‘Simeon? Wes. What’s going on? I just called your home and some guy answered saying you’re not there. I need to know you’re okay. Listen, these people tried again a few hours ago. It was just luck I got away. They want the sword real bad, whoever they are. Soon as I get to Martha’s and make sure it’s safe there, I’ll call you back. Take care, buddy – and I mean take care.’
Ben tried calling back on the BlackBerry, but got no reply. He replayed the message twice, then saved it. It seemed certain to him that the sword the American had mentioned was the same one Simeon’s book was about. The ‘sacred sword’ wasn’t just a research topic, then, but a real, actual item that was still obviously in the possession of this Wes.
Was it a historic relic of some kind? A ceremonial artefact? What special significance did it have that was making it the target of such dangerous people?
‘It’s huge,’ Simeon had said to Ben in the car. ‘It’s terrifyingly huge.’
Just one thing was clear. Whatever the sword was, Simeon and his colleagues had somehow managed to get in way out of their depth.
Ben moved on to the next message in the BlackBerry’s inbox. It was one that Simeon had listened to and saved, recorded late on the evening of December 2nd. Ben frowned to himself when he heard who it was from.
‘Simeon – it’s me, Fabrice. The thing I told you about; I am sure it is happening again. Just now, tonight. I think someone is after me. Please call me as soon as you can.’
Ben sat on the edge of the bed and held Simeon’s phone tightly in his fist.
What he’d just heard was not the last message of a guilt-tormented man about to throw himself off a bridge.
Chapter Seventeen
After calling Simeon’s mobile and leaving his message, Wesley Holland left the public phone booth and carried his case to the nearby diner, shivering in the late-night cold.
Wesley had been truly sorry to part company with Maynard, the gap-toothed truck driver from Vermont who’d saved his skin by showing up miraculously outside the motel several hundred miles back. Maynard had a drop-off to make further up the road, after which his route would take him northwards into New Hampshire and way off course for Wesley. The little roadside diner had seemed a good enough place to get off. So here he was, stuck in the middle of the night on the edge of some backwater town whose name he didn’t know, without transport and still an awfully long way from his destination.
Walking into the warmth and the smell of food and coffee, Wesley found the diner almost deserted. A wolfish-looking guy in a denim jacket and a dirty red-and-white baseball cap was slumped half asleep in one corner near the door. A desultory waitress was clattering cutlery behind the counter. A TV blared from a bracket on the wall. Despite the alluring aroma of frying bacon that hung in the air, Wesley couldn’t face the thought of eating. He sat in a booth by the window and pushed the case under the table by his feet. Rubbing a hole in the condensation on the glass, he peered nervously out into the darkness. The lights of a car skimmed by on the highway. He watched it, half expecting it to veer into the diner parking lot and skid to a halt, the man in the tan leather coat and his associates spilling out of it with their guns blazing.
But the car kept going. Wesley let out a long breath.
During the hours in Maynard’s truck, he’d racked his brains trying to figure out how the hell his pursuers had managed to find him at the motel, and after much deliberation he’d arrived at the only possible conclusion.
He’d used his AmEx card to pay for the room. A connection had been made. Someone had had access to that information and used it to pinpoint his location instantly. The man in the brown coat and his gang must have been on standby, just waiting for their orders to come and get him.
The thought troubled Wesley immensely, because it meant that these people weren’t just anybody. Who had the power and reach to track a person via their credit card payments? He’d always believed only government agencies could do that – FBI, CIA, those kinds of folks. Just who in God’s name was after him? Once again, he wondered whether this sword was really worth all this. But it was too late regretting it now. He just had to keep moving and pray they didn’t catch up with him again.
Pretending to read the laminated menu card on the table in front of him, Wesley cast a paranoid glance at the solitary guy in the corner booth near the door. He didn’t look like an agent, dressed like that. But then, he wouldn’t. Wesley kept watching him. The guy yawned, took a slug of coffee, then took off his baseball cap and scratched at his greasy hair. He laid the cap down on the table and lowered his head onto his arms, appearing to go to sleep.
Wesley decided he might not be an undercover agent after all.
After a few more minutes of clattering plates, the waitress eventually threaded her way through the empty tables to take Wesley’s order, throwing a disapproving look at the sleeping man in the corner. ‘What can I do for you, honey?’ she said with a tired smile as she took out a pad.
‘Just coffee,’ Wesley said. ‘Oh, miss,’ he added as she was about to turn away. ‘Would you mind telling me where I am?’
The waitress balked momentarily at the odd question, then told him a name he’d never even heard of before. From her smile, he guessed not too many of the customers called her ‘miss’. ‘You know where I could get a ride out of here?’ he said.
‘Where you heading, honey?’ she asked him.
‘East, towards Boston.’
‘Buses come by here every few hours,’ she said, motioning at the dark window. ‘Station’s over that way. Guess you might try there. Say—’ She narrowed her eyes and peered at Wesley curiously. ‘You sure you haven’t been in here before?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said blankly. ‘I’m not from around here.’
‘You sure look familiar.’
With a flash of panic, Wesley suddenly heard someone say his name from across the other side of the diner. He was about to make a dash for it when he realised it was coming from the TV. He cut short a gasp. His face was plastered over the screen! With merciful speed, the picture cut to an image of the Whitworth mansion surrounded by police cars and ambulances. He caught a snatch of the newscaster’s commentary: ‘Attorneys representing the billionaire philanthropist, whose whereabouts are still unknown, are refusing to comment at this time …’
‘A lot of people tell me that,’ he said to the waitress, forcing a grin. ‘Guess I just have that kind of face.’ And how many times had that face of his appeared on air over the last few hours? he thought. This was no good at all. Someone was bound to recognise him.
When his coffee came, he gulped down as much of it as he could, then left the diner in a hurry. The guy in the corner near the door was still slumped on his table, snoring, his baseball cap at his elbow. It was frayed and grimy, with a label that said ‘Hoyt Archery’. Wesley glanced back towards the counter, then furtively grabbed the cap and scurried away into the cold night.
The temperature outside seemed to have dropped several more degrees. Wesley jammed the cap on his head, pulled the peak down low over his face and glanced around him. Wherever the bus station might be, it was nowhere in sight. A smattering of traffic was passing by in both directions. He thought about trying to hitch another ride.
Another possible option was the used car lot the other side of a mesh fence. He had just about enough cash on him to get something from there, if he hung around here freezing his ass off till morning. But he worried about the paperwork he’d have to fill in to buy a car. Could his seemingly omniscient pursuers trace him from that, too? Moreover, spending most of his cash would leave him short of ready money, now that his credit card was apparently unusable. If the AmEx could give him