scrap he could find about the incident. Three members of Holland’s staff had been shot dead in what was believed to have been an attempted robbery by an armed gang, who had left apparently empty-handed after the billionaire had managed to escape to a panic room and call the police. Holland himself had disappeared shortly after the incident, and sources close to him had expressed great concern at the lack of contact from him since. It was not believed that Holland was under suspicion for the crimes committed at his home.
There had been two possible sightings of the billionaire soon after his disappearance, one from a freight trucker named Maynard Griggs who claimed to have picked up an elderly hitchhiker a few miles from the Massachusetts state line and only recognised him later from the television news; and one from a forty-seven-year-old waitress named Sally-Ann Ryerson who’d served coffee to a lone traveller closely matching Holland’s description at the diner where she worked outside Lunenburg, MA. The man had told her he was heading towards Boston, possibly by bus. No further sightings had been reported. The investigation was continuing.
Ben went on searching for more material.
*
Cutter, Grinnall, Mills and Doyle thundered up the stairs to the floor where the hotel manager had told them the foreigners were staying. The manager was now lying comatose on the floor of the office behind the lobby, bleeding profusely from a pistol-butt blow to the head. The old guy might have had a heart attack, they weren’t sure. He’d collapsed before they’d managed to get all the information out of him.
It was almost midnight. A busy few hours had gone by since the Trimble Group jet had touched down at the private terminal at Ben Gurion Airport. Cutter was under pressure to get results, and he wasn’t messing around. A few heads had been broken before one of the airport shuttle service minibus drivers had finally come up with something. Two foreigners answering Hope and Arundel’s descriptions had got off his bus in Jerusalem centre and been seen hailing a cab. At first the minibus driver couldn’t remember which taxi firm it had been, but it was amazing how a knife to the testicles focused the mind. From there, it had been a straightforward matter of bribing and brutalising as many people as it took until a taxi driver spat out the name of a hotel.
‘This is the floor,’ Cutter said as they emerged at the top of the stairs. He started off in long strides down the corridor. Grinnall walked a step behind, his leather coat swishing. At the rear, Mills and Doyle were deep in debate.
‘He’s fucking nuts, though, ain’t he? See it in his fucking eyes.’
‘That’s not the fucking point, though.’
‘Shut it,’ Cutter threw back over his shoulder, and the conversation ceased. Up ahead, a pretty, plump Israeli girl in a cleaner’s uniform emerged from an empty room carrying a mop and bucket. She was working very late tonight, and looked as weary as she felt. Her polite smile faded when she saw the looks on the four men’s faces. Before she could let out a scream, Grinnall clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Take her in there,’ Cutter said softly, glancing up and down the corridor. They dragged her into the room and shut the door.
Inside the room, Grinnall kept his hand tightly over her mouth, clutching her head to his chest with a pistol at her temple. She squirmed and rolled her eyes in terror at the sight of the gun. He hadn’t had this much fun since plugging the motel reception girl back in America. It made up for the humiliation of losing Holland’s trail and returning empty-handed.
Cutter took out the photo prints he’d shown the manager downstairs. Hope’s was taken from his business website, Arundel’s from college records. ‘You seen these men?’ he asked the girl, flashing the pictures in front of her. She didn’t understand a word of English, but his meaning was very clear. She squinted at the pictures. She’d only seen the foreigners a couple of times since they’d checked in, but she was fairly certain it was them. She nodded.
‘You fucking sure?’ Cutter demanded. On cue, Grinnall’s pistol muzzle ground harder against the side of her head. She let out a little squeal of pain and fear, then nodded frantically a second time.
‘What room?’ Cutter hissed. ‘Let her speak, Terry.’
‘She’ll scream.’
‘No, she won’t.’ Cutter slipped out a double-edged stiletto knife and pressed it lightly against her trembling throat. ‘What room, darling?’ The girl babbled something in Hebrew. Cutter grabbed her hand impatiently. ‘Use your bloody fingers, girl.’ Understanding, she held up seven trembling fingers, then eight.
‘Room 78. Move.’
‘What about her?’ Grinnall asked.
‘Let’s do her,’ Doyle said, glancing at the neatly made bed. ‘We got time.’
‘We’re not going to do her,’ Cutter said. He drew back his fist and punched the girl hard in the face, knocking her out. Grinnall chuckled. They left her sprawled on the carpet, shut the room and continued up the corridor. Reaching the door of Room 78, they paused a moment to check their weapons one last time.
Then kicked in the door with a splintering crash.
The blond-haired man who’d been reclining on the bed jerked bolt upright in panic as the four armed intruders burst into his room. He was wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts, and his legs were scrawny and shaved smooth. He had silver rings in both nipples. He scrabbled for his spectacles on the bedside table, jammed them onto his nose and gawked up in speechless horror. His younger travelling companion had just emerged from the shower, naked except for a pink bathrobe draped over his narrow shoulders. He froze, terrified, and seemed about to burst into tears.
‘Ah, fuck,’ said Cutter, lowering his gun.
Chapter Forty-Six
Ben managed to sleep a while despite the thoughts and questions that filled his head. He was awake early the following morning and met Jude downstairs for breakfast. Jude ate voraciously but Ben wasn’t hungry. He demolished a pot of coffee, then the two of them headed out of the hotel to hail a taxi. Ben showed the driver the address on Hillel Zada’s card, and the car took off. They headed west, with road signs pointing north for Ramallah and southwards towards Bethlehem.
Jerusalem is one city in two countries. Hillel’s home was in the suburbs west of the Green Line, the 1949 armistice demarcation line that marked the division not just between West and East Jerusalem, but also between Israel and Palestine, where heavily armed customs officials stopped all traffic and checked passports. Ben and Jude were waved through into a very different section of the city. Suddenly the shop signs were all in Arabic instead of Hebrew, and the Islamic influence was noticeably stronger. A gang of youths hurled stones at the passing Israeli-registered taxicab. The driver pressed on with barely a glance at them.
It was just after eight when they reached Hillel Zada’s home, a large, sprawling villa set among gardens ringed by a high wall. A tall arched entrance was closed off by wooden gates. Ben let the taxi driver go, then pressed the buzzer by the entrance. Moments later, he and Jude heard a powerful engine fire up from inside the wall. The gates swung open automatically and a Toyota Land Cruiser with oversized wheels, grilles over the headlights and clusters of spotlamps on the roof and radiator came roaring out of the entrance. From the noise, the exhaust was either some kind of high-performance add-on, or it was about to drop off. Hillel Zada’s bearded face appeared at the driver’s window. ‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said solemnly. ‘Get in.’
As they charged off at high speed in Hillel’s tank, he explained that he had all seven of his children currently visiting, with all sixteen of his grandchildren. With a full house, it was easier for them to talk elsewhere. Besides, he added enigmatically, there was something he wanted to show them.
‘Where are we going?’ Ben asked over the bellowing racket of the Land Cruiser.
‘I will take you to where it began,’ Hillel said sadly. ‘Where I first made my discovery, nearly fifty years ago.’
As Hillel went carving back