Khalil came in low under Boris's knife hand and under his wrapped arm and delivered an upward thrust that caught Boris below his left rib cage.
Boris let out a startled cry of pain, then pivoted away from the probing knife and delivered a high kick to Khalil's lowered head.
Neither man pressed the attack and both of them retreated to a safe distance.
Khalil nodded and said, "Very good."
Boris cautiously felt his wound and determined that it was a narrow puncture wound, perhaps deep, but not bleeding profusely, and not mortal.
Khalil watched the blood forming on Boris's white shirt and came to the same conclusion, saying, "You won't die from that."
Boris also determined that he wasn't going to win this fight-he was already out of breath, and the wound would bleed more quickly with further exertions and eventually weaken him.
Also, Boris admitted, Khalil was the better knife fighter-Khalil remembered the skills, but more importantly he remembered the tricks, and had learned some new ones. Boris also knew that Khalil possessed the will and the courage to face a man with a knife, and Boris was not sure that he himself possessed that will any longer.
Out of desperation, Boris said to Khalil, "It is over. You have won."
Khalil laughed. "Yes? Are you dead already? May I go now?"
"Asad-"
Khalil said, "There is another man who is going to die in this way tonight-so I had hoped you would be good practice for me. But now I see you are a poor opponent-too old, too slow, and too frightened."
Boris did not reply. He tried to think of another way out of this, and thought of the door. If he could work his way closer to the door… he began circling so that Khalil would circle too, and not be between him and the door.
But Khalil kept his position and said, "If you wish to run out of the room, I have no objections. But I must tell you, all you will find out there is a locked elevator and a locked staircase door. But perhaps you prefer a smaller room for this fight." He smiled and said, "I don't care where I slaughter you."
Boris took a deep breath and said, "You have made your point." He lowered his knife and said, "I have done nothing to you. I have taught you-"
"Shut up." Khalil took a few steps toward Boris, and as Boris moved back, Khalil said, "We have not finished this lesson. Do you not want to show me how you will disarm me and throw me against the wall as you did once? Do you think I have forgotten your knee in my testicles? Or perhaps the great Russian assassin has dirtied his pants, and he wishes me to leave to spare me the smell."
Boris felt the anger rising in him again, and he pulled the jacket from around his arm and snapped it at Khalil as he moved forward with his knife extended in his right hand.
Khalil stepped back and lost his footing on the loose area rug, then fell to the floor, losing his knife.
Boris charged him, and realized too late he'd again been drawn into a ruse, as Khalil raised his legs and caught Boris in the abdomen and hurled him into the air, headfirst into a china cabinet, which shattered in a loud crash.
Khalil snatched up his knife, jumped quickly to his feet, and watched as Boris pulled himself away from the cabinet.
Boris stood unsteadily, his face bleeding from glass cuts and his eyes blinded with blood. He had lost his knife, and he wiped his eyes with his hands as Khalil moved in for the kill.
Boris, his back to the shattered china cabinet, sidestepped along the wall, and Khalil followed him, then realized what Boris was doing.
Boris seized a floor lamp with both hands and swung the heavy base at Khalil's head.
Khalil ducked, and Boris missed, but then Boris pivoted in the direction of his swing and came around again with the base of the lamp now lower, and he caught Khalil's outstretched arm in a glancing blow that knocked the knife from Khalil's hand.
Khalil backpedaled quickly, and Boris, knowing this was his last and only chance to kill this man, charged forward with the floor lamp.
Khalil feinted right, then moved left and kicked Boris's leg out from under him. Boris crashed to the floor, losing his grip on the lamp, and Khalil was on Boris's back, with his knees straddling the big Russian and his right arm locked around Boris's throat.
Boris tried to rise on his hands and knees, but Khalil kept his full weight on the weakening man while tightening his chokehold.
Boris felt himself blacking out, and he gave one last upward heave with his body, then twisted with every ounce of strength he had left. He found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which was dark and blurry. He felt his abdominal wound throbbing and he knew it was gushing blood now.
He knew, too, he should do something, but everything around him seemed quiet and peaceful, so he lay there and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling, and his lungs filling with air.
He heard a voice say, "Get up."
Boris remained still, keeping his eyes shut and feigning more injury and exhaustion than he felt. He was vaguely aware that Khalil was close by, standing over him, then he felt a kick in his right side that knocked the air out of his laboring lungs. The second kick came, as he hoped it would, and Boris swung his legs and body around and knocked Khalil's legs out from under him.
Boris was on his feet, but it took him a second too long, and before he could react, Khalil was already up and delivered a powerful kick into Boris's groin.
Boris doubled over, and Khalil came around him and delivered a running kick to his rear that sent him sprawling.
Khalil dove on Boris's back and knocked the remaining air out of him, then put him in a headlock that again constricted his airway.
Boris remained still, hoping for another opportunity. His mind was cloudy, but his survival instincts had been aroused and his will to fight for his life had become stronger as he faced death.
Khalil's head was close, and Boris could feel the man's warm, steady breath on his neck. Then Khalil whispered into Boris's ear, "I underestimated you, and for that, I apologize."
Boris could not reply.
Khalil said, "And I thank you, Mr. Korsakov, for sharing with me all your skills and your knowledge." He asked, "Are you proud of me?"
Boris lay perfectly still, not wanting to provoke the man because he felt a small glimmer of hope-not hope that Asad Khalil would spare his life out of compassion; the man had none. Nor would Khalil spare his life out of respect for a worthy opponent. But Khalil might spare his life, Boris thought, because he was satisfied with humiliating him-killing his bodyguards, beating him in a fight, and heaping abuse on him. Khalil, he knew, would not spare any other man's life for those reasons, but Boris knew that he was a special case, and that Khalil understood that the most satisfying conclusion for Asad Khalil would be to leave him a broken man. Yes, Khalil knew that…
Khalil said to him, "You taught me well, so I will not mutilate you or cause you a painful death."
Boris tried to nod his head, but Khalil tightened the pressure around his neck.
Khalil said into Boris's ear, "But you gave me some bad advice…"
Boris saw something in front of his blurry eyes, and he could not identify it at first, though he could see Khalil's free hand gripping something. Then he knew what he was seeing-the long, thin shaft of an ice pick.
"No!"
Khalil put the tip of the ice pick into Boris's left nostril and pushed it back into his brain.
Boris screamed again, but this time it was an unintelligible, animal scream.
Khalil withdrew the pick, which glistened with Boris's blood and brains, then positioned the tip into Boris's right nostril, and again pushed it up into his brain and kept pushing until the handle flattened Boris's nose and the tip of the ice pick came up through his skull.
Khalil left the pick where it was buried, then slid off Boris and rolled him over onto his back.