The Columbus Code

by mike Evans

  “Maria is your daughter.”

  Winters nodded. “She was ten then.”

  “Your wife’s last thoughts were of her.”

  Winters tried to smile. “No, her last thoughts were that she’d forgotten to take something out of the freezer for dinner so we were going to have to eat out again. She said she was sorry about that.”

  Sophia pressed her hand to her mouth and wept even harder.

  “We’d been talking about money the night before and I was going on about how much we were spending in restaurants. The next morning I was sitting at our dining room table without her and wishing we had eaten out every night.”

  Sophia pulled her fingers from her lips. “Guilt is such a painful part of grief.”

  “My office was in the same building, but I was out in the field that day.” He looked at Sophia. “Why did she die and not me?” Winters clenched his fists. “That’s why I don’t talk about this . . . because I can’t stand it.”

  “If you had both died, what would have happened to your daughter?”

  “She might have been better off living with my mother. I botched the whole thing after Anne was gone. I’m not much of a father.” Winters bent his head toward Sophia. “I really can’t go there. My daughter—I can’t—”

  “You do not have to. But thank you.”

  “For dragging you through my stuff?”

  “For trusting me with your grief.”

  “My grief,” Winters said. “This all happened fourteen years ago—you’d think I’d be over it by now.”

  “No,” Sophia said. “Some things go so deep they become a part of who you are. I know this.” She put her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. “But that is for another time.”

  Winters pulled away and looked her in the eye. ““That’s the thing. I want there to be another time, which is why I’m going to get you to a safe place and then figure out what to do with the journal.”

  “Well, my safe place is with Jacob Hirsch. In Jerusalem.”

  Winters sighed. “I don’t think you can use ‘safe’ and ‘Jerusalem’ in the same sentence.”

  She just looked at him.

  “And if we start calling up airlines, making plane reservations, using credit cards, and going through customs we’ll—”

  “I can make that simple.”

  “How?”

  “I have a friend.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “He works for a company. They make frequent trips to Jerusalem in the company’s cargo plane. I know he will take us, without entanglements.”

  Winters looked skeptical. “We’re going to stow away on a cargo plane? This is just too risky, Sophia.”

  “It is not as risky as sitting here arguing. Let me ask you this again, Agent Winters. Do you have a better plan?”

  “I don’t know. I just—”

  “As I thought,” she said as she reached for the phone. “I’ll make some calls.”

  As Donleavy instructed, Maria activated the bug in Tejada’s office, then spent the next several hours listening to conversations from the office. Finally, though, she pulled the earbud from her ear in frustration. Why hadn’t she worked on her Spanish when Snowden first told her she was coming to Barcelona? And why did it surprise her that Tejada and everyone else who came into his office never spoke English?

  She turned off the laptop and tucked it into her briefcase. The one thing she’d been able to translate was that Molina was meeting someone for dinner at Restaurante Barceloneta. Seemed like a great place for her to eat too.

  Just off the waterfront, the Barceloneta was a typical beach café with an odd assortment of tables and chairs with fishnets and glass buoys hanging on the walls for decoration. Windows along the back wall overlooked the water and afforded a view of the coastline. Maria had been there once for lunch with Elena on a Saturday afternoon when it was crowded with camera-toting tourists and sunbathers brushing sand from their skin. The food made up for the lack of ambience.

  At night, however, it felt sinister. The interior lighting was dimmed and the men—there didn’t seem to be any women—were unsavory characters.

  As Maria lingered near the hostess station letting her eyes adjust to the light, she noticed Molina was not there. That didn’t surprise her. She couldn’t imagine him trolling a place like this.

  The hostess asked her in Spanish if she would like a table. Maria had practiced saying I’m waiting for a friend, though from the condescending smile on the woman’s face, she knew she’d mangled it somehow. The woman apparently understood enough to lead Maria to a table several rows from the windows, which was perfect. She was out of sight from the doorway but had a view of the entire room.

  A man at the bar seemed to size her up, so she concentrated on the menu. She was reading the shrimp options for the fifth time when she caught sight of the hostess leading Molina to a table in the opposite corner.

  Please sit with your back to me, Maria thought to herself. If he didn’t, she would have to pretend she’d come to check out the guys at the bar and they were only slightly less revolting than he was.

  But Molina didn’t sit down at all. He stood talking to an olive-skinned man who had apparently been waiting for him. Maria slipped her smartphone from her bag and turned off the camera flash. The man looked up as he listened to Molina and Maria quickly snapped his picture.

  They talked a while longer, then the man at the table stood and followed Molina toward the kitchen. Okay, that was weird. So weird, in fact, that Maria dropped her phone in her bag and left the table. The leech at the bar muttered something in Spanish as she passed by, but the leering look told her she didn’t really want to know what he said. She ignored him and caught the hostess’ attention to ask for a cab.

  When Tejada’s cell phone rang, he glanced at the screen to check the number, then forced himself not to answer. He took a drag from his cigar and exhaled smoke in a long, winding curl above his head. All day he had denied to himself that he was waiting for Maria’s call, despite the fact that every time the phone rang he looked eagerly at the screen, hoping to see the number he had memorized. Now that she was reaching out, he wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not after Molina had brought him the news Tejada would give his life not to know.

  Molina was good at what he did and so was his staff. Working around the clock, they had located Sophia Conte via her cell phone signal, but by the time they reached her location, she was boarding a private cargo plane at Pamplona Airport with the same man who’d accompanied her to the museum. Too late to stop the flight, they had determined the destination—Jerusalem—and they were able to photograph the man’s face.

  “We have an ID for him,” Molina had said. “His name is John Winters. He’s an agent with the American Secret Service.”

  “Winters,” Tejada said slowly. “Not—”

  “Yes,” Molina nodded. “The same.”

  “Husband?”

  “Father.”

  Tejada felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Moments later, however, that sense of betrayal turned to anger. “Why are we just now learning of this?”

  Molina had an indignant look, which made Tejada even angrier.

  “Was she not vetted before she came here?”

  “Your friend Mr. Snowden assured us he had done all of that with his employees.”

  Now, after Tejada had sent Molina to make arrangements, after hours thinking of what to do next, he could only blow smoke from the cigar and watch it fade away.

  Did Maria come back to Barcelona to further her ambitions with Snowden’s law firm? Or was that a cover? Was she working for her father? Spying on Tejada? Gathering information?

  About what?

  Tejada snuffed out the cigar in the marble ashtray that sat near his elbow.

  The US Secret Service was part of Homeland Security. What would they want with antique Spanish documents? Tejada didn’t know what those documents were and at
this point he was averse to going to Abaddon with that question. Abaddon knew too much already.

  Tejada glanced at the cell phone screen and saw that Maria had left a message. He had invited her to come to use his home as a place of retreat, then reiterated that invitation just yesterday. The call just then was probably to arrange that, and if he refused her now she would be suspicious . . . unless she was not involved with her father. Unless it was a mere coincidence that he was in Spain, wreaking havoc on its artifacts at the same time his daughter was wreaking havoc on Tejada’s heart. The heart he was supposed to keep only for the Brotherhood. For the plan. For Abaddon.

  Tejada laid the phone in his lap and closed his eyes. He needed to pull himself together. Handle this the way he would any other situation. Gather intelligence. Analyze it. Take the necessary action, whatever that might be.

  Only this time, he wouldn’t use Molina. This time he would have to do it himself.

  Finally, he picked up the phone and tapped Maria’s number.

  Winters didn’t expect to sleep that night, but the absence of rest the two nights before and the several-steps-lower-than-coach accommodations on the cargo plane had left him too wiped out to do anything but sleep. He and Sophia arrived at the hotel south of Jerusalem’s city center at 3 a.m. Even though he gave her the bed and he crashed on the floor, he got five solid dreamless hours. Which meant his head was clearer and this whole idea seemed more absurd than ever before.

  On the other hand, Sophia, who was up and ready, seemed visibly calmer than when they’d left Pamplona Airport. Though her eyes shone, she moved without hurry.

  Yeah, Winters thought, nothing said “safe” like Palestinian terrorists and car bombs. “I need coffee,” he groaned.

  “Jacob will have something wonderful for us,” she said. “He is sending his driver to pick us up.”

  “A college professor can afford a driver? What do they pay them over here?”

  “It is a necessity for Dr. Hirsch. He is unable to drive—he has a condition that causes seizures.”

  Professor Hirsch’s home was in the Abu Tor neighborhood, which Winters knew to be relatively safe. Still he kept his eye on the surrounding vehicles and checked the rooftops of the buildings they passed. It wasn’t as though something suspicious would necessarily stand out—everything looked dangerous to him.

  Hirsch met them at the door with a German shepherd at his side. He and the dog, who was introduced as Aasim, had similar handsome features—long noses and warm, discerning eyes.

  “Shalom,” he said. “Come inside.”

  He led the way to a high-ceilinged sitting area where, as Sophia predicted, he had a tray waiting for them—coffee and a bakery item that Sophia informed him was challah. Winters had no appetite. The sooner he could make sure Sophia would be safe here, the sooner he could get back to Spain and find out what was going on. The thought of leaving her at all took away even his desire for coffee.

  When the driver—who apparently doubled as a houseboy—took away the tray, Winters stood by the arched window and surveyed the safety features of the house. He quickly determined that other than the German shepherd, there weren’t many.

  Meanwhile, Sophia and Hirsch leaned their heads together over the journal.

  “Ah, the blood moon eclipses,” Hirsch said. “That term means more when tied to our festivals.” He looked reverently at the journal that lay open on the table. “The fact that he mentions it in his private writings is further evidence of what so many of my colleagues and I believe.”

  “That he was indeed Jewish,” Sophia said.

  Winters turned to face them. “Maybe you can clear something up for me, Professor,” he said.

  “I hope I can.”

  “Columbus says in the prophecies that there had to be one final crusade to recapture the Holy Land before Jesus would return, and one of the reasons for his first voyage was to find enough gold to finance that crusade.”

  Hirsch gave him an approving nod.

  “But if he was a Jew, why facilitate Jesus’ return?”

  “Excellent question,” Hirsch noted. “We believe that may have been a cover for his real purpose. Or he saw himself as racially a Jew, but spiritually a believer in Christianity.” His eyes fell on the journal again. “Hopefully further study of these writings will tell us more.”

  “Then we’ve brought them to the right place.” Winters moved from the window to sit on the edge of the couch, close to Hirsch and Sophia. “I’m concerned about your safety, yours and Sophia’s. These people who are after the journal—whoever they are—they’re desperate enough to kill for it.”

  Sophia petted Aasim’s head. “No one knows we’re here. And as soon as Jacob has culled whatever he can from this, he will see that the journals are put in the right hands.”

  “Hands more capable than those of our poor departed monk,” Hirsch said.

  “I’m sure that sooner or later these people would have stormed in there and found the journal anyway.”

  “No,” she said. “We led that man there. If they’d known the journal was there, they would have taken it long ago.”

  “Let us not borrow trouble from yesterday,” Hirsch said. “I am interested in the signature here, at the end.” He gestured toward journal.

  Winters looked longingly at the door, but there was no cutting off Hirsch without insulting both him and Sophia. He suppressed a groan and nodded.

  “You see here,” Hirsch said, pointing to the symbols arranged in a triangle with dots and letters. “This is a formation often found on gravestones in Jewish cemeteries. Columbus ordered his heirs to use that same signature in perpetuity.”

  “What does it mean?” Sophia asked.

  “It is a symbol for the Kaddish—a prayer of blessing and thanksgiving often said at funerals.” He looked over at Sophia. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Of course,” she replied graciously.

  Hirsch stood, spread his arms apart, palms turned upward, and looked to the ceiling, then began in a low rich voice. “May the great name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which He has created according to His will. May His kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future; and say, Amen.”

  Sophia murmured an amen. Winters was about to do the same when Hirsch continued. “May His great name be blessed, forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored, elevated, and lauded be the name of the Holy One. Blessed is He above and beyond any blessings and hymns, praises and consolations which are uttered in the world; and say, Amen.”

  Winters murmured it this time.

  “May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life upon us and upon all Israel; and say, Amen.”

  Winters breathed the final amen.

  Hirsch lowered his arms and rested his hands at his sides, as if the blessing had taken all of his energy. “By telling his heirs to use that signature forever, with those symbols,” he said, “Columbus was in effect instructing them to pray that blessing over him and his descendants.”

  Sophia held a finger over a page in the journal. “What about these ‘four levels,’ Jacob? What is this about?”

  “It’s referring to the basic notion of Kabbalah, which teaches that there are four levels of reality—the obvious, the allegorical, the imaginative, and the inner esoteric meaning. In this case, it would indicate the lunar eclipse, solar eclipse, and the two Jewish festivals of Passover and Sukkot. When all four of those occur in order, an evil one will rise to power.”

  Sophia pulled out her iPad to take notes.

  “I won’t give you a crash course in Kabbalah,” Hirsch said. “But in essence it is based on the belief that nothing is as it appears on the surface. There are always four meanings behind everything, with the obvious being the least important and the esoteric the most important.” He nodded toward the journal. “What Columbus says he was told by Cordovero is
just this kind of reasoning. However—”

  “John does not like ‘however,’” Sophia said, interrupting.

  “Let’s hear it anyway,” Winters said.

  Hirsch cleared his throat. “I find it hard to believe that Moses Cordovero told him this—about the rise of the evil one and the righteous one vanquishing him forever—as the truth. If he did put it the way it’s written here, he did so only because he didn’t fully trust Columbus.”

  Winters wondered why anyone would.

  “If Columbus was Jewish,” Hirsch continued, “and it seems obvious now that he was, he was only half Jew. His mother was Jewish but his father was Christian. Jewish business leaders might have dealt with him for commercial reasons, but on religious and philosophical issues they would have been far more circumspect.”

  “Are you saying—the journal really isn’t that valuable?” Winters asked. “I mean, in terms of truth?”

  Hirsch shook his head. “What he wrote here is accurate down to the part about the tetrads.” He pointed again to the journal. “The tetrad he experienced while on his first voyage was, in fact, the first tetrad following the destruction of the Temple.”

  “Truly, Jacob?” Sophia questioned.

  “Truly,” Hirsch replied. “The evil one doesn’t arise to oppose the fulfillment on the first tetrad. That is the part that Columbus has wrong. The evil one arises when the four levels converge—after the fourth tetrad.”

  “So . . . did the other tetrads actually occur?” Winters asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Hirsch replied. “We’ve had three so far. All of them associated with the Passover and the Feast of the Tabernacles. The first occurred between 1493 and 1494, just as Columbus was making his discoveries. It announced the first part of the prophecy—a time of tears and tribulation for the Jews. These dates are well known. You can find them on NASA’s website.”