He listened to the report of a black man named Bene Rowe and a white man named Halliburton, there to view the archives. He was glad that the curator had followed directions. He was to be immediately informed of anyone who inquired about the archives. His grandfather had first found them, and his father had shielded them with a contribution that created a local museum. A way for the Jews of Cuba to establish themselves with something important, and it had worked.
“What do I do?” Mateo asked.
“Let them see what they want. I will call you back shortly.”
———
ALLE LEFT THE APARTMENT BUILDING AND WALKED FAR ENOUGH away that she could be assured of being alone. Why couldn’t her father have simply turned over whatever her grandfather had left? She hadn’t asked for heroics. She hadn’t asked for his involvement. This was about righting a wrong that had occurred thousands of years ago. Not repairing an irreparable relationship. Or him trying, for once in his sorry life, to do the right thing.
She was new to her religion, but not to the Jewish way of life. She’d watched her grandparents live that way and wanted to emulate their devotion. If she could also help restore what so many had held sacred for so long, then so much the better.
But she wondered.
Why had her grandfather not wanted the same? Why keep the Temple treasure secret? Why not tell her? Was it because of
All she knew was that she could not deal with her father.
So she found the cell phone in her pocket and dialed the first number stored in its memory.
———
BENE DID NOT LIKE ANYTHING ABOUT THE SITUATION. OF course, he could not say a word to Halliburton since his apprehensions would generate questions he did not want to answer. The curator had returned from his phone call all smiles and led them to a windowless room lined with wooden shelves and plastic bins, each packed with journals, ledgers, and parchments. There was a loose order to the system, the containers identified by time and place. Tre had not been impressed with the preservation efforts, but seemed excited about the content.
“There are four bins loaded with 17th-century writings. That’s the most I’ve ever seen in one place.”
“Be quick and go through them.”
“This could take hours.”
“We don’t have hours. Scan what you can.”
“Something wrong, Bene?”
“Yeah, Tre. This is Cuba. So be quick.”
———
TOM SAT IN THE KITCHEN AND CHEWED ON A PIECE OF DARK bread. Inna had prepared some stewed tomatoes and white rice that smelled great, but he had no appetite.
“I’ve written books the past few years,” he told her. “Ghostwriting. Some fiction, some nonfiction. They’ve all been bestsellers. A few were number ones.”
He was answering her question about what he’d done since the turmoil.
“I’m good at it, and the writers I worked for want me to be completely invisible.”
She was nursing a cup of coffee and a plate of her food. “You were always good at what you did.”
He liked this practical woman. So he decided to tell her the truth.
“I was set up, Inna. That story about Israeli extremists was planted. I was led to it, fed it, then ratted out. They faked the main sources and most of the information. They were good. I never suspected a thing. Everything was right on. Solid. I never saw it coming.”
“Who did it?”
“Some group who does that sort of thing. Seems I pissed off both sides in the Middle East with my reporting. So, unbeknownst to each other, they each took me out.”
“No way to prove what happened?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, they were good.”
“I always knew there was an explanation. Thomas Sagan was no liar.”
He appreciated her loyalty.
“No one stuck by you, Thomas?”
He thought of Robin Stubbs. She had. For a while.
“The evidence was overwhelming and I had no explanation other than
He told her about that Saturday morning in the Barnes & Noble bookstore, the first time he’d ever spoken of that day to anyone.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again.
“So am I.”
