Father–daughter.
What had happened to them?
How could something so natural turn so ugly?
She didn’t necessarily want to hate him, but she’d come to believe that she had to. It was her way to avoid being hurt, because there were more bad memories than good.
And she simply did not
Zachariah?
Not only did she like him, she had no reason to doubt him, either.
So she kept packing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BENE REMAINED UNSETTLED AFTER HIS CONFRONTATION WITH Felipe’s widow. Her stare—distant yet piercing—was one he would not forget. But Felipe had sold him out and almost compromised everything. And if Bene had relied solely on that one double agent to supply him accurate information, he would know next to nothing as to what the Simon was now doing. Thankfully, he’d not made that mistake. He’d learned long ago the value of a spy, particularly one in a position to witness everything. Still, he wasn’t exactly sure what the Simon was after.
Supposedly, it was Columbus’ lost mine.
But he wondered.
The papers he’d obtained from Felipe’s house might help answer his questions. To get them deciphered he’d called on a man he actually trusted, and there weren’t many of those in the world.
His men drove him a few kilometers east from Spanish Town, through horrendous Kingston traffic, to the University of the West Indies, Jamaica’s premier college. He’d graduated from it almost twenty years ago, and he recalled his time on campus with fondness. While many of his friends joined gangs or languished in unemployment, he’d craved an education. He wasn’t the greatest student but he was devoted, which had pleased his mother. He especially liked history. He realized early on that he would never be a political leader—his father’s reputation was too much of a hindrance—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a difference. He currently owned or controlled nearly a quarter of the national Parliament and a majority of the cabinet ministers. His money was appreciated, as was his congenial attitude. Jamaica was divided into fourteen parishes, and he was influential in all those that counted for his businesses. He’d become a person respected by both rich and poor. He was also feared, which was not necessarily a bad thing.
The guard at the university’s entrance waived his car through with a smile.
The man he’d come to see waited for him near the rugby field where students were hard into an intersquad match. He loved the game and had played it when he was here. The current team topped the island’s intercollegiate league standings. He was a big financial supporter of the university, both scholastic and athletic.
Professor Tre Halliburton headed the Department of History and Archaeology. He was a blond-haired, square- faced man with tight lips and clever eyes. Not native to the island, but he’d adopted Jamaica as his home. Bene met him at a university gathering a few years ago and they began a friendship. Halliburton knew Bene’s reputation, as did most of the school’s administration, but he’d never been arrested, much less convicted of anything. Rumors were just that—rumors. Reality was that the university liked Rowe’s money, and Bene liked giving it to them.
He stepped from the car into the late afternoon. One thing about Jamaica—weather always stayed the same, winter or summer. Either warm or hot, not much else. It was approaching 6:00 P.M., the sun beginning its retreat behind the Blue Mountains north of Kingston. He needed to head that way soon, as he was due at the estate for dinner.
“Bene, you been in the jungle today,” Halliburton said to him.
His clothes were soaked with sweat and grime and he still smelled of Felipe’s stinking house. “I’ve been busy, my friend.” He held up the documents in his hand. “I need you to take a look at these.”
He kept his words to proper English. No patois here.
The professor shuffled through the parchments in a quick perusal.
“Quite a find, Bene. These are Spanish originals. Where did you get them?”
“Don’t ask.” And he added a smile.
“The Spanish ruled this island for 150 years,” Tre said. “When they left in 1655 they buried most of their documents, thinking they’d be back. Of course, they never came back which is why we have so few written accounts from that time.”
He caught the message, but could not have cared less.
“I assume you want me to tell you what they say?” Tre said.
“It would help. It looks like Spanish, but I can’t read most of it.”
He watched while the academician studied the writings, angling them to the sun for better illumination of the faint print. “It’s Castilian. That language has changed a great deal since the 16th century. You realize these parchments should not be in bright light.”
But he wasn’t concerned about preservation, either. “What are they?”
Tre knew all about his interest in the lost mine.
They’d talked about it in detail many times.
“It’s amazing, Bene, but you may actually have something here.”
———
