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 tried 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 deaclass="underline" 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."
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."