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 tr
ied 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."