became valued around the world.
And made the Rowe family rich.
His man continued to dig.
Twenty minutes ago his other lieutenant had returned to the trucks to meet more of his men. They now arrived through the trees leading a blindfolded prisoner—late twenties, a mixture of Cuban and African—hands tied behind his back.
He motioned and the younger man was shoved to his knees and the blindfold yanked off.
He squatted close as the man blinked away the afternoon sun.
The man’s eyes went wide when he saw Béne.
“Yes, Felipe. It’s me. Did you think you could get away with it? I pay you to watch the Simon. And watch you do. Except you take his money, and then watch me, too.”
Fear shook the man’s head in violent nervous gestures.
“Listen to me, and listen real good, ’cause everything depends on it.”
He saw that his warning registered.
“I want to know what the Simon be doing. I want to know everything you’ve not told me.
Tell wi di trut
.”
This turncoat was of the streets, so patois would be his language.
Tell me the truth
.
He’d not heard from Simon in nearly two weeks, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Everything he’d learned had only confirmed what he’d long sensed.
Trouble.
The Austrian was enormously wealthy, a philanthropic man obviously interested in Israeli causes. But that did not concern Béne. He had no dog in the fight that was the Middle East. He was interested only in Columbus’ lost gold mine—as, supposedly, was Simon.
“I swear to you, Béne,” Felipe said. “I know nothin’. He tells me nothin’.”
He silenced him with a wave of his hand. “What you take me for? The Simon does not live here. He knows no one in Jamaica. I’m his partner. That’s what he says. Yet he hires you to work for him, too. Okay. I come to you and pay you to tell the Simon only what I want him to know and to tell me what he does. Yet you tell me nothin’.”
“He calls me up, pays me to do some things. I do them and he pays. That’s all, Béne. All.”
The words came fast.
“But I pay you to tell me
di trut
. Which you not be doing. You better start talkin’ quick.”
“He wants records. Papers from the archives.”
He motioned and one of his men handed him a pistol. He jammed its muzzle into the man’s chest and cocked the hammer. “I give you one more chance. What. Kind. Of. Things.”
Shock filled the prisoner’s eyes.
“Okay. Okay. Béne. I tell you. I tell you.”
He kept the gun firmly against the man’s chest.
“Deeds. He wants deeds. Old ones. I found one. Some Jew named Cohen bought land in 1671.”
That grabbed his attention. “Speak, man.”
“He bought land and all the riverfront property beside it.”
“The name.”
“Abraham Cohen.”
“Why is that so important to the Simon?”
“His brother. His brother was Moses Cohen Henriques.”
That name he knew. A 17th-century Jewish pirate. He captured a great Spanish silver fleet in Cuba, then led the Dutch invasion of Brazil. He ended his life on Jamaica, searching for Columbus’ lost mine.
“Does the Simon know this?”
He shook his head. “He’s out of touch. Gone. Don’t know where. I swear, Béne. Don’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”
“And you not tell me, either. This deed you find. Still in the archives?”
A shake of the head. “I stole it. I have it at my place in Spanish Town. Your men know where
dat
is. Go get it. Beside my bed. I swear, Béne. Right beside my bed.”
He withdrew the gun.
His man digging in the grave had stopped and was motioning.
He needed time to think so he tossed the weapon to his lieutenant and walked over. In the shallow excavation he spotted a flat chip of stone. On its face was a symbol.
“Fetch it out,” he ordered.
His man lifted the fragment and laid it on the ground. He brushed away the dark earth and studied the etching. The Simon had told him to look for a pitcher on a grave marker and a hooked X.
The chip he stared at had once
And made the Rowe family rich.
His man continued to dig.
Twenty minutes ago his other lieutenant had returned to the trucks to meet more of his men. They now arrived through the trees leading a blindfolded prisoner—late twenties, a mixture of Cuban and African—hands tied behind his back.
He motioned and the younger man was shoved to his knees and the blindfold yanked off.
He squatted close as the man blinked away the afternoon sun.
The man’s eyes went wide when he saw Béne.
“Yes, Felipe. It’s me. Did you think you could get away with it? I pay you to watch the Simon. And watch you do. Except you take his money, and then watch me, too.”
Fear shook the man’s head in violent nervous gestures.
“Listen to me, and listen real good, ’cause everything depends on it.”
He saw that his warning registered.
“I want to know what the Simon be doing. I want to know everything you’ve not told me.
Tell wi di trut
.”
This turncoat was of the streets, so patois would be his language.
Tell me the truth
.
He’d not heard from Simon in nearly two weeks, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Everything he’d learned had only confirmed what he’d long sensed.
Trouble.
The Austrian was enormously wealthy, a philanthropic man obviously interested in Israeli causes. But that did not concern Béne. He had no dog in the fight that was the Middle East. He was interested only in Columbus’ lost gold mine—as, supposedly, was Simon.
“I swear to you, Béne,” Felipe said. “I know nothin’. He tells me nothin’.”
He silenced him with a wave of his hand. “What you take me for? The Simon does not live here. He knows no one in Jamaica. I’m his partner. That’s what he says. Yet he hires you to work for him, too. Okay. I come to you and pay you to tell the Simon only what I want him to know and to tell me what he does. Yet you tell me nothin’.”
“He calls me up, pays me to do some things. I do them and he pays. That’s all, Béne. All.”
The words came fast.
“But I pay you to tell me
di trut
. Which you not be doing. You better start talkin’ quick.”
“He wants records. Papers from the archives.”
He motioned and one of his men handed him a pistol. He jammed its muzzle into the man’s chest and cocked the hammer. “I give you one more chance. What. Kind. Of. Things.”
Shock filled the prisoner’s eyes.
“Okay. Okay. Béne. I tell you. I tell you.”
He kept the gun firmly against the man’s chest.
“Deeds. He wants deeds. Old ones. I found one. Some Jew named Cohen bought land in 1671.”
That grabbed his attention. “Speak, man.”
“He bought land and all the riverfront property beside it.”
“The name.”
“Abraham Cohen.”
“Why is that so important to the Simon?”
“His brother. His brother was Moses Cohen Henriques.”
That name he knew. A 17th-century Jewish pirate. He captured a great Spanish silver fleet in Cuba, then led the Dutch invasion of Brazil. He ended his life on Jamaica, searching for Columbus’ lost mine.
“Does the Simon know this?”
He shook his head. “He’s out of touch. Gone. Don’t know where. I swear, Béne. Don’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”
“And you not tell me, either. This deed you find. Still in the archives?”
A shake of the head. “I stole it. I have it at my place in Spanish Town. Your men know where
dat
is. Go get it. Beside my bed. I swear, Béne. Right beside my bed.”
He withdrew the gun.
His man digging in the grave had stopped and was motioning.
He needed time to think so he tossed the weapon to his lieutenant and walked over. In the shallow excavation he spotted a flat chip of stone. On its face was a symbol.
“Fetch it out,” he ordered.
His man lifted the fragment and laid it on the ground. He brushed away the dark earth and studied the etching. The Simon had told him to look for a pitcher on a grave marker and a hooked X.
The chip he stared at had once
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