by Steve Berry
He stepped from the car into the late afternoon. One thing about Jamaica—weather always stayed the same, winter or summer. Either warm or hot, not much else. It was approaching 6:00 P.M., the sun beginning its retreat behind the Blue Mountains north of Kingston. He needed to head that way soon, as he was due at the estate for dinner.
“Béne, you been in the jungle today,” Halliburton said to him.
His clothes were soaked with sweat and grime and he still smelled of Felipe’s stinking house. “I’ve been busy, my friend.” He held up the documents in his hand. “I need you to take a look at these.”
He kept his words to proper English. No patois here.
The professor shuffled through the parchments in a quick perusal.
“Quite a find, Béne. These are Spanish originals. Where did you get them?”
“Don’t ask.” And he added a smile.
“The Spanish ruled this island for 150 years,” Tre said. “When they left in 1655 they buried most of their documents, thinking they’d be back. Of course, they never came back which is why we have so few written accounts from that time.”
He caught the message, but could not have cared less.
“I assume you want me to tell you what they say?” Tre said.
“It would help. It looks like Spanish, but I can’t read most of it.”
He watched while the academician studied the writings, angling them to the sun for better illumination of the faint print. “It’s Castilian. That language has changed a great deal since the 16th century. You realize these parchments should not be in bright light.”
But he wasn’t concerned about preservation, either. “What are they?”
Tre knew all about his interest in the lost mine.
They’d talked about it in detail many times.
“It’s amazing, Béne, but you may actually have something here.”
———
Extremists on Both Sides, Out of Control
By Tom Sagan, Los Angeles Times
HEBRON, West Bank—Ben Segev lives in an unassuming house on the outskirts of town with his wife and two children. Segev is an American, from Chicago, once an investment banker. Now he’s a self-proclaimed warrior.
“We will drive these Arab whores from the land of Israel,” Segev says. “If the government won’t get rid of the garbage, then we will.”
The house is an arsenal. Automatic weapons. Ammunition. Explosives. On this day, Segev takes eight of his compatriots into the hills, where they practice for the coming fight.
“It only takes a tiny spark to light a big fire here,” one of the settlers proclaims. “This city is cursed.”
Hebron is an ancient town, disputed for millennia, thought to be the burial place of the prophet Abraham. At present, 450 right-wing Jews live among 120,000 Palestinians. For centuries Arabs and Jews lived here peacefully, but a 1929 riot resulted in the deaths of more than 60 Jews. The British, who governed what was then Palestine, resettled the remaining Jews elsewhere. In 1967, after Israel captured the West Bank, Jews returned. But those who came were the most ideologically extreme. Even worse, government policies at the time encouraged them to move into the West Bank. The Israelis then claimed a biblical right to the city and demanded Arabs leave. Then in 1997 the Israeli Army withdrew from 80% of the city and ceded control to the Palestinian Authority. The remaining 20% was left for the settlers. Many, like Segev and his colleagues, are now preparing to strike.
“This is a recipe for disaster,” Segev says. “And no one, in any position of authority, seems willing to help.”
In the hills, away from town, under clear skies, they practice loading and unloading the automatic rifles. How to maximize every round is explained, the goal being to kill as many as possible with the least amount of bullets.
“Aim for the center mass,” Segev teaches. “That’s the biggest target with less chance of missing. Keep firing until they’re down. Then move to the next one. No mercy. None at all. This is a war and they are the enemy.”
Segev’s fears are not wholly unjustified. Almost daily for the past year there have been shots fired into his settlement by Palestinian snipers. Violence on the Jewish settlers is a common occurrence. At least 30 have been killed by Palestinian gunmen. Little to nothing is done by the Arab governing authorities to stop the attacks. Finally, in response, Israel ordered 30,000 Palestinians, whose homes surround the settlement, under a 24-hour curfew. The ban prohibits the Palestinians from leaving their homes, even to go to a doctor or attend school, and jails them if they do. Twice a week the curfew is lifted for a few hours to allow residents time to shop.
“That worked,” Segev says. “For a little while.”
Then hundreds of Israeli troops, backed by dozens of tanks and bulldozers, swept into Hebron and destroyed buildings that had been identified as being used by Palestinian snipers. But the attacks started again a few days later.
Segev and his men continue to ready themselves.
“We feel abandoned by Israel’s government,” an unnamed settler says. “We are determined to rid the West Bank of Arabs.”
None of them consider themselves vigilantes. Israeli and Palestinian officials confirm the extremist problem exists on both sides. Jewish extremism has happened before. In 1994 U.S. settler Baruch Goldstein gunned down 29 Arabs in a mosque. In 1995 a radical right-wing fanatic assassinated Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. But the latest wave has greater frequency, an Israeli official confirmed, and Hebron has become the epicenter for that violence. But how widespread is the problem?
“Not as bad as you think,” say analysts at Tel Aviv University. They estimate that only 10% of the 177,000 settlers in the West Bank and Gaza are extremists. “But that minority sees themselves as guardians of Hebron, considered by many to be Judaism’s second holiest city, after Jerusalem. And though several thousand Israeli soldiers and police are there to protect them, they don’t see that as enough.”
Segev and his men complete their work. He and his friends scoff at human rights groups who say that the settlers often provoke violence. But Palestinian officials tell a different story. Unlike the Palestinians, settlers are free to leave their homes at will. There are reports that the extremists regularly attack Palestinian shops while the Palestinians, who are forced to stay indoors because of the curfew, can only watch. Mahmoud Azam, 67, is a Palestinian. His kiosk has been ransacked three times. He’s also been beaten in the back with a brick and punched repeatedly. His shop is now closed and he survives on handouts of food and money.
“If I could,” Azam says. “I’d fight them back. They must not be allowed to drive us from our homes.”
But the settlers disagree. “We want Israel to regain control of this area,” Segev says as he tosses the guns into his car. “It needs to reoccupy all of Hebron. Until that happens, we will take preemptive actions to stop the Palestinian gunfire.” The passion in Segev’s declaration is clear. “People here are extremely upset by the daily shootings, killings, and harassment by Palestinians. People here feel abandoned by the government. If we don’t fight, we will die.”
Tom laid the article down. He’d kept the clipping in his wallet for the past eight years.
A reminder of the end.
“What was your source for this article?” his boss asked him. “Please tell me there’s more to this than what has been uncovered.”
Robin Stubbs had not only been his editor, she was his friend. As the allegations against him gradually unfolded, she’d stuck by him. When a committee of former LA Times editors and reporters had been assembled to investigate the charge against him, he’d welcomed their action. He had nothing to hide.
But the proof had betrayed him.
“I can only say that what the committee found is wrong. Everything in this article is true.”
“That’s not going to do, Tom. Your source, Segev, doesn’t exist. The Israelis have searched. We searched. The Palestinian, Azam, had been dead for over a year before you supposedly interv
iewed him. That’s a fact. Come on. What’s going on here?”
The committee had reviewed all 1,458 stories he’d filed for the Los Angeles Times during his nineteen-year tenure. Nothing had raised a red flag except one.
EXTREMISTS ON BOTH SIDES, OUT OF CONTROL
“I approved the use of your ‘unnamed settler,’ and other unindentified sources,” Robin said. “I stretched policy to the max on those. Now it’s my ass on the line here, too, Tom. This story is a lie. Nothing about it is true. There are no settlers preparing to attack. No mass conspiracy. Sure, there’s violence in the area, but not to the extent you reported.”
He’d personally conducted all of the interviews, face-to-face. His expense reports verified that he had indeed been physically present at the specified locations.
But that wasn’t enough.
“I’m telling you, Robin. I talked to Azam two months ago.”
“He was dead, Tom.”
A photo of Mahmoud Azam, shown to him, matched the man he recalled from their hour or so together in Hebron.
But that man had not been Azam.
“I told you years ago to audio-record things,” Robin said.
But he hated tape recorders. Sources were far more forthcoming without a machine there, and the ones who insisted on being recorded were usually suspect.
“You have my notes,” he said, as if that was good enough.
“They’re fake, too.”
No, they weren’t. They accurately detailed exactly what he’d been told. But that didn’t matter if nobody believed him.
His credibility as a reporter had given the explosive story legs, which explained why news organizations around the world ran it. The result had been a disruption of a new round of peace talks, ones that had been making progress. The Palestinian government, in a rare move, opened its files and allowed Israel to verify that the person supposedly quoted—Mahmoud Azam—had long been dead. Israel likewise cooperated and allowed Palestinian officials to be present as they searched for Ben Segev, who could never be found.
The conclusions were inevitable.
The reporter apparently made the whole thing up.
“Tom,” Robin said, her voice low. “You’re not the only one who will be hurt by this.”
She’d worked for the Times over two decades, rising to editor of the international desk. She was respected in the industry, and her name had been mentioned for promotion to managing editor or publisher. She’d always watched his back.
Trusted him.
He knew that.
“The committee has verified, beyond all doubt, that the story is a fabrication. Can you prove them wrong?”
Her question carried a plea.
No, he could not.
He stared at her.
Husband number two had left a while back. No children. Only two dogs, a cat, and her career with the Times.
Which was over.
A month after he was fired, Robin resigned.
He hadn’t tried to contact her. What would he say? I’m sorry? It’s all wrong? I didn’t do it?
Who would believe that?
His four Pulitzer nominations and one win were revoked, his name stricken from the official records. All of his other journalism awards, whether won or nominated, were withdrawn. In its online archive the Times flagged every one of his stories with a warning, ensuring that though he’d filed 1,458 stories, 1,457 of which had been dead-on, the one in question would be his legacy. Other newspapers continued their investigations even after the Times stopped, attacking both him and his editors for their lackadaisical policies and sloppy management.
Especially Robin.
God help her.
She took a beating. Amazingly, she found work at a small community newspaper chain, but her name would forever be linked to his scandal. He often wondered how she was doing.
Would she have grieved at his death?
He stared at the bedroom ceiling. Outside, daylight faded. He should sleep, but a lot of ghosts had come to visit this day. More than he’d ever anticipated. His daughter. Abiram. His former boss. The past.
But only one questioned mattered.
When his gun was returned tomorrow, and after he made sure Alle was okay, should he finish what he started?
———
ALLE TOTED HER SUITCASE OUT OF THE APARTMENT BUILDING to a waiting car.
“Sure you would not like to stay?” Rócha asked, adding a nauseating smile. “We barely have spoken to each other.”
She slid her bag into the open trunk and wanted to know something. “Were you following me tonight? How did you know where I was?”
“I was doing my job. Which was to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
He wagged a finger at her. “You’re a most clever woman. You think you ask me enough questions, then I will answer. Mr. Simon told me he would speak with you about all of this once you are in Florida. My job is to safely deliver you to the airport, not to answer your questions.” Rócha opened the rear door for her to climb inside. “This man will drive you.”
She spotted Midnight behind the wheel and cringed.
“There’s nobody else who can drive me?” she asked.
“What? Still upset? He was playacting, like you. That’s all. Now you must hurry. Your flight leaves in two and a half hours. Please claim your ticket at the Lufthansa check-in counter.”
She brushed past him into the rear seat and he closed the door.
“A little kiss before you go?” Rócha asked through the open window.
She mustered the courage to display a single finger.
“I guess not. Do travel safe.”
The car eased down the narrow street, finding the avenue at the far end. There, Midnight turned left and they sped toward the airport.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ZACHARIAH COULD NO LONGER SLEEP. THE SITUATION WITH Alle Becket had raised too many concerns. Béne Rowe was far more ingenious than he’d ever imagined. Thankfully, as with Tom Sagan, he’d checked out the Jamaican.
Quite a character.
His mother was part Taino, part African, her roots extending back to the slaves imported to work the plantations. His father was African, as pure as a Jamaican slave descendant could get considering the amount of blood mixing that had occurred. Both of Rowe’s parents were Maroons, their ancestors runaway slaves who organized in the mountains and waged enough war on plantation owners that the British finally decided to make peace.
He’d studied the Maroons, trying to gain an understanding. The first slaves were brought to Jamaica by the Spanish in 1517 to supplement the native Tainos, who were dying out. The Africans became herdsmen, hunters, and farmers with a semi-free existence. They learned the land, becoming familiar with the dense, thickly wooded terrain. The Spanish and English fought for years, and the Africans allied with the Spanish. In 1660 the Spanish left the island forever, but the Africans remained, becoming the first Maroons. The English governor at the time predicted that they would one day become a great problem.
He was right.
They controlled Jamaica’s interior. Any colonist who dared to venture far from the coast paid a price.
More slaves came as sugarcane thrived. Revolts were common and many Africans escaped to the hills to join others already there. British farmers wanted the Maroons wiped out. There’d been a First Maroon War in 1731, and a second in 1795, which ended with several hundred tricked into deportation. Only a few families survived that purge, keeping to their mountain villages.
The Rowes were one of those.
Béne meant “Tuesday” in Maroon, the day of the week upon which he was born, per the naming tradition. Rowe came from a British plantation owner. Again, not uncommon, his background report had noted. Rowe hated his last name, a daily reminder of all his ancestors had endured. Though slavery ended on Jamaica in 1834, its memory still haunted. The island had been the last stop on the traders’ route from Africa, which began in South America, then
headed north to the lower Caribbean, and finally west, to Jamaica. All of the best and most docile Africans were bought and gone by the time slavers docked in Kingston harbor. The result became a population of aggressive Negroes, some of whom were bold enough to both flee and war on their former masters. Nowhere else in the Western world had that successfully happened.
Béne Rowe was a direct by-product of that rebellious stock. His father had been a gangster, but smart enough to involve his family heavily in Blue Mountain Coffee. Béne was an astute businessman, too. He owned resorts throughout the Caribbean and controlled leases for several Jamaican bauxite mines, which American companies paid him millions per year to exploit. He held the title to a massive working estate in the Blue Mountains that employed nearly a thousand people. He was a man possessed of few vices. Which was surprising, given that he peddled so many of them. He despised drugs and drank only modest amounts of rum and wine. He did not smoke, nor were there any women in his life, beyond his mother. No children, either, not even the illegitimate kind.
His one obsession seemed Columbus’ lost mine.
Which was what had brought them together.
On his first voyage across the Atlantic, Columbus commanded three ships loaded with enough food and water for a year. He also brought navigational equipment, trinkets for trade, ships’ stores, and three unmarked wooden crates. Room had to be made in the hold of the Santa María to accommodate them. They were loaded aboard by several of the crew who were conversos—Jews at heart, forced into a Christian baptism by the Inquisition. Unfortunately, the Santa María ran aground off the coast of Hispaniola on Christmas Day, 1492. Every effort was made at salvage, but the ship was lost, her cargo offloaded to the island. The three crates were buried, at night, by the admiral and his interpreter, Luis de Torres. That much was known for certain because, decades ago, his father had found documents, preserved in a private cache, that told the tale.
