The Sacred Sword bh-7

by Scott Mariani

  The cable car neared the fragile-looking docking station precariously erected on the face of the cliff. Finally, and to Jude’s obvious relief, they made it all the way to the top without being brought crashing down to the rocks by the weight of the lardy American family.

  ‘Holy shit, get a load of this,’ Jude breathed when they stepped out on the wide flat summit of the mountain and the full panoramic breadth of the view opened up. They were so high above the sweeping vista of the desert and the hazy Dead Sea that it was like looking down from the windows of an aircraft.

  Ben gazed around him at the extensive stone remains of the fortress and could see that the modern-day excavation work had been almost as massive in scale as the Romans’ attempts to destroy the place nearly two thousand years earlier.

  ‘It did not look like this back in 1963,’ Hillel said. ‘Then it was only a field of rubble, half erased by time and the hand of nature.’ He pointed out the black painted lines that were visible on many of the buildings, archways and columns. ‘Those mark where the original stonework ends and the reconstructions begin.’

  ‘It’s very impressive,’ Ben said. ‘But as you know, we didn’t come here to do the tourist thing.’

  Hillel nodded. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them through the ruins. As he walked, he began to tell his story.

  ‘I was the eldest of ten children. My family were very poor. My mother worked in a factory where the conditions were very bad and the pay was even worse. My father worked as a stonemason, until one day, when I was thirteen years of age, he fell from a ladder and his legs were smashed. He never walked again and was always in great pain. With my poor father crippled and no longer able to earn any money, much responsibility fell on me. I worked delivering goods for Jerusalem merchants. I stole eggs and resold them. I even stole a chicken once. We struggled every day just to stay alive and pay the rent for a tiny hovel that was not fit for a dog to live in.’

  Hillel paused to run his hand admiringly along a wall, as if he’d built it himself. ‘When I heard of the huge workforce that was being gathered for the excavation of the Masada site, I signed on. I was big and strong and already used to hard work. Now, follow me through this set of arches, and I will show you.’

  A few yards on, Hillel stopped to contemplate a section of the thick, craggy rampart wall. Beyond it was a sheer drop protected by a modern-day steel railing, and the dizzying view for miles towards Jerusalem. He crouched down low and delicately brushed some sand away from a crevice near the foot of the wall. ‘This is the place,’ he said, twisting his head up to look at Ben. ‘Come. See.’

  The crevice was a horizontal gap in the ancient masonry where stones of uneven size had been used to build the wall. It was about four feet long and only just wide enough for a man to insert his fist.

  ‘It was June, 1963. I was assigned to this section with two other workers,’ Hillel said. ‘We were dying in the heat, tired and thirsty, while our foreman, a man called Samir, gulped water from his canteen and shouted at us whenever we stopped. I remember how much I hated him.’ Hillel scraped a small handful of sand and stones from the crevice and let it slip through his fingers.

  ‘Each man had his own piece of wall to work on. Mine was almost buried. I was digging away sand and stone with my bare hands when I found the hole and, deep inside it, something wrapped in a bundle of cloth. We had orders to report any find immediately to the foremen. I turned towards Samir and was about to call him when I saw that he was swallowing more water from his canteen, drinking like a hog so that it was pouring from his mouth and splashing on the ground. I was so thirsty, and so angry, that I did not call him. Instead, I pulled out the bundle and, careful to let nobody see me, I unwrapped it.’

  ‘And it was a sword,’ Ben said.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Hillel stood up and dusted the sand off his hands. ‘Yes. A very beautiful sword. Its handle was made of bronze that shone like gold in the sun, the blade shaped like this, and so long.’ He traced a curved line through the air, then spaced his palms a distance apart. Ben saw that his measurement estimate from Fabrice Lalique’s sketch had been more or less right, about three and a half feet overall.

  ‘I could see it was very, very old,’ Hillel went on, ‘and that it must have been hidden here for longer than time itself. I knew nothing of history, but this was surely an object of great value. Again I turned to Samir, but he was now standing talking to another foreman, sharing a joke and smoking cigarettes. I looked at Samir’s fat belly, and thought of my poor crippled father at home, and my mother working like a slave in the factory.’

  ‘You decided to keep it for yourself,’ Jude said.

  ‘When times are hard and you have a family to care for, you are sometimes forced to do things that you may know are wrong,’ Hillel said. ‘Yes, I wrapped the sword back in its bundle and replaced it where I had found it. For the rest of the day I was terrified that another worker would find it. But they did not, and as the day came to an end I managed to bring it onto the lorry that was taking the workers back to Jerusalem. There were so many of us that the foremen did not take notice of what one boy was doing.

  ‘Returning to the city, I went straight to Ali the pawnbroker on Jaffa Road. He examined the sword and asked me where I had found it. I told him some lie that I do not remember now. We haggled over its value, and then Ali told me I was a son of a baboon and tossed me a handful of coins, enough to feed my family for a week and buy medicine to ease the pain in my father’s legs. I remember how proud I was, for a long time afterwards. Samir and the other foremen never knew my secret.’

  ‘So you no longer had the sword,’ Ben said, trying to understand.

  ‘No, I never saw it again. My life went on. I grew up and became a taxi driver in Jerusalem. My father died, and soon afterwards my poor mother too. I married Ayala. One by one, my brothers and sisters all went their own ways. Many years went by and my family grew. I worked hard to ensure that they never had to suffer the poverty I had known in my childhood. Eighteen hours a day. Everybody in Jerusalem knew me. When I was not driving around the city, I was learning to speak English so that I could talk to the rich foreigners who got in my taxi. I dreamed of having a business of my own, that I could pass on to my children. But my dream never happened.’ Hillel paused, gazing across the desert as he replayed his life’s events inside his head.

  Ben was growing impatient with the story and could sense Jude’s increasing restlessness, too. ‘Is any of this heading our way, Hillel?’

  ‘I am sorry. Let me go on. Then, one day two and a half years ago, a rich American appeared at my taxi company offices. He said he wanted to book Hillel Zada to be his driver for the day. Just me, nobody else, and he was offering to pay double the normal rate. So we got in the car. I asked him where he wanted to go. He said nowhere. He just wanted to talk to me about a sword.’

  ‘It was Wesley Holland?’

  Hillel nodded. ‘Of course, I had not forgotten the sword, and at first I was worried that I was to be punished for the crime of my youth. I thought perhaps this American was a detective who had tracked me down. But I was wrong.’

  ‘How did Holland find you?’

  ‘Ali the pawnbroker. More than ninety years old, and still carrying on his trade, that jackal.’ Hillel smiled. ‘As Mr Holland explained to me, Ali had sold the sword many years earlier to a man named Fekkesh, for fifty times what he had paid me. Fekkesh kept it for thirty years before he also sold it on. It finally found its way to Saudi Arabia, where it belonged to a prince. It was there, three years ago, that Mr Holland saw it and told the prince he wished to buy it. He has many swords. There are men who collect them.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben said.

  Hillel raised his eyebrows. ‘I did not know. I thought it strange. But who am I to question what men do?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mr Holland took the sword back to America. He was very fascinated with it and wanted to trace it back to where it had come from. A
man like him, with the money and power to do anything he desires, was soon able to follow the trail back from Saudi Arabia to Fekkesh, then to old Ali, and finally to me. As I told you, everyone in Jerusalem knows Hillel Zada. And in this city people are quick to give information when a man like Wesley Holland is offering cash.’

  ‘What did he want from you?’

  ‘He told me he had spent much time studying the sword and speaking about it with other experts. He was eager to know where I had found it, so I brought him here to Masada. He was very excited when I showed him this spot and described how I came across the sword. He asked me if I knew how valuable it was, or if I knew anything of its history. I said I did not. That was when he told me that I had done a wonderful thing in finding it, and that he wished to reward me for my deed.’ Hillel couldn’t repress a broad grin. ‘Before I knew what was happening, Mr Holland took me to a bank and opened an account for me containing three million dollars.’

  ‘Three million!’ Jude burst out.

  ‘Just a reward? Nothing else?’ Ben said, mystified that one sword could be worth so much, even to a man for whom three million was pocket change.

  ‘He wished only to thank me for finding the sword,’ Hillel said. ‘I went home to Ayala. I said “Wife, we are rich. Quit your job. We are leaving this apartment”. And so we did.’

  He shrugged. ‘We were not rich enough to go and live in the very exclusive quarters like Yemin Moshe, but thanks to Mr Holland’s generosity we are very comfortable. And now I have my dream, my own business that I can pass to my sons when I am gone. Four of them work there already. We will soon be opening another, in King George Street. Then perhaps London. Or New York,’ he added excitedly, running away with himself.

  ‘Where does my dad come in?’ Jude asked. ‘And Fabrice Lalique?’

  Hillel suddenly looked grave. ‘About a year after Mr Holland’s visit, he contacted me again to say that he wanted to bring two other men to view the spot where I had found the sword. He introduced them as Reverend Arundel and Father Lalique from England and France. They were very kind, very decent men.’

  ‘How did they become involved?’ Ben asked.

  Hillel shook his head. ‘That I cannot say. Their business was with Mr Holland, and they told me little. They apologised for being secretive, but Simeon told me that one day, when their research was over and the truth about the sword was proved, I would be the first to know before they revealed it to the world. Those were their very words.’

  Ben knew that Simeon Arundel would never have used such grandiose terms lightly. ‘Revealed it to the world? So we’re talking about something extremely important.’

  ‘Mr Holland said this was a very special discovery. One of the most special anyone could imagine.’

  ‘I wish you’d never found it,’ Jude said. ‘I’m glad you found your dream, Mr Zada. But my parents died for it.’

  There was a silence, just the wind whistling over the ramparts of Masada. Hillel hung his head sorrowfully. ‘I am so sorry for what happened to your father and mother,’ he murmured. ‘I am sure she was a wonderful woman. Simeon was a fine man, and he was so proud of his only son. He spoke of you often.’

  Jude looked away. He wiped his eye quickly, as if he didn’t want anyone to notice.

  ‘Hillel, I’m concerned that whoever is chasing after this sword might also come after you,’ Ben said. ‘Has anyone been following you or hanging about the Coffee House? Any odd phone calls?’

  Hillel looked blank. ‘I have noticed nothing.’

  If Hillel had been left alone, it could only be because Wesley, Simeon and Fabrice had kept the Israeli somewhat in the dark and not involved him too closely in their plans. Whoever had been listening in to their phone conversations had either considered Hillel not worth chasing, or perhaps not known about him at all. Nonetheless, Ben advised him to keep his eyes open. ‘Tell your wife to do the same. These people are determined.’

  Hillel’s face flushed with anger. ‘Who are these filthy dogs?’

  ‘That’s what I aim to find out.’

  ‘I pray you can before too long,’ Hillel said. ‘I fear for Mr Holland’s life.’

  ‘He was alive when he called Simeon’s home three days ago,’ Ben said. ‘Before he realised I wasn’t Simeon, he said a few things. One was that he was travelling to meet somebody called Martha. He mentioned her again in a phone message he left. It’s possible that she might be looking after the sword. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  Hillel thought long and hard, then shook his head. ‘I am sorry. They never spoke of a Martha to me, nor did I ever meet such a person. Did Mr Holland not give any clue who this woman was, or where?’

  ‘None. A witness thinks they saw him heading for Boston, on the east coast. My guess is that Martha lives somewhere around there.’

  Hillel shook his head again. ‘I wish that I could help you, but I have no idea about Martha. And I do not even know where Boston is.’

  Nobody spoke for a few moments. The wind whipped up flurries of sand from the crumbled ramparts of the fortress. Ben lit a Gauloise and sucked smoke, fighting back the dark suspicion that the two-thousand-mile journey to Israel had ultimately taught him very little. Jude leaned against the safety rail, gazing wistfully towards the Dead Sea, occupied with his own thoughts.

  ‘Your father told me that you love the sea very much,’ Hillel said fondly to Jude, joining him at the rail.

  ‘He was right,’ Jude replied. ‘I do.’

  ‘You and Mr Holland would get along well. He has a home by the ocean. What a palace it must be. With great tall windows, taller than a man, he said to me. He told me how he often stands there and watches the waves for hours at a time, and the tower of light shining across the water at night.’

  Ben looked at Hillel. Tower of light? He wondered about it for a moment, but said nothing, and it soon passed out of his mind as they left the ruins and made their way back towards the cable car.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Her name was Daria Pignatelli. She was twenty-eight, and a native of Naples. She was very dark and very beautiful, with flashing eyes and perfect teeth and a figure that should have carried an Italian government health warning for its ability to cause major traffic pile-ups as she walked down the street.

  Daria had learned almost ten years ago that she could make more money from men who were drawn to her for her beauty than she ever could from helping her parents to run their little purse-making business from a converted garage. She was not — not yet — the most expensive prostitute in Naples, but she was a far cry from the poor drug-addled waifs who lined the backstreets and would give it away for a song to anybody. Daria was sensible and careful. She maintained her self-respect, could afford to be reasonably picky about her clientele, and would do nothing she wasn’t comfortable with. She was also a devout Catholic who saw no particular conflict between her faith and her chosen profession.

  The Englishman had first noticed her when she’d been among several other girls brought to the island by motor launch to visit a group of clients in what seemed like a kind of shared apartment attached to the secluded villa. She’d seen him watching from a window of the main house, and been able to tell right away that this somewhat older, somehow sad and lonely-looking man wasn’t like the hard, crude brutes for whom she and the other girls were intended. The way he was scrutinising her, seeming to single her out from the others, she could see he liked her. She’d overheard someone refer to him as ‘Mr Lucas’. He was clearly the owner of the villa and in charge of whatever kind of business went on there. Like the other girls, Daria had the good sense not to concern herself with such matters.

  The little contingent had made the boat trip across to the villa several times since. They were well enough looked after, extremely well paid in crisp banknotes, of which there seemed to be no shortage, and there was always lots of wine and champagne. She was always with a different man. They seemed to come and go. Again, she never asked why.

&
nbsp; The phone call yesterday had come as no real surprise. Mr Lucas wanted to see Daria, alone. A car had come to pick her up at her apartment and taken her to meet the boat. The December weather was mild enough to wear a dress that was light without being too revealing. Mr Lucas had come to greet her at the gate of the villa. He was wearing a monogrammed satin dressing gown which she told him looked very raffinato.

  He appeared nervous at first, and Daria thought he seemed a little wired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly. A lot of her rich clients were highly stressed businessmen seeking a little relaxation. When she slipped her willowy arm through his and let herself be led into the cool white interior of the villa — plants and artwork and expensive antiques everywhere — he seemed to unwind. Meester Lucas — he loved the way his name tripped deliciously off her tongue. She giggled and apologised for her bad English. He smiled charmingly. ‘No, I adore the way you speak. And please call me Penrose.’

  Deep inside the villa, he took her to a plushly furnished office complete with a broad desk and a giant leather recliner chair. Kinky, she’d thought at first, until he showed her through a door into the adjoining bedroom. Daria got the strange impression that Mr Lucas spent most of his time in these two rooms. Who were all those other men? What did they do for him? He was obviously terribly wealthy and important. The bedroom was very luxurious, with a king-size bed and marble floor, beautiful things all around.

  Penrose sat on the bed and motioned at her dress. ‘Take it off,’ he said. She duly obliged. The silk pooled around her ankles and she stepped out of it in one of her many sets of lacy underwear. For this occasion she’d chosen red, to go with the red high heels.

  Penrose felt his heart quicken as he ran his eyes up and down her appreciatively. What a body. He’d already decided that he wanted to cover her with money first, stacks and stacks of lovely cash from one of the stuffed holdalls that were currently hidden under the bed, then make her take off the rest of her clothes, very very slowly, and then-