And so forth.
About twenty minutes later, my parents called from Florida--they were all in on this together--and it was my mother who was on the line, and she let me know, "It's hot and humid here, and it's going to be worse when you get here. Bring comfortable clothes. We have plenty of suntan lotion. You know how easily you burn. And you're going to eat healthy here--lots of fish and vegetables."
I reached for my Glock.
"Do you and your wife play Bingo?"
I chambered a round.
My father, in the background, yelled out, "Tell him I have plenty of Scotch."
I put the gun down.
At 6 P.M., I called for my ride to Bellevue.
PART VI
Brooklyn and Manhattan
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Asad Khalil sat in a taxi in front of Svetlana. A text message appeared on his cell phone, and Khalil read it, then got out of the taxi and said to the driver, a fellow Libyan named Rasheed, "Wait here."
Khalil, wearing a suit and tie, and also a drooping mustache and glasses, entered through the front door of the nightclub, where he was greeted by a maitre d', who asked him in Russian, "Do you have a reservation?"
Khalil replied in the passable Russian he'd learned from Boris, "I am going only to the bar."
The maitre d' took him for a native of one of the former Asian Soviet Republics--a Kazakh, perhaps, or a Uzbek. The maitre d', Dimitri, did not like these people, and he would have turned him away if the man wanted a table. But it was more difficult to turn away someone who wanted to sit only at the bar to watch the floor show. The bartenders could deal with the man.
Dimitri motioned wordlessly toward the open doorway behind him and turned his attention to an arriving group.
Asad Khalil walked through the doorway and down a long corridor that was brightly lit and decorated with large photographs of past events at Svetlana--weddings and other happy occasions--accompanied by advertisements in Russian and English urging people to book their special events here.
He stopped at one of the group photographs that had caught his eye. Standing in the group was Boris Korsakov, whose smile, Khalil thought, was not sincere. "So," Khalil said to himself, "the great KGB man has sunk to this." Also he thought Boris had gained some weight.
Khalil continued on, and the corridor opened out into the big restaurant, where he could see the bar and lounge farther toward the rear. The restaurant, he noted, was half full on this Sunday evening at 6 P.M., and the stage was empty.
Khalil had never been here, but he felt he knew the place from the photographs and information given to him a few days earlier by a fellow Muslim, a man named Vladimir, a Russified Chechen who had been instructed a month ago to find himself a job here.
Khalil stood at the entrance to the restaurant for almost a minute, knowing that a security person would notice him, then he walked deliberately to a red-curtained doorway and entered the short corridor that led to a locked door.
Almost immediately, he heard footsteps behind him, and a man's voice in English said, "Stop," then in Russian, "Stoi!"
The man put his hand on Khalil's shoulder, and Khalil spun around and thrust a long carving knife into his throat, severing his windpipe.
Khalil held the man and let him slide into a sitting position against the wall, then withdrew the knife. He went through the dying man's pockets and found a keychain, and also a Colt .45 automatic pistol and a radio phone.
The man was still alive, but he was drowning in his own blood, and his larynx was severed, so he made no sound except for the gurgling in his throat.
Khalil glanced at the red curtain. No one had followed them, and he hefted the dying man over his shoulder, then went to the locked door, tried a key, then another, and the door opened.
Khalil found himself in a small room that contained an elevator and a steel door that Vladimir had told him led to the staircase. Vladimir had also texted Khalil that the other bodyguard, Viktor, was now sitting in the anteroom above, outside Boris's office, while Vladimir set the table for Boris and a lady who would be arriving shortly.
Khalil relocked the door to the corridor, then unlocked the steel door to the staircase and threw the bodyguard, who now appeared very close to death, onto the stairs. He relocked the staircase door and made his way quickly up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs was another door, and Khalil put the key in the lock with his left hand and held the long carving knife in his right hand. He opened the door quickly and burst into the small room.
Viktor jumped to his feet and his hand went inside his jacket for his gun, but Khalil was already on him, and he thrust the long knife into Viktor's lower abdomen while pulling him closer in a tight hug with his left arm so that Viktor could not draw his gun. He withdrew the knife quickly, then brought it around and thrust the blade into Viktor's lower back at a downward angle so it would puncture his diaphragm and leave him unable to make a sound.
Viktor tried to break loose from his attacker, and Khalil was surprised at his strength. Khalil held him tightly and brought his knife around again and buried the blade into Viktor's abdomen, then made a long, deep angular cut that severed the abdominal artery.
Khalil withdrew the knife and held Viktor in a bear hug. Khalil could feel the man's heart pumping, and his breathing becoming more labored and shallow. He also felt the warm wetness of Viktor's blood on his skin.
Viktor's head tilted back and they made brief eye contact, then Viktor's eyes widened and his body arched and shook in a series of death throes, before going limp.
Khalil lowered the dead man back into his chair and retrieved Viktor's gun from his shoulder holster, noting that it was also a Colt .45 automatic. He stuck the gun in his belt next to the gun of the other dead bodyguard.
Khalil looked at his watch. It had been just nine minutes since he'd entered this place. He dialed Vladimir's cell phone.
Boris Korsakov sat in his armchair, sipping a cognac, smoking, and reading a local Russian-language weekly that was filled with news of the immigrant community--births, deaths, marriages, some gossip, and many advertisements, including a full-page ad for Svetlana, which Boris studied. Perhaps, he thought, his ads should put less emphasis on the floor show and more on the food. Less breasts, more borscht. He smiled.
The busboy, Vladimir, was taking his time setting the table with chilled caviar and champagne for two. Boris was expecting a lady at 6:30, and it was already 6:15, and the stupid busboy--who was only a few weeks on the job--seemed nervous or unsure of what to do.
Boris looked over his shoulder and said to the busboy in Russian, "Are you not done yet?"
"I am just finishing, sir."
Vladimir knew that for all appearances he was an ethnic Russian, but in fact his name, his speech, and his Russian ways had been forced on him from birth by the Russian occupiers of Chechnya--and though he was Russian on the outside, in his heart he hated everything and everyone who was Russian, and he especially hated the former KGB and its successor, the FSS, which had arrested, tortured, and killed so many of his fellow Muslims in his homeland.
Vladimir looked at Boris Korsakov, sitting with his back to him, drinking, smoking, and giving him orders. Soon there would be one less KGB man on this earth.
Vladimir felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. It was time.
Boris put down his newspaper and said to Vladimir, "Just leave everything and go." Boris stood to walk to the door and look out the peephole for Viktor, and to show the busboy out.
But Vladimir was already at the door, without his cart, and with his hand on the bolt.
Boris shouted across the room, "Stop! You idiot! Stand away from that door!"
Vladimir slid the bolt open, stood aside, and the door swung open.
Vladimir left quickly as Asad Khalil entered with a pistol in his hand. Khalil bolted the door and looked at Boris Korsakov.
Boris stood absolutely still, his eyes fixed on the man who stood less than twenty feet fr
om him.
The man had a mustache and glasses, and perhaps his hair was more gray than Boris remembered and not combed back as he recalled, but he knew who his visitor was.
Boris also noted, almost absently, that the man's dark suit and white shirt were covered with fresh blood.
Khalil took off his glasses and peeled off his mustache, then said in Russian, "Are you not happy to see your favorite student?"
Boris took a deep breath and replied in English, "Your Russian is still as bad as the stench of your mouth and your body."
Khalil did not respond to that, but said, "I would advise you now to reach for your gun so I will be forced to give you a quick death. But... if you prefer to live a few minutes longer, we can share a few words before you suffer a painful death. The choice is yours."
Boris reverted to Russian and said, "Yob vas." Fuck you.
Khalil smiled and said to Boris, "Still arrogant." Then he said, "So, your CIA friends are not protecting you."
Boris replied, "They are."
Khalil again smiled and said, "Then where are they? They used you like the whore you are, and they put you here in this place filled with other whores and drunken pigs."
Boris's eyes darted around the room, looking for a way to save his life.
Khalil said to him, "Look at me. Why don't you understand that you are dead?"
Boris took another deep breath and said, "Then do it."
"You must reach for your gun. This needs to be interesting for both of us."
Boris looked at his former student and said, "What did I teach you? Kill quickly. You talk too much."
"I enjoy the talk."
"I assure you, your victims do not."
Khalil seemed annoyed and said to Boris, "I had to listen to you for one year insulting me, my country, and my faith. And I had to smell your stinking cigarettes and your stinking alcohol." He stared at Boris and said, "And look at you now. Who are you? And how clever are you? Who is holding the gun? Not you. And you should be more careful who you hire. Vladimir is a Chechen and he would pay me if I let him cut your throat. And you should also know, before you die, that your two former KGB bodyguards are now waiting for you in Hell."
Boris's mind was racing, thinking of a way to save himself. The girl, Tanya, would be escorted here by a security man, and that man would notice... something. A body. Blood on the floor...
Khalil, who knew exactly what his old teacher was thinking, said, "Vladimir is cleaning up my mess. And he has called downstairs to have the girl sent away--on your instructions." He added, "You will not be having champagne and caviar tonight, and you will not be fornicating after I cut off your testicles."
Boris did not reply, and his mind was still searching for a way out.
Finally, Boris realized that there was only one move he could make--he had to go for his gun. That would either save him, or end it quickly. He looked at Khalil for a sign that the man's attention was not fully focused--they sometimes let their eyes dart around to take in their new surroundings, or to look for signs of danger, and their guns tended to drift in the direction they were looking. But all Boris saw was Khalil's black eyes staring straight at him, and the black muzzle of the gun--aimed as accurately as Khalil's eyes.
Again, Khalil knew what Boris was thinking, and he said to him, "My advice is to go for your gun. That will make you feel more of a man as you are dying." He added, "You do not want to be shot like a dog." He further advised Boris in Russian, "Courage. Show me some courage, boy. Do something."
Boris took another deep breath and in his mind he was reaching inside his jacket for the gun on his hip as he dove to the side, rolled, and fired.
Khalil said, "No, I would not suggest a floor roll. I would suggest a step back--your armchair is behind you--a backward roll over the chair. That will give you a moment of concealment, but unfortunately not cover from my bullets that I will fire through the chair. Still, you will have drawn your gun during your backward roll and you may be able to return fire before you are hit." He asked, "Have I given the correct advice, Mr. Korsakov? Have I correctly evaluated the situation, sir?"
Boris stared at Khalil, then nodded and said, "That is the only move possible."
"Then make the move. Do not just stand there. And do not think you can surprise me by diving to the right or the left. You will be dead before you hit the floor... though I may let you get your hand on your gun as you roll."
Boris continued to stare at Khalil. He understood that this man needed to mock him and torment him before he killed him. But he also understood that he could not expect a quick death with a bullet from Asad Khalil's gun. Boris realized that no matter what he did--rolled, dove, even charged at Khalil--this man would shoot to wound him, then he would finish him off in a way that Boris did not want to think about. Or worse, Khalil would not kill him--he would mutilate him and leave him as a freak, a half-man with no genitals, no eyes, no tongue...
Boris felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, and a cold sweat chilled his body.
Khalil seemed impatient and said, "Have you forgotten everything? Or was that just classroom talk? I have done all that you taught me. And more. So now you must show your student what you will do in this situation. I am waiting and curious."
Boris thought if he could keep Khalil talking, there was a chance that someone would come up the stairs or the elevator and see that something was not right. He waited for the doorbell to ring--a few notes of Tchaikovsky that would distract Khalil for half a second. That's all Boris needed. A half second to draw his gun.
Boris cleared his throat and said in a confident voice, "This building is under surveillance by the police and the FBI."
Khalil replied, "They do not seem to be any more competent or alert than your stupid bodyguards."
"You will not get out of this building alive."
"It is you who will not get out of this building alive."
Khalil had not moved far from the door, and now he stepped back and put his ear to it, then turned to Boris and said, "Someone is coming."
Boris took a deep breath, and prepared himself to go for his gun.
Then Khalil smiled and said, "Perhaps I was hearing things." Then he laughed.
Boris was enraged and shouted a string of half-remembered Arabic obscenities, then he shouted in English. "You fucking bastard! You piece of shit! Your mother was a fucking whore!"
Khalil aimed his gun--the Glock he'd taken from Corey's wife--at Boris's midsection, and Boris could see that Khalil's arm was shaking in rage. Boris waited for the bullet, hoping it would either miss him or hit his heart.
Khalil took a deep breath, then reached under his jacket and pulled out the long carving knife that he'd used to kill the two bodyguards.
Boris stood completely still and watched as Khalil gripped the blade, holding the knife in a throwing position.
Khalil's arm cocked back, and he flung the knife toward Boris, who flinched as the knife stuck in the carpet at his feet.
Boris stared at the knife with the bloody blade. He understood what was coming.
Khalil said to him, "You may have the knife--in exchange for your gun."
Boris looked at Khalil, but did not respond.
Khalil said, "You have chosen not to draw your gun. So I am offering you this instead." He added, "This is very generous of me--though it will be more painful for you." He asked Boris, "Have you been practicing with the knife since I last saw you?" He smiled and added, "Or perhaps just the knife and fork."
Boris weighed his options, which were reduced now to two--go for his gun and hope for a quick bullet in the head or heart; or engage Asad Khalil in a knife fight. He could win that fight, but if he didn't, he knew what Asad Khalil would do to him with the knife.
Khalil said to him, "You seem to be unable to make a decision today. So I will make it for you." He crouched into a shooting stance and steadied his aim.
Boris shouted, "No!" He raised both hands, then slowly lowered his left hand and p
ulled back his jacket, revealing his gun and holster on his belt.
Khalil nodded.
Boris grasped the gun butt with his thumb and index finger and pulled the gun out of his holster, then slid it across the rug toward Khalil.
Khalil stepped forward and retrieved the gun, which he saw was a Browning automatic. He removed the magazine and threw it across the room, then moved to the dining table and dropped the gun into the glass bowl heaped with black caviar.
He said to Boris, "I would take your word that you have no other gun--but perhaps you can show me."
Boris nodded and pulled up his trouser legs to show he had no ankle holster, then he turned his pockets inside out. He slowly removed his jacket and turned completely around and faced Khalil again.
Khalil said to him, "I am surprised you have not taken your own advice about a second gun."
Boris replied, "Even if I had a second gun, I would prefer to cut your throat."
Khalil smiled and said, "That is also my preference for you."
Khalil drew the two Colt .45s from his belt, removed the magazines, and stuck both guns in the champagne bucket. Then he removed the magazine from his own gun, put it in his pocket, and laid the Glock on a table napkin. He then drew a short, heavy hunting knife from his belt and flung it to the floor where it stuck in the carpet.
He looked at Boris and asked, "Are you ready?"
Boris did not reply, but he took off his tie, shoes, and socks, then wrapped his jacket around his left arm.
Khalil smiled approvingly and did the same.
Both men stood about fifteen feet apart and stared at each other, the knives stuck in the floor a few feet in front of them.
For the first time since Khalil walked into the room, Boris believed he had a chance to kill this man. He knew that Khalil could have a second gun, but it didn't matter--he would prefer a bullet to losing this fight.
They stood watching each other, waiting for the other to make a move.
Boris made the first move, running straight at Khalil and snatching the knife as he continued toward him.