed one of six minor Israeli parties. They varied in slant from Ultra-Reform to Orthodoxy. His was more moderate, centrist, which was why Zachariah kept the line of communication open. Ordinarily, all six’s presence would be ignored, but the Israeli Parliament was severely divided, coalitions forming and dissolving by the hour. Every vote counted.

“Billions in aid comes from America,” the man said. “You can ignore them for a while, but not forever. It is reality. There is even talk of leveling the separation fence. Many think it is time.”

A 760-kilometer-long physical barrier defined the border between Israel and Palestine. Most was three layers of barbed wire. Sections that passed through urban centers were concrete wall. Periodic observation posts and gates controlled access from one side to the other. The idea had been to define the border and prevent terrorist attacks and, on both counts, the barrier had worked. To remove it seemed unthinkable.

“Why would such a thing be considered?”

“Because to get you have to give.”

No, you did not.

“This government is at an end point. Parliamentary elections are coming soon. Everyone knows there is going to be a change. What that will be remains to be seen. Nobody knows, Zachariah. Uncertainty breeds compromise.”

He hated the world interfering with Israel. One world leader after another, American presidents especially, wanted to be its peacemaker. But Jews and Arabs had remained in conflict a long time. Their divisions were impenetrable. No one, other than the participants, could possibly understand the depth of their disagreements.

He did.

And he planned to do something about it.

Which did not involve concessions.

“Our enemies are not interested in peace,” he made clear. “They never have been. They are only interested in what we are willing to give away to get it.”

“That kind of thinking is exactly why we are in the position we currently are in.”

Not at all. Men like the man on the screen, and others in Israel, who actually thought they could negotiate an end to 5,000 years of conflict were the reason.

Idiots.

All of them.

Jews must be made to see.

And so they would.

———

TOM HUSTLED ACROSS THE PLAZA BEFORE ST. STEPHEN’S CATHEDRAL. His watch read 12:25 P.M. He’d made it to Vienna in plenty of time. The drive west from Bratislava was an easy forty minutes, his rental car parked in a public lot a few blocks away. He glanced up at the massive cathedral, its steeple rising like a jagged arrow to an azure sky. After Simon had so readily agreed to the swap, he’d decided that he might need some help. So while surfing the Internet at the library in Jacksonville he’d caught a break. Someone he knew still worked at Der Kurier, one of Vienna’s main newspapers. Back in his day the paper had only been in print. Now it was a mixture of electronic and print, and he’d noticed the name of one of its online managing editors. Inna Tretyakova.

He veered from the square and found a narrow passageway that led to a series of backstreets. He still remembered the location after ten years. It was a talent that had always come in handy. He was bad with names, but he never forgot a face or a place. The café he sought was once one of his favorites, frequented by the local and foreign press. He entered through a glass door, his gaze noticing the same fine trompe l’oeil ceiling fresco. Not much else had changed, either. He also recognized a face in the sparse crowd.

“Inna, you’re as lovely as ever,” he said in English, walking over.

“And you are still a man with charm.”

She was midforties, with stark blond hair that fell in broad curls to just above her shoulders. Her face contained not a blemish, her eyes a pale shade of blue. Time had been kind, her figure remained thin and petite, the curves he recalled still there. They’d never ventured beyond business in their relationship, as she was married, but they’d been friends. He’d called her from Bratislava, and though they hadn’t spoken in a long time, she immediately agreed to meet him.

“I need a favor, Inna. I’m in a mess and a hurry, but I’m hoping you can help.”

“You always were in a hurry, Thomas.” She was one of the few who called him that.

“My daughter is in trouble here, in Vienna, and I have to help her. To do that, I need your help.”

“How have you been?”

He allowed her to shift the topic, as she seemed to genuinely want to know. “Not good, Inna. But I made it.”

“You were the best reporter I ever knew,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that, after everything happened, but I had no way to find you.”

“I kind of disappeared. Kept to myself.”

“Which, I imagine, was not good. You have friends, Thomas. People who respected you. People who never believed what was said.”

He appreciated her loyalty. But few of those friends came to his defense when he needed them.

“Thomas Sagan was never dishonest around me.”

He smiled. He hadn’t heard a compliment in a long while.

“I push my people now,” she said. “Just like you pushed me on the stories we did together. I remember what you taught me.”

A decade ago she’d worked the foreign desk for Der Kurier and they’d teamed several times in the Middle East. She was good with organization, even better with conciseness, and he’d always thought she’d make a fine editor.

“Is your daughter in bad trouble?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so. She and I are not close, but I have to help her.”

“Of course you do, she is your daughter.”

“Are your children okay?” Two, if he recalled correctly.

“Both are growing up. One might even be a reporter one day herself.”

They were as comfortable together as they had been years ago. Maybe he’d been wrong to lump all of his former friends together in one stinking pile.

He’d made the right call contacting her.

She leaned over the table. “Tell me, Thomas, what can I do to help your daughter.”