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His attention drifted for a moment to the rugby field as the players formed into a scrum. He recalled how it felt, being bound together in the rows, arms interlocked, muscles pushing and pulling against other muscles. You had to be careful. He’d heard bones break during a scrum. But what fun. He loved the game. Intense. Fast-paced. Risky as hell.
Just like life.
“I have to know, Tre. What do these documents reveal?”
———
TOM WAS STARTLED BY THE MAN.
He’d been roaming the history section at Barnes & Noble, whiling away another Saturday afternoon. He found he spent a lot of time in bookstores. Never the same one, though, driving all over Orlando, varying where he went in time and place. Part of the self-consciousness that had yet to pass after a year of unemployment. It was hard to get fired. Even harder when the whole world watched.
The man who now stood before him was middle-aged and short-haired. He wore corduroy pants and a light jacket, nothing unusual given that it was actually cool outside for December in central Florida. What raised an alarm was the stare.
One of recognition.
“I came to speak with you,” the man said.
“You must have me confused with someone else.”
“You’re Thomas Sagan.”
He hadn’t heard anyone speak his name directly to him in over a year. While he thought everyone knew who he was, the reality was that no one knew him. His face had once been a staple on television, but his last appearance had been over a year ago. And the public’s memory faded fast.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“To tell you something.”
He noticed the voice. A near whisper. And he did not like the wary look. Was this someone ready to tell him how much he resented him lying? Just after his firing he’d received hundreds of vile emails. He’d read only a few then deleted the rest and canceled the account.
“I don’t think so,” he said, turning to retreat down the aisle and out the front door.
“I know who set you up.”
He stopped.
Never had he heard anyone even hint that he’d been set up, much less voice the words.
He turned.
The man stepped closer.
“When it was done, we decided not to tell you until enough time had passed that there would be nothing you could do.”
Tremors shook his arms, but he steadied himself. “Who are you?”
“We watched your destruction. It came fast, didn’t it? But then, we’re good at what we do.”
“Who is we?”
The man came even closer. Tom did not move.
“Did you ever stop to consider the consequences of what you wrote? Did you know people died because of what you wrote? You were told to stop, but you refused to listen.”
Told to stop? He racked his brain. By whom?
Then it hit him.
The West Bank. Two years ago. A Palestinian official who’d consented to an interview, then promptly walked out of it, but not before saying, “You need to stop, Mr. Sagan. Before it’s too late.”
“That’s right,” the man said. “You do remember.”
He now knew who they were.
“First off, this has nothing to do with any government. We’re an independent body. We work outside the law. Do the jobs that either can’t be done or won’t be done. You happen to fit into both categories.”
“So you destroyed me?”
“We silenced you. It’s not always necessary to kill people. Sometimes it’s even better not to do something that drastic. In your case, we killed your credibility and that was enough.”
He thought back to the story that cost him everything. “You fed that to me. You made sure I went to the Israeli and Palestinian sources you created. You handed it to me, let me run it, then erased it all.”
The man nodded. “It took several months to make it happen. You were a pro. Good at what you did. We had to be careful. But you eventually took the bait. It was just too good, wasn’t it?”
Yes, it was.
EXTREMISTS ON BOTH SIDES, OUT OF CONTROL
“You pissed off some important people,” the man said. “They’d had enough. So they hired us to take care of the problem. We’re telling you this now so that if you even think about trying for a comeback, we’ll be there, ready to take you down again.”
“You’re saying the Palestinians and the Israelis got together to destroy me as a reporter?”
“In a sense. We approached them both, separately, pitched the idea, and they both paid us to do the job. Neither knew the other was involved. They just wanted you out of the way for their own particular reasons.”
“I won’t be that stupid next time.”
“Really? How would you ever know? You had no idea then. I told you we’re good at what we do. Think about that if you decide on a comeback. Every source you talk to, you’ll question in your mind. Every lead that comes your way, you’ll wonder. Is it real? Are they back? Is it going to happen again?”
The sorry SOB was right. He would always wonder. Everything that happened—it had destroyed his life, but it also destroyed something else.
His edge.
“You screwed with the wrong people,” the man said. “I came to tell you, so you’d know. Listen to this message and keep doing what you’re doing. Ghostwriting. That’s perfect for you, so long as you stay a ghost.”
And the man walked off.
———
BÉNE LISTENED AS HALLIBURTON ANSWERED HIS QUESTION.
“Moses Cohen was a pirate. One of the best. He ravaged Spanish shipping. His brother, Abraham, was an entrepreneur. The brothers were never close. They attended separate synagogues and there’s little in the records I’ve seen to link them. That’s what makes this document you have so interesting. By all accounts they didn’t care for each other, and here we have proof of that with Moses suing Abraham. Brother against brother.”
“Why is it important? Seems trivial.”
“Not at all. In fact, it could be critical.”
Oliver Cromwell died in 1658 and, as one diarist commented, “None but dogs cried.” His brand of Puritanism had left the people little to do except contemplate their sins and wail for forgiveness. Having had enough of misery, England looked to its exiled heir, Charles II. In 1660 Charles returned to a magnificent homecoming, one he interestingly compared to “the return of the Jews from Babylonian captivity.”
He was restored to the throne with but one problem.
The Crown was broke.
And so was England.
The Lord Protector Cromwell had bankrupted the nation.
To solve that problem, Charles turned to the Jews.
Edward I had expelled them 370 years earlier, and they remained virtually nonexistent until 1492, when Spain and Portugal issued their edicts of expulsion. Eventually, Jews found refuge in England and a protector in Cromwell, who allowed them to stay. With the king’s return, many English merchants sought re-banishment. But Charles, too, was tolerant and championed an act of Parliament that protected them.
The king was smarter than many believed. He reali
zed that expelling the Jews would grant English merchants complete control over trade, which meant they could set prices as they saw fit. The presence of Jewish merchants countered that power. Also, by being tolerant, Charles acquired a group of friends with money and resources.
Abraham Cohen was in Holland when Charles regained the throne. He watched with great interest as the king’s Jewish policy was established. Jamaica was by then under British control, the Spaniards gone, so Abraham decided the time was right to approach the king. On March 5, 1662, Cohen and two other wealthy Dutch Jews—Abraham and Isaac Israel, a father and son—met with Charles.
The senior Israel told the king how he learned of Columbus’ lost mine from Jews on Jamaica when he was imprisoned there. This was shortly before the British invaded the island in 1655. He was about to be released from custody, so his fellow captives confided to him their dire situation.
The Columbus family’s hold on the island was gone. The Spanish had regained control and the Inquisition would shortly arrive. No longer would anyone protect Jamaican Jews. Thankfully, the community had taken precautions, secreting away its wealth in a location known only to a man identified as the Levite.
“It’s the great Admiral’s mine,” one captive Jew told Israel.
Columbus himself had found the location, and their wealth would stay hidden there until the Spanish were gone. The Jews then in custody encouraged Israel to promote a foreign invasion of Jamaica, seeing it as their only hope.
Which happened.
England claimed the island in 1655.
“You know where this mine is located?” the king asked.
“We think so,” Cohen said. “But Jamaica is a vast place.”
Charles was hooked. Reposing trust and confidence in Cohen’s abilities, he granted the man full power and authority to “search for, discover, dig, and raise a mine of gold, whether the same be opened or not opened.” Two-thirds of the find would go to Charles, one-third to his Jewish partners. Cohen also smartly secured English citizenship and a trade monopoly in brazilwood and pimiento spice, Jamaica’s two major exports at the time.
