The Columbus Affair

by Steve Berry

  He smiled. He hadn’t heard a compliment in a long while.

  “I push my people now,” she said. “Just like you pushed me on the stories we did together. I remember what you taught me.”

  A decade ago she’d worked the foreign desk for Der Kurier and they’d teamed several times in the Middle East. She was good with organization, even better with conciseness, and he’d always thought she’d make a fine editor.

  “Is your daughter in bad trouble?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so. She and I are not close, but I have to help her.”

  “Of course you do, she is your daughter.”

  “Are your children okay?” Two, if he recalled correctly.

  “Both are growing up. One might even be a reporter one day herself.”

  They were as comfortable together as they had been years ago. Maybe he’d been wrong to lump all of his former friends together in one stinking pile.

  He’d made the right call contacting her.

  She leaned over the table. “Tell me, Thomas, what can I do to help your daughter.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ALLE LISTENED AS THE BELLS ABOVE ST. STEPHEN’S CATHEDRAL announced 5:00 P.M. She and Brian had approached the church from the west, positioned at the edge of the expansive plaza that stretched out from the main portal.

  “Simon’s not our problem right now,” Brian said. “He needs you inside to show your father. It’s after he gets what he wants that the trouble starts.”

  She was anxious about all of this, not pleased with being bait.

  “I have to get you and your father out of here before Simon makes a move,” Brian said. “He will act. The question is where and when.”

  People hustled in all directions. This was the heart of Vienna, the cathedral’s size accentuated by rows of low-slung, compact buildings. Two of the city’s most exclusive streets radiated from the plaza, home to countless stores and shops. Her gaze focused on one of the many open-air restaurants and a string quartet playing Brahms. She caught the waft of chicken frying somewhere nearby. Everything was alive with sound and movement. Impossible to know where a threat might lie.

  “You have help here?” she asked.

  “I work alone.”

  “You had help in the café when we first met.”

  He glanced at her. “I needed them then.”

  “You realize that you could be wrong about Zachariah.”

  “Then you won’t have a problem going in there alone.”

  She was surprised.

  “I can’t go with you,” he said. “It would only complicate things. This is among the three of you. You’re what your father’s come for. Simon knows we have you. He also knows you’re coming.”

  “You told him?”

  He shook his head. “Not me. But others did.”

  She wanted to know about those others.

  Who did this man work for?

  She watched as Brian studied the busy plaza. Her gaze drifted up the cathedral’s south tower, which surged skyward like a jet of water in an unbroken ascent, tapering steadily from base to finial. The main roof, which the steeple seemed to pierce, glistened with its trademark glazed yellow and black tiles. A familiar sight, which she’d seen many times from her apartment, not far away. The church’s north tower had never been completed, which gave the building its distinctive unfinished look. Something Goethe had said came to mind. “Architecture is frozen music.”

  Brian produced a cell phone and hit one of its buttons. He spoke Hebrew to the person on the other side, most of which she understood. She’d studied it in both college and graduate school. She decided not to let him know she knew that he apparently had a man atop the cathedral’s south tower, which could be climbed for a fee. She’d done it herself, the view affording a wide angle. Interesting how he wanted her to believe that Zachariah was a danger, yet he could not, or would not, be straight with her.

  And Hebrew?

  Who was this guy?

  He ended the call.

  “Time for you to go inside.”

  ———

  ZACHARIAH ADMIRED THE CATHEDRAL’S INTERIOR. LONG, TRIANGULAR rays of late-afternoon sun slanted through a forest of towering pillars toward the far altar. Golden bits of dust flickered in the glow, dancing to the strains of an organ. Sculptures stood everywhere, like sentinels keeping watch. Stained glass blazed with color in the tall windows. Christians did know how to embellish their churches, that he would give them. Synagogues were decorated, but not with human images—that was akin to idolatry. He’d often thought about the contrast between such simplicity and the Jews’ two Temples, both of which would have rivaled anything in Christendom.

  But they were gone, the buildings razed.

  Their treasures carted off.

  Seeing something like St. Stephen’s sickened him. First built eight hundred years ago, nearly reduced to rubble during the final days of World War II, rebuilt in just seven years.

  And that reality only strengthened his resolve.

  He’d come inside alone. Rócha was waiting outside where he could follow Sagan and his daughter once they left. Neither one of them would leave Vienna alive. Time for this phase of the operation to end, and the next to begin.

  Tour groups loitered about. The day was waning but the church stayed open until 10:00 P.M. Maybe that’s why Sagan chose it. But how would he have known? The man had done little but wallow in shame for the past eight years. He was beaten and broken.

  Yet he’d reacted in Florida.

  But who could blame him?

  His only child was supposedly in danger.

  Yet he wondered.

  How would Sagan react if he knew the truth?

  ———

  TOM WAITED OUTSIDE WHAT A PLACARD IDENTIFIED AS THE Chapel of St. Katherine, which jutted from the cathedral’s south tower. From here he could see the west portal entrance, the entire nave, and the main altar.

  He spotted Zachariah Simon as he walked past the ornate pulpit and strolled toward the altar. Thanks to Inna he’d gained entrance through a little-used door on the north side not open to the public. As he’d suspected, she had connections and made a call from the café to the diocese’s public relations director. The story was simple. She had a friend in town from America, a reclusive celebrity writer, who wanted to visit St. Stephen’s unnoticed. Would it be possible to gain access without passing through the main entrance? Her connection had been more than happy to help, which allowed him to arrive early and stay out of sight.

  A quick survey and he estimated about a hundred people were present with cameras flashing, voices occasionally raised over the organ music. The cathedral was impressive. Its Romanesque walls were of red and purple-black stone, mottled and striated in bold strokes like some hanging tapestry. He marveled at the time and energy it had taken to craft something so grand, and envied such patience. His world had always been hurry-up, no time for much of anything except meeting the next deadline.

  He missed that frenetic pace.

  He used one of the massive pillars holding up the vaulted roof as cover, glancing around its edge, watching Simon. His gaze darted across the transept to the far side and an open iron grille manned by a single employee.

  The catacombs’ entrance.

  He already knew that it closed for the day at 5:00. The attendant, an older woman, checked tickets, since a visit below required a charge. Inna had provided him with a guidebook and he’d read about the catacombs, deciding they would provide him the opportunity needed.

  He’d done his homework and readied himself.

  Simon stopped before the main altar.

  Tom turned toward the main entrance.

  Alle entered the church.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  BÉNE MANEUVERED AROUND ONE TURN AFTER ANOTHER FOLLOWING the tortuous road. It had first clawed its way up the stunted mountain peak, now it was winding back down to a forested valley that lay about thirty kilometers northwest of his estate. At
its crest he’d caught sight of Jamaica’s north shore with its sparkling blue water and glittering outer surf. A midday sun burned overhead, the rays’ intensity sharpened by the altitude.

  The call finally came two hours ago from Tre Halliburton, and they’d decided to meet on-site—or where Tre thought the site might be. He realized things were happening in Vienna, but those were out of his control. Brian Jamison was surely trying to salvage what he could from disaster, but he could not care less. All he wanted was the Simon’s cooperation, and that would come only from what he could provide in return. He’d not liked being forced to work with the Americans, resenting their intrusion, hating their arrogance. But he’d cooperated. So what they weren’t happy? They should go about their business and leave him alone.

  Ahead, he spotted Halliburton, already out of his vehicle, holding a briefcase. He wheeled to a stop and joined him. They were still high enough to enjoy an excellent panorama of dense jungle for many kilometers. In the far distance he saw the sea, long rollers of the Caribbean breaking on the reef that protected the north shore.

  “That deed you found, Béne, was a gold mine all by itself. It led me places.”

  He liked what he was hearing.

  Tre had sounded excited on the phone and seemed equally so now. He pointed toward the distant sea. “During his fourth voyage, in 1504, Columbus was stranded here for nearly a year. His ship fell apart and he beached it somewhere on the north shore. He had a tough time during that year. No rescue ships were sent. The local Spanish governor on Hispaniola hated Columbus, so he decided to leave him here to die. There was a mutiny among his crew, and then the Tainos turned hostile, withholding food. Do you know how Columbus solved that problem?”

  Not really.

  “He had on board a Regiomontanus Ephemerides printed in Nuremberg around 1490 that contained predictions of eclipses for thirty years ahead. He discovered that a total eclipse was going to occur in three days’ time, February 29, 1504. So he summoned the local chiefs and told them that his God in heaven was angry with them for withholding food. He told them the moon would rise bloody and inflamed that night—which, of course, it did thanks to the eclipse. Then, he told them, the moon would vanish. Of course, that’s also what happened. The Tainos panicked and begged Columbus to make it stop.”

  Béne listened as Tre explained how Columbus retired to his cabin supposedly to pray to his God for their forgiveness. But what he really did was use his half-hour glass to measure the eclipse’s duration so that he could calculate Jamaica’s longitude.

  “He came back out just as the eclipse was ending and told the Tainos that his God had forgiven them and the moon would be restored, provided they kept supplying food. The moon reappeared and there were no more problems with the locals. And that calculation of longitude was only off by half a degree, which was remarkable for the time.”

  Béne wondered about the point of the story. He hated anything and everything to do with the Spanish.

  “Columbus,” Halliburton said, “understood navigation. He was good with the stars and knew their relationship to time and geography. Last night I went back into the archives and discovered some things your thief missed.”

  Tre opened the briefcase and removed a pad of paper.

  “I found this written on another sheet that went with the first one concerning the lawsuit settlement between the Cohen brothers.”

  Enter at an open land near a 01: 94:01: a. 01. on the coast of 01 .aa .94 .66 a of right against the Island a a .01 .94 .61. 01 .94 66.13 .01 The prime formula which are to be called upon by word 24. 19. p.p. 000. nl pp. pp. 66. pp are the 11 .61 94 .61.91 1 or 22. 4. 85. or the Portugals will show you there .61 .61 .01 .60. nl 85.

  “This is what Abraham Cohen had to provide to his brother, Moses, as part of the settlement. The governor conducting the trial recorded this information in a report he made to Spain about the dispute. It seems there was a lot of interest among the Spanish about anything pertaining to the lost mine.”

  Béne had already told Halliburton about the hooked X in the cave Frank Clarke had shown him, and about Columbus’ signature.

  Tre pointed back toward the sea and said, “Columbus hiked inland from somewhere along the shore and found the mine. To mark his way he used navigational points. That’s what those numbers are on the pad. But we have no way of knowing what they refer to. It’s a code. What we do know, Béne, is that the 420 acres Abraham Cohen bought in 1670 is down there, below us, in that valley. I found plenty of geographic landmarks on maps. If it exists, the mine is there.”

  He stared out at the palms, ferns, and luxuriant vegetation several hundred feet below, which extended all the way to the sea. No houses, towns, or farms were in sight.

  “The good thing,” Tre said, “is that it’s uncultivated Maroon land.”

  Which meant there’d been little outside interference. Maroons guarded their land with a known ferocity. Permission was needed to explore.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “I’m getting a list of caves for this area. The Geological Society of Jamaica has most of them mapped. I want to see what’s here.”

  That was sound thinking. “But it couldn’t be in any known cave, could it?”

  “It’s a starting point.”

  “You don’t think I’m so crazy anymore, do you?” he asked.

  “All I know, Béne, is that this island wasn’t noted for gold. There was a little here and there in the streams, but Jamaica’s worth was its soil and location. We sat right in the middle of the trade routes, and this dirt can grow just about anything. The Spanish never recognized that, and Ferdinand never believed in any lost mine. That’s why he gave the island to the Columbus heirs. He considered this place worthless. The legend came later. Ceding Jamaica was the easy way to get the Columbus family off his back. He was done with them. Finally.”

  “I have men who can scour that valley,” Béne said.

  “Not yet. Let’s see if we can narrow things down. I’ve checked the deed you found. The rivers and streams mentioned are by their Spanish names, but we know what those translate to today. I think I can limit the search area.”

  He heard something else in Halliburton’s voice. “What is it?”

  “There’s another source of documents, Béne. From the Spanish time. The curator in the archives last night reminded me about them. Few have ever seen them, but they could prove helpful. It’s held privately.”

  “Where?”

  “Cuba.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ALLE ENTERED ST. STEPHEN’S AND IMMEDIATELY SPOTTED ZACHARIAH standing a couple of hundred feet away, at the far end of the nave.

  She walked toward him.

  He was dressed impeccably, as always, standing tall and straight, not a hint of concern on his bearded face. He stood in the center of the transept. She came to within a few feet and stopped.

  “Are you all right?” he immediately asked.

  “Why did you want me dead?”

  “Is that what they told you? I wanted you dead.”

  “Your man took me off into the woods with orders to kill me.”

  He shook his head. “Alle, he was not working for me. He worked for Brian Jamison. That man disappeared yesterday from my estate. He was Jamison’s spy.”

  She knew that to be true, but wondered how he knew.

  “I am here,” Zachariah said, “because of your father. He did not keep his end of the deal in Florida and insisted we meet. Jamison’s employer contacted me yesterday and told me they had you. They wanted to get to me through you. So they took you, and lied about me.”

  “Who does Brian work for?”

  “A man named Béne Rowe, whom I should have never dealt with, if only for the reason that he placed you in jeopardy.”

  “Where’s Rócha?”

  “I know you are upset about the video. I am dealing with Rócha on that. It will not go unpunished. But it did cause your father to act.”

  Which was true.
<
br />   “I tried to tell you several times that there are people who will want to stop our quest. Béne Rowe and Jamison are two of those. They are interfering in what we were doing—”

  “I saw what happened in Florida when you went after my father.”

  “You saw?”

  “A camera was there.”

  “There was no choice. I had to confront him. But when he asked for a meeting here to make the trade, I agreed.”

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Right here.”

  She turned, as did Zachariah.

  Her father stood a few feet away.

  ———

  TOM STUDIED HIS DAUGHTER. HER DARK HAIR HUNG LONGER than a few years ago, but was still wavy. Her swarthy skin and compact frame came from him, as did her blunt nose, high cheeks, and rounded jaw. The brown eyes were her mother’s. Like him, she wore no eyeglasses or other jewelry. She was dressed in jeans, a pullover shirt, and flat-soled boots. Watching her, he instantly thought of Michele. Truly her mother’s daughter.

  “Mr. Sagan,” Simon said. “Here she is, as promised. Now, can I have what is mine?”

  He faced Alle. “You all right?”

  She nodded but offered nothing more. What bothered him was the fact that she and Simon had arrived separately and spoken calmly, as if they were familiar with each other.

  “Mr. Sagan,” Simon said. “I want what you have.”

  “And what are you going to do if I don’t give it to you?”

  “Your daughter is here, as I promised. Can not our business be concluded?”

  Something wasn’t right. Alle displayed none of the emotion he would have expected from someone who’d been tied to a bed and molested by strangers. He searched her eyes, looking for anything that might explain his misgivings, but she offered nothing.

  “Give him what he wants,” she finally said to him.

  “Your grandfather would not want me to do that.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I read what he left in his grave.”

  He saw she was curious, but he did not elaborate. Instead, he removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Simon. “This is it. A note to me.”