The Columbus Code Read Online Free PDF Page A

boy is Antonio Torme,” his mother had written on the page. “The man standing next to him is Esteban Torme.”
    The only thing Winters could think of was Mel Tormé singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
    â€œOkay,” he said to the empty room. “Just because our ancestors came from Spain doesn’t mean we’re related to Columbus.” Every American with a Spanish last name must claim that. And even if they were, what was the big deal?
    Winters got up and went to the window where he’d stood hundreds of times growing up, watching for his dad to come up the driveway from work with a newspaper under his arm; trying to geta glimpse of Heather O’Neal, who lived across the street and whose bedroom directly faced his; waiting for the mail carrier to deliver his acceptance to Georgetown.
    The trees were bigger now and even with only a few pale early spring leaves they obliterated his view of Heather O’Neal’s old room. His view of everything was different from what it had been back then. Only now it was blocked by old tragedy and fresh grief, neither of which he knew what to do with.
    Maybe this Columbus thing was part of both. Or maybe he was just as unstable as Julia Archer said he was. She’d told him to stop sailing, stop biking, stop pursuing his pilot’s license in case he had an “episode.” But what harm could he come to going through the dusted-off dreams of his overspiritual mother? Maybe he would just die in his sleep too.
    He went downstairs to find a box in which to ship it all to San Francisco.

Emilio Tejada fixed his gaze out the narrow window onto the shining waters of the Mediterranean two blocks away. The tiny village of El Masnou, northeast of Barcelona, spilled sleepily away from the coast below. Its residents were unaware that an urgent meeting had been called in the stucco building known to the villagers as
la casa del extrano hombre de edad
—the house of the strange old man. Abaddon was a mysterious figure to the uneducated people of the village. No one knew where he came from or how long he had been there. The folks made guesses about him when they thought of him at all, and over time they appeared to think of him less and less. Tejada didn’t see how that was possible, and yet it was a good thing.
    â€œEmilio,” a ghostly voice said, “will you join us?”
    Tejada turned away from the window and crossed the cool room. He approached the carved teakwood, high-backed chair and bent low, gently kissing the knotted hand of the man who sat in it. The old man’s eyes were closed and a shock of his white hair, still streaked with the black of his youth, fell over his forehead. Tejada could feel the envy of the twelve men seated on Andalusian cushions behind him. They would never admit to coveting Abaddon’s obvious favoritism, but Tejada knew, and he tried not to enjoy it. They were, after all, a brotherhood.
    Tejada took his place on the one empty cushion to Abaddon’s right. A spear of sunlight from the narrow window cut directly into his face. He didn’t wince. All faces remained emotionless as Abaddon led them in the ritual.
    â€œWith the ancients who came before us,” they followed in unison, “and for the future of our own creation, we pledge our lives and our fortunes to the Master.”
    Each of the thirteen, Tejada included, reached toward the small purple pad on the floor in front of him and picked up a ring, which each man slid onto the ring finger of his left hand. The customary silence fell—so quiet that even the warblers beyond the windows seemed to hush themselves until Abaddon spoke.
    â€œWe have a singular purpose here,” he said, voice thin. “One that has been unfolding for centuries . . .”
    During the dramatic pause, one of many Tejada knew Abaddon would take, Tejada noted how weak his old Master’s speech had become. The words were still