Sasha was dressed that night in a tight black sweater and slacks, which showcased her full figure and complemented her close-cropped raven-colored hair. Of Jewish-Hungarian parentage, she’d immigrated to Israel from Budapest ten years earlier. Well-schooled, she spoke excellent English and quickly found work as an administrator in an Israeli import-export firm, whose major clients were American companies. Her decision to leave Hungary had been an easy one. Trapped in an abusive marriage, she’d happily walked away from it and looked forward to an exciting, fulfilling new life in that new frontier called Israel.

She accepted a drink from Russo at the nightclub’s bar and found him amusing. His New York accent was thick, adding to his colorful stories of life in Manhattan.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a businessman,” he said.

“What sort of business?”

“Construction.”

“Oh, you build things.”

“Yeah, something like that. Cigarette?”

“Thank you, yes.”

She gave him her phone number at the end of the evening, and he promised to call. She forgot about it until a week later when her phone rang. He asked her out to dinner, and she accepted, but not without reservations. Her previous experience with men had not been positive; it had left her gun-shy and distrustful. Still, a harmless dinner with this amusing older American man couldn’t hurt, a pleasant evening out, nothing more.

They dined on Dizengoff Street at a Chinese restaurant: “This Jewish food ain’t to my liking,” he’d announced when he told her where they’d be eating. She wore chino slacks and a white sweater to dinner. He wore a suit and tie, which set him apart from every-one else in the bustling, informal restaurant. It was like a continuation of their conversation at the bar the previous week. Russo was a natural-born storyteller, regaling her with stories of his youth in New York, his life on the streets, his parents, his friends, the wiseguys he knew, cop stories, trips he took to Miami and Los Angeles and Chicago, the celebrities he’d met: “I knew Sinatra pretty good,” he’d said. “I used to pal around with Don Rickles and-”

“Who’s he?”

“A famous comedian. I always had front row center when Sammy and Dino were in Vegas. One night-”

His life had certainly been an interesting one, colorful and unpredictable, but with a hint of danger, and she wondered whether he’d been involved in some sort of criminal activity. She’d read about the Mafia in America and had seen the Godfather movies. Had this funny man seated across from her, fumbling with his chopsticks, dressed so formally and with such exaggerated good manners, been like one of those men she’d seen in the movies and read about in books? She’d wanted to ask but was afraid to, so she accepted his claim of being in construction and had subsequent dinners with him, an occasional movie, a few drives to the seashore on sunny weekends. By this time, she found herself looking forward to seeing him, even missed him between their times together.

She didn’t know where he worked in Tel Aviv, or even if he did. When asked about it, he’d reply only that he was exploring business opportunities and hadn’t found the right one yet. He lived in a residence hotel, which she’d never visited, and always seemed to have money. And he was unfailingly polite, opening doors for her and standing whenever she approached the table, pulling her chair out for her, lighting her cigarettes, and never failing to introduce her as Miss Sasha Levine.

Loneliness on both their parts eventually closed the gap between them. Unpleasant memories of her failed marriage back in Budapest faded, and after many discussions in Tel Aviv’s cafes and restaurants, she agreed that they should begin living together. For Russo, this woman named Sasha Levine offered a refuge of sorts in a strange land in which he didn’t speak the language, practice the religion, or like the food. And so they moved into her apartment on Basel Street and had lived there in relative happiness over the ensuing years.

It was shortly after they’d started living together that Sasha learned who Louis Russo really was and why he was in Israel.

They’d been sitting on the balcony at sunset, sipping wine and discussing their respective days. She’d had a stressful experience at the import-export firm and commented that one of the partners had been making suggestive comments to her for the past few weeks. Although she’d witnessed an occasional flash of temper in Louis, his reaction this time was extreme. He stood and paced the terrace, swearing in English and Italian and demanding to know where the partner lived. “I’ll take care of the bastard tomorrow,” he snarled.

“No, no, Louis,” Sasha said, trying to calm him. “Don’t make such a tzimmes.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A fuss. It’s no big deal. He’s stupid, an ugly little man.”

“I’ll kill the bastard, he lays a hand on you.”

“Please, Louis, I’m sorry I mentioned it.” Her thoughts were on the revolver he’d brought with him when moving in. She’d asked about it: “For protection,” he’d explained, placing it on the highest shelf in a clothes closet and covering it with sweaters.

He sat again. “I killed people like him for less,” he muttered, his words barely audible.

“You what?”

He proceeded to tell her the story of his life-his entry into the gangs of New York, his work for organized crime, the men he’d killed-and of his testimony against his superiors and entrance into the witness protection program. It was as though he’d been wanting since meeting her to explain to her who he was, and he told her these things with a sense of pride, speaking the words flatly, as though reeling off a grocery list, looking out over the street to the buildings across from them, never looking at her. She listened in silence, at once shocked and fascinated.

When he was finished, he slowly turned and asked, “You want me to leave?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She paused before continuing. “It was good of you to have turned in your criminal friends. An honorable thing to do.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “Killing the men was honorable. They deserved it because they were not men of honor. There was no honor in betraying my friends.”

They barely talked for the next few days. When they finally did, Sasha put her arms around him and said softly, “I don’t care what you did before, Louis. I know who you are now. Please, don’t leave me.”

The subject of Russo’s previous life came up only now and then. He would occasionally slip into a reverie fueled by wine, and would reminisce about his early days. Of his five siblings, only three were alive, although he couldn’t even be sure about that because he’d had no contact with them for years. A brother had died of cancer, he’d heard; a sister had been killed in an automobile accident.

“What do the others do?” Sasha asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. They looked down on me because of the life I chose.” He placed his fingertips beneath his chin and flipped them into the air. “They don’t matter,” he said. “The hell with them.”

He never mentioned his brothers and sisters again.

Now she sat in a spartan office at a police headquarters in Washington, D.C., with a heavyset detective. It was a few minutes after six. While awaiting her arrival, he’d debated slipping out to a nearby bar for a couple of quick ones, but thought better of it. Now he wished he had. The urge was becoming acute.

“You have a nice trip here?” Mullin asked.

“The flight? Yes. But there is no smoking on the plane. May I smoke here?”

“Afraid not. The rules.”

“Yes, the rules. Always the rules. The flight was all right. The reason for it? No.”