"Hold on. I want to remind you again that your mother was a whore, and she was fucking your great asshole of a leader, who you know had your father killed so he could keep fucking your mother."
I could hear him breathing on the phone, and I think he was a little pissed off at me.
Finally he said, "We will meet. Good-bye, Mr. Corey."
The phone went dead.
Well, that was a good conversation. No beating around the bush. That's what I like about psychopaths. They give it to you straight.
But did I piss him off enough to make him stick around and take a run at me? Would I get face time with him? Was that a poor choice of words?
I was now supposed to call Walsh or Paresi, but… I dialed Boris's cell phone. If Boris was alive, I'd tip him off that I'd heard from Khalil, and advise him to stay awake tonight. In fact, maybe I could get over to Brighton Beach and keep him company. That might be my last and best hope to find Khalil.
My call went into voice mail, and I said, "Corey. I just got a call from our Libyan friend. Call me ASAP."
I then dialed Svetlana to see if the place was closed because of the death of the owner.
A man with a Russian accent answered, and I could hear music and loud talking in the background.
I asked for Mr. Korsakov, and the man said he was not available, but he would take a message. I told him, "Have him call Mr. Corey. It's important."
I hung up. Well, Boris was apparently still alive, and Boris, I thought, was the canary in the coal mine; if Boris was dead, could John Corey be far behind?
Bottom line here was that Asad Khalil was not going anywhere until he finished his business. I don't know who he hated more-Boris or me-but I was sure that Khalil himself knew who was next on his list.
Back at Bellevue, Kate was still in high spirits, and we sat in the only two chairs in the dismal room and watched some television. The History Channel had a special about Saddam Hussein, comparing him to Adolf Hitler, who was Hussein's hero. I mean, if your role model is Adolf Hitler, you've got a problem.
So we watched TV, but my mind was elsewhere.
In fact, I had seen photos of anti-Taliban fighters in Afghanistan who'd had their faces completely peeled from their skulls, which were red with blood and shredded muscles and ligaments. And Kate had seen this, too, in an info session we'd attended at 290 Broadway, hosted by the CIA, who thought we needed to see the type of enemy they were fighting in Afghanistan. A picture is, indeed, worth a thousand words, and we all got the message and got a little queasy in the stomach, too. And then, of course, it was lunchtime. The CIA are great jokesters.
Anyway, it sounded like Khalil had been hanging out for the last few years in Afghanistan with the Taliban. It was a wonder they could stand him.
I thought about telling Kate that I'd gotten a phone call from Asad Khalil. Oh, by the way, Khalil and I spoke today, and he wants to meet me to cut off my genitals and my face. What do you mean I can't meet him? I can't run away. I'll lose face.
Regarding reporting this phone call to the bosses, I think the five seconds for me to do that had passed.
Of course, I would have reported Khalil's call if there was any useful intelligence to be learned from what he'd said. But other than the face thing, all he said was that he was leaving-or had already left-New York. And that was bullshit. But Walsh might not think so.
Meanwhile, I still hadn't heard from Boris.
"John?"
"Yes, darling?"
"I said, will this bother you?"
Kate had taken the dressing off and there was a four-inch purple scar across her throat.
I assured her, "I think it's sexy."
"It's ugly."
Would Kate still love me if my face was cut off? I knew she would-and she wouldn't have to complain about me not shaving. But how about the family jewels? That could be a problem.
I said to her, "It's what's inside that counts." I suggested, "Use makeup."
I stayed for dinner-Saturday night special-and Kate said we were not going to discuss one word of business; we were going to start decompressing and turn our thoughts to happy things, like berry picking and canoeing on the bug-infested lake near her parents' house.
I reminded her, "Your father tells FBI stories for hours on end."
"I'll speak to him."
"And he doesn't drink."
"My parents don't approve of alcohol."
"Neither do I. I just drink it."
She reminded me, "You are under orders to accompany me to Minnesota. Make the best of it."
I nodded, but my mind returned to my phone conversation with Asad Khalil.
He never asked me where I was because he knew where I lived. And I had no doubt that he would not leave here until he finished what he'd come here to do. So all I had to do was wait for him to make his move, on his terms, and at his time. And that's the way it was always going to be.
Therefore, I needed to be here when that time came. No Montana, no Michigan, no Minnesota-just here.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sunday morning. My Special Operations keepers offered to accompany me to church if I was so inclined. Last Sunday, I was threatened with death by a skydiving terrorist, so I gave this some serious consideration before opting to watch a little of the televised Mass from St. Pat's, in my bathrobe. But I was there in spirit.
At noon, I made my pilgrimage to Bellevue.
Kate was in a jolly mood, and I was reminded of prisoners I'd seen on the eve of their release date.
She asked me, "Have you packed yet?"
"All packed and ready to go." Not.
Kate asked me, "Anything new on the case?"
"Not that I know of. What do you hear from Tom?"
"Nothing." She informed me, "I think he's away for the weekend."
"Really?" So the Special Agent in Charge of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force was out of town while the baddest terrorist on the planet was in town. I said to Kate, "Tom should relax. Nothing bad ever happens on a weekend."
Because it was Sunday, the ward was busy with chaplains making their rounds, offering communion and God's message of love to those who needed it most-murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and other felons capable of salvation, except convicted politicians, who have no souls to save.
I was not in as jolly a mood as Kate, and she sensed this, but dealt with it by ignoring it. Happiness, she thinks, is as contagious as the syphilitic druggie in the next room; just kiss and you'll get it.
The highlight of my visit, though, was the Catholic priest who walked into the room. He looked like a nineteen-year-old kid, and his name was Father Brad. He was standing between me and the door, so I eyed the window. Could I survive a nineteen-floor jump? Worth a try?
Anyway, he turned out to be a good guy, and we all chatted, and he knew, of course, that I was a Catholic-they can tell within five seconds. Kate told him she was Methodist, so I pulled out my old joke: "He didn't ask you what kind of birth control you use."
Father Brad got a chuckle out of that, but I thought Kate was going to faint.
Father Brad was happy to discover that Kate was not a felon-she seemed like a nice girl-and he was happier to discover that I'd gone to Mass at St. Patrick's earlier. I didn't actually say that, but that's what he assumed from something I may have said.
I had a bunch of great pope jokes that I thought he might find funny, but he needed to get on to tougher cases, so he blessed us both. And to be completely honest, that made me feel better for some reason. Maybe my prayers to find and kill Asad Khalil would be answered.
Kate spent the next few minutes critiquing my behavior with Father Brad, but I was now filled with the Holy Spirit, so I just smiled. Also, I was thinking about a Bloody Mary when I got home.
Kate reminded me, "I'm being picked up here tomorrow at four P.M. I need an hour to pack."