small house in Orlando, among two million people who had no idea he existed. He’d moved back to Florida after losing his job in California. Anonymity had to be a major change for Sagan, considering that he’d stayed on the front page for over a decade. He’d been a regular on cable news, public broadcasting, and the networks. Not only a reporter, but a celebrity. A lot of people had trusted Sagan. The background investigation made that clear. Which probably explained, more than anything else, why so many turned on him so completely.
“You’re a Jew?” Sagan asked.
He nodded. “We are both Children of God.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“You were born a Jew, and that you cannot renounce.”
“You sound like the man who once owned this house.”
He noticed that Sagan never used the word father. Alle had told him of the estrangement, but the divide seemed even greater than she believed. He pointed a finger and said, “Your father was a wise man.”
“Let my daughter go and I’ll do what you want.”
He caught the exasperation in the statement but decided not to concede anything just yet. “I studied what happened to you eight years ago. Quite an experience. I can see how it would bring you to this end point. Life was especially cruel to you.”
And he wondered. Could this poor soul even be motivated to act? Was anything important to him any longer? His background work on Sagan ended a few weeks ago, and there’d been no mention of suicidal tendencies. Obviously, some major life decision had been made. He knew that another manuscript had just been completed, written so anonymously that not even the publisher or the “author” knew Sagan’s identity. The literary agent had suggested the tactic, since it was doubtful anyone would have consented to Sagan even ghostwriting for them.
That was how complete the downfall had been.
Five of the seven books Sagan had written became top-ten New York Times bestsellers. Three had been number ones. Critical praise for the cover authors on all seven had been admirable. Which was why, he supposed, work had continued to flow Sagan’s way.
But apparently, it had all taken a toll.
This man was ready to die.
Perhaps he should allow him?
Or maybe—
“Your father was the keeper of a great secret,” he said. “A man trusted with information that only a few in history knew.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I assure you, it is not.”
He saw that, despite himself, Sagan was intrigued. Maybe there was enough reporter left inside to motivate him one last time.
So he said, “And it all started with Christopher Columbus.”
Columbus stood on the pier. The Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria rode at anchor in a branch of the Tinto River, near Palos de la Frontera on Spain’s southeastern coast, not far from open ocean. It had taken months to locate, outfit, and man the three vessels, but now all was ready.
It had to be.
Midnight was approaching.
Breaking with custom, Columbus had not waited to board just before the ships sailed. Instead he’d been present all day, personally supervising final preparations.
“Nearly all are here,” Luis de Torres said to him.
Eighty-seven crewmen would man the three ships. Contrary to the gossip he’d heard, none was a convict royally pardoned for volunteering. Instead each was fully capable, as no one but true seamen would endure this voyage. There was one Portuguese, one Genoese, a Venetian, and a Calabrian, the rest all Spaniards from in and around Palos. Two representatives of the Crown were included, required by his commission, and he’d already cautioned de Torres to be careful around one of them.
“Luis.”
De Torres stepped close.
“We must have all on board by 11:00 P.M.”
He knew de Torres understood. After midnight, when it became August 3, 1492, the police, the militia, and the white-hooded Inquisitors would begin their sweep of houses. Jews had been outlawed from France in 1394 and in England since 1290. The edict expelling them from Spain had been signed by Ferdinand and Isabella on March 31. The church had insisted on the move and the king and queen had agreed. Four months had been given to either leave the country or convert to Christianity.
Time ran out tonight.
“I fear that we might not make it away,” he whispered.
Thankfully, it was next to impossible to physically identify a Spanish Jew. Among the Celts, Iberians, Romans, Phoenicians, Basques, Vandals, Visigoths, and Arabs, there’d been a thorough mixing. But that would not deter the Inquisition. Its agents would stop at nothing to apprehend every suspected Jew. Already, thousands had converted, becoming conversos. Outwardly, they attended mass, offered
