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Unlike the others, who were dressed in business attire, the man in the center of the group most assuredly was not. He wore loose gray cotton yoga pants, a red tracksuit top zipped up to his neck, and Nike Air Force 1 Louis Vuitton shoes that sold for upwards of one hundred thousand dollars.
A red backpack slung over a shoulder shifted with his urgent stride, and massive over-the-ear headphones hung around his neck.
The driver returned to the wheel, and as soon as the group climbed inside the plush interior of the Sprinter, the door began to shut with a hiss, the side step retracted, and the vehicle began to move.
With the automatic shades drawn, as they were now, it was almost impossible to distinguish the cabin from the interior of a private jet.
Four of the five bodyguards in the entourage sat in the four cabin chairs, with the other riding shotgun up front, while the principal—the man with the Nikes and the track top—sat in the middle of the sofa in the back, flanked by the Asian female and the man in gray.
The man in brown sat stiffly on a small folding jump seat up by the bulkhead.
The VIP with the hyper-relaxed dress code was named Anton Hinton. He was an oddly boyish forty-six-year-old, with short brown hair cut into a fade, the sides shaved down to nothing and the top longer, adorned with hair product for lift and volume.
Hinton was a billionaire, dozens of times over. Originally from Wellington, New Zealand, he’d lived in Silicon Valley, Boston, here in the UK, and in other places, spending decades of his life, ever since he could remember, playing with, learning about, and then developing computer software. A gamer, then a student, then a programmer, then an entrepreneur, Hinton was a pioneer and a self-made man.
And with his wealth and his success and his decidedly high-profile lifestyle, he had become an international celebrity.
Hinton’s specialty was the expanding realm of intelligent design, and a decade earlier he’d cofounded an electric car company called Adamas that, at its peak, boasted annual revenues of over ten billion U.S. dollars.
Two years ago he sold Adamas to an international consortium centered in Ningbo, China, and since then he’d focused on his dozens of other companies, all working on developing AI applications for industry and the home. He had also become known for giving speeches around the world on the future of intelligent design, both its wonders and its dangers.
One of his primary concerns was the jeopardy of adopting artificial intelligence in the defense industries of the world, and this had made him unpopular with many in his field, because there was an incredible amount of money in R&D from defense contractors.
But Anton Hinton’s company, Hinton Lab Group, had a motto, a mission statement: “A bold, secure future for all.”
And Anton claimed it as his own personal mission to do nothing less than revolutionize life on planet Earth for the good of humankind.
Now Hinton looked around the van’s interior at those with him, his right knee bobbing up and down with nervous energy. Soon his eyes focused on the woman to his right.
“Kimmie,” he said, his New Zealand accent strong. “What time’s the charity dinner tonight?”
The woman didn’t need to consult the iPad she’d pulled from her purse as soon as the van began moving. Her attractive face displayed her Chinese heritage, but her accent revealed her London private school upbringing. “The event is at seven p.m., but Gareth said you would not be attending. I was just about to send contrite regrets to—”
“I’ll make a game-time decision,” Hinton replied. “The kids need support.”
The man on his left was the oldest person in the vehicle, at fifty-seven, though his weathered face and close-cropped gray hair made him, from the neck up anyway, appear to be in his sixties.
From the neck down, however, it was a different story. He was lean, exactly six feet, with broad shoulders and a posture that gave off an air of supreme formidableness. Under his suit he appeared carved in stone, possessing not an ounce of surplus body weight, and he carried himself as if he were a twenty-five-year-old professional athlete.
It was only eight a.m. now, and Gareth Wren had already spent a grueling hour and fifteen minutes this morning in the gym at the Randolph.
Upon hearing his boss’s declaration that he might, in fact, attend the charity dinner that evening, he spoke up. Wren was English, from Nottingham in the East Midlands, and his own dialect was distinct from but as strong as Hinton’s.
“We’ve been through this already, Anton. Need to avoid high-profile scheduled events, at least for a few days while this all gets sorted, yeah?”
Hinton leaned his head back and listened to the alpha waves to focus his thoughts and calm himself. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he said, “Fine, then.” He turned to the woman. “Kimmie, along with…what did you call it? ‘Contrite regrets’? Let’s increase tonight’s donation to the children’s hospital by…a third.”
“Very generous, Anton. I’ll take care of it.” She’d just finished saying this when her phone buzzed. She touched the AirPod in her right ear and answered softly.
Hinton turned back to Gareth Wren now. “They need my money more than they need my face, anyway. All right, now, mate. What’s the plan for this morning’s appointment?”
“My plan, if you recall, was to cancel this morning’s appointment.”
Hinton made a face of annoyance but said nothing. He then turned to look straight ahead. There, one of the security detail had swiveled his cabin chair around to face the group.
Hinton said, “Emilio? You and your men are ready for this?”
Emilio was Chilean, but his English was excellent. “Yes, Anton. Everything is under control at the university. I’ve already been in touch with security there.”
