Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7)

by Scott Mariani

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Ben said angrily. He felt like stuffing Jude back in the boot and returning him to Rabier’s.

  ‘Don’t you get it yet? I’m going to see this through. I don’t care about anything else.’

  ‘How did you know I was leaving?’

  ‘I heard you and Rabier talking.’

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘Oh, sure. And just because I don’t speak French, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I got the gist. Jerusalem?’

  ‘You’re not coming,’ Ben said, though he already knew it was futile. ‘No chance.’

  Jude ripped his passport out of his pocket as if he were drawing a knife. ‘You can’t stop me. I’ll pay you back the cost of the ticket. That’s if we get out of this alive,’ he added darkly.

  The traffic streaked by. Ben gazed up the road in the direction of Toulouse, then turned and looked back the other way. He’d come too far to double back to the farm, and there was no time. Jude had him. He let out a long sigh. ‘There’s no need to pay me back.’

  ‘So I’m coming?’

  Ben looked at him. ‘You really are a stubborn sod.’

  The worst thing was knowing exactly where Jude had got it from.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The water was roaring in Ben’s ears and the current threatened to drag him away as he struggled across the bonnet of the sinking car to tear away the shattered windscreen. The two figures sat immobile before him, strapped into their seats. Michaela’s hair floating around her face in the murk. He called their names, but all that came out of his mouth was an explosion of air bubbles. He felt the car sinking deeper, deeper, under him. Reached inside to take his friends’ hands and haul them to safety.

  Their eyes opened and stared into his.

  ‘Ben,’ they said, their echoing voices merging into a single plaintive moan that filled his head. ‘Beeeeen …’

  Ben woke with a start. For a few moments he glanced about him, disorientated, as the shockingly vivid dream rapidly faded away and the reality of the present came flooding back. He could feel the soft rumble of the aircraft through his seat and the soles of his shoes; the presence of Jude sitting next to him, gazing down into his lap, ignoring the clouds passing by outside the window. People all around. The flight from Paris to Jerusalem was crowded with travellers flocking to Bethlehem for the festive season.

  An Air France hostess passed by with a smile and asked Ben if everything was all right. He mumbled a reply, then checked his watch. It was almost three in the afternoon, nine hours since he’d slipped away from Jacques Rabier’s place thinking he was setting off alone.

  Jude slowly turned around to face him, and Ben saw that his eyes were rimmed with red. ‘My dad,’ Jude said.

  Ben just looked at him. He felt panic stab through his guts. Did Jude know? How could that be? What was he going to say?

  ‘My dad,’ Jude said again. ‘He was a good man, wasn’t he?’

  Ben’s panic subsided. He blinked and tried to shake away the last remnants of his stupor. ‘Yes, he was, Jude.’

  ‘And I was a shit. To both of them. But especially him.’

  ‘You shouldn’t think that way.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it? He always supported me. Even when we argued, he was there for me. And I knew how much it meant to him to have me home for Christmas. I wasn’t even going to go. All I wanted was to get pissed with that arsehole Robbie and his stupid friends.’ Jude’s voice thickened as he went on. ‘I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I didn’t care. While they were dying I was having a good time. And now I’ll never see either of them again. What did they do to deserve a son like me?’

  ‘They loved you very much,’ was all Ben could think to say, and then he said no more.

  Some time later the plane dropped out of the clouds and began its descent towards Ben Gurion Airport, some thirty miles to the west of Jerusalem. By the time they’d landed and taxied to a halt, Jude’s dark mood seemed to have lifted somewhat.

  After passing through the airport they boarded a crowded service taxi minibus that shuttled them towards Jerusalem, high up into the Judean Hills. On the approach to the city the limestone high-rises of the modern city sparkled in the pale sunlight. Olive groves and fields stretched out to the west. To the east lay the endless desert expanse of the Jordan Valley.

  Downtown West Jerusalem was a bustling welter of cafés and restaurants, shopping precincts, tourist attractions and souvenir shops, banks and airline offices, cinemas and nightclubs, and a constant hubbub of traffic.

  ‘It looks just like any other city,’ Jude observed as they stepped off the taxi and were engulfed in the crowds. Ben was already looking to hail a private cab to take them to their destination in Zion Square.

  ‘What did you expect, Bedouin camel trains parading through the sand dunes?’

  ‘You’ve been to Jerusalem before, haven’t you? What were you doing here?’

  Ben shrugged. He recalled a wild motorcycle chase through the city with half of Jerusalem’s police after him. Racing to stop a hired killer from detonating a huge bomb at the heart of the Temple Mount and sparking off World War Three. ‘It was just a short holiday,’ he said, and stepped out to flag down one of the city’s ubiquitous battered Mercedes taxicabs.

  Hillel’s coffee house was an even bigger and glitzier place than it had looked in the photos on its website. The buzz of chatter and the mixed aromas of roasted coffee and fresh-baked bread hit them as they wandered inside and took a tiny table near a window overlooking the thronging square. The menus offered snack foods of all kinds, homemade hummus, salads, pitta breads and sandwiches, omelettes. Jude declared himself to be starving, and had his eye on a falafel sandwich like the one the man at the next table was eating. Ben ordered a Turkish coffee for himself and asked the pretty dark-haired waitress if Hillel was in. He wasn’t, the waitress said, but he was expected to make an appearance sometime before long.

  Ben and Jude spoke little as they waited. Jude devoured his sandwich and asked for another. Ben wasn’t in the mood for eating, but toyed with a plate of tabbouleh and cold meats, which he washed down with another cup of the fortifying coffee, just about strong enough to stand a spoon in.

  Then, just after six, a gleaming gold Jaguar Sovereign pulled up outside the Coffee House. The driver’s door swung open and a large man stepped out and strode purposefully towards the Coffee House.

  Ben recognised him instantly as the owner, Hillel Zada. The florid open-necked shirt from the website photo had been replaced by a Ralph Lauren overcoat and shoes that looked handmade. Business was obviously better than ever at Hillel’s. He breezed through the door and was immediately all smiles as he greeted regulars, pausing at one table and then another to chat as he made his way towards the bar where a member of staff awaited him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to talk to him?’ Jude whispered to Ben as Hillel strolled past their table. Ben sipped the last of his coffee and watched Hillel speak to the member of staff, then disappear through a door. ‘You wait here,’ Ben said, getting up.

  ‘Usual story,’ Jude muttered. ‘I never get to do anything.’

  Ben made his way between the tables and headed towards the door that Hillel had gone through. Before he got there, a waiter spotted him and intercepted him, holding up a hand and saying in English, ‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in there.’ Ben smiled politely and brushed past. The waiter chased after him, protesting as he reached the door and opened it.

  Behind the door was a storeroom, with shelving stacked from floor to ceiling and heaped with boxes and crates, sacks of chick peas, coffee beans and rice. Four huge refrigerators hummed in one corner. Across the far side of the storeroom stood Hillel, pen in hand, surveying the shelves and checking off entries on a stock inventory. The door batted shut behind Ben. Hillel turned round and stared at him.

  ‘Hillel Zada?’ Ben said.

  The big Israeli frowned at him but didn’t look especially perturbed at the s
udden appearance of a complete stranger. He would have been, Ben thought, if he’d known there were people out there ready to kill anyone connected with the sacred sword.

  Hillel was about to speak when the waiter burst through the door and began pointing at Ben and rattling off an apologetic stream of Hebrew that was probably along the lines of ‘I tried to stop him. He just shoved past me.’ Hillel listened calmly, then gave Ben a piercing, authoritative stare. ‘This room is for staff only,’ he said in English. ‘Private.’

  ‘That’s good, Mr Zada,’ Ben said, ‘because I have private business to discuss with you. Alone,’ he added, throwing a sideways glance at the waiter.

  Hillel Zada’s frown deepened. He motioned to the waiter and muttered something in Hebrew. The waiter glanced nervously at Ben, then left. ‘Are you selling something?’ Hillel said to Ben when they were alone. ‘I am a busy man.’

  Ben got to the point. ‘Simeon Arundel and Fabrice Lalique have been murdered. Wesley might be dead too, or he soon will be. And I think you can tell me why.’

  There was a long silence. Hillel’s face dropped. He seemed to weaken momentarily, and had to rest his bulk on a stack of boxes. Ben could see from his shocked expression that this news came as a complete surprise. Hillel had had no idea until that moment of the trouble that had descended on his associates. If anyone was following him with harmful intent, he wasn’t aware of it yet.

  After taking a few moments to digest the news, Hillel looked up at Ben. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

  ‘My name’s Ben Hope. I was a friend of Simeon’s. I need to know what this is about, and exactly what it was you were all into.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Hillel said, still just as suspicious. His English was heavily accented but very correct, and he spoke every word carefully.

  ‘Let’s not waste time, Mr Zada. I’m talking about the sword. I’ve seen the photograph of you with Simeon, Fabrice and Wesley. I know they came here last year. And I know that other people are in great danger. You may be too.’

  Hillel’s expression was stony and full of doubt. ‘Ben Hope. You say you were a friend of Simeon’s?’

  ‘And of his wife, Michaela,’ Ben said. ‘I was staying with them at their home in England when they were killed.’

  ‘How did they die?’ the Israeli asked sadly.

  ‘In an accident that wasn’t, caused by someone who wants the sword.’

  Hillel absorbed this gravely, then peered at Ben with renewed suspicion. ‘And why should I believe you were Simeon’s friend? He never mentioned anybody called Ben Hope.’

  The storeroom door burst open again. Half expecting it to be more members of staff come to rescue their boss, Ben turned. It was Jude.

  ‘Were you going to leave me sitting there all day?’ Jude said indignantly.

  Hillel’s face darkened at this further intrusion into his privacy – then he did a double-take and peered at Jude with narrowed eyes. ‘I know you,’ he said, pointing. ‘You are Simeon’s boy. He showed me a photograph of you.’ He glanced from Jude to Ben, the suspicion melting away.

  ‘My father’s dead,’ Jude said. ‘If you know anything that could help us understand why, we’d be very grateful to you, sir.’

  ‘I truly grieve for your loss,’ Hillel said, clutching Jude’s arm with a big hand. ‘Your father was my friend.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Please forgive my rudeness. Tell me about Fabrice Lalique and Wesley Holland. What has happened to them all?’

  It was the first time Ben had known the American’s surname. ‘Lalique was thrown off a bridge near his home in France. It was made to look like suicide. As for Holland, as far as I know he’s somewhere in America, running for his life.’

  ‘But how is it possible that a sword could bring such trouble?’ Hillel asked.

  ‘Mr Zada, the clock is ticking. The more I know about this thing, where it came from, what it is and who wants it so badly, the easier it’ll be for me to find these people before it’s too late. Right now I’m in the dark. You need to tell me everything.’

  ‘Are you a detective?’

  ‘I’m just someone who wants to help,’ Ben said. ‘And I need yours.’

  Hillel nodded solemnly. ‘It will take a long time and I have a family engagement this evening.’ He reached inside his coat, slipped out a business card and handed it to Ben. ‘Meet me tomorrow morning at eight, at my home. And I promise you, you will hear the whole story.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ‘I want words with you, Ezekiel.’

  When his father said ‘I want words with you,’ there was always bound to be trouble. And trouble meant pain. The boy readied himself. He could handle pain. He’d handled it before. Nothing his father could do to him physically hurt him as much as the sound of his own name. Ezekiel Penrose Lucas. A cruel affliction that had tormented him every day of his young life.

  Ezekiel Squeakiel, his classmates called him, in mockery of his still-unbroken voice that had the habit of shooting up an octave when he was nervous, which was much of the time. ‘Ezekiel Squeakiel!’

  ‘You were fidgeting in church again today,’ his father pronounced in the solemn tone of a judge about to deal out a death sentence.

  ‘I was not fidgeting,’ the boy replied hotly.

  ‘You may think you can lie to me, but God sees everything. And so did Mrs Woods. She was horrified.’

  ‘Mrs Woods is a dirty old cockroach!’ Penrose screamed at his father. ‘I hate her and I wish she was dead!’

  ‘Hell rip and roast you for a bastard, boy!’ his father shouted back, turning dark red. With a terrible slowness, he reached behind him and opened the hated cupboard door, and the speech began. ‘Those who are tainted shall drink the wine of the wrath of God …’ he intoned as he took the belt from the jar of vinegar. He cracked it once, and a spatter of the foul-smelling liquid hit the wall. He beckoned to the boy. It was time for the punishment.

  ‘ … and they shall be tormented by fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels …’

  Whack. Whack. The belt falling and rising. The sharp lash of leather against bare buttocks.

  Penrose’s face streamed with tears. He would not scream.

  ‘ … and in the presence of the Lamb.’

  He bit so hard on his lip to hold it in that he could taste blood in his mouth, but the pain was so strong that he couldn’t stop himself and a wail burst from his throat. ‘Mummy! Make him stop!’

  But Mummy would not make him stop. Mummy was in the next room, too terrified to say a word to the tyrant, lest he turn the belt on her, too.

  Then it was over, and Penrose could do nothing but whimper in pain and rage and wish his father the most terrible suffering a young boy could dream of.

  ‘Now get down on your knees and pray to God, that He may show you forgiveness.’

  ‘I hate God,’ the boy thought. ‘I wish God were dead, too.’

  The next day, Penrose sneaked out of the house with something long under his arm, wrapped inside a plastic bag. Still aching from the beating, he made his way furtively up the street towards Mrs Woods’ house, half a mile away. The old cockroach lived alone with her beloved cat. The cat was fifteen or sixteen, had only one eye and was named Thomas O’Malley.

  Penrose crouched hidden among the evergreens at the edge of her rambling garden. He slipped the plastic bag away to reveal his air rifle. With murder in his heart he quietly cocked the gun and slipped a .22 pellet in the breech. And waited, silently.

  After a long time, there was a movement in the long grass. It was Thomas O’Malley. Penrose watched and his heart began to beat harder as the old cat moved slowly and stiffly through the garden.

  Very carefully, the boy levelled the rifle. He found the cat in his sights and pulled the trigger. There was a crack as the spring mechanism fired the pellet from the barrel. The cat leaped in the air with a yowl and began thrashing on the grass. He’d got it in the stomach. Penrose jump
ed up from his hiding place and ran over to the suffering animal, clutching his rifle. ‘Hell rip and roast you!’ He raised the rifle up and brought the butt end of its stock down hard on the cat’s head. There was a crunch, and a lot of blood. He raised the rifle and did the same again.

  ‘Hell rip and roast you!’

  The cat stopped moving, broken and squashed on the bloody grass. Penrose stood staring at it. He felt no remorse for having killed it. A smile spread over his face.

  A voice made the boy turn. It was Mrs Woods up by the house, calling the cat’s name. Penrose was frightened she might come looking for it. He slipped away into the bushes.

  Penrose faintly registered the knock at his office door and raised his head slowly off his desk. He unglued one gummed-up eye, then the other, and blinked at the light streaming in through the office window. In front of him on the desk’s littered top were his beloved pistol and his bottle of painkillers. He felt woozy from the pills. The surface of the desk seemed to tilt before his eyes.

  Rex O’Neill knocked on the door once more, and then walked into the room without waiting for a prompt. ‘How’s the headache?’

  ‘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?