A Step Into the AbyssAt one of the private dining tables in his exclusive club, Wilson Frement sat back with a glass of brandy in his hand and stared. The dinner had proved excellent, he had no complaints about that. Nor the wine, the service, ambiance. None of it. What disturbed him more than anything was Michael Hamon, who sat opposite him, the look of a petulant child on his face.
“What exactly do you mean, you've lost him? Again?”
Hamon did his best not to match Frement's icy stare. “What I say, sir. We had reports that he was seen travelling on a hover-bike.”
“A hover-bike? Bremen?”
“As incredulous as it sounds, yes.”
“How old is he?”
Hamon shrugged. “Fifty-five, fifty-six. Something like that.”
“Well past it.”
“Apparently not.”
“And you, Mr Hamon. How old are you?”
“Sir?”
