‘I didn’t know whether to believe the suicide story or not,’ Wesley admitted. ‘At the time, it seemed crazy to start spouting conspiracy theories.’
‘In my experience,’ Ben said, ‘the truth is often crazier than what you read in the papers. I’m pretty certain the killers were the same people who planted the paedophile material on his computer. You have some very nasty and powerful enemies, Mr Holland.’
‘You got that right,’ Wesley grunted. ‘These ruthless sonsofbitches can track you from your credit card and God knows what else. Who the hell are they?’
‘That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘How should I know who they are?’
‘Because of the sword.’
Wesley drained his glass, set it down and looked long and hard at Ben, then at Jude. ‘You know about the sword?’ he said slowly.
‘We’ve just come from Jerusalem,’ Jude told him.
The billionaire’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘You found Hillel?’ Then a terrible thought struck him. ‘He’s not—?’
‘He’s alive and well and still enjoying his semi-retirement,’ Ben said. ‘He drove us to Masada and showed us where he made his discovery back in 1963. We know how much you paid him as a reward for finding it. We know just how important it is to you, and how important it was to Simeon and Fabrice. We know everything about the sword, except what really matters. What is it, where is it, and who would want it so badly they’d kill you, us, or anyone else to get it?’
Wesley hesitated. ‘You have to realise, it’s very hard for me to trust you. You don’t understand how important this is.’
‘You have no choice but to trust us,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve been pretty clever so far, not to mention lucky, but these people won’t give up so easily.’
‘I’m safe here,’ Wesley insisted. ‘And I can hold out for a long, long time.’
‘You can’t stay hidden for ever. You’re all over the TV and internet. It’s just a question of time before someone recognises you and word gets out that the mysterious billionaire is holed up on Martha’s Vineyard. Then these people are going to come for you. They’ll torture you until they have the sword, and then if they’re feeling merciful they’ll put a quick bullet in your brain.’
‘Or else they’ll feed you to the great whites,’ Jude added, jerking his thumb in the direction of the ocean.
It seemed to have the desired effect. The billionaire gulped, then gave a reluctant nod. ‘All right. The sword is here. Come with me, and I’ll show it to you.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Wesley led Ben and Jude along a bare white passage. At the end of it was a metal doorway with no handle and no visible hinges, just a shiny blank panel mounted on the wall to its right.
‘I don’t generally go for newfangled technology,’ explained the owner of several leading electronics corporations, ‘but I’m willing to admit it has its uses now and then.’ He pressed his palm flat against the panel. After a very slight pause while the scanner did its work, an LED blinked, there was a click, and the door opened.
‘This way,’ Wesley said, showing them through. Beyond lay a downward flight of steps, immaculate and white, leading to a heavier security door equipped with a keypad and a rotary combination lock.
‘It’s where I store some of my knick-knacks when I’m not around,’ Wesley told them. ‘Seeing as the place is empty a lot of the time. Hold on while I key in the codes. They’re long ones.’
As the billionaire fiddled with the vault door, Ben noticed Jude’s drawn expression and felt sorry that wounds had been reopened by talking about the car accident. He touched Jude’s shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly. Jude nodded. Ben patted him on the arm.
A solid metallic ‘thunk’ sounded from the massive innards of the vault door, and Wesley heaved it open with an effort. The vault was an octagonal room, thirty feet across, that seemed to have been cast out of solid steel. Inside, it was like a museum. Knick-knacks, Ben thought, looking around him at the artwork that hung behind glass on the metal walls. He was no expert, but recognised a couple of Van Goghs and a Cézanne. There was no need to ask if they were real, or if the hundred or so swords of various shapes and sizes that hung on wall racks were cheap mail-order reproductions.
‘What’s that?’ Jude said, pointing at an object on a display stand.
‘It’s a Fabergé egg,’ Ben said.
‘How come you know so much?’
Ben just shrugged.
‘Oh, that stuff’s nothing compared to what you’re about to see,’ Wesley said, waving them across to a plinth on which lay a black oblong case, a little under four feet long. Ben and Jude stood either side of him as he produced a key from his pocket and clicked open the locks, then opened the lid.
‘There it is,’ Wesley breathed, his eyes glowing.
The case was lined with thick protective foam padding. Nestling inside was the sword that Ben recognised from Fabrice Lalique’s drawings. They had been a close likeness of the curious sickle-shaped blade and curved hilt. The latter was bronze, age-tarnished to a dark reddish patina. The steel of the blade was dull and pitted with the centuries, here and there showing traces of its former glory.
It wasn’t a large weapon, nothing like as imposing as many of the medieval battle swords in the vault, with their long triangulated blades and cruciform hilts, some of them obviously intended to be wielded with two hands, and even then with some difficulty. Nor was it any more ornate than Lalique’s drawings had suggested. The metalwork of the hilt was plain and unadorned, and only the faint inscriptions on the blade hinted at any kind of special craftsmanship – to Ben’s eye, at least.
One thing you didn’t have to be an expert to notice was that the sword had been used in battle. The blade was notched here and there where its edge had clashed against the edge of another sword, armour plate or shield. The weapon had been a witness to the bloody reality of history.
As delicately as handling a newborn baby, Wesley reached into the case and lifted out his trophy. He held it up to show them with a look of reverence, as if choirs of angels were bursting into song inside his head.
‘This is what everyone’s after?’ Jude said. ‘It doesn’t look like much.’
‘May I?’ Ben asked, reaching towards the sword. Wesley balked, but before he could snatch it away Ben had gently taken it from him and was examining it, turning it over in his hands.
‘Please! Be careful with that!’ Wesley gasped. ‘You have no idea of its value.’
‘Relax,’ Ben said. ‘I’m not going to chop wood with it.’ He hefted the sword in his fist, feeling its balance. It was no mere ceremonial piece, that much was immediately clear. The hilt fitted perfectly in the palm and the blade just asked to be swung in a chopping motion. Ben noticed that the sickle shape of the blade gave
