"Smith, Martin Cruz - Wolves Eat Dogs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Martin Cruz)

"Did that happen this Saturday?"

"When Ivanov jumped? I'm not on at night."

"I understand, but during your shift, did you or the receptionist notice anything unusual in the alley?"

Grisha took a while to think. "No. Besides, the back is locked tight on Saturdays. You'd need a bomb to get in."

"Or a code."

"You'd still be seen by the camera. We'd notice."

"I'm sure. You were in front?"

"At the canopy, yes."

"People were going in and out?"

"Residents and guests."

"Anyone carrying salt?"

"How much salt?"

"Bags and bags of salt."

"No."

"Ivanov wasn't bringing home salt day after day? No salt leaking from his briefcase?"

"No."

"I have salt on the brain, don't I?"

"Yeah." Said slowly.

"I should do something about that."



The Arbat was a promenade of outdoor musicians, sketch artists and souvenir stalls that sold strands of amber, nesting dolls of peasant women, retro posters of Stalin. Dr. Novotny's office was above a cybercafe. She told Arkady that she was about to retire on the money she would make selling to developers who planned to put in a Greek restaurant. Arkady liked the office as it was, a drowsy room with overstuffed chairs and Kandinsky prints, bright splashes of color that could have been windmills, bluebirds, cows. Novotny was a brisk seventy, her face a mask of lines around bright dark eyes.

"I first saw Pasha Ivanov a little more than a year ago, the first week in May. He seemed typical of our new entrepreneurs. Aggressive, intelligent, adaptable; the last sort to seek psychotherapy. They are happy to send in their wives or mistresses; it's popular for the women, like feng shui, but the men rarely come in themselves. In fact, he missed his last four sessions, although he insisted on paying for them."

"Why did he choose you?"

"Because I'm good."

"Oh." Arkady liked a woman who came straight to the point.