by Steve Berry
“Do it,” he ordered.
Rócha reversed and bought himself more roadway, then accelerated, skipping the ditch, landing hard on the other side. He worked the wheel left, then right, and they found the same lane between the trees Sagan had used, a dust cloud ahead obscuring their view.
They’d have to move slower.
But they would move.
———
BÉNE WAITED FOR FRANK CLARKE TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF.
The key to the iron gate?
He knew Maroons were zealous about secrets. The entire society had been born in crisis, nurtured through strife, and existed for four centuries almost totally hidden away. They’d been brilliant warriors with a high morale, their entire existence resting on the memory of their greatest deeds, the tales passed from one generation to the next.
An iron gate?
He wasn’t interested in stories.
He wanted retribution.
And the colonel should, too.
“Frank, you have to help me. I’m trying to find that mine. It’s out there, around us, somewhere, in these mountains. You know it is. It’s not a legend. That place, its wealth, belongs to Maroons. It’s ours.”
He was speaking straight, using perfect English, making clear that this was going to be a modern solution to an old problem.
“I’m not so sure about that, Béne.”
“The Spanish stole it from the Tainos. We’re the closest thing left to them. Think what we could do if the legend is true.”
His friend said nothing.
“Why is that symbol there in the ground so important?”
Frank motioned for them to walk inside the museum.
The structure cast the appearance of a shanty, similar to where Felipe lived. It was authentic Maroon except that cut lumber had been substituted for hewn logs. The floor was old-style, a mixture of clay and ash hammered to the consistency of concrete. He’d used the concoction himself on his estate in the barns, work sheds, and coffee-processing facilities. Artifacts lined the outer walls of the barnlike rectangle, all excavated from the nearby mountains. Placards explained their significance. Nothing fancy, just plain and simple. Much like the people being remembered.
They passed wooden tables displaying bowls and utensils. Junges stood upright, the spear’s rusted blades sharp. An abeng occupied a place of prominence, as it should. He’d learned as a boy how to blow the cow’s horn—once the Maroon’s version of the Internet—creating specific notes that translated into messages over long distances. There were also drums, bird traps, cauldrons, even a replica of a healing hut used by each community’s Scientist to treat the sick.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” he said. “You have more on display than before.”
Frank faced him. “You should come more often. Like you say, you are Maroon.”
Which was all a matter of birth. If a parent was Maroon, then so were the children.
“You don’t need me around,” he said.
“Not true, Béne. Nobody here cares that you make money off gambling or whores. We all know, so don’t be ashamed. We’re not. Look where we came from. Who we are.”
They stopped at a wooden stage that occupied a rear corner, upon which sat three drums. He knew music was a big part of the museum’s allure. Some of the local drummers were the best on the island. Shows were a regular occurrence here, drawing both Maroons and tourists. He even owned one of the drums, carved from a stout piece of timber found in the mountains. Frank bent down and slid out a topless wooden crate from beneath the stage. Inside lay a stone, about a third of a meter square, upon which was the same symbol he’d traced outside.
He stared at his friend. “You know of this?”
“Two lines, angled, crossing each other, one with a hook on top. It’s been found in several sacred spots.”
He studied the carving, nearly identical in size and shape to the one from the grave yesterday.
“Would you like to see another?” Frank asked. “In the mountains.”
“Thought you had visitors coming.”
“Someone else will take them. You and I have need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TOM KEPT THE CAR RACING THROUGH THE ORCHARD, THE PATH ahead clear for a good half mile. If Simon decided to follow it would not be as easy since his tires were stirring up a dust cloud in his wake. At least his instincts had proven correct. Simon was not a man to be trusted. And one other thing. When he’d glanced across into the other car he caught the face of the driver—full of flat panes and angular bones, dark hair curly and coiled—one of the men who’d assaulted Alle.
The lawyer’s job had been to retrieve what had been in the coffin. What was the driver here to do? And did that mean Alle was being held nearby? Given the possibilities of the Internet, there was no way to know where she was a prisoner. But one of her captors being here meant that she could be close. Which made sense. Simon would have had to, at some point, produce her. Or had he thought his target was so weak, so beat down, so defeated, that he would have done whatever he was told, few questions asked?
Maybe so.
And that infuriated him.
Right now, he held the cards. His blood flowed. His nerves tingled. He felt like he had years ago, on the scent of a story.
And he liked it.
Ahead, a makeshift bridge of blackened railroad ties spanned an irrigation canal. He knew orange groves were lined with canals to drain rainwater. In the old days they’d supplied the pumps. He’d spent many a summer day cleaning wet ditches of grass and debris.
An idea came to him.
He slowed, crossed the bridge designed for tractors and picking equipment, and stopped on the other side.
He popped open the door and ran back.
The ditch was a good twenty feet across, the ties extralong and supported by a center post. They sat side by side, designed, he knew, to be movable, other center posts spaced along the canal. He’d also spent time moving ties from one location to another.
Dust from the road on the other side of the ditch began to clear.
He heard the growl of an engine.
Coming closer.
The ties, about four inches thick, were arranged two together, four feet apart, just enough width to accommodate tires on either side of a chassis. He ran onto the bridge and dislodged one long pair from their rails, shoving them down into the ditch.
Then the other pair.
His muscles creaked under the strain.
He retreated to his side of the bank and slid two more from their perch.
Twenty feet of air now separated him from Simon.
Dust on the other side cleared.
He saw the car.
———
SIMON KEPT A CLOSE WATCH AHEAD.
Rócha was speeding down the lane between the trees as fast as they could go thanks to the limited visibility. But luckily, it appeared the fog was dissipating.
Then he saw.
Tom Sagan stood on a far bank before a wide ditch. A bare post rose from its center. Rócha had seen it, too, slamming the brakes, tires grabbing the earth. The car slid to a stop, his seat belt holding him in place.
Rócha cursed.
He stared out the windshield.
“Shut off the engine.”
———
TOM RETREATED TO HIS CAR AND FOUND THE GUN. HE KEPT THE driver’s-side door open, both it and the car between him and Simon. Sure, one of them could wade across the ditch, but he’d shoot them dead before they made it to the other side.
Standoff.
Just what he wanted.
A warm breeze flayed his skin, raising gooseflesh across his neck and chest.
“All right,” Simon called out to him. “What do you want?”
“My daughter.”
He stayed low, staring out through the open window frame.
“I realize you have your gun, and you chose your place to take a stand with care. We will not challenge you.”
“I should shoot your friend,” Tom yelled. “He touched my daughter.”
Neither of them moved.
“He was doing his job,” Simon said. “What I pay him to do. My lawyer failed to do hers.”
“I want Alle, then you can have what I have.”
“She’s not here.”
“How did that son of a bitch you pay get here?”
“He flew all last night.”
He was listening.
“She is in Vienna. If you want her, that is where you will have to go.”
Austria?
“That is where I live. But maybe you already know that. After all, you were a reporter.”
“Go screw yourself.”
Simon chuckled. “I assure you, I can still cause your daughter immeasurable pain. And I might just do that, simply for the trouble you have put me to.”
This guy was bluffing and where yesterday Tom might have hesitated, not today. He was Tom Sagan, Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist, no matter what anybody said.
“Then you can kiss what I have goodbye.”
Silence from the other side.
“What do you propose?” Simon finally asked.
“We trade.”
More silence, then Simon said, “I cannot bring her here.”
“How did you plan to release her—if you planned to do it at all?”
“I was hoping electronically would work, with a video of it happening, perhaps a tearful reunion afterward on your own time.”
“That won’t work.”
“Obviously not. What do you propose?”
“We trade in Vienna.”
———
HAD ZACHARIAH HEARD RIGHT?
“You are coming there?” he called out.
“And you, too.”
This might work out. He had a serious problem, considering that Alle Becket was dead. But he might be able to accomplish his objective after all.
“All right. When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, 5:00. St. Stephen’s Cathedral.”
———
TOM MADE HIS CHOICE CAREFULLY. HE’D VISITED VIENNA SEVERAL times, staying there once for nearly a month while covering the war in Sarajevo. He was familiar with the place. He knew the Gothic cathedral, which sat at the heart of the city. Public. Lots of people. A good locale for a switch. He should be safe there. The only trick would be getting away before Simon could make a move.
But he’d figure that out later.
“Five o’clock tomorrow,” he yelled.
“I will be there.”
Simon and the other man retreated to their car and left, a swirl of dust obscuring the view.
He stepped from behind the door and lowered the gun. Great patches of sweat soaked his shirt. His insides boiled like lava and air fled his lungs in harsh gasps. For the first time he noticed the scent of orange blossoms, the trees all around him dotted with white blossoms.
A smell familiar from his childhood.
Such a long time ago.
He raked a hand across the three-day stubble on his face.
None of his misgivings had vanished, but for a guy who was supposed to be dead he felt awfully alive.
———
SIMON WAS PLEASED.
“Find a way out of here,” he told Rócha. “Then straight to the airport.”
He’d call ahead and have his jet ready. He’d come here on a private charter and would return to Austria the same way. He should be leaving with the Levite’s secret, but he’d have it soon enough.
Sagan probably thought himself clever picking St. Stephen’s. True, a public locale should assure both sides an equal footing. Not a bad place to trade a daughter for a packet.
Unless.
He grinned with triumph as his mind played with an idea and the strength of his plan dawned on him.
Tom Sagan had just made a fatal mistake.
And the fact that Alle Becket was dead would not matter.
Her father would soon be joining her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TOM FOUND HIS WAY OUT OF THE ORCHARD THEN ONTO INTERSTATE 4 and west toward Orlando. The weariness that had once made his head heavy and his thoughts sluggish had vanished. Unfortunately, as the adrenaline faded, all he could visualize was the decayed mass that had once been Abiram Sagan. Children should never see their parents that way. He’d been a bull of a man. Tough. Unrelenting. Respected in his community. Honored by his temple. Loved by his granddaughter—
And his son?
He wasn’t ready to go there yet.
Too much had passed between them.
And all because of religion.
Why had it mattered if he wanted to be a Jew or not? Why had that decision led to a disowning? He’d many times wondered about the answers to both questions. Maybe they were lying to his right in the sealed packet?
He wasn’t going to wait any longer.
He exited the highway, found a gas station, and parked. He grabbed the packet and plunged the car key into its exterior, ripping the thick plastic enough that he could peel it away.
Air rushed inside.
Three things were there.
A small plastic envelope sealed with packing tape, a map, and a black leather bag about eight inches tall.
He massaged its exterior.
Whatever lay inside was light, thin, and metallic.
He loosened the straps and removed the object.
A key.
About six inches long, one end decorated with three joined Stars of David. A skeleton key. Named, he knew, for reduction to only its essential parts—mainly a few notches at its end which would operate tumblers for a corresponding lock. You didn’t see many of these anymore. From his childhood he recalled a similar one used to ceremonially open the synagogue. That key had been made of iron. This one was brass. Not a speck of tarnish marred its patina.
He turned his attention to the envelope, opening the car door for some air. Stiff fingers worked the clear tape until he pried an end loose.
Inside lay a tri-folded piece of paper. Typed. Single-spaced.
If you are reading this, son, then you have opened my grave. I am the last of the Levites. Not born of that house, but chosen. The first, Yosef Ben Ha Levy Haivri, Joseph, the son of Levi the Hebrew, was picked by Christopher Columbus. Yosef was known to others of his time as Luis de Torres. He was the first Jew to live in the New World. From de Torres the line has gone unbroken, each Levite selected by the one before. I was named by your Saki. He was chosen by his father. It was my wish that you succeed me. I worked hard when you were a boy to train you in our ways. I wanted you to become someone to whom this secret may be entrusted. When you told me of your decision to leave our faith I was devastated. I was about to reveal to you all that I knew, but your decision made that impossible. You thought me strong and unbending, but really I was fragile and weak. Even worse, pride would not allow me to repair the damage we did to each other. We mourned your baptism as if you had died, which, in a real way to me, you had. I wanted you to be like me, the Levite, but you had no such desire. There are so few Jews, son. We cannot afford to lose any. Alle is now one of us. You may or may not know that. Her conversion pleased me, though I can see how it would have upset her mother. She discovered our faith on her own and freely chose to convert. I never pressured her in any way. She is sincere and devout. But the Levite must be male and I failed to find anyone capable. So I took the secret entrusted to me to the grave. I’m assuming that only you or Alle could ever open my coffin. So now I pass to you what your Saki gave to me.
3. 74. 5. 86. 19
.
What this means I have no idea. Deciphering is not a Levite’s function. We are simply the keeper. Until your grandfather’s time the Levite also held another item. But that was hidden away after the Second World War. The key that is included with this note was given to me by Marc, but he never explained its significa
nce. He lived during a time when Nazis threatened everything Jews hold dear. He told me that he made sure that the secret would never be breached. What we protect, son, is the location of the Jews’ Temple treasure: the golden menorah, the divine table, and the silver trumpets. They were brought to the New World by Columbus, who was a Jew, and hidden away by him. Marc lived when Jews were slaughtered by the millions. Part of a Levite’s duty is to adapt, so he chose to make changes to what had existed before him. He told me little about those changes, saying that it was better that way—only that the golem now protects our secret in a place long sacred to Jews. He also gave me a name. Rabbi Berlinger. Your Saki was a tough man to know. You probably say the same thing about me. But he chose me to keep what remained of the secret and I never questioned him. Son, do the same. Carry on the duty. Keep the line unbroken. You may ask, what does it matter anymore? That is not for the Levite to decide. Our duty is simply to keep the faith of all those who came before us. It is the least we can do considering their sacrifice. Jews have suffered so much for so long. And with what erupts by the day in the Middle East, perhaps your Saki was right in making those changes and keeping them to himself. Know one other thing, son. I meant what I wrote to you in the note with the deed to the house. I never once believed you did anything wrong. I don’t know what happened, but I know it wasn’t that you were a fraud. I’m sorry I could not say it while alive, but I love you.
He read the last line again.
That was the first time he could recall, since he was a little boy, that Abiram had said he loved him.
And the reference to his grandfather, Marc Eden Cross. Saki.
A mangling of Hebrew. Sabba, grandfather. Savta, grandmother. As a toddler he started calling his grandfather saki, and the name stuck to the day the old man died.
He examined the third item, a Michelin road map of Jamaica. He carefully opened its folds and saw the distinct outline of the island with all its topography and roadways. He noticed the copyright. 1952. Then he caught the writing that appeared across the face in faded blue ink. Individual numbers. He did a quick count. Maybe a hundred or more written from one coast to another.
