The Columbus Affair

“I’ll fix it with her. I swear to you, Michele. I’ll fix it.”

But he never did.

Alle was seventeen when he was fired, his disgrace reported in every media outlet around the world. Unfortunately, patching up his relationship with his daughter had not seemed a high priority at the time. A mistake? Oh, yeah. Big time. But that was eight years of hindsight talking and there was no way to jam that toothpaste back in the tube.

He could do something now, though.

He could get her free of Zachariah Simon.

He’d signed the papers. Tomorrow he’d appear at the cemetery and make sure she was okay.

After that?

Finish what he’d started?

He rubbed his tired eyes with shaking hands and glanced at his watch. 2:15 P.M. Outside was quiet. Most of the people who’d lived in his parents’ neighborhood while he was growing up were either gone or dead. Trees that had then been saplings now towered over everything. He’d noticed driving in that the block remained in good repair. Time had been kind to this place.

Why had it been so tough on him?

He made a decision.

He wasn’t going to die today.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

Instead, it was time to do something he should have done long ago.

———

ALLE ENTERED THE CAFÉ RAHOFER, A PLACE SHE’D DISCOVERED A couple of weeks ago, not far from her Viennese apartment. She’d showered and changed, dressed in tan chinos, a sweater, and flat-soled shoes. She was feeling a bit better and wondered what had happened in Florida, but assumed her father had cooperated since Rócha had made no further contact. They were all scheduled to meet again tomorrow, at 4:00 P.M., back where the video had originated, there while the grave was being opened, ready if needed for another show.

She did not like the idea of exhuming her grandfather. He’d been a dear man who’d loved her unconditionally. He was the blood father she’d never had, and his death still affected her. She always hoped her conversion to Judaism compensated, at least a little, for the pain her father had caused him. Despite all that happened, his granddaughter still became a Jew.

“Did your grandfather leave any papers or instructions to you that may have seemed unusual?” Zachariah asked her.

She’d never spoken of it before, but it seemed okay, now, after three years, to discuss it with him. “He told me to bury a packet with him.”

“Describe it.”

She used her hands to outline something about afoot square. “It was one of those sealed vacuum bags sold for storage on television. It was thin and light.”

“Could you see anything through the bag?”

She shook her head. “I paid no attention to it. He left written instructions, as his estate representative, to make sure the packet was placed in his coffin. I did that myself, laying it on his chest, just before the lid was closed.”

“That had to be difficult.”

“I cried the whole time.”

She recalled how Zachariah had held her hand and they’d prayed for Abiram Sagan. She adhered to the Jewish belief that soul and body would eventually be reunited. That meant the body had to be honored. Custom required someone to attend to the deceased, closing the eyes and mouth, covering the face, lighting candles.

And she’d done all that.

A late-blooming cancer had stolen her grandfather quickly. But at least he hadn’t suffered. The Torah commanded that a body must not go unburied overnight, and she’d made sure that her grandfather had been interred before sunset. She’d also not embalmed him, dressing him in a simple linen shroud inside a plain wooden coffin. She’d heard him say many times, “Wealthy or poor, nothing should distinguish us at death.” She’d even kept a window open where she sat with him, awaiting burial, so his soul could easily escape. She’d then followed all four stages of mourning, including avelut. Dutifully, she’d abstained from parties, celebrations, and all forms of entertainment for a full twelve months.

Her grandfather would have been proud.

She found a table and sat.

She liked the Café Rahofer, with its marble tabletops, crystal chandeliers, and bentwood chairs. She’d learned this place came with some history, as both Stalin and Trotsky had played chess here. A piano in a far corner entertained a light crowd for after 9:00 P.M. on a Tuesday night. A glass of wine and a plate of schnitzel sounded great. She ordered both with some mineral water and began to relax.

“Are you alone?”

She turned to see a man standing a few feet away. He appeared a little older, maybe thirty, trim, extra fit, with a two-day stubble dusting his chin and neck. The hair that covered his head was thin and closely cropped, like a monk’s cap, his blue eyes alert and lively.

“I’m alone,” she said, “and prefer to stay that way.”

He threw her a smile and sat at her table.

“I told you I wasn’t interested,” she made clear.

“You will be.”

She resented his forwardness. “How about you leave now, before I call someone over.”

He leaned in close. “Then you won’t get to hear what I have to say about Zachariah Simon.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

ZACHARIAH ENTERED THE ROOM AND CLOSED THE DOOR. HE’D driven straight back from Mount Dora to Orlando and his west side hotel. He quickly found his laptop and connected to the Internet, linking with a secured server in Austria, the same one used during the video transmission to Tom Sagan. He’d commissioned the system himself, equipped with an ultra-sophisticated encryption program. He checked in with his personal secretary in Austria, satisfied that nothing required his immediate attention. He then severed the link and ordered food from room service.

Sagan was cooperating. He’d signed the papers and would be at the cemetery in the morning.

He’d accomplished the first phase.

But time was running short.

He’d read the American press reports, lauding the coming summit. Danny Daniels, the president of the United States, in his final year in office, had staked his legacy on securing some sort of lasting Mideast peace. Thankfully, that summit was still four months away.

Plenty of time for him to complete what he’d started.

But what he sought had stayed hidden a long time.

Could it all be myth?

No. It existed. It had to. God would not have allowed anything less.

Alle had confirmed that her grandfather ordered a packet buried with him, contrary to Orthodox tradition, where nothing save the body went into the grave. Even more convincing was the fact that she knew information that no one, short of the Levite, could possibly know.

He was on the right path.

He had to be.

Surely the Levite had been cautious in what he shared with his granddaughter, given the task was exclusively for a male. Abiram Sagan could not pass ultimate responsibility to his granddaughter. So he solved his dilemma by taking the secret with him to his grave.

Thankfully, he had Alle totally under his control. A willing partner with no knowledge of what was truly involved. She was an ideologue, consumed by her passion for her new religion and her grandfather’s memory. Her beliefs were sincere. All she required was careful handling.

And that he would provide.

Until she was no longer useful.

Then he would kill Alle Becket.

———

ALLE WAS INTRIGUED, SO SHE ASKED, “WHAT ABOUT ZACHARIAH Simon?”

“He should be a concern of yours,” the man sitting across the table said.

She wasn’t in the mood for more games. “Do you plan to explain yourself? Or do I leave?”

“You met Simon in Spain. Didn’t you find it strange that he found you?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He smiled. “Call me Brian.”

“Why are you here?”

“I came to speak with you. Privately.”

Cautionary flags

rose. This stranger was frightening her to the point that she even wished Rócha and Midnight were around.

Brian reached into his pocket and withdrew some folded sheets of glossy paper, which she recognized as her article from Minerva.

“I read this,” he said. “Fascinating stuff. Let me guess, Simon wanted to know your sources.”

It had been one of the first things they’d talked about, along with the fact that they were both Reform Jews. She’d immediately liked that about him. Unlike the Orthodox, Reform Jews believed the Torah, though divinely inspired, was actually written, edited, and revised by man. And while Reform Jews revered the Torah’s values and ethics, they were free to follow whatever they believed would enhance their personal relationship with God. Nothing was absolute. Everything was subject to interpretation. Even more important to her, Reform Jews treated the sexes equally.

“You still haven’t said what you want.”

The waiter returned with her wine.

“No, thank you,” Brian said to her. “I wouldn’t care for anything.”