He saw me studying the poster and said, "A bit of nostalgia."
I replied, "Nostalgia is not what it used to be." I suggested, "Let me get you a Norman Rockwell print."
He laughed, then said, "Some of my American friends still find that poster offensive."
"Can't imagine why."
He reminded me, "The Cold War is over. You won." He informed me, "Those posters, if they are original, are quite expensive. That one cost me two thousand dollars."
I pointed out, "Not a lot of money for a successful entrepreneur."
He agreed, "Yes, I am now a capitalist pig with a money bag in my hand. Fate is strange."
He lit another cigarette but this time offered me one, which I declined. He asked me, "How did you find me?"
"Boris, I work for the FBI."
"Yes, of course, but my friends in Langley assured me that all information about me is classified."
I replied, "This may come as a shock to you, but the CIA lies."
We both got a smile out of that one.
Then he got serious again and said, "And any information about me is on a need-to-know basis." He took a drag and asked, "So, what is your need-to-know, Mr. Corey?"
I replied, "Please call me John."
"John. What is your need-to-know?"
"Well, I'm glad you asked." I changed the subject and my tactics and said, "Hey, I'm drinking on an empty stomach."
He hesitated, then replied, "Of course. I have forgotten my manners."
"No, I should have called." I suggested, "Don't go out of your way. Maybe call for a pizza."
He went to the phone on a side table and assured me, "No trouble. In fact, you may have noticed this is a restaurant."
"Right." Boris had a little sarcastic streak, which shows intelligence and good mental health, as I have to explain often to my wife.
Boris was speaking on the phone intercom in Russian, and I heard the word "zakuskie," which I know from my pal Ivan means appetizers. Some words stick in your mind. Of course, Boris could also be saying, "Put knockout drops in the borscht." Before he hung up, I asked, "Can they do pigs-in-a-blanket?"
He glanced at me, then added to his order, saying, "Kolbasa en croute."
What?
Anyway, he hung up and said to me, "Why don't you sit?"
So I sat, and we both relaxed a bit, sipping vodka and enjoying the moment before I got down to what he knew was not going to be pleasant.
Boris said to me, "I have forgotten to ask you-how is that lovely lady you were with?"
In this business, as I said, you never reveal personal information, so I replied, "I still see her at work, and she's well."
"Good. I enjoyed her company. Kate. Correct? Please give her my regards."
"I will."
He smiled and said to me, "I had the impression that you and she were more than colleagues."
"Yeah? Hey, do you think I missed a shot at that?"
He shrugged and gave me a hot tip. "Women are difficult to understand."
"Really?" For fun, I said, "I think she married a CIA guy."
"A poor choice."
"That's what I think."
"As bad as a KGB guy."
I smiled and asked him, "Are you married?"
He replied without enthusiasm, "Yes."
"Russian gull?"
"Excuse me?"
"Russian girl?"
"Yes."
"Kids?"
"No."
"So, how did you two meet?"
"Here."
"Right. I'll bet this is a good place to meet women."
He laughed, but didn't respond. He asked me, "And you?"
"Never married."
"And why is that, if I may ask?"
"No one ever asked me."
He smiled and informed me, "I think you are supposed to ask them."
"Well, that's not going to happen."
Boris said to me, "I am remembering now your sense of humor." He hesitated, then said, "If you wish, I can send a woman home with you."
"Really? Like, take-out?"
He was really enjoying my humor, and he laughed and said, "Yes, I will put her in a container with your leftovers."
This generous offer-sometimes known as a honey trap-was serious and needed a reply, so I said, "Thank you for your offer, but I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality."
"No trouble." He added, "Let me know if you change your mind."
It occurred to me that Boris actually had another good reason for all this security, beyond personal safety and works of art: Mrs. Korsakov's unannounced visits.
Boris finally broached the subject of my attire and said to me, "You look very prosperous."
"I just dressed for the occasion."
"Yes?" He commented, "That watch is… I think ten thousand dollars."
"It didn't cost me anything. I took it off a dead man."
He lit another cigarette, then very coolly said, "Yes, I have some souvenirs as well."
It was time, I thought, to move the ball down the field, so I asked him, "Did the government give you a loan for this business?"
"Why do you ask? And why don't you know?"
I didn't answer either question, but asked him another: "Have you heard from your friends in Langley recently?"
He asked me, "Are you now here on official business?"
"I am."
"Then I should ask you to leave, and I should call my attorney."
"You can do that anytime you want." I reassured him, "This isn't the Soviet Union."
He ignored that and said, "Tell me why I should speak to you."
"Because it's your civic duty to assist in the investigation of a crime."
"What crime?"
"Murder."
He inquired, "What murder?"
"Well, maybe yours."
That called for a drink, and he poured himself one.
I said to him, unnecessarily, "Asad Khalil is back."
He nodded.
"Are you surprised?"
"Not at all."
"Me neither."
A few musical notes sounded-Tchaikovsky? — and Boris stood, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. I wondered where the monitor for the security camera was located.
Boris opened the door, and a waiter entered pushing a cart, with Viktor bringing up the rear.
Viktor closed and bolted the door, and the waiter unloaded three tiered trays of food onto a black lacquered table. Boris seemed to have forgotten about my bad news and busied himself with directing the waiter.
The table was now heaped with food and bottled mineral water, and the waiter was setting the table with linens, silverware, and crystal from a sideboard.
Boris said to me, "Sit. Here."
I sat, and Boris followed the waiter and Viktor to the door and bolted it after them, then sat opposite me.
He asked me, "Do you enjoy Russian food?"
"Who doesn't?"
"Here," he said, "this is smoked blackfish, this is pickled herring, and this is smoked eel." He named everything for me and I was losing my appetite. He concluded with, "The piece de resistance-pigs-in-a-blanket."
The pigs-in-a-blanket were actually chunks of fat sausage-kolbasa-wrapped in some kind of fried dumpling dough, and I put a few of them on my plate along with some other things that looked safe.
Boris poured us some mineral water and we dug into the chow.
The kolbasa and dough were actually very good-fat and starch are good-but the jury was out on the pickled tomatoes.