The Columbus Code

by mike Evans

  “No,” Donleavy said. “But you might be.”

  “You’re killin’ me here. What is it?”

  Once more Donleavy’s eyes darted around the room. Winters let it go this time.

  “I’ve been working on some e-mails in connection with the Russian case,” he said finally.

  “On your own?”

  Donleavy nodded. “Something about it keeps bothering me, you know? We should have known more about what was going down in that house before we got there. I just never could believe it was your fault you were caught that unaware.”

  “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do but—”

  “Wait. Just hear me out.” Donleavy’s voice dropped. “One of the e-mails was from a guy who, through a whole series of ins and outs, we know was working with the Russians, even though he isn’t Russian. It was written to a source that’s turned out to be a dead end—a screen name rather than a real name, IP address for a public computer in a library in Arcadia, Arizona—but what it said got me going.”

  Winters wished he would get to the point, but Donleavy was relaxing into it and he didn’t want to mess with that. Otherwise they could be here for days.

  “I didn’t bring the e-mail—I didn’t want to print it out—but I memorized it.”

  Of course he did.

  “It said, ‘Just connect it to his laptop’s USB port. The file will open without you doing anything else.’” Donleavy hitched himself closer to the table. “Then he sends another one. ‘Did you do it?’ His next e-mail had the reply attached to it, which said, ‘Couldn’t. S.A.M. always around.’ The next one was, ‘Do it soon or all bets are off.’ After that there was only one more, which said ‘Done.’”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Winters said. “Shouldn’t you be looking for somebody on the case with the initials S.A.M.?”

  “I already did that and I got nothin’. And this might not have anything to do with you, but you were point man on the case. Any chance someone had access to your laptop?”

  Winters grunted. “Half the time I can’t even get into my laptop, it’s got so many passwords and hoops you have to jump through before you can check your e-mail.”

  “Are you taking it with you on this trip?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” Winters said. “Too much of a hassle.”

  “You mind if I take a look at it while you’re gone?”

  “You’d be able to tell if somebody tampered with it?”

  “Maybe. It would be worth a try.”

  Winters took a gulp of the now-tepid coffee and considered it. The whole thing was a long shot at best, but he appreciated Donleavy’s loyalty. And examining the laptop couldn’t hurt—if it did turn up something, maybe they would all get over it and let him go back to work.

  “I don’t have time to get it to you before I leave,” Winters said. “But I’ll give you the access code for the garage. You can get in the house from there.”

  “Write it on your napkin and slide it across the table to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s cooler that way.”

  “You’re killin’ me, Donleavy,” Winters grinned. “Just killin’ me.”

  Botafumeiro was everything Elena had described to Maria. Richly paneled walls. Silver ice buckets. Luxurious Spanish furnishings.

  Something of its charm fell away, though, as the server fluffed out Maria’s napkin and handed it to her and she thought of Molina coming in here and taking Elena’s world away from her. Maria wondered if he’d ordered the spider-crab pie before he presented his blackmail plan. Or did he simply back her into a corner of the kitchen with one of his withering stares?

  “Ms. Winters?”

  Maria looked up to find Tejada studying her. He had a way of making his concern for the person in front of him appear to be his only concern. If it had been anyone else with a look like that, she would have blurted out the whole thing, beginning to end. Instead she smiled and scanned the menu. “I think I’m just perplexed by all these choices,” she said. “Will you order for both of us?”

  “I would be happy to,” Tejada replied. “But I doubt you are ever perplexed about much, Ms. Winters.”

  She set the menu aside and looked over at him. “Let’s settle one matter right now, Señor Tejada. If we’re going to work closely together, I think you should call me Maria.”

  His brows rose. “Are we going to work closely together?”

  “I hope so.”

  His eyes grew warm. “It was my understanding that you did not want to be ‘close’ to me.”

  “I said ‘work,’ not ‘socialize.’”

  “I stand corrected then. I thought this was a friendly luncheon.”

  “Oh, it is. I’ve never been one to believe that business can’t be cordial.”

  “All right, then. Maria it is. On the condition that you will call me Emilio.”

  “I would,” Maria said, “but I like the sound of ‘Tejada’ better. Gives me practice with my Spanish pronunciation.”

  Tejada’s eyes smiled. “You could practice with Emilio just as well.”

  The server approached and Maria tried not to imagine Elena in his place. Although from the look of things, the actual servers were all male. The females were bussing tables and occasionally filling water glasses.

  “Now, why do you keep drifting off to some mysterious place . . . Maria?” Tejada asked.

  “Barcelona does that to me, I think,” Maria said, turning back to the moment.

  “You have fallen in love with my city.”

  “Which is why I have something to propose to you.”

  “I’m intrigued. First, may I order you a drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “No. Thank you.” She committed enough flubs when she was sober and she couldn’t afford any in this situation.

  “Good then. We will toast with water.”

  “What are we toasting?”

  “This proposal you have in mind.”

  “You haven’t heard it yet.”

  “Let’s just say that if my instincts serve me well, and they usually do, I will find it to my liking.”

  Maria had to admit this guy was good.

  “Here it is, then,” she said. “The Belgium Continental acquisition is all but finished. A few i’s to dot, a few t’s to cross.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means that we’ll be returning to the States soon.”

  “Sadly.”

  “That is exactly the word I would use. I know that the Belgian deal is not the only case our firm works on for you and I also know that Bill Snowden handles all of that.”

  “He does.”

  Tejada was listening as if what she was unfolding was absolutely scintillating—and she hadn’t even gotten to the point yet. He was definitely good. Among the best, in fact.

  “I also know,” she continued, “that Mr. Snowden represents other conglomerates as well.”

  “I make it a point to be aware of those things.”

  “As far as he allows you to. Mr. Snowden is a great deal smarter than he sometimes lets on. That,” she added quickly, “is part of how he works.”

  “I am aware of that too.” The trace of a frown appeared on Tejada’s brow. “Should I be questioning your loyalty to your employer, Maria?”

  “Not at all. As you yourself have said, you already know of all of this. What you might want to question is his loyalty to you.”

  Tejada became very still, so still that Maria could no longer read his face. This was where the waters ran deep. If she was going to get out, now was the time to do it.

  Instead, she plunged ahead even deeper. “I’m actually trying to protect the firm—as well as you.”

  “Oh? And how is that?”

  “Mr. Snowden made a slight mistake recently, one I caught and was able to correct without any need to bring it to his attention. I mention it to you only because I see it as evidence that he may have taken on too much. I would hate to see that
affect what is obviously a good working relationship between our two companies.”

  “Go on.”

  “What I propose is that I be brought back to Barcelona to work with you in bringing any other open issues up-to-date. Just on a temporary basis, relieving Mr. Snowden of some undue stress.”

  “Have you discussed this with him?”

  “Actually, I couldn’t come up with a way to present it to him without offending him. Do I say to my boss, ‘I think you’re doing too much and you can’t handle the load’? I couldn’t see myself having that conversation.”

  “You might be demoted. Or fired.”

  “In which case I would look for another job. But I like where I am, and I like Barcelona, and I like working with Catalonia. And I think I can be of benefit to you and your corporation.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” Tejada paused to let the server place a selection of clams and oysters on the table.

  Maria made the expected appreciative sounds and tried not to slurp as she slipped an oyster into her mouth. Surprisingly, it turned to cardboard on her tongue. Nothing she was saying was untrue, but it felt manipulative in that way she disapproved of when anyone else did it. She reminded herself to keep thinking about Elena.

  After he made sure everything was to her liking, Tejada said, “You have clearly thought all of this out. How do you propose I present this idea to Mr. Snowden?”

  Maria smiled. “Oh, I’m leaving that part to you. I have faith that you will handle it with complete diplomacy.”

  His expression turned somber. “One thing does disturb me, however.”

  She knew what it was, but she asked, “What is that?”

  “You suggested that I question Mr. Snowden’s loyalty to me. What did you mean by that?”

  Maria gave her best sigh. “It may be nothing. It was just something in his notes, from a meeting I wasn’t privy to. You were mentioned—something about seeing that projected reserves were in place for a deal that had already been agreed on.” Maria put up a hand, even though Tejada showed no signs of protesting. “I know these kinds of things go on, and quite without malice in most cases. My concern is that such information came my way. To be plain, I don’t think I was supposed to see those notes.”

  Tejada put down his fork and wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. His eyes shone with the same concern he’d shown at the beginning of the meeting. “I know what you’re referring to,” he said. “And you’re correct. That information was not for your eyes. I will assure you, though, that nothing underhanded is indicated there.”

  “I take you at your word.”

  “You are also correct that the matter shows carelessness on Snowden’s part.”

  “Or simply overwork.”

  “And your solution is, rather than my calling him on it, you step in and take over some of the workload here in Barcelona to eliminate the possibility of similar mistakes in the future.”

  “You are correct.”

  Maria forced herself to slide a clam onto her appetizer plate but she had stopped eating. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing.

  “You are either a very shrewd businesswoman, Maria, or a very ambitious one.”

  “Can’t I be both?” Maria said, hating every word as it came out.

  “You can. And I admire both.” He raised his water glass and motioned for her to do the same. “To our future working relationship.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Maria said.

  He waited, glass still lifted.

  “I would like to keep Elena on as my assistant when I’m here.”

  “I apologize. Whom are you referring to?”

  “Elena Soler. The assistant you had Carlos Molina hire for me. Which, by the way, I appreciate.”

  Tejada lowered the glass and shook his head. “I did not have Molina hire anyone, although I wish I had now. I would like to be deserving of your gratitude.”

  “Oh,” Maria said. “My mistake then.”

  “If, however, you would like for me to retain Señorita Soler as your assistant, I will see to it. Then that grateful smile will be for me.”

  Maria smiled in response.

  The flights from San Francisco to London and then to Barcelona were more grueling than a two-day stakeout. Winters emerged from the last plane bleary-eyed. His spine felt twisted like a question mark and his face was dotted with stubble. He was grateful that Sophia Conte wasn’t meeting him at the airport. His breath alone would be enough to send her away.

  Not only that—he was cranky. The little sleep he’d gotten was tormented by snatches of dream from the raid and images from the book he’d brought for the plane ride—Columbus’ Book of Prophecies. It read like a nightmare.

  By the time he got through customs, found a cab driver who spoke English, and located his hotel, he was ready to pinch off someone’s head. Not the best frame of mind for meeting the woman who was supposed to help him solve the riddle of his ancestry.

  Exhausted as Winters was lying in the hotel bed with the drapes drawn against the brilliant Barcelona sun, he stared, sleepless, at the stained ceiling. A four-star rating obviously meant something different here than it did in the States. He counted the drips from the bathroom faucet . . .

  The zip tie they used to secure his hands behind his back should have gone on smoothly. Whoever was applying it had the coordination of a drunk. The guy was either nervous or he didn’t know what he was doing. Or both—and both could be used in Winters’ favor.

  They didn’t blindfold him either, and that part worried him most because it only made sense if they were going to kill him anyway.

  But why not do it now? Why lead him to another room in the basement? Why hurl him into a chair?

  Winters continued to ask himself rational questions until the Russian who had held the gun to his head stepped forward and plunged his fist into Winters’ face. Again. And again—each time sending bone-jarring pain through his head. There was a pause, long enough for him to think it was over—then once more the Russian punched a fist that was not just flesh but also brass straight into Winters’ nose. He cried out in agony—a long, thin cry he didn’t recognize as his own—followed by the piercing ring of his cell phone that interrupted the dream.

  Winters fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, then found it at last and pressed a button to accept the call.

  “Bienvenidos, Señor Winters,” a female voice said. “How do you find our Barcelona so far?”

  “Who is this?” he asked, still groggy and confused from the dream.

  A short pause was followed by a stiffer version of the voice. “This is Sophia Conte. You are John Winters, yes?”

  Winters bit off a curse and climbed out of bed. “Sorry, Sophia. I’m a little disoriented.”

  Did he just say that? He did not just say that.

  “Ah, jet lag will do that, yes,” she said. “I should have waited longer to call you, but I was eager to reach you.”

  “No, it’s all right. Let me just get myself together here—”

  Did he say that, too? And how was he planning to get himself together? There was no coffeepot in the room and the water drooling from the faucet was rust-brown so a face wash was out of the question.

  “I have captured you at a bad time,” she said.

  Winters pushed at his closed eyes with his thumb and index finger. “I think the word you want is ‘caught.’”

  “I think the expression I want is ‘Good night.’”

  “What time is it?”

  “Barely 10 a.m. But you need sleep. Call me in the morning—around eight?”

  “No, really, I’m fine.”

  “No. Rest. We have a full day tomorrow.”

  “We do?”

  “I have arranged for us to meet with a man who knows much more than I do about a link you have not explored yet.”

  “Okay.” Winters blinked his eyes until he could actually see. He needed to salvage this conversation. “Sounds good. How about if I buy you breakfast?�
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  “That would be lovely. Where shall we meet?”

  “How about—the hotel dining room?”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Winters told her and was met with a stony silence.

  “Hello?” he said. “Are you still there?”

  “Get some sleep, John. And first thing tomorrow, find a different hotel. I will e-mail you several suggestions. And in the meantime . . . do not drink the water and do not eat the food.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse,” she replied. “I am being kind.”

  Winters hung up feeling the same way he had the first time he asked a girl on a date and she turned him down because, she said, he couldn’t afford to take her anyplace she wanted to go. Maybe Ben was right when he said Winters was cheap. Sounded like he couldn’t afford this town.

  “I’ll worry about that tomorrow,” he groaned. Right now sleep was all he wanted and he fell back on the bed. Let the dreams hit him. He was too wiped out to care.

  It was they in Barcelona who controlled the finances, Diego—it was they who resisted. They were afraid to know the truth, and not only the truth about the means of reaching the East by sailing west, which would disrupt their power. They were terrified of the truth about us . . . and about themselves.

  —Christopher Columbus

  Thanks again for picking me up,” Maria said. “I know it’s a hassle to get in and out of Dulles, but you can see now why I didn’t want to talk about this at the office.”

  Austin glared at her across the table. His brown hair seemed to be standing up even straighter than usual, and his eyes were narrowed to slits the way he looked when he was aggravated.

  Maria couldn’t really blame him. He had every right to dump her here, go back to Gump, Snowden and Meir, and turn in his resignation.

  “It didn’t occur to you to request that I go with you to Barcelona?” he snarled.

  “Of course it occurred to me. I’ve been missing you since the moment we left.”

  “Oh, that’s clear.”

  Maria shoved her half-eaten salad aside and glared at him. “Listen to me. First of all, if you came with me I wouldn’t need Elena and that is the whole point in my going back.”