The Columbus Affair

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

ZACHARIAH STEPPED FROM THE CAR AND TOLD RÓCHA TO wait behind the wheel. They’d driven out of central downtown to Vienna’s western outskirts and Schönbrunn. Once the residence of the Hapsburg emperors, now the Baroque palace stood as a tourist attraction.

And a popular one.

He’d visited once himself, admiring some of the 1,400 rooms, particularly impressed by the Hall of Mirrors where, he’d been told, a six-year-old Mozart once performed. Its magnificent grand gallery was where delegates to the Congress of Vienna danced away the night in 1815, after carving up Napoleon’s defeated empire. He admired that audacity.

The palace interior was closed for the day, but the gardens stayed open till dusk. Long promenades bisected rows of perfectly trimmed shrubs and a sea of late-winter flowers. An obelisk decorated the sky. Sculpted fountains gushed foamy water. He soaked in the careful mixture of color or style, allowing the ambience to soothe his raw nerves, as it had once surely done for emperors.

He hoped Alle Becket was doing as he asked. He’d already forwarded all calls from the phone at the estate to Rócha’s cell phone, which he’d commandeered before leaving the car. When Alle called he’d be instantly available. What concerned him now was Brian Jamison’s identity. So he’d made another call and arranged a meeting.

His contact within the Israeli embassy was an undersecretary who’d provided a wealth of valuable information. He was young, ambitious, and greedy. But sitting on the bench at the far end of the garden was a middle-aged woman. Tall, full-figured, with long black hair.

The Israeli ambassador to Austria.

She stood as he approached and said in Hebrew, “I thought it was time we spoke face-to-face.”

He was alarmed and considered leaving.

“Relax, Zachariah. I’m a friend.”

“Enlighten me.” He kept to Hebrew.

She smiled. “Always so careful, aren’t you? So prepared. Except for today.”

They knew each other. Given his status as one of the wealthiest Jews in this part of the world it was understandable he’d be courted.

And this woman had done so.

She’d once been a teacher who joined the diplomatic service, first assigned to Central Asia. She’d taught at the National Defense College and served as the Knesset’s political adviser, which surely brought her in contact with much of Israel’s political elite. She’d been described as tough, blunt to the point of arrogant, and brilliant.

“In what way have I not been careful?” he asked.

“I know what you’re doing. I’ve been watching.”

Now he was concerned.

“Tell me, Zachariah, who do you think will soon emerge as our new prime minister?”

He caught her point. “Your name has never been mentioned.”

She smiled. “Which is the way it should be. A front-runner today is a loser tomorrow.”

He agreed, but remained on high alert.

“What you plan is audacious,” she said. “Ingenious, too. And most of all, it could work. But it’s what comes after that will really matter, isn’t it?”

“And you are what comes after?”

“Israel is in need of another Iron Lady.”

He smiled at the reference to Golda Meir, and the term used to describe her strength long before the Brits attached it to Margaret Thatcher. The first and only woman, so far, to be Israel’s prime minister, she was called by many “the best man in government.” Strong-willed, straight talking, her gray-bunned hairdo had lent her another title: grandmother of the Jewish people. He recalled his father and grandfather speaking of her with a deep reverence. She was one of twenty-four signatories on the Israeli declaration of independence in 1948. The next day war broke out and she fought like everyone else. She ordered the hunting down and killing of all the terrorists who massacred Jewish athletes during the 1972 Olympics. And she commanded Israel during the Yom Kippur War, making smart decisions that saved the state.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“As I said, you made a mistake earlier. The man you killed was an American intelligence agent. They’re watching you, too.”

“And why is that?”

She chuckled. “Okay, Zachariah. Be cautious. Watch every word. But know this. We’re here, talking alone. If I were your enemy you could be under arrest. Instead I sent men to clean up your mess. The body you left in that trash receptacle? It’s gone. I don’t like the Americans. I don’t like them in our business. I don’t like having to cater to them.”

Neither did he.

“Jamison was working with some of our people—off the record, unofficially. I have many friends, so I made sure those agents don’t like Americans, either. Check it out. You’ll find Jamison’s body gone and no mention of his death anywhere in the press. The Americans themselves will not learn of it for several weeks. Take that as my show to you of good faith.”

His thoughts were confused, a state he always tried hard to avoid. But he held his ground, kept his mouth shut, and listened.

“I’m returning home soon,” she said. “To stand for election to the Knesset. From there, I will position myself to be prime minister. My support is growing by the day and, hopefully, will surge after you do what you have planned.”

“How do you know what I plan?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Jamison learned quite a bit from Alle Becket. He’s had a full day to interrogate her, as you well know. He reported that information to his superiors before you killed him.”

“So you have contacts with the Americans?”

She nodded. “Excellent ones. From what Jamison knew and I suspected, it was easy to piece the rest together. I must confess, I wish I’d thought of it.”

“And what of the Americans? Are they going to be a problem in a few weeks?”

She shrugged. “I’d say they are no longer a threat, and I will make sure that remains the case.”

He caught the threat in her tone.

She could allow that to drop either way.

“Zachariah, once you accomplish your goal I want to be the one to take matters from there. It fits perfectly with what I have in mind. In that way, we will all have what we want.”

“So I’m clear, what is it we want?”

“A strong, determined Israel that speaks with one, determined voice. An end to the Arab problem, with no concessions. And most of all, the world will not tell us how to exist.”

He was still deeply suspicious. But there was no way, other than checking that trash bin, to verify her credibility.

“You’re right,” she told him. “The spark needed to reawaken Israel cannot come from any official process. That would never work. It has to be spontaneous and external, without any hint of politics. It has to be heartfelt, deep-set, and evoke an unconditional emotional response. When I finally understood what you have planned, I knew instantly that it was the right course.”

“And if I succeed, will you carry through and do all that is required?”

Her understanding of what that entailed was a test, one she seemed to comprehend.

“Oh, yes, Zachariah. The Jews will remember the month of Av.”

She did know.

“It is more than a coincidence,” she said, “that our Second Temple was destroyed on the ninth day of the month of Av, 70 CE—the same day that Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylonian soldiers destroyed the First Temple six ce

nturies before. I’ve always thought that a sign.”

He was curious, “And do you have allies who think as you do?”

That could be important.

“Just me, Zachariah. Do I have friends? In positions of power? Many. But they know nothing. I will simply use them. Only you and I are part of this.”

“Will you carry through on all that we require?”

He saw she understood.

“Rest easy, Zachariah. The Jews will have their Third Temple. That I promise you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

BÉNE AND HALLIBURTON ENTERED THE MUSEUM, A DETACHED building that appeared to have once been a two-storied house, the inside full of wood, marble floors, and frescoed walls. Moorish influences showed in the ornaments and lattice, a leafy courtyard visible beyond the windows. Displays filled the ground-floor rooms, one opening into another, cases filled with stones, fossils, photographs, books, and relics. Explanations were printed only in Spanish, which Béne had no trouble reading. A man of about fifty with a knotted face stood near one of the displays. Tre introduced himself and Béne, explaining that he was an academician from the University of the West Indies, come to see the document collection from the time of Spanish colonization. The man, who identified himself as the curator, offered a hand then explained that the document collection was private and permission would have to be obtained before they could examine it.

“From who?” Béne asked.

Tre’s revelation that Zachariah Simon possessed a connection to this place had unnerved him. This wasn’t Jamaica. He wasn’t Béne Rowe here. He was just some foreigner, and he did not like that feeling of helplessness. True, he was armed, and would shoot his way back to the plane if need be, but he realized that could prove futile. Diplomacy was the smart play. Which in Cuba, meant bribery. Exactly why he’d brought cash.

“Tell me, friend,” he said to the curator. “Are American dollars taken around here?”

“Oh, yes, señor. They are much appreciated.”

For all their brash talk the Cuban government was partial to American money. He withdrew his money clip and peeled off five $100 bills. “Is it possible to obtain that permission? Fast?”