Four attendants lifted her and the wheelchair on board and I stepped aside.
As soon as she was placed on the gurney, I went over to her and said, "Hi, beautiful."
We kissed and she said, "It's good to see you."
Her voice was a little raspy, but I didn't mention it. I said, "It's good to see you. You look great." And she did look well. Her lip and cheek were still a little puffy where Khalil had hit her, but she had good color and wore a little makeup to cover the face bruise. There was only a small dressing over her wound, though I could see black and blue marks around the dressing.
One of the attendants gave me a bag that contained her helmet and boots, which I signed for, and I also signed her discharge papers, insurance forms, waivers, and what looked liked a codicil to my will leaving the hospital everything.
The engine restarted and within a minute we were airborne.
I stood beside Kate and held her hand. I could see now that her cheeks looked a bit sunken. She patted the lion and said, "This was in questionable taste."
"It was," I admitted, "but it's the thought that counts."
On the subject of lions, she asked me, "Do we need the SWAT guy?"
I replied, "It's SOP."
Heather came over and said to Kate, "Hi. I'm Heather. ESU. How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
Heather asked Kate a few medical questions, put a temperature strip on her forehead, took her blood pressure, and said, "Everything's good." She also said, "Cute lion."
Kate replied, "My husband gave it to me," and smiled at me.
I thought Heather was going to say, "Oh, is John your husband?" But she just moved away and sat.
Kate observed, "She's very pretty."
"Who?"
"The nurse."
"Heidi?"
"Heather."
"Yeah?"
Anyway, we chatted awhile, but not about business. Her voice was weak and I urged her not to talk too much, and I helped her sip from a water bottle. She said, "I was able to get some Jell-O down this morning."
What's with the Jell-O? Why do hospitals give sick people Jell-O? When I was at Columbia-Presbyterian after I took three slugs, they kept bringing me Jell-O. Why the hell would I want to eat Jell-O?
Kate said to me, "And you had a poppy bagel for breakfast."
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Was I smiling at Heather with a poppy seed in my teeth?
Kate informed me, "Someone from headquarters, a guy named Peterson, stopped by last night to see how I was doing."
It's not unusual for someone from Washington to call on an agent injured in the line of duty, but I was sure there was more to it than compassion and protocol. In fact, Kate said, "He reminded me not to speak to anyone about the incident-like I need reminding."
I didn't reply to that, but said, "I've been put on traumatic leave so I'll be home while you convalesce."
"That's not necessary." She suggested, "Maybe I'll ask my mother to come for a visit."
Then maybe I'll stand on the balcony with a bull's-eye taped to my forehead.
"John?"
I informed her, "This leave is not voluntary." I reminded her, "No business talk until you're home."
"Okay." She asked me, "Would you jump again?"
"Yes, from the balcony if your mother comes to visit." I didn't actually say that-I said, "I think of little else." I was bursting with the news of what happened with the DC-7B, and this was my opening. I said, "The club didn't want to make the next two jumps, out of consideration for what happened to you, but Craig insisted, saying they'd paid for it, and what happened to you should not spoil their jump." I glanced at her, but I couldn't tell if she was buying this. So I got down to the true part of the story. "Well, they took off, and-you're not going to believe this-but one of the engines caught fire and they had to make an emergency landing."
"Oh my God."
"The engine that had the oil leak. The one I was concerned about."
"Really?"
"That's what a State Trooper told me." I added, modestly, "I have a nose for trouble. A sixth sense for danger."
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No, but Craig got hysterical and had to be sedated."
She seemed a little skeptical about that, but said, "I don't blame them for going ahead with the jump. We planned it for months."
"Well, next time pick a better plane."
To get me off the subject, she conceded, "You're very smart, John. I should listen to what you say." She smiled and asked me, "So, how do you feel about this helicopter?"
Heather was back, and before I could reply she piped in, "John says he loves helicopters."
Kate inquired, "Really?"
Heather took Kate's blood pressure again and found it slightly elevated.
Anyway, the flight back was smooth, fast, and without incident-no ground fire, no surface-to-air missiles, and no pursuit aircraft.
As we approached the heliport, I looked out the window and saw police highway units in position to close down the FDR Drive so that the waiting ambulance could make a straight shot to the Bellevue E.R. entrance in about one minute.
Kate said to me, "I'd really rather be going home. I feel fine."
"You'll be home in a few days."
Heather informed us, "I do visiting nurse work if you need somebody."
Yes.
Kate said, "Thank you, but my mother will be visiting."
Actually, she wouldn't be. Not under the present circumstances. But I didn't get into that.
I looked at Kate, then I looked out the window at the city. The bastard who had tried to kill her in Sullivan County was now here. But he wasn't leaving here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The NYPD had stationed a uniformed cop directly outside the door of Kate's private room. Actually, half the floor is basically a secured zone, and most of the patients are guests of the FBI, the NYPD, or the Department of Corrections, and they will be discharged into a paddy wagon or a hearse. It's an interesting floor.
Kate didn't bring up the subject of Khalil's attack on her, but I'm sure it was on her mind, and it's best not to repress the trauma, but rather to talk about it. So I said, "I saw the videotape of the jump."
She stayed silent, then asked, "What could you see?"
"You need to see it yourself. And read my report."
She advised me, "Don't puff yourself up like you usually do."
"I can tell you're getting back to your old self."
She smiled, took my hand, and said, "I know you saved my life."
I said, "We can talk about all that when you're home." Or now, if you'd like.
She changed the subject to the business at hand. Kate, like Heather, had noticed my extra bulk, and we discussed some of what was happening in regard to my status-and her status-as a protected person, though I didn't mention that I might be taking some long walks at night.
I didn't bring up the subject of the two murders in California, or the five murders in New York. I would, but murder is a conversation stopper, so we discussed some ideas, theories, and possible strategies.
Kate, with time and motivation to think about all this, had come to some of the same conclusions that I'd come to, and that Paresi and Walsh had eventually reached, to wit: Khalil was the worst type of person to be looking for-a highly trained, disciplined, and motivated loner with no close accomplices, no friends or family in the area, and no usual or suspected places that he would frequent.
Kate also agreed that Khalil most probably had resources here, people who had no prior or direct connection to him, but who would provide logistics and information.
We also discussed the possibility that Khalil might have some fireworks planned for his finale. Kate said, "He might, but like last time, he will take care of personal business first." She thought a moment, then said, "Like Chip Wiggins." She asked me, "Has anyone done anything about that?"
"Actually, yes. Khalil has."
"Oh… my God…"
/> "Right. Last week in Santa Barbara." I told her about the murder of Chip Wiggins, and I didn't spare her the details of his beheading. I said, "Khalil picked up where he left off." I also told her about the Libyan-American, Farid Mansur.
She nodded, then said, "Chip was a nice man."
"Khalil didn't think so."
I also told her about the murder of Amir on Murray Street, and I said, "You'll recall last time that Khalil knocked off a Libyan cab driver."
She nodded, and correctly concluded, "Khalil is in the city."
Her next thought was that I, John Corey, was the man most likely to next see Asad Khalil-assuming I saw it coming.
She said to me, "John, I hope they have you completely covered."
"Of course."
"Be careful… and don't volunteer to… trap Khalil."
"Of course not."
It was time to tell her about Gabe, but first I said, "We're thinking that Khalil may be targeting the Task Force, so there may be others on Khalil's list-like George Foster, or even Vince or Tom."
Kate nodded and said to me, "I suppose Khalil does have some knowledge of the inner workings and command structure of the Task Force." This brought her to another thought, and she said, "Also Gabe. He's an Arab-American, and he's on the Lion Hunter team."
I took her hand and said, "Gabe is dead."
She didn't respond.
I told her what happened to Gabe and his wife and daughter, and again, I didn't spare her any of the reported details, which she would soon have access to, but I did not tell her that Gabe had been killed with her gun. I concluded, "The police are calling it a home invasion, or a possible bias crime." I made sure to let her know, "By the appearance of the crime scene, we know that Gabe fought back." I also filled her in about the murder of the limo driver near Gabe's house.
She stared up at the ceiling with tears in her eyes. Finally, she said, "What did those poor women do to… die like that?"
She seemed tired and her voice was getting weaker, so I said, "I'm going to let you rest."
She looked at me and said, "Get me out of here tomorrow."
"I'll try."
I told Kate I'd be back that evening if I could. We kissed and I went to the nurses' station and told the duty nurse that Mrs. Corey wanted to be discharged the next day.
The nurse consulted her chart and informed me that Mrs. Corey first needed to be medically evaluated. Also, there was a flag on her discharge.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning it is not purely a medical decision."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we need to notify certain people before she can be discharged."
Meaning that Walsh and whoever he was taking orders from had decided to keep Special Agent Kate Mayfield in Bellevue where they could keep her under wraps, and also keep her away from her husband whom she loved dearly, but who the FBI needed to borrow for a special assignment, namely, live bait.
The people at 26 Fed and in Washington sometimes impressed me with their thinking. I say that whenever they think like I do.
The nurse wasn't going to tell me who "certain people" were, and she didn't know herself, so I said, "See if Mrs. Corey would like a sedative." I thanked her and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Back in my apartment, I managed to get half of my incident report typed-being careful not to embellish the facts, and letting my actions speak for themselves. And keeping in mind that Kate would be reading this, I made her look good, describing how she grappled with her assailant and so forth. I even gave her that knee to Khalil's nuts.
At five o'clock I watched the local news that had dropped the story about the home invasion and murders in Douglaston, Queens. This was yesterday's news, and it wouldn't be news again unless there was an arrest in the case, or if the media decided to cover the funeral. Gabe would get a full inspector's funeral, and I needed to find out the funeral arrangements.
The scroll at the bottom of the TV screen reported the alert level at yellow, where it seemed to have been stuck for many months. It would never be green, and it hadn't been orange in a long time. I personally like orange-it gets everyone's attention and gives people something to talk about over cocktails.
On that subject, it was now cocktail hour, and I had time for a small one before I was picked up by my chauffeur and shotgun rider for my hospital visit.
As I was trying to decide if I wanted vodka (odorless) or Scotch (my usual), my prepaid cell phone rang.
Not many people have that number, but it could be Kate.
I picked up the phone from the coffee table and answered, "Corey."
Dick Kearns's voice said, "May I speak to the man of the house?"
Dick obviously had good news. I replied, "Yes, ma'am. I'll get him."
He laughed at my quick wit and said, "Hey, John, I think I found him. Right here in New York."
"Alive?"
"Yeah… I guess. The guy I got this from in the New York field office didn't say he was dead."
"Okay." But the FBI wouldn't necessarily know immediately if one of their registered defectors had gone missing or had an accident.
"Ready to copy?"
I had a pad and pencil on the coffee table and said, "Shoot."
"Okay. Boris Korsakov." He spelled it for me and said, "He fits your description of approximate age and former KGB employment. The FBI guy I spoke to didn't say anything about Libyan Intelligence, or past addresses, but he did say that Boris was here under the post-Soviet resettlement program."
"Okay… I guess that's close-"
"You saw this guy-right?"
"Right."
"So, go to your computer. I e-mailed you the photo the FBI e-mailed me."
"Hold on." I went into the spare bedroom that Kate and I had made into a home office-not a guest room for Mom-and logged onto my computer.
Dick asked me, "How's Kate?"
"Much better."
I retrieved Dick's e-mail, and staring back at me on the screen was Boris. My Boris.
"You got it?"
"I do. That's him, Dick. You're a genius."
"I am a total bullshit artist. I had this FBI guy in the palm of my hand."
Dick went on a bit, and I listened politely and patiently. Dick Kearns, who hadn't been so sure he could or should do this for me, now assured me that it was a piece of cake. But then he caught himself and said, "I busted my butt getting to the right guy, and convincing him I had clearance and need-to-know."
I kept staring at the photo of Boris. This was a tough-looking hombre, and I recalled that Kate and I had been impressed with him-he not only talked the talk, he walked the walk. Could Asad Khalil have gotten the upper hand on this guy? I wouldn't have thought so three years ago when I'd met Boris, but…
"John? I said, I have an address."
"Good."
"He lives at 12-355 Brighton 12th Street, Brighton Beach-along with half the Russians in New York. Apartment 16-A." Dick added, "He's been there almost three years."
"Okay." Boris got his wish to be resettled in New York, and he'd picked a neighborhood where he wouldn't get too homesick, and where ex-KGB guys got together over a bottle of vodka and reminisced about the good old days when they were young and hated.
"I couldn't get Boris's cell or home phone from the FBI, but I did get his business phone."
"Good enough."
Dick gave me Boris's business number and I asked him, "Where's he work?"
"Okay, here's the part that could be a little fun for you, so I saved it for last-"
"You better not tell me he works in a Russian bath house where he scrubs men's asses."
"Funny, I was going to say that. But here's the deal. Boris owns and operates a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach. You remember, we went to a few of those places with Ivan the crazy Russian when we were single, and-"
"I was single. You've been married thirty years."
"Whatever. Anyway, remember that place…? What was the name? Rossiya. Those tall,
blonde-"
"Do you have a name for this place?"
"Yeah. It's Svetlana. I don't think we were ever there. It's right on the boardwalk at Brighton Third Street."
"Okay… and this place is owned by Boris?"
"Well, with these Russkies, who knows who the silent partners could be? It's all Russian Mafia. Right? Maybe Boris is the front guy."
"Maybe. But maybe the CIA gave him a loan."
"Yeah? Hey, maybe we should defect to Russia and see about opening an American nightclub."
"You go first. I'll stay here and run your business."
"We can talk." He asked me, "What do I do now with Vasili Rimski?"
"Who?"
"The guy I'm doing the background check on. He put in an application to work for the General Accounting Office-he's an accountant. Low-level background check. But I just told the FBI that he consorts with an ex-KGB guy named Boris Korsakov. Should I mention that in my report?"
"Do what's best for the country, Dick."
He laughed and said, "Hey, let me know how this turns out."
"Okay-"
"Why haven't I seen anything in the papers?"
"It's under tight wraps." I hesitated, then asked him, "Did you see that story about the home invasion and murders in Queens?"
"Yeah. A cop and his family."
"Well, that cop worked for the Task Force."
Dick was silent for a moment, then said, "Jeez." He asked me, "And that's related to the attack on Kate?"
"Yeah."
He was silent again and asked, "Is that why you're under house protection?"
"You should be a detective." I said to him, "Okay, I owe you big time for this. I'm off to see Kate-"
"Watch yourself."
"Thanks for reminding me. I'll call you next week."
I hung up and printed out the color photo of Boris, and I wrote on it, "Svetlana Nightclub, Brighton Beach," then I wrote a note to Kate saying, Tell Vince and Tom they need to see Boris, and tell them why.
It occurred to me that I was leaving notes around as though I didn't expect to be around myself.
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