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 from 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?"