by mike Evans
“And second of all?”
“I need you here to find the best attorney for her and look into what happened that got her into this whole mess.”
“On the firm’s time.”
“I haven’t gotten to that part yet.” Maria leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I want to pay you myself. On the side.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“My grandmother left me some money—”
“You can’t use your inheritance for this. I won’t let you do that.”
Maria gave him a look. “And you started not letting me do things when?”
“I meant I’m not taking any money from you. I’ll do it for free, but on one condition.”
“Anything—as long as it’s legal.”
“You have to promise me the Barcelona thing is only temporary.”
“Of course it is. I’m going back there to bring Elena back here.”
“And what about this Tejada character?”
“What about him?”
“You don’t see yourself getting hooked up with him? I mean involved.”
“Not gonna happen,” she said shaking her head. “I don’t trust him. Not totally, anyway.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not some villain. He’s just a successful businessman—”
“Over-the-top successful.”
“—who may bend the occasional rule.”
“I thought you didn’t like people bending the rules.”
“I don’t. Which is why I’m not getting involved. As soon as you get things set up here, I’m bringing Elena back and I’m done in Spain.”
“I don’t see why you didn’t just bring her with you now.”
“Yes, you do. There’s too much to do, including finding a place for her to stay. I can’t harbor a fugitive, no matter who she is.”
“I’m glad to see you draw the line somewhere.”
“Austin—what is going on with you?”
“This just doesn’t feel right to me. No—” he said, correcting himself. “It’s worse than that. It feels dangerous.”
“Well,” Maria shrugged. “It kind of is. One of the reasons I’m going back is to see if I can find a way to take Molina down.”
“No stinkin’ way.”
“It doesn’t feel right to smuggle her out of there to face the music here while he gets off scot-free. He’s been blackmailing her—and who knows how many others. I can’t let him get away with it.”
“Come on,” Austin groaned. “Let somebody else deal with that.”
“I intend to.”
“Who?”
Maria smiled. “Emilio Tejada.”
“And you’re going to do that how?” Austin put both palms up. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Good, because I’m not sure yet. You want dessert?”
“No.”
“Then ask for the check, will you?” She reached into her purse for her wallet. “Here’s some cash. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom, Austin. And I’m sure I’ll be safe.”
“I’m afraid to let you out of my sight.”
She hadn’t been lying to him, Maria thought as she wove her way among the tables of the large dining room. She had missed Austin and if she could do this any differently she would. But that would only slow things down and it had been hard enough to leave Elena yesterday. The only thing holding Elena together at this point seemed to be Maria’s promise that she would return within a week. But all the plans she’d made with Austin evaporated as she neared the restroom hallway.
From the corner of her eye she saw two men seated at a table to the far right. The guy facing her she recognized as Jake Schlesinger. His picture was all over Washington media. Him she wasn’t worried about. But the figure with his back to her sent a chill down her spine. She would have known that square head and those menacing shoulders anywhere.
He was Carlos Molina.
What were the chances that he’d show up here—now?
Acting more on instinct than plan, Maria continued straight across to the hallway and ducked out of sight beyond the corner—hidden from view but close enough to hear the voices from Molina’s table.
Maria pulled her cell phone from her purse, flipped the screen to Notes, and typed what she could hear. It was disjointed, but she’d try to figure it out later.
JS: Appreciate your help with that matter in Kenya—
CM: —return the favor . . . intercepted in Chechnya . . .
JS: . . . secure location, I assure you . . .
CM: (mutter, mutter, mutter)
“Is it full?”
Maria jerked her face up to see a woman standing nearby.
“The restroom,” the woman explained. “Is it full?”
“I don’t—”
“You’re standing in the hall. I thought it was full.” The woman gave her an annoyed look and pushed open the restroom door. Maria went back to the conversation but she’d clearly missed something. They were now talking about a suitcase and some agent named Jason Elliot.
JS: . . . out of your mind . . .
CM: . . . like you were in Copenhagen . . .
JS: . . . you assured me . . .
CM: You assured me . . . pictures.
Two women erupted from the restroom, voices blaring. By the time they’d carried the discussion out to the dining room, the voices from the table were silent. She glanced around the corner to check and saw Molina and Schlesinger standing, shaking hands.
Maria ducked into the bathroom and made for an empty stall, where she read the notes.
Molina had done Schlesinger some favor in Kenya and was now asking for payback. Something about whatever Schlesinger had intercepted in Chechnya, something that was now in a secure location. Whatever Molina was asking of him was insane, although apparently Schlesinger had done something crazy in Copenhagen that involved pictures. And, somehow, there was a suitcase and an agent involved.
None of it made any sense—unless Schlesinger was being blackmailed . . . just like Elena.
Tejada stood at the Ritz-Carlton penthouse window, watching the Atlantic lapping up on the Key Biscayne shore below. Catching a glimpse of his reflection he noticed he was scowling.
He prided himself on keeping his emotions in check, but Prevost could peck them out without even being in the same room. Or the same country, for that matter. He was still dallying in Brussels rather than meeting him here as Tejada had “suggested.” And until he spoke to him in person, he’d have no news of his discussion with Koslov.
His phone swished a text. From Snowden. At least the trip here wasn’t a complete waste of time.
He texted Snowden his room number. The knock on the door was immediate, and Tejada smiled to himself as Louis went to open it. He’d been standing right outside. Like Prevost, he sometimes groveled.
When Snowden had been supplied with bourbon and an armchair overlooking the ocean, Tejada said, “You can leave us, Louis. I’ll ring you if we need anything.”
Louis nodded and disappeared into a bedroom, discreet as always.
He turned now to Snowden, relaxing in the wicker armchair, eyes closed, glass resting on his knee.
“You are spent,” Tejada said.
“It’s a good kind of tired, as my mother used to say.”
“You speak very little of your family.”
“And I’d like to keep it that way.” Snowden took a sip of his drink. “I have what I think you’ll find to be good news.”
Tejada eased onto the sofa and nodded him on.
“All the preliminary work has been completed with McCarthy. Think-tank position papers. Community organization. Public campaign. All in place.”
“Good. And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you in place?”
“You’ve lost me, Emilio.”
Tejada swirled the bourbon. “You are foll
owing the plan, but is your heart in it?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to Lord Abaddon.”
Tejada saw a flash of fear in Snowden’s eyes, though it quickly disappeared.
“My heart can be in implementing the plan without my having complete faith that it’s going to happen. This isn’t all under our control.”
“Of course it is.”
“The US Congress has never defaulted on its debt and I’m just not sure all our manipulation guarantees that it will this time either.”
“We do not need an actual default,” Tejada said. “We need only the threat of one.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Tejada stood up. “Can I freshen your drink?”
“No. Thanks.”
“I’m glad you brought up Congress.” Tejada went to the bar and topped off his glass. “That is our next—and final—step. The matter needs to come to a vote.”
“I know.”
“It’s time to—how do you always put it?—get the ball rolling on that.” Tejada smiled. “You’re sure you don’t need another drink?”
Maria tossed in the bed until the comforter was in a complete knot. She finally gave up on sleep at 5 a.m. Jet lag in this direction was supposed to make her want to sleep well, but there was too much in her head clamoring for attention for her to even doze off.
The worst of it was the conversation she’d overheard between Molina and Schlesinger. She’d been so sure about going back to Barcelona—she still was—but Molina now cut a far more menacing figure than merely a bully who would blackmail a young girl. That was bad enough, but if he had sufficient clout to strong-arm the director of the CIA, maybe she was getting in over her head.
Maria curled up on the windowsill cushions. The Adams Morgan neighborhood still slumbered, although a few lights were blinking on in the distance. At the moment she envied those people in other apartments who would soon be headed out to day jobs they could leave behind at five o’clock, jobs that didn’t tug at them no matter where they were.
Maria knew when she went to law school that she wasn’t signing up for forty-hour workweeks. The ten years of life with her mother hadn’t been wasted on her. Many a night a babysitter or her dad tucked her in to bed because Mom was working on a case. But Maria chose corporate law specifically so she wouldn’t have to deal with people like Carlos Molina. She’d wanted to have a career like her mother’s, not like her father’s.
And look who had ended up being killed.
Maria shook that off and went to the kitchen. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well make coffee—something a little thinner than the stuff she drank in Spain. As she filled the pot with cold water, she returned to the idea that had been niggling at the back of her brain all night.
Her father did have a career handling things like this. She didn’t know if he was still out on paid leave. They hadn’t talked since Abuela’s funeral and they’d only exchanged e-mails about the estate. But he’d take her call, she had no doubt of that.
She poured the water into the coffeemaker and grunted. And then what? A barrage of questions. A boatload of unsolicited advice. He’d probably send a covert ops team over to Barcelona to arrest Carlos Molina, right after he had her taken into protective custody. For the rest of her life.
Maria watched the French roast drip into the pot. Dad would take overprotective father to a whole new level, despite the fact that he’d shown progressively fewer visible signs of emotion toward her since her mother died. Not that she’d given him much of a chance in the last seven or eight years. Now it was hard to sort out who had first stopped making the effort to connect.
She looked at the digital clock on the coffeemaker. Time had passed, but it was still only 7 a.m. Four in San Francisco. She’d give it a few more hours and call. And until then, more coffee and the Internet. Maria wanted to find out the last time Jake Schlesinger was in Copenhagen.
Seeing Sophia Conte in person for the first time was a little like spotting a TV personality at a restaurant. They were always thinner, shorter, and less perfect than they appeared on the screen.
Only two of those applied, Winters decided as Sophia approached him outside of a restaurant called Dostrece. She was far more slender and definitely more petite than she’d looked on Skype. When she reached his side, hand outstretched, her head barely came to his shoulder.
As for imperfections, though, the screen had covered up the smoothness of her café au lait skin and the keen intelligence in her dark, deep-set eyes. Even the fuzzy halo of hair around her face seemed more on-purpose than the Internet had allowed. Winters suddenly felt like a gangly teenager again.
“A pleasure to meet you in person,” she said. “Have you rested?”
“Yes,” he lied.
Actually he’d spent the last twenty-two hours changing hotels, trying to get his cell phone to work, and fighting off nightmares. But then she would have no way of knowing that the bags beneath his eyes were a recent development. She’d just think it came from the jet lag.
“Shall we go in?” she asked. “I’m sure Señor Vespucci is waiting for us.”
Before Winters had a chance to ask who Señor Vespucci was, Sophia stepped forward and led the way through the heavy glass door. She had mentioned they would be meeting someone but he didn’t know the guy was joining them for breakfast.
Sophia greeted the wait staff as if they were family members at a reunion. Amid the cheek-kissing and the bantering in Spanish, Winters was introduced to a paunchy gentleman with a chin that melted into his neck.
“Señor Gilberto Vespucci, Mr. John Winters.”
Sophia gracefully gestured to a corner table with a pot of coffee already on it. Winters, on the other hand, banged the table with his knee as he sat down and caught his foot in the tablecloth.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Sophia said as she perched next to him. “I have taken the liberty of ordering for us—in the interest of time.” She turned to Vespucci. “I know you are a busy man, Gilberto.”
“Time stops when I am with you, mi tesoro.”
Winters pawed awkwardly at his napkin.
Sophia poured the coffee while simultaneously giving each of the men a three-sentence bio of the other. Winters was transfixed by the thickness of the coffee but he managed to get that Señor Vespucci was a well-known Columbus scholar.
“Before we can make the link between you and Señor Christopher,” Sophia said to Winters, “we need to explore the Jewish aspect. “Gilberto has made that his life’s work—”
“I’m sorry,” Winters said, “did you say ‘Jewish aspect’?”
They both looked at him as if he’d stumbled into the wrong classroom. Sophia was the first to recover. “Yes. Am I to assume you have not encountered this in your research?”
“I don’t know.” Winters shrugged. “What was I supposed to encounter?”
“It is easier to miss than you might think, Sophia,” Vespucci said, burying his chin deeper into his neck. He pulled a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the pocket of his jacket and placed them halfway up his wide nose. He peered through the lenses as if this was his first impetus to actually look at Winters. “Shall I start at the beginning?”
Sophia put her hand on his arm. “Can you spare the time?”
From what Winters could tell, he would probably clear his schedule for the next week if it meant a chance to “start at the beginning.” He, on the other hand, was ready to cut to the chase. “Are you saying Christopher Columbus was Jewish?”
“There is a theory that says so,” Sophia said.
Vespucci’s thick eyebrows lifted. “It is far more than a theory, Sophia. There is hard evidence.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” Winters said. “Tell me what you’re working with here.”
Vespucci ticked the evidence off with a flick of his fingers. “One, he spoke Castilian Spanish, which was referred to in his time as the ‘Yiddish of the Spanish Jews.’ Two, on pe
rsonal correspondence with his son he included a cryptic message written in Hebrew letters. Three, in his will, he left a bequest to provide a dowry for poor girls and also directed his executor to give money to a Jew who lived near the entrance to the Lisbon Jewish Quarter.” Vespucci shrugged as if his point was clear without explanation, though he gave one. “That was Jewish custom, providing a dowry for an indigent girl. And four—and this is the most telling of all—his first voyage was financed by Jewish businessmen.”
Vespucci sat back in his chair with a satisfied look. Winters didn’t have the heart to tell him that it all sounded circumstantial to him. He could hear Anne saying, Show me his bar mitzvah certificate and then we’ll talk.
Vespucci turned his attention to the huevos Florentine a waiter set before him. Sophie turned hers to Winters. “I apologize. I thought you knew about this.”
Winters tried not to sound as irritated as he felt. “We never talked about this. But anyway, how does Columbus worrying about the Antichrist work if he was Jewish? Wouldn’t he have to have been a Christian for that to even be an issue?”
“A good point!” Vespucci spattered yolk onto Winters’ sleeve. “One of the purposes for his voyage was to find a place where Jews could live free of persecution.”
“You remember what Spain was going through at that time,” Sophia said.
Winters felt as if he could finally press the buzzer on Jeopardy. “The Inquisition.”
“Yes!” Vespucci said. “More important, he was looking for a source of gold to fund the retaking of Jerusalem.”
“That’s where the end-of-time idea comes in,” Sophia said. “He believed that for the Messiah to return, the Temple had to be liberated and restored.”
“I did read that in the Book of Prophecies,” Winters said. “But it still doesn’t make sense, if he was a Christian. And he didn’t say anything about being a Jew.”
“Of course not!” Vespucci’s face reddened indignantly. “Or he himself would have been on the rack.”
Sophia put a calming hand on Vespucci’s wrist as she turned to Winters. “Not only that, but my reading of the Prophecies tells me that he was a Jew by birth but was converted to Christianity.”
