American’s wealth, with estimates of his personal worth veering between nine hundred million to over a billion and a half.
Wesley Bartholomew Holland had been born in a small town in rural Idaho during the Second World War, the only child of a hardware store manager and a schoolmistress, his mother having instilled in him a passion for history that had stayed with him all his life. His father had been one of so many U.S. Marines slaughtered as they came off the landing craft at Omaha beach, when Wesley was an infant. Raised by his devoted mother, the boy had grown up to be a brilliant young man with an uncanny knack for business, and gone on to make his first fortune in real estate. By the age of thirty, he’d become one of the richest men in America.
Wesley Holland was currently believed to have major business interests in more than sixty countries, in industries ranging from electronics to aviation to publishing and many more besides. He owned silver mines in Mexico and gold mines in Australia, copper mines in Chile, steel foundries in Japan. Pipelines, airlines, factories, private colleges, chain megastores. At one time he’d owned a Major League baseball team, though he had little interest in sport. Married four times, never successfully or for very long. In recent years, Holland’s passion for all things antiquated had inspired him to pour millions into the restoration of crumbling historic buildings, churches and cathedrals across the U.S.A. and Europe.
Ben thought about that. Was it possible Holland’s and Simeon’s paths had crossed with regard to a church restoration?
He read on. Holland had supported the arts, made gigantic donations to galleries and museums, rescued scores of formal gardens from the hands of developers. But most of all he was known for his vast and enormously valuable private collection of antique arms and armour, the fruit of a half-century-long love affair with the weaponry of bygone times, that had made him one of the world’s pre-eminent collectors of ancient swords.
Now Ben began to understand what connected the American to Simeon’s mysterious research. Had the sacred sword, whatever it was, in fact been Holland’s own discovery? That might account for the trips Simeon and Fabrice Lalique had taken to the States. But why had Holland shared it with two clergymen? Moreover, two who were from different branches of the church? How had Lalique become involved? And what about the Israeli connection? Maybe tomorrow’s meeting with Hillel Zada would answer those questions.
Tracking through recent articles on Holland, Ben finally came across the unfolding news story of the recent attack at his home, the Whitworth Mansion near Lake Ontario. He looked at photos of the enormous house and read every scrap he could find about the incident. Three members of Holland’s staff had been shot dead in what was believed to have been an attempted robbery by an armed gang, who had left apparently empty-handed after the billionaire had managed to escape to a panic room and call the police. Holland himself had disappeared shortly after the incident, and sources close to him had expressed great concern at the lack of contact from him since. It was not believed that Holland was under suspicion for the crimes committed at his home.
There had been two possible sightings of the billionaire soon after his disappearance, one from a freight trucker named Maynard Griggs who claimed to have picked up an elderly hitchhiker a few miles from the Massachusetts state line and only recognised him later from the television news; and one from a forty-seven-year-old waitress named Sally-Ann Ryerson who’d served coffee to a lone traveller closely matching Holland’s description at the diner where she worked outside Lunenburg, MA. The man had told her he was heading towards Boston, possibly by bus. No further sightings had been reported. The investigation was continuing.
Ben went on searching for more material.
*
Cutter, Grinnall, Mills and Doyle thundered up the stairs to the floor where the hotel manager had told them the foreigners were staying. The manager was now lying comatose on the floor of the office behind the lobby, bleeding profusely from a pistol-butt blow to the head. The old guy might have had a heart attack, they weren’t sure. He’d collapsed before they’d managed to get all the information out of him.
It was almost midnight. A busy few hours had gone by since the Trimble Group jet had touched down at the private terminal at Ben Gurion Airport. Cutter was under pressure to get results, and he wasn’t messing around. A few heads had been broken before one of the airport shuttle service minibus drivers had finally come up with something. Two foreigners answering Hope and Arundel’s descriptions had got off his bus in Jerusalem centre and been seen hailing a cab. At first the minibus driver couldn’t remember which taxi firm it had been, but it was amazing how a knife to the testicles focused the mind. From there, it had been a straightforward matter of bribing and brutalising as many people as it took until a taxi driver spat out the name of a hotel.
‘This is the floor,’ Cutter said as they emerged at the top of the stairs. He started off in long strides down the corridor. Grinnall walked a step behind, his leather coat swishing. At the rear, Mills and Doyle were deep in debate.
‘He’s fucking nuts, though, ain’t he? See it in his fucking eyes.’
‘That’s not the fucking point, though.’
‘Shut it,’ Cutter threw back over his shoulder, and the conversation ceased. Up ahead, a pretty, plump Israeli girl in a cleaner’s uniform emerged from an empty room carrying a mop and bucket. She was working very late tonight, and looked as weary as she felt. Her polite smile faded when she saw the looks on the four men’s faces. Before she could let out a scream, Grinnall clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Take her in there,’ Cutter said softly, glancing up and down the corridor. They dragged her into the room and shut the door.
Inside the room, Grinnall kept his hand tightly over her mouth, clutching her head to his chest with a pistol at her temple. She squirmed and rolled her eyes in terror at the sight of the gun. He hadn’t had this much fun since plugging the motel reception girl back in America. It made up for the humiliation of losing Holland’s trail and returning empty-handed.
Cutter took out the photo prints he’d shown the manager downstairs. Hope’s was taken from his business website, Arundel’s from college records. ‘You seen these men?’ he asked the girl, flashing the pictures in front of her. She didn’t understand a word of English, but his meaning was very clear. She squinted at the pictures. She’d only seen the foreigners a couple of times since they’d checked in, but she was fairly certain it was them. She nodded.
‘You fucking sure?’ Cutter demanded. On cue, Grinnall’s pistol muzzle ground harder against the side of her head. She let out a little squeal of pain and fear, then nodded frantically a second time.
‘What room?’ Cutter hissed. ‘Let her speak, Terry.’
‘She’ll scream.’
‘No, she won’t.’ Cutter slipped out a double-edged stiletto knife and pressed it lightly against her trembling throat. ‘What room, darling?’ The girl babbled something in Hebrew. Cutter grabbed her hand impatiently. ‘Use your bloody fingers, girl.’ Understanding, she held up seven trembling fingers, then eight.
‘Room 78. Move.’
‘What about her?’ Grinnall asked.
‘Let’s do her,’ Doyle said, glancing at the neatly made bed. ‘We got time.’
‘We’re not going to do her,’ Cutter said. He drew back his fist and punched the girl hard in the face, knocking her out. Grinnall chuckled. They left her sprawled on the carpet, shut the room and continued up the corridor. Reaching the door of Room 78, they paused a moment to check their weapons one last time.
Then kicked in the
