The Columbus Affair

by Steve Berry

  He decided to offer nothing except, “They killed Brian Jamison. I was there when it happened.”

  Nelle nodded. “We know. That means only you and your daughter can now provide us answers.”

  “Did you find the Temple treasures?” the ambassador asked.

  He nodded.

  Her eyes went alive with anticipation. “They exist?”

  He nodded again.

  “Then I owe you that explanation,” she said.

  That she did.

  “I can publicly refute all that happened to you eight years ago. Some of the people who assisted in setting you up still exist within positions of power. Others we know about. You were not the only one they destroyed. But you were the first. They manufactured that story about Israeli settlers and Palestinians and created the sources. They fed it to you and your editors, then watched it all unravel. They were a team who became quite good at what they did. But that is not our way, Mr. Sagan. What they did to you was wrong.”

  “And you waited eight years to tell me that?”

  “I was not aware myself of what happened until your involvement in this matter became clear.”

  “But others knew?”

  She nodded. “They did, and their silence is shameful.”

  He was not prepared to cut her any slack. “What did you do, play Simon in Prague?”

  The ambassador nodded. “That was my assignment. To lead him on. Keep him moving forward. We wanted him to find that treasure. But of course, we didn’t want any violence associated with it.”

  “Did Rabbi Berlinger know about you?”

  She nodded. “I spoke to him. He understood the urgency and agreed to spur you along. He made sure you were listening when I spoke to Simon in the cemetery. That is why I twisted the conversation your way. I wanted you to know of my presence and what I knew about you.”

  He recalled what she’d said when he confronted her on the street in Prague. “I’ve been expecting him.”

  “You and Berlinger knew I’d go straight to you.”

  “That was the idea. To keep you moving forward.”

  “So you used me, too.”

  “In a manner of speaking. But so much was at stake. As you heard, he wanted to start a war, and would have. Thousands would have died.”

  “Which only involved me because you made it so.”

  “What you may not know,” the ambassador said, “is that Rabbi Berlinger is dead. We think Simon killed him before leaving Prague.”

  He was sorry to hear about the old man’s death. “You said you think Simon is dead? Is he?”

  “Most likely,” Nelle said, “Rowe had him killed. But we’ll never know. All we know is he’s gone.”

  “And I did manipulate Simon,” the ambassador said again. “I did this for our government, which came and specifically asked for my help. If Simon had been successful in his quest Israel could have been irrevocably harmed. If that meant I had to use you, then so be it.”

  He was not interested in her justifications. “You understand that the Sephardi Jews who hid away the Temple treasure trusted its safety only to the Levite. Not to the state of Israel.”

  “Those objects belong to every Jew. We will make sure they receive them, and not the war Simon wanted to start. As I said, we don’t need violence to incite a sense of security. There is a better way. It’s time for the violence to end.”

  On that he agreed. He pointed at Nelle. “And I assume she’s here to stamp the U.S. government’s seal of approval on me telling you everything I know.”

  “Something like that. You were set up, Mr. Sagan. A terrible thing. They ruined your career. That can be fixed.”

  “And what if I don’t want it fixed?”

  The question seemed to surprise them both.

  “You lost everything,” the ambassador said.

  He nodded. “That’s the point. It’s gone. Never to be reclaimed. My parents will never know. My ex-wife will never know. The people who called themselves my friends? I don’t give a rat’s ass if they know. It’s gone.”

  He was shocked at himself, but the realization had become crystal clear in the cave while staring at the Temple treasure. What’s past is past. There was no undoing it. All that mattered was what lay ahead.

  “A strange attitude from a man who took the beating you took,” Nelle said. “Your Pulitzer Prize could be restored. Your credibility regained. You wouldn’t have to ghostwrite novels anymore.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Pays good, and there’s no pressure.”

  “So what are you going to do?” the ambassador asked.

  After he and Alle had recrossed the lake and climbed from the cave, the Maroon, Frank Clarke, had waited for them. They’d watched as Béne Rowe and two other men led Simon across the river and back up to the road.

  “What happens to this place now?” he asked Clarke.

  “We will rebuild the dam and guard it, as we have. You are the Levite, so this is always yours. When that duty passes to the next, then we shall respect that person. What do you plan to do?”

  He hadn’t answered Clarke because he truly did not know.

  And he could not answer the woman now staring at him, either. So he simply said, “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  “You understand,” the ambassador said, “that no one will ever know the truth about you, unless you work with us.”

  Her threat infuriated him, but anger was also a thing of the past. “You see, that’s the thing. It only matters that one person knows the truth.” He paused. “And you just told her.”

  Alle stepped from the kitchen, where he’d sent her on seeing who his visitors were. He hadn’t known how far they would go with their comments, but he’d hoped.

  “My father didn’t lie, did he?” she asked.

  Neither woman said a word.

  But their silence was more than enough of an answer.

  They seemed to sense that the conversation was over and both headed for the door.

  Before leaving, the ambassador turned back and said, “Be kind to us, Mr. Sagan. Think what those treasures would mean.”

  Her plea did not impress him. “And you think about what almost happened, because of them.”

  Tom and Alle stepped from the car and entered the cemetery outside Mount Dora. They’d driven from Orlando just after the two women left his house. The day was late, nearly five o’clock, the burial ground empty. A late-winter sun warmed chilly March air. Together they walked to his parents’ graves. For the first time in a long while he did not feel like he was intruding.

  He stared at the two matsevahs.

  “You did good on his marker,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He faced her.

  “I’m so sorry for everything I ever did to you.”

  Her words shook him.

  “I was a fool,” she said. “I thought you were selfish. That you cared nothing for me or Mother. I thought you were a fraud. A cheat. An adulterer. I thought everything bad I could about you. And I was wrong.”

  They’d said little since leaving Jamaica, and nothing after the women left the house. What was there to say? That was the thing about the truth. It silenced everything to the contrary.

  “I lied to Mother,” she said. “You were right in Vienna. I’m a hypocrite. I knew how she felt about Judaism. How you converted for her. But I did it anyway, then lied right to her face, up until the day she died.”

  He understood her agony.

  “What’s worse,” she said, “my converting made what you did in leaving the Temple so unnecessary. The thing Mother didn’t want to happen, did. All the battles between you and your father came to nothing. He died before either of you could resolve anything. And it’s all my fault.”

  She sobbed and he allowed her to release the pain.

  “I wasn’t the best husband or father,” he said. “I was selfish. I was an adulterer. A liar. I made a ton of mistakes. And I could have patched thin
gs with Abiram, and you, but I didn’t. It’s not all your fault.”

  “You saved my life in Jamaica. You dove into the water after me. You got me across the lake. You kept Simon from killing me.”

  “As I recall, you saved mine, too.” She’d told him how she’d aimed a light in Rócha’s face and yelled.

  “You’re not a lying reporter.”

  Her statement carried the tone of a declaration.

  “You’re a journalist. A Pulitzer Prize winner. You deserve all that you earned. Did you mean what you said to them? You don’t want anyone to know the truth about you?”

  “It’s not important anymore that people know that. You know. That’s all I care about.”

  He meant every word.

  “And what about the Temple treasure?” she asked.

  “Only you and I know what’s in that cave and how to get it. True, there are other ways across that lake. But it’s sat safe for sixty years, and I think the Maroons will keep it safe for sixty more. How about you and I decide what to do when things calm down.”

  She nodded through her tears.

  “We’ll be the Levite,” he said. “Together.”

  His grandfather had involved Berlinger, now he would include Alle. He’d already decided to make peace with his religion. He was born a Jew to Jewish parents, and a Jew he would always be.

  He’d already spoken to Inna and told her what happened. There’d be a story at some point about Zachariah Simon, his plans, and the dangers of fanaticism. Whether the Temple treasure would be included remained to be seen. He’d write the story himself and give it to her. She hadn’t liked that idea, insisting that his byline appear. But he was a ghostwriter, and that he would remain. In the end, she’d understood and respected his wish. He liked Inna. Maybe he’d visit her again one day.

  Interesting.

  He’d finally started thinking about the future again.

  “How about this,” he said to Alle. “We both made a ton of mistakes, let’s call it even and start over.”

  More tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’d really like that.”

  He extended his hand. “Tom Sagan.”

  She managed a smile and accepted his handshake. “Alle Beck—”

  She caught herself.

  “Alle Sagan.”

  He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Alle Sagan.”

  One last thing to do.

  He turned to the graves and bent down.

  For two decades he’d built a barrier to protect his emotions, one he’d thought insurmountable. The last five days had showed him the foolishness of his ways. In the end what mattered was family. And all he had left was Alle. He now had a second chance with her. But none existed with the man lying beneath his feet. For twenty years he’d called him Abiram, old man, anything and everything except what he deserved. So much bad had passed between them but, in the end, he’d been loved. And trusted. Of that there was no doubt.

  He was going to be all right.

  That much he now knew.

  Alle stood behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He caressed the marker’s smooth granite and hoped that maybe, just maybe, his words could be heard.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  WRITER’S NOTE

  THIS NOVEL TOOK ELIZABETH AND ME ON INTRIGUING JOURNEYS, one to Jamaica, another to Prague. Vienna and Mount Dora, Florida, were locales visited in the past.

  Now it’s time to separate fact from fiction.

  Columbus was indeed marooned on Jamaica for over a year (prologue, chapter 7) and made use of a lunar eclipse to trick the Taino natives into supplying his crew with food (chapter 35). Eighty-seven men sailed with Columbus on his first voyage in 1492, and not a single priest was among them. But a Hebrew translator, Luis de Torres, was part of that first contingent. De Torres’ background as a converso, provided in chapter 17, is accurate, as is the fact that he stayed in the New World and was probably the first European to sample tobacco. His involvement as a Levite with the Temple treasure is my addition—but the notion that the first words that Europeans spoke in the New World may have been Hebrew is entirely possible (chapter 17).

  The legend of a lost Jamaican gold mine connected to Columbus is one often repeated. Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean, by Edward Kritzler, deals with this intriguing myth. The coded information quoted in chapter 35 (which supposedly leads to the mine) came from documents cited in Kritzler’s book. The story of the Cohen brothers, a deed to 420 acres of land, the lawsuit between the brothers, and Abraham Cohen’s swindling of Charles II (chapters 10, 19, and 20) is also from Kritzler’s book. The Santa María, Columbus’ flagship, did run aground in December 1492 off the coast of Haiti. The ship was lost, but its cargo was salvaged and brought ashore. Three mysterious crates being included within that cache was my invention. Crates from Panama loaded with gold and hidden by Columbus in 1504 during his year marooned on Jamaica (chapter 7) are noted in several historical accounts, but whether they actually existed is hard to say. For an interesting prequel to The Columbus Affair, check out my short story “The Admiral’s Mark.”

  The Taino (chapter 28) presence on Jamaica, 7,000 years before the Europeans, is true, as is the fact that by 1650 they were wiped out. Calling them Arawaks is incorrect, though their language is known by that term. Gold was not precious to the Tainos (chapter 28), but whether they possessed a mine shown to Columbus, nobody knows. Little remains today of the Tainos except for some artifacts, their caves, and legends (chapter 24).

  The Maroons are a fascinating group of people. Their history and sociology are accurately portrayed (chapters 3, 19, 24), and their propensity for secrets is real (chapter 68). How slaves made it to the New World (chapter 28) is accurately related, as is the fact that Jamaica, situated at the end of the trade route, received the toughest of the lot (chapter 19). Charles Town exists, as does the Maroon museum there (chapters 24 and 25). Grandy Nanny is a part of both Maroon and Jamaican history. How she looked, who she was, and whether she even actually lived are matters of debate (chapters 3, 68). An image of her currently appears on the Jamaican $500 note, known locally as a “Nanny.” Abengs (chapter 71) were used by Maroons to communicate over long distances, their wail terrifying British soldiers. Maroon war tactics, as described throughout, were implemented to great success. Duppies (chapter 28) are a part of Jamaican folklore. The tales Béne’s mother tells about Martha Brae and the golden table (chapter 50) are still told. Both the Tainos and Maroons sometimes buried their dead in caves, but the crypt in chapter 62 is wholly imaginary. Interestingly, there are many striking similarities between Maroon religious beliefs and Judaism (chapter 74).

  Cuban bloodhounds were imported from Spain, then brought to Jamaica by the British to combat the Maroons (chapter 3). The chasseurs are accurately described (chapter 10), as is the damage the hounds could inflict.

  The locales for this story were particularly noteworthy. All are accurately described. Jamaica is spectacular, its Blue Mountains worth a visit (chapter 3). Thousands of caves dot the island and the ones used herein are hybrids of several (chapters 56, 58, 72–77). A good source from which to learn more is Jamaica Underground, by Alan Fincham. Mount Dora (chapter 17) truly does have the look of New England, and Lake County is aptly named (chapter 23). St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna has catacombs and bone rooms (chapters 34, 36, 37, 39, 41). The gardens at Schönbrunn palace (chapter 42) and the Stadttempel synagogue (chapter 8) are most impressive. Blue Mountain Coffee is regarded as one of the finest in the world (chapters 10, 30) and its regulation by the Jamaican government is accurately depicted, but any involvement by the Rowe family was my invention.

  Prague is spectacular (chapters 49–51), its Jewish quarter solemn. The Old-New Synagogue (chapters 47, 49, 59) is faithfully described, including the iron rungs outside that lead up to its loft. Cameras do indeed keep watch throughout. The ceremonial hall, burial society, and Maisel Synagogue (chapters 56, 57, and 64) are there. The Old Cemetery is particularly moving, but an
underground room for the disposal of sacred texts is my invention (chapter 54). Kolkovna (chapter 65) is a restaurant just outside the old quarter. Parizska Street is as depicted (chapter 50), crowded with expensive shops, bordering the Old-New Synagogue. Rabbi Loew lived in Prague (chapter 47) and remains a revered hero, his grave is the most visited site in the Old Cemetery (chapter 57). His seat in the Old-New Synagogue stays chained (chapter 59). The legend of the golem is one often told in Prague, but it’s erroneously associated with Rabbi Loew (chapter 47). The tale was created as described in chapter 47. Many, though, still believe that the golem rests in the synagogue’s loft.

  Terezín (chapter 53) was a place of horror. The account of what happened to Prague’s Jews, from 1939 to 1945, is accurate (chapter 53). Only Rabbi Berlinger’s presence there is my invention.

  Drug dons, unfortunately, thrive in Jamaica (chapters 3, 7). Their popularity with the people exists, as does the government’s inability to combat them. Spanish Town can be an intense place (chapter 14). Jewish cemeteries (chapter 13) are found all across Jamaica, but mine is imaginary (chapters 3, 7). Throughout, Jewish burial customs are accurately depicted (chapter 22).

  The Jewish presence on Jamaica, which began at the time of Columbus, is historic fact (chapter 7). Columbus’ daughter-in-law did in fact secure the island from Ferdinand and wrestle away religious control (chapter 7). The Inquisition was kept off Jamaica for 150 years. When the Spanish finally returned in 1650, the Jews there sided with the English and helped expel them. Cromwell did in fact make a deal with them, promising and delivering tolerance (chapter 7). Eventually, Jamaica’s Jews helped build the island’s economy. Their commercial dealings with Maroons are real, as is the curious opposition by the emancipated blacks to Jewish equality (chapter 24). Eventually, the Jewish presence on Jamaica dissipated. Today only a few remain, the oldest congregation in the Western Hemisphere still worshiping in Kingston. On Cuba, Jews lived during Columbus’ time and today (chapters 38, 40). When the Spanish finally fled Jamaica in 1655 they buried both their wealth and their records, thinking they would soon return (chapter 18). That, of course, never happened, and both were lost. The presence of a records repository on Cuba was my invention. The Jamaican archives in Spanish Town is real.