The Columbus Affair: A Novel

them. That was the nature of the prize they sought. Which was exactly why it had been hidden away for nearly two thousand years.

Would it be found tonight?

What a thought.

Almost enough to ease her fears.

———

TOM STEPPED FROM THE TRUCK. THE TROPICAL NIGHT WAS CLEAR and bright. They were parked at the top of a ridge, where a graveled parish road began its descent to a forested valley. Miles away, to the far north, shafts of silver moonlight shimmered off the sea.

“This is Falcon Ridge,” Rowe said. “Good thing for you I came prepared.”

Rowe reached into the pickup’s bed and found two flashlights. He handed over one, which Tom switched on. He saw that the truck bed was loaded with tools.

“I brought things,” Rowe said. “Just in case. I own a coffee plantation not far from here.”

“And what else do you do?”

“If you mean am I a criminal, no, I’m not. But I do have people who work for me who can cause a lot of harm. Lucky for you none of them is here tonight. This is between you, me, and the Simon.”

“And what makes you think he’s going to play by your rules?”

“He won’t. But we’re ahead of him, so let’s stay that way.”

Rowe snapped open a metal container and removed a shoulder holster and gun, which he donned.

The sight unnerved him, but was not unexpected.

“For Simon,” Rowe said.

———

BENE LED THE WAY INTO THE TREES. TRE HAD TOLD HIM WHERE the cave called Darby’s Hole was located. Not far. Down a precipitous ridge to the valley floor, where a tributary of the Flint River raced toward the sea.

He could hear the rushing water.

His eyes were adjusted to the dark, his ears attuned to the jungle whispers around him.

Which made him nervous.

He sensed they were not alone.

He stopped and signaled for Sagan to stand still.

In the sky overhead he watched the muted flutter of bats. A few insects made their presence known. The gun he’d brought was nestled close to his chest in the holster. His right hand gently caressed the weapon. Reassuring to know it was there. Still, he could not shake the feeling they were not alone.

All of the land for kilometers in every direction belonged to Maroons, part of what had been ceded to them two hundred years ago by the British. It had remained forest, unpopulated, controlled by the local Maroon council.

He motioned and they continued to clamber down, the ground slippery with pebbles and mud. He switched on his light and tried to locate the water cascade. The river was just below them, maybe ten meters wide, the flow extra swift.

They reached the wooded bank.

He plunged the light beneath the clear, blue-green water and saw that the stream was shallow, less than a meter deep. Typical of Jamaica’s many waterways.

Sagan activated his light and scanned right and left. “There.”

He saw that, fifty meters away, the river swung. At the bend rose a vertical cliff with a crack across its face, the jagged slit signaling a cave.

“That must be it,” he said. “We can follow the bank and get there.”

A long, low wail disturbed the night.

Its tone changed several times, but continued unabated for nearly a minute.

That sound he knew.

An abeng. Made from a cow’s horn. By blowing into holes and working the thumb, notes could be produced. He’d learned to play as a child. Maroons in the 17th and 18th centuries used the horns to communicate. A trained ear could decipher the notes, extracting messages that could be passed over long distances. It was one of several advantages they’d managed over the enemy. The British found the mournful sound terrifying, since it usually signaled death. But what did it mean tonight? He’d never heard one blown outside of a staged celebration.

“What is that?” Sagan asked.

The wail stopped.

Another started.

Much farther off.

His concern became fear.

Maroons were here.