He stared at everything from the packet.

The Temple treasure?

How could that be?

———

ALLE SAT WITH BRIAN. THE VIDEO FEED WAS OVER. THEY’D watched as the man on the other end had jumped a ditch and entered an orchard, driving down a rough lane between blooming orange trees. He’d then left the car, gone for about fifteen minutes before returning to report what happened.

He’d been about fifty yards away, but was able to hear Simon and Tom Sagan yell at each other. Sagan wanted his daughter and Simon made clear she was in Vienna.

“But I’m dead to him,” she said to Brian. “He’s bluffing?”

“A good play because there’s no way your father can know the truth.”

She’d listened while the eyes and ears in Florida reported the meeting place for tomorrow—5:00 P.M., inside St. Stephen’s.

“Your father thinks he’ll be safe there,” Brian said.

She’d visited the cathedral a couple of weeks ago. “There’re a lot of people there.”

“But you said it. You’re dead to Simon. He knows he can’t make a trade.”

Yet Zachariah had agreed to the exchange.

Her eyes betrayed her thoughts of concern.

“That’s right,” Brian said. “Your father’s going exactly where Simon wants him to go. The question is, do you give a damn?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

BÉNE FOLLOWED FRANK CLARKE UP THE RUGGED TRAIL through a carpet of ground ferns and across pebbles greased with mud. Luckily, he’d dressed for his trek to Charles Town, wearing old jeans and boots. The colonel was armed with a machet, which he used to hack low-lying limbs that blocked their way. The raucous call of a parrot drifted through the high forest, as did the incessant tapping of woodpeckers. No fear of poisonous snakes. Mongooses imported from India centuries ago to deal with rats had eliminated all of those.

He was three years shy of forty and in good shape, but this climb taxed him. His face was streaked in sweat, rivulets soaked his shirt. The colonel was thirty years his senior, yet the inclined trail seemed no problem, the older man’s steps slow and cautious, his breathing shallow. Every time he trekked into the mountains Béne thought of his ancestors. Eboes from the Bight of Benin. Mandingoes from Sierra Leone. Papaws stolen from the Congo and Angola. Coromantees captured on the Gold Coast.

They’d been the toughest.

Nearly all of the great Maroon leaders had been Coromantees, including his great-great-great-grandfather.

His mother had many times told him about the African’s tortuous path to the New World. First had come capture, then confinement at a fort or trade post. Next was a clustering with other captives, most strangers, some enemies. The fourth turmoil involved being packed onto overcrowded ships and sailed across the Atlantic. Many had not survived that trip, their corpses tossed overboard. Those who did formed bonds that would last for generations—shipbrothers and -sisters was what they would forever call one another. The fifth trauma happened on arrival when they were prepared like cattle, then sold. The final ordeal, known as seasoning, was when others, already there and accustomed to a yoke, taught them how to survive.

The Dutch, English, and Portuguese were all guilty.

And though the physical shackles were long gone, a form of mental slavery remained where some Jamaicans refused to embrace their African past.

Maroons were not in that category.

They’d not forgotten.

And never would.

They kept climbing. A rush of water could be heard ahead. Good. He was thirsty. The trees were ablaze with the Flame of the Forest. He’d learned about the red flowers as a child, his mother telling him how their stinky juice was good for eye infections. As a boy he’d imagined what it must have been like to be a Maroon warrior, wading up streams to mask his scent. Walking backward to create tracks to nowhere. Luring British soldiers to precipices from which there was no escape, or herding them into narrow passages and pelting them with boulders, logs, and arrows. Goats were used to test water supplies which the enemy liked to poison, but the animals were never allowed into settlements since baying would betray their location. Warriors were masters of ambush, wrapping their bodies from head to toe in cacoon vines. Not even the eyes were exposed. Even their lance, the jonga, was concealed under a dense blanket of leaves. Which made them totally invisible in the forest. A huge advantage. One never spoken about, one of those secrets that Maroons kept to themselves.

After a battle they would slaughter every opposing soldier but one or two, whom they released so they could report both the defeat and an unspoken challenge.

Send more.

Please.

“The ol’ ones are with us today,” Frank said.

“You hear duppies, Frank?”

“Not the bad spirits. Only the ol’ people. They wander the woods and look after us.”

He’d heard tales of duppies. Spirits that spoke in high nasal voices and were repelled by salt. If they were nearby, your head would seem full, your skin hot. They could even make you sick, which was why his mother had always asked when he was little—after he’d hurt himself—duppy box you there?

He smiled when he thought of her.

Such a gentle woman, married to such a violent man. But her only child was also violent. Just yesterday he’d killed two men. He wondered if their duppies now wandered through the trees, searching for him.

“Strike the match,” his mother said.

He did as she told him.

“Now, blow it out, say ‘one,’ and throw it down.”

He followed her instructions. They were in the mountain forest high above Kingston. They both liked it here, far away from the frenetic pace of the city. Here, she would tell him about the Tainos, the Africans, and the Maroons.

Tonight it was duppies.

“Do it again,” she said. “And say ‘two.’ ”

He struck the match, blew it out, uttered the word, and tossed it away.

“With the third match,” she said, “blow it out, say the word, but keep it. What happens is the duppy is fooled. It spends the night searching for the third match while you run away.

“It’s there,” Frank said, bringing his thoughts back to the present. “Careful on the rocks. You slip, you slide.”

He spotted a slit in a shallow cliff, just beneath a massive fig tree, its roots blocking the entrance like bars.

“That cave leads through the ridge to the other side,” Frank said. “Maroons once used it for escape. We would attack the English, do what damage we could, then retreat. Soldiers would follow, but we’d be gone through the rock. Good for us the English were not fond of caves.”

Jamaica was like a sponge with thousands of passages interconnected by a highway of tunnels, rivers disappearing underground in one parish, rising in another. Knowing their way around beneath the surface had proven the Maroons’ salvation.

Frank led him to the entrance and he saw how cut boards had been fashioned as a makeshift door, blocking the way about two feet inside.

“Keeps bats out.”

They removed the wood. He spotted three flashlights.

“Easier to keep ’em here.”

They each grabbed a light and entered, the narrow duct requiring them to crouch. He was careful of the ceiling, which was sharp, scalloped limestone, the floor moist clay. At least it didn’t stink with guano.

A few meters inside, they stopped. Frank trained his light on the wall and Béne saw what was carved into the stone.

A hooked X.

“It’s Taino?” he asked.

“Let’s go farther.”

The passage finally hollowed out into a tall chamber, the dark air chilly. As they trained their lights across the walls, he counted four openings that led out.

Then he saw the pictographs.

Maize, birds, fish, frogs, turtles, insects, dogs, and what appeared to be a native chief in full dress.

“Tainos believ

ed,” Frank said, “that their first ancestors’ spirits lived in caves and only came out at night to eat the jobos. One night the plums tasted extra good and they were still eating ’em when the sun rose, which turned them all human.”

Béne had heard that same story of creation from his mother.

“Caves were their refuges,” Frank said. “Taino were not buried. They were laid out in dark places. It’s said their ashes still cover the cave floors.”

He felt honored to be here, the place as serene as a chapel.

“The Tainos hated the Spanish. To avoid slavery they’d hide in caves like this and starve themselves to death. Some went quick, drinking the cassava poison. Others lingered a long while.”

The colonel went silent.

“Columbus called them Indians. People today wrongly call them Arawaks. Tainos was what they were. They came here 7,000 years before the Spanish, paddling over in canoes from the Yucatán. This was their home. Yet Europeans destroyed them in only a hundred years. Sixty thousand people slaughtered.”

He heard the contempt, which he echoed.

“That hooked X is not Taino,” Frank said. “It’s never been found in any cave they painted. It’s Spanish, and marks an important place. Maroons have known that symbol for a long time, but we don’t speak of it. Those who search for the lost mine also search for that symbol.”

Which was exactly what Zachariah Simon had told him, without an explanation.

“So the mine is real? I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”

“The whole tale makes no sense. Tainos did not prize gold. They placed more importance on guanín.”

Tags: Steve Berry Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net