Read Online Tool of the Trade by Joe Haldeman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Haldeman
Tags: Science-Fiction
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for Washington. Or Langley, Virginia, actually.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
VALERIE
I had my arms full of groceries, the bags ready to spill, finally got both locks open, and stumbled into the apartment, and this big guy grabbed me from behind, I mean really crushed me, one leather-gloved hand over my mouth and big arm pinning me to his chest, groceries and all; door kicked shut behind me and he whispered, “
One sound and you die
” with a thick accent, only thing either of them ever said in English.
Started to struggle and he crushed me twice as tightly; moved his hand up to pinch off my nose. Suffocating, I nodded, and he eased off. A bald man stepped in front of me and pointed a gun at my heart, one of those little machinegun pistols the bad guys always have on television. The other one took my grocery bags, one in each paw, and carried them into the kitchen. Neither of them looked “Russian.” I started to say something, but the one with the gun shushed me.
The other came back and helped me off with my coat, then handcuffed me and gagged me with a piece of black cloth. I made urgent gestures in the direction of the bathroom; he escorted me there and took off the cuffs; left the door open but stood politely with his back to me. There was nothing obvious in the bathroom clutter that I could use as a weapon. A twin-blade Lady Gillette wouldn’t do much against a machine gun anyhow.
So these were some of Nick’s KGB buddies. I guessed they had found out about the CIA guy and wanted to put some pressure on Nick. But this wasn’t at all like the mundane spy stuff he had told me about. I was suddenly in the middle of a movie.
They sat me down at the dining room table and went back into the kitchen to whisper at each other in Russian, or some other Slavic language. The armed one returned after a few minutes and handed me a notepad with a message something like this: “You and I are going someplace else. Pick up whatever you need for a few days. We have a car downstairs. If you try to escape or cry out on the way I will kill you.”
I got my toothbrush and a paper bag of clothes and such. Several paperback books and a handful of mail that was sitting on the dining room table. My escort put his gun in an attaché case and went through the pockets of my coat. He found the Mace squirter, wiped his fingerprints off it, and tossed it under the couch. Then he handed me the coat, dropped the handcuffs into his pocket, and motioned for us to go.
A part of my brain that I couldn’t make shut up was saying, This is deep shit. These guys are kidnapping you and they aren’t even bothering to wear masks. Either they are rank amateurs or they know that you’ll never live to identify them.
There was a dark-green van waiting in front of the apartment building. Getting in, I contrived to drop a piece of mail on the sidewalk, but he saw me do it. Retrieved it and handed it back without comment.
In the back of the van there were no windows, just a lumpy carpet and a pair of incongruous easy chairs, overstuffed and musty, and a picnic cooler. I sat down, and he handcuffed me to the cooler, then rummaged around in it and offered me a Coke. I said no, but he opened it and pressed it into my free hand. Then he shook a pill out of a bottle and held it out for me to take. I didn’t make an issue of it. It was a little yellow pill like aspirin for children, but very bitter.
The van drove off down Harvard Street, away from the river and Boston. After a few blocks my vision started to blur and I felt a little sick. I drank some more of the Coke and then dropped the can, on the verge of vomiting, but then I went totally limp and couldn’t keep my head up or my eyes open. With my head vibrating against the cold window my last thought was
Twenty years ago I would have paid good money for this shit
.
CHAPTER NINE:
JACOB
The feeling is like
déjà vu
inside out: You should know something, remember something, but you don’t There’s just a hole
CHAPTER EIGHT:
VALERIE
I had my arms full of groceries, the bags ready to spill, finally got both locks open, and stumbled into the apartment, and this big guy grabbed me from behind, I mean really crushed me, one leather-gloved hand over my mouth and big arm pinning me to his chest, groceries and all; door kicked shut behind me and he whispered, “
One sound and you die
” with a thick accent, only thing either of them ever said in English.
Started to struggle and he crushed me twice as tightly; moved his hand up to pinch off my nose. Suffocating, I nodded, and he eased off. A bald man stepped in front of me and pointed a gun at my heart, one of those little machinegun pistols the bad guys always have on television. The other one took my grocery bags, one in each paw, and carried them into the kitchen. Neither of them looked “Russian.” I started to say something, but the one with the gun shushed me.
The other came back and helped me off with my coat, then handcuffed me and gagged me with a piece of black cloth. I made urgent gestures in the direction of the bathroom; he escorted me there and took off the cuffs; left the door open but stood politely with his back to me. There was nothing obvious in the bathroom clutter that I could use as a weapon. A twin-blade Lady Gillette wouldn’t do much against a machine gun anyhow.
So these were some of Nick’s KGB buddies. I guessed they had found out about the CIA guy and wanted to put some pressure on Nick. But this wasn’t at all like the mundane spy stuff he had told me about. I was suddenly in the middle of a movie.
They sat me down at the dining room table and went back into the kitchen to whisper at each other in Russian, or some other Slavic language. The armed one returned after a few minutes and handed me a notepad with a message something like this: “You and I are going someplace else. Pick up whatever you need for a few days. We have a car downstairs. If you try to escape or cry out on the way I will kill you.”
I got my toothbrush and a paper bag of clothes and such. Several paperback books and a handful of mail that was sitting on the dining room table. My escort put his gun in an attaché case and went through the pockets of my coat. He found the Mace squirter, wiped his fingerprints off it, and tossed it under the couch. Then he handed me the coat, dropped the handcuffs into his pocket, and motioned for us to go.
A part of my brain that I couldn’t make shut up was saying, This is deep shit. These guys are kidnapping you and they aren’t even bothering to wear masks. Either they are rank amateurs or they know that you’ll never live to identify them.
There was a dark-green van waiting in front of the apartment building. Getting in, I contrived to drop a piece of mail on the sidewalk, but he saw me do it. Retrieved it and handed it back without comment.
In the back of the van there were no windows, just a lumpy carpet and a pair of incongruous easy chairs, overstuffed and musty, and a picnic cooler. I sat down, and he handcuffed me to the cooler, then rummaged around in it and offered me a Coke. I said no, but he opened it and pressed it into my free hand. Then he shook a pill out of a bottle and held it out for me to take. I didn’t make an issue of it. It was a little yellow pill like aspirin for children, but very bitter.
The van drove off down Harvard Street, away from the river and Boston. After a few blocks my vision started to blur and I felt a little sick. I drank some more of the Coke and then dropped the can, on the verge of vomiting, but then I went totally limp and couldn’t keep my head up or my eyes open. With my head vibrating against the cold window my last thought was
Twenty years ago I would have paid good money for this shit
.
CHAPTER NINE:
JACOB
The feeling is like
déjà vu
inside out: You should know something, remember something, but you don’t There’s just a hole
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