Why?
Probably because their lives offered little else in the way of satisfaction, which was sad. What he’d heard many times rang true. “Jamaica has a little of everything but not quite enough of anything.”
They eased through the congestion, the buildings old, two to three stories high, packed so close that even a breath of fresh air would have difficulty squeezing through. When they turned onto a side street, two men appeared in front and signaled with outstretched arms for the car to stop. Both had ropelike hair and wild beards. They flanked the vehicle, one on either side. Shirttails hung out and low—shielding weapons.
Béne shook his head and muttered, “Buguyagas.”
And that’s what he thought.
Nasty tramps.
He wound down the rear window and asked, “You need something?”
He intentionally avoided patois, which he knew would be their preferred way to speak. The man on his side of the car clearly did not know him and was about to speak, but the other one rushed around the hood and grasped his friend’s arm, signaling for the driver to go on.
“What is it?” Béne asked. “Neither of you can talk?”
Mumblings passed between them that he could not hear, then the two men ran off.
He shook his head.
What were they going to do? Rob him right here in the street?
“They lucky we don’t have time to shoot ’em. Go.”
He found the shanty where Felipe lived, its walls a collage of scrap lumber and rusted tin. Four individual rooms were padlocked from the outside. Barrels of rainwater lined the edges, which meant no plumbing, confirmed by a strong scent of urine. Goats roamed the front and sides.
“Bust it open,” he ordered, and his men kicked down the makeshift doors.
Inside the largest enclosure was a room about six meters square. There was a bed, television, stove, dresser, and laundry basket. Eighty percent of the people in Spanish Town and Kingston lived like this or worse.
His gaze found the bed and, just as Felipe had said, lying on the filthy floor was a stack of old documents. One of his men brought them to him. Another stood guard at the door. Guns were drawn. Their two greeters may have alerted the local don that Béne Rowe was in the neighborhood, so they might receive a visit.
A courtesy, for sure.
But still a visit.
“If anyone bothers us,” he said, “move them away.”
His men nodded.
He found the deed the man had described from 1671, written in Spanish or Portuguese, he wasn’t sure, the faded ink difficult to see. There were several other parchments, each sulfur-colored, brown at the edges and brittle, all in the same language. He was able to read a few words, as Spanish had been a language he’d learned.
He heard a commotion outside and turned as a woman with two small girls appeared at the doorway. His men had the good sense to conceal their guns. She was deeply black, wearing a dress of yellow, pink, and green. Her bare feet were stained with road dust.
“Who you?” she demanded.
“A friend.”
She stepped into the room, a defiant look on her face. “You broke in?”
“It was necessary.” He gestured with the documents he held. “I came for these.”
“Where’s Felipe?”
He shrugged. “Are you his wife?”
She nodded.
“His children?”
“One of ’em.”
That was the thing about killing. Somebody always suffered. But he could not allow anyone to play him for a fool. On this island reputation meant everything, and Felipe sealed his fate when he sold out.
A shame, though, that these three would also pay the price.
He reached into his pocket and found his money clip. He peeled off twenty $100 U.S. bills and tossed them on the bed.
“Wa’ that for?” she asked.
“I owe Felipe. His pay.”
She apprised him with a mix of anger and dependency, one he’d seen all too many times. This woman would never see Felipe again. The big-eyed child would never know her father. No one would ever know what had happened. Felipe would rot away in an abandoned cemetery high in the Blue Mountains.
But such was the fate of liars.
“We go now,” he said. “You take care.”
He headed for the door with his documents in hand.
“He not comin’ back, is he?” the woman asked, her words laced with worry and fear.
He decided to be honest. “Take the money on the bed. I’ll send some more. Be grateful and silent.”
Her rough face was drawn, her brown eyes bloodshot. This woman’s tough life had just gotten tougher.
“Ev’ry gal look for man to tek care o’ her. When she fine him she is woman and she is true.” Her voice had turned icy.
He knew what she meant. The men she attracted changed lovers as often as moods. She’d finally avoided that with Felipe.
But there was nothing he could do.
So he left.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALLE KEPT HER COMPOSURE AND SIMPLY STARED BACK AT THE man who called himself Brian.
“Have you and Simon ever discussed religion?” he asked.
Like she was going to answer him. “I want to eat my dinner. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”
“He’s a devout Orthodox Jew. You’re not. How do you get along?”
That comment surprised her. In their many discussions of Judaism, Zachariah had always talked reform. Fundamentalism repelled him. Orthodox Jews claimed to be authentic, which was insulting, he’d said, to all of the rest. She agreed. Until the 19th century, the Orthodox dominated. But not anymore. Thanks to heaven, Zachariah had told her.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you know much about the Simons,” he asked, “the family history? Zachariah’s father and grandfather were great supporters of Israel. They supplied money and political influence that helped form that state. They were ultra-radicals, linked to things that today you’d be prosecuted for. The Simons have been politically connected to every government elected there, always on the conservative side.”
“That doesn’t make Zachariah a radical,” she said, hating herself for even debating the point.
“I’m sure he’s tried to convince you that he’s some sort of progressive. He probably needs you to believe that in order to get what he’s after.”
The waiter returned and laid a salad before her.
She reached for her fork.
Brian’s hand came across the table and grabbed hers. “What you just did to your father was despicable.”
She flushed with anger. “Let go of my hand.”
“He’s your father. No matter what may have happened between you. To lie to him like you did is unforgivable.”
She yanked her hand free and stood from the table. Bad enough she had some regrets, she wasn’t going to listen to a stranger berate her.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Leave. But know this. You’re in way over your head and you’re going to end up dead.”
No one had ever before used the word dead while referring to her. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“You know nothing of who you’re dealing with. Simon found you for a specific purpose. He’s after something.”
He motioned to the Minerva pages still on the table.
“And it has something to do with that article.”
———
Of all the great explorers, Christopher Columbus is the most enigmatic. His birth, his character, his career, his achievements are all mysteries. No authentic portrait exists. The ones that now grace galleries around the world were painted decades after his death and conflict in the most obvious of ways. It is known that he married in 1478 and a son, Diego, was born in 1480. Either his first wife died or Columbus took Diego and abandoned her. No one seems to know her true fate. He then had a tryst with a Castilian woman who bore him an illegitimate son, Fernando, in 148
8. He was close with both of his sons all of his life. Of course, Fernando favored a Spanish origin for his father, while Diego supported an Italian ancestry. Unfortunately, nothing has survived that attests to Columbus’ birthplace. The man himself spoke little of his past and wrote nothing about it while alive. Though the time of his death is certain—May 20, 1506—the year of his birth is a matter of great debate. Columbus himself said 1447 one time, 1453 another. The best guess is somewhere between August 25 and October 31, 1451. Fernando actually searched for Columbus’ relations in Genoa, Italy, but found none. Of course, Fernando’s bias toward his Spanish homeland may have colored those investigations. History, though, owes Fernando a great debt of gratitude. At his home on the banks of the Guadalquivir River, in Seville, he amassed one of Europe’s largest libraries. He also inherited his father’s personal papers. Fernando made provisions in his will to ensure that the library and papers would survive but, despite this precaution, ownership was contested for decades until eventually the books and papers passed into the hands of the cathedral in Seville. Sadly, many thousands of originals were lost before that transfer happened. What remains, about 7,000 items, is named the Biblioteca Colombina and still exists in Spain.
History notes that Columbus maintained a daily account of his first voyage, the Diario de a bordo, the Onboard Log. This journal was presented to Queen Isabella on his return, and the queen herself commanded a scribe to prepare an exact copy. But by 1554, both the original and the copy were gone. Fortunately, before they vanished, the copy passed through the hands of Bishop Bartolomé de las Casas who used it to produce El libro de la primera navegación, The Book of the First Navigation—or, as it’s generally known today, The Journal of Columbus. But again, there is no way to know if de las Casas’ creation is either complete or accurate. In short, no authentic, firsthand account of Columbus’ first voyage exists. Even worse, the chart Columbus used to guide his path has also been lost, that map not seen since the early 16th century.
His youth is also entirely unaccounted for. An Italian lineage does not concur with reality since he always wrote in Castilian, not Italian. He possessed no discernible educational background, yet he was clearly schooled. Fernando wrote a biography stating that his father attended the University of Pavia, but Columbus himself never mentioned that fact. This omission is curious given that he spent the better part of his adult life trying to convince the monarchs of Europe that he was qualified to spend their money on a voyage west, across the unknown sea. The fact that he possessed a university degree would have been an excellent way to raise his prestige with scholars the various crowns appointed to assess his proposal.
Ironically, his entire ocean venture was based on an error—that the western shores of Europe lead to the eastern islands of Asia. The modern belief that people of that time thought the earth was flat is fiction. Since the Greeks all mariners knew the earth was a sphere. The unknown was what lay beyond the western horizon, out of sight of land, where nothing but water abounded. In reality, Columbus did not discover America since millions of people already lived there. He was not the first European to set foot on its soil since the Vikings accomplished that feat centuries earlier. He was, instead, the first European to place the New World on the map, though to his way of thinking he actually placed it in Asia.
From an early age I listened to tales of Columbus. Both my grandfather and great-grandfather were fascinated by him. Many myths are associated with the man, but none more romantic than the notion that he came to the New World for a purpose other than profit. His La Empresa de las Indias, The Enterprise of the Indies, was openly geared toward gain. The idea had been to discover, then to exploit what was found. But some say Columbus possessed other motives. What those might have been vary. Much has been made of the fact that not a single priest accompanied him on the historic first voyage. Yet he did bring along a Hebrew translator named Luis de Torres. History has never been able to supply an adequate explanation for that, but conspiratorialists have not been as hampered.
Another tale that has gained momentum through the centuries is one I heard as a child concerning Columbus’ lost gold mine. By 1600 Spain had tripled the amount of European gold that had been in circulation prior to Columbus’ first voyage. A story developed of how Columbus found a mine on Jamaica but concealed its location from everyone, including the Spanish Crown. My grandfather was fascinated with the story and told me about it, along with introducing me to Columbus’s signature.
It is unusual, to say the least—a cipher that has never been decoded. Why did he not simply sign his name? Why a triangular-shaped series of letters that could mean almost anything? And why the hooked X’s that appear in two locations? My grandfather always alluded to this but never explained the significance. As with so much else, we simply do not know the real story. But it is hard not to become enthralled. I know I did. So much that the subject of Christopher Columbus has formed the basis of my academic life.
Zachariah stopped reading Alle Becket’s article. He’d fished it from his satchel to refresh his memory.
Thankfully, he maintained a worldwide watch for any mention of Christopher Columbus. Google Alerts and similar referral services kept him abreast of anything pertaining to that subject.
One day an article in Minerva had flagged.
Most of it was nothing new, but two words grabbed his attention.
Hooked X’s.
Only a few people in the world knew to use that phrase in conjunction with Christopher Columbus.
So he’d located Alle Becket.
Now he’d found Tom Sagan.
Clearly, he was in the right place.
And tomorrow he’d be inside the Levite’s grave.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TOM ENTERED HIS HOUSE, THE ONE PLACE LEFT ON THE PLANET where he felt a margin of comfort. He stayed here the majority of his time, behind closed windows and a locked door. He’d tried an apartment and a condo, but had not liked the close proximity of neighbors. He didn’t want to know anybody and he sure as hell didn’t want anybody knowing him. He liked solitude, and his nondescript rental, located at the end of a long block on Orlando’s south side, offered exactly that.
The visit to Abiram’s grave still unnerved him.
As had the car that appeared, then disappeared.
On the drive back his thoughts had returned to the deed sent to him for the house. When it arrived in the mail the lawyer had also included one other item.
A short, handwritten note.
He needed to see it again, so he opened the drawer where he’d tossed both it and the deed three years ago.
He unfolded the pages and, for the second time, read.
The house is yours. You were raised there so you should own it. I was born a simple Jew. My faith and religion were important to me. Those were not important for you. I can’t say I understand that. Sadly, though we are of the same blood, we’re strangers. A lot of life was wasted between us. Things changed. Unfortunately, there is no way to go back. It’s all over. If it matters, I know you were not a fraud. Whatever the explanation for what happened, it wasn’t that you made up that news story. I want you to know that I felt the pain of your destruction, though I realize I kept that to myself. Son, I kept a great deal to myself. Things that would surprise you. Now I take those secrets with me to my grave. Please understand that I always tried to do the honorable thing. I hope maybe one day you will, too.
No I’m sorry. No I love you. No Good luck. Not even a Go to hell.
Just matter-of-fact.
And those last two lines. The honorable thing.
Typical Abiram.
On his high horse right to the end.
Three years ago he hadn’t really understood “Now I take those secrets with me to my grave.” He’d thought it more parental dramatics. Now he wasn’t so sure. How would Zachariah Simon know anything about what may or may not be inside the grave? The only explanation was that Alle had told him.
What did she know?
/>
He stepped to the window and glanced outside. The street was devoid of traffic, the neighborhood deep in its daily slumber. Not many children lived here. More retirees enjoying Florida’s sun and no state income tax.
Why was someone following him?
Simon had what he wanted. So who’d appeared at the cemetery?
Someone else who might know either Abiram’s or Simon’s business? He was thinking like a reporter again, his inquisitive mind racing with questions. After all, he’d been damn good at what he did. Apparently good enough that someone decided to destroy him.
Who?
He knew enough.
But there was nothing he could do about that.
Then, or now.
Nothing at all.
———
ALLE STARED DOWN AT THE MINERVA ARTICLE LYING ON THE café table. She’d worked on it for weeks, keeping its length within the magazine’s submission guidelines, gearing it topically so a wide audience could appreciate her points. They’d paid her £300 and she’d been elated to be published, especially at age twenty-five, fresh out of graduate school. A short bio after the piece had explained who she was, and offered an email contact.
That’s how Zachariah found her.
“There’s nothing sinister in that article,” she said, retaking her seat. “It simply describes the mysteries surrounding Columbus.”
“Yet a billionaire recluse goes to all the trouble to find you,” Brian said. “Then convinces you to deceive your own father so he can open your grandfather’s grave?”
She was curious. “How do you know all this?”
“You never answered me. What you did to your father was wrong.”
She didn’t like his attitude. He didn’t know how Tom Sagan hurt her and her mother. “My relationship with my father is none of your business.”
His gaze drifted around the room, then refocused on her. “You’re being used. Simon wants what your grandfather trusted you to keep safe. Doesn’t it concern you that his grave is about to be opened?”