He thought a moment, then continued, "They call him The Lion because of his courage, his stealth, his speed, and his ability to sense danger. But in this last regard, he often misses the signs of danger because of his belief that he is strong-physically, mentally, and morally-and that his enemies are weak, stupid, and corrupt." He looked at me and said, "I warned him once about this, but I did not bother to warn him again."
Boris was on a roll, reminiscing about his student, so I didn't respond.
Boris continued, "Khalil had a mentor, an old man called Malik, who was somewhat of a mystic." He informed me, "Malik, like me, tried to teach Khalil caution, but Malik also convinced Khalil that he was blessed-that he had special powers, a sixth sense for danger, and a sense for knowing when his prey was close. Nonsense, of course, but Khalil believed it, and therefore he does stupid things, but seems to get away with his stupidity, which only reinforces his rash behavior." He speculated, "Perhaps his luck is running out."
Not so you'd notice, but I said, "Maybe." In truth, the few murderers I've come across who thought God was in their corner had been a problem; they certainly were not blessed by God, but they thought they were, and that made them unpredictable and more dangerous than the average homicidal nut job.
Boris took a drag on his cigarette and said, "He was an excellent learner-very quick, very intelligent. And also very motivated-but what motivated him was hate." He looked at me and said, "As you know, the Americans killed his entire family."
I did not reply.
Boris said, correctly, "Hate clouds the judgment."
Again, I didn't respond, but I did think about this odd couple-Boris Korsakov and Asad Khalil-teacher and student from opposite ends of the universe. I was sure that Boris had done a good job training his young protege to kill and escape, but at the end of school, Asad Khalil was the same deranged person as he'd been at the beginning.
Boris continued, "He is what you call a loner. He does not need friends, women, or even colleagues, though he will use people and then dispose of them. So, how do you find such a man? Well, as I said, you will not find him-he will find you. But when he does, he is more likely than most professional assassins to make an error-an error in judgment, and thus an error in tactics. And by this, Mr. Corey, I mean that he will pass up an opportunity to safely blow your head off at two hundred meters, and he will attack you in a most personal way-the way a lion attacks, with his teeth, and his claws. He needs to taste your blood. And like a cat playing with a mouse, he often plays with his victim and taunts him before killing him. This is important to him. So if you survive the initial assault, you may have a chance to respond." Boris concluded, "This is all I can tell you that may be of help."
Well, aside from Malik the mystic, there wasn't too much there that I didn't know, and in fact Kate and I recently had some personal experience with Khalil's modus operandi. But it was good to have my own thoughts and observations confirmed. I said to Boris, "So we should bend over and kiss our asses good-bye?"
He smiled and, being a good host, complimented me by saying, "I feel that you can handle the situation if it should arise." He added, of course, "And so can I."
Maybe I shouldn't have cancelled my gym membership. I returned to my previous suggestion. "Another way to catch or kill a lion is to leave bait in a trap."
He'd apparently given some thought to my suggestion and replied, "Yes. If you want the lion alive, you put a live goat in a cage, and when the lion enters the cage, the door closes. The lion is trapped, but the goat gets eaten. Or if you want the lion dead, then the goat is tethered to a tree, and as the lion is killing him, the hunter shoots. In either case, the goat is dead. But goats are expendable."
"Good point." I assured him, "But we know you're not a goat and we will ensure your safety."
He wasn't so sure of that, and frankly, neither was I. Boris said to me, "You try it first."
"Okay. I'll let you know how I make out."
"Yes, if you can." He did say, however, "It is an interesting idea, and it may be the only way you will capture or kill him. But be advised-John-even as you are setting a trap for him, he may be doing the same for you."
"Right."
To continue the lion thing, he said, "And you would not be the first hunter to follow the lion's spoor, only to discover the lion has circled around and is now behind you."
"Hey, good analogy. I'll remember that."
"Please do."
My next question wasn't really important to the subject, but I had to know. "Did you teach Khalil how to kill with an ice pick?"
He seemed at first surprised, then a bit uncomfortable with the question. I mean, it was not an abstract question. He hesitated, then replied, "I believe I did." He then inquired, "Why do you ask?"
"Why do you think I asked?"
He didn't reply to my question, but let me know, "That idiot had never seen an ice pick, and when I showed it to him, he was like a child with a new toy."
"I'll bet."
"So, did the victim die?"
"Oh yeah. But I think it took awhile."
"How many stabs?" he asked.
"Just one."
Boris seemed annoyed, maybe frustrated with his old student, and said, "I told him two or three."
"Kids don't listen."
"He is not a kid. He's… an idiot."
I asked him, "Hey, what's with the Russkies and the ice pick? Didn't you guys whack Trotsky with an ice pick?"
Boris seemed interested in this subject and replied, "Well, as you can imagine, there are a lot of ice picks in Russia, and so they become the weapon of convenience, especially in the winter."
"Right. I should have thought of that."
Boris regarded me a moment, wondering, I'm sure, if I was having some fun with him. He played along by picking up a sharp knife on the table, saying, "If you do not know what you are doing with this, you will not deliver a fatal wound. You will get this stuck in a bone, or in a muscle, or you will deliver a few non-fatal wounds, and the other person will have an opportunity to run or attack. Even a deep abdominal wound is not fatal unless you hit the artery." He explained, "The knife is good mostly for the throat"-he put the blade to his throat-"the jugulars here, or the carotids. That is fatal, but it is a difficult cut to make if you are facing your opponent. You need to come up behind him for a proper throat cut. Correct?" He put the knife down and concluded, "But the ice pick will easily penetrate the skull from any angle, and it will also penetrate the breast bone into the heart, even if the victim is wearing heavy winter clothing, and it will, in either case, cause a fatal wound, though not instantly fatal."
He seemed to realize that he'd gotten carried away with this subject, and he forced a smile and said, "Perhaps not good dinner conversation."
"I brought it up. You just ran with it."
"Try that cognac."
I took a small sip to be polite. Boris, for all his alcohol consumption, seemed alert-maybe it was the sobering thought that he was marked for death that kept his mind focused. In any case, he said to me, "You must take care of him this time. If you do not, you will never have a day of peace."
"Neither will you."
He ignored that and asked me, "How did he get away last time?"
Boris had some skin in the game, so this was not simply a professional or academic question. I replied, "I certainly can't tell you more than your CIA friends told you three years ago. If you don't know, they don't want you to know."