“Who are you?” she blurted out to the older man who’d tossed the gun in the water.
“My name is Frank Clarke. I’m colonel of the local Maroons. This land is ours by treaty. That means I’m in charge. Who are you?”
“Alle Becket.”
“That man,” her father said, “who came here sixty years ago. That was my grandfather, Marc Eden Cross. Her great-grandfather. He told you the truth. He was fulfilling a special duty given to him.”
“I am told he spent a lot of time in Jamaica and came to know Maroons in ways outsiders rarely do. We offered him this place as sanctuary and he accepted.” Clarke pointed to the lake. “This pit filled with mud long ago. It’s a thick soupy mixture. You see the many stones scattered beneath the water. Some have numbers etched into them. Cross did that himself. His addition to this place. This water, this mud has served Maroons for centuries. Now it serves the Jews. It is for the Levite to take the next step.”
Alle was unsure what the man meant.
As, apparently, were the others.
“You saw how the gun rested on the bottom. The mud will support weight, so long as it’s not disturbed. The stones beneath the surface with no numbers rest on solid rock and will never sink. The others, with numbers, float on mud. The only way to the ledge on the far side is to step on the right stones.”
“And what prevents us from floating across?” Zachariah asked.
“It’s too shallow to do without a raft, and there’s none here. If anyone tries to cross this lake, except through the prescribed method, they die. That was our promise to the Levite. Three have tried over the past sixty years. Their bodies are in the mud. None has attempted it in a long time.”
“This is nuts,” she said.
“It is what your great-grandfather wanted. He created this challenge.”
“How do we know that?” she asked.
Clarke shrugged. “You have only my word. But he told us that another Levite would arrive one day and know exactly how to get across.”
“And what’s over there?” Rowe asked.
She wanted to know that, too.
“What the Levite seeks.”
She saw that Simon was thinking. In Prague she’d told him everything she could remember about the message her grandfather left in his grave. Including five numbers: 3, 74, 5, 86, 19.
Her father also knew those numbers.
“I know the way,” Simon said. “I accept the challenge.”
Clarke stepped away from the lake’s edge and casually motioned with the second gun. “Your success will tell us if you’re the Levite.”
———
ZACHARIAH WAS SURE HE WAS RIGHT.
The five numbers Alle had told him had to be the way.
3, 74, 5, 86, 19.
He’d noticed something about them while thinking on the plane. The first three together, 374, were the number of years the First Temple had stood until the Babylonians razed it. The second three, 586, the number of years the Second Temple had stood until the Romans wreaked havoc.
That was not coincidental.
Cross had obviously picked his numbers with care.
The last number—19?
He had no idea.
But he was certain they led the way across the lake.
Why else include them?
And there was something else Cross had done.
“Remember the message from Abiram Sagan,” he said. “The golem helps protect our secret in a place long sacred to Jews. A golem is a living body, created from raw earth, using fire, water, and air. Exactly what we have here. This lake is a golem.”
“Why flood it?” Sagan asked Clarke.
“It stays wet from rainwater and serves its purpose but, for this challenge, a bit more depth was required. Once I learned Béne was coming here, I ordered the dam be opened. We built it. If you fail here tonight, we will rebuild it and await the true Levite.”
“Why do this?” Rowe asked Clarke. “Seems like a lot of trouble for outsiders.”
“As I told you before, Béne, you really don’t understand us. Maroons were always outsiders, brought here in chains. We fled to the mountains to be free. The Jews were no different from us. They were never accepted, either. Many of us remember what they did for Maroons during the two wars. I am told that this was our way of repaying them.”
Zachariah had heard enough. He pointed at Rócha. “You go. I’ll direct the path.”
He saw the apprehension in his man’s eyes.
“Not to worry,” he said. “I know what I am doing.”
“Then go yourself,” Sagan said.
“And leave you here? I do not think so.”
He hoped that once he conquered the challenge this Frank Clarke would have no choice but to acknowledge he was the Levite, entitled to what awaited on the lake’s far side. Maybe then Clarke would deal with Rowe, Alle, and Sagan for him.
He faced Rócha. “You will be fine. I know the way.”
Rócha nodded his acceptance, then stepped to the rock edge. Torches shed a blood-red luster over the water. Half a dozen stones, all devoid of numbers, lay scattered across the bottom, about a meter apart, extending out five meters. Rócha plunged his foot through the shin-high water and stepped on the nearest one, nodding his head that it was solid. He then worked his way out into the lake, sloshing through the water, following more stones with no numbers.
Then stopped.
“Ahead are five stones,” Rócha called out. “They are numbered 9, 35, 72, 3, 24.”
Zachariah nearly smiled. He was right. “The one with the three is safe,” he called out.
He watched as Rócha tested the stone and saw that he’d chosen correctly.
Now he knew.
Another series of blanks, then a second cluster of numbered stones. The one with 74, as he thought, proved solid. Two more times, and 5 and 86 offered safe passage. Rócha was now about twenty meters from the far ledge, calling out the next sequence of numbered stones. Zachariah told him 19 was the safe play.
And he was right.
Except that Rócha was still not at the ledge.
Ten meters of water remained.
“There’s a final sequence of stones,” Rócha called out. “Twenty of them numbered. The others are blank, but there’s no way to reach them.”
A final sequence?
But the message only provided five numbers.
“Can you make it to the ledge?” he called out.
Rócha shook his head. “No way. Too far.”
He glanced over at Tom Sagan, who apprised him with a cool glare. He’d said nothing about being the Levite when Clarke spoke up, allowing only Alle to challenge him. The
son of a bitch. There was something more, something Sagan had not allowed his daughter to learn. And he’d stayed silent to see if he was right.
Rócha had no idea that the next choice would be a guess. Only Sagan would know that, and the former reporter surely could not care less if Rócha died. In fact, he was probably counting on it.
“Tell me the numbers you see,” he yelled across the water.
Rócha rattled off twenty.
“Thirty-four,” he said.
Rócha did not hesitate. Why would he? Every other choice had been right.
His man stepped toward the stone, planted one foot, then the next. And began to sink.
Panic immediately grabbed hold. Arms went into the air searching for balance. He tried to leap away and find another stone, but the mud around his feet was too strong.
Rócha began to sink.
As the others realized what they were watching, Zachariah elbowed Frank Clarke in the gut.
The older man reeled forward, the breath leaving his lungs.
Rowe surged his way.
But Zachariah wrenched the gun from Clarke’s grasp and aimed it straight at his adversary.
“Back off, Béne,” he ordered. “I will shoot you dead.”
Rowe stopped his advance.
He motioned with the gun for Sagan and Alle to join Rowe and for all of them to step back. Clarke, too. He wanted them where he could see them.
“Mr. Simon, help me,” Rócha screamed. “Send one of them. They can get this far and pull me out.”
But he could not risk it. Not now. He had the situation under control and planned to keep it that way. Besides, he had a better way to get across.
Rócha sank fast, nothing to stop him, the mud now chest-high.
Clarke straightened himself up.
“Mr. Simon, help me,” Rócha screamed.
“You just going to let him die?” Sagan asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You really are a monster,” Alle said.
“A warrior. On a mission. Something you could not possibly understand.”
“Somebody. Please,” Rócha yelled.
“Stay still,” Sagan called out.
But that was surely easier said than done.
Too late.
Rócha disappeared.