"Alive?"
"Yeah… I guess. The guy I got this from in the New York field office didn't say he was dead."
"Okay." But the FBI wouldn't necessarily know immediately if one of their registered defectors had gone missing or had an accident.
"Ready to copy?"
I had a pad and pencil on the coffee table and said, "Shoot."
"Okay. Boris Korsakov." He spelled it for me and said, "He fits your description of approximate age and former KGB employment. The FBI guy I spoke to didn't say anything about Libyan Intelligence, or past addresses, but he did say that Boris was here under the post-Soviet resettlement program."
"Okay… I guess that's close-"
"You saw this guy-right?"
"Right."
"So, go to your computer. I e-mailed you the photo the FBI e-mailed me."
"Hold on." I went into the spare bedroom that Kate and I had made into a home office-not a guest room for Mom-and logged onto my computer.
Dick asked me, "How's Kate?"
"Much better."
I retrieved Dick's e-mail, and staring back at me on the screen was Boris. My Boris.
"You got it?"
"I do. That's him, Dick. You're a genius."
"I am a total bullshit artist. I had this FBI guy in the palm of my hand."
Dick went on a bit, and I listened politely and patiently. Dick Kearns, who hadn't been so sure he could or should do this for me, now assured me that it was a piece of cake. But then he caught himself and said, "I busted my butt getting to the right guy, and convincing him I had clearance and need-to-know."
I kept staring at the photo of Boris. This was a tough-looking hombre, and I recalled that Kate and I had been impressed with him-he not only talked the talk, he walked the walk. Could Asad Khalil have gotten the upper hand on this guy? I wouldn't have thought so three years ago when I'd met Boris, but…
"John? I said, I have an address."
"Good."
"He lives at 12-355 Brighton 12th Street, Brighton Beach-along with half the Russians in New York. Apartment 16-A." Dick added, "He's been there almost three years."
"Okay." Boris got his wish to be resettled in New York, and he'd picked a neighborhood where he wouldn't get too homesick, and where ex-KGB guys got together over a bottle of vodka and reminisced about the good old days when they were young and hated.
"I couldn't get Boris's cell or home phone from the FBI, but I did get his business phone."
"Good enough."
Dick gave me Boris's business number and I asked him, "Where's he work?"
"Okay, here's the part that could be a little fun for you, so I saved it for last-"
"You better not tell me he works in a Russian bath house where he scrubs men's asses."
"Funny, I was going to say that. But here's the deal. Boris owns and operates a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach. You remember, we went to a few of those places with Ivan the crazy Russian when we were single, and-"
"I was single. You've been married thirty years."
"Whatever. Anyway, remember that place…? What was the name? Rossiya. Those tall, blonde-"
"Do you have a name for this place?"
"Yeah. It's Svetlana. I don't think we were ever there. It's right on the boardwalk at Brighton Third Street."
"Okay… and this place is owned by Boris?"
"Well, with these Russkies, who knows who the silent partners could be? It's all Russian Mafia. Right? Maybe Boris is the front guy."
"Maybe. But maybe the CIA gave him a loan."
"Yeah? Hey, maybe we should defect to Russia and see about opening an American nightclub."
"You go first. I'll stay here and run your business."
"We can talk." He asked me, "What do I do now with Vasili Rimski?"
"Who?"
"The guy I'm doing the background check on. He put in an application to work for the General Accounting Office-he's an accountant. Low-level background check. But I just told the FBI that he consorts with an ex-KGB guy named Boris Korsakov. Should I mention that in my report?"
"Do what's best for the country, Dick."
He laughed and said, "Hey, let me know how this turns out."
"Okay-"
"Why haven't I seen anything in the papers?"
"It's under tight wraps." I hesitated, then asked him, "Did you see that story about the home invasion and murders in Queens?"
"Yeah. A cop and his family."
"Well, that cop worked for the Task Force."
Dick was silent for a moment, then said, "Jeez." He asked me, "And that's related to the attack on Kate?"
"Yeah."
He was silent again and asked, "Is that why you're under house protection?"
"You should be a detective." I said to him, "Okay, I owe you big time for this. I'm off to see Kate-"
"Watch yourself."
"Thanks for reminding me. I'll call you next week."
I hung up and printed out the color photo of Boris, and I wrote on it, "Svetlana Nightclub, Brighton Beach," then I wrote a note to Kate saying, Tell Vince and Tom they need to see Boris, and tell them why.
It occurred to me that I was leaving notes around as though I didn't expect to be around myself.
Before I left the apartment, I poured myself a little Stolichnaya, to celebrate appropriately, and to wish Boris a long life. Or at least long enough to be alive when I got there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The high-security floor at Bellevue is the worst of two bad worlds-a hospital run like a prison. My name was on the authorized visitor list, and my NYPD shield and Fed creds got me through the security checkpoint with only minor hassles. On the positive side, Asad Khalil was not getting onto this floor.
Actually, Asad Khalil should have no idea that Mrs. Corey was alive, well, and here. I wondered, though, if his friends in New York were looking at the obituaries or checking the public records for Kate's death. Not to be too paranoid, but if Khalil knew or suspected that Kate was not dead, then his local friends would probably guess that this was where she'd be. We could, as we'd done in the past, plant a fake obit, but then my phone would be ringing off the hook, and half the single women in my building would be knocking on my door with casseroles. So, no obit, but I made a mental note to tell Walsh to get a phony death certificate issued and recorded.
Sitting now beside Kate's bed, I let her know that she needed to stay in the hospital for a while, but she'd already discovered that, and she wasn't happy about it. Kate, though, is career FBI, and she does what's best for the Bureau, the team, and the mission. I, on the other hand, would by now be climbing out the window on knotted bed sheets.
I noticed that she had the stuffed lion hanging by its neck from the window-blind cord, and I asked her, "Have you had your mental evaluation yet?"
She smiled and said, "I'm trying to get into the nut ward so we can be together."
We chatted awhile and Kate told me she'd gotten a call from Tom Walsh, who, she informed me, was the only person at 26 Fed, aside from Vince Paresi, who knew she was in Bellevue Hospital. She told me, "I asked Tom to send me my cell phone, and I also asked him who was holding my gun."
I didn't respond to that.
She continued, "Tom said my gun and cell phone were missing and possibly in the possession of my assailant."
I replied, "The State Police are still searching for those items."
"That's what Tom said…" She didn't speak for a while, then told me, "I don't remember… but I think he may have grabbed my gun…"
"Don't worry about it. He's got lots of guns."
She replied, "But if he has my cell phone, then he has my phone directory." She looked at me and said, "He's going to call you."
"I hope so." I changed the subject and asked her, "Is there anything I can bring you?"
"My discharge papers."