Read Online The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) by Stross Charles - Free Book Online
Authors: Stross Charles
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kitchen table,
scribbled in her big, childish handwriting: MILK STAIL, BOUT MORE. He smiled at that. Oscar’s bowls were half-full, so he ignored the cat’s special pleading and went through into what
had been a cramped storeroom when he moved in. Now it was an even more cramped gym, or as much of one as there was space for in the bachelor apartment. He flipped the radio on as he climbed wearily
onto the exercise bike:
Maybe I should have held the shower
? he wondered as he turned the friction up a notch and began pedaling.
Fifteen minutes on the bike then a round of push-ups and he began to feel a bit looser. It was almost time to start on the punch bag, but as he came up on fifty sit-ups the phone in the living
room rang. Swearing, he abandoned the exercise and made a dash for the handset before the answering machine could cut in. ‘Yes?’ he demanded.
‘Mike Fleming? Can you quote your badge number?’
‘I – who
is
this?’ he demanded, shivering slightly as the sweat began to evaporate.
‘Mike Fleming. Badge number. This is an unsecured line.’ The man at the other end of the phone sounded impatient.
‘Okay.’
More fallout from work. Head office, maybe?
Mike paused for a moment, then recited his number. ‘Now, what’s this about?’
‘Can you confirm that you were in a meeting with Tony Vecchio and Pete Garfinkle this afternoon?’
‘I –’ Mike’s head spun. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to discuss this on an open line. If you want to talk about it at the office then you need to schedule an
appointment – ’
‘Listen, Fleming. I’m not cleared for the content of the meeting. Question is, were you in it? Think before you answer, because if you answer wrong you’re in deep
shit.’
‘I – yes.’ Mike found himself staring at the wall opposite. ‘Now. Who exactly am I talking to?’ The CLID display on his phone just said NUMBER WITHHELD. Which was
pretty remarkable, on the face of it, because this wasn’t an ordinary caller-ID box. And this wasn’t an ordinary caller: his line was ex-directory, for starters.
‘A minibus will pick you up in fifteen minutes, Fleming. Pack for overnight.’ The line went dead, leaving him staring at the phone as if it had just grown fangs.
‘What the hell?’ Oscar walked past his ankle, leaning heavily. ‘Shit.’ He tapped the hook then dialed the office. ‘Tony Vecchio’s line, please, it’s
Mike Fleming. Oh – okay. He’s in a meeting? Can you – yeah, is Pete Garfinkle in? What, he’s in a meeting too? Okay, I’ll try later. No, no message.’ He put the
phone down and frowned. ‘Fifteen minutes?’
*
Once upon a time, when he was younger, Mike had believed all the myths.
He’d believed that one syringe full of heroin was enough to turn a fine, upstanding family man into a slavering junkie. He’d believed that marijuana caused lung cancer, dementia, and
short-term memory loss, that freebase cocaine – crack – could trigger fits of unpredictable rage, and that the gangs of organized criminals who had a lock on the distribution and sale
of illegal narcotics in the United States were about the greatest internal threat that the country faced.
Also, when he was even younger, he’d believed in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.
Now
. . . he still believed in the gangs. Ten years of stalking grade-A scumbags and seeing just what they did to the people around them left precious little room for illusions about
his fellow humanity. Some dealers were just ethically impaired entrepreneurs working in a shady, high-risk field, attracted by the potential for high profits. But you had to have a ruthless streak
to take that level of risk, or be oblivious to the suffering around you, and the dangers of the field seemed to repel sane people after a while. The whole business of illegal drugs was a magnet for
seekers of the only
real
drug, the one that was addictive at first exposure, the one that drove people mad and kept them coming
scribbled in her big, childish handwriting: MILK STAIL, BOUT MORE. He smiled at that. Oscar’s bowls were half-full, so he ignored the cat’s special pleading and went through into what
had been a cramped storeroom when he moved in. Now it was an even more cramped gym, or as much of one as there was space for in the bachelor apartment. He flipped the radio on as he climbed wearily
onto the exercise bike:
Maybe I should have held the shower
? he wondered as he turned the friction up a notch and began pedaling.
Fifteen minutes on the bike then a round of push-ups and he began to feel a bit looser. It was almost time to start on the punch bag, but as he came up on fifty sit-ups the phone in the living
room rang. Swearing, he abandoned the exercise and made a dash for the handset before the answering machine could cut in. ‘Yes?’ he demanded.
‘Mike Fleming? Can you quote your badge number?’
‘I – who
is
this?’ he demanded, shivering slightly as the sweat began to evaporate.
‘Mike Fleming. Badge number. This is an unsecured line.’ The man at the other end of the phone sounded impatient.
‘Okay.’
More fallout from work. Head office, maybe?
Mike paused for a moment, then recited his number. ‘Now, what’s this about?’
‘Can you confirm that you were in a meeting with Tony Vecchio and Pete Garfinkle this afternoon?’
‘I –’ Mike’s head spun. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to discuss this on an open line. If you want to talk about it at the office then you need to schedule an
appointment – ’
‘Listen, Fleming. I’m not cleared for the content of the meeting. Question is, were you in it? Think before you answer, because if you answer wrong you’re in deep
shit.’
‘I – yes.’ Mike found himself staring at the wall opposite. ‘Now. Who exactly am I talking to?’ The CLID display on his phone just said NUMBER WITHHELD. Which was
pretty remarkable, on the face of it, because this wasn’t an ordinary caller-ID box. And this wasn’t an ordinary caller: his line was ex-directory, for starters.
‘A minibus will pick you up in fifteen minutes, Fleming. Pack for overnight.’ The line went dead, leaving him staring at the phone as if it had just grown fangs.
‘What the hell?’ Oscar walked past his ankle, leaning heavily. ‘Shit.’ He tapped the hook then dialed the office. ‘Tony Vecchio’s line, please, it’s
Mike Fleming. Oh – okay. He’s in a meeting? Can you – yeah, is Pete Garfinkle in? What, he’s in a meeting too? Okay, I’ll try later. No, no message.’ He put the
phone down and frowned. ‘Fifteen minutes?’
*
Once upon a time, when he was younger, Mike had believed all the myths.
He’d believed that one syringe full of heroin was enough to turn a fine, upstanding family man into a slavering junkie. He’d believed that marijuana caused lung cancer, dementia, and
short-term memory loss, that freebase cocaine – crack – could trigger fits of unpredictable rage, and that the gangs of organized criminals who had a lock on the distribution and sale
of illegal narcotics in the United States were about the greatest internal threat that the country faced.
Also, when he was even younger, he’d believed in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.
Now
. . . he still believed in the gangs. Ten years of stalking grade-A scumbags and seeing just what they did to the people around them left precious little room for illusions about
his fellow humanity. Some dealers were just ethically impaired entrepreneurs working in a shady, high-risk field, attracted by the potential for high profits. But you had to have a ruthless streak
to take that level of risk, or be oblivious to the suffering around you, and the dangers of the field seemed to repel sane people after a while. The whole business of illegal drugs was a magnet for
seekers of the only
real
drug, the one that was addictive at first exposure, the one that drove people mad and kept them coming
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