The Columbus Affair

An estate? Of course. What else?

“That’s where we have to go.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY

ZACHARIAH BUCKLED HIS SEAT BELT AND WATCHED AS ALLE AND Rócha did the same. The long flight across the Atlantic was about over. They’d stopped only once for fuel, in Lisbon, then flown directly here to Kingston. His watch read 12:25 A.M., local time, March 9th. Saturday.

Another day had passed.

Both Alle and Rócha had slept on the trip. He’d dozed in and out, his mind unable to relax. It excited him to know there were Israelis in authority waiting for him to act. Finally, after decades of concession and complacency something might be accomplished. His father and grandfather would be proud. He was about to succeed where they each had failed. But that all depended on Béne Rowe’s cooperation.

Sagan should already be on the ground, which meant Rowe was with him, probably trying to learn all that he could. He hoped his ploy about another piece of the puzzle would at least give Rowe some pause. He was betting Rowe would limit those involved. Doubtful that he’d want any of his men trying to take advantage. Sure, Rowe had made clear that somebody would be waiting at the airport to meet them, but he’d never said where they would be taken.

So he wondered.

Could the odds be evened?

Alle stood from her seat and made her way to the lavatory. The pilot had just advised that they would be landing shortly. He waited until the door was shut then motioned for Rócha to leave his seat and come closer. In a low voice he explained what he wanted done.

Rócha nodded.

The answer clear.

Yes, of course.

———

TOM SAT IN THE PICKUP’S PASSENGER SEAT AND ASKED, “HOW DO you know Simon?”

“I read about you on the Internet. A big-time reporter who found some trouble.”

Not an answer to his question. “Don’t believe everything you read online. Big mistake.”

Rowe chuckled. “You should read what they say about me there. Shocking. Disgraceful stuff.”

But he wondered how far off the mark that slander might be.

And already he began to question the wisdom of his actions.

They were leaving the airport on a black highway, the road smooth and straight, traffic nearly nonexistent. A full moon brightened the midnight sky.

“How do you know Simon?” he asked again.

“We met a year ago. He wanted help finding a lost mine and I offered it.”

“And Brian Jamison? You know him, too.”

“Did you meet Brian?”

“He was an American agent, working for the Justice Department. My daughter was told he worked for you.”

“That was a lie.”

“He’s dead.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’d say Jamison leaned on you. Judging by your entourage, I’d also say that you know your way around the local criminal justice system. What did Jamison want? Simon?”

“What else. He made me help, and I did what he wanted.”

“Did you have him killed in Vienna?”

Rowe shook his head. “Simon took him down. All his doing.”

“I assume Jamison never said why the Americans were interested in Simon?”

“He wasn’t the talkative type. He liked to give orders.”

“Like you?”

Rowe laughed. “You really were once a good reporter.”

“I still am.”

And he meant it.

“The Simon said he has information that you don’t. That’s why I’m supposed to hold you up until he gets here.”

“And you don’t believe him?”

“Not a man known for telling the truth.”

“He knows nothing.”

“Then it’s good for me that I took a chance on you.”

He wasn’t so sure if the reverse were true. “How far to Falcon Ridge?”

“In a straight line, maybe fifty kilometers. Unfortunately, roads here don’t go so straight. I’d say two hours to get there. What are we looking for?”

“A cave.”

“Jamaica has thousands of those.”

“Is there one at Falcon Ridge?”

Rowe reached for a phone. “Let’s find out.”

Tom watched as the man dialed a number, waited while the party answered, then listened as Rowe explained what he wanted to someone named Tre.

Rowe then ended the call.

“Calling and driving is dangerous,” Tom said.

“That’s what I hear. But lots of things are dangerous. Like getting into a truck with a stranger.”

“As if I need reminding.”

Rowe grinned. “I like you. Smart guy. I heard what you did to the Simon in Florida.”

He asked what he wanted to know. “Who was on the phone?”

“A friend of mine who knows about caves. He’ll call back and let us know what’s at Falcon Ridge.”

“Why are you so interested in the Jews’ Temple treasure?” he asked Rowe.

“I wasn’t, until a few hours ago. You realize Simon is coming to Jamaica.”

He nodded. “I do now. He’s probably bringing my daughter with him.”

“Your daughter? Still with him? I bet that’s quite a story.”

“You could say that. How will we know when Simon arrives?”

“No problem. I have people waiting to welcome him.”

———

ZACHARIAH SLIPPED HIS PASSPORT BACK INTO HIS POCKET AND walked with Alle out of the building. The hanger sat away from Kingston’s main terminal, used by private planes, his charter now among the many parked on the tarmac. Rócha had deplaned first and disappeared.

A warm blanket of humid air soaked him.

“How are we going to get around?” Alle asked.

“I do not think that is going to be a problem.”

He pointed at two black men strutting their way, chests inflated like dogs eager for a fight. The area where they’d exited the hanger was secluded, near a small parking lot with few cars. Weak bulbs splashed pale yellow light onto dark pavement. Palm trees lining the edges rustled in a light breeze. The two men wore jeans and khaki shirts stained with moisture. They approached and stopped a few meters away.

“Mr. Rowe sent us to fetch you,” one of them said, the face beaming with hospitality.

“How kind.”

They followed their hosts into the parking lot, where one of the men motioned to a light-colored sedan.

“You not going to make any trouble, are you?” one of them asked.

“Why would I?”

Alle seemed concerned, but he allayed her fears with a slight shake of his head.

A shadow lunged from the trees.

He heard a crack, then the man to his left spilled facedown to the asphalt. The other man reacted to the assault, a hand plunging into his pant pocket, surely for a weapon, but the shadow leaped forward.

“Now, sir,” Zachariah said. “I need you to keep your hands where we can see them.”

Rócha held a gun to the man’s head.

“Are you carrying a phone?”

“Sure, man.”

“Do you know how to contact Béne?”

The head nodded.

“He wanted you to call once you had us in the car?”

Another nod.

“And he would tell you then where to bring us?”

A third confirmation.

“Remove the phone, slowly, and make the call. Tell him you have us. Keep to English. No patois. I want to clearly understand what you say and what he says to you. Any problem and you are dead.”

He saw a hesitation in complying, and Rócha jammed the gun farther into the man’s temple.

The phone was found and dialed.

Zachariah stepped close and angled the unit so he could hear. The man’s chest was thin, arms hairless, and he reeked of coppery sweat.

Three rings and Béne Rowe’s voice answered.

&nbsp

; “We have ’em,” was the report.

“All good?”

“No problems.”

“Bring them to Falcon Ridge. It’s on the map, in St. Ann Parish. Come up A3, then west at Mahoe Hill. Get here fast.”

“We on our way,” the man told Rowe.

The call ended.

“You did good,” Zachariah said.

He motioned for Alle to enter the car.

He walked around to the passenger’s side.

Rócha used the moment to slip the hand holding the gun around the man’s neck. His arms locked, right hand came up, and the head was jerked to one side, snapping another neck.

He entered the car as Rócha dragged the body into the trees.

“What’s happening out there?” Alle asked.