The Columbus Affair

by Steve Berry

  “You can stand,” he yelled.

  Sagan released his grip and steadied himself. The woman—young, small-boned, maybe in her twenties with long dark hair—swiped water from her eyes. Both of them grabbed breaths.

  He kept his light angled away so as not to blind them. “You okay?”

  Sagan nodded his head, sucking deep breaths of the dank air. “Simon is here.”

  His nerves came alert and his head stared up. What happened to his men at the airport? Nothing good, he assumed. He caught the faint glow of light on the far cavern wall.

  And knew what was happening.

  Simon was climbing down.

  Sagan stood. “He’s not alone.”

  “His name is Rócha,” the woman said.

  “Béne, this is my daughter, Alle.”

  “The son of a bitch shoved me over the side,” she said. “He tried to kill me.”

  Béne heard the shock in her voice.

  “But you saved my life,” she said to Sagan. “Why did you do that? You jumped in and grabbed me. You went over the side first. You could have been killed.”

  “I’m just glad there was water here,” Sagan said.

  “We have to go,” Béne said. “I know Rócha. He’s trouble. And they’re both coming this way.”

  He angled his light down and crept toward the edge. “It’s a short drop. Do it fast.”

  They all three hopped down, the water now only ankle-deep.

  Quickly he found the next edge and aimed his light. A series of short steps made a steep descent.

  Then he noticed something.

  A glow from below.

  “What is that?” Sagan whispered, apparently seeing it, too.

  “I don’t know, but it’s the only way to go.”

  The men behind them were armed. They weren’t. Their only choice was to use the darkness to their advantage.

  He switched off his light.

  “Down,” he breathed.

  ———

  ZACHARIAH SAW A LIGHT BELOW, FLICKING ON AND OFF. SOMEBODY was on the move, careful how long they betrayed their location.

  Rowe? Sagan?

  He and Rócha had utilized the rock ladder for the first change of levels, but now they simply hopped down each ledge. This cave was a natural chute that channeled groundwater, one level at a time, into the earth like a massive fountain. Before the dam had been destroyed rain would have been all that seeped inside. Now water poured with a peeling rumble, and he wondered where it led.

  The light below had stopped strobing.

  Were they armed?

  Knowing Rowe, the answer was yes.

  Unfortunately, he had to use the same trick, switching his flashlight on and off, since there was no way to see anything in the void.

  But then he noticed something in the depths.

  Light.

  And constant.

  What was that?

  They kept descending.

  ———

  TOM HOPPED OFF THE LAST LEDGE AND STARED AT THE AMAZING sight.

  They’d made it to the bottom.

  He estimated they were more than a hundred yards underground, the gushing torrent launching off into a dark, misty void in the far rock wall. The cavern that rose around them stretched at least a hundred feet high and that much wide. White stalactites dropped from the ceiling. Ten torches, projecting from the wall thirty feet up, illuminated the space, their fires spangling the darkness, trails of sparks popping skyward like comets. More climbing niches etched into the wall stretched below each torch, which explained how they were lit.

  But by who?

  And why?

  No more darkness provided cover.

  Nowhere to hide.

  “What is this?” Alle asked.

  He noticed that the water from above had lost nearly all of its strength, sapped by the many levels of varying lengths and depth. Several of the steps had been angled, forming pools that further arrested the flow. Here, at the bottom, the final remnants poured off the last ledge in a transparent sheet that stretched thirty feet wide and eight feet tall, pooling into a lake. To their right, the lake spilled over a rocky ledge and cascaded a few feet down to the river, which had the effect of keeping the lake level constant. A moldy smell of wet earth filled his nostrils. On the far side was another slit in the rock, large enough to walk through, a narrow ledge before it. There was no way to get to that ledge without crossing the lake. They stood on the only dry patch in the oblong-shaped cavern, the rock coated with a green, sandy patina.

  A man appeared on the ledge above them.

  Black-skinned, thin, older, with short hair.

  Rowe seemed to know him.

  ———

  BÉNE STARED AT FRANK CLARKE.

  “We have our eyes and ears, too, Béne. Just like you. We watch those who bear watching.”

  Apparently so. Maroons had always done that. In the war years they’d cultivated spies in every plantation and town, people who would keep them informed as to what the British were planning.

  “Then you know,” he said, “there’s somebody else coming this way.”

  “Do you have ’em?” Frank called out.

  A moment later Béne saw Simon, Rócha, and two Maroons, armed with machets, on the next ledge up. They hopped down. Two handguns and flashlights were handed over to Frank.

  “I see you survived,” Simon said to Sagan’s daughter.

  “Go to hell,” she spat out.

  Simon seemed unfazed by her rebuke. He simply turned to Clarke and asked, “And who are you?”

  “We are the keepers of this place.”

  “And what is this?” Sagan asked.

  “Sixty years ago,” Frank said, “we were asked by a friend to hold something of great value. He was a special man, someone who understood Maroons in a deep way. He was also a Jew. There is a deep connection between Maroon and Jew, always has been.”

  No one said anything.

  “Yankipong is our supreme being. Our god,” Frank said. “Maroons were handpicked by Yankipong to serve as a conduit of His divine power. We have always thought of ourselves as chosen.”

  “Like the Israelites,” Simon said. “Chosen by God. Singled out for divine favor.”

  Frank nodded. “We noticed the similarity long ago. Maroons were able to overcome what others deemed hopeless. Jews have done the same. We’d already found the treasure the man who came here spoke of, but when he told us how sacred it was, we regretted our violation of it. That’s another thing about Maroons. We’re respectful of others’ ways.”

  “You found the Temple treasure?” Simon asked.

  Frank nodded. “Long ago. It was brought here for safekeeping in the time of the Spanish, by Columbus himself.”

  “You told me those objects disappeared,” Béne said to Clarke.

  “Another lie. I was hoping you’d let this go. I thought maybe the attempt on your life would stop you. But here you are. You couldn’t have found this place on your own, so I assume one of these outsiders is the Levite.”

  That word Béne knew.

  “I am that person,” Simon said.

  “Liar,” Alle yelled. “You’re nothing.”

  Simon faced Clarke. “I have come for the treasure.”

  “Then you’ll know how to find it.”

  Béne kept silent. What was the colonel up to?

  Frank stepped to the lake’s edge. The water was shallow, no more than a third of a meter deep, its surface smooth as a mirror, like an infinity pool at one of his resorts. It was shaped as a rough oblong, about thirty meters wide, stretching the entire cavern.

  “Leave,” Frank called out.

  The two Maroons with machets climbed up the rocky ledges, disappearing toward the surface.

  “This is a private matter,” Frank said.

  But Béne was worried. Even though Frank still held the two guns and the flashlights lay on the ground, Rócha could make a move.

  “If you think attacking me will
solve anything,” Frank said, “be warned. Only the Levite can go from here. I know nothing. But I do need to show you something.”

  Frank tossed one of the guns he held into the lake.

  It sank to the shallow bottom.

  Béne had already noticed stones scattered beneath the surface, and now realized that in between them was mud. Frank lifted a rock, about the size of a melon, and dropped it into the lake. A splash, then the water cleared and the rock met bottom, settling beside the gun. Bubbles oozed to the surface. Then the rock sank, sucking the gun down into the mud with it.

  “At the time of the Maroon wars,” Frank said, “British soldiers were brought here for questioning. One of ’em was tossed into the lake and the others watched as he sank in the mud. After that, answers to our questions came easy.”

  “The person who came here,” Sagan said. “The one who told you about the treasure. Was it Marc Eden Cross?”

  Frank nodded. “I’m told he was a remarkable man. The colonels at the time had great respect for him. He asked for our help with a great duty imposed on him, and we provided it. This place was changed … for him.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  ALLE WAS WET, SORE, AND PISSED. AT SIMON. AT HERSELF. SHE’D been an idiot, allowing her anger, her whims, and her fantasies to be exploited.

  “Who are you?” she blurted out to the older man who’d tossed the gun in the water.

  “My name is Frank Clarke. I’m colonel of the local Maroons. This land is ours by treaty. That means I’m in charge. Who are you?”

  “Alle Becket.”

  “That man,” her father said, “who came here sixty years ago. That was my grandfather, Marc Eden Cross. Her great-grandfather. He told you the truth. He was fulfilling a special duty given to him.”

  “I am told he spent a lot of time in Jamaica and came to know Maroons in ways outsiders rarely do. We offered him this place as sanctuary and he accepted.” Clarke pointed to the lake. “This pit filled with mud long ago. It’s a thick soupy mixture. You see the many stones scattered beneath the water. Some have numbers etched into them. Cross did that himself. His addition to this place. This water, this mud has served Maroons for centuries. Now it serves the Jews. It is for the Levite to take the next step.”

  Alle was unsure what the man meant.

  As, apparently, were the others.

  “You saw how the gun rested on the bottom. The mud will support weight, so long as it’s not disturbed. The stones beneath the surface with no numbers rest on solid rock and will never sink. The others, with numbers, float on mud. The only way to the ledge on the far side is to step on the right stones.”

  “And what prevents us from floating across?” Zachariah asked.

  “It’s too shallow to do without a raft, and there’s none here. If anyone tries to cross this lake, except through the prescribed method, they die. That was our promise to the Levite. Three have tried over the past sixty years. Their bodies are in the mud. None has attempted it in a long time.”

  “This is nuts,” she said.

  “It is what your great-grandfather wanted. He created this challenge.”

  “How do we know that?” she asked.

  Clarke shrugged. “You have only my word. But he told us that another Levite would arrive one day and know exactly how to get across.”

  “And what’s over there?” Rowe asked.

  She wanted to know that, too.

  “What the Levite seeks.”

  She saw that Simon was thinking. In Prague she’d told him everything she could remember about the message her grandfather left in his grave. Including five numbers: 3, 74, 5, 86, 19.

  Her father also knew those numbers.

  “I know the way,” Simon said. “I accept the challenge.”

  Clarke stepped away from the lake’s edge and casually motioned with the second gun. “Your success will tell us if you’re the Levite.”

  ———

  ZACHARIAH WAS SURE HE WAS RIGHT.

  The five numbers Alle had told him had to be the way.

  3, 74, 5, 86, 19.

  He’d noticed something about them while thinking on the plane. The first three together, 374, were the number of years the First Temple had stood until the Babylonians razed it. The second three, 586, the number of years the Second Temple had stood until the Romans wreaked havoc.

  That was not coincidental.

  Cross had obviously picked his numbers with care.

  The last number—19?

  He had no idea.

  But he was certain they led the way across the lake.

  Why else include them?

  And there was something else Cross had done.

  “Remember the message from Abiram Sagan,” he said. “The golem helps protect our secret in a place long sacred to Jews. A golem is a living body, created from raw earth, using fire, water, and air. Exactly what we have here. This lake is a golem.”

  “Why flood it?” Sagan asked Clarke.

  “It stays wet from rainwater and serves its purpose but, for this challenge, a bit more depth was required. Once I learned Béne was coming here, I ordered the dam be opened. We built it. If you fail here tonight, we will rebuild it and await the true Levite.”

  “Why do this?” Rowe asked Clarke. “Seems like a lot of trouble for outsiders.”

  “As I told you before, Béne, you really don’t understand us. Maroons were always outsiders, brought here in chains. We fled to the mountains to be free. The Jews were no different from us. They were never accepted, either. Many of us remember what they did for Maroons during the two wars. I am told that this was our way of repaying them.”

  Zachariah had heard enough. He pointed at Rócha. “You go. I’ll direct the path.”

  He saw the apprehension in his man’s eyes.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I know what I am doing.”

  “Then go yourself,” Sagan said.

  “And leave you here? I do not think so.”

  He hoped that once he conquered the challenge this Frank Clarke would have no choice but to acknowledge he was the Levite, entitled to what awaited on the lake’s far side. Maybe then Clarke would deal with Rowe, Alle, and Sagan for him.

  He faced Rócha. “You will be fine. I know the way.”

  Rócha nodded his acceptance, then stepped to the rock edge. Torches shed a blood-red luster over the water. Half a dozen stones, all devoid of numbers, lay scattered across the bottom, about a meter apart, extending out five meters. Rócha plunged his foot through the shin-high water and stepped on the nearest one, nodding his head that it was solid. He then worked his way out into the lake, sloshing through the water, following more stones with no numbers.

  Then stopped.

  “Ahead are five stones,” Rócha called out. “They are numbered 9, 35, 72, 3, 24.”

  Zachariah nearly smiled. He was right. “The one with the three is safe,” he called out.

  He watched as Rócha tested the stone and saw that he’d chosen correctly.

  Now he knew.

  Another series of blanks, then a second cluster of numbered stones. The one with 74, as he thought, proved solid. Two more times, and 5 and 86 offered safe passage. Rócha was now about twenty meters from the far ledge, calling out the next sequence of numbered stones. Zachariah told him 19 was the safe play.

  And he was right.

  Except that Rócha was still not at the ledge.

  Ten meters of water remained.

  “There’s a final sequence of stones,” Rócha called out. “Twenty of them numbered. The others are blank, but there’s no way to reach them.”

  A final sequence?

  But the message only provided five numbers.

  “Can you make it to the ledge?” he called out.

  Rócha shook his head. “No way. Too far.”

  He glanced over at Tom Sagan, who apprised him with a cool glare. He’d said nothing about being the Levite when Clarke spoke up, allowing only Alle to challenge him. The
son of a bitch. There was something more, something Sagan had not allowed his daughter to learn. And he’d stayed silent to see if he was right.

  Rócha had no idea that the next choice would be a guess. Only Sagan would know that, and the former reporter surely could not care less if Rócha died. In fact, he was probably counting on it.

  “Tell me the numbers you see,” he yelled across the water.

  Rócha rattled off twenty.

  “Thirty-four,” he said.

  Rócha did not hesitate. Why would he? Every other choice had been right.

  His man stepped toward the stone, planted one foot, then the next. And began to sink.

  Panic immediately grabbed hold. Arms went into the air searching for balance. He tried to leap away and find another stone, but the mud around his feet was too strong.

  Rócha began to sink.

  As the others realized what they were watching, Zachariah elbowed Frank Clarke in the gut.

  The older man reeled forward, the breath leaving his lungs.

  Rowe surged his way.

  But Zachariah wrenched the gun from Clarke’s grasp and aimed it straight at his adversary.

  “Back off, Béne,” he ordered. “I will shoot you dead.”

  Rowe stopped his advance.

  He motioned with the gun for Sagan and Alle to join Rowe and for all of them to step back. Clarke, too. He wanted them where he could see them.

  “Mr. Simon, help me,” Rócha screamed. “Send one of them. They can get this far and pull me out.”

  But he could not risk it. Not now. He had the situation under control and planned to keep it that way. Besides, he had a better way to get across.

  Rócha sank fast, nothing to stop him, the mud now chest-high.

  Clarke straightened himself up.

  “Mr. Simon, help me,” Rócha screamed.

  “You just going to let him die?” Sagan asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “You really are a monster,” Alle said.

  “A warrior. On a mission. Something you could not possibly understand.”

  “Somebody. Please,” Rócha yelled.

  “Stay still,” Sagan called out.

  But that was surely easier said than done.

  Too late.

  Rócha disappeared.