She expected to see some bench seats or perhaps just an area for tools and supplies. But the van’s interior was quite the opposite. She had ridden in a limo a few times in her life—before and after the Matric Dance during her final year of high school, a few wedding parties where she’d been a bridesmaid—but this was definitely the nicest “limo” she had ever seen. A leather couch lined one side and the van’s rear. She climbed up and saw that the opposite side was lined with several flat screen displays and a full bar. She could see between the door and the exterior metal that the van was heavily armored, definitely bulletproof and maybe enough to survive a direct RPG attack. None of the actual van’s interior showed through. Everything that was not meant for sitting, watching, or drinking was covered in a wood the color of molasses, each piece with a scene from history intricately carved into its surface. The pieces of wood joined together like a large mural, a true work of art lovingly crafted by expert hands. The smells of leather and wood were overpowered by the aromas of microwave popcorn and scotch.

She slid the door closed and took a seat. Her senses on overload, she scanned her surroundings and registered the small man occupying the van’s rear couch.

“Do you like it?” he said.

“It’s definitely not what I was expecting.”

The van started to move, and she looked back at her host. As Christopher had predicted, Mobius was also not what she had expected.

He sat on the couch with his legs off the floor and crossed like he was meditating. He wore no shoes, his jeans cuffed, exposing his ankles and part of his calves. A white dress shirt beneath a gray vest and blood red tie covered his torso, the sleeves of the shirt rolled up tightly on his forearms and the tie loosened at the neck. He was thin but appeared in good shape, average height and build, maybe a little shorter than average. Small oval-shaped glasses sat on his nose, and a neatly trimmed black beard covered his otherwise boyish face. His hair was gelled in that messy American look, and he couldn’t have been older than thirty. He reminded Isabel of what a grown-up Harry Potter might have looked like, British accent and all.

“Am I what you expected?” Mobius asked. “Do I look like I drink the blood of babies and commune with the forces of darkness?”

“You had the BMW bugged?”

“I like to monitor my assets.”

“This is quite a ride, but wouldn’t a limo have been cheaper?” she asked.

“People see a limo, and they assume someone of importance is inside. I have several vehicles like this, disguised and invisible. I like to keep my privacy, which is why I had Mr. Christopher drive you out here. I didn’t want to chance that you could snap a picture of me or have something planned that would be equally unacceptable. You seem surprised? Were you expecting some beastly chap with tattoos and scars?”