Little light leaked in from the twelve narrow windows high in the walls, the sun just beginning its rise.
“You were correct,” the mayor said. “The night patrol did find two people trying to enter the loft. It happens from time to time. People really believe there’s a golem up there.”
“Which you do nothing to discourage, since it brings visitors who spend money.”
“Who am I to quell legends? That’s not my job. Protecting all of this, that’s my task. Unfortunately, it takes money to maintain things.”
“Where are the two people now?”
The mayor raised one of his small fingers “That’s the problem. They were not taken to the usual holding room in the community building. We normally question them first, then turn them over to the police, who promptly let them go. It’s a big problem. But these two were diverted somewhere else.”
He did not like what he was hearing.
“I am trying to learn that location. For some reason, no one in security knows.”
“Do you come here every morning?”
The mayor nodded. “Most. Before it becomes a tourist attraction and not a house of prayer.”
He envied that ability. “What is in the loft above us?”
“Nothing but rafters, insulation, and a roof. No golem, returned to clay, is waiting there.”
“But the loft did, for centuries, serve as this building’s genizah.”
Every synagogue possessed a storeroom for old books and papers. The Talmud forbid the discarding of any writing that contained the name of God. Instead, those were held and buried every seventh year in a cemetery.
The mayor nodded. “Quite right. We kept everything up there since it was old anyway. The elements could not hurt them. But that stopped about forty years ago and the loft was emptied.”
He wondered. Had something been stashed away before that? Forty years? That time frame would be consistent with Sagan’s grandfather.
He heard the main door open then close, and watched as the mayor excused himself and returned to the vestibule. He was now convinced that Sagan had deceived him. He hoped Alle could learn something. He was still bothered by the meeting with the Israeli ambassador and the fact that both she and the Americans were interested in him. He’d sent Rócha back to the alley beyond St. Stephen’s, and Brian Jamison’s body was indeed gone. Not a word in the press about its discovery, either. The ambassador had said she would clean up the mess, and that she had.
The mayor returned as the outer door again opened, then closed.
“I’ve just been told that the two people caught earlier were taken to a house not far from here.”
He noticed the look of concern on the man’s face.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The Rabbi Berlinger was summoned. He is with them now.”
———
TOM IMMEDIATELY CONNECTED THE DOTS. ABIRAM HAD MENTIONED this man specifically in his last message.
“He also gave me a name. Rabbi Berlinger.”
“How old are you?” he asked, which he knew must sound rude, but he had to know.
“One hundred and two.”
He would never have guessed. Maybe in his eighties, but nowhere near the century mark. “Life’s been kind to you.”
“Sometimes I think so. Other times not. I asked you a question. Please tell me where you obtained these items.”
He saw that Alle was interested in that answer, too. But he wasn’t ready to cooperate. “They were given to me. I was meant to have them.”
This man would have seen the original writing, unedited, as that was all he’d had left in his pockets.
“I don’t know any such thing,” Berlinger said. “I only know that you have these items.”
“M. E. Cross was my grandfather.”
The old man studied him carefully. “I see him in your face. Your name is Sagan. I recall that your mother married a Sagan. Marc was your mother’s father.”
He nodded. “I called him Saki.”
The rabbi sat, laying the items he held and Alle’s bag on the table. “I must confess. I never thought I would hear of this subject again.”
———
BÉNE STAYED SEATED AS THE SHADOW ENTERED HIS STUDY. OUTSIDE, mountain winds continued to stir the night. He’d been waiting for Frank Clarke. A call made earlier had brought a promise that his friend would be at the estate before ten.
“You like the dark, Béne?”
Not a light burned in the room.
“Mother is asleep and the help is gone for the night. Just you and me, Frank.”
He offered the plate of bullas, but the colonel waved him off. He lifted another one for himself before returning the platter to the side table.
“What have you found?” Frank asked. “I could hear it in your voice earlier.”
“The mine is real. I know its location.”
Tre had called after dinner to say that a quick survey of what they’d stolen from Cuba, along with the deed and other items found in the Jamaican archive, had led him to a spot. He’d checked the latest topographic maps the university had on file and confirmed that a cave did exist in the vicinity of where everything pointed.
“And where’s that?” Clarke asked.
He did not have to see the face to know that he would be revealing something that was already known. Which he’d suspected all along.
“Why did you lie to me, Frank?”
“Because that mine must stay lost.”
“That’s not what you said in the cave. You told me to find it.”
“I told you to find the Jews’ wealth. If that still exists, then Maroons could make use of it. The mine? That’s another matter.”
The voice stayed in a near whisper, as if the words should not be spoken. But he had to know, “Why should the mine stay lost?”
“It’s a sacred place. Maroons have so little left. Places like that are ours, Béne. They must be guarded.”
“There’s little left of Maroons, anymore, except stories. Why does it matter?”
Silence passed between them. He listened to the wind.
“The night was once our ally,” Clarke said. “We made good use of it. Victory became ours, in part, because of the night.”
More stories, Béne thought. Not reality.
During the last Maroon war, in 1795, 300 Maroons held out against 1,500 British troops. A truce came only after the Cuban hounds had been brought in to hunt them down. But when everyone assembled at Montego Bay to conclude a treaty nearly 600 Maroons were herded onto ships and deported to Nova Scotia. There they lived in the cold of Canada for two years, then were sent to Sierra Leone. Only 60 eventually returned to Jamaica.
Some victory.
“You still have not answered me,” he said. “Why does this matter anymore?”
He watched the blackened form shift in the chair.
“There are things about us, Béne, you simply do not understand. Though you are of Maroon blood, you’ve been raised different. Poverty is rampant among us. Unemployment high. You live here, on this grand estate, in luxury. You drive whatever vehicle you desire. You never go hungry. You have money. You’ve always had money, Béne.”
“You sound as though you resent that.”
“I don’t. It matters nothing to me. You’re my friend. I’ve always liked you. But others feel differently. They take your money, take your favors. They smile, but never reveal what’s in their hearts.”
“That’s not what you told me yesterday. You said no one cares what I am.”