Conspiracy Thriller 4 E-Book Bundle

‘How did Holland find you?’

‘Ali the pawnbroker. More than ninety years old, and still carrying on his trade, that jackal.’ Hillel smiled. ‘As Mr Holland explained to me, Ali had sold the sword many years earlier to a man named Fekkesh, for fifty times what he had paid me. Fekkesh kept it for thirty years before he also sold it on. It finally found its way to Saudi Arabia, where it belonged to a prince. It was there, three years ago, that Mr Holland saw it and told the prince he wished to buy it. He has many swords. There are men who collect them.’

‘I know,’ Ben said.

Hillel raised his eyebrows. ‘I did not know. I thought it strange. But who am I to question what men do?’

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Holland took the sword back to America. He was very fascinated with it and wanted to trace it back to where it had come from. A man like him, with the money and power to do anything he desires, was soon able to follow the trail back from Saudi Arabia to Fekkesh, then to old Ali, and finally to me. As I told you, everyone in Jerusalem knows Hillel Zada. And in this city people are quick to give information when a man like Wesley Holland is offering cash.’

‘What did he want from you?’

‘He told me he had spent much time studying the sword and speaking about it with other experts. He was eager to know where I had found it, so I brought him here to Masada. He was very excited when I showed him this spot and described how I came across the sword. He asked me if I knew how valuable it was, or if I knew anything of its history. I said I did not. That was when he told me that I had done a wonderful thing in finding it, and that he wished to reward me for my deed.’ Hillel couldn’t repress a broad grin. ‘Before I knew what was happening, Mr Holland took me to a bank and opened an account for me containing three million dollars.’

‘Three million!’ Jude burst out.

‘Just a reward? Nothing else?’ Ben said, mystified that one sword could be worth so much, even to a man for whom three million was pocket change.

‘He wished only to thank me for finding the sword,’ Hillel said. ‘I went home to Ayala. I said “Wife, we are rich. Quit your job. We are leaving this apartment”. And so we did.’

He shrugged. ‘We were not rich enough to go and live in the very exclusive quarters like Yemin Moshe, but thanks to Mr Holland’s generosity we are very comfortable. And now I have my dream, my own business that I can pass to my sons when I am gone. Four of them work there already. We will soon be opening another, in King George Street. Then perhaps London. Or New York,’ he added excitedly, running away with himself.

‘Where does my dad come in?’ Jude asked. ‘And Fabrice Lalique?’

Hillel suddenly looked grave. ‘About a year after Mr Holland’s visit, he contacted me again to say that he wanted to bring two other men to view the spot where I had found the sword. He introduced them as Reverend Arundel and Father Lalique from England and France. They were very kind, very decent men.’

‘How did they become involved?’ Ben asked.

Hillel shook his head. ‘That I cannot say. Their business was with Mr Holland, and they told me little. They apologised for being secretive, but Simeon told me that one day, when their research was over and the truth about the sword was proved, I would be the first to know before they revealed it to the world. Those were their very words.’

Ben knew that Simeon Arundel would never have used such grandiose terms lightly. ‘Revealed it to the world? So we’re talking about something extremely important.’

‘Mr Holland said this was a very special discovery. One of the most special anyone could imagine.’

‘I wish you’d never found it,’ Jude said. ‘I’m glad you found your dream, Mr Zada. But my parents died for it.’

There was a silence, just the wind whistling over the ramparts of Masada. Hillel hung his head sorrowfully. ‘I am so sorry for what happened to your father and mother,’ he murmured. ‘I am sure she was a wonderful woman. Simeon was a fine man, and he was so proud of his only son. He spoke of you often.’

Jude looked away. He wiped his eye quickly, as if he didn’t want anyone to notice.

‘Hillel, I’m concerned that whoever is chasing after this sword might also come after you,’ Ben said. ‘Has anyone been following you or hanging about the Coffee House? Any odd phone calls?’

Hillel looked blank. ‘I have noticed nothing.’

If Hillel had been left alone, it could only be because Wesley, Simeon and Fabrice had kept the Israeli somewhat in the dark and not involved him too closely in their plans. Whoever had been listening in to their phone conversations had either considered Hillel not worth chasing, or perhaps not known about him at all. Nonetheless, Ben advised him to keep his eyes open. ‘Tell your wife to do the same. These people are determined.’

Hillel’s face flushed with anger. ‘Who are these filthy dogs?’

‘That’s what I aim to find out.’

‘I pray you can before too long,’ Hillel said. ‘I fear for Mr Holland’s life.’

‘He was alive when he called Simeon’s home three days ago,’ Ben said. ‘Before he realised I wasn’t Simeon, he said a few things. One was that he was travelling to meet somebody called Martha. He mentioned her again in a phone message he left. It’s possible that she might be looking after the sword. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Hillel thought long and hard, then shook his head. ‘I am sorry. They never spoke of a Martha to me, nor did I ever meet such a person. Did Mr Holland not give any clue who this woman was, or where?’

‘None. A witness thinks they saw him heading for Boston, on the east coast. My guess is that Martha lives somewhere around there.’

Hillel shook his head again. ‘I wish that I could help you, but I have no idea about Martha. And I do not even know where Boston is.’

Nobody spoke for a few moments. The wind whipped up flurries of sand from the crumbled ramparts of the fortress. Ben lit a Gauloise and sucked smoke, fighting back the dark suspicion that the two-thousand-mile journey to Israel had ultimately taught him very little. Jude leaned against the safety rail, gazing wistfully towards the Dead Sea, occupied with his own thoughts.

‘Your father told me that you love the sea very much,’ Hillel said fondly to Jude, joining him at the rail.

‘He was right,’ Jude replied. ‘I do.’

‘You and Mr Holland would get along well. He has a home by the ocean. What a palace it must be. With great tall windows, taller than a man, he said to me. He told me how he often stands there and watches the waves for hours at a time, and the tower of light shining across the water at night.’

Ben looked at Hillel. Tower of light? He wondered about it for a moment, but said nothing, and it soon passed out of his mind as they left the ruins and made their way back towards the cable car.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Her name was Daria Pignatelli. She was twenty-eight, and a native of Naples. She was very dark and very beautiful, with flashing eyes and perfect teeth and a figure that should have carried an Italian government health warning for its ability to cause major traffic pile-ups as she walked down the street.

Daria had learned almost ten years ago that she could make more money from men who were drawn to her for her beauty than she ever could from helping her parents to run their little purse-making business from a converted garage. She was not – not yet – the most expensive prostitute in Naples, but she was a far cry from the poor drug-addled waifs who lined the backstreets and would give it away for a song to anybody. Daria was sensible and careful. She maintained her self-respect, could afford to be reasonably picky about her clientele, and would do nothing she wasn’t comfortable with. She was also a devout Catholic who saw no particular conflict between her faith and her chosen profession.

The Englishman had first noticed her when she’d been among several other girls brought to the island by motor launch to visit a group of clients in what seemed like a kind of shared apartment attached to the secluded villa. She’d seen him watching from a window of the main house, and been able to tell right away that this somewhat older, somehow sad and lonely-looking man wasn’t like the hard, crude brutes for whom she and the other girls were intended. The way he was scrutinising her, seeming to single her out from the others, she could see he liked her. She’d overheard someone refer to him as ‘Mr Lucas’. He was clearly the owner of the villa and in charge of whatever kind of business went on there. Like the other girls, Daria had the good sense not to concern herself with such matters.

The little contingent had made the boat trip across to the villa several times since. They were well enough looked after, extremely well paid in crisp banknotes, of which there seemed to be no shortage, and there was always lots of wine and champagne. She was always with a different man. They seemed to come and go. Again, she never asked why.

The phone call yesterday had come as no real surprise. Mr Lucas wanted to see Daria, alone. A car had come to pick her up at her apartment and taken her to meet the boat. The December weather was mild enough to wear a dress that was light without being too revealing. Mr Lucas had come to greet her at the gate of the villa. He was wearing a monogrammed satin dressing gown which she told him looked very raffinato.

He appeared nervous at first, and Daria thought he seemed a little wired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly. A lot of her rich clients were highly stressed businessmen seeking a little relaxation. When she slipped her willowy arm through his and let herself be led into the cool white interior of the villa – plants and artwork and expensive antiques everywhere – he seemed to unwind. MeesterLucas – he loved the way his name tripped deliciously off her tongue. She giggled and apologised for her bad English. He smiled charmingly. ‘No, I adore the way you speak. And please call me Penrose.’

Deep inside the villa, he took her to a plushly furnished office complete with a broad desk and a giant leather recliner chair. Kinky, she’d thought at first, until he showed her through a door into the adjoining bedroom. Daria got the strange impression that Mr Lucas spent most of his time in these two rooms. Who were all those other men? What did they do for him? He was obviously terribly wealthy and important. The bedroom was very luxurious, with a king-size bed and marble floor, beautiful things all around.

Penrose sat on the bed and motioned at her dress. ‘Take it off,’ he said. She duly obliged. The silk pooled around her ankles and she stepped out of it in one of her many sets of lacy underwear. For this occasion she’d chosen red, to go with the red high heels.

Penrose felt his heart quicken as he ran his eyes up and down her appreciatively. What a body. He’d already decided that he wanted to cover her with money first, stacks and stacks of lovely cash from one of the stuffed holdalls that were currently hidden under the bed, then make her take off the rest of her clothes, very very slowly, and then—

The fantasy abruptly popped like a bubble. Penrose’s brow creased. He leaned forward on the bed, craning his neck to peer more closely at her. Was that …?

Yes, it was!

He pointed. ‘Take that off,’ he said more sternly. ‘Take it off immediately.’

Daria smiled, reached behind her and began undoing the clasp of her lacy bra.