‘Not that I’m aware of, but I know the way cops think and it doesn’t help that you run off like a fugitive and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’
‘I have my reasons, Bob. You’ll find out soon enough. That’s not why I’m calling. There’s something I need you to do for me. Can I count on you for this? It’s important.’
Mooney sounded hurt. ‘Hey, how long have we known each other?’
‘Here’s what I want. Find out who’re the best personal protection team in the country. Whatever they charge, pay them double, triple, just make sure you hire them. I want the meanest, toughest sons of bitches you can dig up. I’ll contact you again in twenty-four hours and you give me the number to call.’
A moment’s appalled silence on the phone. ‘Wesley, if you’re in some kind of trouble here-’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Why do you need protection?’
‘Will you do this for me or not?’
‘Naturally I will. Give me your number there so I can put these people in touch with you.’
‘No, Bob.’
‘I’ll know it anyway.’
‘I withheld it.’
Bob seemed amazed that Wesley should be savvy to such modern trickery. ‘Come on, Wes. You gotta give me something.’
‘When it’s the right time, I’ll tell you where I am.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Once everything’s in place. Then I’ll fill you in as best I can. Until then, I’m keeping my mouth shut.’
Mooney let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Is it serious trouble? Tell me that at least.’
‘Pretty serious.’
‘Does it have to do with what happened at the mansion?’
‘Uh-huh. And more besides.’
‘For Chrissakes, Wes, even I can’t hold back the tide for ever. You’ve got to come forward with this. As your lawyer I have to tell you that the weirder you act, the less you’re gonna look like the chief witness and more like the chief suspect. That’s how the cops, and everyone else, are going to see it.’
‘That can’t be helped for the moment,’ Wesley said. ‘I trust you, Bob. Talk to you tomorrow.’
Wesley hung up the phone, picked up his sabre and walked through the airy house to the kitchen to check on how his steak was defrosting. A bottle of 1993 Bordeaux was sitting opened on the side, nothing too ostentatious, a modest little hundred-dollar table wine to go with his dinner. Thinking he’d like to replay those Bach Goldberg Variations that he’d been listening to earlier, he turned back towards the living room.
A man he’d never seen before was standing in the hallway, looking right at him.
‘Wesley Holland?’ the man said.
Wesley sucked in a great lungful of air and felt his knees turn to jelly. He staggered back a step. ‘I’m not Holland. Who the hell are you?’
‘We spoke on the phone,’ the man said. ‘And I never forget a voice.’
‘You get away from me,’ Wesley rasped. He gripped the hilt of the sabre and rattled the weapon out of its steel scabbard.
‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ the man said, moving forward a step.
Wesley didn’t believe that, not for one moment. He could see the purposeful look in the stranger’s eye, and was ready to make a lunge with the blade and then run like hell for the vault. He’d lock himself in down there, even if it meant starving to death. Anything was preferable to what these people would do to him.
‘Another step closer and I’ll run you right through, mister. I mean it.’ His hand was shaking so badly he could barely grip the sabre hilt.
‘Why don’t you put that down, so we can talk?’ the stranger said.
‘Who are you?’ Wesley quavered. ‘What do you want from me?’
At that moment, another figure appeared in the hallway. He was a younger man of about twenty, with a shock of fair hair. Wesley peered at him. He could have sworn the young man looked familiar.
‘I’m Jude Arundel,’ he said. ‘You were a friend of my father’s.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
A stunned silence in the hallway.
It was Wesley who broke it. ‘What do you mean, I was a friend of Simeon’s?’
‘He’s dead,’ Jude said tightly. ‘So is my mother. They were killed by the same people who are after you.’
Wesley suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. He staggered over to a chair and slumped heavily into it, dropping the sabre to the floor and sinking his face in his hands. ‘Oh, no. I warned him. I told him to be careful.’
‘We’ve come a long way to see you, Mr Holland.’ Ben picked up the fallen sabre, replaced it in its scabbard and propped it against the wall. ‘My name’s Ben Hope. I’ve known Simeon and Michaela Arundel for twenty years, and I was with them when they died. I was staying at their home the night you called there.’
‘How did you find me here?’
‘Not too easily, you’ll be pleased to know,’ Ben said. ‘You did a pretty decent job of covering your tracks.’
‘I was lucky, that’s all. They very nearly got me on the road.’
‘Have you told anyone where you are?’
‘You have to be kidding. Not even my lawyer knows.’
‘All the same,’ Ben said, ‘do you keep a gun in the house? Any kind of gun’ll do.’
‘There’s a Revolutionary War musket in the vault,’ Wesley told him. ‘It hasn’t been fired in centuries, though.’
‘Forget it.’
Wesley sighed. ‘I need a drink. Let’s go into the kitchen.’
Dinner was forgotten for the moment. Wesley settled onto a padded stool and emptied a third of his ’93 Bordeaux into a large wineglass. Both Ben and Jude declined the offer of a drink.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, son,’ Wesley said after a few gulps.
‘Thanks,’ Jude muttered.
Wesley turned to Ben. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘You tell him,’ Jude said to Ben. He walked over to the window and turned his back for a few moments. It was getting darker outside. The distant meteorological observatory tower was lit up, throwing a red light across the water.
‘Their car was forced off the road,’ Ben said. ‘It was set up to look like an accident.’
‘Did they suffer?’ Wesley whispered.
‘No,’ Ben lied. ‘It was very quick.’ He glanced over at Jude, paused, and then went on. ‘I don’t think it was as quick for Fabrice Lalique. But you already knew about that.’
‘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.
