The Columbus Affair: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  “I only know your father didn’t deserve that crap yesterday. He thinks you’re in danger. Every decision he’s about to make is based on that lie.”

  “All we wanted him to do was sign papers. He would have never done that by me simply asking.”

  “What’s the we crap? You’re part of whatever it is Simon is doing?”

  “You speak like it’s a crime.”

  “I assure you, this is not about signing some papers. Simon wanted you dead. He’s going to want your father dead, too. That’s why I have a man there.”

  This was all so hard to believe.

  “Doesn’t it bother you,” Brian asked, “that your father was about to kill himself last night?”

  “Of course it does. What I did stopped him.”

  Brian looked incredulous. “And that’s how you justify it? You had no idea what he was about to do. You just wanted to help Simon any way you could.”

  She resented his tone and accusations.

  Her father appeared on the screen, rushing outside, holding what appeared to be a blue-and-white box in his right hand and a packet in his left, which she recognized. The same one she’d placed in the coffin.

  “You see that,” a voice said through the computer.

  “Oh, yeah,” Brian said. “Get ready to move.”

  ———

  ZACHARIAH HAD WAITED LONG ENOUGH. THIRTY MINUTES WAS plenty of time. What was taking so long? He and Rócha were parked a kilometer away, far enough that no one would know they were there, but close enough to act. He’d instructed the lawyer that once she held the packet she was to provide Sagan with a telephone number for a disposable phone he’d bought yesterday that would allow a call to lure the former journalist to where Rócha could deal with him.

  Hopefully, Sagan would save them all the trouble and kill himself. That was why he’d returned the gun. A suicide would make things so much easier. He should have kept Alle Becket alive at least until today, but with Brian Jamison in Vienna, no chances could be taken. The last thing he needed was for Béne Rowe to know any more of his business. He’d told the Jamaican only what had been absolutely necessary, and he had to keep it that way. He’d not come this far to have everything snatched away. Especially by a Caribbean hood only interested in some mythical gold.

  His phone rang.

  “Sagan took the packet and left,” the female voice said.

  “And you allowed him?”

  “How was I to stop him?”

  Useless. “Did you give him the phone number?”

  “There was no time. He said he would contact you through me.”

  “When he does, give him the number.”

  He ended the call and faced Rócha.

  “Seems Mr. Sagan has decided to grow a backbone. He should be along here shortly. Take care of him before he drives too far.”

  ———

  ALLE WATCHED AS HER FATHER RAN TOWARD A CAR PARKED IN the graveled lot just beyond the outer brick wall.

  “Tell me the layout there,” Brian said.

  She stared at him.

  “The layout,” he said, voice rising. “The road in and out. Where does it go? What’s on it?”

  She searched her memory. “The cemetery sits about three miles off the highway. There’s a paved road to it that passes farms and orange trees. A few lakes parallel the road for a while.”

  “Houses?”

  She shook her head. “Not many. Pretty lonely out there. That’s why the cemetery is there.”

  “You get all that?” Brian asked to the computer.

  “I’m on it.”

  Her father was in his car, backing out and leaving. The woman from earlier appeared at the doorway with a cell phone in hand.

  “You know who she’s calling,” Brian said to the computer. “Follow him.”

  Movement on the screen confirmed that the car with the camera was leaving its position.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “Your father is trying to save your hide. He probably figures that keeping whatever he was holding made more sense than just turning it over. And he’s right. But he has a problem. Rócha’s there.”

  Her heart pounded.

  Which surprised her.

  “He took your flight last night. Your father’s in a whole lot of crap.”

  ———

  TOM SPED AWAY FROM THE CEMETERY.

  He’d made his escape.

  “Now I take those secrets with me to my grave.”

  His father had meant that literally and what lay on the passenger’s seat was apparently those secrets. He wanted to pierce the vacuum bag and see for himself, but not now. He had to get out of here. He wheeled the car away from the cemetery and caught site of the lawyer leaving the building.

  Making a call.

  To Simon?

  Who else.

  He’d wait an hour or so, then make contact through the lawyer. He didn’t own a cell phone. No need for one. Who’d call him? So he’d find a phone somewhere. Going back to his house was not an option since Simon surely knew where he lived.

  He sped down the drive between groves of live oaks. Palmetto scrubs hugged the shoulder. The putrid smell of death lingered in his nostrils. At the highway he turned left and headed for Mount Dora, the asphalt winding a path through orange country. Most central Florida orchards were gone, growers long ago switching to squash, cabbage, lettuce, or strawberries.

  Here, though, citrus remained.

  In his rearview mirror he saw a car.

  Coming fast.

  ———

  ZACHARIAH SAT IN THE PASSENGER’S SEAT AS RÓCHA DROVE. They were closing in on Tom Sagan. What an unexpected irritation. He’d not anticipated resistance. The exchange should have been made, Sagan accepting that there was little he could do but cooperate. Instead, this fool had decided to change the rules.

  “We must stop him before he finds the next highway,” he told Rócha.

  They were less than five hundred meters away.

  “Force him from the road into the fields.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BÉNE STEPPED FROM HIS TRUCK AND WALKED TOWARD THE MUSEUM’S entrance. He’d come alone. He never brought men or guns here. No need. The tiny village of Charles Town sat in the Buff Bay River valley, a peaceful notch a few kilometers south from Jamaica’s north shore. After the Maroons Windward sect, led by Captain Quao, defeated the British in 1793, a signed peace treaty between former slaves and masters granted 1,000 acres of land to the Charles Town Maroons, tax-free, in perpetuity. About 1,200 Maroons still lived on that land, in the shadows of the mountains, beside the river, struggling with high unemployment and continual impoverishment. Farming remained their main source of income, tiny mountainside tracts leased from absentee owners that produced coffee, nutmeg, and charcoal. But there was also a block-making and furniture shop, a school, and a few rum bars.

  He knew all of the prominent families. Dean, Duncan, Irving, Hartley, Shackleford. Most sat on the Council of Elders. Frank Clarke served as the Maroon colonel, elected three years ago to be in charge of the community.

  Béne liked the colonel, an educated man full of expertise and caution. A graduate of the University of the West Indies, born nearby, Clarke worked in the United States for three decades as a stockbroker before rediscovering himself and returning home to Charles Town. He now championed causes islandwide, becoming as close to a national spokesperson as the Maroons ever had.

  “Ah, Béne, yuh noh dead yet?” Clarke called out.

  He smiled at the patois way of asking how have you been?

  “Not dead yet, my friend. But not for the lack of trying.”

  Frank grinned. He was pushing seventy, but with only a dusting of gray in his short brown locks. Little fat adorned his lanky frame. He wore thick glasses with round metal-rimmed lenses that provided a singularly intense look to his dark eyes. He was dressed in jeans shredded at both knees and a dirty black shirt that hung shirttail out. One hand held
a rusted machet.

  “You working today?” Béne asked, pointing to the old clothes.

  “Taking some people up the mountain. To the ruins. Going to teach them the old ways.”

  Frank Clarke was passionate about Maroon history. He’d been taught by a great-grandaunt who’d been a local chieftain. Last year Clarke had brought life to that heritage by starting the Charles Town Maroon Museum. Béne had helped with money for the construction of a building, erected in the old style of hewn timber pilings, tin sides, and a thatched roof.

  “How’s all this doing?” he asked.

  He’d not visited in a few months.

  “We get people. Not many, but some. The tour guides bring ’em. Slow and steady. Every dollar we make helps keep the place open.”

  Colonels headed the various Maroon communities islandwide. He knew they all met at least once a month in a loose form of Parliament. Maroon land was not subject to Jamaican taxation or much regulation. They governed themselves, treaties from long ago assuring that independence.

  He liked coming here, discussing the old ways, and he’d learned many things about the lost mine from Frank Clarke.

  A Taino legend told the story of two caves. One called Amayauna, meaning “of no importance.” The other, Cacibajagua, “of great importance.” Neither had ever been found. Part of the tale, which Maroons adopted as their own, included how the Tainos showed Columbus a place in the mountains, a cave, where veins of gold ran two inches wide. But after 500 years of searching no trace of any mine had ever been found. A myth? Maybe not. Something Tre Halliburton mentioned yesterday had tugged at his brain all night.

  “The Columbus family’s hold on the island was gone. The Spanish had regained control, and the Inquisition would shortly arrive. No longer would anyone protect Jamaican Jews. Thankfully, the community had taken precautions, secreting away its wealth in a location known only to a man identified as the Levite.”

  So he’d driven across the mountains from his estate on the south slope to here, on the north, to see a man with knowledge.

  “I need to know more about the mine,” he said to Clarke.

  “You still lookin’? Can’t shake it?”

  “Not now.”

  Frank once told him about another legend. A cave supposedly guarded by an iron gate that no Maroon had ever been able to penetrate. They called it Cacibajagua, place of importance, same as the Tainos. Many had tried to pass through the gate, all had failed. He realized Maroons, like the Tainos, lived by their stories. The more fantastical the better. Jamaicans liked to say how proud they were of Maroons, but few knew anything about them. Even stranger, Maroons knew little about themselves. Like the Tainos, Maroons left no written history, no edifices, nothing to remember them by except songs, proverbs, place-names, and trails in the forest. His hope was that this old story might be grounded in some fact.

  So he asked, “The Jews. How were they with the Maroons?”

  This was a subject they’d never broached, but now he wanted to know.

  “The Jews were different,” Frank said. “Not really Spanish or English. Not African. Not Taino. But they were persecuted, as we were. Sure, they owned most of the businesses and made money, but they weren’t equals with the Spanish or English. They were beat down. Many laws were passed against them. Did you know that Jews could only own two slaves, no more. Unless they owned a plantation, and that was rare. And they could only have other Jews as indentured servants.”

  No, he’d not known that.

  “No laws, though, stopped Jews from doing business with slaves,” Frank said. “They sold goods to ’em and white people hated that. They said it encouraged slaves to steal from masters, since Jews gave ’em a place to spend the money. That led to a lot of bad feeling toward them. Jews also sold Maroons ammunition. That was the one thing we could never make on our own. Guns we stole off dead British soldiers, ammunition had to be bought.”

  “You never told me any of this before.”

  “Béne, there’s a lot you’ve never asked about.”

  “Where is this place of the iron gate?”

  Frank smiled. “There are things I can’t speak of.”

  “I’m Maroon.”

  “That you are. So you should know that there are things we don’t speak of.”

  “Then tell me more about the Jews.”

  The colonel apprised him with a skeptical eye. “Like I said, they sold Maroons powder and shot when we fought the English. But they also sold to the English. Bad feelings came from that on both sides. Colored people acquired full rights here in 1830. After that, the Jews were the only free men without the right to vote. That didn’t come until years later, and it was the freed colored who fought against Jewish equality for so long.” He paused. “Always thought that strange. But the Jews can’t be faulted. They were businesspeople. They feared the English would lose tolerance and seize their property, expelling them. So they played both sides.”

  He relieved Clarke of his machet and used the blade to sketch in the dirt.

  “What is that?” Béne asked his friend.

  Only bird twitters and humming insects disturbed the peaceful morning.

  “Where did you see this?”

  The words came thin, rasping, and harsh.

  “What is it?”

  Frank stared at him.

  “The key to the iron gate.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ALLE STARED AT THE VIDEO MONITOR AS THE CAR SPED DOWN A familiar highway. Orange groves stretched for miles on either side, between horse farms and treed hillocks.

  “What is your man going to do?” she said.

  “Good question,” Brian said.

  “There’s a car on Sagan’s tail,” the voice from the computer said. “Closing fast.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Behind that car. But back.”

  “There’s no need to be subtle anymore. Help him. You know who’s on his tail.”

  Brian’s eyes confirmed what she already knew.

  Zachariah and Rócha.

  A lump formed in her throat that she found hard to swallow. Never had she considered the possibility that her father might be harmed.

  Yet here it was.

  The resolution on the dashboard camera was not good enough for them to see far ahead and road vibrations caused the image to constantly shift.

  What was her father doing? Just give them what they want.

  This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

  “Simon is on him,” the voice from the computer said.

  ———

  ZACHARIAH ROLLED DOWN HIS WINDOW AS RÓCHA BROUGHT the car parallel to Sagan’s, in the opposite lane. No cars were coming their way. Sagan’s hands were tight on the wheel, face tense. At first he ignored them, then he finally glanced over.

  “Stop the car,” Zachariah yelled.

  Sagan shook his head.

  ———

  TOM HAD NEVER DRIVEN A CAR THIS FAST BEFORE. HE WAS PUSHING ninety. Thankfully, this road was a straight shot with few curves. His gaze darted left and right and all he could see was orange trees, their verdant leaves thick with spring blossoms. As a kid he’d worked the Lake County fields during the summer and fall, earning extra money. Back then several local families, all friends, owned the largest orchards. He knew where he was and what lay around him. One rule any good reporter quickly mastered was to learn the lay of the land.

  The car behind him veered left in the opposite lane and sped up beside him.

  Simon.

  Telling him to pull over.

  There was no evading the directness of his gaze, the eyes the same—cold and confident—so he reached across to the other seat, grabbed the box with his gun, and laid it on his lap.

  Simon was motioning again for him to stop.

  His hands grabbed the box and ripped it open.

  He regripped the wheel as his left hand found the gun and swung it out the window.

  ———

  “S
LOW DOWN,” ZACHARIAH SCREAMED.

  Sagan was pointing a gun directly at him.

  Rócha slammed on the brakes, decelerating enough for Sagan’s car to race away.

  The damn fool had wanted to shoot him.

  “Go,” he ordered. “Force him off the highway.”

  ———

  TOM WAS GLAD HE HADN’T BEEN REQUIRED TO PULL THE TRIGGER. He’d never actually fired a gun, and shooting one while driving ninety miles an hour had not seemed the best way to start.

  But he’d been prepared to do it.

  He’d deal with Zachariah Simon, but on his own terms. What did he have to lose? He doubted Simon would hurt Alle, not until he had what he was after. And Tom could not care less about himself. He should already be dead, so any additional time he spent breathing was simply a bonus. Strange, though, how, in the heat of this chase, he hadn’t thought about dying. All he wanted to know was that Alle would be okay. And the sealed package lying on the passenger’s seat should ensure that would happen.

  Something slammed into his bumper, jarring the steering wheel.

  He regained control and held the front tires straight. He was about to run out of highway, as this county road would dead-end into another more heavily traveled state route.

  Another pop to the bumper.

  Simon was slamming into him from behind, staying away from any bullets. He watched in his rearview mirror as Simon’s vehicle dropped back, then sped toward him, this time veering left into the other lane and crashing into his car’s side. He struggled to hold the vehicle on the road, then decided What the hell. Go for it. One turn to the right and the front tires leaped from the pavement, his acceleration sending him across a narrow drainage ditch that paralleled the road and into an orange grove.

  The front end pounded the earth, then rebounded, the rear tires driving him ahead. He jammed his right foot onto the brake, slowed, then spun onto a dirt lane between a long row of trees.

  And raced ahead.

  ———

  SIMON WAS IMPRESSED.

  Quite a maneuver.

  Tom Sagan was proving a challenge.

  Rócha stopped the car, wheeled around, and backtracked to where Sagan had jumped.