The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

TOM WAS LED THROUGH A DESERTED STREET BEYOND THE OLD-New Synagogue. The narrow way was bordered by closed vendor stalls on one side and darkened shop windows on the other. A ten-foot-high stone wall backed the stalls and trees loomed above. He recalled the local geography and realized the old cemetery had begun to his left and continued on straight ahead. For 350 years Jews had been buried there, the few acres filling. The solution that allowed more graves was to bring in more soil and raise the level, eventually creating twelve mounded layers of sacred earth.

Alle walked beside him. Their captors were young men, anxious, no humor anywhere on their hard faces. He’d seen the same look many times before in the defenders of Sarajevo or on the streets of Mogadishu or on the West Bank. That determined resolve, fortified by youth. They knew fear, like anyone else, but it was simply ignored. Which explained why so many of them ended up dead. Too inexperienced to think before they acted. Too eager to please others. Two such persons had supposedly been the sources for the story that caused his demise. Ben Segev. An angry young Israeli. Quite convincing. And Mahmoud Azam. An equally angry Palestinian.

Both actors, hired to play a part.

Not real.

Unlike here.

He’d been yanked from the pavement and searched, his pockets emptied, Abiram’s note, the map, the key, his passport, and his wallet taken. He wasn’t sure if they’d searched Alle, as she’d been away from him when seized, but her shoulder bag was gone.

They turned a corner onto another street and kept walking.

The third man who’d been at the synagogue, the one who’d left with everything found during the body search, now returned and whispered something to the others.

A nod confirmed they understood.

They stopped at a door to one of the houses. A key opened the lock and they were led inside. The rooms were dark, but he spotted few furnishings, the air musty. Another door was opened and a light revealed a stairway down. One of the men with a gun motioned for them to descend.

“No,” Alle said. “I’m not going down there.”

In the penumbra of light he saw that none of the three appreciated her refusal. The one without a gun stepped forward.

“You come here and desecrate our synagogue. You trespass on our sacred site. You violate our laws. And you want to argue with us? You want to challenge us?”

“Call the police,” Tom said, testing the water.

The young man laughed. “They don’t care what happens here.”

“Who is they?” he asked.

“The police. The lord mayor. The city council.”

He knew anti-Semitism was on the rise in Europe. That was another thing about the Internet, every day he could scan newspapers from around the world. He recalled reading more and more stories about bigotry.

“So what do you do with trespassers?” he asked.

“Last one we had, we beat the living hell out of him.”

———

ALLE HEARD THE THREAT AND KNEW THIS WAS A BAD SITUATION. They were alone, without help. They’d taken her shoulder bag that contained her passport and Zachariah’s cell phone. The gun her father carried from the cathedral was tucked in the car, left there intentionally. She’d wondered why he hadn’t brought it, but had not questioned him.

Her father did not seem scared. She was terrified. As much as in the car with Midnight. She could still see Brian Jamison bleeding, his body twitching in agony.

“Down the stairs,” the man said again.

Little choice existed, so she led the way. At the bottom they stood inside a cellar, Romanesque arches of cut stone supporting a vaulted ceiling. Not a large room and nothing there except a wooden table with six chairs.

“Sit,” one of the men ordered.

Her father slid out one of the chairs. “What now?”

“You wait,” the man said.

———

TOM HAD BEEN IN TOUGH SITUATIONS BEFORE, ESPECIALLY IN the Middle East, when sources liked a little drama to go with their revelations. Most times it was only theater. One thing he’d learned was that terrorists, no matter the nationality, understood that their points would go unnoticed if no one reported them. The fear, which they so carefully cultivated, would have no affect without the targeted audience knowing it existed. That didn’t mean they actually liked the press, just that they understood how to use it. Sometimes, to make the point that they were in charge, there were props like blindfolds, long car rides, and bravado that had to be endured. On his last story they’d staged the preparations for an attack, weapons and all.

What a show.

Academy Award caliber.

Once he’d been embedded within a Palestinian resistance group for six weeks. He’d seen and heard a lot, most of which he quickly realized had been for his benefit. Sure, he’d tried to understand them, but never had he shown either resentment or sympathy. Stay above the fray. And that was only possible with your mouth shut and ears open.

So he sat and waited for these young men to talk.

Another thing.

The younger they were, the looser the jaw.

He’d left the gun in the car on purpose on the off chance they’d run into the police. Carrying weapons around Europe could be a serious matter. Most likely it was against Czech law—which, he’d noticed, these men seemed not to care about.

“You’re on your own, aren’t you?” he asked them. “You police the quarter yourself because you have to.”

“What do you care?” one of them asked.

“My parents were Jews.”

“And what are you?”

“He decided he didn’t want to be one of us,” Alle said.

The man asking the questions threw her a strange look. “One of us? Does one of us try to vandalize a synagogue?”

“We weren’t vandalizing anything,” Tom said. “And you know that.”

He caught the apprising gaze. “You’re in no position to be a smartass.”

“And what is my position?”

“Not good,” the young man said.

“Come now,” a new voice said.

Older. Gravelly.

He and Alle turned to see an elderly man descending the stairs. He was short, Spartan-thin, with snow-white hair. His face was a maze of wrinkles, cheeks sunken, brow furrowed, one frail hand gripping the railing, the other holding the note, the map, and the key. Alle’s bag draped his shoulder. He negotiated the risers one at a time, eyes down, careful with his movements.

The old man found the bottom and straightened himself.

“We must not be rude. Go now. Leave me.”

The three young men stepped toward the stairs. One of them said, “You sure you do not want us to stay?”

“No. No. I will be fine. Go now. I want a chat with these two.”

The three climbed the stairs and Tom heard the door upstairs close as they left.

A lively interest swept into the man’s dark eyes as he gestured with what he held. “I am Rabbi Berlinger. I want to know where you obtained these items.”