The Columbus Code

by mike Evans

  Donleavy ran his hand across the back of his head. “Rebhorn wanted me to talk to you. Not that I didn’t want to see you, man, because—”

  “Talk to me about what?” Winters knew his tone was testy but right then he didn’t much care.

  “It’s about your brother,” Donleavy said.

  Not what he expected. At all. “What about him?”

  “He’s been calling the office, bugging anybody he can get to.”

  “About re-interviewing.”

  Donleavy nodded. “Everybody’s been told not to take his calls. He’s been told not to make any more calls, but his number comes up on an average of twelve times a day.”

  Winters was sure he’d calculated it.

  “Rebhorn wants you to tell him to back off,” Donleavy said. “Otherwise they’re going to issue a restraining order against him.”

  “I’ll talk to him, see what I can do.” Winters zoned his eyes in on Donleavy’s. “Why didn’t Rebhorn call me himself?”

  Donleavy shrugged. “He knows we’re friends—”

  “Don’t play that with me, buddy. Why didn’t he call me?”

  “You really going to make me answer that question?”

  Winters stood and looked away. “He thinks I’ll blow up at him. He told Archer I had an ‘emotional breakdown.’ That’s what he’s afraid of.”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “It’s okay. I know.” Winters went back to the table. “What about you? Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “No! Nobody thinks you’re crazy, man.”

  “What word is he using then?”

  Donleavy stared at his hands.

  Winters knew he’d pushed him far enough. “Look, I appreciate you coming by, seriously. I’ll talk to Ben, get him to leave everybody alone.” He stood up straight. “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure, buddy.”

  “Tell Rebhorn I’m not unstable. I think that’s probably the word he’s using.”

  “Sure,” Donleavy said. But he didn’t meet Winters’ eyes.

  Winters wasn’t in the mood to Skype with Sophia Conte at 2 a.m. It wasn’t that he’d rather be asleep—he wasn’t doing much of that anyway. But after Donleavy’s visit, it was hard to care about Columbus or his ancestry or anything except the rumors being passed around about him at the office. Winters was writing an e-mail to Conte to cancel their appointment when Skype signaled an incoming video call. Okay, so he would keep it short.

  When her face sprang into view, Winters was taken by surprise. As he had expected, her hair was gathered into a loose bun, but it was dark and tending toward frizzy, which created a soft halo around her face. No glasses pinched her nose. Her dark, deep eyes were bright with intelligence. And she couldn’t have been more than thirty-five.

  “Mr. Winters,” she said. “You’re younger than I expected.”

  The words So are you pushed against his lips but he didn’t let them go. You didn’t say that to a woman. You also didn’t say, You’re better-looking than I imagined.

  She was obviously waiting for him to say something. Her face was turned slightly to the left, as if she was leaning in to hear better.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “John Winters.”

  “Yes,” she said. Her English was very good, laced with a soft accent. “This is the time we arranged, no?”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s perfect.”

  “Good. I thought I had caught you off guard.”

  Actually she had, and he was having a hard time getting back on track. “Thanks for meeting with me,” he said finally. “I know you must be busy.”

  “I always find time for the things I want to do. Shall we get started?”

  All business. He could use that right now.

  “Before we begin,” she said, as if she were opening a class in Columbus 101, “I would like to recommend a book to you.”

  Winters sniffed at the stack already on the table. “I’m up to my—uh, my earlobes in books.”

  “You may not have come across this one—the Book of Prophecies?”

  “Whose prophecies?”

  She gave him a smile. “Those of Señor Columbus.”

  “About the New World?”

  “No. About the end of the world. These were linked closely to the book of Revelation, and he was convinced the end would come by 1650.”

  Okay, she was sounding more “spiritual” than his mother.

  “You’re familiar with the book of Revelation, Mr. Winters? From the Bible.”

  Yeah, he’d studied it in Sunday school. Eons ago. “‘Familiar’ might be too strong a word,” he said, “but I know the basics.”

  “Señor Columbus writes about the things he felt would have to happen before the world could end, or more specifically, before Christ could return.” She held up a graceful finger. “For instance, he believed that the Garden of Eden had to be found again.”

  “So, he thought the New World was Eden?”

  “Perhaps. Another example, he believed that there had to be one last crusade to recapture the Holy Land. There is conjecture among scholars that one of the reasons for his first voyage was to find enough gold to finance that crusade.”

  “Any proof of that?” Winters asked.

  “No. I find it interesting only because his willingness to engage in creative speculation helps us to see how our current culture influences our view of prophecy. We still struggle with the idea of one world leader. Columbus thought there must be someone to fight for the freedom of Jerusalem, which was one of the conditions he saw for Christ’s return. He thought King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella might be such leaders.” She smiled again. “He believed we were to prepare the world for battle with the Antichrist—actually he believed the Antichrist to be a group of people, though Señor Columbus never said who that group was. He was reluctant to speak about it openly.”

  Winters tried not to squirm. Sophia must have sensed that because she lightened her voice and said, “But we do know that Señor Columbus was passionate in his opinion that the world was about to end, and he was not alone in that belief. Several noted theologians of the day supported him. They were convinced the world would last a total of seven thousand years, counting from the creation of Adam through the books of the Bible to the birth of Christ and calculated that time to be 5,343 years.”

  “Ah,” Winters said. “So he added the fifteen hundred years up to the time he lived and expected the world to end around 1656.” Donleavy would be impressed, although Winters didn’t know why he wanted this woman to be.

  “Sí. Yes.” Sophia gave the almost-imperceptible smile again. “As we know, of course, he died before that. And the world did not end.”

  “Seems to happen a lot with these prophecies,” Winters said. “So, are we saying he was nuts?”

  “I am sorry.” Her eyes laughed. “I am not familiar with that expression.”

  “Was he crazy?” Winters asked.

  “There is a long line of scholars who think he was. I prefer to think of him as zealous. Completely—how do you say it—sold out to the mission he had undertaken. Not unlike you, Mr. Winters.”

  “Crazy?” he said. “Or sold out?”

  Her eyes laughed once more, and she folded her hands under her chin. “That is as far as it goes—the prophecies and the belief that they would come true. You can read more about this in the Book of Prophecies. I thought you might find that interesting. However—”

  “I don’t like howevers,” Winters said.

  “I understand. Speculating about this area of inquiry is a nice mental exercise, but it brings us no closer to finding the next generation of your family.”

  “What does?”

  Sophia shuffled through papers in front of her and looked back into the camera. “I may be able to show you an established genealogy of Columbus that runs down to within a few generations of your grandfather.”

  Winters came back to life. “You can?”

  “Yes, but I must take a few steps bac
k first.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding.

  “I have looked at the immigration records you sent me. Officials often listed the names of immigrants incorrectly. Most of them could not read any language other than English. When your grandfather gave his name and hometown, the immigration officials, it seems, could understand only part of what he said—in this case, the name of the town. And because that came last, they wrote it down as his last name.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Neither. It simply means your grandfather was thereafter known as Esteban Torme, instead of Esteban from Torme, Spain.” She glanced down at a paper. “Actually, it says Esteban Torme from Huelva, Spain, which was the town they sailed from, not the town they lived in.” She smiled, again in the smallest way. “You will like this, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Huelva is the same place Señor Columbus sailed from on his first voyage.”

  “Sounds like a lot of people sailed from there,” Winters said. He was strangely disappointed.

  “Yes,” Sophia said. “However—and you may appreciate this ‘however’—that means the reason I have been unable to trace the name Torme to the Columbus line may be because that was not their real last name.”

  Winters nodded. “So how do we find out what it was?”

  “It may be difficult, but knowing where they were originally from is helpful. Alba de Tormes is a famous place in Spain and a link like this, if it proves correct, could make it possible to connect your family to a known genealogy of Señor Christopher Columbus.”

  “Could,” Winters said.

  “Yes. We have only to connect your Esteban Torme to the third duke of Liria, Jacobo-Franscisco Eduardo Fitz-James Stuart y Colón.”

  “Say again?”

  “And . . . you can only do that here in Spain.”

  Winters sat back in his chair. Until now Sophia seemed like a woman as passionate about her obsession as Donleavy was about his. At this point, though, he smelled a lure to spend money.

  She was waiting, patiently it seemed. Winters decided to tread lightly. “Why is that?” he asked. “Why can I only do it from there?”

  Sophia turned her head to listen as she’d done before. “We must find the ship’s original manifest. The one created on this side of the voyage. It should have their names listed correctly. We know three people traveled together—your Esteban, Magdalena, and Antonio—and that makes it easier.”

  “I can’t do that online?”

  She shook her head. “I have already checked. The online sites do not have that information and if they did, we cannot trust that they are reliable.”

  “Why?” He knew he was pressing, but as intrigued as he was becoming, he couldn’t let that sway him from knowing whether this was on the up and up.

  “The entries will be handwritten,” she said. “Someone would have to read them, translate them, enter the information on the website. Too many opportunities for error. Far better to see the actual documents.”

  “So you’re saying I have to come to Barcelona.” Winters ran his hand over his face. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Ms. Conte, but why can’t I pay you to do it and send the results to me?”

  “You can,” she said.

  “However . . .”

  “I am not certain I could be as effective as you, Mr. Winters.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  The faint smile reappeared. “Because people don’t say no to a man like you.”

  Winters looked for a trace of a tease, but there was none. She was waiting again, and he had the feeling she’d wait half the night for a response.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” he said.

  “And I will give it some prayer,” she said. “Good night, Mr. Winters.”

  “Good night, Ms. Conte,” he said.

  But she was already gone.

  Is it customary for Señor Tejada to hold business meetings in his home?” Maria asked.

  Elena looked at her from across the seat in the limousine. “I’ve never known him to do it, but then I don’t know everything about the way he works. No one does.”

  “And you’re sure Snowden is going to be here with his mi—his two guys.”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “What good are you then?”

  When Elena didn’t respond with the usual laugh behind her hand, Maria leaned forward.

  “That was a joke.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why the stressed face? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Elena leaned her head back against the leather seat. “If I knew anything I’d tell you. That’s why I’m stressing. I don’t like not having the information you need.”

  “I don’t need information. I have that in here.” She tapped the red briefcase at her side. “I’d just like to know what I’m walking into so I don’t make another social ‘faux pas.’”

  Elena did laugh then. “Just about everything you do is a social faux pas, Maria. I haven’t been able to teach you anything.”

  “I beg to differ. You’ve taught me how to eat barbecued leeks. And that seafood with its head still on—”

  “I mean something that doesn’t have to do with food.”

  Maria felt a sudden—and unfamiliar—shyness. “You’ve taught me that another woman can be trusted.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Most of my friends are guys. Okay, both of my real friends are guys, and one of them is a priest. I haven’t had a girl friend since middle school.” She smiled at Elena. “Until now.”

  Elena ducked her head and turned to look out the window.

  Maria decided to give her a minute and gazed out the opposite window. They’d left the city proper and were now rounding a long, sweeping curve. A three-story mansion came into view, its sandstone-colored stucco bright in the sun. It was capped with the kind of rich tile roof Maria had come to love about Spanish architecture. As they drew nearer, she saw that a second-floor balcony roof formed a patio for the top floor. Perched on the side of the mountain and bathed in light, the house seemed to tower over the region.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Yes,” Elena responded.

  “Can’t you imagine Señor Tejada standing on that balcony like the lord of the manor?”

  “No,” Elena said, voice low. “I see him standing right there ready to open the car door for you.”

  The limo rolled to a stop, and Maria grabbed her hair with one hand and her briefcase with the other. Tejada opened the door, leaned down, and nodded. “Welcome to mi casa, Ms. Winters,” he said.

  If he said, Mi casa es su casa, she wasn’t getting out of the car.

  Since he didn’t, Maria slid across the seat and extricated herself without accepting the hand he offered her. He had the grace to offer the same hand to Elena, who took it like the mistress of protocol she was.

  Tejada seemed far less imperious in his own home than he was on the Catalonia campus. Although he ran the meeting with his usual businesslike crispness in an airy, sunny room that screamed good taste, it was over in half the time allotted and he was offering all of them drinks—Snowden and his minions, the two gentlemen from Belgium Continental, plus Elena and Maria. Maria opted for mineral water and turned to follow the group out to a portico for appetizers. Tejada touched her lightly on the elbow and said, “I would like to show you my home.”

  Maria glanced at the rest of the party but Tejada said, “They have all toured the house before.”

  Snowden nodded at her. Maria narrowed her eyes at him but she could see there was no getting out of this. She considered summoning Elena to go with them, but that would seem rude, even to her. “Lead on,” she said.

  Tejada guided her down a central hallway and into a large, high-ceilinged room with a panoramic view of the city. The lights of Barcelona were beginning to wink in the distance as the sun’s descent purpled the sky. “I never tire of it,” he said gesturing to the vista.

  �
�I wouldn’t either,” Maria replied.

  “You love my city, then?”

  “Do you own it, too, Señor Tejada?”

  As soon as she said it, she could imagine Snowden snarling at her, but Tejada’s dark eyes sparkled.

  “Much of it,” he said. “The rest . . . no one can possess. It is for all of us.”

  “All of it is lovely,” Maria said. She nodded toward a painting on the opposite wall. “That’s a Picasso.”

  Tejada followed her to it. “The Old Guitarist. Quite different from his cubist paintings.”

  Maria put her hands behind her back to keep herself from touching it. “He had a broader range than most people realize.”

  “You are familiar with his work?”

  Maria nodded, eyes still on the emaciated face of the old man as it bent to his music. “I grew up in New York City. We spent many a Saturday at the Met.”

  “The Metropolitan Museum.” Tejada smiled. “I know it well. Several of the paintings I own are on loan there.”

  Maria searched his face for signs of arrogance, but there were none. Pleased, yes, but not proud. Either he was a superb actor, or she’d figured him wrong.

  “I see you appreciate fine art,” he said. “Perhaps you will enjoy these.”

  They moved through a doorway and into another, smaller hallway, although smaller was a relative term. It was wider than her apartment in DC and lined with portraits similar to those she had observed in Catalonia’s boardroom. Each was heavily, yet tastefully framed and with museum-quality lighting. The first was the same conquistador she’d seen that first day in the boardroom.

  “You like this fellow?” Tejada said.

  “Who is he?”

  “Sebastian e Colon. One of my ancestors.”

  Of course.

  “His name is much longer but few of us remember it.”

  Maria doubted he had forgotten. “You’re interested in history,” she said instead.

  “The parts that matter to me. Very much so. You?”

  “Probably much the same way. My father was the history major.”