Red Mercury Blues
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An ex-KGB general has been killed on a live TV show in New York. Artie Cohen, a Russian American Jew and a special detective with the New York Police Department, unravels a Russian plot to acquire the infamous "red mercury" - a vital ingredient in the making of nuclear weapons.
from me. Dawn passed and I put my arm out and caught her. “She didn’t like you?” Dawn looked spectacular in a red suit. “She was hoping for Al Pacino,” I said. “You look wonderful. Maybe you married the wrong guy.” “I wish it could have been you,” Dawn whispered, only half joking. We’d been kidding around for years, ever since I moved into the building; sometimes we used to make out on the stairs. But it would break her father’s heart if Dawn married a round-eyed cop, and we both knew it.
my answering machine. “Tell us. You knew him, didn’t you, this guy? Who is he?” Tolya was gentle and efficient; he behaved tenderly to her. He was the best kind of interrogator, convincing as a priest, crouched beside her, massive arms around her shoulders as if to protect her. “I promise,” he kept saying over and over. “I will help you. Tell Tolya. Tell me everything.” She pulled away from him and disappeared into a toilet next to the room. I could hear her puke. When she came back, she took
half expecting someone on my back, but it was only a dead dog some idiot threw on the tracks. By the time we got in, it was rush hour. The way Penn Station is set up I didn’t notice anything, the extra cops, the frantic security men, not at first. To get to the trains, you have to go down separate flights of stairs from the main terminal to the various platforms. You want to get from one platform to another, generally you have to go up and down again. I knew Penn pretty well; I’d done a case
hybrid creatures were doubly vulnerable to Stalin’s obsessive xenophobia. To their own embassies, they were now foreigners. No one cared. In 1937, Birdie’s husband, who was my mother’s uncle by marriage, was arrested; he had an American wife and was, therefore, labeled an “Enemy of Nations”. He spent eighteen years in the labor camps. In 1939, Birdie, the wife of an “Enemy of Nations”, was also arrested. Stefan, the child, was dumped in an orphanage for the “Children of Enemies of Nations”.
Brodsky past the cloakroom and up the stairs, past a small reception room. A maid was on her knees polishing the lovely wood floor. On the next floor up, he led me to a small suite. Brodsky took off his overcoat. He had on slacks and a sweater. He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle and poured sherry into ornate little glasses. He held one out. “Do take off your coat.” In the pretty sitting room, we were alone. A clock ticked. I kept my coat and sat on a hard chair. The doors were closed. I