He quickened his steps.
The woman approached the car.
A man emerged from the passenger’s side—young, short-haired, dark suit—who opened the rear door.
The woman was ten feet away from entering.
“Stop,” he called out.
And he ran the last thirty feet toward her. Dark Suit spotted him, and he saw the man reach beneath his jacket.
The woman whirled.
Tom came close, then stopped.
Dark Suit advanced toward him, but the woman grabbed her protector’s arm.
“No need,” she said. “I’ve been expecting him.”
———
ZACHARIAH DECIDED TO PLACE SOME DISTANCE BETWEEN HIM and Alle and the ceremonial hall. He was unsure where Tom Sagan had gone, and the last thing he needed was to be spotted. He wondered if Sagan had seen him in the cemetery. Alle had finally provided him with some useful information, telling him more of what Sagan had learned from his father. Rabbi Berlinger now seemed a player in this game.
His mind reeled, processing all the new information.
At least he now knew.
This place, long held sacred by Jews around the world, was a part of the quest. But how? And Jamaica seemed an important locale, too. The curator from the museum in Cuba had called to say that Rowe and his companion had fled before the police arrived, no way to stop them.
“He said you and he will talk soon.”
That would not be a friendly conversation. He’d thought himself through with Rowe. But that might not be the case. Abiram Sagan had included a road map of Jamaica for a reason.
His phone vibrated.
He found the unit and saw it was Rócha.
“Where are you?” he asked, answering.
“Sagan left the hall and ran around the block. He’s confronting some woman at the moment who has a bodyguard.”
“Describe her.”
He already knew who, but he had to be sure.
Which answered another question. Sagan had seen him. And maybe even heard, considering the bombshell she revealed about the ex-journalist.
“I had to be careful so he wouldn’t spot me,” Rócha said. “But I’m where I can see them now.”
“Let me know what happens.”
He ended the call.
“What is it?” Alle asked.
He’d not masked his concern.
“A problem.”
———
TOM STARED AT THE WOMAN AND ASKED, “WHO ARE YOU?”
“That’s unimportant.”
“Like hell. You know what happened to me.”
She turned to Dark Suit. “Wait in the car.”
The man climbed back into the passenger’s side. She shut the rear door.
“You said you were expecting me. How,” he asked, a plea in his voice.
“You heard me in the cemetery?”
He nodded.
“The rabbi said he would make sure you did.”
“Berlinger is in on this?”
“Just offering some assistance.”
“Who are you,” he asked again.
“I am a Jew who believes strongly in who we are. I want you to believe, too.”
He could not care less about that. “They stole my life. I deserve to know who did that and why.”
“It was done because you did your job. You know that. They sent an emissary to tell you.”
This woman knew everything.
He stepped closer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said, motioning to the car. “He’s watching you through the mirror.”
His gaze darted past her and he saw the man’s watchful face in the exterior mirror. He stared back at her. “You’re working with Simon?”
“Mr. Sagan, at present, you are in no position to barter. But you could be. As I said, I am someone who has great respect for our beliefs. You are the Levite. The chosen successor. The only one who can find our Temple treasure.”
All of which Simon would have known.
“I don’t care about any of that. I want my life back.”
She opened the car’s rear door and climbed inside. Before closing it, she looked out and said, “Find the treasure. Then we will talk about your life.”
She closed the door.
And the car sped away.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
BÉNE AVOIDED THE DEBRIS, CLIMBING ACROSS THE BOULDERS and finding the wooden slab. He aimed his light past the doorway into another chamber, this one smaller than the previous. No smooth walls. No art. Just a harsh cavity in the rock that extended about twenty meters back and half that tall. He stepped inside. Frank and Tre followed him.
Their lights dissolved the darkness.
He spotted what appeared to be an altar of some sort, fashioned of rock and situated against one wall. Nothing rested on top. To its right was a low rectangle of rough stone, maybe half a meter high and two meters long. A taller slab projected upward at one end.
“It looks like a grave,” Tre said.
They walked closer, loose gravel crunching beneath their feet. Their lights brought the scene into clear focus. Béne now saw that the end slab was a tombstone. He recognized the two letters atop the marker.
“Here lies,” he said. “It’s Hebrew. I’ve seen this on a lot of other graves.”
All of the remaining writing was likewise in Hebrew.
Tre bent down and examined it closely.
“What is a Jewish grave doing here?” Béne asked Clarke.
“I wondered that, too,” Frank said. “So a few years ago I photographed the marker and had the words translated. It says, ‘Christoval Arnoldo de Ysassi, Pursuer of Dreams, Speaker of Truth in His Heart, Honored Man, May His Soul Be Bound Up in the Bond of Everlasting Life.’ ”
Tre stood. “It’s the grave of Christopher Columbus. De Torres wrote that Columbus’ real name was Christoval Arnoldo de Ysassi. This is where he’s buried.”
Béne recalled what Tre had told him on the plane about Columbus’ grave. “You said yesterday that the widow of Columbus’ son brought the body to the New World.”
“She did. First to Santiago, then the remains were moved to Cuba. There’s a lot of controversy over who is buried in Santiago now, or whether the bones are in Cuba or Spain. Now we know that she brought them here, to the island the family controlled. Which makes the most sense.”
“I’ve always wondered who this is,” Clarke said. “We had no idea who the man might be. We knew him to be Hebrew, but that’s all. So we left the grave alone. If others knew this was Columbus, they would have destroyed it.”
“Damn right,” Béne said. “He was a thief and murderer.”
“This is an important historical find,” Tre said. “It’s never been proven where Columbus is buried. Nobody knew. Now we do.”
“Who cares?” Béne said. “Let him rot here.” He turned to Frank. “Is this all?”
“Look around. What else do you see?”
He scanned the chamber with his light.
And saw niches carved into the far wall.
He stepped over and examined the closest one with the flashlight and saw bones. Each of the others was likewise filled with a body.
“Our greatest Maroon leaders,” Frank said. “That one to your left is Grandy Nanny herself. Laid to rest here in 1758.”
“I thought her grave was in Moore Town, on the windward side, Portland Parish?”
“At first, then she was brought here by the Scientists.” Frank pointed. “The bones you just examined are Cudjoe’s.”
He was shocked.
Cudjoe had been a great Maroon chief in Grandy Nanny’s time, her brother, who fought the British, too. But he made a disastrous peace, one that forever changed the Maroon way of life, and began their downfall.
Even so, he was revered.
“He lived to be an old man,” Béne said.
Frank came close. “Some say he was over eighty when he died.”
Béne rattled off a quick count and saw fourteen niches cut into the rock.
“Johnny, Cuffee, Quaco, Apong, Clash, Thomboy. All leaders from long ago,” Frank said. “Special people, laid here in this place of honor. We thought the person buried here had to be important, at least to the Jews, so we decided to make use of this place, too. That has always been the Maroon way. Little was ours, all was shared. Here, our special people could rest quietly.”