The other woman was taller, stouter, a few years younger, and similarly dressed. She introduced herself as the Israeli ambassador to Austria.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said to her.
“We came to see you,” the ambassador said.
He offered both women drinks, but they refused. He poured himself some fresh-squeezed lemonade, one of his favorites, sweetened with honey from bees kept here on the estate. A fickle March sun tried to break through in patches from rising afternoon clouds. Rain was coming, but not for a few hours. A little over twelve hours had passed since he’d emerged from Darby’s Hole.
“What happened last night?” Nelle asked.
He sipped his lemonade and listened in the distance.
He heard the dogs.
Barking.
He’d opened the pens over an hour ago, his pets grateful for the release. Big Nanny led and he’d watched them disappear into the familiar territory of the high forest.
Their wail was slow and steady.
Businesslike.
As with the Maroon’s abeng, he’d learned the meanings of their call.
“Last night?” he asked, referring to the question. “I slept well.”
Nelle shook her head. “I told you we didn’t have time for games.”
“Zachariah Simon landed here a little after midnight,” the ambassador said. “He came with one of his employees, a man named Rócha, and Alle Becket. Tom Sagan arrived about an hour before. Two bodies were found at the Kingston airport this morning. Men who, I am told, work for you.”
He’d been troubled to learn of their deaths. He’d told them to be on guard, to expect Simon to be trouble. Unfortunately, the personalities that came into his employ were often too confident and too inexperienced, which sometimes proved a deadly combination. One of the men was married, with children. He’d pay the widow a visit tomorrow and make sure, financially, she’d be okay.
“You have a remarkable amount of information for two people who don’t live here. How does any of it relate to me?”
Trucks headed off in the distance for one of the far pastures, where his prized horses grazed. He’d been told a few days ago that the coffee beans were blooming, and it looked like a good year ahead.
“Quit the act,” Nelle said. “Simon killed Brian Jamison. For all we know, you okayed that.”
“Me? I liked Brian.”
The Justice Department woman never broke a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure you did. But did you think we’d forget about you?”
He said nothing.
“I was there,” Nelle said, “when Brian’s body was fished out of a trash bin. He was a good man. A good agent. Dead, because of you.”
“Me? You sent him here to pressure me. I cooperated with you. The Simon was the problem for Brian.”
“Mr. Rowe,” the ambassador said. “I had to cover up Agent Jamison’s death. I, too, was there when his body was found. I do not like that he had to die. This entire operation gyrated out of control. I am told that there is quite a file on you. More than enough charges to bring you down.”
He sipped more of his cold drink. “This is Jamaica. If I have done something wrong, then take it to the authorities.” He bore his gaze into her. “Otherwise, keep threats to yourself.”
“If I had my way,” Nelle said, “I’d handle you myself.”
He chuckled. “Why so much hostility? I don’t bother you.” He pointed at the other woman. “I don’t bother you.”
The ambassador said, “Mr. Rowe. Most likely, sometime in the next year, I may become prime minister of Israel. I realize that is not important to you, but Zachariah Simon is important to us.”
He shook his head. “That’s a bad man. A lying man.”
The ambassador nodded in agreement. “We have been watching Simon for many years. He’s been in and out of this area on more than one occasion. Up until recently his activities were deemed only … misguided. But that may no longer be the case. A good man, a rabbi named Berlinger, was found shot to death in Prague a few hours ago. Simon, or someone working for him, probably killed him. Unfortunately, that rabbi was one of only five people that we know of who may have the answers we seek. You’re one of the four still left alive.”
He knew the other three. Sagan. His daughter. And Simon.
But what about Frank Clarke? These women apparently knew nothing of him. Which was fitting. As the Maroons of old, he’d disappeared back into the forest. “What is it you want to know?”
“Where’s Simon?” Nelle said to him.
He leaned on the veranda’s rail. Its wood had come from the nearby forest, the trees felled centuries ago by slaves.
His ancestors.
Some of whom became Maroons.
The dogs continued to bark in the distance.
The sound comforted him.
As did the fact that neither of these women had a clue about Falcon Ridge or Darby’s Hole. If they did, they’d be there, not here. He’d dispatched men to stake out the cave since leaving hours ago. No one had returned.
Di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin.
He told himself to be neither.
Instead, be in charge.
“Simon can no longer help you.”
Nelle started to speak, but the ambassador grabbed her arm and said, “Zachariah Simon is a dangerous fanatic. He wanted to start a war. Thousands would have died because of him. But we may have stopped all that. For all his insanity, though, he sought something of great value to Jews. A sacred treasure that we thought lost, but may be found. Four objects. Do you know where they are?”
He shook his head. Which was the truth. He’d never crossed the stones to follow Sagan and his daughter. Instead he’d yanked Simon from the mud then climbed back to ground level, bringing his prisoner here, to the estate, where he’d been locked away. Sagan and his daughter had emerged from the cave and left with Frank, neither saying a word. What they may have found was not something he cared to know. Time for him to start acting like a Maroon. These women were obroni—outsiders—not worthy of the knowledge he possessed. Silence was the Maroon way.
“I truly don’t know.”
He caught a shift in the dogs’ wail. A deepening, the rhythm lengthening, and knew what that meant.
“But you do know where Simon is,” Nelle said.
“The last I saw, he was running.”
“You are going to kill me?” Simon asked.
“Not me.” He pointed to the dogs. “They do it for me.”
The look was the same he’d seen from the drug don four days ago.
He enjoyed more of his lemonade and caught the scent of cooking pork. A wild hog, killed earlier, roasting for later.
There’d be some good jerk to eat tonight.
Hopefully his mother would make yams.
He thought of Grandy Nanny, knowing now that the woman was no legend. She was real. It was said that she held special power over wild hogs and could call the animals to her.
“Three hundred years ago my ancestors were brought here in chains and sold as slaves. We worked the fields. Mine were Coromantees from the Gold Coast. Eventually, we rebelled. Many fled to the hills. We fought the British and won our freedom. I am Maroon.”
“And the point of that genealogical lesson?” Nelle asked.
He caught a pause in the dog’s bay and counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. He kept counting till eight, when the sound began again.
Big Nanny had found her prey.
What a leader.
He drank the remainder of his lemonade.
Life was good.
He knew there were secrets to be kept. Like Darby’s Hole. The underground lake. Numbered stones. And what lay on the other side.
He heard a scream.
Distant. Faint. But unmistakable.
Both women heard it, too.
Then the dogs.
Not barking.
Howling.
He had no idea where they’d cornered Zachariah
Simon, only that they had. Of course, like the don a few days ago, if Simon had not resisted they would not have harmed him.
But this time the prey had resisted.
“The point of the family lesson?” he said. “Not one, really. Only that I’m proud of from where I came.”
Silence from the distance.
No dogs could be heard.
And he knew why.
His dogs always ate what they killed.
“I don’t think Mr. Rowe can help us any longer,” the ambassador said.
Smart lady.
He saw that the other woman from the Justice Department also knew that to be true.
“No,” Nelle said. “It’s all over, isn’t it?”
He said nothing.
But she spoke the truth.
Zachariah Simon was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
IT HAS BEEN SIX YEARS SINCE THE GREAT ADMIRAL DIED. I find myself praying for his soul even more than I pray for my own. Life on this island is difficult, but rewarding. My decision to stay instead of returning to Spain has proven wise. Before I leave this life and meet my Lord, my God, I wish to record the truth. This world is far too crowded with lies. My own existence has, in many ways, been a lie. The admiral’s was the same. As I was a learned man of letters, capable of writing, before he left for Spain the last time he told me the truth. I shall not bore the reader with many details, as the admiral would have disapproved of their revelation. But a quick survey seems in order, especially at this moment when I begin to face the end of my own life.
The name Colón was long common in the Balearic Islands. The man who would later call himself Cristobal Colón was born in Genova, on the island of Majorca, near Palma. Later, when necessary to conceal his true origin, the admiral chose Genoa for his birth, leaving the constant impression that he meant the city in Italy. The Admiral was Catalonian. Never did he speak or write Italian. His father was known as Juan, a landowner of means on Majorca. The family were conversos of long standing. Outwardly, Juan Colón named his eldest son after himself, but within his heart and inside the confines of his home he called him by his true name. Christoval Arnoldo de Ysassi. There was another son, younger, Bartolome, who remained close to his elder brother all of his life. On Majorca, the admiral called himself Juan. Only when he traveled to Spain to secure the moneys needed for his great voyage did he become Cristoforo Colombo, from Italy, called Cristobal Colón by the Spanish. Throughout his life the admiral never forgot his birthplace. On Majorca there is a sanctuary known as San Salvador, a hill of great beauty and peace, so he named the first island he discovered in his New World after that spot.
In his youth Marjorcan farmers were oppressed by excessive levies and harsh treatment. They eventually rose in arms and revolted, the brothers Juan and Bartolome actively participating. The King of Naples eventually suppressed the revolt. His father lost all of his lands and many were slaughtered. The two brothers fled the island. Juan took to the sea, operating a pirate ship from Marseilles, fighting the King of Aragon’s attempt to take Barcelona. He then joined with the Portuguese in their war with Spain and its Catholic queen, Isabella. During a battle against Venetian vessels in the employ of Aragon, Juan attacked and set them on fire. His own ship was lost but, despite being wounded by gunfire, he managed to swim ashore. The bullet from that wound stayed inside him all of his life. A reminder of a time when he openly fought authority.
Never again would Juan be a pirate. He migrated to Portugal and became a merchant, sailing the cold waters above Europe. He married the daughter of the governor of the Madeira Islands and moved there to administer the estate left by his father-in-law. There a son, Diego, was born. Later, another son, Fernando, was born to a Catalonian mistress. Both sons would always be close to their father.
In 1481, while living in the Madeira Islands, he met Alonso Sanchez de Huelva, a mariner and merchant, who regularly sailed among the Canary Islands, Madeira, and England. On one voyage a storm blew his ship off course where it encountered unfavorable winds and currents, dragging it far to the southwest. Finally, land was sighted, an island, upon which lived small, hairless, brown natives who worshiped de Huelva and his crew as gods. After a short stay de Huelva left and sailed east, landing on Porto Santo Island in Madeira. There Juan Colón listened to de Huelva speak of what he found and became fascinated by the possibility that de Huelva had found India and Asia. De Huelva provided him with a chart of the waters he’d sailed. He studied that chart for several years, and became so certain of what he would eventually discover, it was as if he held the key to the box in which it was locked.
He returned to Spain and approached the Catholic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, for ships. He could not reveal himself as Juan Colón, the Majorcan rebel and pirate who had fought against them, so he invented Cristoforo Colombo, from Genoa, Italy, assuming the identity of a dead seaman and wool merchant he once met in the Madeiras. The deception worked and no one ever learned the truth. Even when enemies stripped him of all that he had rightfully earned, he remained to the Spanish Don Cristobal Colón. Only now, after death has long claimed the admiral and the Queen Isabella, and as it is soon to come for me, can the truth be revealed. It is my hope that this account survives and that others will know what I have known. Life here is harsh, but I have come to admire the natives in a way that makes me appreciate their simple way of life. Here I can be Yosef Ben Ha Levy Haivri—Joseph, the son of Levi the Hebrew. As with the admiral and his persona of Colombo, mine as Luis de Torres has served me well. But I have not used that name in six years. Here, it matters not whether you be Jew or Christian, only that you be a good man. That I have tried to be. I have performed the duty imposed on me and will ensure that the task passes to my eldest son, born to me from a wife I took from among the native women. She has made my time here more pleasant than I could have hoped it would be. I have taught her about God and urged her to believe but, learning from the wicked ones from whom I fled, never have I forced her to accept that which she could not embrace in her heart.
Béne stopped reading and glanced up at Tre Halliburton.
“I found that in the documents we took from Cuba,” Tre said. “That’s my translation of what he wrote. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
He knew little about Columbus.
“The story generally told,” Tre said, “starts with Columbus being born in Italy. His father was Domingo, his mother Susanna. Interestingly, a lot of the accounts say that his father was a wool merchant, as was this Colombo whose identity he assumed. Most historians say he took to the sea at an early age, ended up in Portugal, couldn’t get King Juan the Second interested in a voyage, so he went to Spain in 1485, spending seven years waiting for Ferdinand and Isabella to say yes. Whether he ever met Alonso Sanchez de Huelva, nobody knows.”
“Is that true about de Huelva? Did he find America?”
Tre shrugged. “Some say he did. Most think the story was made up by Columbus’ enemies to discredit his accomplishments. But who the hell knows? Unfortunately, Columbus wrote virtually nothing about himself during his lifetime. And the things he did record usually conflicted with one another. Now we know why. He didn’t want anyone to know where he came from.”
Halliburton had driven north from Kingston to the estate. The hog that had been roasting since this morning was about ready to eat. The two women—one from the Justice Department, the other an ambassador—had been gone for hours. One of his men had made sure that they drove straight to the Kingston airport and left.
“What are you going to do with all of this?” he asked Tre.
He had to know.
“Like I have a choice?”
He smiled. His friend understood. Everything must remain private. “It’s better that way.”
Tre shook his head. “Who’d believe me anyway?”
The dogs were back in their pens, their bellies full from the hunt. He doubted much remained of Zachariah Simon, and whatever might still be there would soon be consum
ed by scavengers.
“What happened to de Torres?” he asked.
“History records nothing. He faded away after Columbus’ last voyage. Not a word, until now. Apparently, he lived on Cuba until at least 1510 and fathered a son.”
A sadness filled his gut. How terrible to live such an extraordinary life—yet not to be remembered. Maybe, if only for Luis de Torres, the truth should be told?
But he knew that could not be.
“What did you find in the cave?” Tre asked.
“Enough to know that the legend is no more.”
“The Maroons have control of whatever it is, don’t they?”
They sat on the veranda, the evening air cool and dry. One of his men near the corral signaled that the hog was ready. Good. He was hungry.
He stood. “Time to eat.”
“Come on, Béne. Give me something. What did you find?”
He thought about the question. The past few days had certainly been hectic, but also enlightening. Myths had been revealed as fact. Maroons thought to be legend had been proven real. Justice had been meted out to men who’d showed no respect for anyone, or anything, save themselves. And along the way, Brian Jamison died.
He’d not cared at the time, but regretted that now.
So what had he found?
He stared at Tre and told him the truth.
“Myself.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
TOM OPENED THE DOOR.
Two women stood outside his house. One was the same from Prague, in the car, who’d met with Simon, and the other introduced herself as Stephanie Nelle, United States Justice Department. A little over twenty-four hours had elapsed since he and Alle had emerged from Darby’s Hole and left Jamaica for Orlando. He’d wondered when the woman from Prague would appear and was shocked to learn that she was the Israeli ambassador to Austria.
He invited them inside.
“We tried yesterday to speak with Béne Rowe, but he told us nothing,” Nelle said. “We think Simon is dead. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since landing in Jamaica. Neither has his man, Rócha.”