The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

TOM ACCEPTED HIS PASSPORT BACK FROM THE WOMAN BEHIND the counter. He’d traveled all over the Caribbean and Central America as a reporter, but never to Jamaica. His trip had started with an hour flight from Prague to London, then another nine and a half hours east across the Atlantic. To his body it was after four o’clock in the morning tomorrow. Here, it was 11:15 P.M.

The transatlantic flight had not been packed, so he was able to stretch out and sleep. For the first time in a few days he’d relaxed, safe thirty thousand feet in the air. He’d even eaten a meal. Not much, as he’d never cared for airplane food, but enough.

The tropical air was thicker and warmer than Prague’s. More like Florida. Like home. Funny he would think that way. He hadn’t considered the concept of home for a long time.

He headed for the rental car counters, which placards said were in the Ground Transportation Hall. Construction was evident everywhere, the terminal undergoing renovations. The gate they’d arrived at appeared new, as did the concourse. Few vendors were open this late, but a fair number of passengers came and went.

He should be jet-lagged, but he wasn’t. He’d never suffered much from that malady, adrenaline both then and now an effective countermeasure. He spotted the Hertz counter, which was lit and manned.

Two men suddenly appeared beside him.

“Need a ride?” one of them asked, an eager look on his face.

He shook his head. “No thanks.”

“Come on, man,” the other one said. “We can take you wherever you need. Quickie quick. Low cost. No problem.”

He kept walking.

They stayed with him.

“We have good car,” the first one said. “Fast. You like.”

“I said no thanks.”

The man to his left hopped in front of him. The other dropped in behind. The one in front reached beneath his shirt and produced a gun, which he nestled close to Tom’s belly.

“I think you do come.”

He now realized the seriousness of the situation. The black leather bag was tucked into his back pocket. He wore the jacket from Europe, but had left the gun in the Czech Republic. The bag was freed from his pocket.

He turned.

The man behind him carried a gun, too.

“Now, now, be cool. You in Jamaica now.”

They herded him away from the rental car counters toward the exit doors. Outside, he raked the night with his eyes trying to spot any police or security.

He saw none.

People flowed in and out of the terminal. Cars came and went. The two men kept him close. One hid his weapon and led the way, the other kept his tucked close to Tom’s midsection, shielded from view.

A pickup truck waited at the curb.

The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. He was short, black, and trim, his hair cut close, the face clean-shaven. He wore a light-colored shirt, open to a colored T-shirt beneath, and cotton trousers. No jewelry adorned his hands, arms, or neck. From the way the men reacted at his presence, this one was in charge. A smile formed on his lips and revealed pearly white teeth.

“I’m Béne Rowe.”

A hand was extended for him to shake.

He did not accept the offer.

“I understand that we have a mutual enemy. Zachariah Simon.”

No sense being coy. “That we do.”

“Then shake my hand and help me stick it to that sorry, no-good SOB.”

———

BÉNE SHOOK THOMAS SAGAN’S HAND AND SAW APPREHENSION in the man’s eyes. Good. He should be cautious.

His man handed him a black leather bag, just as Simon had predicted. Inside he examined an assortment of odd things, including a circular brass object with Spanish and Hebrew on its face.

“What is this?” he asked.

“An astrolabe.”

“I assume you know how to use it.”

Sagan shrugged. “Not really.”

He pointed a finger at his guest. “Playing stupid with me?”

“Just like you’re doing with me.”

He flicked a hand and dismissed his two men. He assumed Sagan was going nowhere without the black bag. He needed this man to trust him so he handed over everything. “You’re not a prisoner. Leave. Go. But if you want to stay, I’ll help you. Simon tried to kill me. I owe him. If helping you hurts him, then you have my help.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Simon told me. He knew exactly where you’d be.”

He saw the concern on the other man’s face.

“I’ve been honest,” he said to Sagan. “I have no reason to lie. He told me that you know where the Jews’ great treasure is hidden on this island. I know some about that.”

“And what is it you know?”

———

TOM WAS MAKING DECISIONS, THE KIND HE ONCE MADE IN THE field when sources appeared out of nowhere. You had to judge words, actions, and make a call. Sometimes you were right, others times not so lucky.

Like in Israel, eight years ago.

Not now, he told himself.

Focus.

He knew Falcon Ridge was located somewhere northwest of Kingston, in the mountains, toward the center of the island. Once there, he had no idea what to look for, and Simon knowing he was here was of great concern.

How was that possible?

His parents and his ex-wife were dead. His daughter was gone. All he had left was the woman in the car.

Find the treasure. Then we will talk.

But he needed help.

And though this congenial black man of obvious power had said he was free to leave, he doubted that was the case.

Take a chance.

He asked, “Do you know a place called Falcon Ridge?”

Rowe nodded. “It’s not far from my estate.”

An estate? Of course. What else?

“That’s where we have to go.”