The Columbus Code

by mike Evans

  That still didn’t resolve Winters’ dilemma. Anyone’s reading of anything could tell her whatever she wanted to believe. They both seemed to be waiting for some kind of response—as if this should be a moment of great insight for him—but he didn’t know what to say. Diplomacy had never been his strength. He’d always left that to Anne. “It would be ironic,” he said finally, “if he was a Jew and yet wanted to have a hand in confronting the Antichrist.”

  Vespucci nodded and wiped his mouth on the napkin. “Christian or Jew,” he said, loud enough that it brought one of Sophia’s friends from the kitchen. “The fact remains, Columbus wanted to discover the Ark of the Covenant and restore it to Israel. You see . . .” He moved to the front of his chair, rendering its back legs helpless above the floor. “He didn’t know he was going to discover what would eventually be called the Americas. He thought he was going to Asia. He thought someone had stolen the Ark and taken it to China. He didn’t realize there was a huge landmass in the way and neither he nor any of the scholars of the time understood just how big that landmass really was.” Vespucci looked Winters in the eye. “There is so much more I could tell you.”

  “Tell me this,” Winters said. “How is anyone ever going to prove that this was what was going through Columbus’ mind? Sophia told me that he wrote things purposely to send people off the track—”

  “Would he lie to himself in his own journal?”

  “You wouldn’t think so but—journal?” Winters frowned. “What journal?”

  Vespucci gave Sophia a stricken look. “He does not know about the journal, either?”

  “As you’ve said, Gilberto, there is so much to tell.” Sophia turned to Winters. “In his notes from the fourth voyage, Columbus wrote that many in Andalusia—that’s the southern part of Spain—wished to take his discoveries from him but that he had received prophecies from Almighty God about his end, the end of the earth—”

  “Right,” Winters said. “That’s in the Book of Prophecies.”

  “Not all of it, apparently. In those same notes he wrote that all of it—the conspiracies, the prophecies, the signs he saw in the heavens—had been set down in his most private journal.”

  “Have you seen it?” Winters asked.

  “No one has seen it.” Vespucci answered.

  “Many scholars do not believe it ever existed,” Sophia said.

  “But it did,” Vespucci insisted. “The Admiral of the Ocean Sea would not have said so in his personal writings if it were not so!”

  The bulbous nose was scarlet and the veins along Vespucci’s jawline seemed to pulse. Sophia reached over to him and ran a hand up and down his arm. “You and I know that, Gilberto,” she said in a soothing tone. “Many faithful people know it too. We do not need to concern ourselves with the others.”

  Yeah, and it wasn’t a good time for Winters to align himself with “the others,” even though all of this seemed more like wishful conjecture than anything else. The question was, why did Sophia think he needed to know about this . . . theory?

  “You have been a help to us,” she said to Vespucci. “But we must allow you to return to your work.”

  Vespucci reluctantly agreed, good-byes were said, and Sophia escorted him to the door. Winters grabbed the opportunity to take care of the bill and pour himself another cup of coffee.

  “Listen,” he said when Sophia returned to the table, “I hope I didn’t come across as a jerk.”

  “Your skepticism was clear to me,” she said. “But I don’t think Gilberto noticed it. He is so enraptured with the stories he seldom notices how anyone reacts to them.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to offend him.”

  She didn’t say anything. The woman was hard to read. “So,” he said, “what was that all about? I mean, in terms of my genealogy?”

  “Were any of your mother’s relatives practicing Jews?”

  Winters started to shake his head, but he reconsidered. “You know, I remember talk about my great-grandfather being Jewish, but he’d never admit it.” He thought some more. “After he came to America he attended the Episcopal Church. And did so for the rest of his life. He’s buried in the church cemetery.” Winters shrugged. “Still, there was no reason for him not to own up to it if he was. He didn’t live during the Inquisition.”

  “No, but there weren’t that many generations from the Inquisition to your great-grandfather. There was a tradition that if you were Jewish and you converted to Christianity you needed to give every outward sign of that conversion you could so that no one would mistake you for someone who converted in word only and not from the heart.”

  “It was still that big a deal, even so many years after the Inquisition?”

  Sophia grimaced. “Before the 1960s, Jews were as discriminated against here as blacks were in your country.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “If they were interested in fitting in, the last thing they wanted was to be labeled as Jews, and the easiest way to avoid that would have been to show a solid, incontrovertible conversion and to emphasize their Spanish heritage. What?”

  Winters realized he’d been staring at her, mouth slightly open. “Sorry,” he said. “Your English vocabulary is impressive. I don’t know that I’ve ever used the word ‘incontrovertible.’ Maybe I should start.”

  “Are you mocking me, Mr. Winters?” she asked.

  Winters went cold for a second before Sophia laughed—a sound he hadn’t heard from her before.

  “Now, back to the issue—”

  “I do remember we’d be watching TV,” Winters said, “and there would be something about discrimination against African Americans and Mom would say, ‘We had nothing to do with that. We’re Spanish.’”

  “That is precisely what we’re referring to here.” Sophia’s eyes went birdlike. “We must track down all these small hints to see if any of them lead us somewhere.”

  Winters had a sinking feeling in his chest. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but aren’t we grasping at straws?”

  “Research is my area of expertise,” she said, chin tilted up. “This is how it is done.” She curled her fingers around her clutch bag and stood. “Come. We have miles to go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Alba de Tormes,” she said. “Your hometown.”

  Tejada summoned every internal resource he had—the power of Abaddon, the pride of the office of CEO, and the reluctance to spend the rest of his life in prison—to keep himself from placing his hands around Philippe Prevost’s pencil neck and shaking him.

  Self-control achieved, he stepped from behind his desk, perched on its front edge, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Give me the bottom line. That is all I want to hear. Not how little the Russians trust me. Not how much influence they believe I have over you. Simply tell me—are they in or are they not?”

  Prevost’s face went deathly pale. “They are not.”

  “Summarize for me where that puts us.”

  Prevost was clearly rattled. “What you have not allowed me to explain—”

  “Summarize,” Tejada demanded.

  “Okay,” Prevost began in a halting voice. “The Russians . . . and the Americans . . . want to maintain the currency as it is. The Chinese want everything to switch to the yuan. The European Union and Great Britain would like to go along with us, but they are wary of the Russians.”

  “Then we have failed in this part of the plan.”

  Tejada was sure the small sag of relief in his nephew’s shoulders came from Tejada’s choice of pronoun. If Prevost had been any kind of man, he would have taken responsibility for the failure, but there was no time to call him on that now.

  “I see only one thing to do,” Prevost said.

  “What?”

  “That dramatic event you spoke of.”

  “Yes,” Tejada sighed. “That’s about all that’s left.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is.”


  “No,” Tejada said. “I don’t suppose I am.”

  “What is my next step then?”

  Tejada slid from his perch at the edge of the desk and moved around to the chair.

  “I will contact you,” he said, picking up a file from the desk.

  “And in the meantime?”

  Tejada didn’t answer but kept his eyes focused on the file in his hand. He heard Prevost leave the room and a moment later, the door opened again. “We have nothing more to talk about,” he said, his eyes still trained on the file.

  “We have said nothing yet,” a voice replied.

  Tejada looked up to see Molina standing across the room. “I thought you were my nephew returning for a replay. Come in.”

  Molina crossed the office to the desk but didn’t take a seat.

  “You made contact in Washington?” Tejada asked, anticipating the reason for Molina’s visit.

  “I did,” Molina replied.

  “And?”

  “The process has begun.”

  “Any resistance?”

  “As expected, yes,” he said. “But it has been handled.”

  Tejada didn’t ask how. The less he knew the better, a philosophy he could never get across to Prevost. “They will wait for our signal, then,” Tejada said instead.

  “Yes.”

  Tejada folded his hands on the desk and examined his knuckles. “I had hoped to avoid this, Carlos. But it seems inevitable.”

  “Anything else?” Molina asked.

  “Yes, in fact, there is.” Tejada said. “You recall Snowden’s associate, Maria Winters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She will be returning soon to work with me on a few matters. I’d like for you to provide better office space for her and more than adequate living arrangements. Make sure she has everything she needs. And make sure you keep the Soler woman as her assistant.”

  Molina nodded. Tejada searched his face for a hint of reaction but found none.

  “Do you have a problem with Señorita Winters?” he asked.

  “May I speak freely?”

  “When you are not speaking freely you are not speaking at all.”

  “She has an agenda.”

  “Who among us does not?” Tejada watched Molina’s neck stiffen. “My apologies, Carlos. If you have a serious concern, I don’t mean to make light of it.”

  “I would like permission to research her background and put her under surveillance.”

  Tejada forced his brow to remain smooth. “Only in terms of her work here,” he said. “Her social life is off-limits.”

  “It’s difficult to keep them separated.”

  “Find a way.”

  The air became electric with tension. Tejada didn’t want to leave it that way. “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “I know you have only my best interests and those of Catalonia at heart. All the more reason to keep your focus there, as you do so well.”

  Molina seemed to relax.

  “And,” Tejada continued, “since she seems to have an aversion to Louis, perhaps you should meet her at the airport. That will give you a chance to begin your ‘surveillance.’”

  Their eyes met. Tejada smiled. Molina did not.

  You lied to me,” Austin blurted out.

  Maria looked up from loading the dishwasher. “I never lied to you. How did I ever lie to you?”

  “You told me you weren’t staying in Barcelona permanently.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you taking all this stuff?”

  Maria closed the dishwasher door and pushed the button. “What stuff are you talking about?”

  “Two suitcases. A carry-on as big as the trunk of my car. And a briefcase so full it won’t even zip.”

  “I’m not a guy, Austin,” she said, crossing the living room. “I can’t get everything I own into a sock.”

  Austin glared at the luggage parked by the front door. “I’m depressed and you haven’t even left yet.”

  “And I’m not leaving right this minute so come here. I want to show you what I found.” She motioned for him to join her at the counter where her laptop was still open.

  “Aren’t you taking that with you?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And it’s going to fit in that briefcase?”

  “Okay, stop it. Now look at this.”

  Austin parked in front of the computer and frowned. “Danish schoolgirls?”

  “I found this hidden in—well, never mind—the gist of it is Schlesinger was at a Global Security Conference in Copenhagen. Apparently there was an issue with some parents insisting that their daughters were in his room.”

  “Were they?”

  “According to the girls and their parents they were, but the whole thing got smoothed over.”

  “You’re thinking this is what he and Molina were talking about?”

  “Molina was on the roster of attendees.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be? He’s the head of security for Catalonia.”

  “But the fact that he mentioned it to Schlesinger—and mentioned having pictures—is pretty damning.”

  “Circumstantial at best, but yeah.” Austin chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip. “So you kind of know what Molina is blackmailing him with, but you don’t know what he’s forcing him to do.”

  “Right. And that’s not all Molina has on him. Something went down in Kenya, too, but I haven’t been able to put that together. The point is, whatever Molina wants him to do is pretty big or he wouldn’t need all this ammunition.”

  Austin hoisted himself from the stool and crossed to the living room, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “What?” Maria said.

  “This is scaring me.”

  “Come on, Austin. If I find out anything I’m not going to confront Molina with it.”

  “Not even to use it as leverage for Elena?”

  “I told you, I’m just going to bring her back here so we can make this whole thing right.”

  “Then what are you going to do with it?” Austin strode back to her. “Swear to me you’re not going to take it to Tejada. You don’t know whether he’s involved. Molina works for him and—”

  “Would you chill? My best option is to take it to my father.”

  Austin’s mouth fell open.

  “I know. But it makes sense, right?”

  “Don’t you think you should tell him you’re doing this in the first place?”

  Maria piled her hair up and let it drop back to her shoulders. “I’ve been trying. His cell phone keeps going straight to voice mail.”

  “Did you call his office?”

  “He’s on some kind of leave.”

  “What—bereavement?” Austin put both hands up in that way he had. “Sorry. You can be snarky about him . . . I shouldn’t be.”

  “It’s okay.” Maria twisted a curl. “Actually he told me he’s being seen for depression.”

  Austin stared until she nodded. “I should follow up.”

  “Ya think?”

  Maria glanced at the time on her phone. “I guess I could call his friend Taylor Donleavy. Dad used his phone to call me one time so I think it’s in my contacts.” She looked at Austin again. “But what do I say—‘Has anybody checked my dad’s place lately?’”

  “You’ll think of something. I’m gonna start loading the car. I should’ve started yesterday.”

  Maria wrinkled her nose at him and searched for Donleavy’s number on her phone. She’d never met the guy, which made this weird. Her dad had mentioned him a few times—the only friend he’d talked about since he moved to California. Uncle Ben brought him up more than Dad did. The three of them had hung out together when Ben was visiting. He had a whole stand-up routine about Donleavy’s geek quotient.

  The phone rang several times before a voice mail greeting said, “Donleavy. Leave an encrypted message.”

  Yeah. He was a geek all right.

  Maria couldn’t decide what to say so she hung up. M
aybe her father was back at work, doing something undercover and just wasn’t bothering to check his messages.

  She heard Austin fiddling with the doorknob and she drew her hand down her face to remove the worried look she was sure was there. Maybe then he’d believe her when she said Donleavy was going to get back to her. Otherwise, all that luggage was coming right back up the stairs.

  Winters looked for something to grab on to and reached for the dashboard.

  Sophia smiled at him. “Are you a nervous passenger, John?”

  “I’m a terrified passenger. Did I miss the memo about us being entered in the Grand Prix?”

  “That takes place in France.”

  Her laughter rose above the wind whipping through the windows. He was having to shout to be heard. Fortunately she’d been doing most of the talking as they crossed Spain and had filled him in on how she’d found his distant cousin Jacobo Colon through birth and death records going back from Winters’ great-grandfather to previous generations.

  “What’s he like?” Winters shouted to her.

  “I do not know.”

  “You couldn’t gather anything from talking to him?”

  “I have not spoken with him.”

  Sophia slowed the car as they crossed an ancient bridge over the Tormes River. Winters was finally able to speak rather than shout. “Nothing from his e-mail either?”

  “I have not been in contact with Señor Colon at all. I discovered his address . . . which should not be far from here.”

  “He doesn’t know we’re coming?”

  She shook her head and took a corner way too fast for Winters’ comfort.

  “What if we came all this way and he’s not home?”

  “He is eighty-five years old and lives in a long-term-care facility. I am certain he will be there and grateful for the company. Here most families take care of their own elderly so he must truly be alone.”

  Winters tried not to groan. Another old guy with theories and foggy memories. How much money had he spent on this trip?

  Sophia abruptly pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and lowered her sunglasses to look at the long, low pink-stucco building with a rose-colored tile roof. “We have arrived.”