Before I left the apartment, I poured myself a little Stolichnaya, to celebrate appropriately, and to wish Boris a long life. Or at least long enough to be alive when I got there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The high-security floor at Bellevue is the worst of two bad worlds-a hospital run like a prison. My name was on the authorized visitor list, and my NYPD shield and Fed creds got me through the security checkpoint with only minor hassles. On the positive side, Asad Khalil was not getting onto this floor.
Actually, Asad Khalil should have no idea that Mrs. Corey was alive, well, and here. I wondered, though, if his friends in New York were looking at the obituaries or checking the public records for Kate's death. Not to be too paranoid, but if Khalil knew or suspected that Kate was not dead, then his local friends would probably guess that this was where she'd be. We could, as we'd done in the past, plant a fake obit, but then my phone would be ringing off the hook, and half the single women in my building would be knocking on my door with casseroles. So, no obit, but I made a mental note to tell Walsh to get a phony death certificate issued and recorded.
Sitting now beside Kate's bed, I let her know that she needed to stay in the hospital for a while, but she'd already discovered that, and she wasn't happy about it. Kate, though, is career FBI, and she does what's best for the Bureau, the team, and the mission. I, on the other hand, would by now be climbing out the window on knotted bed sheets.
I noticed that she had the stuffed lion hanging by its neck from the window-blind cord, and I asked her, "Have you had your mental evaluation yet?"
She smiled and said, "I'm trying to get into the nut ward so we can be together."
We chatted awhile and Kate told me she'd gotten a call from Tom Walsh, who, she informed me, was the only person at 26 Fed, aside from Vince Paresi, who knew she was in Bellevue Hospital. She told me, "I asked Tom to send me my cell phone, and I also asked him who was holding my gun."
I didn't respond to that.
She continued, "Tom said my gun and cell phone were missing and possibly in the possession of my assailant."
I replied, "The State Police are still searching for those items."
"That's what Tom said…" She didn't speak for a while, then told me, "I don't remember… but I think he may have grabbed my gun…"
"Don't worry about it. He's got lots of guns."
She replied, "But if he has my cell phone, then he has my phone directory." She looked at me and said, "He's going to call you."
"I hope so." I changed the subject and asked her, "Is there anything I can bring you?"
"My discharge papers."
"Soon."
She said to me, "I told Tom about my idea to check that murdered taxi driver's cell phone records to see who called him and who he called, but there's no record of this man's cell phone."
"Right. Good thought, but dead end."
She stared up at the ceiling awhile, then said, "I feel so helpless here… so useless."
I tried to make her feel better by saying, "You may be the only person on this planet who fought back against Asad Khalil and lived to tell about it."
She forced a smile and reminded me, "Twice. He missed me-missed both of us-three years ago."
"Right. And he's going to regret that."
She asked me, "Why didn't he… try to kill you this time?"
Kate was obviously starting to think about all this, and I said, "He had his hands full with you."
She looked at me. "I think he wanted you to see me die."
To get her off unpleasant subjects, and to put her mind at ease, I told her about how I was surrounded by Special Operations teams wherever I went, and that our apartment building was under tight security.
Kate nodded absently, and I could see her mind was elsewhere. She looked at me and said, "We let Khalil get away, John."
I didn't reply, and she continued, "We had a chance to kill or capture him three years ago, and we-"
"Kate, I don't want to go through that again-what we could have done or should have done. We did the best we could at the time when the bullets were flying."
She didn't reply, but I was actually glad she'd raised the topic and got it out in the open. The fact was, Kate and I were the last people to interact with Asad Khalil-though we never actually saw him; he was target shooting with a sniper rifle and we were the targets. And even though he had the advantage in firepower, there were a few things we-I-could have done to nail his ass. And I guess that still bothered her-and me.
I reminded her, however, "No one else raised that point. There was never anything said. So don't be harder on yourself-or on me-than our bosses were."
Again, she didn't reply, but I wasn't sure that what I said was actually true. The fact was, we never saw the Khalil case file, and we never would. And it was not a stretch to imagine that John Corey and Kate Mayfield made convenient scapegoats. And maybe that's what Walsh read.
In police work, the one that got away is the one you think about more than your successes. And you think about it even more when the guy who got away comes back.
She said to me, "We have a chance now to… finish this."
"Right." I reminded her, "As I said to Khalil on the cell phone three years ago-looking forward to a rematch."
I realized I had to say something about Boris before Kate thought of it, and before she mentioned Boris to Tom. I began by asking, "When you spoke to Tom, did you mention to him our trip to Langley after Khalil escaped?"
She stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, "No… I'd forgotten about meeting Boris. I'll tell Tom-"
"No, you will not."
"Why not?"
"Well… I'd like to take the credit for that piece of information." I reminded her, "I need all the credit I can get."
She thought about that and came to another conclusion. "I hope you're not pursuing that on your own."
"What do you mean?" I asked her innocently.
"You know what I mean, John." She reminded me, "You do this every time."
"That's not true." I only do it when I can.
"You have this need to keep something to yourself, which you think gives you some power or something, and then you'll spring it and show everyone-"
"Hold on. I'm not the only one at 26 Fed who keeps things to themselves."
"That's not the point. The point is, it's your duty to share with your supervisors whatever you know-"
"And I will do that." But not today. I said, "First, I'm not sure if Boris can add anything to the resolution of this case. And two, I-and you-know nothing about Boris, not even his last name, so how could I possibly find him on my own? Therefore I will certainly turn this information over to Tom Walsh, who can have Boris found in a few hours-if he's still alive."
She thought about that and said, "All right. I'll trust you to speak to Tom about Boris."
"I will do that."
She thought again, then said, "Khalil will go for Boris."
"Right." I added, "That may already be a done deal."
She nodded. "I remember our conversation with him… I had the impression that Boris realized he'd created a monster."
I agreed and said, "Boris had a lot of material to work with."
Kate was still processing all this and said, "We could use Boris to entrap Khalil."
"We could."
An orderly came by and dropped off a dinner menu. Kate checked off some items, then passed the menu to me and suggested, "Get something."
I saw that it was fusion cooking-prison and hospital. I said, "The unsolved mystery meat looks good."
"Not funny."
Lockdown lettuce?
I passed on the dinner, and we watched a little TV and talked until her meal came.
Medically, she could be out of here in a few days, but Walsh would try to keep her here until her husband and her assailant had their final meeting.
Russian nightclubs start late, and I would have stayed with Kate until visiting hours were over, but
she said she was tired-or tired of me-so I kissed her good-bye and said, "Try to get some rest."
"What else can I do here?"
"Think about what else Khalil might be up to."
"I'm thinking." She asked me, "Where are you going now?"
"The only place I'm allowed to go. Home."
"Good." She smiled and said, "Don't go out clubbing."
Funny you should say that.
"Be careful, John." She squeezed my hand and said, "I love you."
"Me too. See you tomorrow morning."
I left her room and chatted with Kate's NYPD guard, a lady named Mindy who assured me that she was aware that Kate's assailant was not a common dumb criminal, and she also assured me that not even Conan the Barbarian could get on this floor-but if he did, he wasn't getting past Mindy Jacobs.
I was not as concerned about Conan the Barbarian as I was about Asad the Asshole having himself delivered here in a crate of enemas or something.
I said good night to Mindy and walked through the ward, noting the closed and bolted room doors and the uniformed and armed men and women from the Department of Corrections.
If I were Asad Khalil, how would I get in here and get to Kate? Well, I'd start by getting myself thrown in jail, identity unknown, then faking a serious illness, which would get me sent to Bellevue, behind a bolted door. After that, Asad Khalil would have no difficulty getting out of that room and into Kate's room.
But I shouldn't give him supernatural powers. And he didn't even know that Kate was here.
I took the elevator down and met my escorts in the lobby-still Officers Ken Jackson and Ed Regan, who must be as tired of me as I was of them.
Within fifteen minutes, I was back at my apartment building on East 72nd Street.
There was a custodian in the lobby who looked very much like Detective Louis Ramos, the bagel deliveryman. I stopped and chatted with Ramos a moment, then went to the desk where Alfred was reading a newspaper.
He put down his newspaper-the Wall Street Journal; tips must be good-and inquired, "How is Mrs. Corey?"
"Much better, thank you." I said to Alfred, "I forgot to pick up my car keys."
"I have them right here." He opened a drawer and produced my keys.
I told him, "I need to get some things out of storage, so if you don't mind, I'll borrow the key for the freight elevator."
"Yes, sir." He retrieved the key to the freight elevator and put it on the desk, and I held it in my hand with my car keys in case Detective Ramos was watching. I wished Alfred a good evening and walked to the apartment elevators.
The other way out of here without going through the lobby was the fire stairs, but each staircase had surveillance cameras, and the monitor was sitting on the doorman's desk where Ramos or anyone could see who was on the staircase-or see the videotapes afterward. The freight elevator, however, was not monitored, and it went down to the garage where I would be going shortly.
I rode up to my apartment, where I'd already picked out my Russian nightclub outfit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I had laid out a dark gray suit and gray tie that I usually wear for weddings and funerals, plus a silk shirt and diamond cufflinks that my ex had given me. My shoes were real Italian Gravatis and my watch was a Rolex Oyster that an old girlfriend had bought on the street for forty bucks and might not be real. To complete my outfit, I slipped into my Kevlar vest, though this time I forgot my wire and tracking device. I finished dressing, not forgetting my Glock, and checked myself out in the mirror. Russian Mafia? Italian Mafia? Irish cop dressed funny?
I put one of the photos of Asad Khalil in my jacket pocket, left my apartment, and walked to the freight elevator located in a far corner of the 34th floor. The apartment elevators all stopped in the lobby, and you then needed to walk across the lobby to the garage elevator. But the freight elevator was sort of an express to the underground garage, and for security reasons you had to ask for the key, which I had done and which I now used to summon the elevator.
The detectives who would have cased this building before I arrived home must have figured out the freight elevator escape route, but even if they did, they weren't looking at me as a flight risk; I was a colleague who was under protection-not house arrest. Not yet, anyway.
The doors opened, and I got into the big, padded car and pushed the button for the garage level. The freight elevator bypassed the lobby and continued down to the parking garage, where truck deliveries were made.
The doors opened, and I stepped out of the elevator into the underground garage. So far so good.
Or was I now trapped in the garage whose entrance would be under surveillance by the Special Operations team on the street? Obviously, I couldn't walk up the parking ramp or drive my green Jeep out onto 72nd Street without getting busted. Actually, if I was running this job, I'd also have a surveillance guy down here. And maybe there was one, and I'd meet him in a minute. If not, then I'd found an easy way out of my building.
I walked over to the parking attendant's window, and there was an older gent in the small office who I didn't recognize. He was watching TV and I said, "Excuse me. I need a ride."
He looked away from the TV-Mets game-and asked me, "What's your number?"
"No," I explained, "I don't need my car. I need a ride."
"I think you got the wrong place, Bub."
"I'll give you fifty bucks to take me down to Sixty-eighth and Lex." I explained, "I have a proctologist appointment."
He looked at me and asked, "Why don't you walk?"
"Hemorrhoids. Come on-what's your name?"
"Irv." He advised me, "Call me Gomp."
"Why?"
"That's my name. Irv Gomprecht. People call me Gomp."
"Okay, Gomp. Sixty bucks."
"I don't have a car."
"You have two hundred cars. Pick one." I assured him, "You can listen to the game on the radio."
Gomp looked me over, silk shirt and all, and decided I was a man to be trusted-or Mafia-and he said, "Okay. But we gotta move fast."
I threw three twenties on the counter, and he snatched them up, then picked a key off the board, saying, "This guy ain't used his car in two months." He added, "Needs a run."
Anyway, within a few minutes I was in the passenger seat of a late-model Lexus sedan, and Gomp was driving up the ramp. He confessed, "I do this for the old people once in a while, but nobody never paid me sixty bucks."
"You're making me feel stupid, Gomp."
"Nah. I just meant I usually-hey, whaddaya doin'?"
"Tying my shoes."
"Oh…"
I stayed below the dashboard and felt the car turn right onto 72nd Street. I waited until we stopped at the light on Third Avenue before I sat up.
I looked in the sideview mirror and didn't see any of the usual makes or models that the Task Force used. It would be really funny if Lisa Sims was on this detail and she busted me. Maybe not so funny.
Gomp asked me, "You live in the building?"
"No." I volunteered, "I live on East Eighty-fourth." I put out my hand and said, "Tom Walsh."
Gomp took my hand and said, "Good to meet you, Tom."
"My friends call me tight-ass."
"Huh?"
God, I hope the FBI interviews this guy tonight.
With that in mind, I asked him, "Are you a surveillance cop? FBI?"
He thought that was funny and said, "No, I'm CIA."
Not funny, Gomp.
The light changed, and he continued on 72nd, while tuning in to the Mets game. He asked me, "Are you Mets or Yankees?"
"Mets," I lied.
Gomp was an old New York icon, accent and all, and I realized there were fewer of them every year, and I was missing the old days when life was simpler and stupider.
Within a few minutes we were at the corner of Lexington and 68th Street, and I said, "I'll get out here."
He pulled over and said, "Anytime you need a ride, Tom, look for me in the garage."
"Thanks. Maybe tomorrow. Urologist."
I got out of the car and descended the stairs to the Lexington Avenue subway entrance. I consulted the transit map, used my MetroCard at the turnstile, and found my platform.
For Manhattanites, Brighton Beach is somewhere this side of Portugal, but the B train went there, so that's how I'd get there.
The train came, and I got on, then got off, then got on again as the doors closed. I saw this in a movie once. In fact, some asshole I was following five years ago must have seen it too.
To make a long subway ride short, less than an hour after I'd boarded the train, I was traveling on an elevated section of the line, high above the wilds of Brooklyn. I recalled taking this line from my tenement on the Lower East Side to Coney Island when I was a kid, when Coney Island was my magic summer kingdom by the sea. I remembered, too, spending all my money on arcade games, rides, and hot dogs, and having to beg a cop for subway fare home.
I still don't handle money very well, and John Corey still screws up, but now the cop I go to when I need help is me. Growing up is a bitch.
I got off at the Ocean Parkway stop and descended the stairs onto Brighton Beach Avenue, which ran under the elevated tracks. After all this escape-and-evasion, and a long subway ride, Boris had damned well better be alive and at his nightclub-or at least in his apartment, which wasn't too far from here. The good news was that if the FBI had been following me, they'd still be at the 68th Street station trying to get their MetroCards in the turnstile. And if an NYPD detective from my surveillance detail was following me, I'm sure I'd have picked him out.
I haven't been to Brighton Beach in maybe fifteen years, and then only a few times, with Dick Kearns and the Russian-American cop named Ivan who'd been born here and who knew the turf and spoke the language. Of all the interesting ethnic enclaves in New York, this is one of the most interesting and least touristy. I'd say it was real, but there was something unreal about the place.
I walked east along the avenue and checked it out. Lots of cars, lots of people, and lots of life on the street. A guy was selling Russian caviar from a table on the sidewalk for ten bucks an ounce. Great price. No overhead and no middleman. No refrigeration either.
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