At the far end of the restaurant I could see a big stage where a four-piece band was playing what sounded like a cross between "YMCA" and "The Song of the Volga Boatmen." The dance floor was crowded with couples, young and old, plus a lot of pre-teen girls dancing with each other, and the usual old ladies out on the floor giving the hip replacements a workout. In fact, this scene looked like any number of ethnic weddings I'd been to, and I had the thought that maybe I'd crashed a wedding reception. But more likely this was just another night at Svetlana.
I should say, too, for the sake of accurate reporting, and because I am trained to observe people, that there were a fair number of hot babes in the joint. In fact, I seemed to recall this being the case the last time I was at Rossiya with Dick Kearns and Ivan.
Anyway, the lady next to me, who might have been one of those hot Russian babes fifteen years ago, seemed interested in the new boy. I could smell her lilac cologne heating up, and without sounding too crude, her bumpers were hanging over my Stoli, and they could have used a bar stool of their own.
She said to me, in a thick accent, "You are not Roosian."
"What was your first clue?"
"Your Roosian is terrible."
Your English ain't so hot either, sweetheart. I asked her, "Come here often?"
"Yes, of course." She then gave me the correct pronunciation of "spasibo," "pozhaluista," and "Stolichnaya"-I was stressing the wrong syllables-and made me repeat after her.
Apparently, I wasn't getting it, and she suggested, "Perhaps another voodka would help you."
We both got a chuckle out of that, and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Veronika-with a k-and she was originally from Kansas. No, Kursk. I introduced myself as Tom Walsh, and I briefly considered giving her Tom's home number. Maybe later.
I bought us another round. She was drinking cognac, which I recalled the Russkies loved-and at twenty bucks a pop, what's not to love? And I couldn't even put this on my expense account.
Anyway, recalling Nietzsche's famous dictum-the most common form of human stupidity is forgetting what one is trying to do-I said to her, "I need to see someone in the restaurant, but maybe I'll see you later."
"Yes? And who do you need to see?"
"The manager. I'm collecting for Greenpeace."
Veronika pouted and said, "Why don't you dance with me?"
"I'd love to. Don't go away."
I told the bartender, "Give this lady another cognac when she's ready, and put it on my tab."
Veronika raised her glass and said to me, "Spasibo."
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.