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.
Viktor left and Boris bolted the door.
I stood and looked out the two-way mirror that took up half the wall and had a sweeping view of the restaurant below, and also the bar beyond the etched glass wall. Veronika was still there. On the rear wall of the restaurant above the maitre d's stand were high windows that offered glimpses of the beach and the ocean. Not bad, Boris. Beats the hell out of Libya.
Directly below was the stage, and through the banks of overhead lights, prop pulleys, and other stage mechanicals, I could see two trapeze artists-a male and female flying through the air with the greatest of ease.
Boris asked me, 'Were you enjoying the show?'
Obviously, he'd seen me waiting at the maitre d's stand.
I replied, 'You put on a good show.'
'Thank you.'
I turned from the two-way mirror and said to him, 'You've done well.'
He replied, 'It is a lot of work and worry. I have many government inspectors coming here-fire, health, alcohol-and do you realize most of them don't take bribes?'
'The country is going to hell,' I agreed.
'And I have to deal with cheating vendors, staff who steal-'
'Kill them.'
He smiled and replied, 'Yes, sometimes I miss my old job in Russia.'
'The pay sucked.'
'But the power was intoxicating.'
'I'm sure.' I asked him, 'Do you miss your old job in Libya?'
He shook his head and replied, 'Not at all.'
At this point, he may have thought that I'd come here to talk about the one thing we had in common-and he'd be correct. But I'd said this wasn't an official visit, so to stay true to my word, I'd let Boris ask me about our favorite subject.
He offered me another drink, which I accepted. How many vodkas was that? Two that I paid for, and this was my second freebie. My on-duty limit is five. Four, if I think I may have to pull my gun.
On that subject, I was certain I wasn't the only one here who was carrying, though Boris may have stashed his piece if he wasn't licensed. Ah, for the good old days in the USSR when the KGB ruled. But money is good, too. Though money and power are the best.
Before Kate and I had met Boris three years ago at CIA Headquarters, we hadn't been fully briefed about his rank or title in the old KGB, or what Directorate he'd been in, or what his actual job had been. But afterward, an FBI agent had confided to us that Boris had been an agent of SMERSH, meaning licensed to kill-sort of an evil James Bond. If I'd known that beforehand, I'd still have had the meeting with him, but I don't think I'd have found him as charming. As for Kate… well, she always liked the bad boys.
I suppose I didn't actually care what Boris had done for a living in the Soviet Union; that was over. But it bothered me that he'd sold himself to a rogue nation and had trained a man like Asad Khalil. I'm sure he regretted
