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 cabinetministers. 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. Béne met him at a university gathering a few years ago and they began a friendship. Halliburton knew Béne’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 Béne 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.
“Béne, 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, Béne. 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, Béne, but you may actually have something here.”
———
Extremists on Both Sides, Out of Control
By Tom Sagan , Los Angeles Times
H EBRON , West
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 cabinetministers. 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. Béne met him at a university gathering a few years ago and they began a friendship. Halliburton knew Béne’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 Béne 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.
“Béne, 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, Béne. 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, Béne, but you may actually have something here.”
———
Extremists on Both Sides, Out of Control
By Tom Sagan , Los Angeles Times
H EBRON , West
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