Then again, they might not.
About the only good thing Phule could say about being kidnapped was that somebody in the neighborhood made really good take-out pasta. Dinner last night had been an excellent lasagna with mushrooms and spicy sausage, and the thugs made sure he had plenty of vino to wash it down. Good robust Tuscan red-they left him the bottle. Wanting to keep his wits about him, he made it a point to pour a good bit down the sink when nobody was watching. If he could get the kidnappers to underestimate how alert he was, that was an advantage he might be able to use.
On the other hand, that was about the only advantage he could see them giving him. The door stayed locked; so did the window, and the bars on the outside looked plenty strong enough. Breaking the glass was the only way to test them, and if the bars really were immovable, breaking the glass was just a good way to annoy Weasel-face and Vin-nie, neither of whom seemed to sympathize with his desire to escape.
Judging from the sky, it was still early morning. The kidnappers had taken his watch, so he had no way to be certain. But the fact that breakfast had yet to appear seemed to confirm his guess-not that he had any reason to expect them to coddle him. They didn’t seem interested in providing entertainment, either. He had nothing to read except an Italian-language advertising flyer of some sort that came in the bag with the wine last night. He’d been desperate enough to try reading it, though his Italian was so rudimentary he couldn’t really make out what it was trying to sell.
If I ever kidnap somebody, I’ll make it a point to provide plenty of entertainment, he thought to himself. If these people had given me a good action game to play or some exciting vids to watch, I might not be working on an escape plan. At that point he sat up straight and shook his head. And here I am, instead, trying to figure out how they might have done a better job of keeping me from escaping.
He stood and went to look out the window-probably for the twentieth time since getting up. Judging by the building across the way, he was on about the third floor, so even if he could somehow get past the bars, he’d have a dangerous drop to ground level-which, as far as he could tell by looking out the window, was a narrow back alley. So while there were no passersby to signal for help, there were also no watchers if he did somehow manage to escape out this window. A possible advantage, though not one he could see any way to exploit just now.
That was the real problem; he had any number of intangible advantages over his kidnappers-he was younger, probably smarter, certainly richer, trained in several military combat disciplines, and much more alert than either of them seemed to be. But, totally unfairly, they were the ones who had him locked up, and he had yet to find a way out of this place.
He supposed he could always try to offer them ransom, but he’d learned at a young age-almost as soon as he’d been allowed outdoors by himself-that paying ransom was never an option. Let anyone know that they could grab you and get payment for your release, and there was no end to it. The only answer was to make it clear that there’d be no ransom payment, ever. Few people would bother kidnapping someone if there was no possibility of a payoff for his return. Of course, that didn’t seem to have deterred the people who’d captured him. Were they too stupid to have figured it out? Or were they taking the chance because they didn’t know his real identity? For the first time, he began to think there was a downside to the Legion practice of assumed names.
His best bet, at the moment, seemed to be Pitti da Phule. If his uncle had made an attempt to contact him at his hotel, he should already have realized that Phule was missing. On the other hand, Pitti had advised him to spend some time sightseeing and playing tourist-so even if he’d tried to get in touch and found Phule away, Pitti might just assume that his nephew had taken him at his word and gone on a side trip to Venice, or Pompeü, or some other tourist attraction. On the third hand… Phule grimaced at the metaphor. But while his captors might be anxious to find someone to ask for ransom, he doubted they’d have Pitti on their list.
Who else might he call on? Beeker would be more than willing to come to the rescue, of course. Unfortunately, the butler probably had no idea that Phule was on Old Earth- and Phule had no idea where Beeker was, even if he had some way to contact him. Worse yet, he had no way to keep the butler from leaving the planet-which would shortly thereafter cause the hibernation chip to take effect. That would effectively bring the kidnapping to an abrupt end. Not that he was looking forward to an indefinite period of enforced hibernation, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do to prevent it, under his present circumstances.
Phule was trying to figure out whether there was anything concrete he could do, when motion in the alleyway below caught his attention. He leaned close to the glass, trying to see better. But before he could make out what was happening, a loud explosion shook the building. As he ducked back from the window, he could hear voices shouting…
The explosions triggered Phule’s Legion training. Within seconds of the first sound, he’d knocked over his table, dumping last night’s dinner dishes on the floor. He turned the .top to face the window and shielded himself behind it. The inch-thick wood wasn’t going to protect him from major ordnance, but it would stop flying glass-and possibly keep a sniper in the opposite building from spotting him. At the moment, he had no idea whether the explosions had anything to do with him. The smart way to handle the situation was to get under cover and stay there until he had better information.
Of course, Phule didn’t always handle things the smart way. Quietly, he hitched the table in the direction of the door, keeping it between him and the window. Even if they hadn’t heard him knock over the table, his captors would eventually look in on him, if only to make sure their hostage was still there; when they did, he wanted to have a surprise waiting for them.
From beyond the door, Phule could hear muffled voices arguing in Italian-at least, the volume and tone sounded like arguing to someone who couldn’t understand any of the words. He waited, listening. Footsteps approached the door, then stopped. The voices resumed, louder this time, then he heard a key turn in the lock.
As the door swung open, he rushed forward with the tabletop in front of him like a bulldozer blade, bowling over the person who’d stepped into his room. Not waiting to see the results of his attack, he leapt over the table and burst into the outer room, ready for action. His best guess was that the person who’d come through the door was Vin-nie, and Weasel-face had stayed behind to guard the exit.
He was partly right. Weasel-face was there, all right. But two uniformed figures were also standing there, one with a gun trained on Weasel-face, who stood ashen-faced, his hands over his head. Phule did a double take as he recognized the newcomers: Customs Agent G. C. Fox, and holding the gun, someone he’d been chasing halfway across the galaxy.
Phule blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. “Nightingale! Where have you been?”
It wasn’t General Blitzkrieg’s style to sneak off-planet after a setback. He wasn’t particularly likely to admit that he’d had any setbacks, to begin with. Even with egg all over his face, and his uniform and boots as well, he didn’t believe in letting anyone see that he knew he’d lost a round. But his departure from Zenobia Base was as close as he could contrive to being a triumph. He’d conveniently forgotten that the original idea came from his long-suffering adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk. It helped that Captain Jester seemed completely willing to uphold the illusion. Blitzkrieg was sufficiently relieved not to be reminded of the actual circumstances of his departure that he even forgave the captain for having somehow run out of golf balls just as they were getting ready for the general’s revenge match. Then again, considering the way Jester had played the last time out, Blitzkrieg wasn’t entirely sure he’d be getting much revenge.