the way here should alleviate all of your government’s fears.”
He assumed Schwartz knew they’d stopped at the hotel on the way to the airport.
He handed the page over and said, “Any idea what this is? I speak several languages, but I can’t read it. Simon said it was Old Castilian.”
The Israeli shrugged. “Our people will translate it, as I’m sure will yours.”
“Simon killed a man for it.”
“I know. Which makes us all wonder. But people higher up than me will deal with this now.”
He understood. “Being at the bottom of the pile does come with disadvantages.”
Schwartz smiled. “I like you, Malone. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“Maybe so.”
The Israeli gestured with the bag. “Something tells me we’ve not seen, or heard, the last of Zachariah Simon.”
He agreed.
“All we can hope,” Schwartz said, “is that next time he’s someone else’s problem.”
“You got that right.”
And he headed for home.
About the Author
Steve Berry is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Columbus Affair, The Jefferson Key, The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, The Amber Room
, and the short stories “The Balkan Escape” and “The Devil’s Gold.” His books have been translated into forty languages and sold in fifty-one countries. He lives in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have founded History Matters, a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving our heritage. To learn more about Steve Berry and the foundation, visit www.steveberry.org .
Read on for an excerpt from
THE
COLUMBUS
AFFAIR
by
STEVE BERRY
Published by Ballantine Books
ONE
T OM S AGAN GRIPPED THE GUN . H E’D THOUGHT about this moment for the past year, debating the pros and cons, finally deciding that one pro out-weighed all cons.
He simply did not want to live any longer.
He’d once been an investigative reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
, knocking down a high six-figure salary, his byline generating one front-page, above-the-fold story after another. He’d worked all over the world—Sarajevo, Beirut, Jerusalem, Beijing, Belgrade, Moscow. His confidential files had been filled with sources who’d willingly fed him leads, knowing that he’d protect them at all costs. He’d once proved that when he spent eleven days in a D.C. jail for refusing to reveal his source on a story about a corrupt Pennsylvania congressman.
The congressman went to prison.
Sagan received his third Pulitzer nomination.
There were twenty-one awarded categories. One was for distinguished investigative reporting by an individual or team, reported as a single newspaper article or a series. Winners received a certificate, $10,000, and the ability to add three precious words—Pulitzer Prize winner—to their name.
He won his.
But they took it back.
Which seemed the story of his life.
Everything had been taken back.
His career, his reputation, his credibility, even his self-respect. In the end he came to see himself as a failure in each of his roles—reporter, husband, father, son. A few weeks ago he’d charted that spiral on a pad, identifying that it all started when he was twenty-five, fresh out of the University of Florida, top third in his class, with a journalism degree.
And his father disowned him.
Abiram Sagan had been unrelenting.
“We all make choices. Good. Bad. Indifferent. You’re a grown man and made yours. Now I have to make mine.”
And that he had.
On that same pad he’d jotted down the highs and lows that came after. His rise from a news assistant to staff reporter to senior international correspondent. The awards. Accolades. The respect from his peers. How had one observer described his style?
Wideranging and prescient reporting conducted at great personal risk
.
Then, his divorce.
The estrangement from his only child.
He assumed Schwartz knew they’d stopped at the hotel on the way to the airport.
He handed the page over and said, “Any idea what this is? I speak several languages, but I can’t read it. Simon said it was Old Castilian.”
The Israeli shrugged. “Our people will translate it, as I’m sure will yours.”
“Simon killed a man for it.”
“I know. Which makes us all wonder. But people higher up than me will deal with this now.”
He understood. “Being at the bottom of the pile does come with disadvantages.”
Schwartz smiled. “I like you, Malone. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“Maybe so.”
The Israeli gestured with the bag. “Something tells me we’ve not seen, or heard, the last of Zachariah Simon.”
He agreed.
“All we can hope,” Schwartz said, “is that next time he’s someone else’s problem.”
“You got that right.”
And he headed for home.
About the Author
Steve Berry is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Columbus Affair, The Jefferson Key, The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, The Amber Room
, and the short stories “The Balkan Escape” and “The Devil’s Gold.” His books have been translated into forty languages and sold in fifty-one countries. He lives in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have founded History Matters, a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving our heritage. To learn more about Steve Berry and the foundation, visit www.steveberry.org .
Read on for an excerpt from
THE
COLUMBUS
AFFAIR
by
STEVE BERRY
Published by Ballantine Books
ONE
T OM S AGAN GRIPPED THE GUN . H E’D THOUGHT about this moment for the past year, debating the pros and cons, finally deciding that one pro out-weighed all cons.
He simply did not want to live any longer.
He’d once been an investigative reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
, knocking down a high six-figure salary, his byline generating one front-page, above-the-fold story after another. He’d worked all over the world—Sarajevo, Beirut, Jerusalem, Beijing, Belgrade, Moscow. His confidential files had been filled with sources who’d willingly fed him leads, knowing that he’d protect them at all costs. He’d once proved that when he spent eleven days in a D.C. jail for refusing to reveal his source on a story about a corrupt Pennsylvania congressman.
The congressman went to prison.
Sagan received his third Pulitzer nomination.
There were twenty-one awarded categories. One was for distinguished investigative reporting by an individual or team, reported as a single newspaper article or a series. Winners received a certificate, $10,000, and the ability to add three precious words—Pulitzer Prize winner—to their name.
He won his.
But they took it back.
Which seemed the story of his life.
Everything had been taken back.
His career, his reputation, his credibility, even his self-respect. In the end he came to see himself as a failure in each of his roles—reporter, husband, father, son. A few weeks ago he’d charted that spiral on a pad, identifying that it all started when he was twenty-five, fresh out of the University of Florida, top third in his class, with a journalism degree.
And his father disowned him.
Abiram Sagan had been unrelenting.
“We all make choices. Good. Bad. Indifferent. You’re a grown man and made yours. Now I have to make mine.”
And that he had.
On that same pad he’d jotted down the highs and lows that came after. His rise from a news assistant to staff reporter to senior international correspondent. The awards. Accolades. The respect from his peers. How had one observer described his style?
Wideranging and prescient reporting conducted at great personal risk
.
Then, his divorce.
The estrangement from his only child.
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