The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) Read Online Free Page B

Excitement and curiosity took me to a place my body isn’t ready to go. I have to get to the office, so I’m good for a cab. I turn and stagger toward the door that leads to the elevator. I’m not drunk, but my vision’s blurry.
    Going up! I give the elevator’s glass wall a big hug. Give me some love! And get me out of here fast! Fresh air, at last. Tonight Central Park isn’t the lungs of the city. It’s my lungs. I like the red brick wall surrounding this section of the park. Tree branches lie on it delicately. When it rains, like now, the leaves trickle water onto the asphalt warmed by the heat of the day. Mist rises, wrapping the neighborhood in a mysterious, almost unreal cocoon.
    There’s my cab. I’m calm now. I should spend more time outdoors. It does me good. I get lucky. The driver’s Haitian but speaks English. “Southward bound, cap’n. Financial district.” No answer. No sense of humor. No surprise.
    Back to the big issue. Why did Mom own a key engraved with a swastika? Why’d she give it to me as soon as she found out Dad had died? And what’s the rolled-up piece of paper in the locket with…What was written on it again? That’s right. UBS LLC 258 2365. I have my own theory about that but nothing definite. At the office I’ll have access to the information I need. At this time of night the Asia crew will be in. Nice guys but a real waste of space. They’d be more use stitching Nikes in Malaysia. At least they’d bring in some money.
    “You work financial district?” The cabbie brings me back to reality. There’s life on his planet.
    “No, I want to go jogging under some really tall buildings—in jeans and in the rain.”
    “All right.”
    Life but maybe not intelligent life. “I’m kidding. Yes, I work there.”
    “You no have car?” Jeez, that’s a Creole accent.
    “No.” What the hell does he care? If I take my car, he loses a fare. This isn’t good.
    He’s staring at me in the rearview. I don’t like that look. That gleam in his eyes. Has he recognized me? No way. Not six months on.
    “I saw you in newspapers last winter.” He pulls to the curb. “Get out.”
    I obey. He doesn’t make me pay what’s on the meter, pulls away and flips me off. Where am I? A minute or so by foot from Pearl Street. I like this part of Manhattan. Pleasure boats on the Hudson. It feels like a vacation in Key Biscayne. I raise the collar of my leather jacket. Rain trickles down my neck. People hate me. It’s to be expected.
    In the daytime, this neighborhood is buzzing. At night it’s a nuclear winter. Not even a rat ventures out here. Just a few security guards watching building entrances and a handful of cops outside the Fed. Nothing with a pulse. It’s ten in the evening, and I’m not drunk. That hasn’t happened in an eternity.
    At last, the office building. Unbeatable views of the Hudson, the full works, including a heliport on the roof—very practical. The building is staffed twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. I ignore the two doormen watching a baseball game. They glance blankly at me. They see idiots like me filing past all day long. I have access to the executive elevator. I run into no one in the long hallway to the elevators. Stan Getz accompanies me on my ride to the forty-third floor. A guy like that plying his talent in an elevator pisses me off. I step into the empty open-plan office and wander through a mini-maze. The kingdom of the telephone, statistics and currency. The history of the world dematerialized. Sauntering past the Asia department, I press an ear to the wafer-thin chipboard wall. Inside, tempers are frayed. Looks like the shit’s hitting the fan in HK or Shanghai. Asian stock exchanges are a mess. I laugh. It feels good. I reach my desk. It looks like a bomb’s hit it. Papers everywhere, magazines, my keyboard buried. The cleanup crew diligently leaves my clutter as is. I sit down, turn on the screens and boot up the hard drives.
    Out of practice