The Columbus Code

by mike Evans

  “It wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton,” Winters observed.

  “I’m going to give you a quick history lesson,” Sophia said as she continued quickly up the hallway. “You heard the guide talking about La Desamortización.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That was a series of decrees issued by the prime minister, Juan Álvarez Mendizábal, who was also prime minister during the Carlist Rebellion—which started in the first half of the nineteenth century—about the time your family left here and went to America.”

  “Good to know, I guess.”

  “By Mendizábal’s decrees, most of the monasteries in Spain were seized by the government and sold to private owners. That is how the tile factory came to be at this location.

  “What about those caves she said we are on top of?”

  “Those were used during the rebellion. For hiding.”

  Sophia stopped when they came to a stairway that plunged down into the darkness below the monastery. She looked at him with a mischievous smile. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “You know,” she said with a knowing look and a nod toward the stairway.

  “You think that’s where old Gaspar may have hi—”

  “John,” she whispered in a teasing way. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

  “No,” he said, glancing around the empty hallway. “But let me go first.”

  “I am glad to.”

  Winters led the way down the steps and soon found it wasn’t as dark as it appeared from the top. At the base of the stairs, they followed the hallway past more reproductions of monk cells until they came to a doorway leading to yet another dank stairway. The entrance was blocked by a steel gate fastened with a heavy padlock. Winters held it in his hand and looked it over. He could easily pick it open with a paper clip or hairpin.

  “Well,” Sophia sighed. “It was a good idea.”

  “I can open it,” Winters offered.

  “I don’t think you should,” Sophia said. “Would this be a good time to tell you that I am claustrophobic?”

  “Ha,” Winters laughed. “Have I finally discovered something that daunts you?” He grinned at her. “How did you like that word—‘daunts’—pretty impressive?”

  A voice behind them interrupted. “This area is off-limits to visitors.”

  Sophia jumped. Winters kept his cool as he turned to face a man wearing a security uniform.

  “Sorry,” Winters said. “We got a little lost. This place is like a labyrinth—”

  “Allow me to guide you to the visitors’ area,” the guard offered.

  Winters would have told the guy to get a grip, but he felt Sophia’s hand curl around his arm. “Lead the way,” he said with a smile.

  They followed the guard back to the ground floor and over to the entrance. He gestured toward the doorway and Winters escorted Sophia outside to the parking lot.

  “I suppose he just threw us out,” Winters noted.

  “That was unnerving,” she replied.

  “The guard?” Winters asked.

  “The whole place,” she said. “It disturbs me. We should leave at once.”

  “Now you’re daunted,” Winters teased.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Take me to the car.”

  “You want to go to Toledo next, right?” Winters asked as they made their way across the parking lot.

  “You read my mind,” Sophia said.

  “Let’s not do that tonight,” Winters suggested in a kind voice. “How about I get us a couple of rooms, we have a nice dinner, and then head out in the morning?”

  “I like the way you think, John Winters.” She took his arm. “And over dinner, I would like you to tell me what it is you do in the United States.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what line of work makes you think you can pick a lock and stare down a security guard as if it is nothing?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know.” She took the car keys from her clutch bag. “And now it is time to tell me.”

  Staying busy was the key to getting through this, Maria told herself. If she sat and thought too much, she conjured up images of sweet Elena’s body flying through the air while hundreds of people watched. Hundreds of people who so far couldn’t lead either the Barcelona police or the Catalonia investigative team to the killer.

  The deliberate killer.

  She had called her father’s number for four straight hours and then resorted to Taylor Donleavy. He answered, finally, and it took fifteen minutes to fill him in on who she was and all that had happened. By then she was too wound up to stay in the apartment any longer so as she continued to talk, she made her way down to the street.

  “Don’t tell me to contact the police, Donleavy,” she said. “I don’t think I can trust anybody here right now.”

  “Wasn’t going to,” he replied. “Have you always been as paranoid as your old man?”

  “I think I have reason to be,” she replied.

  “I guess you do.”

  “So, can you tell me what to do?”

  “The first thing you need to do is buy a disposable phone. One with international access.”

  “Where can I get one?”

  “Any electronics store . . .” Donleavy let his words trail off and started over with a tone that didn’t sound like, Anybody knows that. “Find a store in a phone book, okay? And from now on, don’t use your laptop for anything but work.”

  Maria knew that should be scaring her, but the fact that he was taking her seriously was reassuring.

  “We have to make sure they don’t know you’re onto them,” Donleavy continued. “And you’ll need to check for bugs in your apartment and your office.”

  “Bugs?”

  “We’re not talking roaches here.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Maybe a small rectangle, no longer than your thumb. They can be stuck anywhere, so be thorough. And check the phone too.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Unscrew the cover off the mouthpiece if you can.”

  “I don’t use the apartment phone.”

  “You don’t have to. The right device can allow it to hear anything in the room, whether you use the phone for calls or not.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me,” Maria sighed.

  “I know,” he said in a sympathetic voice. “But it’s important. You have to do it. Call me when you get the new cell and do your sweep.”

  “I’ll call you,” she said and she ended the call.

  After talking to Donleavy, Maria felt more hopeful, although she never let her guard down. And there was no sleeping that first night.

  So after the sun came up, she took a cab to the nearest electronics store and bought a phone, then she called Austin as she walked toward the office. He didn’t answer but she left a simple message. “Nine-one-one, Austin. Nine-one-one.”

  She hadn’t walked a block farther before he called her back. The moment she heard his voice, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a worried tone. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything is wrong,” she said. “Elena is dead.”

  “You’re coming home,” he responded. “Today. I’m making the arrangements.”

  “I can’t,” Maria said glancing over her shoulder. “Not right now.”

  “Why not?” Austin demanded. “It’s too dangerous for you to be there now. Not that it wasn’t before. Tell Tejada you’re sick. Give me the story and I’ll feed it to Snowden. Just get on the plane.”

  “Tejada’s the one who told me about Elena. If I say I’m that grief-stricken he’ll know something’s up. I told him Elena and I weren’t close.”

  “So you’re convinced Tejada’s in on it.”

  “No, actually I don’t think he is.”

  “Good for him. But you have to get away from Molina.”

  “Or I have to expose him.”
>
  “Maria, no. Come on—you don’t know how to do this without getting yourself killed.”

  “I’m going to find my father. He’ll know what to do.”

  “So come home and find him. What’s he going to do from San Francisco anyway?”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to Google the name Jason Elliot.”

  “There have to be a thousand people named Jason Elliot.”

  “I know, but see if you can find one who’s into anything weird or shady. Maybe he’s been arrested—anything like that.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “Somebody Molina mentioned when talking to Schlesinger. He called him Agent Jason Elliot. I’m thinking that may have been a code name.”

  “So it’s not going to do any good to look him up under that name.”

  “Just do it, please.” By then she was at the Catalonia campus. “I have to go. If you find out anything, call me on this phone. Not my cell phone. And no e-mails to my computer.”

  “You’re scaring me,” he said.

  “And don’t say anything to Snowden, okay? I need to do some digging around to make sure he’s not involved in this.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He was still protesting when she hung up and tucked the phone into her pocket.

  Her new office was three times the size of the one she’d used when the Snowden team was there. So big, in fact, the oversized bouquet of irises on the desk looked lost in the space. As she dropped her briefcase beside the desk she studied the room. There were so many places a small rectangle could be hidden she didn’t know where to start.

  The one thing she did notice were the four divots in the carpet where a piece of furniture had been. Probably the desk she’d requested for Elena.

  Okay, she couldn’t go there. No time to break down in grief. Right now the name of the game was to stay busy.

  Maria disregarded the large desktop computer and plugged in her laptop. She did turn on the flat-screen TV that took up most of one wall. Tejada said he kept up with local news and it wouldn’t be a bad idea for her to do that too.

  She turned to CNN, where they were covering a protest somewhere. Obviously not in Spain. She was about to do a channel search when the words at the bottom of the screen read, GRASSROOTS PROTEST AGAINST RAISING THE DEBT LIMIT. A well-coifed reporter was yelling into a microphone but she was still barely audible over the crowd of blue-collar workers waving signs and chanting.

  “They’re saying, ‘The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting stuck with the bill!’” the reporter shouted. “They’re calling out by name congressmen who have argued for spending cuts and then voted to increase the debt limit.”

  In the corner screen the in-studio anchorman asked, “Who’s behind this, Selena? Have you been able to find out?”

  “As far as we can tell it seems to have been fueled—and funded—by the Community Action Committee. And apparently well-funded, Brandon, because these protests have cropped up not only here in Birmingham but in Springfield, Missouri, Huntington, West Virginia, and as far away as Salem, Oregon. They’re saying it’s irresponsible to raise the debt limit.”

  Maria muted the television and went back to her work. Those protests seemed so far away from her life right now. It was important. She knew that. But nobody was being killed over it.

  She turned to the stack of files on the desk—the work that was going to keep her mind occupied until Austin called. And until the San Francisco Secret Service opened.

  The stack seemed manageable, but the handwritten note on top took her by surprise.

  Maria,

  None of this is urgent. Take some time away today if you need to. My home is open to you if you would like to retreat there.

  Tejada

  Her phone vibrated. “Yes?” she said, answering the call.

  “I’ll talk, you just listen,” Austin said. “A Jason Elliot was found dead a couple of days ago in rural Maryland. Out in the middle of nowhere. Apparently a hit-and-run. I am making you a plane reservation for tonight.”

  “Hold off on that, would you?” Maria replied. “I’ll leave soon but I’m not quite ready for that yet.”

  “Maria—”

  “I’ll let you know, promise, ’kay?”

  She hung up before she could hear more and tucked the phone back into her pocket. After fifteen seconds of listening to her heart beat in her ears, she stuffed her laptop back in her briefcase and took it with her as she walked out of her office.

  “I’m Maria Winters,” she said to one of the secretaries.

  “I know—”

  “I’m going to be working off-site today. If Señor Tejada needs me, he can reach me on my cell phone.”

  The woman seemed nonplussed. She nodded and jotted down a note to that effect. Maria tried not to bolt as she left the building.

  She walked for what seemed like miles until she located the library—Biblioteca Sofia Barat. As she hoped, the library had public computers and she sat at one in a back corner. Before she logged on, she fished the temporary phone out of her pocket and consulted her own cell for Snowden’s number. It was time to find out what he knew.

  He answered on the first ring, though he seemed to have to shout over background noise.

  “Bill Snowden,” he said.

  “It’s Maria,” she said. “I need to talk to you—”

  “I didn’t recognize the number. Listen, Maria, it’s going to have to wait. I’m about to go into a meeting.”

  “I just need to ask you—”

  Maria heard a female voice say, “Your table is ready, Mr. Stafford.”

  “Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “It’s urgent,” she stressed.

  But he was gone. Loneliness descended like a shroud.

  “Don’t go down with this, Maria.” She could hear her mother saying—about science projects that had gone awry and friends who had shunned her and teachers who didn’t appreciate her endless questions. She’d even said it the very day she died, when Maria dissolved into tears because Mom couldn’t be there to see her win the math prize.

  “Don’t go down with this, Maria. There will be other times.”

  Maria swallowed hard and turned to the computer. She would check the Jason Elliot story herself. But something about her phone call with Snowden bothered her. It wasn’t like him to have business meetings in crowded public places. It smacked of Molina and Schlesinger.

  She went to Google and typed in Stafford Washington DC. Several names came up, but only one stood out—Michael Stafford. Financial lobbyist.

  And a fairly influential one from what Maria could tell. He represented the interests of high-end financial enterprises, most of which Maria recognized. She grunted to herself as she scanned the list. These were the people those folks on CNN were protesting against. That 1 percent of the population who controlled 99 percent of the wealth. Nice guy, this Michael Stafford. He had even lobbied for the interests of foreign corporations, including Belgium Continental.

  Maria caught her breath. And Catalonia Financial.

  She sat back. Okay, that wasn’t a shock, really. Why wouldn’t Snowden be meeting with someone who was connected with Catalonia? There was probably something about it in those files on her desk.

  But if that was the case, Snowden would’ve said something to her while he had her on the phone. She had expected resistance from him after she knew Tejada had told him she was coming back to Barcelona, but there had been none. Now she wondered why.

  She spent the rest of her allotted time on the library computer digging further into information about Michael Stafford. The only thing that jumped out at her was his previous record of activity every time debt limit debates came up in Congress, and that grabbed her attention merely because of the news report she’d seen that morning.

  The screen wen
t black, signaling that she’d used up her time, and Maria pushed back from the computer. None of it made any sense, and it probably had nothing to do with Elena—or Jason Elliot. She wanted to put Austin on this, too, but after the phone call to Snowden, she wasn’t sure he was safe either.

  Donleavy was probably right—she was getting paranoid. She took a circuitous route back to Catalonia all the while forcing herself not to look over her shoulder.

  Tejada was observing the sunset from his home on the hill when Carlos Molina knocked at the open doorway behind him. Tejada was grateful for the interruption. All day long he’d thought of nothing but Maria, and now he imagined he heard Abaddon warning against temptation.

  The Master was right. As always. But this was not a temptation of the kind his lord had in mind. He didn’t want to be in bed with Maria. He just wanted her company.

  “Carlos,” Tejada said, “what brings you here?” He tried to keep his voice even. “News of the Soler investigation, I hope?”

  Molina shook his head. “Something else. I think you should see this.”

  Tejada followed him into the study, where Molina had his laptop. “This came up today,” Molina said, “from a source Lord Abaddon set up some years ago. The source was told to report any unusual activity to us.”

  “Unusual activity? Where?”

  “A museum in Seville. Former monastery. They said once you saw this you would know what it was.”

  Tejada was mystified but he gave Molina a nod. “Let’s have a look at it then.”

  Molina clicked on a series of still photos taken by a low-tech camera. The images were grainy, but Tejada could see that they were of a man about his age and a woman probably in her thirties. The man’s face was turned away from the camera, though he had a distinctive build with sturdy shoulders, narrow hips, and muscular arms. A physique a man his age would have to work at—something Tejada knew only too well.

  “First of all, who is the woman?” Tejada asked. “And second, why is this important?”

  “We are running her image through several facial-recognition programs,” Molina replied. “I was told by the guard who supplied these that these two were ‘poking their noses where they don’t belong.’”