Asad Khalil sat in a taxi in front of Svetlana. A text message appeared on his cell phone, and Khalil read it, then got out of the taxi and said to the driver, a fellow Libyan named Rasheed, "Wait here."
Khalil, wearing a suit and tie, and also a drooping mustache and glasses, entered through the front door of the nightclub, where he was greeted by a maitre d', who asked him in Russian, "Do you have a reservation?"
Khalil replied in the passable Russian he'd learned from Boris, "I am going only to the bar."
The maitre d' took him for a native of one of the former Asian Soviet Republics-a Kazakh, perhaps, or a Uzbek. The maitre d', Dimitri, did not like these people, and he would have turned him away if the man wanted a table. But it was more difficult to turn away someone who wanted to sit only at the bar to watch the floor show. The bartenders could deal with the man.
Dimitri motioned wordlessly toward the open doorway behind him and turned his attention to an arriving group.
Asad Khalil walked through the doorway and down a long corridor that was brightly lit and decorated with large photographs of past events at Svetlana-weddings and other happy occasions-accompanied by advertisements in Russian and English urging people to book their special events here.
He stopped at one of the group photographs that had caught his eye. Standing in the group was Boris Korsakov, whose smile, Khalil thought, was not sincere. "So," Khalil said to himself, "the great KGB man has sunk to this." Also he thought Boris had gained some weight.
Khalil continued on, and the corridor opened out into the big restaurant, where he could see the bar and lounge farther toward the rear. The restaurant, he noted, was half full on this Sunday evening at 6 P.M., and the stage was empty.
Khalil had never been here, but he felt he knew the place from the photographs and information given to him a few days earlier by a fellow Muslim, a man named Vladimir, a Russified Chechen who had been instructed a month ago to find himself a job here.
Khalil stood at the entrance to the restaurant for almost a minute, knowing that a security person would notice him, then he walked deliberately to a red-curtained doorway and entered the short corridor that led to a locked door.
Almost immediately, he heard footsteps behind him, and a man's voice in English said, "Stop," then in Russian, "Stoi!"
The man put his hand on Khalil's shoulder, and Khalil spun around and thrust a long carving knife into his throat, severing his windpipe.
Khalil held the man and let him slide into a sitting position against the wall, then withdrew the knife. He went through the dying man's pockets and found a keychain, and also a Colt.45 automatic pistol and a radio phone.
The man was still alive, but he was drowning in his own blood, and his larynx was severed, so he made no sound except for the gurgling in his throat.
Khalil glanced at the red curtain. No one had followed them, and he hefted the dying man over his shoulder, then went to the locked door, tried a key, then another, and the door opened.
Khalil found himself in a small room that contained an elevator and a steel door that Vladimir had told him led to the staircase. Vladimir had also texted Khalil that the other bodyguard, Viktor, was now sitting in the anteroom above, outside Boris's office, while Vladimir set the table for Boris and a lady who would be arriving shortly.
Khalil relocked the door to the corridor, then unlocked the steel door to the staircase and threw the bodyguard, who now appeared very close to death, onto the stairs. He relocked the staircase door and made his way quickly up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs was another door, and Khalil put the key in the lock with his left hand and held the long carving knife in his right hand. He opened the door quickly and burst into the small room.
Viktor jumped to his feet and his hand went inside his jacket for his gun, but Khalil was already on him, and he thrust the long knife into Viktor's lower abdomen while pulling him closer in a tight hug with his left arm so that Viktor could not draw his gun. He withdrew the knife quickly, then brought it around and thrust the blade into Viktor's lower back at a downward angle so it would puncture his diaphragm and leave him unable to make a sound.
Viktor tried to break loose from his attacker, and Khalil was surprised at his strength. Khalil held him tightly and brought his knife around again and buried the blade into Viktor's abdomen, then made a long, deep angular cut that severed the abdominal artery.
Khalil withdrew the knife and held Viktor in a bear hug. Khalil could feel the man's heart pumping, and his breathing becoming more labored and shallow. He also felt the warm wetness of Viktor's blood on his skin.
Viktor's head tilted back and they made brief eye contact, then Viktor's eyes widened and his body arched and shook in a series of death throes, before going limp.
Khalil lowered the dead man back into his chair and retrieved Viktor's gun from his shoulder holster, noting that it was also a Colt.45 automatic. He stuck the gun in his belt next to the gun of the other dead bodyguard.
Khalil looked at his watch. It had been just nine minutes since he'd entered this place. He dialed Vladimir's cell phone.
Boris Korsakov sat in his armchair, sipping a cognac, smoking, and reading a local Russian-language weekly that was filled with news of the immigrant community-births, deaths, marriages, some gossip, and many advertisements, including a full-page ad for Svetlana, which Boris studied. Perhaps, he thought, his ads should put less emphasis on the floor show and more on the food. Less breasts, more borscht. He smiled.
The busboy, Vladimir, was taking his time setting the table with chilled caviar and champagne for two. Boris was expecting a lady at 6:30, and it was already 6:15, and the stupid busboy-who was only a few weeks on the job-seemed nervous or unsure of what to do.
Boris looked over his shoulder and said to the busboy in Russian, "Are you not done yet?"
"I am just finishing, sir."
Vladimir knew that for all appearances he was an ethnic Russian, but in fact his name, his speech, and his Russian ways had been forced on him from birth by the Russian occupiers of Chechnya-and though he was Russian on the outside, in his heart he hated everything and everyone who was Russian, and he especially hated the former KGB and its successor, the FSS, which had arrested, tortured, and killed so many of his fellow Muslims in his homeland.
Vladimir looked at Boris Korsakov, sitting with his back to him, drinking, smoking, and giving him orders. Soon there would be one less KGB man on this earth.
Vladimir felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. It was time.
Boris put down his newspaper and said to Vladimir, "Just leave everything and go." Boris stood to walk to the door and look out the peephole for Viktor, and to show the busboy out.
But Vladimir was already at the door, without his cart, and with his hand on the bolt.
Boris shouted across the room, "Stop! You idiot! Stand away from that door!"
Vladimir slid the bolt open, stood aside, and the door swung open.
Vladimir left quickly as Asad Khalil entered with a pistol in his hand. Khalil bolted the door and looked at Boris Korsakov.
Boris stood absolutely still, his eyes fixed on the man who stood less than twenty feet from him.
The man had a mustache and glasses, and perhaps his hair was more gray than Boris remembered and not combed back as he recalled, but he knew who his visitor was.
Boris also noted, almost absently, that the man's dark suit and white shirt were covered with fresh blood.
Khalil took off his glasses and peeled off his mustache, then said in Russian, "Are you not happy to see your favorite student?"
Boris took a deep breath and replied in English, "Your Russian is still as bad as the stench of your mouth and your body."
Khalil did not respond to that, but said, "I would advise you now to reach for your gun so I will be forced to give you a quick death. But… if you prefer to live a few minutes longer, we can share a few words before you suffer a painful death. The choice is yours."
Boris reverted to Russian and said, "Yob vas." Fuck you.
Khalil smiled and said to Boris, "Still arrogant." Then he said, "So, your CIA friends are not protecting you."
Boris replied, "They are."
Khalil again smiled and said, "Then where are they? They used you like the whore you are, and they put you here in this place filled with other whores and drunken pigs."
Boris's eyes darted around the room, looking for a way to save his life.
Khalil said to him, "Look at me. Why don't you understand that you are dead?"
Boris took another deep breath and said, "Then do it."
"You must reach for your gun. This needs to be interesting for both of us."
Boris looked at his former student and said, "What did I teach you? Kill quickly. You talk too much."
"I enjoy the talk."
"I assure you, your victims do not."
Khalil seemed annoyed and said to Boris, "I had to listen to you for one year insulting me, my country, and my faith. And I had to smell your stinking cigarettes and your stinking alcohol." He stared at Boris and said, "And look at you now. Who are you? And how clever are you? Who is holding the gun? Not you. And you should be more careful who you hire. Vladimir is a Chechen and he would pay me if I let him cut your throat. And you should also know, before you die, that your two former KGB bodyguards are now waiting for you in Hell."
Boris's mind was racing, thinking of a way to save himself. The girl, Tanya, would be escorted here by a security man, and that man would notice… something. A body. Blood on the floor…
Khalil, who knew exactly what his old teacher was thinking, said, "Vladimir is cleaning up my mess. And he has called downstairs to have the girl sent away-on your instructions." He added, "You will not be having champagne and caviar tonight, and you will not be fornicating after I cut off your testicles."
Boris did not reply, and his mind was still searching for a way out.
Finally, Boris realized that there was only one move he could make-he had to go for his gun. That would either save him, or end it quickly. He looked at Khalil for a sign that the man's attention was not fully focused-they sometimes let their eyes dart around to take in their new surroundings, or to look for signs of danger, and their guns tended to drift in the direction they were looking. But all Boris saw was Khalil's black eyes staring straight at him, and the black muzzle of the gun-aimed as accurately as Khalil's eyes.
Again, Khalil knew what Boris was thinking, and he said to him, "My advice is to go for your gun. That will make you feel more of a man as you are dying." He added, "You do not want to be shot like a dog." He further advised Boris in Russian, "Courage. Show me some courage, boy. Do something."
Boris took another deep breath and in his mind he was reaching inside his jacket for the gun on his hip as he dove to the side, rolled, and fired.
Khalil said, "No, I would not suggest a floor roll. I would suggest a step back-your armchair is behind you-a backward roll over the chair. That will give you a moment of concealment, but unfortunately not cover from my bullets that I will fire through the chair. Still, you will have drawn your gun during your backward roll and you may be able to return fire before you are hit." He asked, "Have I given the correct advice, Mr. Korsakov? Have I correctly evaluated the situation, sir?"
Boris stared at Khalil, then nodded and said, "That is the only move possible."
"Then make the move. Do not just stand there. And do not think you can surprise me by diving to the right or the left. You will be dead before you hit the floor… though I may let you get your hand on your gun as you roll."
Boris continued to stare at Khalil. He understood that this man needed to mock him and torment him before he killed him. But he also understood that he could not expect a quick death with a bullet from Asad Khalil's gun. Boris realized that no matter what he did-rolled, dove, even charged at Khalil-this man would shoot to wound him, then he would finish him off in a way that Boris did not want to think about. Or worse, Khalil would not kill him-he would mutilate him and leave him as a freak, a half-man with no genitals, no eyes, no tongue…
Boris felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, and a cold sweat chilled his body.
Khalil seemed impatient and said, "Have you forgotten everything? Or was that just classroom talk? I have done all that you taught me. And more. So now you must show your student what you will do in this situation. I am waiting and curious."
Boris thought if he could keep Khalil talking, there was a chance that someone would come up the stairs or the elevator and see that something was not right. He waited for the doorbell to ring-a few notes of Tchaikovsky that would distract Khalil for half a second. That's all Boris needed. A half second to draw his gun.
Boris cleared his throat and said in a confident voice, "This building is under surveillance by the police and the FBI."
Khalil replied, "They do not seem to be any more competent or alert than your stupid bodyguards."
"You will not get out of this building alive."
"It is you who will not get out of this building alive."
Khalil had not moved far from the door, and now he stepped back and put his ear to it, then turned to Boris and said, "Someone is coming."
Boris took a deep breath, and prepared himself to go for his gun.
Then Khalil smiled and said, "Perhaps I was hearing things." Then he laughed.
Boris was enraged and shouted a string of half-remembered Arabic obscenities, then he shouted in English. "You fucking bastard! You piece of shit! Your mother was a fucking whore!"
Khalil aimed his gun-the Glock he'd taken from Corey's wife-at Boris's midsection, and Boris could see that Khalil's arm was shaking in rage. Boris waited for the bullet, hoping it would either miss him or hit his heart.
Khalil took a deep breath, then reached under his jacket and pulled out the long carving knife that he'd used to kill the two bodyguards.
Boris stood completely still and watched as Khalil gripped the blade, holding the knife in a throwing position.
Khalil's arm cocked back, and he flung the knife toward Boris, who flinched as the knife stuck in the carpet at his feet.
Boris stared at the knife with the bloody blade. He understood what was coming.
Khalil said to him, "You may have the knife-in exchange for your gun."
Boris looked at Khalil, but did not respond.
Khalil said, "You have chosen not to draw your gun. So I am offering you this instead." He added, "This is very generous of me-though it will be more painful for you." He asked Boris, "Have you been practicing with the knife since I last saw you?" He smiled and added, "Or perhaps just the knife and fork."
Boris weighed his options, which were reduced now to two-go for his gun and hope for a quick bullet in the head or heart; or engage Asad Khalil in a knife fight. He could win that fight, but if he didn't, he knew what Asad Khalil would do to him with the knife.
Khalil said to him, "You seem to be unable to make a decision today. So I will make it for you." He crouched into a shooting stance and steadied his aim.
Boris shouted, "No!" He raised both hands, then slowly lowered his left hand and pulled back his jacket, revealing his gun and holster on his belt.
Khalil nodded.
Boris grasped the gun butt with his thumb and index finger and pulled the gun out of his holster, then slid it across the rug toward Khalil.
Khalil stepped forward and retrieved the gun, which he saw was a Browning automatic. He removed the magazine and threw it across the room, then moved to the dining table and dropped the gun into the glass bowl heaped with black caviar.
He said to Boris, "I would take your word that you have no other gun-but perhaps you can show me."
Boris nodded and pulled up his trouser legs to show he had no ankle holster, then he turned his pockets inside out. He slowly removed his jacket and turned completely around and faced Khalil again.
Khalil said to him, "I am surprised you have not taken your own advice about a second gun."
Boris replied, "Even if I had a second gun, I would prefer to cut your throat."
Khalil smiled and said, "That is also my preference for you."
Khalil drew the two Colt.45s from his belt, removed the magazines, and stuck both guns in the champagne bucket. Then he removed the magazine from his own gun, put it in his pocket, and laid the Glock on a table napkin. He then drew a short, heavy hunting knife from his belt and flung it to the floor where it stuck in the carpet.
He looked at Boris and asked, "Are you ready?"
Boris did not reply, but he took off his tie, shoes, and socks, then wrapped his jacket around his left arm.
Khalil smiled approvingly and did the same.
Both men stood about fifteen feet apart and stared at each other, the knives stuck in the floor a few feet in front of them.
For the first time since Khalil walked into the room, Boris believed he had a chance to kill this man. He knew that Khalil could have a second gun, but it didn't matter-he would prefer a bullet to losing this fight.
They stood watching each other, waiting for the other to make a move.
Boris made the first move, running straight at Khalil and snatching the knife as he continued toward him.
Khalil dove forward, grabbed his knife and rolled to the right, then sprang up and went into a crouched defensive position with his wrapped arm in front of him and his legs spread wide.
Boris stopped short, wheeled around, and came at Khalil.
Khalil held his position, and Boris feinted left and right, stepped in, then stepped back, then in again. He remembered Khalil's strengths and his weaknesses, and Khalil's major weakness was too much aggression, and too much impatience, which led him to an impulsive and ill-timed attack. But now, Boris saw, Khalil had apparently learned when to defend and when to attack.
Boris decided on another strategy and he backed away, putting nearly twenty feet between them.
Khalil came out of his defensive position and strode directly at Boris, who held his ground and was surprised to see Khalil stop.
Boris was beginning to think that Khalil had either learned caution or had realized that he should not have gotten into this situation with the man who taught him how to fight with a knife.
Boris took the offensive again and moved in, causing Khalil to move back. Then the two men silently circled each other in the middle of the large room.
Boris watched Khalil's movements. He knew that the Libyan was more agile and in far better shape than he was, but Boris had more bulk and believed he was still physically stronger than Khalil.
Khalil again dropped into a half crouch, with his legs spread and his coat-wrapped arm in a horizontal position-a defensive position that Boris did not think was called for with ten feet still separating them. Khalil, Boris thought, had misread his movements, or he was becoming anxious, which made Boris more confident.
Boris moved in quickly-a feint that he hoped would cause Khalil to backpedal and lose his defensive posture. But instead, Khalil unexpectedly charged forward and met Boris's forward movement as Boris was in mid-stride.
Khalil came in low under Boris's knife hand and under his wrapped arm and delivered an upward thrust that caught Boris below his left rib cage.
Boris let out a startled cry of pain, then pivoted away from the probing knife and delivered a high kick to Khalil's lowered head.
Neither man pressed the attack and both of them retreated to a safe distance.
Khalil nodded and said, "Very good."
Boris cautiously felt his wound and determined that it was a narrow puncture wound, perhaps deep, but not bleeding profusely, and not mortal.
Khalil watched the blood forming on Boris's white shirt and came to the same conclusion, saying, "You won't die from that."
Boris also determined that he wasn't going to win this fight-he was already out of breath, and the wound would bleed more quickly with further exertions and eventually weaken him.
Also, Boris admitted, Khalil was the better knife fighter-Khalil remembered the skills, but more importantly he remembered the tricks, and had learned some new ones. Boris also knew that Khalil possessed the will and the courage to face a man with a knife, and Boris was not sure that he himself possessed that will any longer.
Out of desperation, Boris said to Khalil, "It is over. You have won."
Khalil laughed. "Yes? Are you dead already? May I go now?"
"Asad-"
Khalil said, "There is another man who is going to die in this way tonight-so I had hoped you would be good practice for me. But now I see you are a poor opponent-too old, too slow, and too frightened."
Boris did not reply. He tried to think of another way out of this, and thought of the door. If he could work his way closer to the door… he began circling so that Khalil would circle too, and not be between him and the door.
But Khalil kept his position and said, "If you wish to run out of the room, I have no objections. But I must tell you, all you will find out there is a locked elevator and a locked staircase door. But perhaps you prefer a smaller room for this fight." He smiled and said, "I don't care where I slaughter you."
Boris took a deep breath and said, "You have made your point." He lowered his knife and said, "I have done nothing to you. I have taught you-"
"Shut up." Khalil took a few steps toward Boris, and as Boris moved back, Khalil said, "We have not finished this lesson. Do you not want to show me how you will disarm me and throw me against the wall as you did once? Do you think I have forgotten your knee in my testicles? Or perhaps the great Russian assassin has dirtied his pants, and he wishes me to leave to spare me the smell."
Boris felt the anger rising in him again, and he pulled the jacket from around his arm and snapped it at Khalil as he moved forward with his knife extended in his right hand.
Khalil stepped back and lost his footing on the loose area rug, then fell to the floor, losing his knife.
Boris charged him, and realized too late he'd again been drawn into a ruse, as Khalil raised his legs and caught Boris in the abdomen and hurled him into the air, headfirst into a china cabinet, which shattered in a loud crash.
Khalil snatched up his knife, jumped quickly to his feet, and watched as Boris pulled himself away from the cabinet.
Boris stood unsteadily, his face bleeding from glass cuts and his eyes blinded with blood. He had lost his knife, and he wiped his eyes with his hands as Khalil moved in for the kill.
Boris, his back to the shattered china cabinet, sidestepped along the wall, and Khalil followed him, then realized what Boris was doing.
Boris seized a floor lamp with both hands and swung the heavy base at Khalil's head.
Khalil ducked, and Boris missed, but then Boris pivoted in the direction of his swing and came around again with the base of the lamp now lower, and he caught Khalil's outstretched arm in a glancing blow that knocked the knife from Khalil's hand.
Khalil backpedaled quickly, and Boris, knowing this was his last and only chance to kill this man, charged forward with the floor lamp.
Khalil feinted right, then moved left and kicked Boris's leg out from under him. Boris crashed to the floor, losing his grip on the lamp, and Khalil was on Boris's back, with his knees straddling the big Russian and his right arm locked around Boris's throat.
Boris tried to rise on his hands and knees, but Khalil kept his full weight on the weakening man while tightening his chokehold.
Boris felt himself blacking out, and he gave one last upward heave with his body, then twisted with every ounce of strength he had left. He found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which was dark and blurry. He felt his abdominal wound throbbing and he knew it was gushing blood now.
He knew, too, he should do something, but everything around him seemed quiet and peaceful, so he lay there and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling, and his lungs filling with air.
He heard a voice say, "Get up."
Boris remained still, keeping his eyes shut and feigning more injury and exhaustion than he felt. He was vaguely aware that Khalil was close by, standing over him, then he felt a kick in his right side that knocked the air out of his laboring lungs. The second kick came, as he hoped it would, and Boris swung his legs and body around and knocked Khalil's legs out from under him.
Boris was on his feet, but it took him a second too long, and before he could react, Khalil was already up and delivered a powerful kick into Boris's groin.
Boris doubled over, and Khalil came around him and delivered a running kick to his rear that sent him sprawling.
Khalil dove on Boris's back and knocked the remaining air out of him, then put him in a headlock that again constricted his airway.
Boris remained still, hoping for another opportunity. His mind was cloudy, but his survival instincts had been aroused and his will to fight for his life had become stronger as he faced death.
Khalil's head was close, and Boris could feel the man's warm, steady breath on his neck. Then Khalil whispered into Boris's ear, "I underestimated you, and for that, I apologize."
Boris could not reply.
Khalil said, "And I thank you, Mr. Korsakov, for sharing with me all your skills and your knowledge." He asked, "Are you proud of me?"
Boris lay perfectly still, not wanting to provoke the man because he felt a small glimmer of hope-not hope that Asad Khalil would spare his life out of compassion; the man had none. Nor would Khalil spare his life out of respect for a worthy opponent. But Khalil might spare his life, Boris thought, because he was satisfied with humiliating him-killing his bodyguards, beating him in a fight, and heaping abuse on him. Khalil, he knew, would not spare any other man's life for those reasons, but Boris knew that he was a special case, and that Khalil understood that the most satisfying conclusion for Asad Khalil would be to leave him a broken man. Yes, Khalil knew that…
Khalil said to him, "You taught me well, so I will not mutilate you or cause you a painful death."
Boris tried to nod his head, but Khalil tightened the pressure around his neck.
Khalil said into Boris's ear, "But you gave me some bad advice…"
Boris saw something in front of his blurry eyes, and he could not identify it at first, though he could see Khalil's free hand gripping something. Then he knew what he was seeing-the long, thin shaft of an ice pick.
"No!"
Khalil put the tip of the ice pick into Boris's left nostril and pushed it back into his brain.
Boris screamed again, but this time it was an unintelligible, animal scream.
Khalil withdrew the pick, which glistened with Boris's blood and brains, then positioned the tip into Boris's right nostril, and again pushed it up into his brain and kept pushing until the handle flattened Boris's nose and the tip of the ice pick came up through his skull.
Khalil left the pick where it was buried, then slid off Boris and rolled him over onto his back.
He watched him for a few seconds and saw the dark red blood beginning to trickle out of his nostrils. Then Boris began to convulse, small spasms, accompanied by a very strange sound coming from deep in his throat-almost, Khalil thought, like the moaning sound of the southern wind, the Ghabli, coming out of the great desert.
Khalil retrieved his knives, then walked to the dining table, retrieved his gun, and pushed the magazine into the butt. He peeled off his bloody clothes and washed himself with the linen napkins and mineral water on the table.
On the bottom shelf of the serving cart under a tablecloth was a dark shirt, dark trousers, and a black windbreaker that Vladimir had laid there for him. Khalil dressed quickly, put on his shoes and socks, then took a linen napkin from the table and stuffed it in his pocket.
He then texted Vladimir: It is finished.
He walked toward the door, looked through the peephole, and was about to slide open the bolt, but then a thought came into his mind.
Khalil walked to the large two-way mirror and looked down into the restaurant. It was more busy now, mostly families with children having their Sunday dinner. Directly below him on the stage were three women in tight dresses, and they appeared to be singing, though he could hear only the muted sound of the three musicians on the stage.
Khalil returned to Boris, who was twitching now, though the moaning had ceased. He dropped to one knee and lifted the big man in his arms, then raised him up over his head, took two long strides, and flung Boris through the glass.
The sound of the shattering glass died away, and there was a momentary silence, followed by a loud thumping sound, and then the screams of the people below.
Khalil drew his gun, then went back to the door, opened it, and exited into the anteroom, noting that Vladimir had disposed of the bodyguard's body and the blood. He opened the elevator door with his key and rode down to the basement. On his way down, he wrapped the linen napkin around his right hand and his gun, then put his hand in the side pocket of his windbreaker.
Vladimir met him in the basement at the elevator and escorted him through the dark storage area to a flight of concrete steps, which they both ascended.
Vladimir pushed on a metal door that opened to an alleyway between the buildings, filled with trash cans and plastic garbage bags, two of which, he understood, contained the corpses of the bodyguards.
Vladimir said to him, "God has blessed you, my friend."
"And you."
Khalil pulled his hand out of his pocket, and Vladimir thought he was extending his hand in friendship, but as he reached for Khalil's hand, he saw that the hand was wrapped in a bloodstained table napkin, and he hesitated.
Khalil fired a single bullet into Vladimir's forehead.
The man fell back into a pile of garbage bags, and Khalil tossed the smoking cloth on his face, pocketed the gun, then threw garbage-filled bags over him to cover his body.
Khalil walked up the alleyway to an iron gate, which he unbolted and exited onto the sidewalk of Brightwater Court.
There were a number of pedestrians on the sidewalk, and he glanced at the front entrance of Svetlana and saw that people were streaming out the doors. Some women and children were crying and some men were shouting excitedly.
Khalil moved through the crowd and saw his taxicab, which was now surrounded by people, one of whom was trying to get in the vehicle, but the driver had locked the doors.
Khalil did not regret throwing Boris through the window, but his act of self-indulgence had now created a small problem.
Khalil pushed through the crowd, banged on the driver's window, and shouted, "Rasheed!"
The driver unlocked the doors as Khalil pushed aside the man holding the rear door handle. Khalil opened the door and jumped in the rear, pulling the door shut as Rasheed moved away from the curb.
The taxi gathered speed as it moved into the traffic of the avenue.
Rasheed asked in Arabic, "What has happened there?"
Khalil replied, "A fire." He looked at his watch and said to Rasheed, "The Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. Hurry, but do not speed."
Asad Khalil sat back and looked out the window. He said to himself, "And now for Mr. Corey."