Martin Cruz Smith
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He made too many enemies. He lost his party membership. Once Moscow’s top criminal investigator, Arkady Renko now toils in obscurity on a Russian factory ship working with American trawlers in the middle of the Bering Sea. But when an adventurous female crew member is picked up dead with the day’s catch, Renko is ordered by his captain to investigate an accident that has all the marks of murder. Up against the celebrated Soviet bureaucracy once more, Renko must again become the obsessed, dedicated cop he was in Gorky Park and solve a chilling mystery fraught with international complications.
–The New York Times Book Review
“Impossible to put down . . . a book of heart-stopping suspense and intricate plotting, but also a meticulously researched, ambitious literary work of great distinction.”
–The Detroit News
“Martin Cruz Smith writes the most inventive thrillers of anyone in the first rank of thriller writers.”
–The Washington Post Book World
“Gripping . . . absorbing.”
–The Philadelphia Inquirer
Obolensky returned to put a proprietary grip on her arm and led her to a bench where a man with a bullhorn was haranguing the wind. Arkady thought Tatiana Petrovna would have smiled to see who had come to pay their last respects. It was a middle-aged intellectual crowd. Publishers who abandoned their writers, writers who wrote for the drawer, artists who had become wealthy by turning Social Realism into kitsch. He wondered what other accusations could be hurled at them. That they once were a
approved motordromes, but the gangs slipped away like Mongols on the loose, took over whole villages, then vanished before a state motor patrol could arrive. The larger fisherman had a sallow face, hooded eyes and the strong, hanging arms of someone who has spent time shoving crab pots and nets. Not a smooth man. He looked Arkady up and down. ‘What is this shit?’ ‘This, Coletti,’ Morgan explained, ‘is the joint venture. The man with our old friend Slava speaks English well enough to teach you.
you don’t know his true shape until he’s soaked. I thought Renko was different.’ Natasha blew her warm breath on each naked, individual toe and then tenderly kneaded it, which felt like having red-hot needles stuck under the nails. ‘Maybe we should take him to Dr Vainu,’ she suggested. ‘No,’ Arkady managed to say. His lips were rubbery, another effect of the fumes. Izrail said, ‘I let you off the line because you were going to perform some sort of investigation for the captain, not so you
disappearance, from what Marchuk had said, were that the Americans be beyond conceivable swimming distance and that not a single item of lifesaving gear be missing from the Polar Star. If defection was impossible, what did Zina want? The suggestion of a beer stuck in his throat. Sakhalin trawlers had made extra money by picking up cases of Japanese beer tied to crab pots and leaving in exchange sacks of salmon roe. He could use one of those beers, as cold as the sea, not the warm, liquid
be my career. Such innocence!’ Arkady looked at the monitors, at the repeated image of orange fish rising in an electric-green sea. The white dome had clamps; it was removable; if the winch had to be serviced, what else would Hess do, send down a diver? ‘Why do you think I had you taken off the slime line?’ Hess continued. ‘I heard something wrong: that this dead girl, Zina Patiashvili, went to the stern every time the Eagle delivered a net. To wave at a native boy? Let’s not be silly. The only