“So they tried something desperate,” Alle said. “The only thing they thought might work.”
Brian was clearly listening.
“Their world had crumbled. They had no where to go. Europe. Africa. Nobody wanted them. So they hoped that there might be a better place across the ocean in Asia. Where Columbus was headed.”
“You’re saying that Christopher Columbus was looking for a Jewish homeland?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. There were tales at the time of a place to the east where Jews lived free. Was it real? Nobody knew. But myths were all these people had. There had to be something better than where they were. Do you know who actually financed Columbus’ first voyage? It wasn’t Isabella selling her jewels, as the story is told. The Spanish monarchy was broke. There was no money for foolish ventures, and that’s what they thought of Columbus’ idea. Instead, it was the Jews who financed that voyage.”
Brian was visibly surprised.
“Luis de Santangel was a converso, a Jew from Aragon, who converted to keep what he’d worked his life to obtain. His family served in government, and when Ferdinand needed money, he went to the de Santangels. Unfortunately, they were among the first targets of the Inquisition and Luis was brought to trial. Ferdinand himself finally intervened on his behalf. Luis knew the king’s deepest secrets. He took care of the most difficult state business. Ferdinand needed him, so he was spared. It was de Santangel who convinced the king and queen to support Columbus. But they agreed only after de Santangel staked 17,000 ducats of his own money on the venture. Three other conversos added their money. The Spanish Crown had nothing to lose.”
“Why have I never heard of this before?” Brian asked.
“Because no one wants to acknowledge that Columbus could have been a Jew, and that Jews paid for his discovery of the New World. But it’s true. I’ve seen the originals of de Santangel’s account books in the archives at Simancas. They clearly show the money being advanced, and what it was advanced for.”
This was what she’d spent the past two years of her life studying. What her grandfather had sparked inside her long ago. What Zachariah Simon had seemed so interested in understanding.
“The Jews discovered America,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Now, that would change things up some.”
“On Columbus’ first voyage to the New World,” she said, “there were 87 men on those three ships. Contrary to Hollywood’s version, not a single priest was included. Not one. But there was a Hebrew translator on board. A man named de Torres, who was probably the first person ashore that day in 1492. Columbus brought a Hebrew translator for a reason. He thought he was sailing to India and Asia, to a place where Jews lived in safety. So he had to be able to communicate with them. Also, in the hold of the Santa María were three crates that held the Temple treasure. When de Santangel financed the voyage, he also set a secret condition with Columbus. ‘Take our treasures with you and hide them away. Spain is no longer safe.’ ”
“So that treasure is somewhere in the Caribbean?” Brian said.
“Most likely on Jamaica. The Columbus family controlled that island for 150 years. Zachariah said his family has searched for generations and learned as much as they could. But the Levite knows it all, and my grandfather was that man.”
Brian stood silent for a few moments, clearly thinking.
She wondered. Was he friend? Or foe?
Hard to say.
“Do you want to help your father?”
“I don’t want to see him hurt.”
She meant that.
“What can I do?”
“Maybe a whole lot.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TOM RECLINED THE SEAT AS FAR AS IT WOULD GO, TRYING TO find comfort in hopes of a little sleep. He’d made it to New York and boarded the overnight flight to London without a problem. They’d left the gate right at 8:00 P.M. and would arrive, according to the pilot, about half an hour early. That would help with his connection to Bratislava, which was tight. Every seat in coach was full, the cabin lights dimmed, the plane settling down after the meal service. Some were watching movies or listening to music, others reading.
He was thinking.
On the way to the Jacksonville airport he’d passed a branch of the city library system. He had time, so he’d made use of one of their computers, surfing the Internet for thirty minutes, learning what he could about Zachariah Simon.
The man was sixty years old, born to old money. A bachelor who lived a secluded life. Little was known about him except for the philanthropic efforts of his several foundations. The family had always been a huge supporter of Israel, and archived newspaper articles described how Simon’s father contributed money to the formation of a Jewish state. Nothing existed to say that Zachariah Simon had ever involved himself in Middle Eastern politics, and he could not recall the name ever being mentioned during his time there. Simon owned an estate in Austria, outside Vienna, that hosted a Zionist gathering each year to raise money for his foundations. Nothing political, more a social event. The man clearly kept things close to his vest, perhaps recognizing that the world had changed. So much could be learned about someone now with just a few clicks of a mouse or some taps on a screen. If you didn’t want anyone to know your business, then you had to stay out of cyber-friendly media.
Which Simon did.
The note from Abiram’s grave, the Jamaican map, and the key lay on the tray table before him, all illuminated by the overhead lamp like a spotlight on a stage. He lifted the key and studied the three Stars of David that formed one end. What did it open? He twirled it around, the brass catching the light with sharp reflections. He hadn’t examined it closely in the car, and now something on the stem caught his eye. Tiny. Engraved. He brought the metal closer and studied what was there.
He recognized the first two markings. Hebrew letters.
Po nikbar. Here lies.
The same as on his father’s tombstone. But those letters adorned many Hebrew graves. The third marking he did not know. An X, one stem hooked. He shook his head. What did it all mean?
The woman next to him had dozed off beneath a blanket. More people around him were heading to sleep.
He should, too.
He’d made a few precautionary preparations while in the library, a printer available for a fee. But there would have to be more. What would he do tomorrow at St. Stephen’s?
Good question.
He needed an answer.
And fast.
———
BÉNE CHECKED HIS WATCH. 9:30 P.M. IN JAMAICA MEANT 3:30 A.M. tomorrow in Vienna.
“I had no choice,” he told Brian through the phone. “She had to be bartered.” He’d just informed Jamison about the conversation with Zachariah Simon in which he’d revealed that Alle Becket was still alive.
“You compromised your man inside,” Brian said from Vienna.
“I’ve already told him to disappear. Simon and his guard dog are on a plane headed home. My man is gone from the residence.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done,” Brian said, his voice rising. “We worked with you because you did have a man inside Simon’s business.”
And that was true.
Brian Jamison had appeared at his estate, nearly a year ago, unannounced. He was an American intelligence agent, working for a unit called the Magellan Billet, come to ask questions about what Zachariah Simon was doing in Jamaica. Béne had offered him coffee and cake and told him nothing. Jamison returned three days later, this time with a thick file that contained more information on Béne’s illegal activities than he thought could be amassed in so short a time.