Rócha faced Alle. “I want to say I’m sorry for what happened in Vienna. I took things too far. I was only trying to do my job.”
He watched as Alle accepted the apology. He’d told Rócha what to do in the event that she was back with them and was pleased that his man had followed directions.
She seemed more at ease already.
“Our jet will be here soon,” he said.
“Sagan went through Customs, then security,” Rócha said. “He’s gone, waiting for his flight.”
Zachariah’s mind was on a greater problem.
Sagan would beat them to Jamaica. They’d have to refuel at least once, probably twice. Even with a layover, Sagan would arrive first. Which meant he had to have someone there, on the ground, ready and waiting.
And there was only one candidate.
“I have to make a call,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
BÉNE WAS AT HIS ESTATE, THE LONG NIGHT OVER, THE JAMAICAN morning barely beginning. Halliburton had returned home, too, and Frank Clarke was back in Charles Town. He’d changed out of his wet clothes, now outside at the kennel, where his dogs waited. They were glad to see him, Big Nanny especially. He petted them all and accepted their affection.
He thought about Grandy Nanny herself.
She’d managed to escape not long after arriving in Jamaica and took her five brothers with her. One set of siblings came east and became the Windward Maroons. Nanny and the others traveled west and became the Leewards. She built Nanny Town, clearing 600 acres of raw forest. She fought the British and, while her brothers and most Maroons sought peace, she merely signed a truce. Legend said that immediately afterward she asked the British to shoot her. They obliged, but Nanny spun around, then straightened up, walking to a British officer and returning the bullets that had been fired her way. She pointed toward the sky and told him, “Only one can kill me.”
He smiled. That was the thing about legends.
You wanted to believe them.
He stared out at the mountains, packed with a profusion of lush vegetation, a sea of green, the morning sun casting the thick slopes in a purple glow.
What beauty.
He gathered the dogs and opened the gate. The animals fled the kennel, stretching their legs, readying themselves for a hunt.
He was still bothered by the attempt on his life.
Being born Maroon was an initiation into a secret society. His mother taught him as a child “never tell more than half of what you know. That’s not lying,” she would add. “That’s smart.” His father had been more practical. Hammering into him more of Maroon culture. Secrets shared become secrets betrayed. “Go to your grave,” his father said, “with your secrets.”
That was how he justified not telling his mother about his life. A betrayal? Sure. Was he a hypocrite? Probably. He resented Frank Clarke keeping things from him, but his friend had been right in the cave. He’d done the same toward his mother.
And the colonels?
Those men he resented.
That was the thing about Maroons. They’d never been able to stick together. Grandy Nanny herself led 300 of her people from the west to the east in what was known as the Grand Trek. Her goal was to reunite the two Maroon factions into one, then attack the British with a full force. But her brother, Cudjoe, who headed the east, refused. He wanted peace. So she retreated to the Leeward side and resumed the fight. And though she eventually made a truce, she never made peace.
Smart lady.
The dogs seemed anxious.
Two of them tangled.
He yelled and halted their dispute.
Both retreated, and he petted each, letting them know that everything was okay.
Maroons were taught early in life to not speak of their ways. Any knowledge dispensed should come in small increments. Trust was fragile. To reveal all of what you knew made yourself vulnerable to betrayal. Speaking freely of “Maroon things” ran the risk of incurring the ancestors’ wrath.
Best to say nothing.
That was what he’d been taught. Frank Clarke, too.
So why was he bothered by Frank’s withholding?
Simple. He was not an outsider.
He was Maroon.
Frank’s statement that he was not trusted by the others—that hurt him. Who the hell were they to judge?
And to decide to kill him?
“Ungrateful bastards,” he whispered.
What to do now. The mine was nothing and, according to Frank, no one knew what had happened to the gold and silver objects.
Then again, he had no way of knowing if any of that was true.
Always guard your knowledge.
Was Frank Clarke still protecting?
The dogs continued darting in all directions, always circling back to where he stood. Clouds had rolled in off the peaks, the sky the color of ashes.
His phone rang.
The display read UNKNOWN.
He decided to answer.
“Zachariah Simon,” the voice said.
He steadied himself.
“I understand you want to talk to me.”
“Actually, I’d like to kill you.”
And he meant it.
“I did what I had to do. The same you would have done. We’re both successful men, Béne. To remain that way, we make hard decisions. Just like you did when you pointed the Americans my way.”
Interesting. Simon had become informed. “I had no choice.”
“I doubt that. But it doesn’t matter. Jamison is dead. It is just you and me now, Béne.”
Which explained why he’d heard nothing more from Brian. He hoped the Americans were out of his life for good. “What do you want?”
“Let us call it even between us.”
“Would there be a point to that?”
“There’s a man named Thomas Sagan on his way to Kingston.”
“The man from Florida?”
“That’s right. He’s flying in late tonight, your time. I am on the way, but I will not arrive before he does. I need you to follow him and see where he goes.”
“And why would I do that?”
“He will lead you to the location of a great treasure. I lied to you, Béne. I am not after Columbus’ grave or even the lost gold mine. Whether or not there were crates of gold from Panama hidden somewhere on the island, who cares? I want something far more valuable that does exist. Four objects. The Jews’ Temple treasure.”
Now he was interested. Simon was telling him things he knew to be true. “This man, Sagan, knows where that treasure is?”
“I think so.”
But Frank had made clear that the objects were moved. Did this man Sagan know their current location?
He decided to hold that nugget and discuss it with Sagan.
“Since you already know about Sagan,” Simon said, “find his photo on the Internet, then find him. He will be on a British Airways flight from London that arrives around eleven tonight, your time. He may have with him a small black bag. What is inside is important.”
“Why call me?”
“Because you want another shot at me.”
That he did. Like Grandy Nanny and the British there might be a truce, but no peace would pass between them.
“Do this,” Simon said, “and you will get that chance, because you will have something I want.”
But Béne knew something else.
Thomas Sagan was Simon’s enemy.
And that he liked.
“There is one other point,” Simon said. “Something for you to consider before you act. I have a piece of the puzzle that Sagan does not. Without it, you will find nothing. I need to be there, with Sagan, and I will provide that piece for us all.”
He chuckled. “Always an angle.”
“It is the way of the world.”
“I’ll have a man waiting for you at the airport with a car,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll find Thomas Sagan.”