The Columbus Affair

by Steve Berry

  After that the story blurred.

  The three crates disappeared.

  And the legend of Columbus’ lost mine was born.

  ———

  BÉNE WAITED FOR HALLIBURTON TO EXPLAIN, THOUGH HE LIKED the smile filling his friend’s tanned face.

  “I hope these parchments aren’t now missing from the national archives,” Tre said to him.

  “They’ll be kept safe. Tell me what they say.”

  “This one that looks like a deed grant with wax seal is just that. For 420 acres. The land description is vague, they all were back then, but I think we can place it. Several rivers are mentioned as boundaries and those still exist.”

  Eastern Jamaica was striped with hundreds of waterways that drained the nearly constant rain from the higher elevations to the sea.

  “Can you actually locate the parcel?”

  Halliburton nodded. “I think we might be able to. But that tract will look nothing like it did three hundred years ago. Most of it then was dense forest and jungle. A lot of clearing has occurred since.”

  He was encouraged. Jamaica comprised nearly 11,000 square kilometers. The highest mountains in the Caribbean rose from its surface, and thousands of caves dotted its porous ground. He’d long believed that any lost mine would have to be in the Blue or Jim Crow mountains, which consumed the eastern half of the island. Today some of that land was privately held—he himself was one of those owners—but most of it had become a wilderness national park controlled by the government.

  “This is important to you, isn’t it?” Tre asked him.

  “It’s important to Maroons.”

  “It can’t be the possibility of wealth. You’re a multimillionaire.”

  He chuckled. “Which we don’t need to advertise.”

  “I don’t think it’s a secret.”

  “This is not about money. If that cursed Italian found a mine, he was shown it by the Tainos. It was theirs. He had no right to it. I want to give it back.”

  “The Tainos are gone, Béne.”

  “We Maroons are the closest thing left.”

  “You might actually have a chance to do that,” Tre said, motioning with the documents. “This one is unique.”

  He listened as Halliburton explained about Abraham Cohen and his brother, Moses Cohen Henriques. In May 1675 the two apparently sued each other. The document Felipe stole from the archives was a settlement of that suit in which Abraham agreed to give Moses forty farm animals in return for watching over his Jamaican property during his absence.

  “What makes this interesting,” Halliburton said, “is that no lower court handled the case. Instead, the island’s chief justice, its governor at the time, Thomas Modyford, recorded the decision.”

  “Too small a deal for him to be the judge?”

  “Exactly. Unless there was more involved. If I recall correctly, by 1675 the Cohens would have been in their seventies.”

  Tre explained how the brothers helped settle Jamaica. Abraham Cohen was expelled from the island in 1640, yet he apparently returned in 1670, purchasing 420 acres that his brother cared for until 1675, when they disagreed over payment for that care.

  “I see it in your eyes,” he said to Halliburton. “There’s more. What is it, my friend?”

  “In the settlement, Moses offered to drop his lawsuit if Abraham would provide some information. The mine, Béne. That was what these two old men were really fighting about.”

  ———

  ALLE SAT IN THE REAR SEAT, FEELING BETTER TO BE ON HER WAY out of Austria. The airport lay twelve miles southeast of the city in a place called Schwechat. She did not know the way but noted that the signs they were following to that locale included the European symbol of a jet airplane, marking the route to an airport. Traffic was light on the four-laned highway—understandable given it was approaching midnight. She was tired and hoped to sleep on the plane. She’d flown many times during the night and this flight should not be a problem. She’d rest and be ready for whatever Zachariah would need tomorrow.

  She was on her own again.

  Why had men so disappointed her? First her father. Then a succession of failed relationships. Then a disastrous marriage. Nothing had ever gone right when it came to them. Zachariah, though, seemed different. Was he a father figure? What she’d always craved? Or something else?

  Hard to say.

  She knew only that she respected him and, since her grandfather died, she hadn’t been able to say that about any other man.

  Being in the car with Midnight unnerved her. She felt dirty just knowing he was only a foot away. A few more minutes, she told herself, and she’d be gone, never to return.

  A part of her felt bad about what she’d done to her father. She wouldn’t want any child of hers doing such a thing. But it had to be done. Hopefully, things had worked out and her father cooperated. Her being summoned meant something significant had happened. Which, hopefully, did not involve any face-to-face encounter with her father.

  She’d said about all she wanted to say to him.

  The car veered onto an exit ramp, one that contained no reference to Schwechat or the airport.

  Odd.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Midnight did not reply.

  They turned left onto a two-laned highway that wove a path into what appeared to be black woods on either side. No lights shone either behind them or in the opposite lane.

  Speed increased.

  “Where are we going?” she asked again, becoming anxious.

  Midnight slowed and turned a second time, into more black trees, the headlamps illuminating a bumpy dirt lane.

  “Why are you doing this? Where are we going?”

  A consuming panic gripped her. She tried to open the door, but child locks engaged. She pushed the button to lower the window. Locked. Ahead, she spotted something coming into view. A car. Parked at a point where the dirt lane emptied into an open area, nothing but darkness all around.

  A man stepped from the far side of the vehicle.

  In the uneven wash of light she caught a face.

  Terror swept over her.

  Brian.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TOM BOLTED OUT OF HIS SLEEP. THE BEDSIDE CLOCK READ 6:30 P.M. His brow was moist with sweat, his breathing labored. He tried to recall the dream, but couldn’t. It had something to do with Robin Stubbs. Since he’d been thinking about her earlier, he was not surprised she’d remained on his mind. A few months ago he spent $125 for an Internet search and discovered that she still worked in Ohio for the same regional newspaper chain that had hired her eight years ago. It had been amazing that she’d found work, but he recalled how some pundits came to her defense. The story he’d been accused of falsifying, on its face, seemed legitimate. It was only when it was carefully investigated that the flaws became evident. And no editors engaged in such detailed analysis. Instead they trusted the people who worked for them.

  “How did all this start?” he asked Robin. “How in God’s name did one story of mine come to your attention?”

  “An anonymous note was sent to me. It told me that the story was false and showed me where to look.”

  “And you believed that?”

  “No, Tom. I didn’t.” Anger entered her tone. “But I’m your editor, so I had to look.”

  “Which only goes to prove that I was set up. An anonymous note? Come on, Robin. If that plant was any more obvious you’d have to water it.”

  “All I know is everything that note said proved true, and everything you wrote proved false. I’ve asked you repeatedly if you can offer anything in rebuttal. Anything at all. You can’t, Tom.”

  He saw the concern in her eyes.

  “I’ve been here a long time,” he said. “I’ve worked hard. I didn’t do this.”

  “Unfortunately, the facts say different.”

  That was the last time they spoke.

  She’d left his office and he was fired an hour later.


  She quit a month after that.

  And never knew the truth.

  ———

  BÉNE COULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING. “WHAT DOES that document say? Tell me, Tre.”

  The sun had faded behind the blunted peaks and he caught the tang of salt on the southerly breeze from the nearby ocean. He was feeling better from his trek into the mountains. This day turning into something extraordinary.

  “Did you steal this from the archives?” Halliburton asked.

  “Somebody else did.”

  “That’s the problem, Béne. Too much stealing from a place that matters.”

  “We can put it back, after we find out what it says.”

  “You’re not the only one cleaning out that archive. There’s almost nothing left from the Spanish time. It’s all gone. I’m amazed these were still there.”

  His attention drifted for a moment to the rugby field as the players formed into a scrum. He recalled how it felt, being bound together in the rows, arms interlocked, muscles pushing and pulling against other muscles. You had to be careful. He’d heard bones break during a scrum. But what fun. He loved the game. Intense. Fast-paced. Risky as hell.

  Just like life.

  “I have to know, Tre. What do these documents reveal?”

  ———

  TOM WAS STARTLED BY THE MAN.

  He’d been roaming the history section at Barnes & Noble, whiling away another Saturday afternoon. He found he spent a lot of time in bookstores. Never the same one, though, driving all over Orlando, varying where he went in time and place. Part of the self-consciousness that had yet to pass after a year of unemployment. It was hard to get fired. Even harder when the whole world watched.

  The man who now stood before him was middle-aged and short-haired. He wore corduroy pants and a light jacket, nothing unusual given that it was actually cool outside for December in central Florida. What raised an alarm was the stare.

  One of recognition.

  “I came to speak with you,” the man said.

  “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “You’re Thomas Sagan.”

  He hadn’t heard anyone speak his name directly to him in over a year. While he thought everyone knew who he was, the reality was that no one knew him. His face had once been a staple on television, but his last appearance had been over a year ago. And the public’s memory faded fast.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “To tell you something.”

  He noticed the voice. A near whisper. And he did not like the wary look. Was this someone ready to tell him how much he resented him lying? Just after his firing he’d received hundreds of vile emails. He’d read only a few then deleted the rest and canceled the account.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, turning to retreat down the aisle and out the front door.

  “I know who set you up.”

  He stopped.

  Never had he heard anyone even hint that he’d been set up, much less voice the words.

  He turned.

  The man stepped closer.

  “When it was done, we decided not to tell you until enough time had passed that there would be nothing you could do.”

  Tremors shook his arms, but he steadied himself. “Who are you?”

  “We watched your destruction. It came fast, didn’t it? But then, we’re good at what we do.”

  “Who is we?”

  The man came even closer. Tom did not move.

  “Did you ever stop to consider the consequences of what you wrote? Did you know people died because of what you wrote? You were told to stop, but you refused to listen.”

  Told to stop? He racked his brain. By whom?

  Then it hit him.

  The West Bank. Two years ago. A Palestinian official who’d consented to an interview, then promptly walked out of it, but not before saying, “You need to stop, Mr. Sagan. Before it’s too late.”

  “That’s right,” the man said. “You do remember.”

  He now knew who they were.

  “First off, this has nothing to do with any government. We’re an independent body. We work outside the law. Do the jobs that either can’t be done or won’t be done. You happen to fit into both categories.”

  “So you destroyed me?”

  “We silenced you. It’s not always necessary to kill people. Sometimes it’s even better not to do something that drastic. In your case, we killed your credibility and that was enough.”

  He thought back to the story that cost him everything. “You fed that to me. You made sure I went to the Israeli and Palestinian sources you created. You handed it to me, let me run it, then erased it all.”

  The man nodded. “It took several months to make it happen. You were a pro. Good at what you did. We had to be careful. But you eventually took the bait. It was just too good, wasn’t it?”

  Yes, it was.

  EXTREMISTS ON BOTH SIDES, OUT OF CONTROL

  “You pissed off some important people,” the man said. “They’d had enough. So they hired us to take care of the problem. We’re telling you this now so that if you even think about trying for a comeback, we’ll be there, ready to take you down again.”

  “You’re saying the Palestinians and the Israelis got together to destroy me as a reporter?”

  “In a sense. We approached them both, separately, pitched the idea, and they both paid us to do the job. Neither knew the other was involved. They just wanted you out of the way for their own particular reasons.”

  “I won’t be that stupid next time.”

  “Really? How would you ever know? You had no idea then. I told you we’re good at what we do. Think about that if you decide on a comeback. Every source you talk to, you’ll question in your mind. Every lead that comes your way, you’ll wonder. Is it real? Are they back? Is it going to happen again?”

  The sorry SOB was right. He would always wonder. Everything that happened—it had destroyed his life, but it also destroyed something else.

  His edge.

  “You screwed with the wrong people,” the man said. “I came to tell you, so you’d know. Listen to this message and keep doing what you’re doing. Ghostwriting. That’s perfect for you, so long as you stay a ghost.”

  And the man walked off.

  ———

  BÉNE LISTENED AS HALLIBURTON ANSWERED HIS QUESTION.

  “Moses Cohen was a pirate. One of the best. He ravaged Spanish shipping. His brother, Abraham, was an entrepreneur. The brothers were never close. They attended separate synagogues and there’s little in the records I’ve seen to link them. That’s what makes this document you have so interesting. By all accounts they didn’t care for each other, and here we have proof of that with Moses suing Abraham. Brother against brother.”

  “Why is it important? Seems trivial.”

  “Not at all. In fact, it could be critical.”

  Oliver Cromwell died in 1658 and, as one diarist commented, “None but dogs cried.” His brand of Puritanism had left the people little to do except contemplate their sins and wail for forgiveness. Having had enough of misery, England looked to its exiled heir, Charles II. In 1660 Charles returned to a magnificent homecoming, one he interestingly compared to “the return of the Jews from Babylonian captivity.”

  He was restored to the throne with but one problem.

  The Crown was broke.

  And so was England.

  The Lord Protector Cromwell had bankrupted the nation.

  To solve that problem, Charles turned to the Jews.

  Edward I had expelled them 370 years earlier, and they remained virtually nonexistent until 1492, when Spain and Portugal issued their edicts of expulsion. Eventually, Jews found refuge in England and a protector in Cromwell, who allowed them to stay. With the king’s return, many English merchants sought re-banishment. But Charles, too, was tolerant and championed an act of Parliament that protected them.

  The king was smarter than many believed. He reali
zed that expelling the Jews would grant English merchants complete control over trade, which meant they could set prices as they saw fit. The presence of Jewish merchants countered that power. Also, by being tolerant, Charles acquired a group of friends with money and resources.

  Abraham Cohen was in Holland when Charles regained the throne. He watched with great interest as the king’s Jewish policy was established. Jamaica was by then under British control, the Spaniards gone, so Abraham decided the time was right to approach the king. On March 5, 1662, Cohen and two other wealthy Dutch Jews—Abraham and Isaac Israel, a father and son—met with Charles.

  The senior Israel told the king how he learned of Columbus’ lost mine from Jews on Jamaica when he was imprisoned there. This was shortly before the British invaded the island in 1655. He was about to be released from custody, so his fellow captives confided to him their dire situation.

  The Columbus family’s hold on the island was gone. The Spanish had regained control and the Inquisition would shortly arrive. No longer would anyone protect Jamaican Jews. Thankfully, the community had taken precautions, secreting away its wealth in a location known only to a man identified as the Levite.

  “It’s the great Admiral’s mine,” one captive Jew told Israel.

  Columbus himself had found the location, and their wealth would stay hidden there until the Spanish were gone. The Jews then in custody encouraged Israel to promote a foreign invasion of Jamaica, seeing it as their only hope.

  Which happened.

  England claimed the island in 1655.

  “You know where this mine is located?” the king asked.

  “We think so,” Cohen said. “But Jamaica is a vast place.”

  Charles was hooked. Reposing trust and confidence in Cohen’s abilities, he granted the man full power and authority to “search for, discover, dig, and raise a mine of gold, whether the same be opened or not opened.” Two-thirds of the find would go to Charles, one-third to his Jewish partners. Cohen also smartly secured English citizenship and a trade monopoly in brazilwood and pimiento spice, Jamaica’s two major exports at the time.