Read The Columbus Affair: A Novel Online
Authors: Steve Berry
Now he would capitalize on that error.
He climbed into bed.
His phone buzzed and he checked the display. Rócha.
“What is it?”
He listened as his acolyte told him about Alle Becket and what had happened at a Viennese café.
“It was him,” Rócha said. “Brian Jamison. He is here.”
That meant trouble.
He’d spent the past few months coddling Alle Becket, listening to her progressive garbage, all the while thinking that she embodied everything wrong with the current state of Judaism. She was naïve to the
point of stupidity. But this unexpected contact directly with her signaled a problem.
He could not afford any mistakes of his own.
“Where is she now?” he asked Rócha.
“Back at the apartment. She went home. I am having it watched.”
“What did she say happened?”
“He appeared. Pressed her about you. She told him to leave a couple of times, then we showed up.”
“She revealed nothing?”
“She said no.”
But he wondered.
Brian Jamison worked for Béne Rowe. He was to Rowe as Rócha was to him. Jamison being in Vienna and connecting with Alle was a clear message that his Jamaican partner was both well informed and perturbed.
He’d been ignoring Rowe.
But Rowe had not been ignoring him.
Luckily, he and Rócha had discussed contingencies before he’d left Austria for Florida. One of those dealt with what would happen when Alle Becket was no longer useful. “Handle things with her, as we agreed. With nothing to find.”
“She may not cooperate.”
He knew what Rócha meant.
With what happened on the video
.
“I will make sure she does. Give me an hour. And, one thing. After that stunt you pulled today, don’t do this yourself. She will go nowhere willingly with you. Use someone else.”
And he ended the call.
———
A
LLE WAS BOTH ANGRY AND CONFUSED
. R
ÓCHA HAD FOLLOWED
her back to her apartment with Midnight leading the way. The man who called himself Brian was gone, but his warning lingered in her mind. Rócha had quizzed her on what had happened, and she’d told him the truth.
For the most part.
“Zachariah Simon is an extremist
.
“And those are a problem to us all.”
But how could that be? Zachariah seemed so genuine. They’d spent a great deal of time together. Thirty years separated them in age, but she found him both charming and interesting. Apart from some glowing compliments, which also seemed sincere, he’d remained the perfect gentleman and confined his attention to business. Not that she would not have minded an advance or two. He’d been nothing but open and honest in their discussions, never a hint of deceit, and he seemed to genuinely care about their religion.
She sat alone in her three-room flat, the windows open to a cool night. Vienna was enchanting after dark, and the angle afforded her an impressive view of the brightly lit and ornately patterned glazed tile roof of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.
She thought of Mount Dora, remembering all the summers she spent with her grandparents. Such a picturesque place, with its tree-lined lanes, Victorian streetlamps, parks, shops, and galleries. Later in life, she came to see how much the town resembled New England. It occupied rolling terrain that appeared downright mountainous for central Florida. Numbered avenues ran east to west and rolled steeply down to Lake Dora—both the town and water named for Dora Ann Drawdy, the first permanent homesteader. Alle had always been fascinated with Drawdy, reading about her, listening to the tales from locals.
Fiercely independent women interested her.
She considered herself one of those, as her mother had been.
Her laptop dinged, signaling an incoming email. She stepped over to the desk and saw a message from Zachariah.
All is well here, but I need your assistance. We will be traveling extensively for the next week so could you pack all of your things? Rócha will arrange for you to be driven to the airport. I imagine you are upset over what happened during the video. I am, too, and I will personally deal with Rócha. Your flight leaves in three hours with a connection through New York. I will be at the Orlando airport waiting
on your arrival tomorrow afternoon. I apologize for the short notice, but will explain once you are here. Take care.
She wondered about the urgency, but she actually preferred leaving. Rócha had gone too far. Not to mention Brian, who’d appeared from nowhere. She’d feel safer being with Zachariah. Still, she wanted to know something, so she replied.
I was contacted today by a man named Brian. Rócha advised me he was a threat of some kind, but wouldn’t elaborate. What’s going on?
The reply came back quickly.
He informed me. There are people who would like to stop what we are trying to achieve. There have always been such people. For your safety, it is better if you are here with me. I will explain it all once you arrive.
She decided not to press and started to pack.
She’d arrived here a month ago from Spain with only a few clothes, not expecting to stay long. Her summer wardrobe was not exactly Austrian-friendly, so Zachariah had taken her shopping. She’d felt a little uncomfortable at his generosity, but he’d assured her that it was the least he could do.
“Consider it compensation for all your hard work,” he said
.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s where you are wrong. You have done a great deal.”
That day with Zachariah in Vienna had reminded her of another, years ago, when she was only eleven. Her father, for once, had been home and took her to the mall. School was starting in a couple of weeks and he’d wanted to be there as she picked out some new clothes. They’d wandered the stores, searching the racks and tables, trying on items. In the end, they’d left with several bags full.
One of those magical days she would never forget.
Father–daughter.
What had happened to them?
How could something so natural turn so ugly?
She didn’t necessarily want to hate him, but she’d come to believe that she had to. It was her way to avoid being hurt, because there were more bad memories than good.
And she simply did not
like
or trust her father.
Zachariah?
Not only did she like him, she had no reason to doubt him, either.
So she kept packing.
B
ÉNE REMAINED UNSETTLED AFTER HIS CONFRONTATION WITH
Felipe’s widow. Her stare—distant yet piercing—was one he would not forget. But Felipe had sold him out and almost compromised everything. And if Béne had relied solely on that one double agent to supply him accurate information, he would know next to nothing as to what the Simon was now doing. Thankfully, he’d not made that mistake. He’d learned long ago the value of a spy, particularly one in a position to witness everything. Still, he wasn’t exactly sure what the Simon was after.
Supposedly, it was Columbus’ lost mine.
But he wondered.
The papers he’d obtained from Felipe’s house might help answer his questions. To get them deciphered he’d called on a man he actually trusted, and there weren’t many of those in the world.
His men drove him a few kilometers east from Spanish Town, through horrendous Kingston traffic, to the University of the West Indies, Jamaica’s premier college. He’d graduated from it almost twenty years ago, and he recalled his time on campus with fondness. While many of his friends joined gangs or languished in unemployment, he’d craved an education. He wasn’t the greatest student but he was devoted, which had pleased his mother. He especially liked history. He realized early on that he would never be a political leader—his father’s reputation was too much of a hindrance—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a difference. He currently owned or controlled nearly a quarter of the national Parliament and a majority of the cabinet
ministers. His money was appreciated, as was his congenial attitude. Jamaica was divided into fourteen parishes, and he was influential in all those that counted for his businesses. He’d become a person respected by both rich and poor. He was also feared, which was not necessarily a bad thing.
The guard at the university’s entrance waived his car through with a smile.
The man he’d come to see waited for him near the rugby field where students were hard into an intersquad match. He loved the game and had played it when he was here. The current team topped the island’s intercollegiate league standings. He was a big financial supporter of the university, both scholastic and athletic.
Professor Tre Halliburton headed the Department of History and Archaeology. He was a blond-haired, square-faced man with tight lips and clever eyes. Not native to the island, but he’d adopted Jamaica as his home. Béne met him at a university gathering a few years ago and they began a friendship. Halliburton knew Béne’s reputation, as did most of the school’s administration, but he’d never been arrested, much less convicted of anything. Rumors were just that—rumors. Reality was that the university liked Rowe’s money, and Béne liked giving it to them.
He stepped from the car into the late afternoon. One thing about Jamaica—weather always stayed the same, winter or summer. Either warm or hot, not much else. It was approaching 6:00
P.M
., the sun beginning its retreat behind the Blue Mountains north of Kingston. He needed to head that way soon, as he was due at the estate for dinner.
“Béne, you been in the jungle today,” Halliburton said to him.
His clothes were soaked with sweat and grime and he still smelled of Felipe’s stinking house. “I’ve been busy, my friend.” He held up the documents in his hand. “I need you to take a look at these.”
He kept his words to proper English. No patois here.
The professor shuffled through the parchments in a quick perusal.
“Quite a find, Béne. These are Spanish originals. Where did you get them?”
“Don’t ask.” And he added a smile.
“The Spanish ruled this island for 150 years,” Tre said. “When they left in 1655 they buried most of their documents, thinking they’d be back. Of course, they never came back which is why we have so few written accounts from that time.”
He caught the message, but could not have cared less.
“I assume you want me to tell you what they say?” Tre said.
“It would help. It looks like Spanish, but I can’t read most of it.”
He watched while the academician studied the writings, angling them to the sun for better illumination of the faint print. “It’s Castilian. That language has changed a great deal since the 16th century. You realize these parchments should not be in bright light.”
But he wasn’t concerned about preservation, either. “What are they?”
Tre knew all about his interest in the lost mine.
They’d talked about it in detail many times.
“It’s amazing, Béne, but you may actually have something here.”
———
Extremists on Both Sides, Out of Control
By Tom Sagan
,
Los Angeles Times
H
EBRON
, West Bank—Ben Segev lives in an unassuming house on the outskirts of town with his wife and two children. Segev is an American, from Chicago, once an investment banker. Now he’s a self-proclaimed warrior
.
“We will drive these Arab whores from the land of Israel,” Segev says. “If the government won’t get rid of the garbage, then we will.”
The house is an arsenal. Automatic weapons. Ammunition. Explosives. On this day, Segev takes eight of his compatriots into the hills, where they practice for the coming fight
.
“It only takes a tiny spark to light a big fire here,” one of the settlers proclaims. “This city is cursed.”
Hebron is an ancient town, disputed for millennia, thought to be the burial place of the prophet Abraham. At present, 450 right-wing Jews live among 120,000 Palestinians. For centuries Arabs and Jews lived here peacefully, but a 1929 riot resulted in the deaths of more than 60 Jews. The British, who governed what was then Palestine, resettled the remaining Jews elsewhere. In 1967, after Israel captured the West Bank, Jews returned. But those who came were the most ideologically extreme. Even worse, government policies at the time encouraged them to move into the West Bank. The Israelis then claimed a biblical right to the city and demanded Arabs leave. Then in 1997 the Israeli Army withdrew from 80% of the city and ceded control to the Palestinian Authority. The remaining 20% was left for the settlers. Many, like Segev and his colleagues, are now preparing to strike
.
“This is a recipe for disaster,” Segev says. “And no one, in any position of authority, seems willing to help.”
In the hills, away from town, under clear skies, they practice loading and unloading the automatic rifles. How to maximize every round is explained, the goal being to kill as many as possible with the least amount of bullets
.
“Aim for the center mass,” Segev teaches. “That’s the biggest target with less chance of missing. Keep firing until they’re down. Then move to the next one. No mercy. None at all. This is a war and they are the enemy.”
Segev’s fears are not wholly unjustified. Almost daily for the past year there have been shots fired into his settlement by Palestinian snipers. Violence on the Jewish settlers is a common occurrence. At least 30 have been killed by Palestinian gunmen. Little to nothing is done by the Arab governing authorities to stop the attacks. Finally, in response, Israel ordered 30,000 Palestinians, whose homes surround the settlement, under a 24-hour curfew. The ban prohibits the Palestinians from leaving their homes, even to go to a doctor or attend school, and jails them if they do. Twice a
week the curfew is lifted for a few hours to allow residents time to shop
.
“That worked,” Segev says. “For a little while.”
Then hundreds of Israeli troops, backed by dozens of tanks and bulldozers, swept into Hebron and destroyed buildings that had been identified as being used by Palestinian snipers. But the attacks started again a few days later
.
Segev and his men continue to ready themselves
.
“We feel abandoned by Israel’s government,” an unnamed settler says. “We are determined to rid the West Bank of Arabs.”
None of them consider themselves vigilantes. Israeli and Palestinian officials confirm the extremist problem exists on both sides. Jewish extremism has happened before. In 1994 U.S. settler Baruch Goldstein gunned down 29 Arabs in a mosque. In 1995 a radical right-wing fanatic assassinated Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. But the latest wave has greater frequency, an Israeli official confirmed, and Hebron has become the epicenter for that violence. But how widespread is the problem?
“Not as bad as you think,” say analysts at Tel Aviv University. They estimate that only 10% of the 177,000 settlers in the West Bank and Gaza are extremists. “But that minority sees themselves as guardians of Hebron, considered by many to be Judaism’s second holiest city, after Jerusalem. And though several thousand Israeli soldiers and police are there to protect them, they don’t see that as enough.”
Segev and his men complete their work. He and his friends scoff at human rights groups who say that the settlers often provoke violence. But Palestinian officials tell a different story. Unlike the Palestinians, settlers are free to leave their homes at will. There are reports that the extremists regularly attack Palestinian shops while the Palestinians, who are forced to stay indoors because of the curfew, can only watch. Mahmoud Azam, 67, is a Palestinian. His kiosk has been ransacked three times. He’s also been beaten
in the back with a brick and punched repeatedly. His shop is now closed and he survives on handouts of food and money
.
“If I could,” Azam says. “I’d fight them back. They must not be allowed to drive us from our homes.”
But the settlers disagree. “We want Israel to regain control of this area,” Segev says as he tosses the guns into his car. “It needs to reoccupy all of Hebron. Until that happens, we will take preemptive actions to stop the Palestinian gunfire.” The passion in Segev’s declaration is clear. “People here are extremely upset by the daily shootings, killings, and harassment by Palestinians. People here feel abandoned by the government. If we don’t fight, we will die.”