“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” ALLE ASKED ZACHARIAH. “I thought you wanted me to handle this.”
Her anger toward Berlinger and her father was now spilling over. Did anyone think her capable of anything?
“I am here because it is necessary. I’ve learned more about the Americans. They are definitely trying to stop us.”
“Why would they care about finding Jewish religious objects?”
They stopped walking, not far from the house where she and her father had been taken. The street here was not as crowded with visitors.
“Alle, American foreign policy has long included active intervention in everything associated with Israel. They provide billions in aid and military support, and think that entitles them to tell us what to do. Our current situation is directly their fault. I am assuming that obtaining our Temple treasures works into their plans in some way.”
She would ordinarily think him paranoid, but Brian Jamison had been real.
“Who was the woman you were talking to?”
“Someone providing me information on the Americans. What have you learned?”
“That my grandfather told my father a lot more than we thought.”
She told him what the message from the grave actually said, as best she could remember. “Berlinger and my father are in the ceremonial hall.”
She pointed to the building fifty yards away, around a slight bend in the street.
“How long have they been in there?”
“An hour.”
“I was in the cemetery, behind the hall. Was there any mention of seeing me?”
She shook her head. “They told me little. I was dismissed to the synagogue for prayers.”
She heard a hum and watched as Zachariah found a cell phone in his pocket.
“It is Rócha.”
He answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Keep me posted.”
He ended the call.
“Your father is on the move.”
———
TOM TROTTED DOWN THE STREET TOWARD THE OLD-NEW SYNAGOGUE. From the map on the placard he knew he had to round the block, circling the cemetery’s outer wall and an array of buildings. The woman he sought was exiting from the entrance to the cemetery and, if he hurried, he could catch her.
He’d slipped away from the ceremonial hall without Simon or Alle seeing him. They’d disappeared around a bend in the street that led away from him. He was moving as fast as he could without drawing attention. At the end of the street, he turned right and passed more souvenir shops. Sidewalks here were less congested, so he ran.
Who was this woman? How could she possibly know what had happened to him? At first, he’d tried to tell people that he’d been manipulated. But the effort had been futile. He was saying exactly what they expected to hear and, without proof, he sounded even more guilty.
Which had surely been the idea.
That was when he disappeared, went silent, stopped defending himself. Newspapers and television shows across the country filleted him. His silence only added to their furor, but he came to discover it had been the right response.
Especially after that visit in Barnes & Noble.
He kept moving, turning another corner, now headed back parallel to the cemetery wall up an inclined street toward the Pinkas Synagogue, which sat at the cemetery entrance. Buses lined the curb, people streaming toward a concrete ramp that led down to the original street level. Signs indicated the cemetery’s entrance was there.
He spotted the woman.
Coming up the incline, against the wave of visitors, making her way to the sidewalk.
He slowed his pace.
Stay calm.
Don’t blow this.
She turned away from him and walked up the sidewalk, paralleling a wrought-iron fence that guarded the synagogue. The street to his left was one-way, but a busy boulevard could be seen at its end, past the synagogue, maybe a hundred feet away.
Then he saw the car.
A black Mercedes coupe, parked at the curb, engine running, wisps of exhaust evaporating from its tailpipe.
He quickened his steps.
The woman approached the car.
A man emerged from the passenger’s side—young, short-haired, dark suit—who opened the rear door.
The woman was ten feet away from entering.
“Stop,” he called out.
And he ran the last thirty feet toward her. Dark Suit spotted him, and he saw the man reach beneath his jacket.
The woman whirled.
Tom came close, then stopped.
Dark Suit advanced toward him, but the woman grabbed her protector’s arm.
“No need,” she said. “I’ve been expecting him.”
———
ZACHARIAH DECIDED TO PLACE SOME DISTANCE BETWEEN HIM and Alle and the ceremonial hall. He was unsure where Tom Sagan had gone, and the last thing he needed was to be spotted. He wondered if Sagan had seen him in the cemetery. Alle had finally provided him with some useful information, telling him more of what Sagan had learned from his father. Rabbi Berlinger now seemed a player in this game.
His mind reeled, processing all the new information.
At least he now knew.
This place, long held sacred by Jews around the world, was a part of the quest. But how? And Jamaica seemed an important locale, too. The curator from the museum in Cuba had called to say that Rowe and his companion had fled before the police arrived, no way to stop them.
“He said you and he will talk soon.”
That would not be a friendly conversation. He’d thought himself through with Rowe. But that might not be the case. Abiram Sagan had included a road map of Jamaica for a reason.
His phone vibrated.
He found the unit and saw it was Rócha.
“Where are you?” he asked, answering.
“Sagan left the hall and ran around the block. He’s confronting some woman at the moment who has a bodyguard.”
“Describe her.”
He already knew who, but he had to be sure.
Which answered another question. Sagan had seen him. And maybe even heard, considering the bombshell she revealed about the ex-journalist.
“I had to be careful so he wouldn’t spot me,” Rócha said. “But I’m where I can see them now.”
“Let me know what happens.”
He ended the call.
“What is it?” Alle asked.
He’d not masked his concern.
“A problem.”
———
TOM STARED AT THE WOMAN AND ASKED, “WHO ARE YOU?”
“That’s unimportant.”
“Like hell. You know what happened to me.”
She turned to Dark Suit. “Wait in the car.”
The man climbed back into the passenger’s side. She shut the rear door.
“You said you were expecting me. How,” he asked, a plea in his voice.
“You heard me in the cemetery?”
He nodded.
“The rabbi said he would make sure you did.”
“Berlinger is in on this?”
“Just offering some assistance.”
“Who are you,” he asked again.
“I am a Jew who believes strongly in who we are. I want you to believe, too.”
He could not care less about that. “They stole my life. I deserve to know who did that and why.”
“It was done because you did your job. You know that. They sent an emissary to tell you.”
This woman knew everything.
He stepped closer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said, motioning to the car. “He’s watching you through the mirror.”
His gaze darted past her and he saw the man’s watchful face in the exterior mirror. He stared back at her. “You’re working with Simon?”
“Mr. Sagan, at present, you are in no position to barter. But you could be. As I said, I am someone who has great respect for our beliefs. You are the Levite. The c
hosen successor. The only one who can find our Temple treasure.”
All of which Simon would have known.
“I don’t care about any of that. I want my life back.”
She opened the car’s rear door and climbed inside. Before closing it, she looked out and said, “Find the treasure. Then we will talk about your life.”
She closed the door.
And the car sped away.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
BÉNE AVOIDED THE DEBRIS, CLIMBING ACROSS THE BOULDERS and finding the wooden slab. He aimed his light past the doorway into another chamber, this one smaller than the previous. No smooth walls. No art. Just a harsh cavity in the rock that extended about twenty meters back and half that tall. He stepped inside. Frank and Tre followed him.
Their lights dissolved the darkness.
He spotted what appeared to be an altar of some sort, fashioned of rock and situated against one wall. Nothing rested on top. To its right was a low rectangle of rough stone, maybe half a meter high and two meters long. A taller slab projected upward at one end.
“It looks like a grave,” Tre said.
They walked closer, loose gravel crunching beneath their feet. Their lights brought the scene into clear focus. Béne now saw that the end slab was a tombstone. He recognized the two letters atop the marker.
“Here lies,” he said. “It’s Hebrew. I’ve seen this on a lot of other graves.”
All of the remaining writing was likewise in Hebrew.
Tre bent down and examined it closely.
“What is a Jewish grave doing here?” Béne asked Clarke.
“I wondered that, too,” Frank said. “So a few years ago I photographed the marker and had the words translated. It says, ‘Christoval Arnoldo de Ysassi, Pursuer of Dreams, Speaker of Truth in His Heart, Honored Man, May His Soul Be Bound Up in the Bond of Everlasting Life.’ ”
Tre stood. “It’s the grave of Christopher Columbus. De Torres wrote that Columbus’ real name was Christoval Arnoldo de Ysassi. This is where he’s buried.”
Béne recalled what Tre had told him on the plane about Columbus’ grave. “You said yesterday that the widow of Columbus’ son brought the body to the New World.”
“She did. First to Santiago, then the remains were moved to Cuba. There’s a lot of controversy over who is buried in Santiago now, or whether the bones are in Cuba or Spain. Now we know that she brought them here, to the island the family controlled. Which makes the most sense.”
“I’ve always wondered who this is,” Clarke said. “We had no idea who the man might be. We knew him to be Hebrew, but that’s all. So we left the grave alone. If others knew this was Columbus, they would have destroyed it.”
“Damn right,” Béne said. “He was a thief and murderer.”
“This is an important historical find,” Tre said. “It’s never been proven where Columbus is buried. Nobody knew. Now we do.”
“Who cares?” Béne said. “Let him rot here.” He turned to Frank. “Is this all?”
“Look around. What else do you see?”
He scanned the chamber with his light.
And saw niches carved into the far wall.
He stepped over and examined the closest one with the flashlight and saw bones. Each of the others was likewise filled with a body.
“Our greatest Maroon leaders,” Frank said. “That one to your left is Grandy Nanny herself. Laid to rest here in 1758.”
“I thought her grave was in Moore Town, on the windward side, Portland Parish?”
“At first, then she was brought here by the Scientists.” Frank pointed. “The bones you just examined are Cudjoe’s.”
He was shocked.
Cudjoe had been a great Maroon chief in Grandy Nanny’s time, her brother, who fought the British, too. But he made a disastrous peace, one that forever changed the Maroon way of life, and began their downfall.
Even so, he was revered.
“He lived to be an old man,” Béne said.
Frank came close. “Some say he was over eighty when he died.”
Béne rattled off a quick count and saw fourteen niches cut into the rock.
“Johnny, Cuffee, Quaco, Apong, Clash, Thomboy. All leaders from long ago,” Frank said. “Special people, laid here in this place of honor. We thought the person buried here had to be important, at least to the Jews, so we decided to make use of this place, too. That has always been the Maroon way. Little was ours, all was shared. Here, our special people could rest quietly.”
Béne did not know what to say.
This was totally unexpected.
He motioned to a rum bottle in one of the niches.
“For the duppies,” Frank said. “The spirits like their drink. We replenish it every once in a while so they’re never without.”
He knew the custom. His father’s grave outside Kingston was similarly stocked.
“There’s more,” Frank said. “But, as with all things Maroon, it is a tale told only among a select few. Mainly Scientists, who considered this room sacred.”
Béne had never cared for Maroon healers, who’d taken the odd name of Scientist. Too much mysticism for him, too few results.
“Is that why there’s an altar?” he asked.
Frank nodded. “The Scientists once conducted rituals here. Private things that only they could see.”
“Not anymore?” he asked.
“Not in a long while. And there’s a reason for that.”
“You keep a lot of secrets,” he said to Frank.
“As I’ve told you many times, some things are better left unsaid … until the right moment.”
“So tell me your tale.”
Frank explained about a time when there were four other objects in the chamber. A golden candlestick, about a meter high, with seven branches. A table, less than a meter long and half that high, with golden crowns bordering the top and a ring at each corner. And two trumpets, made of silver, each about a meter long, inlaid with gold.
“Are you sure of those?” Tre asked.
“I never saw them myself, but I talked to others who say they did.”
“Those are the most sacred objects in Judaism. They came from the Second Temple, when Jerusalem was sacked by the Romans. People have searched for those for 2,000 years. And they were here? In Jamaica?”
“They had been placed with the Hebrew grave. I was told that they were magnificent in workmanship.”
“And no Maroon ever tried to sell them?” Tre asked.
Frank shook his head. “The spirits are important to us. They roam the forests and can either protect or harm. Never would we offend them by taking something from a grave. Instead, we protected those objects and made this place special.”
Béne faced Tre. “What does all this mean?”
“That a lot of history books are going to be rewritten.”
But Béne was more concerned with something else. “What happened to those objects?”
“The Scientists returned here one day and the treasures were gone. Only colonels and Scientists knew of this location. They concluded that the duppies took them away. After that, this place was no longer used for worship.”
“When was this?” Béne asked.
“Sixty years ago.”
Béne shook his head. Another dead end. “Is that it? People wanted me killed to protect this?”
“These graves are important. They are our past. And for a Maroon, the past is all we have. Even the Hebrew grave is important. It is clearly from long ago. The Jews helped us when no one else would. So we honored the Hebrew, as one of us. His treasure was also honored.”
“And now it’s gone.”
But he wondered. Were those objects what Zachariah Simon was really after? He’d talked about finding Columbus’ grave and the mine, but it made more sense that Simon would be after a treasure. Apparently this place had indeed been a gold mine, but for a different style of gold.
Which did not exist anymore.
He shook his
head and headed back for the cave’s exit.
Tre and Frank followed.
None of them said a word.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
TOM WATCHED AS THE MERCEDES MERGED INTO TRAFFIC AND turned the corner, disappearing. The woman, whoever the hell she was, knew everything. And his salvation depended on finding the Temple treasure. How was that possible? Why would that be possible?
A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.
He turned.
Berlinger stared back and said, “She’s gone.”
“Who is she?” he demanded. “She said you knew she was here.”
The old man shook his head. “I did. But she did not identify herself, nor did I ask.”
“But you did what she wanted. You made sure I heard what she had to say.”
“I saw no harm in that.”
“Rabbi, this is important to me. What the hell is going on here?”
“I have to show you something and tell you a few things. Important things.”
“Where’s Alle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your cameras can’t find her?”
“I’m sure they can. But this we have to do alone.”
“You have no idea what I’ve gone through. No idea what happened to me.”
He was exasperated.
And angry.
“Come,” Berlinger said. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you a story.”
“My father passed this on to me,” Marc Cross said to Berlinger.
He listened as his friend explained.
“The first Levite was Luis de Torres, who was given the task by Columbus. The duty has been passed for five hundred years from one to the next, and all has been fine until recently.”
The Second World War had been over nearly ten years, but its remnants remained. Nobody knew, as yet, how many millions of Jews had been slaughtered. Six million was the number most widely bantered. Here, in Prague, the pogrom’s effects were clear. A hundred thousand were taken, only a handful returned.
“It’s our Temple treasures,” Marc said. “The sacred objects. That’s the secret we hold. Columbus took them to the New World. His voyage was financed by Jews of the Spanish court. Ferdinand and Isabella were useless. They lacked either the vision or the money to explore. Columbus possessed the vision, and the Sephardi Jews of Spain provided the money. Of course, they’d all been forced to convert in order to stay in Spain, and Columbus too was a converso.”