I got to Brighton 4th Street and headed south toward the ocean, which I could actually smell.
The people on the street seemed well fed. No famine here. As for how they were dressed… well, it was interesting. Everything from expensive suits, such as I was wearing, to fake designer clothing, and lots of old ladies who'd brought their clothes with them from the Motherland. Despite the balmy weather, a few guys wore fur hats, and a lot of the older women wore babushkas tied around their heads. Also, the air was thick with unfamiliar smells. Did I take the subway too far east?
About now, I was wondering if this was a good idea. I mean, it seemed like a good idea when I thought about it back in Manhattan. Now I wasn't so sure.
My first concern was that I might be screwing up a good lead. It's okay to do that when you're on the job and things just go bad. But when you're in business for yourself, if you screw up an investigation, a fecal storm will descend on you so fast, you couldn't dig your way out of it with a steam shovel.
My other concern, which was not really a concern, was that Asad Khalil might be on the same mission as I was tonight. I certainly didn't need help in dealing with Khalil, mano a mano, but it's always good to have backup in case you're outnumbered. On the other hand, if Khalil was alone, then I wanted to be alone with him.
As I approached Brightwater Court, I could see the lighted entrance to Svetlana in a huge old brick building with bricked-up windows that ran a few hundred feet back to the boardwalk.
I continued past the building and onto the boardwalk, where I saw, as I'd expected, a boardwalk entrance to Svetlana.
I also noticed a cloud of gray smoke outside the nightclub, and if I looked through the smoke I could see tables and chairs, and lots of men and women puffing on cigarettes. It's good to get out into this healthy salt air.
I went over to the railing and looked out at the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. It was a little after 10 P.M., but there were still people on the beach, walking or sitting in groups, and I'm certain drinking some of the clear stuff from Mother Russia. The night, too, was clear and starry, and a half moon was rising in the east. Out on the water I could see the lights of cargo ships, tankers, and an ocean liner.
JFK Airport was about ten miles east of here, on the bay, and I stared at the string of aircraft lights heading into and out of the airport. One of the things that still sticks out in my mind after 9/11 was the empty skies-the lights and the noise stopped, and it was very eerie. I remembered the night when I was standing on my balcony and I saw the first aircraft I'd seen in four days. I was as excited as a kid from Podunk who'd never seen a jetliner before, and I called Kate out to the balcony and we both stared at the lights as the lone aircraft made its descent into Kennedy. Civilization had returned. We opened a bottle of wine to celebrate.
I turned and looked up and down the long boardwalk. There were hundreds of people promenading on this warm, breezy evening, and I saw parents pushing strollers, families walking and talking, groups of young men and women engaged in pre-mating rituals, and lots of young couples who one day would also be pushing baby strollers.
Indeed, it was a good world, filled with good people, doing good and everyday things. But there were also the bad guys, who I dealt with, and who were more into death than life.
I slipped off my wedding band-not so I could pass as single to the babes at the bar, but because in this business you don't give or advertise any personal information.
I took a last look around to be certain I was alone, then I walked across the boardwalk toward the red neon sign that said SVETLANA.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
How can I describe this place? Well, it was an interesting blend of old-Russia opulence and Vegas nightclub, designed perhaps by someone who had watched Dr. Zhivago and Casino Royale too many times.
There was a big, horseshoe-shaped bar in the rear with a partial view of the ocean, and a better view of the patrons. I made my way through the cocktail tables and squeezed myself in at the bar between a beefy guy in an iridescent suit and a bleached blonde lady who was wearing her daughter's cocktail dress.
Most of the male patrons at the bar were dressed in outfits similar to mine, so I was not in a position to be critical.
Anyway, my attire notwithstanding, I don't think I look particularly Russian, but the bartender said something to me in Russian-or was he a Brooklyn native and did he say, "Whacanigetcha?"
I know about six Russian words, and I used two of them: "Stolichnaya, pozhaluista."
He moved off and I looked around the cocktail lounge. Aside from the slick suits, there were a lot of guys with open shirts and multiple gold chains around their necks, and a lot of women who had more rings than fingers. The no-smoking law seemed to be observed, though there was a steady stream of people going out to the boardwalk to light up.
I heard a mixture of English and Russian being spoken, sometimes by the same person, but the predominant language seemed to be Russian.
My Stoli came and I used my third Russian word. "Spasibo."
The bartender asked, "Runatab?"
"Pozhaluista." Can't go wrong with "please."
I could see the restaurant section through an etched glass wall, and the place was huge, holding maybe four hundred people, and nearly every table was filled. Boris was doing okay for himself. Or Boris had done okay for himself before Asad Khalil cut off his head.
At the far end of the restaurant I could see a big stage where a four-piece band was playing what sounded like a cross between "YMCA" and "The Song of the Volga Boatmen." The dance floor was crowded with couples, young and old, plus a lot of pre-teen girls dancing with each other, and the usual old ladies out on the floor giving the hip replacements a workout. In fact, this scene looked like any number of ethnic weddings I'd been to, and I had the thought that maybe I'd crashed a wedding reception. But more likely this was just another night at Svetlana.
I should say, too, for the sake of accurate reporting, and because I am trained to observe people, that there were a fair number of hot babes in the joint. In fact, I seemed to recall this being the case the last time I was at Rossiya with Dick Kearns and Ivan.
Anyway, the lady next to me, who might have been one of those hot Russian babes fifteen years ago, seemed interested in the new boy. I could smell her lilac cologne heating up, and without sounding too crude, her bumpers were hanging over my Stoli, and they could have used a bar stool of their own.
She said to me, in a thick accent, "You are not Roosian."
"What was your first clue?"
"Your Roosian is terrible."
Your English ain't so hot either, sweetheart. I asked her, "Come here often?"
"Yes, of course." She then gave me the correct pronunciation of "spasibo," "pozhaluista," and "Stolichnaya"-I was stressing the wrong syllables-and made me repeat after her.
Apparently, I wasn't getting it, and she suggested, "Perhaps another voodka would help you."
We both got a chuckle out of that, and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Veronika-with a k-and she was originally from Kansas. No, Kursk. I introduced myself as Tom Walsh, and I briefly considered giving her Tom's home number. Maybe later.
I bought us another round. She was drinking cognac, which I recalled the Russkies loved-and at twenty bucks a pop, what's not to love? And I couldn't even put this on my expense account.
Anyway, recalling Nietzsche's famous dictum-the most common form of human stupidity is forgetting what one is trying to do-I said to her, "I need to see someone in the restaurant, but maybe I'll see you later."
"Yes? And who do you need to see?"
"The manager. I'm collecting for Greenpeace."
Veronika pouted and said, "Why don't you dance with me?"
"I'd love to. Don't go away."
I told the bartender, "Give this lady another cognac when she's ready, and put it on my tab."
Veronika raised her glass and said to me, "Spasibo."
The tab came, and I paid cash, of cou
rse, not wanting any record of this on my government credit card, or on my Amex card, where I'd have to explain Svetlana to Kate.
I promised Veronika, "I'll see you later."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
I made my way through the cocktail lounge and into the restaurant. It really smelled good in here and my empty tummy rumbled.
I found the maitre d's stand and approached a gentleman in a black suit. He regarded me for a moment, decided I was a foreigner, and addressed me in English, asking, "How may I help you?"
I replied, "I'm here to see Mr. Korsakov."
He seemed a bit surprised, but he did not say, "Mr. Korsakov had his head cut off just last night. Sorry you missed him." He asked, "Is he expecting you?"
So, Boris was alive and here, and I replied, "I'm an old friend." I gave him my card, and he stared at it. I assumed he read English, and I assumed, too, he didn't like what he was reading-Anti-Terrorist Task Force and all that-so I said to him, "This is not official business. Please take that to Mr. Korsakov and I will wait here."
He hesitated, then said, "I am not certain he is in, Meester…" He looked at my card again. "… Cury."
"Corey. And I'm certain he is in."
He called over another guy to hold down the fort, and I watched him make his way toward the back of the restaurant, then disappear through a red curtain.
I said to the young guy who was filling in for the maitre d', "You ever see Dr. Zhivago?"
"Please?"
"The scene in the restaurant where the young guy shoots the fat guy-Rod Steiger-who's been screwing Julie Christie."
"Please?"
"Hey, I'd take a slug for her. I took three for less than that. Capisce?"
A group came in and the maitre d' trainee escorted them to a table.
So I stood there, ready to escort the next group to their table.
Meanwhile, I looked around the cavernous restaurant. The tables were covered with gold cloths on which sat vodka bottles, champagne buckets, and tiered trays filled with mounds of food, and the diners were doing a hell of a job getting that food where it belonged. The band was now playing the theme song from From Russia with Love, which was kind of funny.
The wall behind the stage rose up about twenty feet-two stories-and I noticed now that in the center of the wall near the ceiling was a big mirror that reflected the crystal chandeliers. This, I was certain, was actually a two-way mirror from which someone could observe the entire restaurant below. Maybe that was Boris's office, so I waved.
Three female singers had taken the stage, and they were all tall, blonde, and pretty, of course, and they wore clingy dresses with metallic sequins that could probably stop a.357 Magnum. They were singing something in English about Russian gulls, which I thought strange, and it took me awhile to realize they were saying, "Russian girls." In any case, they had good lungs. Kate would like this place.
I guess my attention was focused on the gulls, because I didn't see the maitre d' approaching, and he came up to me and said, "Thank you for waiting."
"I think that was my idea."
He had a big boy with him-a crew-cut blond guy with a tough face who wore a boxy suit that barely fit over a weight lifter's body.
The maitre d' said to me, "This is Viktor"-with a k? — "and he will take you to Mr. Korsakov."
I would have shaken Viktor's hand, but I need my hand, so I said, "Spasibo," in Veronika's accent, but several octaves lower.
I followed Viktor through the crowded restaurant, which was like following a steamroller through a flower garden.
Viktor parted the red curtain with his breath, and I found myself in a hallway that led to a locked steel door, which Viktor opened with a key. We entered a small plain room that had two chairs, another steel door on the opposite wall, and an elevator. The only other item of note was a security camera on the ceiling that swiveled 360 degrees.
Viktor used another key to open the elevator doors and he motioned me in. I guessed that the steel door beside the elevator led to a staircase, and I noticed that the door also had a lock.
So, if I was Asad Khalil… I'd pick someplace else to whack Boris.
As we rode up, I said to Viktor, "So, are you the pastry chef?"
He kept staring straight ahead, but he did smile. A little humor goes a long way in bridging the species gap. Plus, he understood English.
The elevator doors opened into an anteroom similar to the one below, including another security camera, but this room had a second steel door-this one with a fisheye peephole and also a sliding pass-through like you find in cell doors.
Viktor pushed a button, and a few seconds later I heard a bolt slide and the door opened.
Standing in the doorway was Boris, who said to me, "It is so good to see you alive."
"You too."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
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 sti
ll 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.
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