CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Paris-Berlin express thundered through the night, a gigantic ship that rode high above the Earth. Far below one could see the dim lights of eastern Europe.
Harry Wilson pressed his face against the window, staring down. There was nothing to see but the tiny lights. They were alone, he and the other occupants of the ship… alone in the dark world that surrounded them.
But Wilson sensed some other presence in the ship, someone besides the pilot and his mechanics up ahead, the hostess and the three stodgy traveling men who were his fellow passengers.
Wilson's hair ruffled at the base of his skull, tingling with an unknown fear that left him shaken.
A voice whispered in his ear: “Harry Wilson. So you are running away!"
Just a tiny voice that seemed hardly a voice at all, it seemed at once to come from far away and yet from very near. The voice, with an edge of coldness on it, was one he never would forget. He cowered in his seat, whimpering.
The voice came again: “Didn't I tell you that you couldn't run away? That no matter where you went, I'd find you?"
"Go away,” Wilson whispered huskily. “Leave me alone. Haven't you hounded me enough?"
"No,” answered the voice, “not enough. Not yet. You sold us out. You warned Chambers about our energy and now Chambers is sending men to kill us. But they won't succeed, Wilson."