"Trusov will strike again, because I haven't gotten his message yet. I don't have the slightest idea what he wants."
Coates said, "He hasn't had any targets in three days. You haven't been in the open near anybody."
"So the Russian is probably hungry to deliver his message again. Maybe even desperate. I think he'll go for it. The super at this condo four blocks from my place reported a suspicious-looking character on the roof of the building next to his condo. The description fits Trusov. The Russian was scouting a firing site. That building's roof has a clear view to my apartment."
"We should just wait for him on that roof," Coates said. "Surround him."
Gray adamantly shook his head. "Pete, you still don't realize who you're dealing with. He'll kill a lot of your men before it's over. The only way to get this guy is from a distance, a long one."
When the telephone chirped, Coates snatched it and pressed it to his ear. He said a few words, then held the phone out for Gray. "It's Adrian Wade."
Gray made a face. He had told Coates about his free fall at Sam Owl's gym. "Tell her I'm busy. Tell her an orthopedic surgeon is putting my legs in casts, thanks to her." But he reached for the telephone anyway, adding, "At least she can't maim me over the phone."
With overwrought courtesy, he conversed a moment with Adrian, ending with "I'll be there in about three hours." He passed the phone back to Coates and said, "Mrs. Orlando, our nanny, hasn't arrived at our place yet. She's late, and has undoubtedly found one of her new boyfriends. It's more romantic to walk along the Brooklyn Heights promenade than appear for work."
"Dock her a day's pay," Coates suggested. "That'll cure absenteeism fast."
"I might, depending on the cleverness of her excuse." Gray laughed. "But Adrian kidnapped my daughters at the gym, took them uptown and had a fine old time, then escorted them to Bay Ridge in a cab. Now John has arrived home from his friend's. The girls have told Adrian a little lie, saying that their father never, never leaves them in the apartment without adult supervision. So Adrian is stuck there with a bunch of hungry, tired kids." He chortled again. "She deserves it."
"I did you a favor." Coates tempted him by lifting a sheaf of papers and wagging them at him.
"You've agreed to fund my kids' college educations?"
"Better. I asked a friend at the FBI to send me some information about Adrian Wade." He waved the paper at Gray again. "When I'm working closely with people, I like to know what makes them breathe hard. This file has got some hot stuff in it. Want to read it?"
Gray rebuked him. "Pete, I'm surprised at you, thinking I'd stoop so low as to read someone's private file."
"That's truly noble," Coates replied sardonically. "A lesson I might profit from."
"Read it to me."
"She's a widow, for one," the detective said without missing a beat. "Her husband was a pilot for Chesapeake Air Charter, and he went down in a De Haviland Beaver four years ago."
"What happened?"
"He ran out of air, I guess. The file doesn't say. She has studied judo for eight years, and was Northeast Judo Association seniors champion two years running."
Gray said dully, "That news would have been more useful to me this morning."
"Let's see." The detective skimmed the pages. "She was raised in Los Angeles. Her father and mother were both professors at UCLA. She did her undergraduate work there. She has a BA in psychology and an advanced degree in police science. She works sixty hours a week on average, real gung ho, and appears to be in line for a transfer back to Washington and a promotion."
Gray shifted on the seat, pushing his knees to one side. "Isn't there anything juicy in there?"
"How's this? Last November she was walking along Strelka Prospekt in Moscow and was attacked by a guy, a Russian, who shoved her against a wall and tried to yank her handbag away."
"Poor fellow." Gray rubbed his shoulder, still sore from its collision with the gym floor. "What'd she do to him?"
"She stabbed two fingers into his left eye socket and flipped his eyeball out onto the snow. The guy ran away screaming and bleeding."
Gray bit his lip. "Maybe I'd better try harder not to upset her."
The door was opened by Gunnery Sergeant Arlen Able. The sergeant's nose was covered by black tape. Skin below his eyes had the texture of crepe paper, with touches of sunset purple and malaria yellow and splotches of red from burst capillaries. He was in civvies — navy blue chinos and a black sweatshirt. A cardboard case painted in olive and buff camouflage was in his hands.
Gray said, "Judging from your face, Arlen, it looks like Nikolai Trusov is hitting about .310."
"If I laugh, my face will crack open and my brains will fall out." The sergeant pulled a large scope from the box.
"How's Blackman?"
"He's got casts on him that make both hands stick out, so he's going to walk around like the mummy for two months, but he'll live. Have you used a starlight scope before?"
"Some," Gray replied quietly.
"This is our new model, the AN/PVS-5. Battery powered. Uses starlight and moonlight for target illumination and amplifies reflected ambient light to brighten the target. Bud Blackman and I were a team in Iraq. Sometimes he'd spot, sometimes I would. No clouds or smog there, lots of starlight, and we used this equipment to hellish effect."
The starlight scope resembled a bird watcher's spotting scope, about a foot long with an eye shield on one end and a range focus ring on the other from which hung a lens cap on a plastic tether. Above the image intensifier tube housing was a cylinder containing the battery cap, power switch, and oscillator cap. A boresight mount assembly, locking knobs, and an azimuth adjustment knob were on a frame below the central housing.
"Can I remind you of a couple of things?" Able asked.
Gray nodded.
"Keep your eye tight against the rubber eyeshield, or light from the eyepiece assembly will leak around the eyeshield and will illuminate your face, make it a target."
Gray remembered.
"You are right-eyed, Owen. The starlight scope will be offset to the left of the rifle, and it weighs five pounds, so it's tough to maintain a steady position when sighting with the right eye. Rest your cheek against the stock comb like you do when sighting with iron sights, and use your left eye to obtain the sight picture. And this might very slightly change your zero."
"What'll be the zero?"
"Eight hundred yards, the distance to that roof," Able replied. "And your eyes are out of practice. Eye fatigue with this Five will become a factor in about four minutes. So go easy." Able returned the scope to the box, then brought up his wristwatch. "The NYPD swat team is going to let us use their rifle range. It's about forty minutes from here. You ready?"
Pete Coates responded, "Give me a minute with Owen, will you, Sergeant?"
Able carried the scope from the office to disappear down the hall.
"So you are going to do this?" Coates asked. "Can you?"
"It's like riding a bicycle. You don't forget."
"How do you know you've still got the talent? You haven't been practicing."
Gray thought for a moment. "Ever since the Chinaman was killed I've been feeling the little skills coming back."
"Little skills? Like what?"
"You had fish for dinner last night. Probably a saltwater fish, salmon or tuna. Not lake trout."
"So?" A small moment passed, then Coates's features twisted. "How in hell do you know that?"
"The scent has come through your pores and is on your skin. I can smell it. Saltwater fish give off more odor than freshwater fish."
"Is that another of your weird talents?"