Independence Square: Arkady Renko in Ukraine (10) (The Arkady Renko Novels)

“Poignant….a moving portrayal of struggle against political and personal tides.” —New York Times Book Review "A thrilling and poignant novel." —Wall Street Journal "[Detective Arkady] Renko, who made his debut in 1981's Gorky Park , remains the archetype of an honest cop working for a corrupt regime." — Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Solid sleuthing by Arkady Renko and a good read for his fans." — Kirkus Reviews Martin Cruz Smith’s novels include Gorky Park , Stallion Gate , Nightwing , Polar Star , Stalin’s Ghost , Rose , December 6 , Tatiana , The Girl from Venice , and The Siberian Dilemma . He is a two-time winner of the Hammett Prize, a recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award and Britain’s Golden Dagger Award, and a winner of the Premio Piemonte Giallo Internazionale. He lives in California. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 1 “You know what the two most depressing words in the Russian language are?” Arkady asked. “How long have I got?” Victor’s voice sounded thick with gravel, which was always a sign that the previous night he hadn’t so much fallen off the wagon as plunged from it. “?‘Desk job,’?” Arkady said. “In a country which clasps tragedy to its breast, nothing is more tragic than a man with a ‘desk job.’?” “As always, Investigator, you zero in on the truth.” “Investigator.” Arkady sighed. “The only inquiry I’ve made in the past three months has been into the quality of the coffee here in Petrovka.” Petrovka 38 was the police headquarters where Arkady worked as investigator for the Office of Prosecution, and Victor was his good friend and assistant detective. “What did you decide?” “That when the devil came to seduce Margarita in Patriarch Ponds, he stopped off on the way to install vending machines. Come on, Victor, what do you call an investigator who doesn’t investigate?” “A crime,” said Victor. It was, of course, Prosecutor Zurin who had confined Arkady to office duties. He had, over the years, sent Arkady to various extremities of the country on cases: to Kaliningrad, hard up against the Polish border in the west, and to Lake Baikal, halfway to the Far East, across endless rolls of Siberian tundra. Perhaps, Arkady thought, he could complete the compass by going to the far north or the far south. The Northern Fleet in Murmansk was always a hotbed of scandal, and any time spent there would play havoc with Arkady’s circadian rhythms to an extent which would please even Zurin. The sun didn’t rise for six weeks in the winter and didn’t set for six weeks in the summer. Men went mad with monotonous regularity up there, and sometimes Arkady felt he had less far to go than most. As for the south—well, Crimea was Russian again now, and it was very nice at this time of year. Arkady had been there once with his first wife, Zoya, back in the days when every woman on the beach wore the same leopard-print swimsuit because that was the only one on sale that year. As the saying went, the past was another country. Papers were stacked in ziggurats on Arkady’s desk. He picked up a sheet off the tallest one and waved it vaguely in Victor’s direction. “Departmental liaison officer. Do you know what that means?” “That you attend endless meetings where you’re neither wanted nor needed.” “Right,” said Arkady. The ziggurat slid and toppled as Arkady put the paper back. A solitary sheet floated gently downwards like a snowflake. Victor stretched out a hand and caught it lightly between thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?” he asked. “What do you mean?” “The handwriting is so tiny, it’s illegible. I can’t read a word of it. Can you read it?” “Of course. It’s my handwriting.” “Go on, then.” He handed the paper to Arkady. “Read it to me.” Arkady hesitated. “I can’t read a word of it either,” Arkady said. “You should transcribe it onto the computer while it’s still fresh in your mind. “It’s called age, Victor. Everything starts going with age.” Read more