The Columbus Affair: A Novel

India and Asia. De Huelva provided him with a chart of the waters he’d sailed. He studied that chart for several years, and became so certain of what he would eventually discover, it was as if he held the key to the box in which it was locked.

He returned to Spain and approached the Catholic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, for ships. He could not reveal himself as Juan Colon, the Majorcan rebel and pirate who had fought against them, so he invented Cristoforo Colombo, from Genoa, Italy, assuming the identity of a dead seaman and wool merchant he once met in the Madeiras. The deception worked and no one ever learned the truth. Even when enemies stripped him of all that he had rightfully earned, he remained to the Spanish Don Cristobal Colon. Only now, after death has long claimed the admiral and the Queen Isabella, and as it is soon to come for me, can the truth be revealed. It is my hope that this account survives and that others will know what I have known. Life here is harsh, but I have come to admire the natives in a way that makes me appreciate their simple way of life. Here I can be Yosef Ben Ha Levy Haivri—Joseph, the son of Levi the Hebrew. As with the admiral and his persona of Colombo, mine as Luis de Torres has served me well. But I have not used that name in six years. Here, it matters not whether you be Jew or Christian, only that you be a good man. That I have tried to be. I have performed the duty imposed on me and will ensure that the task passes to my eldest son, born to me from a wife I took from among the native women. She has made my time here more pleasant than I could have hoped it would be. I have taught her about God and urged her to believe but, learning from the wicked ones from whom I fled, never have I forced her to accept that which she could not embrace in her heart.

Bene stopped reading and glanced up at Tre Halliburton.

“I found that in the documents we took from Cuba,” Tre said. “That’s my translation of what he wrote. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

He knew little about Columbus.

“The story generally told,” Tre said, “starts with Columbus being born in Italy. His father was Domingo, his mother Susanna. Interestingly, a lot of the accounts say that his father was a wool merchant, as was this Colombo whose identity he assumed. Most historians say he took to the sea at an early age, ended up in Portugal, couldn’t get King Juan the Second interested in a voyage, so he went to Spain in 1485, spending seven years waiting for Ferdinand and Isabella to say yes. Whether he ever met Alonso Sanchez de Huelva, nobody knows.”

“Is that true about de Huelva? Did he find America?”

Tre shrugged. “Some say he did. Most think the story was made up by Columbus’ enemies to discredit his accomplishments. But who the hell knows? Unfortunately, Columbus wrote virtually nothing about himself during his lifetime. And the things he did record usually conflicted with one another. Now we know why. He didn’t want anyone to know where he came from.”

Halliburton had driven north from Kingston to the estate. The hog that had been roasting since this morning was about ready to eat. The two women—one from the Justice Department, the other an ambassador—had been gone for hours. One of his men had made sure that they drove straight to the Kingston airport and left.

“What are you going to do with all of this?” he asked Tre.

He had to know.

“Like I have a choice?”

He smiled. His friend understood. Everything must remain private. “It’s better that way.”

Tre shook his head. “Who’d believe me anyway?”

The dogs were back in their pens, their bellies full from the hunt. He doubted much remained of Zachariah Simon, and whatever might still be there would soon be consumed by scavengers.

“What happened to de Torres?” he asked.

“History records nothing. He faded away after Columbus’ last voyage. Not a word, until now. Apparently, he lived on Cuba until at least 1510 and fathered a son.”

A sadness filled his gut. How terrible to live such an extraordinary life—yet not to be remembered. Maybe, if only for Luis de Torres, the truth should be told?

But he knew that could not be.

“What did you find in the cave?” Tre asked.

“Enough to know that the legend is no more.”

“The Maroons have control of whatever it is, don’t they?”

They sat on the veranda, the evening air cool and dry. One of his men near the corral signaled that the hog was ready. Good. He was hungry.

He stood. “Time to eat.”

“Come on, Bene. Give me something. What did you find?”

He thought about the question. The past few days had certainly been hectic, but also enlightening. Myths had been revealed as fact. Maroons thought to be legend had been proven real. Justice had been meted out to men who’d showed no respect for anyone, or anything, save themselves. And along the way, Brian Jamison died.

He’d not cared at the time, but regretted that now.

So what had he found?

He stared at Tre and told him the truth.

“Myself.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY

TOM OPENED THE DOOR.

Two women stood outside his house. One was the same from Prague, in the car, who’d met with Simon, and the other introduced herself as Stephanie Nelle, United States Justice Department. A little over twenty-four hours