‘What do you want?’ Penrose demanded, livid at the interruption.
‘To give you the latest update on Hope.’
Penrose’s face lit up. At last. When the call from Cutter’s man Gant had come in from France some eighteen hours earlier, saying that they’d captured Hope and Arundel, it had been cause for wild celebration and the opening of several cases of vintage Dom Pérignon, many bottles of which had been consumed by the team. Even Penrose had deigned to take a sip or two in the spirit of the moment. O’Neill had, of course, abstained, disapproving as always.
But as the hours had begun stacking up since the call without any further feedback from the team in France, Penrose had been growing increasingly anxious to know what was happening. He’d been convinced for a while now that Hope knew where the sword was. He’d probably had it himself, all along. Why else would Simeon Arundel have brought a man like him on board, if not to entrust the precious cargo to him? Why else would Hope be travelling with Arundel’s son?
Penrose quivered with anticipation. ‘Well? Did we get them? Do we have the sword?’
‘I’m afraid not. It isn’t good news.’
Penrose turned suddenly white.
‘There’s been no further contact from Gant,’ O’Neill went on. ‘And I’ve just received word that Hope and Arundel’s son cleared passport control at Ben Gurion Airport in Jerusalem this afternoon.’
Penrose’s face went from white to puce. ‘But how could that be?’ he exploded. ‘We had them.’
‘Evidently we don’t have them any longer.’
Penrose’s fury knew no bounds. He hurled his heavy leather recliner desk chair against the wall. Overturned the desk itself, sending papers and phones, his computer, his drugs and his pistol crashing to the floor. He shook his clenched fists, raised his face to the ceiling and let out a howl. Hope! The man was a vile scourge. He had to be stopped. ‘What are they doing in Jerusalem?’ he shouted.
‘We don’t know,’ O’Neill replied calmly.
‘Where’s Cutter? Get me Cutter.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be much use to you at the moment. He’s still comatose, along with most of the others. What did you think would happen if you let them loose on so much champagne?’
‘I keep my troops loyal to me,’ Penrose hissed defensively.
With unlimited booze, boatloads of whores and a mountain of cash that doesn’t belong to you. You think they wouldn’t cut your throat in a second if a better deal came along? O’Neill wanted to say, but had the wisdom not to. He knew that Penrose secretly regarded himself as some kind of emperor – Caligula came to mind – and Cutter’s moronic thugs as his personal Praetorian Guard. The man was slipping deeper into his own little fantasy world.
Penrose would not, could not, accept that his precious plan, so scrupulously and lovingly orchestrated, was slowly beginning to unravel before his eyes and there was not a damned thing he could do about it. He stamped up and down, flailing his arms and issuing orders like sparks flying off a Catherine wheel. ‘Go and wake Cutter up. Force-feed him black coffee or whatever it takes to get him sober. Tell him to gather as many men together as we have available. Get the Cessna ready for takeoff. Call Naples and have the jet put on standby. I want a team heading for Israel within the hour.’
O’Neill stared at him. ‘Have you any idea how hard it’ll be to find Hope in Jerusalem? He could be anywhere.’
‘I don’t care!’ Penrose screamed. ‘I want him found and I want him dead. Do I have to do it myself?’
O’Neill left the office without another word. When he was some distance away, he took out his phone and began to key in a number that, if dialled, could change everything for Penrose Lucas. His finger hovered over the last digit as he suddenly had second thoughts.
This was his job. He was well paid for what he did, and he had the fine home in London and the enormous mortgage hanging around his neck to show for it, as well as his growing family and the impending responsibility of fatherhood to think of. Could he afford to take a gamble on how the Trimble Group would react if he spilled his concerns to them? He knew virtually nothing of their deeper agenda. Who would they most likely favour: an expendable, replaceable mid-ranking operative like Rex O’Neill, or the prize racehorse into whom they’d already invested millions?
O’Neill thought better of making the call. He put the phone away and went to see if he could rouse the drunken Steve Cutter.
Chapter Forty-Five
Ben and Jude had managed to beat the Christmas rush and snatch the only connecting rooms at the Golden Jerusalem hotel on Jaffa Road. The carpets were wearing thin in places, but Ben didn’t care and his room had a balcony overlooking Zion Square where he could smoke and watch the city. He resisted the mini-bar, convinced he could still feel the after-effects of Jacques Rabier’s moonshine dissolving his innards. After a quiet dinner in the hotel, during which Jude was very morose and reticent, Ben returned to his room, sat on the bed and used his phone to go online and check out the name Wesley Holland.
The simple addition of a surname was all it took to transform a completely obscure lead into a font of information; in fact a bewildering excess of it for Ben’s purposes. Holland was all over the internet, although by all accounts the man himself was notoriously camera-shy and somewhat given to reclusiveness. Of the hundreds of articles Ben came across, nearly all focused on the 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