The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

ZACHARIAH LINGERED IN THE GARDENS AT SCHÖNBRUNN, HIS mind racing. He imagined the tranquil spot as it had been two hundred years ago, when Napoleon’s only son lived inside the palace. Or the Emperor Franz Joseph, who struggled here to hold the Austrian Empire together in the face of world war. Or 1918, when Charles I renounced his throne and left the palace for the last time, ending the monarchy.

But he cared nothing for Austrian history. For his people, this country had been nothing but an impediment. It had never cared for Jews, persecuting and slaughtering them throughout history by the tens of thousands. And though Austrians came to hate Hitler, it was not because he hated Jews. Few of the synagogues the Nazis razed had been rebuilt. Only a fraction of Jews who once lived here still remained. His family stayed, and weathered the storms. Why, he’d asked as a boy. Because it is our home.

The phone vibrated in his hand. This time the number displayed was familiar. His own.

Alle was calling.

He answered, “I hope you have good news.”

He listened as she told him what had happened with her father. He asked her to read to him what she’d been shown and realized it was the same thing Sagan had already provided.

Now he was convinced.

“He’s keeping the truth to himself. He showed you nothing new.”

“Maybe that’s all there is?”

“It cannot be. It is too incomplete.”

But he realized that Sagan definitely suspected his daughter.

“Alle, your father most likely thinks you are there as a spy. But he is still your father. He won’t reject you.”

“What should I do?”

He wanted to ask her about Brian Jamison and what was said between them, but thought better. Leave it alone. Instead he told her, “Go back. Keep your eyes and ears open. You said it yourself—the Americans are now involved. Brian was an agent. We cannot allow them to find what we seek. This is for us, Alle.”

He hoped the silence on the other end of the line meant she agreed with him.

“I’ll try,” she finally said. “Do you want to know where he is?”

“There’s no need.” He had something better than an address. “If you have the phone on, I can track it. But save its battery. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Then go back. And may good fortune be with you.”

———

BÉNE STEPPED BACK INTO THE ROOM WHERE HALLIBURTON WAS still shuffling through plastic bins, scanning parchments, examining brittle old ledgers, diaries, maps, and drawings.

“This stuff needs to be vacuum-sealed,” Halliburton said. “It’s falling apart.”

Béne checked the door, having kept it open enough so he could hear if anything was happening back toward the front of the building. He’d been watching from the end of a short hall as the curator stepped outside and made a cell phone call. He could not approach any closer without being seen, so he’d heard nothing of what was said. But he had noticed the man return and lock the door. He’d checked his watch, which read a little after 2:00 P.M. Nowhere near closing time—so why lock the door? He wondered if his paranoia was justified, but ever since he’d learned who controlled this museum he’d harbored a bad feeling.

“Look at this.”

Tre was holding an old volume, the binding decaying, its dried pages the color of dirt.

“This was bound in 1634. It’s an account of life here on the island.” Tre gently opened the book. “It’s in Castilian, but I can read it.”

He heard a chime from the front and crept back through the doorway and down the short hall. The curator was answering his cell phone and told the caller in Spanish to hold on.

The man stepped outside and closed the door.

Béne decided to risk it this time and made his way to a window, pressing his ear close.

———

ZACHARIAH SPOKE TO THE CURATOR OF THE CUBAN MUSEUM. He’d dealt with Brian Jamison, Tom Sagan, and Alle Becket. Now he was ready to deal with Béne Rowe.

“Are they still there?” he asked.

“They are looking in the private collection. Most interested in the oldest we have, from Columbus’ time. But other materials are locked away, as you ordered. I have not mentioned those.”

How the Jamaican had managed to find the archive he did not know, but the fact that he had done so only compounded his problem. Rowe had said on the phone that he was privy to some new information. Was this what he’d been speaking about? If so, the documents were of no value since the Simon family had long controlled them, the originals thought safe behind Cuban travel restrictions and overzealous socialists.

Time to end this problem.

“I want you to keep them there for a little longer. Be cordial. Friendly. Do nothing to upset them. Understand?”

“Sí, señor Simon. I can do that.”

He ended the call and made his way back to the car, where Rócha waited. He slid into the passenger’s seat and handed over the phone. “Rowe is at the archive in Cuba. The curator has called. Do you still have contacts with the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria?”

The PNR was Cuba’s national police force.

Rócha nodded. “I’ve kept the payments current. They’ve always said, if there’s anything we need, just ask.”

“Ask. Then use GPS and track my phone. I want to know exactly where Alle Becket is in this city. I am not going to trust all that is at stake to the whim of some naïve girl.”

———

BÉNE HEARD THE NAME.

Simon.

A chill gripped his spine.

This man wasn’t calling for any approval from Havana. He was calling for marching orders. He employed hundreds just like this minion. Eyes and ears across Jamaica who made sure he was informed, money the fuel that kept that information highway flowing.

He fled the window and made his way back to the storage room.

“We need to leave,” he said to Halliburton.

“I’ve barely scratched the surface. I need more time.”

“We have to go, Tre.”

“What’s going on?”

“That curator is selling us out.”

Tre’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“Like you said on the plane, I’m experienced in these kind of things. We need to go.”

“A few more minutes, Béne. For God sake, there’s real stuff here. I just found some references to Luis de Torres himself.”

He caught the urgency and realized the importance. And he also recalled something else the curator had said. But other materials are locked away, as you ordered.

They’d come this far. A few more minutes may not hurt.

Then again, they could become a real problem.

———

TOM SAT ALONE IN THE DEN. INNA WAS IN HER BEDROOM, MAKING telephone calls, gathering information, doing what reporters did. Of course, not everything found was true or relevant—the tough job was sifting through the fat to find the meat. It had been a long time since he’d assembled a news story, but he hadn’t forgotten how. The one that currently engulfed him was not atypical, and its layers were becoming clearer. The Levite. A key. A man named Berlinger. The golem. Temple treasure. Old Abiram.

And, most troubling of all, Alle.

How they all fit together remained to be seen.

He heard a door open and Inna appeared from down the hall. Her children seemed like good kids who loved and respected their mother. He envied and admired her.

“What happened to your husband?” he asked. “As I recall, your marriage was a good one.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But he had other ideas. He came home one day and said he was leaving. That was five years ago. We’ve barely seen him since.”

“He doesn’t visit the children?”

“They’re not important to him.”

Big mistake, he thought.

“How are they doing?” he asked.

“They seem not to care, but I know better. Children need their parents.”

That they do.

“I found out,” she said, “that the Magellan Billet is a covert division of the U.S. Justice Department. Twelve agents who work special assignments from the attorney general or the White House. It’s headed by a woman named Stephanie Nelle. I was also able to find out that one of the twelve agents is a man named Brian Jamison.”

“I need to know why they are interested in Zachariah Simon.”

“I’m trying, but that may be difficult to learn. After all, Thomas, these people will not be admitting to anything.”

“They might if they know their agent is dead.”

“That’s another problem. Nothing unusual was reported around the cathedral. No police activity. Certainly no body found.”

He wasn’t surprised. Just like eight years ago, he was on his own.

“I’m going to find that Temple treasure.”

“Why do you feel the need? It’s not your fight.”

“It became mine when I read that note from the grave.”

“You haven’t been in a fight in a long time, have you?”

“No,” he said, his voice in a whisper. “I haven’t.”

“And you want one.”

He stared into her eyes, which seemed to grasp his pain. “I need one.”

“It won’t bring you redemption. What happened to you won’t be undone.”

Maybe not, but—

A knock came.

He knew who had returned.

Inna opened the door and invited Alle inside.

“Look,” his daughter said to him. “I’m sorry for my attitude. I’ve had a tough few days. I know you have, too. This is important to me. It was important to Grandfather. I did what I thought was best. I understand why you’re angry, I get it, but I want to be a part of this.”

She was lying. But God help him, he was glad she’d returned.

She was all he had left in the world.

“I’m going to Prague tomorrow,” he told her. “You can come with me.”

She slowly nodded. “I can do that.”

“Are you hungry?” Inna asked her.

“Some food would be good.”

The two women retreated into the kitchen.

He sat alone.

What an incredible mess. He should leave her here. But he’d come this far and made sure she was okay. Better to keep her within his sights for as long as she chose to stay.

And forgive her for lying.

Like Inna said.

That’s what fathers did.