Boris motioned me to an overstuffed armchair, and he sat in a similar chair opposite me. He was wearing a black European-cut suit and a silk shirt, open at the collar. Like me, he sported a Rolex, but I suspected his cost more than forty bucks. He looked like he was still in decent shape, but not as lean or hard as I remembered him.
Viktor remained in the room, and he took a cocktail order from the boss-a bottle of chilled vodka.
Boris poured into two crystal glasses, raised his glass and said, "Health."
I replied, "Na zdorov'e," which I think means "health"-or does it mean "I love you"?
Anyway, the vodka, whose label was in Cyrillic, had traveled well.
Boris was waiting for me to say something-like why I was here-but I enjoy a few minutes of companionable silence, which sometimes throws the other guy off while he's thinking about an unannounced visit from a cop. Also, Viktor was still there, and Boris needed to tell him to leave. But Boris was a cool customer and the silence didn't unsettle him. He sipped his vodka and lit a cigarette-still Marlboros-without asking me if I minded, and without offering me one.
So these two Russian guys go into a bar, and they order a bottle of vodka and they sit and drink for an hour without saying a word. Then one of them says, "Good vodka," and the other guy says, "Did you come here to drink, or did you come here to bullshit?"
I looked around the big windowless room, which was more of a living room than an office. The parquet floors were covered with oriental rugs, and the place was filled with a hodgepodge of Russian stuff-maybe antiques-like icons, a porcelain stove, a silver samovar, painted furniture, and lots of Russian tchotchkes. It looked very homey, like Grandma's living room if your grandma was named Svetlana.
Boris noticed my interest in his digs, and he broke the silence by saying, "This is my working apartment."
I nodded.
He motioned to a set of double doors and said, "I have an office in there and also a bedroom."
I had the same deal on East 72nd Street, and we were both going to be holed up in our working apartments for a while, though Boris didn't know that yet.
As I said, his English was nearly perfect, and I'm sure he'd learned a lot more words since I'd last seen him-like "profit and loss statement," "working capital," and so forth.
Boris, I'm sure, was not used to being jerked around, so he said to me, "Thank you for stopping by. I've enjoyed our talk." He said something to Viktor, who walked to the door, but did not open it until he looked through the peephole. Maybe this was normal precaution for a Russian nightclub. Or paranoia. Or something else.
Boris stood and said to me, "I'm rather busy tonight."
I remained seated and replied, "Viktor can leave."
Boris informed me, "He speaks no English."
"This isn't a good time for him to learn it."
Boris hesitated, then told Viktor to take a hike, which in Russian is one word.
Viktor left and Boris bolted the door.
I stood and looked out the two-way mirror that took up half the wall and had a sweeping view of the restaurant below, and also the bar beyond the etched glass wall. Veronika was still there. On the rear wall of the restaurant above the maitre d's stand were high windows that offered glimpses of the beach and the ocean. Not bad, Boris. Beats the hell out of Libya.
Directly below was the stage, and through the banks of overhead lights, prop pulleys, and other stage mechanicals, I could see two trapeze artists-a male and female flying through the air with the greatest of ease.
Boris asked me, "Were you enjoying the show?"
Obviously, he'd seen me waiting at the maitre d's stand.
I replied, "You put on a good show."
"Thank you."
I turned from the two-way mirror and said to him, "You've done well."
He replied, "It is a lot of work and worry. I have many government inspectors coming here-fire, health, alcohol-and do you realize most of them don't take bribes?"
"The country is going to hell," I agreed.
"And I have to deal with cheating vendors, staff who steal-"
"Kill them."
He smiled and replied, "Yes, sometimes I miss my old job in Russia."
"The pay sucked."
"But the power was intoxicating."
"I'm sure." I asked him, "Do you miss your old job in Libya?"
He shook his head and replied, "Not at all."
At this point, he may have thought that I'd come here to talk about the one thing we had in common-and he'd be correct. But I'd said this wasn't an official visit, so to stay true to my word, I'd let Boris ask me about our favorite subject.
He offered me another drink, which I accepted. How many vodkas was that? Two that I paid for, and this was my second freebie. My on-duty limit is five. Four, if I think I may have to pull my gun.
On that subject, I was certain I wasn't the only one here who was carrying, though Boris may have stashed his piece if he wasn't licensed. Ah, for the good old days in the USSR when the KGB ruled. But money is good, too. Though money and power are the best.
Before Kate and I had met Boris three years ago at CIA Headquarters, we hadn't been fully briefed about his rank or title in the old KGB, or what Directorate he'd been in, or what his actual job had been. But afterward, an FBI agent had confided to us that Boris had been an agent of SMERSH, meaning licensed to kill-sort of an evil James Bond. If I'd known that beforehand, I'd still have had the meeting with him, but I don't think I'd have found him as charming. As for Kate… well, she always liked the bad boys.
I suppose I didn't actually care what Boris had done for a living in the Soviet Union; that was over. But it bothered me that he'd sold himself to a rogue nation and had trained a man like Asad Khalil. I'm sure he regretted it, but the damage was done, and it was extensive.
Since I was standing anyway, I took the opportunity to walk around the big room and check out the goods. Boris was happy to tell me about the icons and the lacquered wooden boxes, and the porcelains, and all his other treasures.
He said to me, "These are all antiques and quite valuable."
"Which is why you have such good security," I suggested.
"Yes, that's right." He saw me looking at him, so he added, "And, of course, the most valuable thing here is me." He smiled, then further explained, "In this business one can make enemies."
"As in your last business," I reminded him.
"And yours as well, Mr. Corey."
I suggested, "Maybe we should both look for another business."
He thought about that and said, correctly, "The old business will always follow you."
This was my opening to say, "Regarding that, I have some bad news, and some even worse news," but I wanted to get a better measure of this man first. I mean, I wasn't here to simply give him a warning; I was here to get some help with our mutual problem.
I thought back again to my and Kate's hour with Boris at CIA Headquarters, and I recalled that I had trouble reconciling this nice man with the man who had trained Asad Khalil for money. Kate and I were products of our upbringing and backgrounds-middle class, cop and FBI agent-and Boris's morally weightless world of international intrigue, double-dealing, and assassination was not how we lived or worked. The CIA, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem with Boris's past. He was part of their world, and the CIA made no moral judgments; they were just happy to have him as their singing defector.
Boris asked me, "What are you thinking about?"
I told him, "Our meeting in Langley."
"I enjoyed that." He added, "I was sure I would see you again-if nothing happened to you."
"Well, nothing too fatal has happened to me, and here I am."
I let that hang and continued my walk around the room. On one wall was an old Soviet poster showing a caricature of Uncle Sam, who looked less Anglo-Saxon and more Jewish for some reason. Sam was holding a money bag in one hand and an atomic bomb in the other. His feet were planted astride a globe of the world, and under his boots were the necks of poor native people from around the world. The Soviet Union-CCCP-was surrounded by American missiles, all pointing toward the Motherland. I couldn't read the Russian caption, and the iconography was perhaps a bit subtle for me, but I think I got it.
He saw me studying the poster and said, "A bit of nostalgia."
I replied, "Nostalgia is not what it used to be." I suggested, "Let me get you a Norman Rockwell print."
He laughed, then said, "Some of my American friends still find that poster offensive."
"Can't imagine why."
He reminded me, "The Cold War is over. You won." He informed me, "Those posters, if they are original, are quite expensive. That one cost me two thousand dollars."
I pointed out, "Not a lot of money for a successful entrepreneur."
He agreed, "Yes, I am now a capitalist pig with a money bag in my hand. Fate is strange."
He lit another cigarette but this time offered me one, which I declined. He asked me, "How did you find me?"
"Boris, I work for the FBI."
"Yes, of course, but my friends in Langley assured me that all information about me is classified."
I replied, "This may come as a shock to you, but the CIA lies."
We both got a smile out of that one.
Then he got serious again and said, "And any information about me is on a need-to-know basis." He took a drag and asked, "So, what is your need-to-know, Mr. Corey?"
I replied, "Please call me John."
"John. What is your need-to-know?"
"Well, I'm glad you asked." I changed the subject and my tactics and said, "Hey, I'm drinking on an empty stomach."
He hesitated, then replied, "Of course. I have forgotten my manners."
"No, I should have called." I suggested, "Don't go out of your way. Maybe call for a pizza."
He went to the phone on a side table and assured me, "No trouble. In fact, you may have noticed this is a restaurant."
"Right." Boris had a little sarcastic streak, which shows intelligence and good mental health, as I have to explain often to my wife.
Boris was speaking on the phone intercom in Russian, and I heard the word "zakuskie," which I know from my pal Ivan means appetizers. Some words stick in your mind. Of course, Boris could also be saying, "Put knockout drops in the borscht." Before he hung up, I asked, "Can they do pigs-in-a-blanket?"
He glanced at me, then added to his order, saying, "Kolbasa en croute."
What?
Anyway, he hung up and said to me, "Why don't you sit?"
So I sat, and we both relaxed a bit, sipping vodka and enjoying the moment before I got down to what he knew was not going to be pleasant.
Boris said to me, "I have forgotten to ask you-how is that lovely lady you were with?"
In this business, as I said, you never reveal personal information, so I replied, "I still see her at work, and she's well."
"Good. I enjoyed her company. Kate. Correct? Please give her my regards."
"I will."
He smiled and said to me, "I had the impression that you and she were more than colleagues."
"Yeah? Hey, do you think I missed a shot at that?"
He shrugged and gave me a hot tip. "Women are difficult to understand."
"Really?" For fun, I said, "I think she married a CIA guy."
"A poor choice."
"That's what I think."
"As bad as a KGB guy."
I smiled and asked him, "Are you married?"
He replied without enthusiasm, "Yes."
"Russian gull?"
"Excuse me?"
"Russian girl?"
"Yes."
"Kids?"
"No."
"So, how did you two meet?"
"Here."
"Right. I'll bet this is a good place to meet women."
He laughed, but didn't respond. He asked me, "And you?"
"Never married."
"And why is that, if I may ask?"
"No one ever asked me."
He smiled and informed me, "I think you are supposed to ask them."
"Well, that's not going to happen."
Boris said to me, "I am remembering now your sense of humor." He hesitated, then said, "If you wish, I can send a woman home with you."
"Really? Like, take-out?"
He was really enjoying my humor, and he laughed and said, "Yes, I will put her in a container with your leftovers."
This generous offer-sometimes known as a honey trap-was serious and needed a reply, so I said, "Thank you for your offer, but I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality."
"No trouble." He added, "Let me know if you change your mind."
It occurred to me that Boris actually had another good reason for all this security, beyond personal safety and works of art: Mrs. Korsakov's unannounced visits.
Boris finally broached the subject of my attire and said to me, "You look very prosperous."
"I just dressed for the occasion."
"Yes?" He commented, "That watch is… I think ten thousand dollars."
"It didn't cost me anything. I took it off a dead man."
He lit another cigarette, then very coolly said, "Yes, I have some souvenirs as well."
It was time, I thought, to move the ball down the field, so I asked him, "Did the government give you a loan for this business?"
"Why do you ask? And why don't you know?"
I didn't answer either question, but asked him another: "Have you heard from your friends in Langley recently?"
He asked me, "Are you now here on official business?"
"I am."
"Then I should ask you to leave, and I should call my attorney."
"You can do that anytime you want." I reassured him, "This isn't the Soviet Union."
He ignored that and said, "Tell me why I should speak to you."
"Because it's your civic duty to assist in the investigation of a crime."
"What crime?"
"Murder."
He inquired, "What murder?"
"Well, maybe yours."
That called for a drink, and he poured himself one.
I said to him, unnecessarily, "Asad Khalil is back."
He nodded.
"Are you surprised?"
"Not at all."
"Me neither."
A few musical notes sounded-Tchaikovsky? — and Boris stood, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. I wondered where the monitor for the security camera was located.
Boris opened the door, and a waiter entered pushing a cart, with Viktor bringing up the rear.
Viktor closed and bolted the door, and the waiter unloaded three tiered trays of food onto a black lacquered table. Boris seemed to have forgotten about my bad news and busied himself with directing the waiter.
The table was now heaped with food and bottled mineral water, and the waiter was setting the table with linens, silverware, and crystal from a sideboard.
Boris said to me, "Sit. Here."
I sat, and Boris followed the waiter and Viktor to the door and bolted it after them, then sat opposite me.
He asked me, "Do you enjoy Russian food?"
"Who doesn't?"
"Here," he said, "this is smoked blackfish, this is pickled herring, and this is smoked eel." He named everything for me and I was losing my appetite. He concluded with, "The piece de resistance-pigs-in-a-blanket."
The pigs-in-a-blanket were actually chunks of fat sausage-kolbasa-wrapped in some kind of fried dumpling dough, and I put a few of them on my plate along with some other things that looked safe.
Boris poured us some mineral water and we dug into the chow.
The kolbasa and dough were actually very good-fat and starch are good-but the jury was out on the pickled tomatoes.
As we dined, Boris asked me, "How do you know he is back?"
I replied, "He's killed some people."
"Who?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you, but I will say he completed his mission from last time."
Boris stopped eating, then said, "I want you to know that when I trained him, I did not train him for a specific mission-I simply trained him to operate in the West."
"And to kill."
He hesitated, then said, "Well… yes, to kill, but these are skills that any operative needs to know… in the event it becomes necessary."
"Actually," I pointed out, "Khalil was not an intelligence operative who might have to kill. He was, in fact, a killer. Trained by you. That's why he was here."
Boris tried another approach to the subject. "Understand that I had no knowledge of Khalil's mission in America. The Libyans certainly were not going to tell me about that." He added, "I explained this to the CIA, and they believed me because it was logical and it was the truth. And I am certain they passed this on to you before we met."
I didn't reply.
He asked, rhetorically, "If the CIA believed I knew that Khalil was going to kill American pilots, would they have gotten me out of Libya? Would they have let me live?"
That was a good question, and I had no good answer. What I did know for sure was that the CIA and Boris Korsakov had struck a devil's deal: they saved his life, and he spilled his guts. There may have been more to the deal, but neither Boris nor the CIA was going to tell John Corey what it was. Officially, Boris Korsakov, former KGB operative, and quite possibly an assassin himself, had sold his services to a rogue nation and trained one, or perhaps more, of their jihadists in the art of killing. But Boris himself had no blood on his hands-according to Boris-and he was welcome in America as a legitimate defector. Aside from the moral ambiguities here, Boris was doing well financially-not to mention having a great life-and the rest of us who were still in this business were not eating caviar, surrounded by wine, women, and song. Hey, life is not fair, but neither is it supposed to reward treachery or pay a lousy salary for loyalty.
On the other hand, we all make our choices and we live-or die-with the consequences of those choices.
In any case, Boris was trying to rehabilitate his reputation, such as it was, and I should have moved on, but I said to him, "I assume the CIA fully briefed you on what Khalil did here three years ago."
"Not fully." He added, "I had no need-to-know."
"But you said you knew he murdered American pilots."
"Yes… they did tell me that."
I suggested, "Boris, the bullshit is getting a little old."
"For you, perhaps. Not for me."
"Right." I wasn't trying to get at any truth with these questions-I just wanted to put him on the defensive, which I'd done, so I said, "All right. Let's move on. You eat, I talk." I pushed my food aside and said, "Khalil has been in this country for maybe a week. He killed the last pilot who had been on the Libyan raid-a nice man, named Chip-then he killed a few more people, and he didn't go out of his way to hide his identity. So, yeah, we know he's here. In fact, right here in the city."
Boris didn't look over his shoulder or anything, but he did stop chewing. I mean, this is a tough guy, but (a) he trained the killer in question so he knew how good he was, and (b) Boris had undoubtedly gone a little soft-mentally and physically-in the last three years. Meanwhile, Asad Khalil had undoubtedly gotten a little tougher and better at his job.
I continued, "It has occurred to me that Khalil has some scores to settle with you. If I'm wrong, tell me, and I will get up and leave."
Boris poured me more mineral water.
So I went on, "Quite frankly, I didn't expect to see you alive."
He nodded, then said to me, of course, "I'm surprised you are alive."
"You're lucky I'm alive. Look, I know we're both on his must-kill list, so we need to talk."
Boris nodded, then said, "And perhaps your friend Kate is also in danger."
"Perhaps. But to give you more information than you need to know, she is now in a location that is more secure than yours. We did this," I lied, "to reduce the number of potential targets." I gave him the happy news. "So I think it's just you and me left."
He took that well and joked, "You can sleep on that couch tonight."
I said, "You should also stay here."
"Perhaps."
"Your wife will understand."
"I assure you, she will not." He thought a moment, then said, "In fact, she will be going to Moscow tomorrow."
"Not a bad idea."
Boris poured himself a cognac and poured one for me, then said, "I assume you have a better plan than hiding."
"Actually, I do. My plan is to use you as bait to trap Khalil."
He replied, "I am not sure I like that plan."
"Works for me."
He forced a smile, but didn't respond.
Actually, being bait was my new job, and I had no problem with that. In fact, I wanted to be the only person in a position to kill Asad Khalil. But Boris Korsakov was also a target, and I had an obligation to tell him that, and I also needed to put my own ego and anger aside in favor of the mission. I wouldn't be thrilled if it was Boris who nailed Khalil, but the bottom line would still be Khalil in a casket.
Boris asked me, "Do you have any actual information that he knows where I am?"
I replied, truthfully, "We don't. But why don't we assume he does know where you are?" I added, "He had three years to find you. Plus he has friends in America."
Boris nodded, then smiled and informed me, "I have actually been mentioned in some publications that write about food, or about the Russian immigrant community."
"I hope they didn't use your photo, Boris."
He shrugged and replied, "A few times." He explained his security lapse by saying, "It is part of my business. And to be truthful, I didn't mind the publicity, and I was not thinking of personal security."
"Apparently not." I asked him, "And that's your real name?"
"It is." He further explained, "The CIA urged me to change my name, but… it is all I have from my past."
"Right." And that's the name they'll use on your tombstone. Well, I guess Boris Korsakov felt safe in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, despite the fact that he'd pissed off Libyan Intelligence, Asad Khalil, and maybe his old KGB buddies. But he couldn't be feeling completely at ease about the past, so add another reason for those locks and bolts on the door.
I said, "So let's assume that Khalil knows you are the proprietor of Svetlana, and that you have a wife and an apartment on Brighton Twelfth Street. You can run, you can hide, but you can also sit here and wait for him, and I'll have people waiting with you."
He replied, "Well, I will think about that. In the meantime, you and your organization should think about some other way to capture him-or kill him."
I pointed out, "I think you know him better than the Feds."
He thought a moment, then said, "He will be difficult to find. But he will find you."
"Boris, I know that. I'm not hiding." I reminded him, "He's probably already found you. The question is, How do I find him?"
Boris sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He stared off at a point in space and spoke, almost to himself: "The Soviet Union, for all its faults, never underestimated the Americans. If anything, we tended to overestimate you. Khalil, on the other hand, is from a culture that underestimates the West, and especially the Americans. And this perhaps is his weakness." He thought a moment, then continued, "He cares nothing for money, women, comfort… he has no vices, and he thinks those who do are weak and corrupt."
He thought a moment, then continued, "They call him The Lion because of his courage, his stealth, his speed, and his ability to sense danger. But in this last regard, he often misses the signs of danger because of his belief that he is strong-physically, mentally, and morally-and that his enemies are weak, stupid, and corrupt." He looked at me and said, "I warned him once about this, but I did not bother to warn him again."
Boris was on a roll, reminiscing about his student, so I didn't respond.
Boris continued, "Khalil had a mentor, an old man called Malik, who was somewhat of a mystic." He informed me, "Malik, like me, tried to teach Khalil caution, but Malik also convinced Khalil that he was blessed-that he had special powers, a sixth sense for danger, and a sense for knowing when his prey was close. Nonsense, of course, but Khalil believed it, and therefore he does stupid things, but seems to get away with his stupidity, which only reinforces his rash behavior." He speculated, "Perhaps his luck is running out."
Not so you'd notice, but I said, "Maybe." In truth, the few murderers I've come across who thought God was in their corner had been a problem; they certainly were not blessed by God, but they thought they were, and that made them unpredictable and more dangerous than the average homicidal nut job.
Boris took a drag on his cigarette and said, "He was an excellent learner-very quick, very intelligent. And also very motivated-but what motivated him was hate." He looked at me and said, "As you know, the Americans killed his entire family."
I did not reply.
Boris said, correctly, "Hate clouds the judgment."
Again, I didn't respond, but I did think about this odd couple-Boris Korsakov and Asad Khalil-teacher and student from opposite ends of the universe. I was sure that Boris had done a good job training his young protege to kill and escape, but at the end of school, Asad Khalil was the same deranged person as he'd been at the beginning.
Boris continued, "He is what you call a loner. He does not need friends, women, or even colleagues, though he will use people and then dispose of them. So, how do you find such a man? Well, as I said, you will not find him-he will find you. But when he does, he is more likely than most professional assassins to make an error-an error in judgment, and thus an error in tactics. And by this, Mr. Corey, I mean that he will pass up an opportunity to safely blow your head off at two hundred meters, and he will attack you in a most personal way-the way a lion attacks, with his teeth, and his claws. He needs to taste your blood. And like a cat playing with a mouse, he often plays with his victim and taunts him before killing him. This is important to him. So if you survive the initial assault, you may have a chance to respond." Boris concluded, "This is all I can tell you that may be of help."
Well, aside from Malik the mystic, there wasn't too much there that I didn't know, and in fact Kate and I recently had some personal experience with Khalil's modus operandi. But it was good to have my own thoughts and observations confirmed. I said to Boris, "So we should bend over and kiss our asses good-bye?"
He smiled and, being a good host, complimented me by saying, "I feel that you can handle the situation if it should arise." He added, of course, "And so can I."
Maybe I shouldn't have cancelled my gym membership. I returned to my previous suggestion. "Another way to catch or kill a lion is to leave bait in a trap."
He'd apparently given some thought to my suggestion and replied, "Yes. If you want the lion alive, you put a live goat in a cage, and when the lion enters the cage, the door closes. The lion is trapped, but the goat gets eaten. Or if you want the lion dead, then the goat is tethered to a tree, and as the lion is killing him, the hunter shoots. In either case, the goat is dead. But goats are expendable."
"Good point." I assured him, "But we know you're not a goat and we will ensure your safety."
He wasn't so sure of that, and frankly, neither was I. Boris said to me, "You try it first."
"Okay. I'll let you know how I make out."
"Yes, if you can." He did say, however, "It is an interesting idea, and it may be the only way you will capture or kill him. But be advised-John-even as you are setting a trap for him, he may be doing the same for you."
"Right."
To continue the lion thing, he said, "And you would not be the first hunter to follow the lion's spoor, only to discover the lion has circled around and is now behind you."
"Hey, good analogy. I'll remember that."
"Please do."
My next question wasn't really important to the subject, but I had to know. "Did you teach Khalil how to kill with an ice pick?"
He seemed at first surprised, then a bit uncomfortable with the question. I mean, it was not an abstract question. He hesitated, then replied, "I believe I did." He then inquired, "Why do you ask?"
"Why do you think I asked?"
He didn't reply to my question, but let me know, "That idiot had never seen an ice pick, and when I showed it to him, he was like a child with a new toy."
"I'll bet."
"So, did the victim die?"
"Oh yeah. But I think it took awhile."
"How many stabs?" he asked.
"Just one."
Boris seemed annoyed, maybe frustrated with his old student, and said, "I told him two or three."
"Kids don't listen."
"He is not a kid. He's… an idiot."
I asked him, "Hey, what's with the Russkies and the ice pick? Didn't you guys whack Trotsky with an ice pick?"
Boris seemed interested in this subject and replied, "Well, as you can imagine, there are a lot of ice picks in Russia, and so they become the weapon of convenience, especially in the winter."
"Right. I should have thought of that."
Boris regarded me a moment, wondering, I'm sure, if I was having some fun with him. He played along by picking up a sharp knife on the table, saying, "If you do not know what you are doing with this, you will not deliver a fatal wound. You will get this stuck in a bone, or in a muscle, or you will deliver a few non-fatal wounds, and the other person will have an opportunity to run or attack. Even a deep abdominal wound is not fatal unless you hit the artery." He explained, "The knife is good mostly for the throat"-he put the blade to his throat-"the jugulars here, or the carotids. That is fatal, but it is a difficult cut to make if you are facing your opponent. You need to come up behind him for a proper throat cut. Correct?" He put the knife down and concluded, "But the ice pick will easily penetrate the skull from any angle, and it will also penetrate the breast bone into the heart, even if the victim is wearing heavy winter clothing, and it will, in either case, cause a fatal wound, though not instantly fatal."
He seemed to realize that he'd gotten carried away with this subject, and he forced a smile and said, "Perhaps not good dinner conversation."
"I brought it up. You just ran with it."
"Try that cognac."
I took a small sip to be polite. Boris, for all his alcohol consumption, seemed alert-maybe it was the sobering thought that he was marked for death that kept his mind focused. In any case, he said to me, "You must take care of him this time. If you do not, you will never have a day of peace."
"Neither will you."
He ignored that and asked me, "How did he get away last time?"
Boris had some skin in the game, so this was not simply a professional or academic question. I replied, "I certainly can't tell you more than your CIA friends told you three years ago. If you don't know, they don't want you to know."
And since the CIA was my next subject, I asked him, "What did the CIA tell you about their interest in Asad Khalil?"
He stayed silent for a while, then replied, "Very little. But I had the impression-based on my own training and experience-that the CIA's interest in Khalil was not the same as the FBI's interest."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, of course, that the CIA wanted to use Khalil for their own purposes."
"Which were?"
He shrugged and said, "If you don't know, then they don't want you to know."
Time to stir up some poop, so I pointed out to Boris, "The CIA must certainly know that Asad Khalil is back in America. So has anyone in Langley called you and said, 'Hey, Boris, your old pal is back and he probably wants your head in his overnight bag. But we're going to protect you'?"
Boris had thought about that within one second of me telling him Khalil was back, and he'd been thinking about it ever since. He stayed silent awhile, then said to me, "My relationship with them is complicated. In fact, it is nonexistent since my last debriefing. They have turned me over to the FBI, and that is why I have not heard from them, and why it is you who are here."
Actually, that was not why I was here-I was freelancing. As for the FBI being Boris's nursemaid, there was often a disconnect between the FBI and the CIA in the post-Soviet resettlement program. Sometimes it was just a glitch, sometimes it was simply indifference on the part of the FBI. Boris had no value to the Bureau, or to anyone, and he was now in limbo. But if someone in the CIA or the FBI realized that Boris Korsakov had become lion's bait, then they'd be all over him. The problem with the system, as always, was faulty communication, firewalls between the agencies, and bad institutional memories. So that left John Corey having pickled beets with Boris Korsakov. Or… it was possible that the FBI and the CIA were already on this, and half the clientele of Svetlana were Federal agents, but they weren't telling Boris, as I had, that Khalil might come calling. Well, I'd know very soon if my visit here was captured on film by my colleagues.
Boris said to me, "I assume that my unwillingness to become bait, as you call it, will not be held against me."
"Of course not. We protect all citizens-hey, are you a citizen?"
"No."
"Oh, well, then… gee…"
"But I hold an American passport."
"Me too." I suggested, "Maybe you and I should go to Moscow with your wife."
He informed me, "I would rather be in New York with Asad Khalil than in Moscow with my wife."
I let that go, and reassured Boris, "If you don't want to be actual bait, we can still work out some sort of protective detail for you."
He had another thought and said, "You know, I am very safe here, and I have no plans to leave here… until Khalil is killed, captured, or flees… so I am not sure I need your protection." He added, "In fact, I pay very good money for my own protection."
There was a subtext here, and I thought that Boris was realizing he did not want the NYPD or the FBI hanging around Svetlana for a variety of reasons, some legitimate, and some maybe not so.
It occurred to me, too, that Boris was coming to some of the same conclusions that I had come to-he wanted to kill Asad Khalil without police or FBI interference. And his reasons went beyond my simple reasons of revenge and permanent peace of mind. Boris, I suspected, wanted Asad Khalil dead because Khalil knew too much about Boris. And what Khalil knew might not comport with what Boris had already told the CIA three years ago, about his not knowing that Khalil was coming to the U.S. to kill American pilots. Therefore, Boris did not want Khalil captured alive and interrogated by the FBI and the CIA. Boris would not be the first defector-a non-citizen-to be shipped back to the old country. I may have been wrong about that, but it was certainly a reason for Boris to want to get to Khalil first.
Another reason, possibly, was the reward, which he may have known about. I said to him, "There's a million-dollar reward for Khalil's capture-dead or alive. Did you know that?"
"I would assume that." He added, "Not a lot of money for this man… but I am not thinking about capturing him… I am saying I will protect myself."
"Come on, Boris. I know what you're thinking. And if anyone can capture-or kill-Asad Khalil, it's you."
He did not reply.
I advised him, "But don't get overconfident. Khalil hasn't spent three years running a nightclub and drinking vodka."
This annoyed him, as I knew it would, and he leaned toward me and said, "I have no fear of this man. I taught him all he knows, and it would be a good thing if I was able to teach him one last lesson."
"There you go." I reminded him, "You taught that young punk everything he knows, and you can still kick his ass."
Boris had no response.
I said, "Well, I'll pass on your statement that you don't want protection." I informed him, officially, "It is your right to decline police protection, and you certainly don't have to volunteer to act as bait. But you can't stop a surveillance of your premises, or your movements." I added, "However, it might be easier and better for everyone if you cooperated and coordinated with us."
He informed me, "I have… former colleagues who I trust to assist and protect me."
"You mean like old KGB guys who know how to take down a punk like Khalil and know what to do with him in a back room here when they get him?"
Boris lit another cigarette and replied, "No comment."
I advised him, "If you should somehow capture him alive, call me first."
"If you wish."
Well, Boris was getting less talkative and it was time for me to leave. The next thing I had to do was report this meeting to Walsh and Paresi. I could get away with what I'd done so far-cops and agents often take a shot at something without telling the boss everything they're doing. But if you don't make a quick and full report of something like this, you are in big trouble.
On the other hand… I wasn't even supposed to be here. I mean, I think Walsh was pretty clear about my limited duties and limited movements, and about carrying my GPS tracker. Another reason for not reporting this was that Boris and I seemed to be on the same page with this. Khalil did not need to be apprehended-he needed to be killed.
I stood and said, "We may speak more tomorrow."
But Boris seemed not to hear me, and he was deep in thought.
Boris, as I said, is not stupid, and in the old days he played games that were more dangerous and more deceitful and convoluted than this one. And I could tell that his KGB brain was awake and working. No doubt he was getting interested and excited about being back in the old business. He looked at me and asked, "Does anyone know you are here?"
Well, Veronika does. Viktor. You. That was not the question I wanted to hear. And I had a good, strong reply. I said, "What do you mean?"
"I think you know what I mean." He asked me, "Why are you alone?"
"I work alone. Like James Bond."
He shook his head and said, "You should have an FBI agent with you." He added, "I don't mean to be disrespectful, Mr. Corey, but you are a New York City detective-as I was told three years ago. Where is your FBI counterpart?"
"She's at the bar."
"No. I believe you are pursuing this matter on your own and I understand why."
"Believe what you want. Tomorrow I'll be back with my team."
He thought about that, then looked at me and said, "Give me a week. Give yourself a week. One of us, I think, will resolve this problem in a way that is best for us."
I replied, of course, "This is not just about us. It is about the law, and justice, and national security."
Again, he shook his head and said, "No. It is about us."
I didn't want to continue on this subject, so I changed it. "You have my card." I also said, "I need your phone numbers."
He took his card and a pen from his inside pocket, wrote on the card, and handed it to me, saying, "Please keep me informed."
I took Khalil's photograph from my pocket, handed it to him, and said, "To refresh your memory."
He took the photograph but did not look at it, and replied, "My memory needs no refreshing."
"Well," I suggested, "copy it and give it to your people."
"Yes, thank you." He informed me, "He is very good at changing his appearance."
"Right. And that's three years old, though I have information that he looks the same. And the eyes never change."
Boris glanced at the photograph and said, "Yes… those eyes."
I moved toward the door and said to him, "I can let myself out."
"I am afraid not." He stood, went to his phone, hit the intercom and said something in Russian, then said to me, "Let me ask you a question which may be important to you and to me."
I like questions that are important to me, so I replied, "Shoot."
He asked me, "Do you have any idea if Khalil is acting alone, or if he is working for Libyan Intelligence, or perhaps some other group?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, obviously it makes some difference in his… capabilities. His ability to discover what he needs to know about us." He added, "And perhaps in his mission, as well."
"Right. Well, I can't answer that question directly, but I will say he seems to have help."
Boris nodded and informed me, "Then you can be sure he will do something here that is different from what he has been doing."
"I'm losin' ya, Boris."
Boris looked at me and said, "He is going to detonate a bomb. Or perhaps it will be a biological attack. Anthrax. Or a chemical device. Perhaps nerve gas."
"You think?"
"Yes. He must repay those who assisted him in his mission of personal revenge. Have you not thought of this?"
I admitted, "It has crossed my mind."
"But I believe it will not happen before he finishes his business with you and with me."
"Right." I don't make a habit of discussing things like this with people like Boris, but he did have some history with Khalil, and this was once his business, so I said to him, "Think about that and let me know what you come up with."
"I will."
Tchaikovsky filled the room, and Boris walked to the door, looked through the peephole, then unbolted the door and opened it.
Viktor stood aside for me, and as I walked to the door I said to Boris, "If you look through a peephole, you can get a serious eye and brain injury if there's a gun muzzle looking back at you. Or an ice pick."
He seemed annoyed at my critique of his security procedures and said, "Thank you, Detective."
I asked, "Where's your security monitor?"
"There is one in my office, and there is a television in that armoire that has a security camera channel."
"You should use it."
"Thank you, again."
"And thank you for your time and your hospitality." I started through the door, then I did one of my neat turnarounds and said, "Oh, FYI-the pilot who Khalil killed. Chip. Khalil cut off his head."
Boris kept his cool and said, "I never taught him that."
I suggested, "Maybe he has a new teacher."
I walked out of Boris's apartment, and as the door closed I heard the bolt slide home.
Poor Boris-holed up in his place of business without his wife, and with nothing to do except eat, drink, look out his two-way mirror, maybe watch some Russian TV, listen to music, and possibly enjoy the company of a lady or two. But even that gets old after a few days. Well… maybe a few weeks.
Viktor indicated the elevator, but I said to him, "Let's take the stairs."
"Please?"
"Come on, Viktor. You teach English at Brooklyn College." I walked to the steel staircase door and Viktor opened it with a key.
This was basically the fire escape staircase, and fire marshals don't like to see a lock or a bolt, but Boris must have told them, "Look, boys, there are a lot of people who want to kill me, so I gotta lock myself in." Or he removed the doors when the inspectors came around.
I let Viktor go first and I followed. The door at the bottom of the staircase was also locked, and Viktor used his key to open it.
We entered the small room with the security camera, then Viktor unlocked the door to the hallway, and I followed him through the red curtain and into the restaurant.
Well, I thought, the security was good, but too much depended on human involvement and two keys-one for the elevator and one for all the steel doors. Also, the door to Boris's apartment had to be bolted manually. Boris needed a code padlock for all the doors between the outside world and him, plus he needed easier access to his security monitors.
There may have been some security features that I didn't see, such as a panic button, or maybe a safe room, but the real bottom line with personal security was vigilance and a large-caliber gun.
Viktor escorted me through the restaurant, which was half empty now, and I said to him, "Someone wants to kill your boss. Keep your head out of your ass."
He didn't reply, but he nodded.
"You got a gun?"
Again, he didn't reply, but he tapped the left side of his jacket.
I suggested, "Work on your pronunciation."
Anyway, I skipped the bar and Veronika and walked out the rear door. It was almost midnight, and the boardwalk and the beach were nearly deserted.
If I'd been followed by my surveillance team, it was now that someone would approach me. And if I'd been followed by Khalil's team, this was as good a time and place as any for Khalil and Corey to meet.
I stood there for a minute, but no one seemed interested in me.
I walked to the front entrance of Svetlana where a few cabs were parked.
On the way back to Manhattan, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, I again had the thought, reinforced by Boris, that Asad Khalil was indeed planning something big for his finale-something that would please his backers and get him another line of credit for his next mission-and all that stood between him and that big climax to this mission was Boris Korsakov and John Corey.
So, yes, Boris was right; it was about us-him, me, and Asad Khalil. And it was about the past following us, and catching up with us.