had been rebuilt. Only a fraction of Jews who once lived here still remained. His family stayed, and weathered the storms.
The phone vibrated in his hand. This time the number displayed was familiar. His own.
Alle was calling.
He answered, “I hope you have good news.”
He listened as she told him what had happened with her father. He asked her to read to him what she’d been shown and realized it was the same thing Sagan had already provided.
Now he was convinced.
“He’s keeping the truth to himself. He showed you nothing new.”
“Maybe that’s all there is?”
“It cannot be. It is too incomplete.”
But he realized that Sagan definitely suspected his daughter.
“Alle, your father most likely thinks you are there as a spy. But he is still your father. He won’t reject you.”
“What should I do?”
He wanted to ask her about Brian Jamison and what was said between them, but thought better.
He hoped the silence on the other end of the line meant she agreed with him.
“I’ll try,” she finally said. “Do you want to know where he is?”
“There’s no need.” He had something better than an address. “If you have the phone on, I can track it. But save its battery. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Then go back. And may good fortune be with you.”
———
BENE STEPPED BACK INTO THE ROOM WHERE HALLIBURTON WAS still shuffling through plastic bins, scanning parchments, examining brittle old ledgers, diaries, maps, and drawings.
“This stuff needs to be vacuum-sealed,” Halliburton said. “It’s falling apart.”
Bene checked the door, having kept it open enough so he could hear if anything was happening back toward the front of the building. He’d been watching from the end of a short hall as the curator stepped outside and made a cell phone call. He could not approach any closer without being seen, so he’d heard nothing of what was said. But he had noticed the man return and lock the door. He’d checked his watch, which read a little after 2:00 P.M. Nowhere near closing time—so why lock the door? He wondered if his paranoia was justified, but ever since he’d learned who controlled this museum he’d harbored a bad feeling.
“Look at this.”
Tre was holding an old volume, the binding decaying, its dried pages the color of dirt.
“This was bound in 1634. It’s an account of life here on the island.” Tre gently opened the book. “It’s in Castilian, but I can read it.”
He heard a chime from the front and crept back through the doorway and down the short hall. The curator was answering his cell phone and told the caller in Spanish to hold on.
The man stepped outside and closed the door.
Bene decided to risk it this time and made his way to a window, pressing his ear close.
———
ZACHARIAH SPOKE TO THE CURATOR OF THE CUBAN MUSEUM. He’d dealt with Brian Jamison, Tom Sagan, and Alle Becket. Now he was ready to deal with Bene Rowe.
“Are they still there?” he asked.
“They are looking in the private collection. Most interested in the oldest we have, from Columbus’ time. But other materials are locked away, as you ordered. I have not mentioned those.”
How the Jamaican had managed to find the archive he did not know, but the fact that he had done so only compounded his problem. Rowe had said on the phone that he was privy to some new information. Was this what he’d been speaking about? If so, the documents were of no value since the Simon family had long controlled them, the originals thought safe behind Cuban travel restrictions and overzealous socialists.
Time to end this problem.
“I want you to keep them there for a little longer. Be cordial. Friendly. Do nothing to upset them. Understand?”
“
He ended the call and made his way back to the car, where Rocha waited. He slid into the passenger’s seat and handed over the phone. “Rowe is at the archive in Cuba. The curator has called. Do you still have contacts with the Policia Nacional Revolucionaria?”
The PNR was Cuba’s national police force.
