Read Online Red Square by Martin Cruz Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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date, city, his own name under the grand title 'Investigator of Very Important Cases under the General Prosecutor of the USSR', interrogated Orbelyan, Gary Semyonovich, born 3/11/ 60, Moscow, passport number RS AOB 425807, Armenian nationality . . .
'Naturally,' Jaak said.
Arkady went on. 'Education and specialization?'
'Vocational. Medical industry,' Gary said.
'Brain surgeon,' Jaak said.
Unmarried, hospital orderly, not a Party member, criminal record of assault and possession of drugs for sale.
'Government honours?' Arkady asked.
Both Jaak and Gary laughed.
'It's the next question on the protocol,' Arkady said. 'Probably just looking to the future.'
After he wrote out the exact time, the questioning began, going over the same ground Jaak had covered at the site of the crime. Gary had been walking away from Rudy's car when he saw it blow up, and then Kim threw in a second bomb.
'You were walking backwards from Rudy's car?' Jaak asked. 'How did you see all this?'
'I stopped to think.'
' You stopped to think ?' Jaak asked. 'What about?'
When Gary fell silent, Arkady asked, 'Did Rudy change your forints and zlotys?'
'No.' Gary's face went dark as a cloud.
'You were pretty mad.'
'I would have twisted his fat neck.'
'Except for Kim?'
'Yeah, but then Kim did it for me.' Gary brightened.
Arkady drew an 'X' in the middle of a page and handed Gary the pen. 'This is Rudy's car. Mark where you were, then mark what else you saw.'
With concentration, Gary drew a stick figure with trembly limbs. He added a box with wheels: 'Lorry with electronic goods.' Between him and Rudy, a blacked-in figure: 'Kim.' A box with a cross: 'Ambulance.' A second box: 'Maybe a van.' Lines with heads: 'Gypsies.' Smaller squares with wheels: 'Chechen cars.'
'I remember a Mercedes,' Jaak said.
'They were already gone.'
' They? ' Arkady asked. 'Who were they? '
'A driver. I know the other one was a woman.'
'Can you draw her?'
Gary drew a stick figure with a big bust, high heels and curly hair. 'Maybe blonde. I know she was well-stacked.'
'A real careful observer,' Jaak said.
'So you saw her out of the car, too,' Arkady said.
'Yeah, coming from Rudy's.'
Arkady held the paper a couple of ways. 'Good drawing.'
Gary nodded.
It was true. With his blue body and busted face, Gary looked just like the stick figure on the page, rendered more human by his picture.
The South Port car market was bounded by Proletariat Prospect and a loop of the Moscow river. New cars were ordered in a hall of white marble. No one went inside; there were no new cars. Outside, gamblers laid cardboard on the ground to play three-card monte. Construction fences were papered with offers ('Have tyres in medium condition for 1985 Zhigulis') and pleas ('Looking for fan belt for '64 Peugeot'). Jaak wrote down the number for the tyres, just in case.
At the end of the fence was a dirt lane of used Zhigulis and Zaporozhets, two-cylinder German Trabants and Italian Fiats as rusty as ancient swords. Buyers moved with eyes that scrutinized tyre tread, mileometer, upholstery, dropping to one knee with a torch to see whether the engine was actively leaking oil on the spot. Everyone was an expert. Even Arkady knew that a Moskvitch built in far-off Izhevsk was superior to a Moskvitch built in Moscow, and that the only clue was the insignia on the grille. Around the cars were Chechens in tracksuits. They were dark, bulky men with low brows and long stares.
Everyone cheated. Car sellers went to the market sales assistant's wooden shack to learn - depending on model, year and condition - what price they could demand (and on which they would pay tax), which bore no resemblance to the money actually passed between seller and buyer. Everyone -
'Naturally,' Jaak said.
Arkady went on. 'Education and specialization?'
'Vocational. Medical industry,' Gary said.
'Brain surgeon,' Jaak said.
Unmarried, hospital orderly, not a Party member, criminal record of assault and possession of drugs for sale.
'Government honours?' Arkady asked.
Both Jaak and Gary laughed.
'It's the next question on the protocol,' Arkady said. 'Probably just looking to the future.'
After he wrote out the exact time, the questioning began, going over the same ground Jaak had covered at the site of the crime. Gary had been walking away from Rudy's car when he saw it blow up, and then Kim threw in a second bomb.
'You were walking backwards from Rudy's car?' Jaak asked. 'How did you see all this?'
'I stopped to think.'
' You stopped to think ?' Jaak asked. 'What about?'
When Gary fell silent, Arkady asked, 'Did Rudy change your forints and zlotys?'
'No.' Gary's face went dark as a cloud.
'You were pretty mad.'
'I would have twisted his fat neck.'
'Except for Kim?'
'Yeah, but then Kim did it for me.' Gary brightened.
Arkady drew an 'X' in the middle of a page and handed Gary the pen. 'This is Rudy's car. Mark where you were, then mark what else you saw.'
With concentration, Gary drew a stick figure with trembly limbs. He added a box with wheels: 'Lorry with electronic goods.' Between him and Rudy, a blacked-in figure: 'Kim.' A box with a cross: 'Ambulance.' A second box: 'Maybe a van.' Lines with heads: 'Gypsies.' Smaller squares with wheels: 'Chechen cars.'
'I remember a Mercedes,' Jaak said.
'They were already gone.'
' They? ' Arkady asked. 'Who were they? '
'A driver. I know the other one was a woman.'
'Can you draw her?'
Gary drew a stick figure with a big bust, high heels and curly hair. 'Maybe blonde. I know she was well-stacked.'
'A real careful observer,' Jaak said.
'So you saw her out of the car, too,' Arkady said.
'Yeah, coming from Rudy's.'
Arkady held the paper a couple of ways. 'Good drawing.'
Gary nodded.
It was true. With his blue body and busted face, Gary looked just like the stick figure on the page, rendered more human by his picture.
The South Port car market was bounded by Proletariat Prospect and a loop of the Moscow river. New cars were ordered in a hall of white marble. No one went inside; there were no new cars. Outside, gamblers laid cardboard on the ground to play three-card monte. Construction fences were papered with offers ('Have tyres in medium condition for 1985 Zhigulis') and pleas ('Looking for fan belt for '64 Peugeot'). Jaak wrote down the number for the tyres, just in case.
At the end of the fence was a dirt lane of used Zhigulis and Zaporozhets, two-cylinder German Trabants and Italian Fiats as rusty as ancient swords. Buyers moved with eyes that scrutinized tyre tread, mileometer, upholstery, dropping to one knee with a torch to see whether the engine was actively leaking oil on the spot. Everyone was an expert. Even Arkady knew that a Moskvitch built in far-off Izhevsk was superior to a Moskvitch built in Moscow, and that the only clue was the insignia on the grille. Around the cars were Chechens in tracksuits. They were dark, bulky men with low brows and long stares.
Everyone cheated. Car sellers went to the market sales assistant's wooden shack to learn - depending on model, year and condition - what price they could demand (and on which they would pay tax), which bore no resemblance to the money actually passed between seller and buyer. Everyone -
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