as Simon had described.
“Can we at least be provided with a copy?” he asked.
“I don’t suppose you would take my word that none of this is important to anything related to America.”
“It’s not my nature.”
“Then that copy you made on 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
