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And he’d been right.
The secret had been taken to the grave.
He’d actually forgotten about Rowe. They’d teamed over a year ago, the result of him trying to find someone in Jamaica who shared his passion and would search. He’d met Brian Jamison early on. Rowe’s man. Smart, resourceful, American.
The jet taxied toward the runway.
Unfortunately, he could not ignore Rowe any longer.
———
BÉNE SAT ON THE VERANDA AND SURVEYED HIS ESTATE. STORM clouds were rolling in from the north across the Blue Mountains, distant thunder announcing their arrival. It rained a lot here, which was good for the coffee beans.
The great house, a Georgian mansion cast in a Creole style, sat on the crest of a gentle slope. It had been built between 1771 and 1804 by a British plantation owner. White stone walls still stood in stark contrast with lush green woodlands. That Brit had been one of the first to grow coffee. The beans were initially imported in 1728 and quickly flourished. Though it took longer for coffee to ripen in the cooler air, the result was a fuller quality. Today only 9,000 acres in all of Jamaica lay above the minimum 600 meters required by national standards to qualify as Blue Mountain Coffee. His father had set those standards, knowing that all of the Rowe acreage lay high enough. Once, pulperies sat beside the fields so beans could be processed quickly. Modern transports now made that unnecessary. But what came out of the pulperies continued to be dried, graded, then sorted only after six weeks of curing. No other coffee in the world did that. He was proud of his land and the estate, especially the house, which he’d spent millions refurbishing. No more slaves worked here. Most were Maroons whom he paid an above-average wage.
The stone from the Levite’s grave sat on a table before him. He’d cleaned it, carefully washing away the dark earth, exposing the hooked X. His drive back across the mountains from Charles Town had been troubling. Frank Clarke told him things he’d never known. He was irritated that his friend had held out on him so long, but he should not be surprised. He wondered—was there a connection between the Taino myth of the cave of importance, the Maroon legend of a place with an iron gate, the Jews’ supposed hidden wealth, and Columbus’ lost mine?
Four tales.
Similar, yet different.
Separating one from the other might prove difficult. Could the deed that Felipe found point the way? He hoped Tre Halliburton had been successful in the archives. He’d not heard from his friend.
His fingers caressed the stone.
Such a strange symbol.
What was its significance?
His cell phone vibrated. Few possessed the number, mainly his lieutenants. He studied the display and saw that the call was from Zachariah Simon. He allowed it to ring four times. Let him wait. After the seventh he answered.
“I realize that I have treated you poorly,” Simon said.
“You lied to me.”
“I simply failed to tell you what I was doing outside Jamaica. But actually, that is none of your business.”
“If it concerns that lost mine, then it is my business. And what you’re doing in Florida definitely concerns the mine.”
“I am aware,” Simon said, “that you know of my activities.”
“You lied to me,” he said again.
“There is more at stake here than simply finding lost gold.”
“Not for me.”
“I appreciate what you did when I was in Jamaica. The information you provided was interesting, but not anything I did not already know. I felt that I was offering far more than you could in return.”
He stared out at the mountains and the coming storm. “I wouldn’t underestimate what I can offer.”
Simon chuckled through the phone. “Come now, Béne, let us not be unrealistic. This quest is more far reaching than your island. It is a secret, guarded for five hundred years. Maybe some of the clues lie there, but the answer is definitely elsewhere.”
“Vienna?”
Jamison had already called and informed him of what had happened in a Florida orange grove. He assumed Simon had driven from that grove to an airport and was now aboard a plane.
“You are well informed,” Simon said. “What is it you want, Béne?”
“To be told the truth. To be treated as an equal. To be respected.”
“And what do you offer in return?”
“Something you may be in great need of.”
“And what might that be?”
“Alle Becket.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE 6TH CENTURY THE BYZANTINE EMPEROR Justinian ordered the Jews’ Temple treasure removed from Constantinople. He believed it cursed and wanted the sacred objects sent back to the Holy Land. Simply melting the gold and silver down and reusing the precious metals would not, to his way of thinking, remove the curse. Only their banishment would suffice. The emperor entrusted the task to subordinates, who contracted with local merchants to transport the treasure by boat to the south. All three objects—the golden menorah, the Table of Divine Presence, and the silver trumpets—were loaded on board.
But once out of sight of land, the captain and crew—all Jews—turned west and sailed around the boot of Italy, then north toward Iberia. There the three treasures were brought ashore and entrusted to the Sephardim. Many were distant descendants of those forced into exile by the Romans when the Second Temple was destroyed. Finally, after 470 years, their Temple treasures had been returned.
And these men would not risk losing them again.
The treasures were secreted away in the mountains, where they stayed for nearly a thousand years, guarded by more descendants of those same Sephardi.
That millennium was a turbulent one. For a while Jews flourished in safety, but by the 4th century, when Christianity finally consumed the Roman Empire, Jews were again persecuted. Many, though, had acquired prominent positions in the trades and crafts serving as tax collectors, financial ministers, treasurers, bankers, and astronomers. Kings relied on them. The Catholic Church came to resent their influence and began a campaign to destroy them. Pogroms regularly occurred, the worst in the 14th century when tens of thousands were massacred, their wealth and property confiscated. Ferdinand and Isabella finally expelled all Jews, forcing them to sell their homes, lands, shops, and cattle at low prices. No gold or silver was allowed to be taken from the country, so they were compelled to exchange hard wealth for goods. One hundred and twenty thousand fled to Portugal on an agreement with its king, who eventually reneged on his promise of safety and enslaved them. Others went to North Africa, but found no refuge from the Moors. Even more tried Italy and Turkey, b
ut only pain and sorrow followed. By August 3, 1492, the day Columbus sailed from Spain on his first voyage, the situation for the Sephardi Jews seemed hopeless.
“So they tried something desperate,” Alle said. “The only thing they thought might work.”
Brian was clearly listening.
“Their world had crumbled. They had no where to go. Europe. Africa. Nobody wanted them. So they hoped that there might be a better place across the ocean in Asia. Where Columbus was headed.”
“You’re saying that Christopher Columbus was looking for a Jewish homeland?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. There were tales at the time of a place to the east where Jews lived free. Was it real? Nobody knew. But myths were all these people had. There had to be something better than where they were. Do you know who actually financed Columbus’ first voyage? It wasn’t Isabella selling her jewels, as the story is told. The Spanish monarchy was broke. There was no money for foolish ventures, and that’s what they thought of Columbus’ idea. Instead, it was the Jews who financed that voyage.”
Brian was visibly surprised.
“Luis de Santangel was a converso, a Jew from Aragon, who converted to keep what he’d worked his life to obtain. His family served in government, and when Ferdinand needed money, he went to the de Santangels. Unfortunately, they were among the first targets of the Inquisition and Luis was brought to trial. Ferdinand himself finally intervened on his behalf. Luis knew the king’s deepest secrets. He took care of the most difficult state business. Ferdinand needed him, so he was spared. It was de Santangel who convinced the king and queen to support Columbus. But they agreed only after de Santangel staked 17,000 ducats of his own money on the venture. Three other conversos added their money. The Spanish Crown had nothing to lose.”
