Read Wolves Eat Dogs for Free Online Page A

vetted, of course. Security cameras covered the street, lobby, passenger elevator and service alley. At the back of the lobby Grisha tapped in a code on a keypad by a door with a sign that said STAFF ONLY . The door eased open, and Grisha led Arkady into an area that consisted of a changing room with lockers, sink, microwave; toilet; mechanical room with furnace and hot-water heater; repair shop where two older men Grisha identified as Fart A and Fart B were intently threading a pipe; residents’ storage area for rugs, skis and such, ending in a truck bay. Every door had a keypad and a different code.
    Grisha said, “You ought to go to NoviRus Security. Like an underground bunker. They’ve got everything there: building layout, codes, the works.”
    “Good idea.” NoviRus Security was the last place Arkady wanted to be. “Can you open the bay?”
    Light poured in as the gate rolled up, and Arkady found himself facing a service alley wide enough to accommodate a moving van. Dumpsters stood along the brick wall that was the back of shorter, older buildings facing the next street over. There were, however, security cameras aimed at the alley from the bay where Arkady and Grisha stood, and from the new buildings on either side. There was also a green-and-black motorcycle standing under a No Parking sign.
    Something about the way the doorman screwed up his face made Arkady ask, “Yours?”
    “Parking around here is a bitch. Sometimes I can find a place and sometimes I can’t, but the Farts won’t let me use the bay. Excuse me.” As they walked to the bike, Arkady noticed a cardboard sign taped to the saddle: DON’T TOUCH THIS BIKE. I AM WATCHING YOU. Grisha borrowed a pen from Arkady and underlined “watching.” “That’s better.”
    “Quite a machine.”
    “A Kawasaki. I used to ride a Uralmoto,” Grisha said, to let Arkady know how far he had come up in the world.
    Arkady noticed a pedestrian door next to the bay. Each entry had a separate keypad. “Do people park here?”
    “No, the Farts are all over them, too.”
    “Saturday, when the mechanics weren’t on duty?”
    “When we’re short-staffed? Well, we can’t leave our post every time a car stops in the alley. We give them ten minutes, and then we chase them out.”
    “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