Brian produced a cell phone and hit one of its buttons. He spoke Hebrew to the person on the other side, most of which she understood. She’d studied it in both college and graduate school. She decided not to let him know she knew that he apparently had a man atop the cathedral’s south tower, which could be climbed for a fee. She’d done it herself, the view affording a wide angle. Interesting how he wanted her to believe that Zachariah was a danger, yet he could not, or would not, be straight with her.
And Hebrew?
Who was this guy?
He ended the call.
“Time for you to go inside.”
———
ZACHARIAH ADMIRED THE CATHEDRAL’S INTERIOR. LONG, TRIANGULAR rays of late-afternoon sun slanted through a forest of towering pillars toward the far altar. Golden bits of dust flickered in the glow, dancing to the strains of an organ. Sculptures stood everywhere, like sentinels keeping watch. Stained glass blazed with color in the tall windows. Christians did know how to embellish their churches, that he would give them. Synagogues were decorated, but not with human images—that was akin to idolatry. He’d often thought about the contrast between such simplicity and the Jews’ two Temples, both of which would have rivaled anything in Christendom.
But they were gone, the buildings razed.
Their treasures carted off.
Seeing something like St. Stephen’s sickened him. First built eight hundred years ago, nearly reduced to rubble during the final days of World War II, rebuilt in just seven years.
And that reality only strengthened his resolve.
He’d come inside alone. Rócha was waiting outside where he could follow Sagan and his daughter once they left. Neither one of them would leave Vienna alive. Time for this phase of the operation to end, and the next to begin.
Tour groups loitered about. The day was waning but the church stayed open until 10:00 P.M. Maybe that’s why Sagan chose it. But how would he have known? The man had done little but wallow in shame for the past eight years. He was beaten and broken.
Yet he’d reacted in Florida.
But who could blame him?
His only child was supposedly in danger.
Yet he wondered.
How would Sagan react if he knew the truth?
———
TOM WAITED OUTSIDE WHAT A PLACARD IDENTIFIED AS THE Chapel of St. Katherine, which jutted from the cathedral’s south tower. From here he could see the west portal entrance, the entire nave, and the main altar.
He spotted Zachariah Simon as he walked past the ornate pulpit and strolled toward the altar. Thanks to Inna he’d gained entrance through a little-used door on the north side not open to the public. As he’d suspected, she had connections and made a call from the café to the diocese’s public relations director. The story was simple. She had a friend in town from America, a reclusive celebrity writer, who wanted to visit St. Stephen’s unnoticed. Would it be possible to gain access without passing through the main entrance? Her connection had been more than happy to help, which allowed him to arrive early and stay out of sight.
A quick survey and he estimated about a hundred people were present with cameras flashing, voices occasionally raised over the organ music. The cathedral was impressive. Its Romanesque walls were of red and purple-black stone, mottled and striated in bold strokes like some hanging tapestry. He marveled at the time and energy it had taken to craft something so grand, and envied such patience. His world had always been hurry-up, no time for much of anything except meeting the next deadline.
He missed that frenetic pace.
He used one of the massive pillars holding up the vaulted roof as cover, glancing around its edge, watching Simon. His gaze darted across the transept to the far side and an open iron grille manned by a single employee.
The catacombs’ entrance.
He already knew that it closed for the day at 5:00. The attendant, an older woman, checked tickets, since a visit below required a charge. Inna had provided him with a guidebook and he’d read about the catacombs, deciding they would provide him the opportunity needed.
He’d done his homework and readied himself.
Simon stopped before the main altar.
Tom turned toward the main entrance.
Alle entered the church.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BÉNE MANEUVERED AROUND ONE TURN AFTER ANOTHER FOLLOWING the tortuous road. It had first clawed its way up the stunted mountain peak, now it was winding back down to a forested valley that lay about thirty kilometers northwest of his estate. At its crest he’d caught sight of Jamaica’s north shore with its sparkling blue water and glittering outer surf. A midday sun burned overhead, the rays’ intensity sharpened by the altitude.
The call finally came two hours ago from Tre Halliburton, and they’d decided to meet on-site—or where Tre thought the site might be. He realized things were happening in Vienna, but those were out of his control. Brian Jamison was surely trying to salvage what he could from disaster, but he could not care less. All he wanted was the Simon’s cooperation, and that would come only from what he could provide in return. He’d not liked being forced to work with the Americans, resenting their intrusion, hating their arrogance. But he’d cooperated. So what they weren’t happy? They should go about their business and leave him alone.
Ahead, he spotted Halliburton, already out of his vehicle, holding a briefcase. He wheeled to a stop and joined him. They were still high enough to enjoy an excellent panorama of dense jungle for many kilometers. In the far distance he saw the sea, long rollers of the Caribbean breaking on the reef that protected the north shore.
“That deed you found, Béne, was a gold mine all by itself. It led me places.”
He liked what he was hearing.
Tre had sounded excited on the phone and seemed equally so now. He pointed toward the distant sea. “During his fourth voyage, in 1504, Columbus was stranded here for nearly a year. His ship fell apart and he beached it somewhere on the north shore. He had a tough time during that year. No rescue ships were sent. The local Spanish governor on Hispaniola hated Columbus, so he decided to leave him here to die. There was a mutiny among his crew, and then the Tainos turned hostile, withholding food. Do you know how Columbus solved that problem?”
Not really.
“He had on board a Regiomontanus Ephemerides printed in Nuremberg around 1490 that contained predictions of eclipses for thirty years ahead. He discovered that a total eclipse was going to occur in three days’ time, February 29, 1504. So he summoned the local chiefs and told them that his God in heaven was angry with them for withholding food. He told them the moon would rise bloody and inflamed that night—which, of course, it did thanks to the eclipse. Then, he told them, the moon would vanish. Of course, that’s also what happened. The Tainos panicked and begged Columbus to make it stop.”
Béne listened as Tre explained how Columbus retired to his cabin supposedly to pray to his God for their forgiveness. But what he really did was use his half-hour glass to measure the eclipse’s duration so that he could calculate Jamaica’s longitude.
“He came back out just as the eclipse was ending and told the Tainos that his God had forgiven them and the moon would be restored, provided they kept supplying food. The moon reappeared and there were no more problems with the locals. And that calculation of longitude was only off by half a degree, which was remarkable for the time.”
Béne wondered about the point of the story. He hated anything and everything to do with the Spanish.
“Columbus,” Halliburton said, “understood navigation. He was good with the stars and knew their relationship to time and geography. Last night I went back into the archives and discovered some things your thief missed.”