Page 61 of Dead Fall

Nistal handed him a menu. “First, we’re going to order lunch. Then we’ll talk. Everything is going to be okay. Trust me.”

“Glasses?” the waitress asked as she set the ice-cold bottles of Italian beer down on the table.

“Yes, please,” Wilson replied.

The waitress produced two glasses, took their orders, and then headed off toward the kitchen.

Once she was gone, the Russian held up his bottle and said, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Wilson replied as he clinked his glass against it.

“America makes excellent beer,” Nistal remarked after taking a sip, “but I do love an Italian beer every once in a while.”

“Can we talk now?”

“Of course. You have my complete and undivided attention. I’ll even set my beer down.”

Wilson looked at him. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not taking this seriously?”

“I am,” the handler admitted. “Just not as seriously as you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t do anything.”

“What do you mean I ‘didn’t do anything’?” I’ve done a ton. Enough for them to lock me up for a very long time. I wouldn’t do well in prison, Joe. I’m not built for that.”

“You need to calm down,” the Russian responded. “You’re not going to prison.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because, like I said,youdidn’t do anything. You didn’t kill Burman.”

“So, hewasmurdered. Did you do it?”

“Me?” Nistal asked. “Personally?”

“You, or your people?”

“Greg, we don’t go around killing people. That’s not what we do.”

Wilson chuckled. “You seem to forget that I was on the Intelligence Committee. I know all too well what your people do. And have done.”

The Russian needed to get control of his asset. Wilson’s anxiety wasgetting the better of him. “Nobody knows what happened to Burman. It’s possible he may have died by suicide.”

“Give me a fucking break. I was with him Thursday night. The guy was riding high. He didn’t have a care in the world. That’s not somebody who goes home and ends it all.”

Nistal shrugged. “Anthony Bourdain. Kate Spade. Depression is a terrible thing. Even fabulously wealthy, incredibly successful people can get worn down and choose suicide as the only way to escape their pain. Dimitri Burman is no exception.”

Wilson didn’t have a rebuttal for that. He had heard that depression could be so bad that even people who seemed to have everything to live for might see it as the only way out. “So what am I supposed to tell the FBI?”

“The truth.”

“That dinner with Burman, at my club, was your idea?”

“Not thewholetruth,” the Russian clarified. “You stick with the broad brushstrokes. The less you lie, the less you need to remember. Burman wanted to hire your firm. Technology policy isn’t really your thing, so you were ambivalent. The money was hard to say no to, so you had agreed to dinner to discuss things a bit more.”

“That’s it?”