“Where are we heading?” I ask him.
“That depends on where you want to go.”
I stare down at the photograph still in my hands.
“The Hartfield Institute.”
“Check the satnav.”
When I lean over and check his phone on the dash, the satellite navigation app he has open reads Applecross as our destination. The route seems to take us back into Scotland to a spot on the northwest coast some three hundred miles away.
“What’s in Applecross?”
“According to the coordinates the good doctor sent us—which unsurprisingly my system does not recognise—the site where the institute was built is a couple of miles northwest of Applecross. As he says, this could be a bum steer, but I thought it might be worth a shot. What do you think?”
“Does this toy have enough triple-A batteries to get us that far?”
Coleman laughs aloud and relaxes a little at my joke. He seems different, more sober and alert than I ever remember him.
“This Californian-built prototype—a company I’m heavily invested in—has a full charge and can do just over a thousand miles. Fuck those other motor companies run by their narcissistic egomaniacs, you are sitting in the future of electrictravel, buddy. We’re a couple of hiccups away from a fully driverless model. So the answer to your question is that, yeah, we have more than enough juice for a round trip. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”
When I recheck the route, I notice Applecross is about eighty miles due west of the old farmhouse we stayed at last night. Coincidence? I decide to put that thought on the back burner for now.
“Any more questions?”
“How long have you known Romano?”
“Albert introduced us when I went to spec out his purchase in Monticiano. And yes, before you ask, I knew about his plans. I majored in structural engineering back in college and he wanted my opinion on how to restore the villa. But anyway, the day I got there, Albert was laughing with this distinguished-looking Italian guy who spoke flawless English and introduced himself as the local doctor. Only on our drive to Paris did Albert tell me many truths. And one was that Romano ran one of Italy’s most highly regarded special operations teams. Honestly, Gabe, I near flipped the goddamn car. Not only knowing that about Romano, but the fact that Albert knew all this and was happy to get involved. D’you know what else he said to me in the car?”
I don’t, of course, so the question is moot, but I shake my head for his benefit.
“He said he hoped his family did come snooping around the place because the highly trained house staff had his permission to scare the shit out of them. He also told me the place had something to do with you and your future. But that’s all he said back then, no deets.”
“I saw you and Albert speaking together occasionally.”
“You know that old saying that every family has one bad apple? Well, Albert was the one good apple in a barrel of rotten fruit. Okay, enough about me. Albert said you were pretty sharp,so how about you exercise some of those superior grey cells and tell me why else you think I’m here.”
Coleman is smiling as he concentrates on the road ahead.
“Sylvie Leblanc.”
Coleman’s smile broadens, and he nods his head.
“Go on.”
“She’s the catalyst. You were friends with her in college, and Albert knew her through his work.”
“Which is how I met Victoria. Another story. Go on. You’re doing well.”
“Sylvie knew about my background, and I’m guessing that’s through her uncle. He told me she visited him at Honeycomb Cottage with a guest, which was when he gave her confidential information about the project, to be used only in the event that anything happened to him—”
“Yeah, real big fucking man, the uncle. Always looking out for himself, even if that meant putting his niece’s life in danger.”
“And the fact you know where this place is and knew how to get me out of there makes me think that you were Sylvie’s guest back then.”
Coleman happily thumps the steering wheel.
“Top marks. I knew nothing about the work he’d been involved in or the documents. That must have been a conversation they had during another visit. But you’re right. I was the guest she brought with her all those years back. Old man Leblanc wanted free advice on how to renovate his beloved middle-of-nowhere cottage. That’s when I got hold of the blueprints and how we discovered the old passageway in the cellar. Back in the nineteenth century, Honeycomb Cottage served as a safe haven for political prisoners and escapees from penal institutions. Fucking ironic, wouldn’t you say, that the place became Leblanc’s prison?”