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."
"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."
Boris was on a roll, reminiscing about his student, so I didn't respond.
Boris continued, "Khalil had a mentor, an old man called Malik, who was somewhat of a mystic." He informed me, "Malik, like me, tried to teach Khalil caution, but Malik also convinced Khalil that he was blessed--that he had special powers, a sixth sense for danger, and a sense for knowing when his prey was close. Nonsense, of course, but Khalil believed it, and therefore he does stupid things, but seems to get away with his stupidity, which only reinforces his rash behavior." He speculated, "Perhaps his luck is running out."
Not so you'd notice, but I said, "Maybe." In truth, the few murderers I've come across who thought God was in their corner had been a problem; they certainly were not blessed by God, but they thought they were, and that made them unpredictable and more dangerous than the average homicidal nut job.
Boris took a drag on his cigarette and said, "He was an excellent learner--very quick, very intelligent. And also very motivated--but what motivated him was hate." He looked at me and said, "As you know, the Americans killed his entire family."
I did not reply.
Boris said, correctly, "Hate clouds the judgment."
Again, I didn't respond, but I did think about this odd couple--Boris Korsakov and Asad Khalil--teacher and student from opposite ends of the universe. I was sure that Boris had done a good job training his young protege to kill and escape, but at the end of school, Asad Khalil was the same deranged person as he'd been at the beginning.
Boris continued, "He is what you call a loner. He does not need friends, women, or even colleagues, though he will use people and then dispose of them. So, how do you find such a man? Well, as I said, you will not find him--he will find you. But when he does, he is more likely than most professional assassins to make an error--an error in judgment, and thus an error in tactics. And by this, Mr. Corey, I mean that he will pass up an opportunity to safely blow your head off at two hundred meters, and he will attack you in a most personal way--the way a lion attacks, with his teeth, and his claws. He needs to taste your blood. And like a cat playing with a mouse, he often plays with his victim and taunts him before killing him. This is important to him. So if you survive the initial assault, you may have a chance to respond." Boris concluded, "This is all I can tell you that may be of help."
Well, aside from Malik the mystic, there wasn't too much there that I didn't know, and in fact Kate and I recently had some personal experience with Khalil's modus operandi. But it was good to have my own thoughts and observations confirmed. I said to Boris, "So we should bend over and kiss our asses good-bye?"
He smiled and, being a good host, complimented me by saying, "I feel that you can handle the situation if it should arise." He added, of course, "And so can I."
Maybe I shouldn't have cancelled my gym membership. I returned to my previous suggestion. "Another way to catch or kill a lion is to leave bait in a trap."
He'd apparently given some thought to my suggestion and replied, "Yes. If you want the lion alive, you put a live goat in a cage, and when the lion
enters the cage, the door closes. The lion is trapped, but the goat gets eaten. Or if you want the lion dead, then the goat is tethered to a tree, and as the lion is killing him, the hunter shoots. In either case, the goat is dead. But goats are expendable."
"Good point." I assured him, "But we know you're not a goat and we will ensure your safety."
He wasn't so sure of that, and frankly, neither was I. Boris said to me, "You try it first."
"Okay. I'll let you know how I make out."
"Yes, if you can." He did say, however, "It is an interesting idea, and it may be the only way you will capture or kill him. But be advised--John--even as you are setting a trap for him, he may be doing the same for you."
"Right."
To continue the lion thing, he said, "And you would not be the first hunter to follow the lion's spoor, only to discover the lion has circled around and is now behind you."
"Hey, good analogy. I'll remember that."
"Please do."
My next question wasn't really important to the subject, but I had to know. "Did you teach Khalil how to kill with an ice pick?"
He seemed at first surprised, then a bit uncomfortable with the question. I mean, it was not an abstract question. He hesitated, then replied, "I believe I did." He then inquired, "Why do you ask?"
"Why do you think I asked?"
He didn't reply to my question, but let me know, "That idiot had never seen an ice pick, and when I showed it to him, he was like a child with a new toy."
"I'll bet."
"So, did the victim die?"
"Oh yeah. But I think it took awhile."
"How many stabs?" he asked.
"Just one."
Boris seemed annoyed, maybe frustrated with his old student, and said, "I told him two or three."
"Kids don't listen."
"He is not a kid. He's... an idiot."
I asked him, "Hey, what's with the Russkies and the ice pick? Didn't you guys whack Trotsky with an ice pick?"
Boris seemed interested in this subject and replied, "Well, as you can imagine, there are a lot of ice picks in Russia, and so they become the weapon of convenience, especially in the winter."
"Right. I should have thought of that."
Boris regarded me a moment, wondering, I'm sure, if I was having some fun with him. He played along by picking up a sharp knife on the table, saying, "If you do not know what you are doing with this, you will not deliver a fatal wound. You will get this stuck in a bone, or in a muscle, or you will deliver a few non-fatal wounds, and the other person will have an opportunity to run or attack. Even a deep abdominal wound is not fatal unless you hit the artery." He explained, "The knife is good mostly for the throat"--he put the blade to his throat--"the jugulars here, or the carotids. That is fatal, but it is a difficult cut to make if you are facing your opponent. You need to come up behind him for a proper throat cut. Correct?" He put the knife down and concluded, "But the ice pick will easily penetrate the skull from any angle, and it will also penetrate the breast bone into the heart, even if the victim is wearing heavy winter clothing, and it will, in either case, cause a fatal wound, though not instantly fatal."
He seemed to realize that he'd gotten carried away with this subject, and he forced a smile and said, "Perhaps not good dinner conversation."
"I brought it up. You just ran with it."
"Try that cognac."
I took a small sip to be polite. Boris, for all his alcohol consumption, seemed alert--maybe it was the sobering thought that he was marked for death that kept his mind focused. In any case, he said to me, "You must take care of him this time. If you do not, you will never have a day of peace."
"Neither will you."
He ignored that and asked me, "How did he get away last time?"
Boris had some skin in the game, so this was not simply a professional or academic question. I replied, "I certainly can't tell you more than your CIA friends told you three years ago. If you don't know, they don't want you to know."
And since the CIA was my next subject, I asked him, "What did the CIA tell you about their interest in Asad Khalil?"
He stayed silent for a while, then replied, "Very little. But I had the impression--based on my own training and experience--that the CIA's interest in Khalil was not the same as the FBI's interest."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, of course, that the CIA wanted to use Khalil for their own purposes."
"Which were?"
He shrugged and said, "If you don't know, then they don't want you to know."
Time to stir up some poop, so I pointed out to Boris, "The CIA must certainly know that Asad Khalil is back in America. So has anyone in Langley called you and said, 'Hey, Boris, your old pal is back and he probably wants your head in his overnight bag. But we're going to protect you'?"
Boris had thought about that within one second of me telling him Khalil was back, and he'd been thinking about it ever since. He stayed silent awhile, then said to me, "My relationship with them is complicated. In fact, it is nonexistent since my last debriefing. They have turned me over to the FBI, and that is why I have not heard from them, and why it is you who are here."
Actually, that was not why I was here--I was freelancing. As for the FBI being Boris's nursemaid, there was often a disconnect between the FBI and the CIA in the post-Soviet resettlement program. Sometimes it was just a glitch, sometimes it was simply indifference on the part of the FBI. Boris had no value to the Bureau, or to anyone, and he was now in limbo. But if someone in the CIA or the FBI realized that Boris Korsakov had become lion's bait, then they'd be all over him. The problem with the system, as always, was faulty communication, firewalls between the agencies, and bad institutional memories. So that left John Corey having pickled beets with Boris Korsakov. Or... it was possible that the FBI and the CIA were already on this, and half the clientele of Svetlana were Federal agents, but they weren't telling Boris, as I had, that Khalil might come calling. Well, I'd know very soon if my visit here was captured on film by my colleagues.
Boris said to me, "I assume that my unwillingness to become bait, as you call it, will not be held against me."
"Of course not. We protect all citizens--hey, are you a citizen?"
"No."
"Oh, well, then... gee..."
"But I hold an American passport."
"Me too." I suggested, "Maybe you and I should go to Moscow with your wife."
He informed me, "I would rather be in New York with Asad Khalil than in Moscow with my wife."
I let that go, and reassured Boris, "If you don't want to be actual bait, we can still work out some sort of protective detail for you."
He had another thought and said, "You know, I am very safe here, and I have no plans to leave here... until Khalil is killed, captured, or flees... so I am not sure I need your protection." He added, "In fact, I pay very good money for my own protection."
There was a subtext here, and I thought that Boris was realizing he did not want the NYPD or the FBI hanging around Svetlana for a variety of reasons, some legitimate, and some maybe not so.
It occurred to me, too, that Boris was coming to some of the same conclusions that I had come to--he wanted to kill Asad Khalil without police or FBI interference. And his reasons went beyond my simple reasons of revenge and permanent peace of mind. Boris, I suspected, wanted Asad Khalil dead because Khalil knew too much about Boris. And what Khalil knew might not comport with what Boris had already told the CIA three years ago, about his not knowing that Khalil was coming to the U.S. to kill American pilots. Therefore, Boris did not want Khalil captured alive and interrogated by the FBI and the CIA. Boris would not be the first defector--a non-citizen--to be shipped back to the old country. I may have been wrong about that, but it was certainly a reason for Boris to want to get to Khalil first.
Another reason, possibly, was the reward, which he may have known about. I said to him, "There's a million-dollar reward for Khalil's capture--dead or alive. Did y
ou know that?"
"I would assume that." He added, "Not a lot of money for this man... but I am not thinking about capturing him... I am saying I will protect myself."
"Come on, Boris. I know what you're thinking. And if anyone can capture--or kill--Asad Khalil, it's you."
He did not reply.
I advised him, "But don't get overconfident. Khalil hasn't spent three years running a nightclub and drinking vodka."
This annoyed him, as I knew it would, and he leaned toward me and said, "I have no fear of this man. I taught him all he knows, and it would be a good thing if I was able to teach him one last lesson."
"There you go." I reminded him, "You taught that young punk everything he knows, and you can still kick his ass."
Boris had no response.
I said, "Well, I'll pass on your statement that you don't want protection." I informed him, officially, "It is your right to decline police protection, and you certainly don't have to volunteer to act as bait. But you can't stop a surveillance of your premises, or your movements." I added, "However, it might be easier and better for everyone if you cooperated and coordinated with us."
He informed me, "I have... former colleagues who I trust to assist and protect me."
"You mean like old KGB guys who know how to take down a punk like Khalil and know what to do with him in a back room here when they get him?"
Boris lit another cigarette and replied, "No comment."
I advised him, "If you should somehow capture him alive, call me first."
"If you wish."
Well, Boris was getting less talkative and it was time for me to leave. The next thing I had to do was report this meeting to Walsh and Paresi. I could get away with what I'd done so far--cops and agents often take a shot at something without telling the boss everything they're doing. But if you don't make a quick and full report of something like this, you are in big trouble.
On the other hand... I wasn't even supposed to be here. I mean, I think Walsh was pretty clear about my limited duties and limited movements, and about carrying my GPS tracker. Another reason for not reporting this was that Boris and I seemed to be on the same page with this. Khalil did not need to be apprehended--he needed to be killed.