The Columbus Affair

Once the dead touched sacred earth they could not leave it, no matter whether human or animal. He appreciated this community’s adherence to Talmudic tradition. His own congregation, in Vienna, were not as strict. Progressive ideas had diluted what had once been a staunch Orthodox community. That was why he offered most of his prayers in a small synagogue on his estate.

“I had the attendant at the gate brought on duty early,” the mayor said. “This site does not open for another two hours.”

No one else was around. He liked the treatment he was receiving and realized it was all designed to open his checkbook. The mayor of this district had no clue why he was there, just that he was, and an opportunity like this could not be squandered.

The mayor stopped and pointed at a double set of metal doors in the far wall. “Beyond those doors is a ladder that leads down to an underground room, which was once used for tool storage. It has proven ideal as a place where paper can return to dust.”

“You’re not coming?”

The mayor shook his head. “I’ll wait here. You have a look in private.”

He sensed something with this man. Something he did not particularly like. But he knew Rócha was not far away, as he’d spotted him following them to the iron gate. So he made clear, “You do understand that I am not someone to be taken lightly.”

“That is beyond question. You are an important man.”

Before he could inquire further, the mayor turned and left. He almost called out to stop him but decided against it. Instead, he left the graveled path and wove his way through the matsevahs until he came to the outer wall. He realized that this portion ran parallel to U Stareho Hrbitova, the street they’d walked earlier. Ten feet above him another section of cemetery stretched beneath more ash trees, the earth supported by the wall. The double doors before him would lead beneath that section.

He opened them.

Rakes, shovels, and brooms were propped against one wall to his right. A metal ladder led down into a dark square in the stone floor.

He gazed down the chute.

A light burned below.

Apparently, he was expected.

He stepped onto the rungs but, before descending he reclosed the double doors.

He climbed down, realizing that he was literally descending through time. Every sixty centimeters meant another layer of graves.

When he reached the bottom he would stand where the burials had begun 700 years ago.

He glanced down beyond his feet and saw the ground approaching.

A few more rungs and he found stone.

He was perhaps seven to eight meters belowground. The lit room that stretched before him was about ten meters square, the ceiling not much above his head, the black earthen floor damp. Books and papers were stacked against the walls in haphazard piles, most nearly rotted away. The stale air was scented with decay and he wondered about the source.

Standing in the center of the room, beneath three bare bulbs that burned bright, was the same woman from Vienna who’d met him at Schönbrunn.

Israel’s ambassador to Austria.

“You and I need to talk further,” she said to him.

———

ALLE WAS LISTENING TO THE RABBI AND HER FATHER TALK. BOTH men knew things she did not. Especially her father, who’d obviously withheld far more than he’d revealed.

Like the key, which resembled something that might open a pirate’s chest, except that one end was adorned with three Stars of David. The other markings they were discussing were too small to be seen from her vantage point.

Hearing the story of how Berlinger and her great-grandfather had met moved her. She’d never known Marc Eden Cross or his wife, as both died long before she was born. Her grandmother had told her about them, and she’d seen photographs, but knew little except that Cross had been an archaeologist of some renown.

“What was my great-grandfather like?” she asked the rabbi.

The old man smiled at her. “A delightful man. You have his eyes. Did you know that?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never been told that before.”

“Why are you here?” Berlinger asked her.

She decided to be coy. “My father brought me.”

Berlinger faced her father. “If you are indeed the Levite, as the message says, then you know your duty.”

“It’s time for that duty to change.”

She saw that the old man was puzzled.

“Such a strange choice in you,” Berlinger said. “I sense anger. Resentment.”

“I didn’t make the choice. All I know is that my daughter and a man named Zachariah Simon are up to something. I don’t know what and I only care about any of it because a man died yesterday for it.”

“Yet you brought her here?”

“What better way to keep an eye on her?”

She resented his tone, but kept her words to herself. She was here to learn and arguing would not accomplish that goal.

Berlinger lifted the key. “I made this a long time ago. My contribution to Marc’s endeavor.”

“What was his endeavor?” she asked.

The rabbi apprised her with a stiff gaze. “He was the chosen one, called the Levite, to whom everything had been entrusted. But he lived at a time of great upheaval. The Nazis changed everything. They even searched for what he guarded.”

“In what way?” her father asked.

“They wanted our Temple treasure. They thought it the ultimate prize in destroying our culture, as the Babylonians and the Romans had done.”

“The Temple treasure has been gone for nearly two thousand years,” her father said.

“But they’d heard the stories, too,” Berlinger said. “As I had. That it survived. That it was hidden away. And only one person knew.” The old man paused. “The Levite.”

“Three days ago I would have said you were insane,” her father said. “Now I can’t do that. There is obviously something going on here.”

Berlinger pointed to the note. “Your father was the Levite. He knew the secret, or at least as much of it as was revealed. Marc was a cautious

man. Understandably. So, for the first time in hundreds of years, he changed everything about that secret. He had to, given the times.”

She could only imagine what it had been like to be Jewish in Europe from 1933 to 1945. What horrors those people had experienced. Her grandfather had told her some, things his relatives had described to him. But here, standing before her, was a man who’d seen it firsthand.

“You said that you plan to change things,” Berlinger whispered. “What kind of things?”

“I’m going to find that treasure.”

“Why do such a thing?”

“Why the hell not?” Her father’s voice rose, the anger clear. “Don’t you think it’s stayed hidden long enough?”

“Actually, I agree with you.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

BÉNE STEPPED FROM THE PICKUP TRUCK. HE’D DRIVEN FROM HIS estate west, then north into the mountains, entering St. Mary’s Parish and the same valley he and Tre had visited yesterday, the site identified by the deed grant found in the Jamaican archives. The Flint River flowed nearby, as did a multitude of lesser tributaries dropping from the mountains toward the shore. Frank Clarke had followed him in another vehicle. He was agitated with his friend, irritated with more lies, hurt by how other Maroons might feel about him. He’d been good to those people, done more for them than anyone. Yet they resented him.

He’d searched for the mine on their behalf, only now to be told that they’ve known of it all along.

Ahead, a vehicle was parked, beside which stood Tre Halliburton.

He and Clarke walked over and he said, “How far from here?”

“Maybe a ten-minute hike up that slope to the east.”

A full moon cast the forest in a cold, pale light. Pink heat lightning flickered in the far-off clouds. He’d brought two flashlights and saw that Tre held one, too, along with something else.