The tab came, and I paid cash, of course, not wanting any record of this on my government credit card, or on my Amex card, where I'd have to explain Svetlana to Kate.
I promised Veronika, "I'll see you later."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
I made my way through the cocktail lounge and into the restaurant. It really smelled good in here and my empty tummy rumbled.
I found the maitre d's stand and approached a gentleman in a black suit. He regarded me for a moment, decided I was a foreigner, and addressed me in English, asking, "How may I help you?"
I replied, "I'm here to see Mr. Korsakov."
He seemed a bit surprised, but he did not say, "Mr. Korsakov had his head cut off just last night. Sorry you missed him." He asked, "Is he expecting you?"
So, Boris was alive and here, and I replied, "I'm an old friend." I gave him my card, and he stared at it. I assumed he read English, and I assumed, too, he didn't like what he was reading-Anti-Terrorist Task Force and all that-so I said to him, "This is not official business. Please take that to Mr. Korsakov and I will wait here."
He hesitated, then said, "I am not certain he is in, Meester…" He looked at my card again. "… Cury."
"Corey. And I'm certain he is in."
He called over another guy to hold down the fort, and I watched him make his way toward the back of the restaurant, then disappear through a red curtain.
I said to the young guy who was filling in for the maitre d', "You ever see Dr. Zhivago?"
"Please?"
"The scene in the restaurant where the young guy shoots the fat guy-Rod Steiger-who's been screwing Julie Christie."
"Please?"
"Hey, I'd take a slug for her. I took three for less than that. Capisce?"
A group came in and the maitre d' trainee escorted them to a table.
So I stood there, ready to escort the next group to their table.
Meanwhile, I looked around the cavernous restaurant. The tables were covered with gold cloths on which sat vodka bottles, champagne buckets, and tiered trays filled with mounds of food, and the diners were doing a hell of a job getting that food where it belonged. The band was now playing the theme song from From Russia with Love, which was kind of funny.
The wall behind the stage rose up about twenty feet-two stories-and I noticed now that in the center of the wall near the ceiling was a big mirror that reflected the crystal chandeliers. This, I was certain, was actually a two-way mirror from which someone could observe the entire restaurant below. Maybe that was Boris's office, so I waved.
Three female singers had taken the stage, and they were all tall, blonde, and pretty, of course, and they wore clingy dresses with metallic sequins that could probably stop a.357 Magnum. They were singing something in English about Russian gulls, which I thought strange, and it took me awhile to realize they were saying, "Russian girls." In any case, they had good lungs. Kate would like this place.
I guess my attention was focused on the gulls, because I didn't see the maitre d' approaching, and he came up to me and said, "Thank you for waiting."
"I think that was my idea."
He had a big boy with him-a crew-cut blond guy with a tough face who wore a boxy suit that barely fit over a weight lifter's body.
The maitre d' said to me, "This is Viktor"-with a k? — "and he will take you to Mr. Korsakov."
I would have shaken Viktor's hand, but I need my hand, so I said, "Spasibo," in Veronika's accent, but several octaves lower.
I followed Viktor through the crowded restaurant, which was like following a steamroller through a flower garden.
Viktor parted the red curtain with his breath, and I found myself in a hallway that led to a locked steel door, which Viktor opened with a key. We entered a small plain room that had two chairs, another steel door on the opposite wall, and an elevator. The only other item of note was a security camera on the ceiling that swiveled 360 degrees.
Viktor used another key to open the elevator doors and he motioned me in. I guessed that the steel door beside the elevator led to a staircase, and I noticed that the door also had a lock.
So, if I was Asad Khalil… I'd pick someplace else to whack Boris.
As we rode up, I said to Viktor, "So, are you the pastry chef?"
He kept staring straight ahead, but he did smile. A little humor goes a long way in bridging the species gap. Plus, he understood English.
The elevator doors opened into an anteroom similar to the one below, including another security camera, but this room had a second steel door-this one with a fisheye peephole and also a sliding pass-through like you find in cell doors.
Viktor pushed a button, and a few seconds later I heard a bolt slide and the door opened.
Standing in the doorway was Boris, who said to me, "It is so good to see you alive."
"You too."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Boris motioned me to an overstuffed armchair, and he sat in a similar chair opposite me. He was wearing a black European-cut suit and a silk shirt, open at the collar. Like me, he sported a Rolex, but I suspected his cost more than forty bucks. He looked like he was still in decent shape, but not as lean or hard as I remembered him.
Viktor remained in the room, and he took a cocktail order from the boss-a bottle of chilled vodka.
Boris poured into two crystal glasses, raised his glass and said, "Health."
I replied, "Na zdorov'e," which I think means "health"-or does it mean "I love you"?
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.