He ended the call.
“Your father is leaving. That means we are, too.”
He’d not lied to Berlinger. This young woman meant nothing to him any longer, but he would not be as quick as before to kill her. He’d keep her close until he was certain she was of no further use. With Tom Sagan on the move to who-knew-where, that time had not yet arrived.
So he smiled and led her away.
———
ALLE WAS UNSURE ABOUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING, ONLY THAT her father seemed to be leaving Prague. He’d apparently decided to press on without her, but what choice did he have? He had no way of finding her. And she was glad. She preferred being with Zachariah. She had a purpose here. Felt a part. Like she had with her grandparents.
They were making their way back toward where she and her father had left their car, worming through traffic and thick streams of pedestrians.
“We followed you from Vienna,” Zachariah said as they walked, “and parked nearby. Illegally, so I hope the car is still there.”
He motioned left.
“We have to avoid the town square. This route will take us where we want to go, away from there.”
They kept moving.
Interesting how her father leaving actually bothered her. Like another slap in the face. A rejection. For all he knew, she was looking for him.
Yet he’d decided to leave.
“Does my father know that I’m with you?” she asked.
Zachariah nodded. “The rabbi told me that he saw us earlier, together on the street.”
Which explained some.
“Where’s he going?”
“That’s what we have to find out. I am assuming he will head to an airport. I am hoping it will be the one in Prague.”
———
TOM DROVE WEST SIX MILES OUT OF TOWN TO PRAGUE’S RUZYNE airport. He left the car with the rental agency and found the British Airways ticket counter, thinking that might be his best bet to get to Jamaica. There was a flight leaving for London in two hours with seats still available. After a two-and-a-half-hour layover, another flight would take him to Kingston. The ticket price was outrageous but he could not have cared less. He paid with his credit card and obtained a day pass for the airline’s lounge.
Before settling down inside to wait, he bought a few toiletries. He should call Inna and see what she may have discovered, but what did it matter anymore? Everything he needed to know was here, inside the black leather bag. He looked like crap. He needed a shower and a shave, just like in the old days while on the hunt. Thankfully, appearances mattered little to a print reporter. The byline. That’s what counted. And where the story was positioned. Front page, above the fold, the Boardwalk and Park Place of the newspaper business, and he’d owned that real estate.
But those days were gone.
Never to return?
He thought of the woman in the car. Find the treasure. Then we will talk.
Was it possible?
He was actually tired, but he’d sleep on the plane. Once in Jamaica he’d rent a car and head to Falcon Ridge. A lot was at stake here. For himself and for others.
A war?
Was that Simon’s intent?
Something came to mind he read once while in the Middle East.
From the sacred Midrash Tanchuma.
As the navel is set in the centre of the human body,
so is the land of Israel the navel of the world …
People believed that to the point of fanaticism.
Plenty enough to start a war.
———
ZACHARIAH WAITED WITH ALLE IN THE BAGGAGE CLAIM AREA. They’d made it to the car, where Rócha had been behind the wheel with the engine running, watching from across the street as Sagan found his car and climbed inside. They’d followed him out of town, his destination immediately obvious.
The airport.
So he called Vienna and told the charter service to fly the jet to Prague. The flight time was less than an hour. All he needed to know was Sagan’s destination.
Which Rócha had left to find out.
He spotted his man on the down escalator and watched as he walked over. He caught Alle’s apprehension.
“Not to worry,” he told her. “I spoke to him. He will not bother you again.”
Rócha approached.
“It cost me £500 but the ticket agent told me Sagan booked the three o’clock flight to London, then on to Kingston, Jamaica. I have the flight times.”
Jamaica.
Why was he not surprised?
Rócha faced Alle. “I want to say I’m sorry for what happened in Vienna. I took things too far. I was only trying to do my job.”
He watched as Alle accepted the apology. He’d told Rócha what to do in the event that she was back with them and was pleased that his man had followed directions.
She seemed more at ease already.
“Our jet will be here soon,” he said.
“Sagan went through Customs, then security,” Rócha said. “He’s gone, waiting for his flight.”
Zachariah’s mind was on a greater problem.
Sagan would beat them to Jamaica. They’d have to refuel at least once, probably twice. Even with a layover, Sagan would arrive first. Which meant he had to have someone there, on the ground, ready and waiting.
And there was only one candidate.
“I have to make a call,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
BÉNE WAS AT HIS ESTATE, THE LONG NIGHT OVER, THE JAMAICAN morning barely beginning. Halliburton had returned home, too, and Frank Clarke was back in Charles Town. He’d changed out of his wet clothes, now outside at the kennel, where his dogs waited. They were glad to see him, Big Nanny especially. He petted them all and accepted their affection.
He thought about Grandy Nanny herself.
She’d managed to escape not long after arriving in Jamaica and took her five brothers with her. One set of siblings came east and became the Windward Maroons. Nanny and the others traveled west and became the Leewards. She built Nanny Town, clearing 600 acres of raw forest. She fought the British and, while her brothers and most Maroons sought peace, she merely signed a truce. Legend said that immediately afterward she asked the British to shoot her. They obliged, but Nanny spun around, then straightened up, walking to a British officer and returning the bullets that had been fired her way. She pointed toward the sky and told him, “Only one can kill me.”
He smiled. That was the thing about legends.
You wanted to believe them.
He stared out at the mountains, packed with a profusion of lush vegetation, a sea of green, the morning sun casting the thick slopes in a purple glow.
What beauty.
He gathered the dogs and opened the gate. The animals fled the kennel, stretching their legs, readying themselves for a hunt.
He was still bothered by the attempt on his life.
Being born Maroon was an initiation into a secret society. His mother taught him as a child “never tell more than half of what you know. That’s not lying,” she would add. “That’s smart.” His father had been more practical. Hammering into him more of Maroon culture. Secrets shared become secrets betrayed. “Go to your grave,” his father said, “with your secrets.”
That was how he justified not telling his mother about his life. A betrayal? Sure. Was he a hypocrite? Probably. He resented Frank Clarke keeping things from him, but his friend had been right in the cave. He’d done the same toward his mother.
And the colonels?
Those men he resented.
That was the thing about Maroons. They’d never been able to stick together. Grandy Nanny herself led 300 of her people from the west to the east in what was known as the Grand Trek. Her goal was to reunite the two Maroon factions into one, then attack the British with a full force. But her brother, Cudjoe, who headed the east, refused. He wanted peace. So she retreated to the Leeward side and resumed the fight. And though she eventually made a truce, she never made pea
ce.
Smart lady.
The dogs seemed anxious.
Two of them tangled.
He yelled and halted their dispute.
Both retreated, and he petted each, letting them know that everything was okay.
Maroons were taught early in life to not speak of their ways. Any knowledge dispensed should come in small increments. Trust was fragile. To reveal all of what you knew made yourself vulnerable to betrayal. Speaking freely of “Maroon things” ran the risk of incurring the ancestors’ wrath.
Best to say nothing.
That was what he’d been taught. Frank Clarke, too.
So why was he bothered by Frank’s withholding?
Simple. He was not an outsider.
He was Maroon.
Frank’s statement that he was not trusted by the others—that hurt him. Who the hell were they to judge?
And to decide to kill him?
“Ungrateful bastards,” he whispered.
What to do now. The mine was nothing and, according to Frank, no one knew what had happened to the gold and silver objects.
Then again, he had no way of knowing if any of that was true.
Always guard your knowledge.
Was Frank Clarke still protecting?
The dogs continued darting in all directions, always circling back to where he stood. Clouds had rolled in off the peaks, the sky the color of ashes.
His phone rang.
The display read UNKNOWN.
He decided to answer.
“Zachariah Simon,” the voice said.