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."
&nb
sp; "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."
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