Free The Columbus Affair: A Novel by Steve Berry

killing an American drug agent. The United States demanded justice, the Jamaican government finally obliged, but his father had the good sense to die in jail. His mother took his death hard. Since he was an only child—medically, she could have no more—she made him promise that he’d never follow in those footsteps. His mother was a spry seventy-one years old and, to this day, had no idea what Béne’s empire entailed. He hated lying to her but, thankfully, he owned a host of legitimate enterprises—coffee, hotels, mining—that he could point to with pride and assure her he was no criminal.
    Which, to his way of thinking, he wasn’t.
    In fact, he hated criminals.
    True, he supplied prostitution, gambling, or pornography to a willing buyer. But his customers were grown adults and he made sure none of his products involved children in any way. He once shot a man in Montego Bay who refused to stop supplying young boys to tourists. And he’d shoot a few more if need be.
    He might break society’s rules.
    But he followed his own.
    He rode in the rear seat of his Maybach 62 S, two of his men in front, both armed. The car cost him half a million U.S., but was worth every dollar. He loved the high-grade leather and the fact that the backseat reclined to nearly a flat position. He took advantage of that often with naps between destinations. The roof was his favorite. One push of a button and glass panels changed from opaque to clear.
    They eased through a conglomeration of neighborhoods, the boundaries clear only to those who lived there.
    And to him.
    He knew these places.
    Life spilled out from the stores and houses onto the streets, forming a sea of dark faces. His father had ruled here, but now a confederation of gangs, led by men who called themselves dons, fought with one another over control.
    Why?
    Probably because their lives offered little else in the way of satisfaction, which was sad. What he’d heard many times rang true.
“Jamaica has a little of everything but not quite enough of anything.”
    They eased through the congestion, the buildings old, two to three stories high, packed so close that even a breath of fresh air would have difficulty squeezing through. When they turned onto a side street, two men appeared in front and signaled with outstretched arms for the car to stop. Both had ropelike hair and wild beards. They flanked the vehicle, one on either side. Shirttails hung out and low—shielding weapons.
    Béne shook his head and muttered,
“Buguyagas.”
    And that’s what he thought.
    Nasty tramps.
    He wound down the rear window and asked, “You need something?”
    He intentionally avoided patois, which he knew would be their preferred way to speak. The man on his side of the car clearly did not know him and was about to speak, but the other one rushed around the hood and grasped his friend’s arm, signaling for the driver to go on.
    “What is it?” Béne asked. “Neither of you can talk?”
    Mumblings passed between them that he could not hear, then the two men ran off.
    He shook his head.
    What were they going to do? Rob him right here in the street?
    “They lucky we don’t have time to shoot ’em. Go.”
    He found the shanty where Felipe lived, its walls a collage of scrap lumber and rusted tin. Four individual rooms were padlocked from the outside. Barrels of rainwater lined the edges, which meant no plumbing, confirmed by a strong scent of urine. Goats roamed the front and sides.
    “Bust it open,” he ordered, and his men kicked down the makeshift doors.
    Inside the largest enclosure was a room about six meters square. There was a bed, television, stove, dresser, and laundry basket. Eighty percent of the people in Spanish Town and Kingston lived like this or worse.
    His gaze found the bed and, just as Felipe had said, lying on the filthy floor was a stack of old documents. One of his men brought them to him. Another stood guard at the door. Guns were drawn. Their two greeters may have