Page 63 of Dead Fall

Nistal put up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just asking for our friends at the FBI.”

Wilson smiled and dialed it down. “The bar was rocking. Burman had been eyeing several women. He asked if I minded if he stayed for a nightcap. I told him to have a good time and to put any drinks on my tab.”

“That was it?”

“That was it. I never saw or heard from him again.”

The Russian smiled. “You’re going to be fine. Wait until Monday morning and then call the FBI. Not too early. Don’t do it first thing. Make them come to you at your office. Don’t go to them. And meet in your actual office, not the conference room. You want them to see all the plaques and awards and framed American flags that’ll remind them of your status as a former United States Senator.”

“Should I have my lawyer there?”

Nistal shook his head. “Absolutely not. You were on the Intelligence Committee. You were a friend to the FBI. This is a family-style sit-down. You have nothing to fear or to hide.”

“What if they ask me a question I can’t answer?”

“How much did you and Burman have to drink?”

“We went through a couple of bottles of damn good wine.”

“All charged to your account?”

Wilson nodded.

“There you go,” the handler said. “You had a couple of martinis before you left your house for dinner and then you and Burman really tied one on at the club. You were entertaining a prospective client. All you have to say is ‘I’m sorry, Agent So-and-so. I wish I could answer that question, but I just don’t remember.’?”

The ex-Senator smiled. “Thank you. I feel much better.”

“Good. Now, I need a favor.”

Wilson tightened up. “What is it?”

“Relax,” the handler said. “Your boots. I want to get a pair just like them for my boss.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. The exact same. U.S. size ten. Can you make that happen?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to.”

The Russian smiled. “Thank you. Gift giving is a thing back home. It goes a long way.”

“I understand,” said Wilson, taking a long sip of beer. Then, excusing himself, he stood up and asked where the restroom was.

Nistal pointed it out to him and joked, “There’s a gun taped behind the toilet tank. I need that for my next meeting. Leave it, and you can take some cannoli with you.”

Wilson smirked at theGodfatherreference. Pressing his index finger to the side of his nose, he then slid it away and pointed at his handler, employing a movie reference of his own.

By the time he returned to the table, their lunch had been served. Business complete, they ate and made amiable conversation.

When the bill came, Nistal paid and, as was their custom, allowed Wilson to leave the restaurant alone.

Across the street, several buildings up, was a Boston Department of Public Works van. In the back, working an unrelated case, were a pair of FBI agents.

They were investigating a local organized crime syndicate and hadbeen assigned to conduct surveillance on a pair of capos who happened to be eating lunch in the adjacent restaurant.

Looking through his camera, the junior agent asked, “Isn’t that former Senator Greg Wilson?”

The senior agent raised his own camera. “It certainly is,” he replied as he clicked away.

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