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“These are deed grants and colonial reports back to Spain. A couple of diaries, too. All of it is in bad shape. It can hardly be read.”
He decided a dose of truth was in order. “Tre, you said this archive is controlled by Zachariah Simon. I know him. He’s bad bwai. Pyaka.” He knew his friend spoke enough patois to understand. Bad man. Criminal. “We need to go.”
Liars seemed to be everywhere. Felipe. Simon. The curator. He’d solved the first problem. The second remained to be seen. But the third he could handle right now. He reached beneath his jacket and found his gun.
Tre was surprised at its appearance. “What do we need that for?”
“I hope we don’t. Stay here.”
He retreated to the front of the house. The display room was quiet, the man still reading his book. He slipped the hand holding the gun into his pant pocket and casually walked over.
“Could you help us?” he asked in Spanish.
The curator smiled and rose from his chair. Béne allowed him to pass, then withdrew the gun and jammed its short barrel into the nape of the man’s neck. He then wrapped his arm around the throat and squeezed tight.
“You’re a liar,” he said in Spanish. “You called Simon, not Havana. I heard you. What did he tell you?”
The man said nothing, only shook his head.
Tremors racked the man’s body.
Béne increased the pressure of his forearm.
“I’ll shoot you. Right now, right here. What did he tell you?” His thumb cocked the gun’s hammer.
His captive clearly heard the click.
“He told me only to keep you here. Keep you here. Let you see what you want. Keep you here.”
“You said the important things were locked away. Where?”
He heard the growl of engines outside.
With his grip and the gun remaining firmly in place, he dragged the man toward the windows. Two white Peugeots topped with blue lights, each marked PATRULLA, skidded to a stop down the street.
Three PNR officers emerged.
Keep you here.
Now he knew why.
They might escape out the back, but the chances of making it to the Range Rover and leaving, without attracting the police’s attention, seemed slim. No. These three had to leave on their own.
“Listen to me, señor,” he said to the curator. To make his point he pressed the gun tighter into the neck. “I will be right over there, just down that hall. I want you to send these police away. Tell them we left. We headed west, out of town, in a Mercedes coupe. Yellow-colored. You hear that?”
The man nodded.
“If you so much as twitch, I will shoot you dead, then them. If you say one word that hints at trouble, I will shoot you dead. Comprende?”
Another nod.
“And know this. If you do what I tell you, not only will you still be breathing with no holes in your body, but I’ll double that $500 you took.”
“Sí. Sí.”
He released his hold and backed away from the window, but not before catching a last glance as the three uniformed officers drew close to the front door. He shrank into the corridor and carefully peered around the edge.
The curator seemed to be grabbing hold of himself. Béne hoped the promise of more money would keep the lying bastard from doing anything stupid. He meant what he’d said. He’d kill them all, but preferred not to. To make his point, when the Cuban tossed a nervous glance his way he displayed the gun, aimed straight at him.
The locked front door’s knob jiggled.
Then, a knock.
The curator answered, and the three officers entered. Each was armed with holstered guns. Interesting, since Béne could recall seeing many of the state police before, but none with weapons. He wondered how much the Simon was paying for this special service.
He kept his own weapon ready.
Behind him he caught movement and saw Tre appear in the doorway. He quickly gestured with his hand for him to stay there and be quiet.
Halliburton nodded and disappeared back into the room.
He listened as the officers asked about two men, one black, the other white, from Jamaica, come to see the museum. The curator said they had been here, but they left suddenly. He tried to stop them, but they would not listen. They drove out of town, headed west in a yellow Mercedes, maybe ten minutes ago.
He liked that last part. Nice touch. That meant they were catchable.
The policemen, though, seemed not in a hurry to leave.
One sauntered around the displays.
Béne wasn’t sure if the interest was genuine or feigned. Did he sense a lie? The other two remained near the front door. The curator stood silent, watching all three. The one officer approached dangerously close to the hallway. Béne shrank back, the gun pointed skyward, its barrel just below his nose, finger tight on the trigger. He could not risk a look. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and focused on the footfalls from the plank floor as the officer strolled the room.
“What is back down that way?” he heard one of them ask.
“Storage rooms. Nothing there. We get few visitors this time of year.”
A few moments of silence passed.
More footfalls, toward him.
Then, away.
He exhaled and glanced around the corner’s edge. All three policemen were at the front door. The curator was thanking them for coming, his voice calm.
They left.
He came back into view and hustled to the door, locking it. He stared out a window and saw the officers trotting to their cars. He heard engines rev and watched as they sped away. In an instant he pounced on the curator, slamming the man to the floor, stuffing the gun into an astonished face. Wide eyes stared back, the body beneath him frozen with fear.
“How long has the Simon owned this place?”
No answer.
“How long?” His voice was a shout.
“The family has paid for a long time. Señor Simon has been especially generous with us.”
“Did he tell you to call the police?”
The man shook his head, though the gun stayed close. “No. No. No. He tell me only to keep you here.”
Tre appeared from the hall. “Béne, my God, what are you doing—”
“Stay out of this.” He kept his enraged eyes focused on the Cuban and cocked the gun.
“Béne,” Tre yelled. “Are you nuts? Don’t do this.”
“This mus mus almost got us killed.” He hated rats as bad as liars.
His gaze told the Cuban that his time was up. “You said to the Simon the important things were locked away. Where?”
“First door down the hall.”
He wrenched the man to his feet and shoved him forward until they reached the door. “Open it.”
The curator fumbled with keys in his pocket, hands shaking. He noticed that the wooden door opened inward and he needed a release, so he pounded his right foot into the door. Two more kicks and the jamb shattered, the hasp screws freeing themselves, the wooden slab banging open, revealing another windowless roo
m.
Three plastic bins sat on a table.
“Check them out,” he said to Halliburton. “Get what you want from here and back in the other room. We’re leaving.”
“We’re stealing them?”
“No, Tre. I’ll give them a credit card for collateral. Of course we’re stealing them. Now get what you want.”
Halliburton hustled into the room.
He dragged the curator back to the front.
“You’re lucky,” he said, “that you’re a good liar since, one, those police believed you and, two, me shooting you would draw far too much attention.”
“And three, señor.”
Had he heard right? This fool was challenging him?
“You do not want to kill me in front of your amigo.”
He resented the smug way the astute observation was delivered.
“Actually, my third reason would have been different. I want you to tell the Simon that he and I are going to have a serious conversation. Soon.”
Then he swiped the butt of the gun across the man’s head, sending him into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“1580 WAS THE YEAR. YES. THAT WAS IT, EXACTLY,” SAKI SAID.
Tom listened. For a ten-year-old, there was nothing better than a good story and he loved the ones his grandfather told.
“It happened in Prague,” the old man said. “Rabbi Loew was chief rabbi of the Jewish quarter. That meant he was in charge. Above his door, engraved in stone, was a lion with a grape to indicate his direct descent from King David himself.”
“M. F.,” his grandmother called out. “Don’t fill the boy’s head with tales.”
Saki’s name was Marc Eden Cross. Tom’s great-grandmother’s maiden name had been Eden, the label added to her only son’s out of respect.
“Tommy here loves my stories,” his grandfather said. “Don’t you, boy?”
He nodded.
“He likes me to tell him about the world.”
The old man was approaching eighty and Tom wondered how much longer he’d be around. Lately the concept of death had become all too real with the passing of two aunts.
“It all happened in Prague,” Saki said again. “Another fanatical priest had decided that we Jews were a threat. Christians feared us since kings relied on us. So, to increase their power, they had to destroy us. They used to say we killed Christian children and used their blood as part of our worship. Can you imagine such lies? Blood libel is what we call that now. But the lie worked. Every few years Christians would form mobs and slaughter Jews. Pogroms, that’s what they’re called, Tommy. Never forget that word. Pogroms. The Nazis instituted the greatest one of all.”
