by Steve Berry
Cohen returned to Jamaica in 1663 with the Israels, ready to search. But after a year, with no mine found, they were accused of fraud and banished from the island.
“Cohen dazzled Charles II with dreams of gold,” Tre said. “What he was really after were those trade monopolies. That entire year, when they should have been searching for the mine, he spent making money off wood and spice.”
“All this is in that parchment?” Béne asked.
“The story of Abraham Cohen and how he manipulated Charles II is historic fact. Here, in these documents, we learn that Moses forced Abraham to reveal things about the mine during the lawsuit. That explains the governor’s involvement.”
“You said we might have something.”
His friend smiled. “For what he did to Charles II, Abraham Cohen was banished from Jamaica in 1664. If found here he would have been jailed.” Tre motioned with one of the parchments. “Yet he’s back in 1670, taking title to a tract of land. A tract his brother, Moses the pirate, thinks is vitally important.”
He saw the point. “You think Abraham actually found something during that year he was making money and came back to claim it?”
“It’s entirely possible.”
He liked Halliburton. They always seemed at ease with each other, and for Béne there were few people on the island who fell into that category. So he was not self-conscious about showing his intense interest.
“Can you search the archives?” he asked. “Find more?”
“It’s a mess, but I’ll give it a try.”
He clasped Tre on the shoulder. “Tonight. Please. This is important. It’s the closest I’ve ever come.”
“I know this is important to you, Béne.”
More than this man knew.
Much more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALLE WATCHED AS MIDNIGHT STOPPED THE CAR AND BRIAN walked around to her side.
“Get out,” he said.
She shook her head.
Midnight shut off the engine and emerged into the Austrian night, leaving the headlights on.
Brian opened her door.
She cowered back across the rear seat. “Please. Leave me alone. I’ll scream. Come near me and I’ll scream.”
Brian stayed outside and crouched so she could see his face. “I’m not your enemy.”
Midnight bent down, too.
“Tell her,” Brian said to the other man.
“I was told to kill you.”
She’d been in Vienna nearly a month and had seen this black man almost every day. But that was the first time she’d ever heard his voice.
“By who?” she asked.
“Simon gave the order to Rócha. They want you to disappear. There’s no plane to Florida, at least not one for you.”
They both stared at her with looks of concern.
“I told you,” Brian said, “that you were in way over your head. Simon’s done with you. Whatever he needed from your father, he’s apparently got. You’re not part of his plan anymore.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shook his head. “Look, I’m taking a huge chance revealing to you that I have eyes and ears inside Simon’s camp. This man here is staking his life to save yours. The least you could be is grateful.”
“Why are you doing this?”
She held her ground across the seat, three feet from the open door, realizing there was little she could do. The door at her back would probably not open. She was alone, in the woods, at their mercy.
“Alle,” Brian said. “Listen to me. You’d be dead, right now, but for me. I had you brought here. Midnight—”
“Is that really your name?” she asked. “I thought it was just what Rócha called you.”
He shrugged. “I got the tag when I was a kid.”
“You fondled me.” She hadn’t forgotten.
“And if I hadn’t, Rócha would have been pissed. He told me to do it, so I played the part. Just like you, missy.”
Then she knew. “You told Brian about all that’s been happening.”
Midnight nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s my job.”
“Get out,” Brian said again.
She shook her head and did not move.
He exhaled, shook his head, and stood. His hand reached beneath his jacket and a gun appeared. “Get your sorry ass out of that car. Now. If you don’t, we’re going to drag you out.” To make his point he thrust the weapon inside. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
Her brain seemed frozen, her body paralyzed.
Never had she faced the barrel of a gun.
She slid herself across the seat to the open door.
“It’s late,” he said. “I’m tired, and we have a drive ahead of us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace where you can be dead, at least as far as Simon is concerned. Midnight has to go back and report that you’re no longer breathing.”
“Why does Zachariah want me dead?”
“Because, little lady,” Midnight said. “That man has been playing you for weeks. He tells you what you want to hear, and you believe every word. He’s got what he wants. Now you’re in the way.”
“What is it he wants?”
“Your father on a leash,” Brian said. “Whatever your grandfather has in that coffin, Simon wants it bad. And you just helped him get it.”
She still wasn’t prepared to concede that Zachariah would harm her.
“Why do you care what happens to me?” she asked, still sitting inside the car at the door.
Brian stepped close, the gun still in his hand. “I got news for you. I don’t. I only care about what you know. But unlike your great benefactor, I actually saved your life.”
“And that’s supposed to make me grateful?”
He shook his head and again pointed the gun straight at her. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused.”
She tried hard to master the stabs of panic in her chest. She wanted to retreat inside the car but realized that would be useless.
“Are you going to cooperate?” Brian asked, a look of hope in his watchful eyes.
“I don’t seem to have much choice.”
Brian turned to his compatriot. “Get back to town and tell them she’s dead. Then keep your eyes and ears open. I’ve got a feeling a lot is about to happen on your end.”
Midnight nodded and reached for the front-door handle.
“You’re going to have to get out,” Brian said to her.
She stepped to the ground.
The trunk popped open and Brian retrieved her bag, tossing it to the roadbed. Midnight climbed into the car and left, taking all illumination with him. She and Brian stood in the chilly dark. Not a sound could be heard from the woods around them.
“Time for us to go,” he said.
And he walked toward his car, pointedly ignoring her bag.
She lifted it and followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TOM AWOKE AROUND 7:00 A.M., AFTER HAVING SLEPT FOR NEARLY six hours. A record for him of late. Usually he was lucky if he grabbed three hours’ rest, anxiety a powerful stimulant, enough to have deprived him of a good night’s sleep for the past eight years. He once thought the malady might fade, or at least diminish, but it had seemed to grow only worse. His last thoughts before dozing off had been of that day in the bookstore when he’d found out who and why.
Which had only worsened his dilemma.
The messenger had been right. There was nothing he could do. Nobody would believe him without proof. And finding that would be next to impossible. If he did manage to talk someone into hiring him, there was nothing to stop his enemies from doing it to him again.
And he would never see it coming.
He possessed no options.
None at all.
He was through.
But maybe not entirely.
He showered and dressed in jeans, a crewneck T-shirt, and tennis shoes, then ate a couple of pieces of d
ry white toast. Food was another pleasure he’d long ago lost interest in. The drive east to Mount Dora, then to the cemetery, took less time than he’d envisioned. Traffic was a nightmare in Orlando, but he was headed out of town, not in, against the Wednesday-morning flow, which made the trip its usual thirty minutes.
He arrived just before ten and spotted a work crew inside the low brick wall, among the matsevahs, at his father’s grave. Bright sunshine flooded the sacred ground, the humid air rich with the scent of turned earth. He made his way to the site, where the headstone had been removed, and peered down into the hole.
No coffin.
Apparently, Zachariah Simon had obtained his order and was in a hurry.
He walked toward the ceremonial hall. It was single-storied, wood-sided, and steeply roofed. Black shutters framed its many windows. He could recall as a kid being inside during several funerals—his mother’s and uncles’ most notably. Abiram had been laid out inside, too. Now he was making a return engagement.
A woman stepped from its half-open doorway into the sunshine. She was short, stout, and dressed like a lawyer, which he assumed she was. Simon’s lawyer. Smart of him not to be around. Less witnesses to see his face and to overhear their conversations.
He approached and she introduced herself. She offered a hand to shake, which he accepted, forcing a grin and saying, “Let’s get this over with.”
“The law requires an heir be present. You can, of course, satisfy that by simply waiting outside, so long as the medical examiner knows you’re here. He’s inside waiting on your arrival.”
“I can handle it.”
He wasn’t exactly sure that was the case, but he knew he wasn’t going to wait out here. He’d been thinking on the drive over. Simon had gone to a lot of trouble to obtain whatever was in that coffin. Once he had it, there was no guarantee he would release Alle. In fact, why would he? She could just go straight to the police and be a witness against him. Of course, the same could be said about himself. But he assumed Simon wasn’t concerned with that threat. The last person on earth the police would believe was a disgraced reporter.
Besides, he may kill himself before the day was out anyway.
Or maybe not.
Still debating that point.
He entered the building and stepped down a short hall that led to an open door. The décor inside the room had not changed much. Same drab carpet, bland walls, and musty smell.
An unplaned pine coffin lay on a stout oak table, the same table that had been there for decades. The box’s exterior was reasonably intact, considering it had rested in moist Florida earth for three years. A man in a blue jumpsuit that identified him as MEDICAL EXAMINER introduced himself and asked for identification that confirmed he was Tom Sagan. He produced his driver’s license, even as his eyes stayed on the coffin. Did he want to see the decomposing corpse? Not really. But he had to know what Zachariah Simon wanted. Alle was depending on him. So he steeled himself and gave the okay to open the lid.
It took a few minutes to pry off. Long nails had been used, which was appropriate. Abiram would have kept things traditional. Tom listened as each one squeaked its way free. The lawyer stood beside him, unemotional, as if she opened coffins every day.
The final nail was removed.
The medical examiner stepped aside: Now was time for the heir to do whatever it was that had compelled the exhumation. Since he was that person, all eyes locked on him.
But Ms. Lawyer started toward the table.
He grabbed her arm. “I’ll handle it.”
“I think it would be better if I did.” Her eyes conveyed an even more emphatic message. Stay out of this.
But she wasn’t the man in Barnes & Noble. “I’m his son. The petitioner. I’ll handle it.”
She held her ground and his eyes conveyed their own message.
Don’t screw with me.
She caught his drift and backed off.
“All right,” she said. “Handle it.”
———
ZACHARIAH CHECKED HIS WATCH.
10:20 A.M.
The lawyer he’d hired to both obtain the court order and be on site had called twenty minutes ago to say Sagan had arrived. They should be inside by now, and things should be over shortly. The report from Vienna was good. Alle Becket was a problem no more. Nothing would be learned by anyone from her. Rócha sat beside him in the car, just off an overnight flight from Austria to Orlando, via Miami. He’d taken the flight Alle had thought would be hers.
Tom Sagan required handling.
With no daughter to produce once the exhumation was complete, the only course was to eliminate the last remaining witness.
They’d actually be doing Sagan a favor.
He wanted to die.
So Rócha would oblige him.
———
TOM CAUGHT THE BITING SMELL OF DECAY. THE MEDICAL EXAMINER advised him to move quickly as things would only get worse.
He stepped close and peered into the coffin.
Not much remained. Alle had apparently kept to tradition and not embalmed. The corpse was wrapped in a white shroud, most of which had disintegrated, exposing what little was left of a face. Empty eye sockets looked like black caves—the querulous, sometimes hostile gaze he remembered was gone. Flesh and muscle had collapsed. A fold of skin, like the wattle of a lizard, sagged from the neck. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen that face alive.
Five years ago?
No, closer to nine. Before the fall. At his mother’s funeral.
Had it been that long?
Not once in the intervening years had Abiram tried to contact him. No note, letter, card, email, nothing. While the press and pundits destroyed him, his only surviving parent remained silent. Only after dying, in his final note, sent with the deed to the house, had some consolation been offered—“I felt the pain of your destruction”—but that was nowhere near enough. True, Tom could have called, but he never did, either. They were both at fault. Neither willing to give.
And they’d both lost.
He struggled with waves of fear, apathy, resentment, and resignation. But he drew himself up and regained a measure of poise.
A sealed packet lay embedded in what had once been Abiram’s chest. It appeared vacuum-sealed, airtight creases evidencing that fact. He reached for it, but the medical examiner removed it for him.
“Better that way,” the man said, displaying gloved hands. “Bacteria is everywhere on a corpse.”
The packet was paper-thin, about a foot square, and appeared light. The medical examiner asked if there was anything else. He saw nothing else unusual inside so he shook his head.
The lid was replaced.
A sink adorned one wall—used, he remembered, for cleansing. The medical examiner rinsed the package off and brought it over to him.
Ms. Lawyer stepped forward. “I’ll take that.”
“Like hell you will,” Tom said. “Last I looked, I’m the petitioner here.”
Anger fortified him.
“And by the way,” he said. “Do you have something for me?”
She seemed to understand and retreated to a satchel that lay on the floor. From within she removed a small FedEx box and handed it to him. She then turned back to the medical examiner and asked for the packet again.
But he grabbed it first. “That’s mine.”
“Mr. Sagan,” the lawyer said. “That was to be given to me.”
He was not in the mood to argue. “I’m going to assume that you have no idea what’s really going on here. Let’s just say that you don’t want to know. So how about you shut up and stay out of my way.”
He’d decided that whatever may have been in the grave was his only bargaining power, and he wasn’t about to give that away. He had to make sure Alle was okay. Never had he believed in a heaven, or an afterlife, or anything more than when you died, just like Abiram, you turned to mush, then dust. But on the off chance that his parents and Michele would be waiting o
n him after he finally did blow his brains out, he wanted to be able to say that he’d done the right thing.
He backed toward the door.
The lawyer advanced.
He asked, “I assume you know what’s in this FedEx box?”
She stopped. Apparently she did. And she also seemed not to want to have too much of a conversation in front of the medical examiner.
“Tell your client that I’ll be in touch about a trade. He’ll know what I mean.”
“How will you find him?”
“Through you. What firm are you with?”
She told him.
And he left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ALLE WATCHED THE VIDEO FEED. SHE SAT WITH BRIAN IN A house across the Austrian border in the Czech Republic. They’d driven here last night from Vienna. She was still unsure about any of this and had spent the day in her room, her mind simmering with anxiety. Now, watching the images from Florida, new worries lunged at her.
She recognized the place where her grandfather lay buried. The pictures they were receiving were being shot through a car windshield, from a distance, and elevated. The cemetery was located in Lake County, which had the distinction of having some of Florida’s highest terrain. There were actually hills there, along with over a thousand lakes. Brian’s man had chosen a hillock near the cemetery as his vantage point. She recalled it. A wooded mound of scrub oak, pines, and palms. She’d watched an hour ago while workers exhumed her grandfather, hauling the coffin into the burial house, the same wood-sided building where she’d kept vigil over him after he died. The camera offered a clear view of its front door.
“Why are you filming this?” she asked.
“To try and find out what the hell is in that coffin.”
“What are you going to do? Steal it?”
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but if I can get it I will.”
Matsevahs dotted the foreground, a portion of the waist-high brick wall enclosing the grounds visible. During summer visits with her grandparents she’d often visited the cemetery, helping her grandmother tend the graves.
She’d yet to see Zachariah and commented on that.