Walking into the warmth and the smell of food and coffee, Wesley found the diner almost deserted. A wolfish-looking guy in a denim jacket and a dirty red-and-white baseball cap was slumped half asleep in one corner near the door. A desultory waitress was clattering cutlery behind the counter. A TV blared from a bracket on the wall. Despite the alluring aroma of frying bacon that hung in the air, Wesley couldnt face the thought of eating. He sat in a booth by the window and pushed the case under the table by his feet. Rubbing a hole in the condensation on the glass, he peered nervously out into the darkness. The lights of a car skimmed by on the highway. He watched it, half expecting it to veer into the diner parking lot and skid to a halt, the man in the tan leather coat and his associates spilling out of it with their guns blazing.
But the car kept going. Wesley let out a long breath.
During the hours in Maynards truck, hed racked his brains trying to figure out how the hell his pursuers had managed to find him at the motel, and after much deliberation hed arrived at the only possible conclusion.
Hed used his AmEx card to pay for the room. A connection had been made. Someone had had access to that information and used it to pinpoint his location instantly. The man in the brown coat and his gang must have been on standby, just waiting for their orders to come and get him.
The thought troubled Wesley immensely, because it meant that these people werent just anybody. Who had the power and reach to track a person via their credit card payments? Hed always believed only government agencies could do that FBI, CIA, those kinds of folks. Just who in Gods name was after him? Once again, he wondered whether this sword was really worth all this. But it was too late regretting it now. He just had to keep moving and pray they didnt catch up with him again.
Pretending to read the laminated menu card on the table in front of him, Wesley cast a paranoid glance at the solitary guy in the corner booth near the door. He didnt look like an agent, dressed like that. But then, he wouldnt. Wesley kept watching him. The guy yawned, took a slug of coffee, then took off his baseball cap and scratched at his greasy hair. He laid the cap down on the table and lowered his head onto his arms, appearing to go to sleep.
Wesley decided he might not be an undercover agent after all.
After a few more minutes of clattering plates, the waitress eventually threaded her way through the empty tables to take Wesleys order, throwing a disapproving look at the sleeping man in the corner. What can I do for you, honey? she said with a tired smile as she took out a pad.
Just coffee, Wesley said. Oh, miss, he added as she was about to turn away. Would you mind telling me where I am?
The waitress balked momentarily at the odd question, then told him a name hed never even heard of before. From her smile, he guessed not too many of the customers called her miss. You know where I could get a ride out of here? he said.
Just coffee, Wesley said. Oh, miss, he added as she was about to turn away. Would you mind telling me where I am?
The waitress balked momentarily at the odd question, then told him a name hed never even heard of before. From her smile, he guessed not too many of the customers called her miss. You know where I could get a ride out of here? he said.
Where you heading, honey? she asked him.
East, towards Boston.
Buses come by here every few hours, she said, motioning at the dark window. Stations over that way. Guess you might try there. Say- She narrowed her eyes and peered at Wesley curiously. You sure you havent been in here before?
I dont think so, he said blankly. Im not from around here.
You sure look familiar.
With a flash of panic, Wesley suddenly heard someone say his name from across the other side of the diner. He was about to make a dash for it when he realised it was coming from the TV. He cut short a gasp. His face was plastered over the screen! With merciful speed, the picture cut to an image of the Whitworth mansion surrounded by police cars and ambulances. He caught a snatch of the newscasters commentary: Attorneys representing the billionaire philanthropist, whose whereabouts are still unknown, are refusing to comment at this time
A lot of people tell me that, he said to the waitress, forcing a grin. Guess I just have that kind of face. And how many times had that face of his appeared on air over the last few hours? he thought. This was no good at all. Someone was bound to recognise him.
When his coffee came, he gulped down as much of it as he could, then left the diner in a hurry. The guy in the corner near the door was still slumped on his table, snoring, his baseball cap at his elbow. It was frayed and grimy, with a label that said Hoyt Archery. Wesley glanced back towards the counter, then furtively grabbed the cap and scurried away into the cold night.
The temperature outside seemed to have dropped several more degrees. Wesley jammed the cap on his head, pulled the peak down low over his face and glanced around him. Wherever the bus station might be, it was nowhere in sight. A smattering of traffic was passing by in both directions. He thought about trying to hitch another ride.
Another possible option was the used car lot the other side of a mesh fence. He had just about enough cash on him to get something from there, if he hung around here freezing his ass off till morning. But he worried about the paperwork hed have to fill in to buy a car. Could his seemingly omniscient pursuers trace him from that, too? Moreover, spending most of his cash would leave him short of ready money, now that his credit card was apparently unusable. If the AmEx could give him away so easily, then an ATM cash withdrawal surely would too. Until he reached the safety of Marthas, every step of the way there was a risk that theyd find him.
They. They. It sounded crazy.
But it wasnt crazy. He remembered the old saying: Its not paranoia if theyre really after you.
Simeon, my friend, were in deep shit, he muttered to himself.
A bus roared by, dimly lit up inside and carrying a smattering of passengers. Wesley watched it go, then pulled the cap down even further to hide his face and set off up the road, case in hand, looking for the nearby station.
Chapter Eighteen
The day after that first meeting with the mysterious Rex ONeill, Penrose had made sure he was available to make the rendezvous in the bar of the Kings Lodge Hotel in Durham, to be taken to meet the mans even more mysterious employers.
The October rain had cleared to make way for a sunny autumnal day. Penrose had arrived at the hotel ten minutes early, clutching the unsigned hundred-thousand-pound cheque in his pocket. ONeill was already waiting for him. He greeted Penrose with a nod and led him to a car. This time, the gleaming black Mercedes not the same one, Penrose observed had a driver. The car sped out of the city to an ultra-exclusive country club that Penrose had heard of but never been to. The clubhouse was a magnificent stately home overlooking the golf course.
ONeill stayed in the car. Severely baffled and intimidated, Penrose was led inside the opulent clubhouse by two very large fellows in dark suits, who silently escorted him to a conference room. There, seated around a long table, five very serious men were waiting for Penrose.
That had been his first encounter with the senior members of the obscure organisation calling itself the Trimble Group. They were all much older than Penrose, mostly well into their sixties. They had been extremely welcoming and full of praise for his excellent, important book. Hed been offered drinks, which he politely refused as he never touched alcohol. Then, over a long and lavish lunch that Penrose was too nervous to do more than peck at, theyd outlined their proposal to him.
As Penrose now discovered, he had been unanimously picked from a very short list of potential candidates. The groups brief was simple, and it required someone with particular qualities. Motivation was key; as was intelligence, as was secrecy.
As the meeting went on, Penrose had to pinch himself under the table to make sure he wasnt dreaming. He was bursting with questions, but so excited he could barely voice them. What he was hearing seemed utterly incredible. It seemed even more incredible when they revealed to him the size of the budget allocated to the operation they wanted him him! to personally lead and oversee. Penrose had to grip the edge of the table to stop himself from keeling over.
There would be an initial injection of twelve million pounds. The account had in fact already been opened and the funds put on standby, just waiting for his signature on the contract, whereupon the wire transfer would take place instantly, enabling him to access the money however he liked, in cash if desired. The twelve million was, he was assured, just a fraction of what was to come if the operation proved successful.
The deal terms were breathtakingly straightforward. Penrose would have a free hand to run the operation as he saw fit, with Rex ONeill assigned to him as his assistant, liaising with the Trimble Group and acting as a general aide and campaign manager.
Penroses busy academic schedule might be a concern, they warned. Penrose hastily assured them that it wasnt. He was already mentally drafting his letter of resignation to Durham University. Hed happily relocate to wherever they wanted, he told them. They laughed. You can run your show from wherever you like, one of them said, and the others didnt contradict him. Travel would be no problem. Penrose would have a fleet of cars at his disposal, as well as aircraft, including a Learjet allocated exclusively to him and on permanent standby to fly wherever he pleased.
One other thing, they reminded him gravely. He must never tell a living soul about this meeting or the nature of what had been discussed. To reveal anything of the Trimble Group, he was informed, would cause irreversible complications. This could not be stressed enough. All eyes were on him as the point was pressed home.
Penrose understood and accepted everything. He couldnt sign on the line fast enough.
When he left the meeting, Penroses head was spinning so badly he could barely walk back to the Mercedes.