by Steve Berry
The highway led them into a small hamlet with colonial-style buildings, a place where things seemed reused, mended, and recycled time and again. Three feed-and-supply stores catered to farmers, but there was also a tinsmith, tobacco shop, and what appeared to be a church. He parked the Range Rover near a cobbled square surrounded by more colonial-era buildings. The hot air reeked of ripe fruit and toiling humanity. Little breeze, just a trapped and boiling stew of conflicting smells. They’d passed their destination just down the street, a sign indicating MUSEO DE AMBIENTE HISTÓRICO CUBANO and that it was open until 4:00 P.M. He’d not come unprepared. A semiautomatic was tucked snugly beneath a thin jacket. Cuba, for all its supposed innocence, remained a hostile place, one where he’d learned to be cautious. Only a few people were in sight. A mangy-haired dog ambled over to investigate them. Some Cuban jazz leaked from one of the cafés.
He faced Tre. “You said this place was privately owned. By whom?”
“The Jews of Cuba.”
That information piqued his interest.
“Surprised me, too,” Tre said. “Once there were tens of thousands of Jews here. They came after Columbus. Then they fled here for Brazil in the 17th century because of the Inquisition. They came back after 1898, when the island gained its independence from Spain. Now only about 1,500 are left. Amazingly, Castro left them alone. Over the past decade they’ve made a name for themselves by preserving the island’s history. Some of them are distant descendants from the conversos who immigrated here in the early 16th century with de Torres. They’ve spent a good deal of time and money gathering up documents and artifacts from that period and storing them away. Thank goodness they have a generous benefactor. Like with you and the Maroons.”
He stepped away from the vehicle and wished for a cold drink. “I didn’t know there were rich people in Cuba. The ones I deal with all claim poverty.”
“This one’s from overseas. A foundation. It’s funded by a wealthy Austrian named Zachariah Simon.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
TOM LAY ON THE FLOOR AND WATCHED THE SHADOW APPROACH. He decided to wait until whoever it was came close before firing. He angled the gun toward a set of bars in a niche twenty feet away. His right elbow brushed the bones stacked to his right and he instantly drew it away. Then he saw something on the wall to his left, four feet off the ground, inside the niche, hidden from view of the passageway.
A switch.
Steel conduit ran up the stonework, then paralleled where wall met ceiling. Offshoots from that conduit led to light fixtures that illuminated the niches. A quick scan and he saw this switch shut off every light in the niches from one end to the other.
He sprang to his feet and raked his right hand across the switch, plunging his side of the cavern into darkness. Light still spilled from niches across the center passageway, beyond the bars, but there was enough darkness for him to make an escape.
He stayed low and moved toward the end where he hoped another iron gate within an archway would be open and he could escape.
Two pops startled him.
But the rounds smacked into bones behind him.
His assailant was searching, but he’d managed to skip ahead.
He came to the end.
The iron gate within the arch opened. He carefully peered to his right, back down the semi-darkened main passage. No one was there. He wondered if his pursuer had entered the niches, just as he’d done. Not wanting to stay around and find out, he ran down the corridor, toward the exit Inna had told him was there.
He came to the base of a stairway and glanced back.
No one was following.
He climbed the risers two at a time and, at the top, turned left, racing down a short hall toward daylight.
Two darkened forms waited.
Inna and Alle.
“What happened?” Inna asked him.
“No time. We have to go.”
Alle looked shaken, but he was, too.
They stepped out into an alleyway between two rows of buildings. He estimated they were somewhere east of the cathedral, its tall spire blocked by the rooflines.
“Who was there?” Inna asked.
“Uninvited guests.”
Inna seemed to understand, nodding and saying, “Follow me.”
———
ZACHARIAH CROUCHED DOWN AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, KEEPING watch on the doorway ten meters away, listening to Tom Sagan talk to another woman.
Rócha had joined him.
The exit door slammed shut.
Darkness and quiet returned.
They needed to leave. The shots could have been heard in the cathedral and he did not want to be around when anyone came to investigate. Thankfully, they’d garnered a few uninterrupted minutes that had turned productive. He could only hope Alle would do what he asked.
“Jamison dead?” he whispered.
“Yes. But there’s something you need to know.”
He listened as Rócha told him what Jamison had said before being shot, the same thing Alle had reported. He now wondered about Béne Rowe. Had everything and everybody been compromised?
But first, “Go get the body and clean up any mess.”
He waited a few minutes before Rócha returned with Jamison slung across one shoulder. He led the way to the exit and carefully opened the inside latch. Daylight was fading into shadows.
“Wait here.”
He stepped out and casually walked to where another street led away from the alley. A trash receptacle caught his gaze. Small, but large enough. He returned to the iron door and noticed no latch or lock on the outside. This was a one-way portal. Tom Sagan had thought ahead.
Again.
Which only reinforced the notion that Sagan had lied to him.
“I’m leaving. Dump the body in that container around that corner, then join me at the car.”
———
ALLE FOUND HERSELF SHAKING. WAS IT FEAR? DOUBT? CONFUSION? She wasn’t sure. The woman who’d introduced herself as Inna Tretyakova, apparently an acquaintance of her father’s, had led them to a nearby U-bahn station. They’d taken the subway across town to a residential area heavy with apartments. The St. Stephen’s spire loomed in the darkening sky a mile or so away. A clock in the station had told her it was approaching 7:00 P.M.
Her father had said nothing on the train, speaking only briefly to Inna. The woman appeared to be in her forties, attractive, with blue eyes that had apprised her with a penetrating gaze. She’d introduced herself as an editor for Der Kurier, which she knew to be one of Vienna’s daily newspapers.
She told herself to stay calm, but she could not rid her mind of the sight of Brian Jamison being shot. She’d never seen such a thing. He’d been a danger, a person she’d never accepted and never believed. He’d lied to her outside the cathedral about being alone. He spoke Hebrew, carried a gun—none of it made sense.
What was happening here?
She was a twenty-five-year-old graduate student with an interest in Columbus who wrote an article for a British periodical. One day she was in Seville wading through 500-year-old documents, the next she was in Austria involved with a man searching for the Temple treasure. Now she was on the run with her father, a man she deeply resented, acting as a spy.
Inna led them to a modest building and up to a third-floor apartment, not much bigger than the one Zachariah had provided her. This unit held Inna and her two children, both teenagers, whom she met. No husband, Inna explained, as they had divorced five years ago.
“You didn’t mention that earlier,” her father said.
“How was it important? You asked for my help and I gave it. Now tell me what happened back there.”
“A man was killed.”
Alle wanted to know, “What did you give Zachariah?”
“Do you have any idea the trauma you put me through?” her father asked. “I thought you were in danger. I watched while men—”
“That was real.”
And she meant
it. She could still feel their disgusting touches.
“I took a lot of chances for you,” her father said.
“I was told you were about to kill yourself.”
“A few more seconds and I would have never been a problem for you again.”
“I’m not sorry for what I did. It had to be done. There’s a lot at stake here.”
“Enlighten me.”
That she did not plan to do, especially in front of a stranger, whom she knew nothing about.
So she asked again, “What was it you found in Grandfather’s grave?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ZACHARIAH STEPPED FROM THE CAR AND TOLD RÓCHA TO wait behind the wheel. They’d driven out of central downtown to Vienna’s western outskirts and Schönbrunn. Once the residence of the Hapsburg emperors, now the Baroque palace stood as a tourist attraction.
And a popular one.
He’d visited once himself, admiring some of the 1,400 rooms, particularly impressed by the Hall of Mirrors where, he’d been told, a six-year-old Mozart once performed. Its magnificent grand gallery was where delegates to the Congress of Vienna danced away the night in 1815, after carving up Napoleon’s defeated empire. He admired that audacity.
The palace interior was closed for the day, but the gardens stayed open till dusk. Long promenades bisected rows of perfectly trimmed shrubs and a sea of late-winter flowers. An obelisk decorated the sky. Sculpted fountains gushed foamy water. He soaked in the careful mixture of color or style, allowing the ambience to soothe his raw nerves, as it had once surely done for emperors.
He hoped Alle Becket was doing as he asked. He’d already forwarded all calls from the phone at the estate to Rócha’s cell phone, which he’d commandeered before leaving the car. When Alle called he’d be instantly available. What concerned him now was Brian Jamison’s identity. So he’d made another call and arranged a meeting.
His contact within the Israeli embassy was an undersecretary who’d provided a wealth of valuable information. He was young, ambitious, and greedy. But sitting on the bench at the far end of the garden was a middle-aged woman. Tall, full-figured, with long black hair.
The Israeli ambassador to Austria.
She stood as he approached and said in Hebrew, “I thought it was time we spoke face-to-face.”
He was alarmed and considered leaving.
“Relax, Zachariah. I’m a friend.”
“Enlighten me.” He kept to Hebrew.
She smiled. “Always so careful, aren’t you? So prepared. Except for today.”
They knew each other. Given his status as one of the wealthiest Jews in this part of the world it was understandable he’d be courted.
And this woman had done so.
She’d once been a teacher who joined the diplomatic service, first assigned to Central Asia. She’d taught at the National Defense College and served as the Knesset’s political adviser, which surely brought her in contact with much of Israel’s political elite. She’d been described as tough, blunt to the point of arrogant, and brilliant.
“In what way have I not been careful?” he asked.
“I know what you’re doing. I’ve been watching.”
Now he was concerned.
“Tell me, Zachariah, who do you think will soon emerge as our new prime minister?”
He caught her point. “Your name has never been mentioned.”
She smiled. “Which is the way it should be. A front-runner today is a loser tomorrow.”
He agreed, but remained on high alert.
“What you plan is audacious,” she said. “Ingenious, too. And most of all, it could work. But it’s what comes after that will really matter, isn’t it?”
“And you are what comes after?”
“Israel is in need of another Iron Lady.”
He smiled at the reference to Golda Meir, and the term used to describe her strength long before the Brits attached it to Margaret Thatcher. The first and only woman, so far, to be Israel’s prime minister, she was called by many “the best man in government.” Strong-willed, straight talking, her gray-bunned hairdo had lent her another title: grandmother of the Jewish people. He recalled his father and grandfather speaking of her with a deep reverence. She was one of twenty-four signatories on the Israeli declaration of independence in 1948. The next day war broke out and she fought like everyone else. She ordered the hunting down and killing of all the terrorists who massacred Jewish athletes during the 1972 Olympics. And she commanded Israel during the Yom Kippur War, making smart decisions that saved the state.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“As I said, you made a mistake earlier. The man you killed was an American intelligence agent. They’re watching you, too.”
“And why is that?”
She chuckled. “Okay, Zachariah. Be cautious. Watch every word. But know this. We’re here, talking alone. If I were your enemy you could be under arrest. Instead I sent men to clean up your mess. The body you left in that trash receptacle? It’s gone. I don’t like the Americans. I don’t like them in our business. I don’t like having to cater to them.”
Neither did he.
“Jamison was working with some of our people—off the record, unofficially. I have many friends, so I made sure those agents don’t like Americans, either. Check it out. You’ll find Jamison’s body gone and no mention of his death anywhere in the press. The Americans themselves will not learn of it for several weeks. Take that as my show to you of good faith.”
His thoughts were confused, a state he always tried hard to avoid. But he held his ground, kept his mouth shut, and listened.
“I’m returning home soon,” she said. “To stand for election to the Knesset. From there, I will position myself to be prime minister. My support is growing by the day and, hopefully, will surge after you do what you have planned.”
“How do you know what I plan?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Jamison learned quite a bit from Alle Becket. He’s had a full day to interrogate her, as you well know. He reported that information to his superiors before you killed him.”
“So you have contacts with the Americans?”
She nodded. “Excellent ones. From what Jamison knew and I suspected, it was easy to piece the rest together. I must confess, I wish I’d thought of it.”
“And what of the Americans? Are they going to be a problem in a few weeks?”
She shrugged. “I’d say they are no longer a threat, and I will make sure that remains the case.”
He caught the threat in her tone.
She could allow that to drop either way.
“Zachariah, once you accomplish your goal I want to be the one to take matters from there. It fits perfectly with what I have in mind. In that way, we will all have what we want.”
“So I’m clear, what is it we want?”
“A strong, determined Israel that speaks with one, determined voice. An end to the Arab problem, with no concessions. And most of all, the world will not tell us how to exist.”
He was still deeply suspicious. But there was no way, other than checking that trash bin, to verify her credibility.
“You’re right,” she told him. “The spark needed to reawaken Israel cannot come from any official process. That would never work. It has to be spontaneous and external, without any hint of politics. It has to be heartfelt, deep-set, and evoke an unconditional emotional response. When I finally understood what you have planned, I knew instantly that it was the right course.”
“And if I succeed, will you carry through and do all that is required?”
Her understanding of what that entailed was a test, one she seemed to comprehend.
“Oh, yes, Zachariah. The Jews will remember the month of Av.”
She did know.
“It is more than a coincidence,” she said, “that our Second Temple was destroyed on the ninth day of the month of Av, 70 CE—the same day that Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylonian soldiers destroyed the First Temple six ce
nturies before. I’ve always thought that a sign.”
He was curious, “And do you have allies who think as you do?”
That could be important.
“Just me, Zachariah. Do I have friends? In positions of power? Many. But they know nothing. I will simply use them. Only you and I are part of this.”
“Will you carry through on all that we require?”
He saw she understood.
“Rest easy, Zachariah. The Jews will have their Third Temple. That I promise you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
BÉNE AND HALLIBURTON ENTERED THE MUSEUM, A DETACHED building that appeared to have once been a two-storied house, the inside full of wood, marble floors, and frescoed walls. Moorish influences showed in the ornaments and lattice, a leafy courtyard visible beyond the windows. Displays filled the ground-floor rooms, one opening into another, cases filled with stones, fossils, photographs, books, and relics. Explanations were printed only in Spanish, which Béne had no trouble reading. A man of about fifty with a knotted face stood near one of the displays. Tre introduced himself and Béne, explaining that he was an academician from the University of the West Indies, come to see the document collection from the time of Spanish colonization. The man, who identified himself as the curator, offered a hand then explained that the document collection was private and permission would have to be obtained before they could examine it.
“From who?” Béne asked.
Tre’s revelation that Zachariah Simon possessed a connection to this place had unnerved him. This wasn’t Jamaica. He wasn’t Béne Rowe here. He was just some foreigner, and he did not like that feeling of helplessness. True, he was armed, and would shoot his way back to the plane if need be, but he realized that could prove futile. Diplomacy was the smart play. Which in Cuba, meant bribery. Exactly why he’d brought cash.
“Tell me, friend,” he said to the curator. “Are American dollars taken around here?”
“Oh, yes, señor. They are much appreciated.”
For all their brash talk the Cuban government was partial to American money. He withdrew his money clip and peeled off five $100 bills. “Is it possible to obtain that permission? Fast?”
