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Wren laughed at this. “He’s a multibillionaire genius. The smartest guy in every room he’s ever walked into. That would make anyone bloody mad.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Right. Me, either.”
“Any reason you neglected to tell me that he thinks the United States is the one who’s trying to kill him?”
Wren waved a hand. “He’s got his theories. I don’t necessarily buy into them, but I’ve doubted him before and I’ve been dead wrong.”
“But…I’m American. A former government employee. Why the hell would you even think to hire me?”
“You’re good at what you do.”
Zack shook his head. “So are ten thousand other dudes. I’m not even a bodyguard by trade. C’mon, Wren. Do better.”
Now Wren held his hands up. “Hinton thinks…and I think this is rubbish, so don’t jump on me for telling you…that you can, in addition to providing first-class protection service, provide him with intelligence about what the U.S. is doing.”
Hightower said, “If the U.S. is on a worldwide killing spree of computer geeks, nobody at the White House bothered to call up my room at the Econo Lodge in San Antonio and let me know.”
The Englishman belted out a hearty laugh. “You’ve got the idea, mate. We can joke about Anton behind his back, but just don’t say it to his face. Be ready. He’ll ask you stuff about your work with the Agency.”
Zack wasn’t smiling. “And he won’t get jack shit out of me. So…we’re off to Cuba tomorrow?”
“Yeah…I was hoping he’d change his mind, his lab in Switzerland would have been my first choice, but honestly, he might be right. Nobody’s going to get to him in Cuba, the way that property is set up.” Gareth shrugged. “We get him down there safely and there will be no more threats to his person. Plus, he has a big lab outside Havana, staffed with engineers and scientists. His idea is he’s going to go down there, rally his troops, and they are going to figure out what new weaponized AI is about to come online that the Americans are so afraid of.”
Zack rolled his eyes.
“Look, mate. His mad ideas are good for you. He’ll spend his time in his lab, which is quite secure, and in his residence there on the island, which is absolutely impenetrable.”
“Nothing is impenetrable.”
Wren smiled. “You’ll see. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Wren looked at his watch, a fat Panerai Submersible that Zack imagined must have cost over twenty grand. “Eight p.m. How about we talk more over a pint and a plate of fish and chips. Anton’s buying.”
“He’s going?”
“No. But he’s buying.” Wren laughed. “That’s how it works when you are the employee of a billionaire. I think you’ll quite enjoy it, actually.”
TWENTY
Morning sun glinted on the windshields of the trio of beige Chrysler Pacifica minivans as they rolled through the C Street gate and onto the tarmac in front of a small hangar at Joint Base Andrews in Prince George’s County, Maryland, just southeast of Washington, D.C.
They slowed, then stopped, nose-to-nose and forty yards away from the closest aircraft on the ramp, a Bombardier Challenger 605 corporate jet.
Most of the other aircraft in view here at Andrews were military gray, Blackhawk helicopters and C-17 cargo planes, so the sleek white Challenger looked a little out of place, but those in the know at Andrews were well aware that government agencies often flew out of here on unmarked aircraft.
The man who climbed out of the front passenger seat of the first Chrysler wore a business suit, and his tie was a little loose around the neck. He was thirty-six, good looking and fresh faced, with slightly long brown hair and stylish Ray-Bans over his eyes.
Five more men, all in their thirties and forties, climbed out of the first two vehicles. One was Asian in appearance, one African American, one appeared Hispanic, and the other two were white. They all wore suits and ties, most were clean shaven, and they looked like they could be stockbrokers or bankers.
From the rearmost vehicle the men began extracting luggage, and there was an obvious disconnect between the bags that emerged and the men who stood around collecting them. Each man hefted a large Eberlestock Switchblade backpack onto his back, over his suit coat.
This was military-grade gear.
Next they each heaved out a massive green Hercules duffel, also made by Eberlestock and also military in appearance. They began rolling the big bags in the direction of the Challenger as a man appeared from inside the aircraft and came down the six steps of the jet stairs.
The first man from the minivans put his backpack and his rolling bag on the tarmac, extended a hand, and spoke over the din of the idling engines.
