The man behind the wheel looked older than the truck, his wrinkles bathed in light every time he passed under one of the fancy lampposts. White hair, gaunt face, his eyes nothing but slits. Partially from his Asian features. But mostly because he had to squint to see.
If ever a man and his truck belonged together, it was these two.
Payne watched him as he drove up the hill and through the parking overhang, stopping on the downslope of the other side, as if he needed momentum to get started again. The back of the truck was filled with a variety of fishing tools. Rods and reels. Several nets. Two ice chests that were big enough for salmon. Nothing new or expensive. Simple tools for an age-old craft.
The motor continued to run as he stepped out of the truck. He wore grimy old clothes that reeked of the sea. His spine was crooked, his posture hunched, his skin splotched from the sun. He just stood there, whistling absently, his eyes straining to see the pocket watch he held next to his face. Anxious. Waiting. This was a man who was meeting someone.
Cautiously, Payne stepped into the light. Just far enough to be seen. “Good morning.”
The old man froze until he spotted Payne in the shadows. Moving slowly, he trudged toward him until he was close enough to whisper. The same voice as on the phone. “Are you Payne?”
“Maybe. Who are you?”
The old man leaned closer. “A friend of Mr. Lee.”
“In that case, I’m Jonathon Payne.”
He smiled, glad he had found him so easily. “Are your friends coming with us?”
“That depends. Where are we going?”
“To find the boy.”
Payne arched an eyebrow. “Which boy are you talking about?”
The old man pulled out a copy of the photograph. The one Payne had taken from the Parks’ house. He pointed to it with gnarled fingers that were covered in calluses. “Yong-Su.”
“You know where he is?”
“I know where he was. That’s the best I can do.”
Payne considered the old man’s answer, trying to read between the lines. Trying to figure out how he fit into all this. Was he a relative of the Parks? A friend? Or was this some kind of trick meant to distract Payne from danger that waited around the bend? His gut told him he was safe, that there was no real threat, but he realized a second opinion never hurt.
So he casually unzipped his coat—his signal to Jones— and waited for a response.
Three seconds later, his cell phone rang. He grabbed it with one hand and signaled for the old man to wait with the other. Very calm, very natural. Like any other day at the office.
“Hello?” Payne answered.
Jones was positioned on the hotel roof, which offered him views of the grounds, roads, and sea. Visibility was poor due to the lack of sun and a thin layer of fog that had settled over the golf course, but from his vantage point, nothing looked suspicious. “We’re clear.”
“Hello?” he repeated, as if there were a bad connection. It prevented him from faking a conversation. It also allowed Jones to call right back if anything changed. “Hello?”
The old man laughed. “You need a new phone.”
Payne shrugged and smiled. “And you need a new truck.”
He laughed louder. “You are probably right.”
“So,” he said, “how do you know the boy?”
“I don’t. I’ve never met him before. I am just a poor fisherman who lives at sea.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“But my son,” the old man clarified, “he helped the boy. He knows the father. He helped him in his time of need.”
“Well, I’d love to speak to him.”
“Then let’s get going. It’s a long drive.”
“Can’t we just call him?”
“Not with your phone. It doesn’t work.” He cackled softly. “Besides, my son needs to meet you in person. He needs to look you in the eye. He needs to judge your character.”
Payne nodded, willing to take the risk. “In that case, I’d be happy to meet him. But I’m going in my own truck. I’d feel safer that way.”
“Suit yourself,” said the old man. “But my truck is going to outlast us all.”
25
The man who planned the attack had a healthy fear of computers. He respected their place in the world and understood their importance in certain situations, but during the past decade he had seen too many colleagues arrested or killed because of computer issues. No matter how much training his people had, they were no match for the American agencies who spent billions of dollars on the latest technology that had been designed to catch them in the act.
Somehow, someway, his men always screwed up.