Catch Me: Kill Me

By William H. Hallahan

Edgar Award Winner for Best Mystery Novel: “Takes off like a Chinook and whisks you through a labyrinth non-stop until the final sentence” (Clive Cussler).
 
Russian poet Boris Kotlikoff defected to the United States two years ago. He left with no state secrets; he is no threat to the Soviets in anyway; yet now he has become their prize hostage, buried alive somewhere in New York City.
 
The US government, on the defensive as always, treads on cat feet. But it does not take into consideration the doggedness of Ben Leary, an agent with Immigration and Naturalization. They also close their eyes to a parallel search by Gus Geller, a hatchet man for the CIA. And the government isn’t even aware of Charlie Brewer, a discredited ex-CIA agent Geller puts in charge of the actual search. Will the vicious infighting among these three in a struggle against time and missed opportunities set up Kotlikoff as a doomed pawn?
 
“Compelling . . . A kind of catch-22.” —Time
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781504059015

William H. Hallahan

William H. Hallahan (1925–2019) was an Edgar Award–winning American author whose works spanned genres but who was best known for his bestselling mystery and occult novels. His first novel, The Dead of Winter, was nominated for the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel, and his suspense novel, Catch Me: Kill Me, won the Edgar Award for Best Mystery Novel. Hallahan’s occult novel, The Search for Joseph Tully, was a New York Times bestseller and hailed as one of the best books of its genre. For the book opening, mock gravestones that read “Here Lies Joseph Tully” were lined up and down Park Avenue in New York. His other works of fiction include The Ross Forgery, Keeper of the Children, The Trade, The Monk, Foxcatcher, and Tripletrap. His works were translated into many languages and released throughout the world.   Hallahan was born in the shadow of Ebbets Field, Brooklyn; spent three years in the Navy; graduated with honors and a master’s degree from Temple University; and worked variously as a college English professor, a copywriter, and an ad agency proprietor in his own agency, Hallahan Incorporated.  

Book preview

Part One

LEARY

Boris Kotlikoff was last seen by his associates at 11:10 in the morning.

He’d set out from his office on East Forty-third Street for the train station, holding his black umbrella against a wind-driven pelting rain. In his left hand he carried an attaché case and a brown manila envelope.

By the time he’d reached Forty-third and Lexington, his trousers were wet to the knees, and the frail umbrella seemed ready to buckle. He hurried across the intersection, walking in a loose and bobbing gait once described by a literary critic as giraffe-like, stately and undulate. When he’d reached Grand Central, he followed the concourse to the waiting room. He glanced at the four-sided clock as he strode toward the men’s room. 11:23.

In the lavatory, Boris Kotlikoff put his attaché case under a sink and approached the urinal. Behind him a large, flat-faced man stepped through the doorway and leaned against the tile wall, watching him. An elderly man who was washing his hands exited. Another clattered out of a stall and wet his fingers under a tap and shook them in a flurry and left.

Kotlikoff was alone with the man leaning against the wall. Abruptly four other men came in and moved in a tight bunch behind Kotlikoff. Almost casually, one hugged Kotlikoff’s thin form from behind and held him in a firm grip as another pressed a hand over Kotlikoff’s mouth. Still other hands now gripped his arms, unbuttoned his wet raincoat, pulled the right coat sleeve off his arm. His rain hat tumbled to the wet tile floor. His umbrella fell and was trampled by muddy feet. The tail of his coat dragged. From his shirt cuff popped a white button that fell to the floor when his shirt sleeve was yanked and snatched up his arm.

He was borne to the floor. There, his head and neck and upper back were held rigid in a man’s lap while the same soft, thick palm increased its pressure over his lips and jaw. His legs were braced by other hands so that he could not bend them. His right arm, bare to the triceps muscle, was laid across a man’s knee. Two hands quickly, deftly, tied a yellow rubber tube above his elbow, around his thin biceps and triceps. Tightly. The large basilic vein, which leads directly to the subclavian vein, swelled.

It was a frozen tableau. In just a few seconds the four men had seized Kotlikoff and laid bare his right arm, and now, squatting in a group, were holding him rigid on the wet floor, all his major joints braced against movement. Everything was done in absolute silence. No one had spoken. All eyes stared at the swollen basilic vein at the joint of his arm.

A fifth man opened a clear plastic case and lifted out a hypodermic syringe. He glanced at it, then squatted over Kotlikoff. Outside, someone began pounding on the door. All eyes watched the needle descend. Kotlikoff inhaled violently when he felt the steel tip of the needle touch his vein. He tried to shout through the thick palm over his mouth. The four men redoubled their hold on his writhing body.

He felt and saw the needle enter his basilic vein. The door pounding insisted with the heel of a fist. Boom. Boom. Boom.

All watched intently as the man’s thumb pressed the plunger, forcing the clear fluid to flow into Kotlikoff’s vein. Twenty cc. Fifteen cc. Ten cc. Five cc. Finished.

Smartly, the man withdrew the needle. Then he stood up and nodded to the others. The banging caused him to look toward the one guarding the door.

The four released Kotlikoff and stood up to stare down at him. One of them untied the rubber tube. Kotlikoff, panting, sat up and examined the bleeding red hole in his arm; with astonished eyes he studied the four men, then turned to the man with the syringe.

Get up, said the leader. He spoke in Russian.

Kotlikoff rose in slow horror. He raised his fists and shook them. What have you done? What did you put into my arm?

Lower your voice. The leader put the syringe back into its plastic case and pushed it into his raincoat pocket. He looked at his wristwatch, then peered carefully at the pupils of Kotlikoff’s eyes.

Lower my voice! Voice! Kotlikoff shook his fists. His whole body trembled; he felt himself rising; he grew. The walls of the room stretched like sheets of rubber, and the six faces before him floated and stretched while his body rose far above his feet, a rising elevator.

Boris, put the book down and eat, said his mother’s voice. A vast and blinding wheat field in the steppe leaped away into infinity.

It is forbidden by Soviet law, said his father, "to teach the Talmud to any child under eighteen."

Boris Kotlikoff’s extremities tingled as the drug flowed through the ventricle and aorta of his heart and from there flooded the arteries and capillaries of his brain: his hearing intensified; his jaw clenched; he found it increasingly difficult to move. He was transfixed by the visions that flickered through his mind. This is what it is like to be insane.

In less than one minute after entering, Boris Kotlikoff stood in the middle of the men’s lavatory in Grand Central Station, jaws locked, arms held rigid, staring fixedly at the wall. He was immobilized and mentally incoherent, his mind imprisoned by 20 cc of some unknown drug.

Come on, Gelb, said the men’s-room attendant. Hurry up.

Patrolman Gelb hurried. He opened his rain slicker as he followed the porter down the escalator steps. Clearing his holster through the slit of his tunic, he unsnapped the thin leather hold-down strap. His other hand drew out his night-stick. Armed with the gun and the club, he ran across the waiting room behind the attendant.

As they approached the lavatory, six men exited, escorting in their midst a tall, thin man.

What’s going on? called Gelb. What were you doing blocking that door?

It’s perfectly all right, officer.

It’s not perfectly all right, and I didn’t ask you. I asked him.

He’s with us.

I didn’t ask you! Hey, you a dummy or something? What were you doing blocking that door?

Our friend, he got sick, officer. This man was just keeping people out, in case he vomited.

Gelb shook the nightstick at the man. I’m asking you once more—what were you doing blocking that door?

It is as he says. I was detaining people in the event that our friend got sick on the floor.

Gelb’s eyes went over the faces of the group. They were foreigners. What was the accent? Russian or Polish: it sounded just like his grandfather’s accent. One of the men was holding a muddy umbrella and a large manila envelope. Who’s sick?

He is.

Gelb looked. The thin man’s eyes were fixed, staring without comprehension. He was panting rapidly through his locked teeth, his head bobbing to his breath’s tempo. Saliva bubbled at the corners of his lips and he seemed about to vomit.

What’s the matter with him?

Too much lunch, officer. Too much tippling.

Tippling?

Alcohol. Drinking. Please, officer, we’ve done nothing wrong. Our companion is sick and we should get him home. I assure you, it is all right. Would you help us get a cab?

Gelb felt the man’s fingers tuck something into the side opening of his tunic. He looked doubtfully at the man’s face, then at the attendant. How’s everything in there?

The attendant shrugged. Okay. What could they steal?

Gelb looked again at the sick man. His pupils were noticeably dilated, giving him a staring look more crazy than drunk. Can you make it to a cab? Are you able to walk? Are you going to be sick? He waited, watching the staring eyes. Another man poked the sick man on the arm. Nod your head. Nod!

Kotlikoff nodded slowly.

See? He’s all right. He needs to sleep it off.

You want to go with these men? Ha? Do you? Kotlikoff put a hand out tentatively. Slowly. His fingers gripped the policeman’s wrist, and Gelb felt the soft warmth of the fingertips as the man’s eyes goggled at the name plaque on the breast of his police tunic—madly, myopically.

Gelb, said the patrolman, drawing back the rain slicker still further. Harry Gelb is what it says.

The mouth gulped air, trying to speak. Gelb studied again the man’s eyes. What did you give him?

Give him? He gave himself. Too much drink. He’s very despondent. There was a death in the family. Please, officer, let us take him to his bed. You wouldn’t want him to get sick all over the floor here, would you?

Gelb hesitated, then shrugged. There’s plenty of cabs right at the top of the escalators.

The group moved rapidly away, urging haste on the plodding sick man. The back of his raincoat was stained with dirty wet streaks.

Gelb sheathed his pistol and nightstick as he watched them. The walk of the thin man was stiff, unnatural, not drunken, and Gelb frowned at it, squinting past the crowds that gradually closed around the group.

Okay, he said to the onlookers. Show’s over. He took several steps forward, then stopped, then hesitantly walked into the shuffling crowd to the escalator where he put his fingers into the side opening of his tunic and extracted the bribe: a ten-dollar bill. As he reached street level, the party, in two taxis, drove away in the downpour. Gelb shrugged and descended the escalator again.

Hey, Gelb! The attendant hurried to him with an attaché case.

Gelb took it. Them?

Yes, the sick one. He was carrying it.

Gelb took it over to the marble ticket counter and laid it flat on a ledge, where he sprung the two latches to open it. There were three books on top, plus a typewritten manuscript. In one corner lay a vial, a hypodermic syringe and an orange, also a train ticket to Poughkeepsie, a small appointment book and a spiral pad. At the bottom, in a clear plastic sleeve, he found a card: Alien Registration Card, United States Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization, Department of Justice.

The sick man’s picture was affixed to the card. Name: Boris Kotlikoff. Status: Conditional Entrant. The card was numbered: 18,707,493.

Patrolman Gelb reached into a compartment and withdrew a small piece of black cloth.

A skullcap, said the attendant.

Yarmulke.

Ha?

Yarmulke. You wear it in a Jewish synagogue.

Yeah, that’s what I said: a Jewish skullcap.

I’d better call this in. It may have been a snatch.

If it was, Gelb, they’ll hang your ass over a doorknob. You let them guys hustle that man right out of here.

Thanks for telling me. Gelb thoughtfully touched his wrist where Boris Kotlikoff’s fingers had held it.

At 1317 EST, teletypes in various governmental agencies in Washington, D.C., abruptly stopped. A minute later the signal bells began to toll.

One of the addressees was a section of the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization, Department of Justice.

STAND BY FOR BULLETIN. STAND BY

.

FBI FOLEY SQUARE NEWYORKCITY INVESTIGATING A REPORT FROM NYPD OF POSSIBLE ABDUCTION THAT TOOK PLACE AT 1127 EST IN GRAND CENTRAL STATION. VICTIM IS TENTATIVELY IDENTIFIED AS BORIS KOTLIKOFF EXPATRIATED RUSSIAN POET CURRENTLY A RESIDENT OF US WITH STATUS OF CONDITIONAL ENTRANT. LOCAL OFFICE HAS DISPATCHED INVESTIGATORS. ADDITIONAL DETAILS FORTHCOMING AS ACQUIRED. 1315 EST NYC.

The FBI agent reached precinct headquarters at 1331 EST in a heavy rain. He mounted the six steps to the station house and stepped past the two green lights that flanked the doorway. Inside, he was confronted by a rope from which hung a sign:

PLEASE STOP. IDENTIFY YOURSELF.

State Your Business.

The desk lieutenant sat at the precinct desk, writing in the Arrest Records Book. The agent held up his ID to the desk lieutenant, who nodded at it and pointed his pen at the precinct house sitting room. He’s in there.

At the entrance to the sitting room the agent paused to look at the patrolman who sat in shirt sleeves at a table with a mug of coffee, filling out a report form. Behind him, rain washed down the windowpanes. Along the walls were typewritten cards detailing the perimeters of each patrol post in the precinct. Above them, mug shots of criminals and gamblers were tacked to the walls.

You Officer Gelb?

Yeah.

You got the attaché case?

Gelb reached down and lifted it up on the table.

The agent laid it flat and snapped open the two latches, then looked at the books, the material, the hypodermic syringe, the vial and the manuscript. He lifted out the orange, then examined the yarmulke and the train ticket, and studied the Alien Registration Card. This the only identification?

That’s what was in there when I opened it, nothing more or less.

No? No other cards? No wallet? By law, this card is supposed to be on his person—in his wallet. Was his wallet in this case when you opened it?

Gelb made a sour face at the Fed and sipped his coffee.

The Fed snapped the case shut and sat down.

Okay, officer, lay it out for me, all nine yards—from the beginning.

Two FBI agents entered Kotlikoff’s apartment at 1335, admitted by the building superintendent.

See? I told you no one’s here.

Tell me again where they are.

She and the baby are in Poughkeepsie with her parents and he’s at work.

One of the agents strolled around the apartment. The other opened the desk drawer under the telephone. He lifted out a small telephone address book. What’s the name of the family in Poughkeepsie?

Ah, jeez, Johnny, that’s a tough one. Let me see.

The agent scanned the alphabetical list of names. Corson. Is that it?

Yeah, that’s it. Corson.

Two twenty-seven Midway Avenue.

I guess. I don’t know.

The agent dialed his office and asked for Fowler. Okay. We’re here. Empty. Super says Mrs. Kotlikoff and a small child are visiting her parents in Poughkeepsie. I have an address here for a Manny Corson, 227 Midway Avenue, Poughkeepsie, and a phone number. He read the phone number, then glanced at the superintendent. Was Mr. Kotlikoff diabetic? Yes? Yes, diabetic? Super says Kotlikoff is a diabetic. Okay. Where? Wait. He wrote on a piece of paper. Brooklyn? Okay.

The agent put the phone down, then handed the paper to the other agent. His office. Find out when he left and where he was going. I’ll be at the Office of Vital Statistics in Brooklyn.

The agent drove the interagency motorpool automobile over the Brooklyn Bridge at 1355 EST. He parked at the Office of Vital Statistics, Flatbush Avenue Extension, and entered the office marked Marriage Licenses, where he consulted the register. He searched for several minutes.

May I use your phone? he asked the clerk.

Official business only, she said.

He held up his ID card, then dialed. He asked for Fowler. I’ll read it to you right off the register. Boris Kotlikoff and Amy Corson. She’s a citizen. License issued Kings County, Brooklyn—yeah. October 14, year before last. Marriage filed—by Rabbi Oscar Leiberman, yeah. In Brooklyn. On October 17, same year.

Leary was the first to arrive.

He entered the seventh-floor conference room of the State Department just across the hall from the Undersecretary’s office shortly after 2:30. As he took off his wet raincoat and laid it, folded, on a side table, he noted the familiar conference room odor of stale tobacco smoke.

He put his wet attaché case next to a chair and, sitting down, removed his glasses and dried them with a tissue. The furnishings of the windowless room were completely familiar to him. Most of them, installed before Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration, had been there like a stage setting through all the international crises since World War I—the nightmares of three generations: the 1929 Crash, the Depression, the rise of Hitler, Manchuria, the Panay incident, the reoccupation of the Ruhr, the invasion of Poland, the Japanese conquest of Southeast Asia, the Japanese ultimatum, Pearl Harbor, World War II, the War Crimes Trials, Israel, Korea, Berlin, Cuba and Vietnam. This conference room probably appeared and reappeared in more published memoirs than any other conference room in Washington. And in it, all the celebrated figures who’d helped create history had left behind, masked by the odor of tobacco smoke, the more permanent smell of the twentieth century, the sour armpit odor of anxiety.

It was aptly called the Mad Hatter’s Tea Room.

Leary removed Kotlikoff’s dossier from his attaché case and, with it, a crossword-puzzle magazine. He opened the magazine to an unfinished puzzle and commenced to work on it.

Powell strolled in a moment later. He nodded to Leary, yanked off his wet raincoat and sat down. The sky is falling. The sky is falling, he murmured, then blew a soft quavering whistle while he idly unbent a paper clip that he found on the table. They waited in silence.

Noisily, flanked by CIA aides, Gus Geller entered talking. The aides walked solemn-faced, listening, bearing folders. Geller touched his big red bow tie and lifted his fat chin like a turtle extending his head from his shell. He had a soft, rubbery, cigar-smoker’s mouth and the measuring eyes of an undertaker.

Well, well, said Powell, here comes the FBI’s biggest fan.

No, no, Geller answered, waving a hand. No jokes, Powell, no jokes. This is no joking matter. He sat down, still scowling at Powell, while his aides settled on either side of him.

Powell smiled. I didn’t think I was being funny, Geller.

You weren’t. Geller took out a cigar and looked at Leary. His hands trembled as he drew off the cellophane cylinder and he belched softly. You with Alien Agent Registration, too?

No, said Leary. He noticed the row of spaghetti sauce stains down Geller’s white shirt front, as though the red bow tie had bled.

Okay, said Geller. Make me ask you. Who you with?

My name is Leary. Ben Leary. Immigration. I didn’t get your name.

That is right. You didn’t.

Six more men in a cluster walked hesitantly into the room, talking in low, urgent voices. Their eyes darted back and forth among the seated figures as they approached the conference table to spread themselves in chairs along its edges, ducking short nods in the general direction of the others.

What’s up? What are we here for?

Undersecretary of State Stuart Halsey crossed the corridor from his office and briskly entered the conference room with four more men straggling behind. He walked immediately to the head chair and drew it out. Charlie. Shut that door. He sat down. All right, gentlemen. Who’s got the ball? He looked at Leary. Let’s begin with the report from New York, Mr. Leary. Gentlemen, I’ll skip the introductions except for Mr. Leary, here, and Mr. Powell. Both are with the Department of Justice. Mr. Leary is legal counsel for the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization. Mr. Powell is a special agent for the Alien Agent Registration Section. What they’re here to tell you is going to ruin your day. Mr. Leary, the report, if you please.

Leary put his attaché case on the table and opened it. He read from a TWX report. At 1126 EST today, five or six men, exact number unknown and all so far unidentified, entered the men’s lavatory in Grand Central Station in New York City. They blocked the door, preventing the public from entering. A few minutes later they emerged with another man who was evidently in physical distress. He seemed disoriented and exhibited poor motor coordination. The lavatory attendant summoned a foot patrolman, New York City Police Department. When questioned, the men stated that the distressed man was ill from too much drinking and needed to be put to bed. They led the man away with them. It is believed with considerable certainty that the man involved is Boris Kotlikoff, who for many years was one of Russia’s leading poets and who defected to the United States following a visit to Yugoslavia two years ago. From a detailed description, it seems medically probable he was not drunk, but drugged. Kotlikoff is a diabetic and cannot drink alcoholic beverages. An attaché case belonging to Kotlikoff was found in the lavatory following the events just described.

Leary looked around the room. That’s all we know at the moment. The FBI is still investigating.

Geller snorted: "The FBI buys its information. By the shovelful."

The Undersecretary said, What that report doesn’t say is that the five or six men quite probably are Russian agents attached to the New York Soviet Mission to the United Nations.

Many of the men shifted their positions and glanced at each other.

For the record, this is an FBI matter. What we are all here for is a different reason entirely. I will explain in a moment. Now—Mr. Leary and Mr. Powell are about to unfold to you some very complex legal matters surrounding this abduction, the implications of which even I haven’t begun to perceive yet. Mr. Leary will now explain Boris Kotlikoff’s legal status.

Leary said: I’ll try to be brief. On October 3, 1965, Congress amended the 1952 Immigration and Naturalization Law. In that amendment it created a category known as the ‘Conditional Entrant.’ What that does is give anyone running away from a foreign power quick admission to the United States. In a word—sanctuary. About two years ago, Kotlikoff was in Yugoslavia attending a Communist Writers’ Conference. He defected. You probably know that if a Russian leaves his country without permission, he immediately loses his citizenship. So—when Kotlikoff left Yugoslavia he was no longer a Russian citizen. Forty-eight hours later, he was here in the United States. And now comes the difficulty. Under the U.S. law a conditional entrant can eventually become a citizen of the United States—but he has to wait two years to qualify. After that, he waits five more years and he’s in. He’s a citizen. Now—the normal immigrant is fully protected by the laws of the United States. The conditional entrant isn’t. In fact, we aren’t even sure what his rights and protections are.

Can we find out? asked the Undersecretary of State.

Yes, I suppose. You’d have to ask the Attorney General’s office for a ruling, and they’ll probably bounce it to me—but it’ll be a guess. Nothing like this has ever happened before to someone like Kotlikoff. We just don’t have much legal precedence for a conditional entrant.

When are his two years up?

I’m sorry to tell you—in four days. Next Friday.

The men looked at him in silence for a moment.

Why would the Russians grab him now? What’s he been doing?

We don’t know. Nothing that we’ve discovered. He was working as an editor and translator for a New York publisher—a company that specializes in foreign-language books. He’s been leading a very quiet life. No known political activities.

Stuart Halsey tapped the table with a pencil. Let’s hold the questions for a while. We still have to hear from Mr. Powell of the Alien Agent Registration Section. He nodded at Powell.

Powell said: My message is very, very brief. If foreign agents grabbed Kotlikoff, there’s not a damned thing we can do about it. Period.

Diplomatic immunity? someone said.

Exactly, said Powell. A bona fide foreign diplomat cannot commit a crime in the United States. Under the rules of diplomatic immunity, a foreign diplomat cannot even be ticketed for speeding. He cannot be arrested for any reason, even murder. He cannot be involved in a trial. He cannot be enmeshed in our legal system in any way. The worst that can happen to him is that we can declare him persona non grata and give him three days to get out of the country. If foreign agents dragged Kotlikoff into a foreign chancery, there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it. We have no legal control over the agents, and we apparently have no legal dominion over a conditional entrant. Furthermore, breaking in to save him is tantamount to involving the foreign country itself. It could be regarded as an act of war.

War?

What about the reverse? asked a CIA agent. "Like kidnapping

Reviews for Catch Me

[auntieknickers · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A recent contributor to the DorothyL mystery discussion list, differentiating among mysteries, thrillers and suspense, said that thrillers are focused on "how." That made a lot of sense to me in the context of many of the late-70s Edgar winners I've been reading lately. [book:CATCH ME: KILL ME] begins with the kidnapping of a Russian poet (who has defected to the US) in Grand Central Station. As several agencies meet to discuss the event, it becomes evident that the kidnappers all have diplomatic immunity and there is no "legal" way to retrieve the poet. The twist in this thriller is that there are two agents working the case. One, Brewer, is actually an ex-agent who hopes to win his position back by rescuing the Russian poet -- but HOW? The other, Leary, battles interagency rivalries and stonewalling witnesses to find out WHY the poet (who had lived peacefully in America for 3 years or so) was kidnapped in the first place.

[book: CATCH ME: KILL ME] is very much a post-Watergate book, and a book set largely in New York City in the aftermath of the famous Daily News headline, "FORD TO CITY: DROP DEAD." There are even echoes of the (much earlier) Kitty Genovese case in scenes where passers-by ignore people being beaten in front of them. The New York of book: CATCH ME: KILL ME] is bankrupt both economically and morally, an extremely depressing place.

This, indeed, was the major fault I found with the book. It could have been a good deal shorter without some of the interminable descriptions of Brewer's pool-playing neighbor, which added rather too much atmosphere without advancing the plot. Some of the characters Leary encounters talk a bit too much as well. In other words, the book took too long to get to the "thrilling" parts.

Both [book:CATCH ME: KILL ME] and book:HOPSCOTCH] dealt with forcibly retired CIA agents and their distasteful former supervisors. But if Miles Kendig and Myerson in [book: HOPSCOTCH] were the stuff of comedy, Brewer and the odious Geller in Hallahan's book came awfully close to tragedy, and in fact, it's perfectly possible that after the book's last page, there may well be a tragic outcome for at least one character. Although I had to struggle to finish this book, I do find myself thinking about it several days later, and I think too that it caught the prevailing mood of its time, which got its author the Edgar Award for Best Novel.

[polywogg · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

BOTTOM-LINE:I see why it won awards.PLOT OR PREMISE:Set in the 1970s, and a Russian poet has sought asylum in the U.S. Days before he qualifies for citizenship, he is kidnapped from Grand Central Station. Why was he taken? How can they help him? Where is he?.WHAT I LIKED:The story diverges on two tracks -- a black-bag CIA operative comes in from the cold just enough to maintain full deniability while he looks for the man and an FBI manager keeps poking and prodding trying to find out why. Neither one knows the other exists, and the two stories remain fully compartmentalized..WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE:The opening is extremely descriptive, almost one-step removed from the action, and it takes awhile until you are fully engaged in the two tracks..DISCLOSURE:I received no compensation, not even a free copy, in exchange for this review. I am not personal friends with the author, nor do I follow him on social media.

[iubookgirl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Despite being published in 1978, Catch Me: Kill Me still felt relevant. The book is about the abduction of and search for a Russian national in the U.S. Boris Kotlikoff is a Russian poet who has defected to the United States thus renouncing his Russian citizenship. The added element of Kotlikoff being Jewish made for an interesting story as the novel addressed the desire of Jews to escape Soviet Russia. Just a few days before he is eligible to become a citizen, Kotlikoff is kidnapped by a group of Russians from Grand Central Station. The U.S. government has no idea why and can do nothing about it. Kotlikoff doesn't enjoy the protections of any nation. He is a man without a country. The reader is immediately yanked into the action by the abduction scene that opens the book.Catch Me: Kill Me is organized into sections, which bounce back and forth between a U.S. government attorney and a former CIA agent who is recruited to try and save Kotlikoff rogue-style. Leary, the lawyer, is determined to find out why Kotlikoff was taken and Brewer, the CIA agent, is hell-bent on finding him in order to regain his own status within the government.Hallahan uses the snappy dialogue one would expect of the era. Though the treatment of women is somewhat pig-headed, it doesn't hurt the story. There really aren't any female characters that play a large enough role for it to grate on your nerves. I was also struck by some of the poetic turns of phrase that matched the poet identity of Kotlikoff. The novel is well structured, and I felt rewarded in the end. Everything comes together in a pretty amazing way.I thoroughly enjoyed Catch Me: Kill Me, my first read for the Edgar Awards Reading Challenge. I would definitely recommend it not only to those participating in the challenge but others as well.