A shake of the head. “I stole it. I have it at my place in Spanish Town. Your men know where dat is. Go get it. Beside my bed. I swear, Béne. Right beside my bed.”
He withdrew the gun.
His man digging in the grave had stopped and was motioning.
He needed time to think so he tossed the weapon to his lieutenant and walked over. In the shallow excavation he spotted a flat chip of stone. On its face was a symbol.
“Fetch it out,” he ordered.
His man lifted the fragment and laid it on the ground. He brushed away the dark earth and studied the etching. The Simon had told him to look for a pitcher on a grave marker and a hooked X.
The chip he stared at had once been part of a tombstone. He lifted the chunk and saw that it fit at the bottom right corner of the marker with the pitcher, its rough edges close enough of a match to convince him.
He propped the piece up so the prisoner could see the hooked X.
“You know wa dis bi?”
“I saw dat on the deed, Béne. On da deed in the archives. The one beside my bed. Simon told me to watch for dat X thing. I did. I did real good, Béne. It’s there. I can still do real good for you, too. I can.”
Unfortunately, it didn’t work like that. As a child his mother taught him something she’d been taught by her mother, and her mother before that. Maroons wrote little down. The spoken word had been their history book.
Speak the truth and speak it ever
,
Cost it what it will
.
His mother was always right.
And something else she said.
To hide a sin was to commit another.
Felipe was a minor government official who worked at the national archives in Spanish Town. He was somewhat educated and ambitious, but earned barely enough to survive. His main task had been to search the old records for anything on the lost mine. But, when offered the opportunity to work for someone else, this cheater had decided to bite the hand that first fed him.
Luckily, Felipe had a big mouth.
Which was appreciated, since knowing the situation had allowed Béne to cultivate a spy of his own.
He motioned for his man to bring him a phone. Reception in the mountains was excellent and he pressed one of its memory buttons, the number already programmed. Three rings and the man in Vienna answered.
“What is happening there?” he asked.
“It’s becoming … complicated.”
“Maybe it’s time you act.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Then do it. All’s quiet here.”
“Good to hear.”
He clicked off.
He’d known for the past few days that the Simon was on the move. Things were happening in both Austria and Florida. As to what, he was not entirely sure, but he knew enough to know that his European partner was double-crossing him. To his great fortune, Béne had found a new cemetery, with both a pitcher and a hooked X. Now he had a deed. All of which helped ease the ache of betrayal, and the anxiety he felt for what had to be done.
His gaze locked on his man with the gun. He held his minion’s eyes for a split second, then gave a nod. The weapon was aimed down and a bullet to the head ended Felipe’s life.
Speak the truth and speak it ever, cost it what it will.
“Dump him in the grave and refill the hole,” he said. “Then go bury the don.”
His dogs never ate what they did not kill.
“I’m going to Spanish Town.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TOM SAT ON THE SOFA. ZACHARIAH SIMON HAD BEEN GONE FOR over an hour. Ever since, he’d thought of Alle. His only child. Who hated him.
What happened to them?
He could not identify one defining moment where the break occurred. Instead, their estrangement had evolved, starting when Alle was in middle school, as she became more aware of the distance between her parents. By high school, their schism was complete.
Had Michele encouraged it? Not that he could see. No, this was all his doing. He’d hurt his ex-wife beyond measure. Even worse, he’d appeared not to care. That was back in the days when he could do no wrong. When he was invincible. Or so he thought. How many affairs had he had? He shook his head. Too many to count, in too many places. Michele never knew anything for certain. She’d only suspected. Intimacy bred a radar capable of detecting even the slightest emotional change, and Michele’s had eventually identified his betrayal. Unfortunately, he’d been too self-absorbed to care.
Regrets?
So many that he was ready to die.
“Our time is over, Tom.”
“And Alle?”
“I’m afraid if you don’t act soon, that relationship will be over, too. You’ve let that slide far too long. She’s seen the pain in my eyes. I can’t hide it.”
“I’ll fix it with her. I swear to you, Michele. I’ll fix it.”
But he never did.
Alle was seventeen when he was fired, his disgrace reported in every media outlet around the world. Unfortunately, patching up his relationship with his daughter had not seemed a high priority at the time. A mistake? Oh, yeah. Big time. But that was eight years of hindsight talking and there was no way to jam that toothpaste back in the tube.
He could do something now, though.
He could get her free of Zachariah Simon.
He’d signed the papers. Tomorrow he’d appear at the cemetery and make sure she was okay.
After that?
Finish what he’d started?
He rubbed his tired eyes with shaking hands and glanced at his watch. 2:15 P.M. Outside was quiet. Most of the people who’d lived in his parents’ neighborhood while he was growing up were either gone or dead. Trees that had then been saplings now towered over everything. He’d noticed driving in that the block remained in good repair. Time had been kind to this place.
Why had it been so tough on him?
He made a decision.
He wasn’t going to die today.
Maybe tomorrow, but not today.
Instead, it was time to do something he should have done long ago.
———
ALLE ENTERED THE CAFÉ RAHOFER, A PLACE SHE’D DISCOVERED A couple of weeks ago, not far from her Viennese apartment. She’d showered and changed, dressed in tan chinos, a sweater, and flat-soled shoes. She was feeling a bit better and wondered what had happened in Florida, but assumed her father had cooperated since Rócha had made no further contact. They were all scheduled to meet again tomorrow, at 4:00 P.M., back where the video had originated, there while the grave was being opened, ready if needed for another show.
She did not like the idea of exhuming her grandfather. He’d been a dear man who’d loved her unconditionally. He was the blood father she’d never had, and his death still affected her. She always hoped her conversion to Judaism compensated, at least a little, for the pain her father had caused him. Despite all that happened, his granddaughter still became a Jew.
“Did your grandfather leave any papers or instructions to you that may have seemed unusual?” Zachariah asked her.
She’d never spoken of it before, but it seemed okay, now, after three years, to discuss it with him. “He told me to bury a packet with him.”
“Describe it.”
She used her hands to outline something about afoot square. “It was one of those sealed vacuum bags sold for storage on television. It was thin and light.”
“Could you see anything through the bag?”
She shook her head. “I paid no attention to it. He left written instructions, as his estate representative, to make sure the packet was placed in his coffin. I did that myself, laying it on his chest, just before the lid was closed.”