by Steve Berry
1537.
He knew the significance of that year.
That was when the same daughter-in-law—the widow of one of Columbus’ sons—acquired control of Jamaica from the Spanish Crown.
Columbus stayed on Hispaniola until 1795. When Spain lost control of the island to the French, the remains were transferred to Havana. In the early 20th century, at the end of the Spanish-American War, when Cuba gained independence, the bones were brought back to Seville, where they have remained.
“With just one problem,” Tre said. “They might not be Columbus. Toward the end of the 19th century, some workers digging in the church at Santo Domingo found a lead box full of bones. On the outside was written, RENOWNED MAN DON CRISTOBAL COLON. That made everyone believe that the Spanish might have dug up the wrong grave back in 1795.”
“I’ve been to the church in Santo Domingo,” he said. “There’s a monument to Columbus and a tomb.”
“That contains those bones from the lead box. The government did all that in 1992 to celebrate the five hundredth anniversary of the first voyage. But there’s also a magnificent tomb in Seville. They’ve run several DNA tests, but nothing has ever been solved. Those bones were moved so much, scattered around, he could be in all of those places. Or none of them.”
“My family is searching for Columbus’ grave,” Simon told him. “We think that the bones were secretly transported to Jamaica and hidden in his lost mine. That location was apparently one the family trusted, since the Admiral himself located it.”
But he’d not believed the Simon then, and still did not now. This wasn’t about finding some grave. No way. Simon was after something else entirely, something important enough to draw the attention of American intelligence agents. He could not care less about the bones of Columbus. That man had been an invader. A destroyer. His arrival meant the deaths of tens of thousands of Tainos, and eventually led to slavery, which wrought even more pain and suffering. Maroons had rebelled against all of that, becoming the first Africans to win their freedom in the New World. If there was a lost mine, it definitely belonged to them.
“What is it, Béne?”
The engine’s angry chorus waned and they began their descent. Out the window he spotted Cuba and the green bastion of mountains that skirted the coast. La Sierra Maestra. He knew that slaves had used its harsh terrain for cover as they escaped the cane plantations. They’d not acquired a name like Maroons, but they were the same nonetheless.
Halliburton was glancing out a window, too. “That’s where the Cuban revolution started. Castro and his men hid in those mountains.”
He knew coffee was grown there. A strong blend that only mildly competed with his prized beans.
“I want to find that mine,” he said, his voice low. “If there be nothing there, fine. But I want to find it. I need you to help me do that.” He faced Tre and asked, “Will you?”
“Sure, Béne. I can do that.”
He saw that his friend sensed the urgency. He also saw something else. Apprehension. He’d never seen that in Halliburton’s eyes before. He hated that his friend might be afraid of him, but he did nothing to ease that feeling.
He would tolerate no more lies, no more mistakes.
Not from foe or friend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TOM STARED AT THE GUN AND ASKED, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
The man Alle said was named Brian marched toward them.
“I knew you were the problem,” Alle said.
“Your daughter tell you what a great actress she is?”
He kept his gaze on the weapon. Strange. Two days ago he hadn’t feared death. Today was a little different. Not that he definitely wanted to live, it was just that, at the moment, he didn’t particularly want to die. Abiram’s two messages and Alle’s betrayal both raised questions.
And he hadn’t been curious for a long time.
“What’s your involvement here?” he asked.
“He works for a man trying to stop Zachariah,” Alle said.
Brian faced him. “You and I need to talk.”
———
ZACHARIAH LED THE WAY AS HE AND RÓCHA CREPT DOWN THE passageway, past centuries-old tombs of cardinals and priests. They came to the junction where Brian had fled and he spotted a corridor, maybe ten meters long and hewn from rock that ended at another right angle. One fixture illuminated the passage closer to his end than the other. He heard voices from around the far corner and signaled for quiet as they eased to a point where he could peer around. He was counting on the fact that Sagan, Alle, and Brian would not expect him.
“You and I need to talk.”
Jamison’s voice.
Before that he’d heard both Sagan and Alle. Her reference to him sounded almost like a defense. Maybe he’d confused her enough by his revelations about Jamison to have a second chance. He risked a quick look and saw Brian, fifteen meters away, back to him, holding a gun, facing toward where Sagan and Alle stood.
He and Rócha retreated.
He motioned to his left and whispered, “I have been here before. That passage where they are standing will intersect with this one. There are several turns, but it is a big circle. I am going down here to wait.”
Rócha nodded in understanding.
Then he explained what else he wanted done.
———
ALLE KNEW ONLY ONE THING. SHE HAD TO GET AWAY FROM BOTH her father and Brian. They both seemed to believe that Zachariah was the enemy, but the only person to so far place her in danger was standing right beside her, holding a gun.
“What are you going to do?” she asked Jamison.
“We’re getting out of here. Mr. Sagan, I assume you came down here for a reason?”
She watched as her father remained silent. Finally, she said, “He has a way out.”
“I thought as much. That’s why I followed. Let’s take it, then I’ll explain everything.”
Her father seemed unconvinced and even more irritated with her.
“I suggest we go,” Brian said. “People upstairs may be coming this way.”
“No. They won’t,” Sagan said. “I took care of that. The gate is locked for the night.”
“Then let’s get out of here. I assure you, what I have to say is important.”
Her father stepped in front of her and faced Brian. “We’re not going anywhere. If you want to shoot me, go ahead. I don’t give a damn.”
“I know what happened in Florida. That you were about to kill yourself. But you didn’t. You’re here. We were watching, along with Simon. I sent a man to the cemetery to spook you, in the car, when you visited your father’s grave, but you didn’t back off. I’m not your enemy, Mr. Sagan. I’m an American intelligence agent, working for a unit known as the Magellan Billet. We’re after Zachariah Simon and need your help.”
Alle caught movement over Brian’s shoulder.
Rócha appeared, holding a gun.
Her eyes went wide.
Brian saw her surprise and started to turn.
———
TOM SAW THE MAN AND IMMEDIATELY LUNGED TOWARD ALLE, his body covering hers, both of them pounding the floor.
Two pops echoed.
Brian’s body lurched, his arms went skyward, his grip on the gun was lost and it clattered to the floor.
Another pop.
Blood seeped from Brian’s lips. Then the body went limp and he collapsed into convulsions.
Tom rolled twice and reached for the gun on the floor, slipping his finger around the trigger. He swung his arm around and fired, the retort loud off the stone.
The bullet ricocheted and, instinctively, he covered his head.
When he looked up, the man at the end of the hall was gone.
And so was Alle.
———
ZACHARIAH KEPT WALKING, HEADING FOR WHERE THE CORRIDOR intersected another. He heard shots and hoped that was the end of Brian Jamison. Béne Rowe surely had other people working for him, but the loss of his
chief lieutenant would eliminate Rowe’s most valuable eyes and ears in Austria. He’d read Abiram Sagan’s note, which was explicit, but not as much as he’d hoped considering the Levite would be passing on all that he knew. Had Sagan changed it? After all, it was typewritten. How hard could it have been? Especially for a man accused of falsifying news stories.
His original plan was no more.
He now needed a few moments alone with Alle.
A loud bang, then more pops came from the catacombs.
One problem was surely gone.
Two more were about to be solved.
———
ALLE WATCHED AS BRIAN WAS SHOT THREE TIMES, HIS BODY finally ceasing all movement on the floor. Her father was trying to find Brian’s gun and she used that moment to spring to her feet and race ahead, finding the passageway’s end and turning a corner. She had no idea where she was headed, but it was in the direction her father had been taking them.
Brian’s words still hung in her ears.
I’m an American intelligence agent.
What in the world?
A shot rang out from behind her, louder than the others. She slowed, but kept a brisk pace, her head constantly spinning, checking her flank. She spotted a stairway fifty feet ahead, the path well lit.
Another glance back.
More pops.
Her shoulders were grabbed from the front, her body spun.
The unexpected violation startled her and she was about to scream when a hand clamped over her mouth and she saw Zachariah’s face.
———
TOM WAS PINNED DOWN, HUDDLED INSIDE ONE OF THE ARCHWAYS that framed an iron grille with a gate that separated the hall from bone rooms on each side. He was hugging the bars, keeping his body shielded, when he realized that the gate was not locked. He eased open the hinged section and rolled into the narrow room, his body now flush against a stack of blackened bones. He stared back, trying to spot whoever was firing at him.
Then he saw.
The bone rooms were not individual. The niches formed one long path, archways dividing them from the center passage. Lights illuminated the niches and the bones. He could actually escape the shooter, staying out of the corridor, the angle and pillars providing plenty of cover.
He crouched low and started to leave.
Another pop.
Bones a foot away shattered as a bullet slammed into the pile.
He dropped to the floor and lay flat. Bad idea.
He told himself to calm down, breathe slower. Think. He still held the gun. His shot a moment ago, the first time in his life he’d ever fired a weapon, had been a message that he was armed. Strange that his first shot was here, among so many reminders of death, when it should have been two days ago. He crawled ahead across the gritty floor, paralleling the bones inches away. A musty, dirty smell filled his nostrils, which reminded him of Abiram’s open coffin, but he kept moving, staying low to the ground.
He heard movement behind him.
He rolled onto his spine and stared back through the bars and arches.
A shadow grew in size.
Someone was approaching.
———
ZACHARIAH HELD ALLE TIGHT, HIS HAND OVER HER MOUTH. HE could feel her shaking with fear.
He removed his hand.
“Are you all right?” he whispered, concern in his voice and eyes.
Her head bobbed. “I’m okay. Brian is back there. He was shot. Somebody is there with a gun.”
“Listen to me, Alle. I need your help. Rócha will make sure your father is okay. No harm will come to him. But I need you to go with him. Find out what it is your father knows.”
“He told you.”
He shook his head. “He is holding back. There is no reason for him to be truthful with me. I would have no way to verify anything, and he knows that.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Perhaps he feels an attachment or duty to his father. I have to know if he is being entirely candid.”
“Brian is a government agent.”
His heart shuddered.
Had he heard her correctly?
“He said he worked for U.S. intelligence.”
How was that possible? But he contained his surprise and decided to use that fact. “That’s exactly what I have been saying. The Americans would like nothing better than to stop me.”
“Why?”
“I will explain later. Right now, find out for me what your father knows. Much is at stake here for us all.”
“Why did you sell me out?”
“I wanted you to go with him. I thought it the only way to make sure you would not come with me.”
A lie, but a good one.
He watched her eyes, searching for confirmation that she was still his.
“Okay,” she said. “I can go with him and find out.”
“I knew you could. You must know that I would never have allowed anything to happen to you. I took a great chance coming down here. Brian was a danger, but I had to make sure you were okay.” He handed her his cell phone. “Take this. My home number is there in the memory. Call me when you learn something.”
“Did you kill Brian?” she asked.
“Not me. Somebody else is here. That is why you and your father have to leave. Rócha is making that possible. We have enemies everywhere.”
She did not know what to say.
He gently grasped both of her shoulders. “It is unfortunate that all this has happened, but much depends on you. Please, find out what we need to know.”
CHAPTER FORTY
BÉNE HAD SEVERAL TIMES VISITED SANTIAGO DE CUBA, A CITY with half a million people. It was the island’s second largest, behind Havana, which lay nine hundred kilometers to the west. Its deep bay made it invaluable, as from here Cuba imported and exported most of its goods. What he’d not known was its history relative to the Spanish. That had never been important, until today.
Tre explained that one of Spain’s first conquistadores, Diego Velázquez de Cuéllar, founded the city in 1514 before he laid siege to the island. Cortez began his conquest of Mexico and de Soto his exploration of Florida from here. This was the center of Spanish power over Cuba, serving as the island’s capital until 1589. More recently, the Battle of San Juan Hill happened not far away, which ended both the Spanish-American War and any European presence in Cuba forever.
“Castro proclaimed the victory of the Cuban revolution from this town’s city hall balcony,” Tre said.
They were climbing into a Range Rover that had been waiting at the airport. Béne had arranged for the vehicle through contacts he maintained for his export businesses.
“Columbus landed here on his first voyage in October 1492,” Tre said. “He thought he was in Asia, on a new continent, so he searched for the Grand Khan. He had on board a man named Luis de Torres, who served as the ship’s translator. He could speak Hebrew and some Arabic. Columbus sent de Torres and another man inland to find the Khan. Of course, all they found were half-naked natives, living simply. But de Torres did discover one thing.” Tre paused. “The locals showed him how to roll leaves into what they called tabacos. They would light one end and draw a few drags. He watched as they took the firebrands with them on hunting journeys, halting every hour or so for more drags. They were able to travel great distances thanks to those drags. We call them cigars today, and the leaves tobacco. De Torres could have been the first European to ever smoke. But within a hundred years, tobacco had spread throughout Europe.”
Béne drove as they left the airport, heading for a small community west of town. Tre had told him the archive’s location and a map had been waiting in the vehicle.
“De Torres never returned to Spain,” Tre said. “He stayed in the New World and eventually settled here, in Cuba. He started a plantation and was the first European to cultivate tobacco. This island, more than Hispaniola, became the Spanish headquarters in the New World. So it makes sense that this is where the majority of documents from th
at time can be found.”
Which probably saved them, Béne thought. As a socialist state, Cuba had been closed to most of the world since 1959. Only in the past few years had that changed.
“I’ve been told,” Tre said, “that this archive is contained within a small museum about the Spanish time in Cuba.”
“I despise Columbus.” He was comfortable enough with Halliburton to express himself openly, at least on this topic.
“You’re not alone. October 12, Columbus Day in America, is hardly celebrated anywhere else. In Mexico it’s called the day of one race, Raza, with hardly a mention of Columbus. In Uruguay the natives commemorate it as their last day of freedom. Many other South and Central American nations feel the same. What happened in 1492 definitely changed the world, but it has created an era of unparalleled genocide, cruelty, and slavery.”
They rode in silence for a while through kilometers of palm-lined cane fields. Béne thought about the information Simon had offered, which wasn’t much. He’d not shared anything with Halliburton about the Austrian’s existence. That was his alone to know. But what Tre had said about Luis de Torres, a Hebrew translator, stuck in his brain.
“Why was there a person speaking Hebrew on Columbus’ ship?”
“Nobody knows, Béne. There are some who think Columbus was a Jew and that he was searching for some promised land where Jews lived in peace.”
Which was what Simon believed. “Is that possible?”
Tre shrugged. “Who the hell knows? We know so little about Columbus that anything is possible. It’s a fact that he brought no priests with him on the first voyage, which is odd in and of itself. Columbus was an enigma then, and remains so today. Who would have thought he found some lost Tainos gold mine? But maybe he did.”
The highway led them into a small hamlet with colonial-style buildings, a place where things seemed reused, mended, and recycled time and again. Three feed-and-supply stores catered to farmers, but there was also a tinsmith, tobacco shop, and what appeared to be a church. He parked the Range Rover near a cobbled square surrounded by more colonial-era buildings. The hot air reeked of ripe fruit and toiling humanity. Little breeze, just a trapped and boiling stew of conflicting smells. They’d passed their destination just down the street, a sign indicating MUSEO DE AMBIENTE HISTÓRICO CUBANO and that it was open until 4:00 P.M. He’d not come unprepared. A semiautomatic was tucked snugly beneath a thin jacket. Cuba, for all its supposed innocence, remained a hostile place, one where he’d learned to be cautious. Only a few people were in sight. A mangy-haired dog ambled over to investigate them. Some Cuban jazz leaked from one of the cafés.
