Читать книгу Night Trap - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 29

Most of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police building was quiet, but on the third floor a block of offices was alive with the sounds of day—voices, telephones, computer keys, music that boomed until a hoarse voice shouted to turn it down. A gray-haired man carried a computer printout along an uncarpeted corridor, turned a corner, started past a row of doors and pulled up just after passing an open one. Thinking better of something, he leaned in.

“You interested in four Russians?”

“You got four for sale, eh?”

“Ha-ha, I’m laughing right out loud. I got a report from Vancouver about four Russians they’re just processing through—tourist visas, very little luggage, at least one checks out as former Spetsnaz.”

“Where they coming from?”

The man checked a sheet. “Vladivostok. Direct flight.”

“They holding them?”

“‘Detained in the normal course of immigration procedure.’”

“Lemme see.” The man at the desk took the printout. “Four hard cases,” he said. “You read this, eh? All four Spetsnaz, would be my guess. Ages are right, descriptions. So what we may have is four nouveau-mafia types who think muscling in on Canadian rackets might be a nice way to go. The kind that give me the pip—right shits, thinking we’re easy pieces.” He held out the sheets. “Nice catch, Tony. Tell Vancouver to let them through but put a tail on them. Descriptions and photos throughout, middle priority, ‘surveillance for information only.’ Open a file, put it in your manor—stay on top of it, eh? Update every seventy-two hours. This one smells.”

“Maybe it’s four former Spetsnaz who like hockey.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice. And Tony, put together a grab team. Just in case we want to talk to them.”

Tony looked a little piqued. “Some of us have lives, sir. And Senators tickets.”

“Do it anyway. It’s not like the Senators will win, eh? All our best guys are playing in the States.”