He got up and tried the door anyway, careful not to make any noise in the process. Whatever had happened to him, it had no obvious aftereffects; his head was clear, and his balance and coordination seemed to be fine now.
At least, his muscles seemed to be under his own control again. On the downside, the door was very definitely locked. So was the window, he quickly learned-locked and fortified on the outside with bars that looked quite sufficient to hold in one lone Space Legion captain. And it looked onto the blank wall of another building about five meters away, so there was no easy way to signal anyone.
Signaling… he quickly looked at his wrist. Sure enough, his communicator was gone. His pockets had been emptied, too. That gave him a brief moment’s panic. Then he remembered that he’d left his Dilithium Express card and other items of value in the hotel safe; at most his captors would have a couple of hundred euros and his Legion ID card. Nothing he couldn’t get replaced quickly enough. So-what now?
He did a quick search of the room, looking for anything he might be able to turn to his advantage. A makeshift weapon, an alternative way out, even some clue as to his kidnappers’ identity. He turned up nothing besides the furniture he’d already seen-a bed, a chair, a side table. In a real pinch, he supposed he could club someone with the chair, or tie them up in the bedsheets. But those were desperate plays, to be saved for a desperate situation. The easiest way out of the room looked as if it started with getting the door opened. He went over and knocked.
After a moment he heard footsteps on the far side. “All right, stand-a back from-a the door,” said a raspy voice with a thick Italian accent. Weasel-face, thought Phule, moving back as requested. He heard keys rattle in the lock, and then the door swung partway open; Weasel-face looked inside, squinting suspiciously. “What do you want?” he said, in an accent several degrees more educated than Phule expected. Behind him was another man, large and frowning-presumably the one who’d answered first.
“Giving my property back would be a good start,” said Phule, in as even a voice as he could manage. “Then you really ought to let me go-I have important business that can’t wait.”
“Funny man,” said Weasel-face, sourly. “What, do you think we locked you up for our own entertainment?”
“Well, I’m sure you didn’t do it for mine,” said Phule. “Just what do you think you’ve got to gain by holding me prisoner?”
“You should be able to figure that out by yourself,” said Weasel-face. “But I’ll save you the time, because I want you to know where things stand. You’re a rich off-world snot, and we’re underprivileged locals. Your people pay us, and we let you go. If they don’t pay us quickly enough, maybe Vinnie and I get annoyed. Vinnie can be nasty when he’s annoyed, and then you’d have something to worry about besides being late for your important business. Capisce?” Vinnie continued to frown, deploying what looked to be the preferred weapon in his arsenal of facial expressions.
Phule shrugged. “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on collecting any ransom money. There’ll be people coming to look for me, and they aren’t amateurs. Or haven’t you figured out who I was visiting earlier today?”
“Pitti da Phule doesn’t frighten us,” said Weasel-face, with a quiet smile. “If he tries to interfere in our business, we can call on people who’ll make him think again.”
“Well, it’s not so much a question of interfering in your business,“ said Phule. ”I believe Pitti’s approach is more likely to be total cancellation of your business plan.“
“My friend, you aren’t in a position to be issuing threats,” growled Weasel-face. Phule remembered now that the woman who’d tricked him had called the man “Carmelo,” although there was no guarantee that was the man’s right name. He’d remember it, anyhow-just in case.
“Two points,” said Phule. “First, I am not your friend. And second, what I just said wasn’t a threat.”
“Oh yeah?” said Weasel-face. “What do you call it, then?”
Phule smiled, and said softly, “In my line of business, we call that an ultimatum.”
“Carmelo” just snorted and walked out, locking the door behind him.
Agent G. C. Fox drummed his fingers, waiting. The number he’d called rang for the fifth time, then a voice came through Fox’s earplug: “The party you are calling is not available. Please leave a message and your call will be returned.” A cacophonous beep followed, but Fox had already started the disconnect process. This was his fourth attempt to reach Captain Jester, and the message he’d left the first time had not been returned. Considering the message, it should have been.
So what did that mean? Fox took a sip of shandygaff, wiped the foam from his moustache with the back of his sleeve, and thought. The more Fox thought about it, the more convinced he was that the captain was already in trouble-and that he was going to need help getting out of it.
Helping off-worlders get out of trouble wasn’t really Fox’s job at all. He wasn’t any kind of cop or a detective- just a customs inspector. But he made it a point to keep track of interesting visitors to Old Earth. Sometimes, he could steer them to a business or service they could benefit from. His friends who ran those businesses benefited from it, too-and so did Fox, thanks to the finders fees and commissions his friends passed along to him. They helped stretch the customs agent’s not-so-grand salary enough to bring in a few of the better things of life.
He’d made it a point to look up Willard Phule on the newsnets, after he’d seen him come through customs. He’d learned a fair amount about the captain’s background, and his career on the various worlds Omega Company had been posted to. It might or might not turn out to be profitable-but it never hurt to do the research. Fox had learned that knowing something always paid better than not knowing it.
He’d liked the Legion captain when they’d talked. And right after Phule’s passage through customs, he’d read over a list of recent immigrants to Old Earth-all agents got the lists, and some of them-like Fox-made it a point to read them. Later, when he did his research on Phule, one name had jumped out at him. He had an excellent memory for names. A particular person had arrived on Old Earth two days before Phule. Her presence here might be a coincidence, of course. On the other hand, this was somebody Phule had bumped heads with in the past. That, Fox figured, was exactly the kind of information that a prudent man like Willard Phule would want to have. He might even find it in his heart to reward the person who’d brought it to him. Why shouldn’t Fox be the one to reap the reward?
The only problem was, he couldn’t get in touch with Phule…
There was someone else he could call, though. Someone who might be very grateful for advance warning of possible trouble for the young Space Legion captain. Fox picked up his vidphone, entered a number, and in a moment a face appeared on the screen. For a moment the other party frowned, reacting to Fox’s uniform. Then the man relaxed, recognizing his caller. “Ah, Signore Volpone, what can I do for you today?”
Fox smiled. “Actually, it’s the other way around this time,” he said. “I’ve learned something I think you’ll want to know…”
After Fox told his story, and added the fact that Phule hadn’t been answering his phone, the other party nodded. “This does not smell good,” he said. “Grazie, signore-if this is what it seems to be, I am in your debt.”