Read Online Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) by Scott Mariani - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Mariani
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if the conditions had been more clement, the fact that all three of his private jets and all eight of his helicopters were registered to him made it far too easy for whoever was after the sword to track his movements. And after a near crash coming into Taipei in 1996, he’d vowed never to set foot on a commercial airliner again. No, by road was the only way. Nobody could track him or find him out here. Nobody in the world except for Simeon Arundel knew about Martha’s. The sword would be safe there.
In the meantime, there it was, locked in its case behind him on the back seat of the car. One of the most important artefacts in history. Perhaps
the
most important.
Wesley Holland wasn’t a religious animal. Try as he might, he found it impossible to share the fervent spiritual passion that drove men like Simeon Arundel. There were times when it irked him, but more often he found himself actually envying it, feeling excluded and annoyed at himself for being incapable of fully experiencing something that seemed to be able to offer such fulfilment to people who opened themselves to it. He still remembered the light in Simeon’s eyes, and those of Fabrice Lalique, that day in France when he’d first told them about his amazing historical find. But even an agnostic like Wesley couldn’t escape the skin-tingling excitement of such a monumental discovery.
The three had met during the repair of a badly deteriorating medieval church near Millau, which Wesley had been funding entirely out of his own pocket. The contractors he’d hired for the job were an up-and-coming Parisian firm reputed to be the best in the business; Wesley had been there to check out their work. So had a young English minister named Simeon Arundel, recently come into some funds of his own and intent on learning all he could about church restoration. Also keeping a watchful eye on the long-needed project had been the local priest in Millau, Fabrice Lalique.
An American, an Englishman and a Frenchman. It could have been the opening of a joke, but instead it became the start of a friendship. One night over dinner and a very expensive bottle of wine provided by Wesley, he’d decided he trusted the pair of clergymen enough to tell them the secret he’d been yearning to share with someone who could truly understand it, appreciate it, and most of all, keep quiet about it. Their initial reaction on hearing of his discovery had been one of stunned disbelief, just as his had been at first. But when he’d shown them the evidence, their scepticism had turned to fascination, then to wonderment and awe.
Simeon had been speechless at the way his life had just changed.
‘But we ought to tell people about this,’ Fabrice had argued.
‘Be patient,’ Wesley had urged him. ‘The time will come.’
Wesley still believed it would, even after nearly three years of maddening dealings with experts who wouldn’t pull their heads out of their asses and realise what they were being shown. For the first time, though, his excitement was now tempered with doubts. People were dying. Was it all worth it?
Yes, it was, he decided as he drove. If Fabrice had died protecting the secret, and if Coleman and the others had died because of it, then Wesley was damn well going to make sure these thugs, whoever they were, didn’t get their hands on it. Once he arrived at his destination, he was going to hire an army of the toughest bodyguards money could buy.
Let the sons of bitches come find him then. Let them try.
The red of dawn was burning through the snowclouds by the time Wesley realised he couldn’t go on any more without a rest. If he didn’t stop awhile, he was going to drift off at the wheel and crash the car. His tense shoulders sagged with relief when he saw the motel sign a few miles on that said ‘VACANCY’S’. ‘Thank God,’ he mumbled.
Wesley pulled into the car park between the shabby, snow-covered wooden buildings. The only other car in sight was an ancient
In the meantime, there it was, locked in its case behind him on the back seat of the car. One of the most important artefacts in history. Perhaps
the
most important.
Wesley Holland wasn’t a religious animal. Try as he might, he found it impossible to share the fervent spiritual passion that drove men like Simeon Arundel. There were times when it irked him, but more often he found himself actually envying it, feeling excluded and annoyed at himself for being incapable of fully experiencing something that seemed to be able to offer such fulfilment to people who opened themselves to it. He still remembered the light in Simeon’s eyes, and those of Fabrice Lalique, that day in France when he’d first told them about his amazing historical find. But even an agnostic like Wesley couldn’t escape the skin-tingling excitement of such a monumental discovery.
The three had met during the repair of a badly deteriorating medieval church near Millau, which Wesley had been funding entirely out of his own pocket. The contractors he’d hired for the job were an up-and-coming Parisian firm reputed to be the best in the business; Wesley had been there to check out their work. So had a young English minister named Simeon Arundel, recently come into some funds of his own and intent on learning all he could about church restoration. Also keeping a watchful eye on the long-needed project had been the local priest in Millau, Fabrice Lalique.
An American, an Englishman and a Frenchman. It could have been the opening of a joke, but instead it became the start of a friendship. One night over dinner and a very expensive bottle of wine provided by Wesley, he’d decided he trusted the pair of clergymen enough to tell them the secret he’d been yearning to share with someone who could truly understand it, appreciate it, and most of all, keep quiet about it. Their initial reaction on hearing of his discovery had been one of stunned disbelief, just as his had been at first. But when he’d shown them the evidence, their scepticism had turned to fascination, then to wonderment and awe.
Simeon had been speechless at the way his life had just changed.
‘But we ought to tell people about this,’ Fabrice had argued.
‘Be patient,’ Wesley had urged him. ‘The time will come.’
Wesley still believed it would, even after nearly three years of maddening dealings with experts who wouldn’t pull their heads out of their asses and realise what they were being shown. For the first time, though, his excitement was now tempered with doubts. People were dying. Was it all worth it?
Yes, it was, he decided as he drove. If Fabrice had died protecting the secret, and if Coleman and the others had died because of it, then Wesley was damn well going to make sure these thugs, whoever they were, didn’t get their hands on it. Once he arrived at his destination, he was going to hire an army of the toughest bodyguards money could buy.
Let the sons of bitches come find him then. Let them try.
The red of dawn was burning through the snowclouds by the time Wesley realised he couldn’t go on any more without a rest. If he didn’t stop awhile, he was going to drift off at the wheel and crash the car. His tense shoulders sagged with relief when he saw the motel sign a few miles on that said ‘VACANCY’S’. ‘Thank God,’ he mumbled.
Wesley pulled into the car park between the shabby, snow-covered wooden buildings. The only other car in sight was an ancient
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