The Columbus Affair

The other woman was taller, stouter, a few years younger, and similarly dressed. She introduced herself as the Israeli ambassador to Austria.

“You’re a long way from home,” he said to her.

“We came to see you,” the ambassador said.

He offered both women drinks, but they refused. He poured himself some fresh-squeezed lemonade, one of his favorites, sweetened with honey from bees kept here on the estate. A fickle March sun tried to break through in patches from rising afternoon clouds. Rain was coming, but not for a few hours. A little over twelve hours had passed since he’d emerged from Darby’s Hole.

“What happened last night?” Nelle asked.

He sipped his lemonade and listened in the distance.

He heard the dogs.

Barking.

He’d opened the pens over an hour ago, his pets grateful for the release. Big Nanny led and he’d watched them disappear into the familiar territory of the high forest.

Their wail was slow and steady.

Businesslike.

As with the Maroon’s abeng, he’d learned the meanings of their call.

“Last night?” he asked, referring to the question. “I slept well.”

Nelle shook her head. “I told you we didn’t have time for games.”

“Zachariah Simon landed here a little after midnight,” the ambassador said. “He came with one of his employees, a man named Rócha, and Alle Becket. Tom Sagan arrived about an hour before. Two bodies were found at the Kingston airport this morning. Men who, I am told, work for you.”

He’d been troubled to learn of their deaths. He’d told them to be on guard, to expect Simon to be trouble. Unfortunately, the personalities that came into his employ were often too confident and too inexperienced, which sometimes proved a deadly combination. One of the men was married, with children. He’d pay the widow a visit tomorrow and make sure, financially, she’d be okay.

“You have a remarkable amount of information for two people who don’t live here. How does any of it relate to me?”

Trucks headed off in the distance for one of the far pastures, where his prized horses grazed. He’d been told a few days ago that the coffee beans were blooming, and it looked like a good year ahead.

“Quit the act,” Nelle said. “Simon killed Brian Jamison. For all we know, you okayed that.”

“Me? I liked Brian.”

The Justice Department woman never broke a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure you did. But did you think we’d forget about you?”

He said nothing.

“I was there,” Nelle said, “when Brian’s body was fished out of a trash bin. He was a good man. A good agent. Dead, because of you.”

“Me? You sent him here to pressure me. I cooperated with you. The Simon was the problem for Brian.”

“Mr. Rowe,” the ambassador said. “I had to cover up Agent Jamison’s death. I, too, was there when his body was found. I do not like that he had to die. This entire operation gyrated out of control. I am told that there is quite a file on you. More than enough charges to bring you down.”

He sipped more of his cold drink. “This is Jamaica. If I have done something wrong, then take it to the authorities.” He bore his gaze into her. “Otherwise, keep threats to yourself.”

“If I had my way,” Nelle said, “I’d handle you myself.”

He chuckled. “Why so much hostility? I don’t bother you.” He pointed at the other woman. “I don’t bother you.”

The ambassador said, “Mr. Rowe. Most likely, sometime in the next year, I may become prime minister of Israel. I realize that is not important to you, but Zachariah Simon is important to us.”

He shook his head. “That’s a bad man. A lying man.”

The ambassador nodded in agreement. “We have been watching Simon for many years. He’s been in and out of this area on more than one occasion. Up until recently his activities were deemed only … misguided. But that may no longer be the case. A good man, a rabbi named Berlinger, was found shot to death in Prague a few hours ago. Simon, or someone working for him, probably killed him. Unfortunately, that rabbi was one of only five people that we know of who may have the answers we seek. You’re one of the four still left alive.”

He knew the other three. Sagan. His daughter. And Simon.

But what about Frank Clarke? These women apparently knew nothing of him. Which was fitting. As the Maroons of old, he’d disappeared back into the forest. “What is it you want to know?”

“Where’s Simon?” Nelle said to him.

He leaned on the veranda’s rail. Its wood had come from the nearby forest, the trees felled centuries ago by slaves.

His ancestors.

Some of whom became Maroons.

The dogs continued to bark in the distance.

The sound comforted him.

As did the fact that neither of these women had a clue about Falcon Ridge or Darby’s Hole. If they did, they’d be there, not here. He’d dispatched men to stake out the cave since leaving hours ago. No one had returned.

Di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin.

He told himself to be neither.

Instead, be in charge.

“Simon can no longer help you.”

Nelle started to speak, but the ambassador grabbed her arm and said, “Zachariah Simon is a dangerous fanatic. He wanted to start a war. Thousands would have died because of him. But we may have stopped all that. For all his insanity, though, he sought something of great value to Jews. A sacred treasure that we thought lost, but may be found. Four objects. Do you know where they are?”

He shook his head. Which was the truth. He’d never crossed the stones to follow Sagan and his daughter. Instead he’d yanked Simon from the mud then climbed back to ground level, bringing his prisoner here, to the estate, where he’d been locked away. Sagan and his daughter had emerged from the cave and left with Frank, neither saying a word. What they may have found was not something he cared to know. Time for him to start acting like a Maroon. These women were obroni—outsiders—not worthy of the knowledge he possessed. Silence was the Maroon way.

“I truly don’t know.”

He caught a shift in the dogs’ wail. A deepening, the rhythm lengthening, and knew what that meant.

“But you do know where Simon is,” Nelle said.

“The last I saw, he was running.”

“You are going to kill me?” Simon asked.

“Not me.” He pointed to the dogs. “They do it for me.”

The look was the same he’d seen from the drug don four days ago.

He enjoyed more of his lemonade and caught the scent of cooking pork. A wild hog, killed earlier, roasting for later.

There’d be some good jerk to eat tonight.

Hopefully his mother would make yams.

He thought of Grandy Nanny, knowing now that the woman was no legend. She was real. It was said that she held special power over wild hogs and could call the animals to her.

“Three hundred years ago my ancestors were brought here in chains and sold as slaves. We worked the fields. Mine were Coromantees from the Gold Coast. Eventually, we rebelled. Many fled to the hills. We fought the British and won our freedom. I am Maroon.”

“And the point of that genealogical lesson?” Nelle asked.

He caught a pause in the dog’s bay and counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. He kept counting till eight, when the sound began again.

Big Nanny had found her prey.

What a leader.

He drank the remainder of his lemonade.

Life was good.