"Adrian is a real Moscow gumshoe," Coates forged ahead. "At Shearson's request she took a crack at our puzzle of the red shell. But we weren't expecting you to show up here."
She sat at the far end of the bench at a distance that implied Gray and Coates had bad smells. A jogger with the bouncing lope of a beginner passed by.
Adrian Wade's smile was wintry. "After reading about your military service in Vietnam, Mr. Gray, I had expected to meet a Jack the Ripper but with better technology. Instead I find a goof on a bench. I'm relieved."
Gray rose from the bench. His voice was deliberately dry and bored. "Pete, you can brief me later on whatever Ms. Wade has to say. Suddenly I feel like I can run another ten miles."
She smiled with the magnanimity of superior knowledge. "Then you'll miss hearing the name of the sniper who leaves a red shell."
Gray's mouth moved, trying to find the right words. Nothing came, so he returned to his spot on the bench, defeated.
"The name is Trusov," she announced.
"Trusov?" Gray exclaimed. "World War Two's Victor Trusov? He left a red shell? I never heard that before."
She went on, "I spent the week speaking with members of three Russian police organizations, one civilian and two military. I must have set a world record for enduring patent lies, evasive answers, and protect-your-butt responses."
"And flat-out lewd propositions, I'll bet," Coates said flatteringly.
"Thirteen by my conservative estimate." She turned to give her smile only to the detective. "Russian men view western women as both naive and generous."
Gray had no doubt about the number of propositions. Adrian Wade was a startling combination of pure colors. Her hair was so black it reflected light like obsidian. The bangs were swept to one side with apparent unconcern but the result was a stylish rake. The rest of her hair ended at her shoulders, tucked in a way that flowed alongside her head as she moved. The contrast between her sable hair and the white skin of her face was almost shocking, and made her resemble a Victorian brooch. Her eyes were so blue they seemed lit from within. Her lips were painted a blood red, a bold color that set off marble-white teeth. She used her smile, it seemed to Gray. One instant it was street smart, then it was cryptic and beguiling.
"Stop staring at me, Mr. Gray." Her words percussed like a sledge on a railroad spike.
Gray scratched his nose, feeling ridiculous. Another jogger passed, this one wearing a shirt with a print of the Jolly Green Giant and a logo, "Visualize World Peas."
Adrian Wade said, "I spent most of my time at the Red Army's Armed Forces Inspectorate, whose territory covers crimes by Russian soldiers. Their building is near the Khodinka end of Leningrad Prospekt."
"I've never been to Moscow," Coates said.
"The Khodinka is the huge expanse of land in the middle of the city. It has a little-used airstrip that is connected to the Kremlin by a once-secret Metro tunnel. Other than an occasional flight by a Russian leader, the Khodinka is used only for practice for the Red Square military parades. The Inspectorate's building is on the Prospekt within sight of the Khodinka. My visit there produced amazement from a Red Army captain that I should be asking such questions. I got no higher and no further."
"But you persisted," Coates encouraged. "Don Shearson said you could be like a dog with a bone."
"That afternoon I received a call at my apartment. Then a black Zil limousine picked me up at the American compound to return me to the Inspectorate. This time I met with Major General Georgi Kulikov, chief of the Inspectorate. He and his superiors had apparently decided that if there is indeed a renegade Russian soldier shooting Americans they'd better do all they can to try to catch him. Doors began to open."
A panhandler dressed in a pea jacket, tattered black Keds, and a Navy wool watch cap encrusted with grime stopped in front of the bench. He bubbled a few vowels through black, broken teeth and held out his hand. Coates waved him away, but the beggar moved closer, pushing his open hand almost under Adrian Wade's chin. Coates flashed his gold badge. The panhandler grunted and shuffled on.
The detective slipped his badge case back into his coat pocket. "The general must've made some phone calls."
"Better than that. He brought in Colonel Gregor Rokossosky, who heads what was once called the KGB's Second Chief Directorate."
"Never heard of it."
"It investigates major crimes including homicide involving foreigners."
After what he thought was a respectable interlude, Gray again let his eyes settle on her, but guardedly, like a thief. At first glance Gray had mistaken her wild coloring for youth, but he now saw she had done some living. A fine pattern of lines — new and gentle lines — touched the corners of her eyes. A few strands of gray-white were lost in her black hair like shooting stars on a moonless night. Her voice had a knowing lilt and throatiness gained only with seasoning. And her manner — the way she easily crossed her legs and leaned against the seat back, the way she conversed with the police detective and, in particular, the way she had roughed up Gray — indicated she was no stripling. Late thirties, Gray guessed.
She was saying, "In the Red Army the left hand truly does not know what the right hand is doing. I think General Kulikov was being candid when he first said the army did not have a specialized sniper school. Colonel Rokossosky seconded him. But prodded from on high, I believe, they started to dig."
"You speak Russian?" Coates asked.
She hesitated, then with a glance at Gray as if he were the source of all exasperation, she asked, "Do you know anything about me?"
Coates replied, "Don Shearson recommended you highly, said you knew your way around Moscow, and that's about all."
"I have a master's degree in police science and was an FBI special agent for ten years. Then I went to work for the Foreign Service in Moscow, where I've been for eight years. Most of my work is with the Moscow police, but I've also spent time with the police commissioners and security chiefs of the independent republics. My job is to investigate crimes against United States citizens. I can't pass as a Russian, but I speak the language well enough."
A young couple on Rollerblades passed the bench. His arms were flapping but his girlfriend skated smoothly beside him, her hand on his hip as she cooed encouragement. Her clinging blue nylon exercise top was cut so low and her matching trunks so high that in most countries she would have been arrested.
"And the two Russians produced?" Coates asked.
"It took them a while, and they got tired of me always prodding, always implying I'd call ever higher in the Kremlin."
As she spoke, Adrian Wade flicked her head to rearrange her hair. The black hair jumped and rolled. Gray wondered if she was aware of the motion, one she might have been doing all her life. This shiver of her head produced a fresh angle of her chin, as if she were renewing her presence and demanding the attention due her. At some level of her consciousness she knew of her glamour and its breath-catching effect on others and was not afraid to make those conversing with her focus on it. Perhaps she traded on her appearance. With this little shake, Gray knew something about her that she had not intentionally revealed, and he was chagrined that such a trifling discovery felt like a victory.
She went on, "General Kulikov was discomfited when he called me in again to say he had found the Red Army snipers' school, something he had sworn the day before did not exist. He said the school was run by the Spetsnaz, and nodded at me meaningfully, indicating he could not have been expected to know anything about the Spetsnaz."