Simeon hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, it’s very much the subject of the book. I’ve been working on this day and night for … or should I say, we’ve been working on it. It’s not just me that’s involved.’
The vicarage gates were coming up on the right. Simeon turned in and rasped the Lotus over the gravel. He pulled up, killed the engine and turned to Ben. ‘Something awful happened recently,’ he said anxiously. ‘Something absolutely dreadful, and completely baffling. I mean, when you know someone so well, or at least think you know them, and then you hear they’ve done something that’s just so totally, so horrifyingly out of character that you just can’t …’
Ben understood that Simeon was talking about the priest who’d killed himself. ‘Go on.’
Simeon’s jaw tightened. ‘Two weeks ago …’ he started. But Michaela’s voice from the house interrupted him, and they both turned to see her trotting down the front steps and across the gravel with the landline phone in her hand. ‘Yes, in fact he’s just got back this moment. I’ll pass him to you, archdeacon.’
‘Hell and buggery,’ Simeon groaned under his breath, and climbed out of the car to take the phone. To Ben he said, ‘We’ll talk later.’ Then, pressing the phone to his ear, ‘Dr Grant! What a pleasure to hear from you.’
Michaela took Ben’s arm. ‘Come on. He’ll be on the phone for ever with that one. Come inside. I have something for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
Inside the warmth of the living room, she signalled to him to wait, then trotted upstairs and returned a moment later holding a small gift-wrapped package tied up with a ribbon. ‘Merry Christmas, Ben.’
‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said, taking the package, embarrassed that he hadn’t anything to offer the Arundels in return. ‘Am I allowed to open it?’
‘No!’ Michaela said quickly, reaching out abruptly to stop him tearing open the wrapping – then relaxed and smiled. ‘Not now. You have to promise me that you won’t peek until you’re back in France. Then you can open it and think of us.’
‘I promise,’ Ben said, wondering what it was. Through the Christmas paper it felt like a small hardback book, not much bigger than a diary.
‘Solemnly? You won’t be tempted?’
‘Get me a Bible,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll swear on it. Or maybe it is a Bible?’
‘No,’ Michaela said softly. ‘It isn’t a Bible.’ Her expression was a strange blend of relief and apprehension. She was quiet for a few moments, then said something about needing to check something upstairs, and disappeared.
Simeon was still on the phone to the archdeacon. Left to his own devices Ben went to the annexe to put Michaela’s present away safely in his bag, then wandered outside to the woodshed to gather some logs for the living room fire, which he’d noticed was getting low. The firewood was neatly stacked along the shed wall near the door, a heavy log-splitting axe and a small hatchet resting against the chopping block. He hefted a piece of well-seasoned oak onto the block, grabbed the axe, and with a downward swing cracked the log neatly in two. He set the split pieces aside and grabbed another log. His breath billowed in clouds as he worked.
He felt something nudge his leg, and turned to see what it was. ‘Hey there, Scruffy,’ he said as the dog nuzzled against him, and stroked the coarse fur of his head. The dog wasn’t the prettiest of creatures – the bull neck and alligator snout of a Staffordshire mixed up with the wiry, untameable coat of a Border Terrier – but there was a look of calm intelligence in those wide-set eyes. Criminal or saint: Ben wasn’t too sure which he was.
‘You like being a vicar’s dog?’ Ben said.
Scruffy cocked his head and looked at him curiously, then went off to settle on the floor a few yards away and gnaw contentedly at a piece of wood. If only life could be that simple for humans, Ben thought.
Going on chopping, Ben heard Simeon’s voice from inside the vicarage, calling up the stairs to Michaela that he had to rush out to attend to a church matter. Moments later, the Lotus was roaring off into the distance.
Ben added two more split logs to his growing pile and wondered how it could be that Simeon Arundel – this vicar whom everyone seemed to admire and respect, living this cosy life out here in the tranquillity of the English countryside, writing books on religion and running his churches – was talking about being in danger. It seemed so incongruous and bizarre. The way Ben saw it, Simeon was the last person on earth anyone would want to harm.
He suddenly had the feeling he was being watched. He glanced up from the chopping block and through the open door of the barn, just in time to spot Michaela backing away from an upstairs window of the vicarage. In the split second their eyes met, Ben could see the odd look on her face.
Why had she been watching him? He kept seeing her strange expression in his mind as he tossed the split logs into a sack and headed outside. With the dog trotting behind him he lugged the logs inside the house to stack beside the living room fireplace.
As the fire revived, Ben sat with the dog and watched the flames, wondering what secrets were being harboured behind the idyllic face of Arundel family life. Something was going on, and he had the feeling it somehow involved him.
‘It’s all a bit of a puzzle, isn’t it, Scruff?’ he said softly, turning to the dog.
Scruffy licked Ben’s hand. Whatever he knew about it, he was keeping to himself.
Chapter Eight
The road was long and dark as Wesley Holland threaded his way slowly eastwards across New York State to the beat of his windscreen wipers and the steady flurry of snowflakes in his headlights. The snow had thickened so badly shortly after Oneida in Madison County that he’d thought his route might become impassable – but the snow patrols were fighting to keep the roads open in what was turning out to be one of the toughest winters in years.
He kept driving doggedly on, stopping for gas about an hour beyond Schenectady, at the snowy feet of the Appalachian Mountains. He was still suffering from shock, grief-stricken and freezing and exhausted. It was over five hundred miles to his destination; in this weather it seemed like five thousand. No way for a billionaire to be travelling.
Yet there was no way Wesley Holland was stepping on a plane, either. Even if the conditions had been more clement, the fact that all three of his private jets and all eight of his helicopters were registered to him made it far too easy for whoever was after the sword to track his movements. And after a near crash coming into Taipei in 1996, he’d vowed never to set foot on a commercial airliner again. No, by road was the only way. Nobody could track him or find him out here. Nobody in the world except for Simeon Arundel knew about Martha’s. The sword would be safe there.
In the meantime, there it was, locked in its case behind him on the back seat of the car. One of the most important artefacts in history. Perhaps the most important.
Wesley Holland wasn’t a religious animal. Try as he might, he found it impossible to share the fervent spiritual passion that drove men like Simeon Arundel. There were times when it irked him, but more often he found himself actually envying it, feeling excluded and annoyed at himself for being incapable of fully experiencing something that seemed to be able to offer such fulfilment to people who opened themselves to it. He still remembered the light in Simeon’s eyes, and those of Fabrice Lalique, that day in France when he’d first told them about his amazing historical find. But even an agnostic like Wesley couldn’t escape the skin-tingling excitement of such a monumental discovery.
The three had met during the repair of a badly deteriorating medieval church near Millau, which Wesley had been funding entirely out of his own pocket. The contractors he’d hired for the job were an up-and-coming Parisian firm reputed to be the best in the business; Wesley had been there to check out their work. So had a young English minister named Simeon Arundel, recently come into some funds of his own and intent on learning all he could about church restoration. Also keeping a watchful eye on the long
-needed project had been the local priest in Millau, Fabrice Lalique.
An American, an Englishman and a Frenchman. It could have been the opening of a joke, but instead it became the start of a friendship. One night over dinner and a very expensive bottle of wine provided by Wesley, he’d decided he trusted the pair of clergymen enough to tell them the secret he’d been yearning to share with someone who could truly understand it, appreciate it, and most of all, keep quiet about it. Their initial reaction on hearing of his discovery had been one of stunned disbelief, just as his had been at first. But when he’d shown them the evidence, their scepticism had turned to fascination, then to wonderment and awe.
Simeon had been speechless at the way his life had just changed.
‘But we ought to tell people about this,’ Fabrice had argued.
‘Be patient,’ Wesley had urged him. ‘The time will come.’
Wesley still believed it would, even after nearly three years of maddening dealings with experts who wouldn’t pull their heads out of their asses and realise what they were being shown. For the first time, though, his excitement was now tempered with doubts. People were dying. Was it all worth it?
Yes, it was, he decided as he drove. If Fabrice had died protecting the secret, and if Coleman and the others had died because of it, then Wesley was damn well going to make sure these thugs, whoever they were, didn’t get their hands on it. Once he arrived at his destination, he was going to hire an army of the toughest bodyguards money could buy.
Let the sons of bitches come find him then. Let them try.
The red of dawn was burning through the snowclouds by the time Wesley realised he couldn’t go on any more without a rest. If he didn’t stop awhile, he was going to drift off at the wheel and crash the car. His tense shoulders sagged with relief when he saw the motel sign a few miles on that said ‘VACANCY’S’. ‘Thank God,’ he mumbled.
Wesley pulled into the car park between the shabby, snow-covered wooden buildings. The only other car in sight was an ancient Ford Explorer with jacked-up suspension. He climbed stiffly out of the Chrysler, grabbed the case from the back seat and dragged his heels through the snow over to the dirty glass doors that led into the gloomy reception area.
At the far end of the lobby was a corner desk, and behind that was an unshaven guy in a John Deere baseball cap who stared at Wesley’s American Express Platinum card as if it was the only one he’d ever see, then shrugged and shoved it in the card machine. ‘Room twelve,’ he said, sliding a key across the counter.
Wesley staggered to Room 12 with his only item of luggage. As he might have expected, the place was a shithole, but at that moment he’d gladly have lain down to rest inside a sewer pipe. He locked his door, laid the case down, made straight for the bed and collapsed on it without even taking off his coat or shoes. Within seconds of his face touching the stained pillow, his utter exhaustion carried him off to sleep.
When Wesley awoke he was shivering with cold and feeling clammy from sleeping in his clothes. His back ached from the worn-out mattress and the car key in his pocket felt like it had dug a hole in his leg. Panic gripped him. The case! He twisted round to see.
Still there. He could breathe again.
His fifty thousand-dollar gold watch told him he’d been asleep for a little over four hours. That was all the sleep he needed nowadays, at his age. He’d drink a cup or two of hot coffee to revive and warm him, then hit the road again. With any luck he’d make it all the way to Martha’s with just one more stop for gas.
The price of the motel room didn’t appear to include any coffee-making facilities. Wesley trudged outside into the cold, taking the case with him and locking his door behind him. More snow had fallen overnight, a two-inch blanket of it lying over the roof and bonnet of his car. The Ford Explorer was gone; in its place a little Honda. There were no other cars in the place. Popular joint, he thought to himself as he headed along the covered walkway towards the reception lobby to find out if they had such things as coffee in these parts.
The unshaven guy had clocked off his shift and been replaced by a crab-faced young woman who was sitting hunched over a magazine at the desk, gazing at fashion pictures of girls eighty pounds lighter than her and listening to scratchy rock music on a tiny electronic device manufactured by one of Wesley’s companies. At her fat elbow was a Honda ignition key attached to a pink plastic fob that said ‘Kat’. When Wesley enquired about getting a coffee, she gaped at him for a moment as if he’d asked for champagne and oysters, then motioned laconically through a doorway on the far side of the reception lobby and informed him that there was a coffee machine down the hall.
Wesley had trouble first finding the coffee machine, then more trouble getting it to work. After several attempts and a few thumps he persuaded it to accept the loose change he fed into it, and finally the machine sputtered something dark and steaming into the Styrofoam cup he offered to it. He managed to overfill his cup, and had to carry it carefully to avoid spilling any over his thousand-dollar handmade shoes.
On his way back through the reception lobby, coffee scalding one hand, the case weighing down the other, he threw a glance at Kat behind the desk a few yards away. She hadn’t moved a millimetre and looked as if she’d been ladled into her chair, a big round flaccid lump of flesh. ‘Hey, thanks,’ he called across to her, with a touch of sarcasm. She didn’t look up from her magazine.
‘Great service in this place,’ he said. Still no response. He shook his head and awkwardly tugged open the glass door with the hand holding the coffee, wincing as more of it sploshed out onto his fingers. Billionaires shouldn’t have such problems.
As he approached his room, Wesley suddenly stopped. The door was lying six inches open.
Hold on. Didn’t I just lock that?
Maybe someone had come in to clean the room, he thought. It sure needed it. Wesley peered in through the gap in the door and saw a movement inside. It was a man, and he didn’t look like a cleaner. He was a big man wearing a coat of heavy tan leather.
Wesley froze.
The man in the leather coat had his back to the door. Wesley heard him say something indistinct to another man in the room with him. Then he turned a few inches to his left, and Wesley could see the unemotional expression on his face, and the boxy black automatic pistol in his hand with a long cylindrical silencer.
Wesley drew back from the door, stifling a gasp. With what felt like a heart attack coming on he retreated back along the covered walkway towards the reception lobby. The men only had to glance through the open door of his room and they’d spot him.
By some miracle, they didn’t. Wesley vowed to start believing in God. He burst through the glass doors into the reception lobby.
Kat was still sitting at the desk, slumped over her magazine. ‘Call the police,’ he rasped at her. ‘There are—’ The words died in his mouth. He recoiled in horror.
Kat remained immobile. The only movement from her was the steady drip-drip from the bright pool of blood that had now spread across the desk, soaking the magazine in front of her and splashing to the floor.
The coffee cup slipped out of Wesley’s hand and exploded across his shoes. ‘Oh, my God.’ He had to get out of here. Grasping the handle of the case in a death grip, he dug his car key out of his pocket, scurried back to the doors and peered through the grimy glass into the yard. The snow-covered Chrysler sat halfway between the reception and the door of his room. He could see no other vehicle apart from Kat’s Honda. The killers must have left theirs somewhere around the back.
Would he make it to his car and get it started up before the men spotted him? They’d hear the sound of the engine, but maybe he’d manage to drive away before they could stop him.
They had guns. Their bullets could punch through steel and glass as he drove off.
But he had to get away. He pressed his free hand to the door. Here goes.
He was just about to push it open when the man in the tan leather coat suddenly emerged fr
om Room 12 and started striding quickly and purposefully across the snowy car park towards the reception lobby. He had the gun at his side.
Wesley backed away from the doors. He didn’t think the man could see him through the dirty glass, but he’d be here any moment.
Wesley ran back towards the reception desk, just managing to avoid the pool of blood. The other side of the desk was a door marked PRIVATE. Kat’s arm was draped across the folding hatch. Wanting to throw up at the touch of her dead flesh, he nudged her arm aside and then pressed through the hatch and burst through the door, closing it behind him with jittery haste before the man in the brown coat stepped into the lobby.
He found himself in a poky office. Its cobwebbed sash window overlooked a backyard littered with snow-covered garbage bags and pieces of broken furniture. Beyond a ramshackle fence he could see the highway snaking away into the distance. He threw open the window, clambered up on a chair and shoved the case through the gap before scrambling through after it. He landed painfully on the snowy concrete the other side, snatched the case up and kept moving as fast as he could. His heart was in his mouth as he staggered through the backyard to the fence, fully expecting the muffled clap of a silenced pistol behind him and a bullet burning a hole in his flesh.
But no bullet came. Wesley managed to drag himself and the case over the fence and belted across the snow towards the highway. Twice he slipped and fell as he scrambled over the piles of dirty slush at the side of the road, glancing in terror over his shoulder. His breath was coming in wheezing gasps now as he stumbled on. For the first time since the invention of the mobile telephone, he wished he had one so that he could call for help.
He couldn’t run much further. Any second now, the killers would cotton on to his escape. They’d get in their vehicle and come after him. Bundle him in at gunpoint, and it would all be over.
The deep bellow of air horns blasted his terror away. He whirled around at the edge of the road and saw the massive grille of an eighteen-wheeler truck looming over him as it slowed down with a sharp hiss from its airbrakes. Wesley threw down the case, waved his arms frantically and stuck out his thumb. ‘Help me,’ he wheezed. ‘Help.’
Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) Page 6
