“Me? You sent him here to pressure me. I cooperated with you. The Simon was the problem for Brian.”
“Mr. Rowe,” the ambassador said. “I had to cover up Agent Jamison’s death. I, too, was there when his body was found. I do not like that he had to die. This entire operation gyrated out of control. I am told that there is quite a file on you. More than enough charges to bring you down.”
He sipped more of his cold drink. “This is Jamaica. If I have done something wrong, then take it to the authorities.” He bore his gaze into her. “Otherwise, keep threats to yourself.”
“If I had my way,” Nelle said, “I’d handle you myself.”
He chuckled. “Why so much hostility? I don’t bother you.” He pointed at the other woman. “I don’t bother you.”
The ambassador said, “Mr. Rowe. Most likely, sometime in the next year, I may become prime minister of Israel. I realize that is not important to you, but Zachariah Simon is important to us.”
He shook his head. “That’s a bad man. A lying man.”
The ambassador nodded in agreement. “We have been watching Simon for many years. He’s been in and out of this area on more than one occasion. Up until recently his activities were deemed only … misguided. But that may no longer be the case. A good man, a rabbi named Berlinger, was found shot to death in Prague a few hours ago. Simon, or someone working for him, probably killed him. Unfortunately, that rabbi was one of only five people that we know of who may have the answers we seek. You’re one of the four still left alive.”
He knew the other three. Sagan. His daughter. And Simon.
But what about Frank Clarke? These women apparently knew nothing of him. Which was fitting. As the Maroons of old, he’d disappeared back into the forest. “What is it you want to know?”
“Where’s Simon?” Nelle said to him.
He leaned on the veranda’s rail. Its wood had come from the nearby forest, the trees felled centuries ago by slaves.
His ancestors.
Some of whom became Maroons.
The dogs continued to bark in the distance.
The sound comforted him.
As did the fact that neither of these women had a clue about Falcon Ridge or Darby’s Hole. If they did, they’d be there, not here. He’d dispatched men to stake out the cave since leaving hours ago. No one had returned.
Di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin.
He told himself to be neither.
Instead, be in charge.
“Simon can no longer help you.”
Nelle started to speak, but the ambassador grabbed her arm and said, “Zachariah Simon is a dangerous fanatic. He wanted to start a war. Thousands would have died because of him. But we may have stopped all that. For all his insanity, though, he sought something of great value to Jews. A sacred treasure that we thought lost, but may be found. Four objects. Do you know where they are?”
He shook his head. Which was the truth. He’d never crossed the stones to follow Sagan and his daughter. Instead he’d yanked Simon from the mud then climbed back to ground level, bringing his prisoner here, to the estate, where he’d been locked away. Sagan and his daughter had emerged from the cave and left with Frank, neither saying a word. What they may have found was not something he cared to know. Time for him to start acting like a Maroon. These women were obroni—outsiders—not worthy of the knowledge he possessed. Silence was the Maroon way.
“I truly don’t know.”
He caught a shift in the dogs’ wail. A deepening, the rhythm lengthening, and knew what that meant.
“But you do know where Simon is,” Nelle said.
“The last I saw, he was running.”
“You are going to kill me?” Simon asked.
“Not me.” He pointed to the dogs. “They do it for me.”
The look was the same he’d seen from the drug don four days ago.
He enjoyed more of his lemonade and caught the scent of cooking pork. A wild hog, killed earlier, roasting for later.
There’d be some good jerk to eat tonight.
Hopefully his mother would make yams.
He thought of Grandy Nanny, knowing now that the woman was no legend. She was real. It was said that she held special power over wild hogs and could call the animals to her.
“Three hundred years ago my ancestors were brought here in chains and sold as slaves. We worked the fields. Mine were Coromantees from the Gold Coast. Eventually, we rebelled. Many fled to the hills. We fought the British and won our freedom. I am Maroon.”
“And the point of that genealogical lesson?” Nelle asked.
He caught a pause in the dog’s bay and counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. He kept counting till eight, when the sound began again.
Big Nanny had found her prey.
What a leader.
He drank the remainder of his lemonade.
Life was good.
He knew there were secrets to be kept. Like Darby’s Hole. The underground lake. Numbered stones. And what lay on the other side.
He heard a scream.
Distant. Faint. But unmistakable.
Both women heard it, too.
Then the dogs.
Not barking.
Howling.
He had no idea where they’d cornered Zachariah Simon, only that they had. Of course, like the don a few days ago, if Simon had not resisted they would not have harmed him.
But this time the prey had resisted.
“The point of the family lesson?” he said. “Not one, really. Only that I’m proud of from where I came.”
Silence from the distance.
No dogs could be heard.
And he knew why.
His dogs always ate what they killed.
“I don’t think Mr. Rowe can help us any longer,” the ambassador said.
Smart lady.
He saw that the other woman from the Justice Department also knew that to be true.
“No,” Nelle said. “It’s all over, isn’t it?”
He said nothing.
But she spoke the truth.
Zachariah Simon was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
IT HAS BEEN SIX YEARS SINCE THE GREAT ADMIRAL DIED. I find myself praying for his soul even more than I pray for my own. Life on this island is difficult, but rewarding. My decision to stay instead of returning to Spain has proven wise. Before I leave this life and meet my Lord, my God, I wish to record the truth. This world is far too crowded with lies. My own existence has, in many ways, been a lie. The admiral’s was the same. As I was a learned man of letters, capable of writing, before he left for Spain the last time he told me the truth. I shall not bore the reader with many details, as the admiral would have disapproved of their revelation. But a quick survey seems in order, especially at this moment when I begin to face the end of my own life.
The name Colón was long common in the Balearic Islands. The man who would later call himself Cristobal Colón was born in Genova, on the island of Majorca, near Palma. Later, when necessary to conceal his true origin, the admiral chose Genoa for his birth, leaving the constant impression that he meant the city in Italy. The Admiral was Catalonian. Never did he speak or write Italian. His father was known as Juan, a landowner of means on Majorca. The family were conversos of long standing. Outwardly, Juan Colón named his eldest son after himself, but within his heart and inside the confines of his home he called him by his true name. Christoval Arnoldo de Ysassi. There was another son, younger, Bartolome, who remained close to his elder brother all of his life. On Majorca, the admiral called himself Juan. Only when he traveled to Spain to secure the moneys needed for his great voyage did he become Cristoforo Colombo, from Italy, called Cristobal Colón by the Spanish. Throughout his life the admiral never forgot his birthplace. On Majorca there is a sanctuary known as San Salvador, a hill of great beauty and peace, so he named the first island he discovered in his New World after that spot.