The busboy, Vladimir, was taking his time setting the table with chilled caviar and champagne for two. Boris was expecting a lady at 6:30, and it was already 6:15, and the stupid busboy-who was only a few weeks on the job-seemed nervous or unsure of what to do.
Boris looked over his shoulder and said to the busboy in Russian, "Are you not done yet?"
"I am just finishing, sir."
Vladimir knew that for all appearances he was an ethnic Russian, but in fact his name, his speech, and his Russian ways had been forced on him from birth by the Russian occupiers of Chechnya-and though he was Russian on the outside, in his heart he hated everything and everyone who was Russian, and he especially hated the former KGB and its successor, the FSS, which had arrested, tortured, and killed so many of his fellow Muslims in his homeland.
Vladimir looked at Boris Korsakov, sitting with his back to him, drinking, smoking, and giving him orders. Soon there would be one less KGB man on this earth.
Vladimir felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. It was time.
Boris put down his newspaper and said to Vladimir, "Just leave everything and go." Boris stood to walk to the door and look out the peephole for Viktor, and to show the busboy out.
But Vladimir was already at the door, without his cart, and with his hand on the bolt.
Boris shouted across the room, "Stop! You idiot! Stand away from that door!"
Vladimir slid the bolt open, stood aside, and the door swung open.
Vladimir left quickly as Asad Khalil entered with a pistol in his hand. Khalil bolted the door and looked at Boris Korsakov.
Boris stood absolutely still, his eyes fixed on the man who stood less than twenty feet from him.
The man had a mustache and glasses, and perhaps his hair was more gray than Boris remembered and not combed back as he recalled, but he knew who his visitor was.
Boris also noted, almost absently, that the man's dark suit and white shirt were covered with fresh blood.
Khalil took off his glasses and peeled off his mustache, then said in Russian, "Are you not happy to see your favorite student?"
Boris took a deep breath and replied in English, "Your Russian is still as bad as the stench of your mouth and your body."
Khalil did not respond to that, but said, "I would advise you now to reach for your gun so I will be forced to give you a quick death. But… if you prefer to live a few minutes longer, we can share a few words before you suffer a painful death. The choice is yours."
Boris reverted to Russian and said, "Yob vas." Fuck you.
Khalil smiled and said to Boris, "Still arrogant." Then he said, "So, your CIA friends are not protecting you."
Boris replied, "They are."
Khalil again smiled and said, "Then where are they? They used you like the whore you are, and they put you here in this place filled with other whores and drunken pigs."
Boris's eyes darted around the room, looking for a way to save his life.
Khalil said to him, "Look at me. Why don't you understand that you are dead?"
Boris took another deep breath and said, "Then do it."
"You must reach for your gun. This needs to be interesting for both of us."
Boris looked at his former student and said, "What did I teach you? Kill quickly. You talk too much."
"I enjoy the talk."
"I assure you, your victims do not."
Khalil seemed annoyed and said to Boris, "I had to listen to you for one year insulting me, my country, and my faith. And I had to smell your stinking cigarettes and your stinking alcohol." He stared at Boris and said, "And look at you now. Who are you? And how clever are you? Who is holding the gun? Not you. And you should be more careful who you hire. Vladimir is a Chechen and he would pay me if I let him cut your throat. And you should also know, before you die, that your two former KGB bodyguards are now waiting for you in Hell."
Boris's mind was racing, thinking of a way to save himself. The girl, Tanya, would be escorted here by a security man, and that man would notice… something. A body. Blood on the floor…
Khalil, who knew exactly what his old teacher was thinking, said, "Vladimir is cleaning up my mess. And he has called downstairs to have the girl sent away-on your instructions." He added, "You will not be having champagne and caviar tonight, and you will not be fornicating after I cut off your testicles."
Boris did not reply, and his mind was still searching for a way out.
Finally, Boris realized that there was only one move he could make-he had to go for his gun. That would either save him, or end it quickly. He looked at Khalil for a sign that the man's attention was not fully focused-they sometimes let their eyes dart around to take in their new surroundings, or to look for signs of danger, and their guns tended to drift in the direction they were looking. But all Boris saw was Khalil's black eyes staring straight at him, and the black muzzle of the gun-aimed as accurately as Khalil's eyes.
Again, Khalil knew what Boris was thinking, and he said to him, "My advice is to go for your gun. That will make you feel more of a man as you are dying." He added, "You do not want to be shot like a dog." He further advised Boris in Russian, "Courage. Show me some courage, boy. Do something."
Boris took another deep breath and in his mind he was reaching inside his jacket for the gun on his hip as he dove to the side, rolled, and fired.
Khalil said, "No, I would not suggest a floor roll. I would suggest a step back-your armchair is behind you-a backward roll over the chair. That will give you a moment of concealment, but unfortunately not cover from my bullets that I will fire through the chair. Still, you will have drawn your gun during your backward roll and you may be able to return fire before you are hit." He asked, "Have I given the correct advice, Mr. Korsakov? Have I correctly evaluated the situation, sir?"
Boris stared at Khalil, then nodded and said, "That is the only move possible."
"Then make the move. Do not just stand there. And do not think you can surprise me by diving to the right or the left. You will be dead before you hit the floor… though I may let you get your hand on your gun as you roll."
Boris continued to stare at Khalil. He understood that this man needed to mock him and torment him before he killed him. But he also understood that he could not expect a quick death with a bullet from Asad Khalil's gun. Boris realized that no matter what he did-rolled, dove, even charged at Khalil-this man would shoot to wound him, then he would finish him off in a way that Boris did not want to think about. Or worse, Khalil would not kill him-he would mutilate him and leave him as a freak, a half-man with no genitals, no eyes, no tongue…
Boris felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, and a cold sweat chilled his body.
Khalil seemed impatient and said, "Have you forgotten everything? Or was that just classroom talk? I have done all that you taught me. And more. So now you must show your student what you will do in this situation. I am waiting and curious."
Boris thought if he could keep Khalil talking, there was a chance that someone would come up the stairs or the elevator and see that something was not right. He waited for the doorbell to ring-a few notes of Tchaikovsky that would distract Khalil for half a second. That's all Boris needed. A half second to draw his gun.
Boris cleared his throat and said in a confident voice, "This building is under surveillance by the police and the FBI."
Khalil replied, "They do not seem to be any more competent or alert than your stupid bodyguards."