The Merchant’s War полностью

"Thanks, buddy." Oscar head-butted him again, then made a noise like a dying electric shaver. Mike figured his bowl was empty. He took stock: his head ached, he had pins and needles in one arm, the exposed toes of his left foot were cold to the point of numbness, and the daylight outside his window was in short supply. "Come here, you." He reached up to stroke the tomcat, who was clearly intent on exercising his feline right to bear a grudge against his human whenever it suited him, and not a moment longer. For a moment he felt a bleak wave of depression. The TV was still on, quietly babbling inanities from the corner of the room. How long is this going to take? Mrs. Beckstein had said it could be weeks, and with Colonel Smith tasking him with being her contact, that could leave him stuck indoors here for the duration.

He pushed himself upright and hobbled dizzily over to the kitchen phone-the cordless handset had succumbed to a flat battery-and dialed the local pizza delivery shop from memory. Working out what the hell to do with this surfeit of time (which he couldn't even use for a fishing trip or a visit to his cousins) could wait 'til tomorrow.

The next morning, the long habit of keeping office hours-despite a week of disrupted sleep patterns- dragged Mike into unwilling consciousness. He took his antibiotics, then spent a fruitless half-hour trying to figure out how to shower without getting water in his cast, which made his leg itch abominably. This is hopeless, he told himself, when the effort of trying to lift an old Wooden stool into the shower left him so tired he had to sit down: I really am ill. The infection-thankfully under control-had taken out of him what little energy the torn-up and broken leg had left behind. The difficulty of accomplishing even minor tasks was galling, and sitting at home on full pay, knowing that serious, diligent people like Agent Herz were out there busting their guts to get the job done made it even worse. But there was just about nothing he could do that would contribute to the mission, beyond what he was already doing: sitting at ground zero of a stakeout.

Mike had never been a loafer, and while he was used to taking vacations, enforced home rest was an unaccustomed and unwelcome imposition. For a while he thought about getting out and picking up some groceries, but the prospect of getting into the wagon and driving with his left leg embedded in a mass of blue fiberglass was just too daunting. Better wait for Helen, he decided. His regular cleaner would be in like clockwork tomorrow-he could work on a shopping list in the meantime. There's got to be a better way. Then he shook his head. You're sick, son. Take five.

Just after lunchtime (a cardboard-tasting microwave lasagna that had spent too long at the bottom of the chest freezer), the front doorbell rang. Cursing, Mike stumbled into the hall, pushing off the walls in a hurry, hoping whoever it was wouldn't get impatient and leave before he made it. He paused just inside the vestibule and checked the spy hole, then opened the door. "Come in!" He tried to take a step back and ended up leaning against the wall.

"No need to put on a song and dance, Mike, I know you feel like shit." Smith nodded stiffly. "Go on, take your time. I'll shut the door. We need to talk about stuff." He was carrying a pair of brown paper grocery bags.

"Uh, okay." Mike pushed himself off from the wall and half-hopped back towards the living room. The crutch would have come in handy, but he knew his way around well enough to use the furniture and door frames for support. "What brings you here?" He called over his shoulder. "I thought I was meant to be taking it easy."

"You... are." Smith glanced around as he came into the main room. Not used to visiting employees at home, Mike realized. "But there's some stuff we need to talk about."

I do not need this, Mike lowered himself onto the sofa. "You couldn't tell me in the hospital?" he asked.

"You were still kind of crinkle-cut, son. And there were medics about."

"Gotcha." Mike waved at the door to the kitchen. "I'd oiler you a coffee or something but I'm having a hard time getting about..."

"That's alright." Smith put one of the grocery bags down on the side table, then walked over to the kitchen door and put the other on the worktop inside. Then he made a circuit of the living room. He held his hands tightly behind his back, as if forcibly restraining himself from checking for dust on top of the picture rail. "I won't be long."

"Are we being monitored?"

Smith glanced at him. "I sure hope so." He gestured at the walls. "Not on audio, but there's a real expensive infrared camera out there, son, and a couple of guys in a van just to keep an eye on you."