"Smith, Martin Cruz - Arkady Renko 03 - Red Square" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Martin Cruz)

Rudy rolled down the window on the passenger side and called to Arkady, 'Next!' To the man
waiting with zlotys, he added, 'This will take a while.'
Arkady got in. Rudy was well wrapped in a double-breasted suit, an open cashbox on his lap.
He had thinning hair combed diagonally across his scalp, moist eyes with long lashes, a blue cast
to his jowls. A garnet ring was on the hand that held a calculator. The back seat was an office of
neatly arrayed file boxes, laptop computer, computer battery, and cases of software, manuals and
computer disks.
'This is a thoroughly mobile bank,' Rudy said. 'An illegal bank.'
'On my disks I can hold the complete savings records of the Russian Republic. I could do a
spreadsheet for you some other time.'
'Thanks. Rudy, a rolling computer centre does not make for a satisfying life.'
Rudy held up a Game Boy. 'Speak for yourself.'
Arkady sniffed. Hanging from the rearview mirror was something that looked like a green
wick.
'It's an air freshener,' Rudy said. 'Pine scent.'
'It smells like armpit of mint. How can you breathe?'
'It smells cleaner. I know it's me - cleanliness, germs - it's my problem. What are you doing
here?'
'Your radio's not working. Let me see it.'
Rudy blinked. 'You're going to work on it here?'
'Here is where we want to use it. Behave as if we're conducting a normal transaction.'
'You said this would be safe.'
'But not foolproof. Everybody's looking.'
'Dollars? Deutschmarks? Francs?' Rudy asked.
The cashbox tray was stuffed with currencies of different nationalities and colours. There were
francs that looked like delicately hand-tinted portraits, lire with fantastic numbers and Dante's
face, oversized Deutschmarks brimming with confidence, and, most of all, compartments of
crisp-as-grass green American dollars. At Rudy's feet was a bulging briefcase with, Arkady
assumed, much more. Tucked by the clutch there was also a package wrapped in brown paper.
Rudy lifted the hundred-dollar notes from the tray to reveal a transmitter and micro-recorder.
'Pretend I want to buy rubles,' Arkady said.
'Rubles?' Rudy's finger froze over the calculator. 'Why would anyone want to buy rubles?'
Arkady played the transmitter's power switch back and forth, then fine-tuned the frequency.
'You're doing it, buying rubles for dollars or Deutschmarks.'
'Let me explain. I'm exchanging. This is a service for buyers. I control the rate, I'm the bank,
so I always make money and you always lose. Arkady, nobody buys rubles.' Rudy's small eyes
swelled with sympathy. 'The only real Soviet money is vodka. Vodka is the only state monopoly
that really works.'
'You have some of that, too.' Arkady glanced at the rear floor, which was littered with silvery
bottles of Starka, Russkaya and Kuban vodka.
'It's Stone Age barter. I take what people have. I help them. I'm surprised I don't have stone
beads and pieces of eight. Anyway, the rate is forty rubles to the dollar.'
Arkady tried the 'On' button of the recorder. The miniature spools didn't move. 'The official
rate is thirty rubles to the dollar.'
'Yes, and the universe revolves around Lenin's arsehole. No disrespect. It's funny, I deal with
men who would slit their mother's throat and are embarrassed by the concept of profit.' Rudy
became serious. 'Arkady, if you can just imagine profit apart from crime, then you have business.
What we're doing right now is normal and legal in the rest of the world.'
'He's normal?' Arkady looked in the direction of Kim. His eyes fixed on the car, the bodyguard
had the flat face of a mask.