Read Online Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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just sit on their ass and leave real work to their detectives. They last longer, too.”
“I’ve lasted too long.”
“Apparently. Well, cheer up, I have a little gift for you, something I found under Ivanov’s bed.” Victor placed a mobile phone, a Japanese clamshell model, on the table.
“Why were you under the bed?”
“You have to think like a detective. People place things on the edge of the bed all the time. They drop, and people kick them under the bed and never notice, especially if they’re in a hurry or in a sweat.”
“How did Ozhogin’s crew miss this?”
“Because everything they wanted was in the office.”
Arkady suspected that Victor just liked to look under beds. “Thank you. Have you looked at it yet?”
“I took a peek. Go ahead, open it up.” Victor sat back as if he’d brought bonbons.
The mobile phone’s introductory chime drew no attention from other tables; in a space-age café, a mobile phone was as normal as a knife or fork. Arkady went through the call history to Saturday evening’s outgoing calls to Rina and Bobby Hoffman; the incoming calls were from Hoffman, Rina and Timofeyev.
A little phone, and yet so much information: a wireless message concerning an Ivanov tanker foundering off Spain, and a calendar of meetings, most recently with Prosecutor Zurin, of all people. In the directory were phone numbers not only for Rina, Hoffman, Timofeyev and different NoviRus heads, but also for well-known journalists and theater people, for millionaires whose names Arkady recognized from other investigations, and, most interesting, for Zurin, the mayor, senators and ministers, and the Kremlin itself. Such a phone was a plug into a power grid.
Victor copied the names into a notepad. “What a world these people live in. Here’s a number that gives you the weather in Saint-Tropez. Very nice.” It took two brandies for Victor to finish the list. He looked up and nodded to a truculent circle of people at the next table. In a low voice, he said, “The Medvedev brothers. I’ve arrested their father and mother. But I have to admit, I feel comfortable with them. They’re ordinary thugs, not businessmen with investment funds.”
Arkady punched “Messages.”
There was one at 9:33 P.M. from a Moscow number, and the message did not sound like a businessman’s: “You don’t know who this is, but I’m trying to do you a favor. I’ll call you again. All I’ll say now is, if you stick your dick in someone else’s soup, sooner or later it’s going to get cut off.”
“A man of few words. Familiar?” Arkady handed the phone to Victor.
The detective listened and shook his head. “A tough guy. From the South, you can hear the soft O’s. But I can’t hear well enough. All the people talking here. Glasses tinkling.”
“If anyone can do it…”
Victor listened again, the mobile phone pressed tight to his ear, until he smiled like a man who had identified one wine from a million. “Anton. Anton Obodovsky.”
Arkady knew Anton. He could imagine Anton throwing someone out a window.
The tension was too great for Victor. “Got to pee.”
Arkady sat alone, nursing his beer. Another crew in jogging suits pushed into the café, as if the roads were full of surly sportsmen. Arkady’s gaze kept returning to the mobile phone. It would be interesting to know whether the phone Anton had called from was within fifteen minutes of Ivanov’s apartment. It was a landline number. He knew he should wait for Victor, but the detective could take half an hour just to avoid the bill.
Arkady picked up the mobile phone and pushed “Reply to Message.”
Ten rings.
“Guards’ room.”
Arkady sat up. “Guards’ room? Where?”
“Butyrka. Who is this?”
By the time Victor returned, Arkady was outside in the Lada, which proved unredeemed by soap. A wind bent the advertising banners along the highway and snapped the canvas. Each car that buzzed past rocked the Lada.
Victor got behind
“I’ve lasted too long.”
“Apparently. Well, cheer up, I have a little gift for you, something I found under Ivanov’s bed.” Victor placed a mobile phone, a Japanese clamshell model, on the table.
“Why were you under the bed?”
“You have to think like a detective. People place things on the edge of the bed all the time. They drop, and people kick them under the bed and never notice, especially if they’re in a hurry or in a sweat.”
“How did Ozhogin’s crew miss this?”
“Because everything they wanted was in the office.”
Arkady suspected that Victor just liked to look under beds. “Thank you. Have you looked at it yet?”
“I took a peek. Go ahead, open it up.” Victor sat back as if he’d brought bonbons.
The mobile phone’s introductory chime drew no attention from other tables; in a space-age café, a mobile phone was as normal as a knife or fork. Arkady went through the call history to Saturday evening’s outgoing calls to Rina and Bobby Hoffman; the incoming calls were from Hoffman, Rina and Timofeyev.
A little phone, and yet so much information: a wireless message concerning an Ivanov tanker foundering off Spain, and a calendar of meetings, most recently with Prosecutor Zurin, of all people. In the directory were phone numbers not only for Rina, Hoffman, Timofeyev and different NoviRus heads, but also for well-known journalists and theater people, for millionaires whose names Arkady recognized from other investigations, and, most interesting, for Zurin, the mayor, senators and ministers, and the Kremlin itself. Such a phone was a plug into a power grid.
Victor copied the names into a notepad. “What a world these people live in. Here’s a number that gives you the weather in Saint-Tropez. Very nice.” It took two brandies for Victor to finish the list. He looked up and nodded to a truculent circle of people at the next table. In a low voice, he said, “The Medvedev brothers. I’ve arrested their father and mother. But I have to admit, I feel comfortable with them. They’re ordinary thugs, not businessmen with investment funds.”
Arkady punched “Messages.”
There was one at 9:33 P.M. from a Moscow number, and the message did not sound like a businessman’s: “You don’t know who this is, but I’m trying to do you a favor. I’ll call you again. All I’ll say now is, if you stick your dick in someone else’s soup, sooner or later it’s going to get cut off.”
“A man of few words. Familiar?” Arkady handed the phone to Victor.
The detective listened and shook his head. “A tough guy. From the South, you can hear the soft O’s. But I can’t hear well enough. All the people talking here. Glasses tinkling.”
“If anyone can do it…”
Victor listened again, the mobile phone pressed tight to his ear, until he smiled like a man who had identified one wine from a million. “Anton. Anton Obodovsky.”
Arkady knew Anton. He could imagine Anton throwing someone out a window.
The tension was too great for Victor. “Got to pee.”
Arkady sat alone, nursing his beer. Another crew in jogging suits pushed into the café, as if the roads were full of surly sportsmen. Arkady’s gaze kept returning to the mobile phone. It would be interesting to know whether the phone Anton had called from was within fifteen minutes of Ivanov’s apartment. It was a landline number. He knew he should wait for Victor, but the detective could take half an hour just to avoid the bill.
Arkady picked up the mobile phone and pushed “Reply to Message.”
Ten rings.
“Guards’ room.”
Arkady sat up. “Guards’ room? Where?”
“Butyrka. Who is this?”
By the time Victor returned, Arkady was outside in the Lada, which proved unredeemed by soap. A wind bent the advertising banners along the highway and snapped the canvas. Each car that buzzed past rocked the Lada.
Victor got behind
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