by Steve Berry
This was what she’d spent the past two years of her life studying. What her grandfather had sparked inside her long ago. What Zachariah Simon had seemed so interested in understanding.
“The Jews discovered America,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Now, that would change things up some.”
“On Columbus’ first voyage to the New World,” she said, “there were 87 men on those three ships. Contrary to Hollywood’s version, not a single priest was included. Not one. But there was a Hebrew translator on board. A man named de Torres, who was probably the first person ashore that day in 1492. Columbus brought a Hebrew translator for a reason. He thought he was sailing to India and Asia, to a place where Jews lived in safety. So he had to be able to communicate with them. Also, in the hold of the Santa María were three crates that held the Temple treasure. When de Santangel financed the voyage, he also set a secret condition with Columbus. ‘Take our treasures with you and hide them away. Spain is no longer safe.’ ”
“So that treasure is somewhere in the Caribbean?” Brian said.
“Most likely on Jamaica. The Columbus family controlled that island for 150 years. Zachariah said his family has searched for generations and learned as much as they could. But the Levite knows it all, and my grandfather was that man.”
Brian stood silent for a few moments, clearly thinking.
She wondered. Was he friend? Or foe?
Hard to say.
“Do you want to help your father?”
“I don’t want to see him hurt.”
She meant that.
“What can I do?”
“Maybe a whole lot.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TOM RECLINED THE SEAT AS FAR AS IT WOULD GO, TRYING TO find comfort in hopes of a little sleep. He’d made it to New York and boarded the overnight flight to London without a problem. They’d left the gate right at 8:00 P.M. and would arrive, according to the pilot, about half an hour early. That would help with his connection to Bratislava, which was tight. Every seat in coach was full, the cabin lights dimmed, the plane settling down after the meal service. Some were watching movies or listening to music, others reading.
He was thinking.
On the way to the Jacksonville airport he’d passed a branch of the city library system. He had time, so he’d made use of one of their computers, surfing the Internet for thirty minutes, learning what he could about Zachariah Simon.
The man was sixty years old, born to old money. A bachelor who lived a secluded life. Little was known about him except for the philanthropic efforts of his several foundations. The family had always been a huge supporter of Israel, and archived newspaper articles described how Simon’s father contributed money to the formation of a Jewish state. Nothing existed to say that Zachariah Simon had ever involved himself in Middle Eastern politics, and he could not recall the name ever being mentioned during his time there. Simon owned an estate in Austria, outside Vienna, that hosted a Zionist gathering each year to raise money for his foundations. Nothing political, more a social event. The man clearly kept things close to his vest, perhaps recognizing that the world had changed. So much could be learned about someone now with just a few clicks of a mouse or some taps on a screen. If you didn’t want anyone to know your business, then you had to stay out of cyber-friendly media.
Which Simon did.
The note from Abiram’s grave, the Jamaican map, and the key lay on the tray table before him, all illuminated by the overhead lamp like a spotlight on a stage. He lifted the key and studied the three Stars of David that formed one end. What did it open? He twirled it around, the brass catching the light with sharp reflections. He hadn’t examined it closely in the car, and now something on the stem caught his eye. Tiny. Engraved. He brought the metal closer and studied what was there.
He recognized the first two markings. Hebrew letters.
Po nikbar. Here lies.
The same as on his father’s tombstone. But those letters adorned many Hebrew graves. The third marking he did not know. An X, one stem hooked. He shook his head. What did it all mean?
The woman next to him had dozed off beneath a blanket. More people around him were heading to sleep.
He should, too.
He’d made a few precautionary preparations while in the library, a printer available for a fee. But there would have to be more. What would he do tomorrow at St. Stephen’s?
Good question.
He needed an answer.
And fast.
———
BÉNE CHECKED HIS WATCH. 9:30 P.M. IN JAMAICA MEANT 3:30 A.M. tomorrow in Vienna.
“I had no choice,” he told Brian through the phone. “She had to be bartered.” He’d just informed Jamison about the conversation with Zachariah Simon in which he’d revealed that Alle Becket was still alive.
“You compromised your man inside,” Brian said from Vienna.
“I’ve already told him to disappear. Simon and his guard dog are on a plane headed home. My man is gone from the residence.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done,” Brian said, his voice rising. “We worked with you because you did have a man inside Simon’s business.”
And that was true.
Brian Jamison had appeared at his estate, nearly a year ago, unannounced. He was an American intelligence agent, working for a unit called the Magellan Billet, come to ask questions about what Zachariah Simon was doing in Jamaica. Béne had offered him coffee and cake and told him nothing. Jamison returned three days later, this time with a thick file that contained more information on Béne’s illegal activities than he thought could be amassed in so short a time.
“Actually, this was all done before I came the first time,” Brian said. “My superior wanted to give you a chance to work with us on your own.”
He chuckled. “Like I would.”
Brian pointed a finger at him and joined in the laughter. “That’s exactly what I told her. But she’s the boss, so I had to do what she said. Thankfully, you said no, so now we get to do this my way.”
Jamison then made clear that there was more than enough evidence in the file to support a variety of felonies that Jamaica, the United States, several South American nations, or most of the Caribbean could prosecute. Nearly all of those jurisdictions also allowed civil forfeiture of property upon conviction, which meant all of the Rowe wealth could be seized. Of course, that unpleasantness might be avoided if Béne was willing to do one simple thing.
Work with them.
“Would you have anything to offer?” Brian asked him.
“How about a source directly inside Simon’s camp.”
Jamison had been introduced to Simon as Béne’s chief lieutenant, and a point was made to underscore their close relationship. Brian had even interacted with Simon and his people twice in Jamaica, including Simon’s own lieutenant, Rócha. His appearance in Vienna had certainly spooked the Simon. Enough that Alle Becket’s death had been ordered. Béne knew that when he revealed that the young woman was still alive, the Americans would not like it. But what did he care? Liking things was never part of their bargain.
“If I had not told the Simon about her,” he made clear, “this would be over. He has no further use of me.”
The silent pause signaled that Jamison knew that to be true. Finally, Brian asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Make her available tomorrow for the trade. He still thinks you work for me. I didn’t sell you out.”
“Béne, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Simon is a dangerous man, into things way beyond finding some lost gold mine. I’ve come to realize that there’s something big happening here.”
“I don’t suppose you’d share those thoughts?”
“Get real.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t think so. But know this. Finding that lost mine is still important to him. I heard it in his voice. Lucky for you he still needs me. Or, better yet, he needs that woman.”
“I could have you arreste
d.”
“But you won’t. What I did kept this alive. And you know it.”
“I’m going to have to run this by people above my pay grade.”
“You do that. But I suggest you be at that church tomorrow with the daughter. The Simon is expecting her.”
“You know that he wants to kill both her and her father, and probably me, too.”
He laughed again. “Your problem.”
“I don’t buy all this, Béne. Simon could have told you to go to hell. He doesn’t need the woman that bad. There has to be more you offered than just her.”
“Oh, yes. You’re so right. I definitely have something else he wants. So be a good agent and do your job. Have her there. See what happens. Then know that the Simon will be coming back my way.”
He paused.
“And that will allow us both to find what we are after.”
———
TOM DOZED IN AND OUT. HE’D ALWAYS BEEN ABLE TO SLEEP ON planes. That had been his time to rest, moving from one place to the next, readying himself for what lay ahead. But he was eight years out of practice. He’d been thinking about Michele and what a mess he made of both their lives.
“You’re a cheater, Tom. Women are your weakness.”
“Am I also a fraud?”
She’d never told him her thoughts about what happened to him.
“That one I don’t know. It’s certainly in you, since cheaters always cheat. But I have to say, I was shocked by all that.”
Her voice was calm, her words clear. The anger that had stayed between them had faded in the year since the divorce.
“I’ve met somebody,” she told him. “I’m going to get married.”
He was not surprised. Other men would quickly discover her.
“I’m happy for you.”
“It’s Alle you have to deal with. I’ve told you before, don’t wait until it’s too late.”
“I know. I know.”
“I have to go now, Tom. And I was wrong a moment ago. You’re a lousy husband and an even worse father, but you were a good reporter.”
He recalled how her affirmation of his innocence had hurt him even more.
All that he’d done to her.
Yet she still believed in him.
That was the last time they ever spoke.
He spent the next seven years wallowing in self-pity, living alone. She remarried but lost her life far too early.
And his daughter had not even allowed him to attend the funeral.
He grabbed hold of himself.
And wondered.
What would he say to Alle once she was free?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ZACHARIAH SETTLED DOWN BEFORE THE COMPUTER. HE’D ARRIVED back in Vienna four hours ago and Rócha had driven him straight to the estate. He’d dozed in and out for a couple of hours during the transatlantic flight, anxious.
Today was the day.
The Levite had left something in his grave, just as Zachariah’s grandfather and father had predicted might happen, and he’d found it. Tom Sagan’s stunt in Florida had actually worked to his advantage since disposing of two bodies, once this day was over, would prove far easier here than in America. He’d even made a deal with Béne Rowe. No choice, really. Having Alle Becket to show Sagan would make things much easier. But there was still the matter of the spy within his household. He employed thirty-two people at the estate, including Rócha. The traitor’s identity was obvious, and he’d learned on returning that the man called Midnight was gone.
As he should be.
Part of Rowe’s bargain was that his asset not be harmed.
Ordinarily, he might not have honored such a request, but Rowe had tantalized him with what had been found at another Levite’s grave in Jamaica. A hooked X. And documents that might point the way to the lost mine. Keeping every avenue open seemed important.
At least for now.
The computer came to life and a man’s face appeared.
He was middle-aged and bearded, with long sideburns.
“How are things today in Israel, my friend,” he said to the screen.
“Another day of negotiations. We are making progress, finally, toward a true peace.”
And he knew how. “What are we giving away?”
“Such an attitude, Zachariah. There is nothing wrong with talking to your adversary.”
“Provided you do not concede.”
“Now, that I cannot promise. As of yesterday, the Knesset was considering more concessions. The United States is pressuring. More so than ever. They want movement on our part. Significant movement. We stall but, in the end, there is a feeling that perhaps we should concede.”
This man headed one of six minor Israeli parties. They varied in slant from Ultra-Reform to Orthodoxy. His was more moderate, centrist, which was why Zachariah kept the line of communication open. Ordinarily, all six’s presence would be ignored, but the Israeli Parliament was severely divided, coalitions forming and dissolving by the hour. Every vote counted.
“Billions in aid comes from America,” the man said. “You can ignore them for a while, but not forever. It is reality. There is even talk of leveling the separation fence. Many think it is time.”
A 760-kilometer-long physical barrier defined the border between Israel and Palestine. Most was three layers of barbed wire. Sections that passed through urban centers were concrete wall. Periodic observation posts and gates controlled access from one side to the other. The idea had been to define the border and prevent terrorist attacks and, on both counts, the barrier had worked. To remove it seemed unthinkable.
“Why would such a thing be considered?”
“Because to get you have to give.”
No, you did not.
“This government is at an end point. Parliamentary elections are coming soon. Everyone knows there is going to be a change. What that will be remains to be seen. Nobody knows, Zachariah. Uncertainty breeds compromise.”
He hated the world interfering with Israel. One world leader after another, American presidents especially, wanted to be its peacemaker. But Jews and Arabs had remained in conflict a long time. Their divisions were impenetrable. No one, other than the participants, could possibly understand the depth of their disagreements.
He did.
And he planned to do something about it.
Which did not involve concessions.
“Our enemies are not interested in peace,” he made clear. “They never have been. They are only interested in what we are willing to give away to get it.”
“That kind of thinking is exactly why we are in the position we currently are in.”
Not at all. Men like the man on the screen, and others in Israel, who actually thought they could negotiate an end to 5,000 years of conflict were the reason.
Idiots.
All of them.
Jews must be made to see.
And so they would.
———
TOM HUSTLED ACROSS THE PLAZA BEFORE ST. STEPHEN’S CATHEDRAL. His watch read 12:25 P.M. He’d made it to Vienna in plenty of time. The drive west from Bratislava was an easy forty minutes, his rental car parked in a public lot a few blocks away. He glanced up at the massive cathedral, its steeple rising like a jagged arrow to an azure sky. After Simon had so readily agreed to the swap, he’d decided that he might need some help. So while surfing the Internet at the library in Jacksonville he’d caught a break. Someone he knew still worked at Der Kurier, one of Vienna’s main newspapers. Back in his day the paper had only been in print. Now it was a mixture of electronic and print, and he’d noticed the name of one of its online managing editors. Inna Tretyakova.
He veered from the square and found a narrow passageway that led to a series of backstreets. He still remembered the location after ten years. It was a talent that had always come in handy. He was bad with names, but he never forgot a face or a place. The café he sought was once one of his favorites, frequented by the local and foreign press. He
entered through a glass door, his gaze noticing the same fine trompe l’oeil ceiling fresco. Not much else had changed, either. He also recognized a face in the sparse crowd.
“Inna, you’re as lovely as ever,” he said in English, walking over.
“And you are still a man with charm.”
She was midforties, with stark blond hair that fell in broad curls to just above her shoulders. Her face contained not a blemish, her eyes a pale shade of blue. Time had been kind, her figure remained thin and petite, the curves he recalled still there. They’d never ventured beyond business in their relationship, as she was married, but they’d been friends. He’d called her from Bratislava, and though they hadn’t spoken in a long time, she immediately agreed to meet him.
“I need a favor, Inna. I’m in a mess and a hurry, but I’m hoping you can help.”
“You always were in a hurry, Thomas.” She was one of the few who called him that.
“My daughter is in trouble here, in Vienna, and I have to help her. To do that, I need your help.”
“How have you been?”
He allowed her to shift the topic, as she seemed to genuinely want to know. “Not good, Inna. But I made it.”
“You were the best reporter I ever knew,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that, after everything happened, but I had no way to find you.”
“I kind of disappeared. Kept to myself.”
“Which, I imagine, was not good. You have friends, Thomas. People who respected you. People who never believed what was said.”
He appreciated her loyalty. But few of those friends came to his defense when he needed them.
“Thomas Sagan was never dishonest around me.”
He smiled. He hadn’t heard a compliment in a long while.
“I push my people now,” she said. “Just like you pushed me on the stories we did together. I remember what you taught me.”
A decade ago she’d worked the foreign desk for Der Kurier and they’d teamed several times in the Middle East. She was good with organization, even better with conciseness, and he’d always thought she’d make a fine editor.
