Read Online The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) by Stross Charles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stross Charles
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change of transport,’ called their shepherd. ‘Everybody
out!’
‘Wow.’ Mike looked up at the jet. ‘They’re serious.’
‘Whoever they are,’ Pete said apprehensively. ‘Somehow I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more, Toto.’
A blue-suiter checked their ID cards again at the foot of the stairs and double-checked them using a sheet of photos. Mike climbed aboard warily. The government executive jet wasn’t
anything like as luxuriously fitted as the ones you saw in the movies, but that was hardly a surprise – it was a working plane, used for shifting small teams about. Mike strapped himself into
a window seat and leaned back as the attendant closed the door, checked to see that everyone was strapped in, and ducked inside the cockpit for a quiet conference. The plane began to taxi, louder
than any airliner he’d been on in years. Minutes later they were airborne, climbing steeply into the evening sky. In all, just over an hour had elapsed since he answered the phone.
The seat belt lights barely had time to blink out before the woman was on her feet, her back to the cockpit door, facing Mike and Pete. (A couple of the other guys had to crane their heads round
to see her.) ‘Okay, you’re wondering where you’re going and why,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘We’re going to a small field in Maryland. From there you’re
going by bus to a secure office in Fort Meade where we wait for another planeload of agents to converge from the west coast. Refreshments
will
be served,’ she added dryly,
‘although I can’t tell you just why you’re needed at this meeting because our hosts haven’t told me.’
One of the other passengers, a black man with the build of a middleweight boxer, frowned. ‘Can you tell us who you are?’ he asked in a deep voice. ‘Or is that secret,
too?’
‘Sure. I’m Judith Herz. Boston headquarters staff, FBI, agent responsible for ANSIR coordination. If you guys want to identify yourselves, be my guest.’
‘I’m Bob Patterson,’ said the black man, after a momentary pause. ‘I work for DOE,’ he added, in tones that said
and I can’t tell you any more than
that
.
‘Rich Wall, FBI.’ The thin guy with curly brown hair and a neat goatee flashed a brief grin at Herz.
Undercover?
Mike wondered.
Or specialist?
He didn’t look
like a special agent, that was for sure, not wearing combat pants and a nose stud.
‘Mike Fleming and Pete Garfinkle, Drug Enforcement Agency, Boston SpecOps division,’ Mike volunteered.
They all turned to face the last passenger, a portly middle-aged guy with a bushy beard and a florid complexion who wore a pinstriped suit. ‘Hey, don’t all look at me!’ he
protested. ‘Name’s Frank Milford, County Surveyor’s Office.’ A worried frown crossed his face. ‘Just what
is
this, anyway? There’s got to be some
mistake, here. I don’t belong – ’
‘Yes you do,’ said Herz. Mike looked at her.
Five assorted cops and spooks, and a guy from the
County Surveyor’s Office?
What in hell’s name is going on
here?
‘I’m sure all will be revealed when we arrive.’
A minivan with a close-lipped driver met them at the airport. At first it had looked as if he was heading for Baltimore, but then they turned off the parkway, taking an unmarked feeder road that
twisted behind a wooded berm and around a slalom course of huge stone blocks, razor-wire fences, and a gauntlet of surveillance cameras on masts. They came to a halt in front of a gatehouse set in
a high fence surrounding a complex so vast that Mike couldn’t take it in. Members of a municipal police force he’d never heard of carefully checked everyone’s ID against a
prepared list, then issued red-bordered ID badges with the letters
PV
emblazoned on them. Then the van drove on. The compound was so big there were road signs inside it – and three
more checkpoints to stop and present ID at before they finally drew up outside an enormous black-glass tower
out!’
‘Wow.’ Mike looked up at the jet. ‘They’re serious.’
‘Whoever they are,’ Pete said apprehensively. ‘Somehow I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more, Toto.’
A blue-suiter checked their ID cards again at the foot of the stairs and double-checked them using a sheet of photos. Mike climbed aboard warily. The government executive jet wasn’t
anything like as luxuriously fitted as the ones you saw in the movies, but that was hardly a surprise – it was a working plane, used for shifting small teams about. Mike strapped himself into
a window seat and leaned back as the attendant closed the door, checked to see that everyone was strapped in, and ducked inside the cockpit for a quiet conference. The plane began to taxi, louder
than any airliner he’d been on in years. Minutes later they were airborne, climbing steeply into the evening sky. In all, just over an hour had elapsed since he answered the phone.
The seat belt lights barely had time to blink out before the woman was on her feet, her back to the cockpit door, facing Mike and Pete. (A couple of the other guys had to crane their heads round
to see her.) ‘Okay, you’re wondering where you’re going and why,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘We’re going to a small field in Maryland. From there you’re
going by bus to a secure office in Fort Meade where we wait for another planeload of agents to converge from the west coast. Refreshments
will
be served,’ she added dryly,
‘although I can’t tell you just why you’re needed at this meeting because our hosts haven’t told me.’
One of the other passengers, a black man with the build of a middleweight boxer, frowned. ‘Can you tell us who you are?’ he asked in a deep voice. ‘Or is that secret,
too?’
‘Sure. I’m Judith Herz. Boston headquarters staff, FBI, agent responsible for ANSIR coordination. If you guys want to identify yourselves, be my guest.’
‘I’m Bob Patterson,’ said the black man, after a momentary pause. ‘I work for DOE,’ he added, in tones that said
and I can’t tell you any more than
that
.
‘Rich Wall, FBI.’ The thin guy with curly brown hair and a neat goatee flashed a brief grin at Herz.
Undercover?
Mike wondered.
Or specialist?
He didn’t look
like a special agent, that was for sure, not wearing combat pants and a nose stud.
‘Mike Fleming and Pete Garfinkle, Drug Enforcement Agency, Boston SpecOps division,’ Mike volunteered.
They all turned to face the last passenger, a portly middle-aged guy with a bushy beard and a florid complexion who wore a pinstriped suit. ‘Hey, don’t all look at me!’ he
protested. ‘Name’s Frank Milford, County Surveyor’s Office.’ A worried frown crossed his face. ‘Just what
is
this, anyway? There’s got to be some
mistake, here. I don’t belong – ’
‘Yes you do,’ said Herz. Mike looked at her.
Five assorted cops and spooks, and a guy from the
County Surveyor’s Office?
What in hell’s name is going on
here?
‘I’m sure all will be revealed when we arrive.’
A minivan with a close-lipped driver met them at the airport. At first it had looked as if he was heading for Baltimore, but then they turned off the parkway, taking an unmarked feeder road that
twisted behind a wooded berm and around a slalom course of huge stone blocks, razor-wire fences, and a gauntlet of surveillance cameras on masts. They came to a halt in front of a gatehouse set in
a high fence surrounding a complex so vast that Mike couldn’t take it in. Members of a municipal police force he’d never heard of carefully checked everyone’s ID against a
prepared list, then issued red-bordered ID badges with the letters
PV
emblazoned on them. Then the van drove on. The compound was so big there were road signs inside it – and three
more checkpoints to stop and present ID at before they finally drew up outside an enormous black-glass tower
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