Doing Hard Time Page 15

  “Thank you, Arch. Let me know what you find out.” Kerry hung up and forgot about Yuri Majorov.

  • • •

  Archibald Carney buzzed his assistant. “Check the last thirty days with Immigration and see if somebody named Yuri Majorov entered the country legally, then send me two agents—whoever’s looking idle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Three minutes later his assistant buzzed back. “A Yuri Majorov entered the country legally at JFK in New York twelve days ago.” Carney thanked him. Two special agents appeared in his office. He explained what he knew, and the source of his information. “Go over to the New Desert Inn. If Majorov is there, brace him politely and find out why. He’s apparently Russian Mob, so try and make him feel that he might be happier in Moscow.”

  • • •

  The two special agents, Morris and Thomas, presented themselves at the front desk at the New Desert Inn, flashed their badges, and asked for the manager.

  “How can I help you, agents?” the man asked.

  “Do you have a Russian citizen named Yuri Majorov registered here?”

  “I’ll check,” the manager said. He turned to a computer terminal and sent an e-mail to Pete Genaro: Two FBI at front desk, asking for Majorov. What do? A moment later, a message came back: Send them up, then inform the guest that they are coming.

  The manager turned back to the agents. “Yes, Mr. Majorov is registered here. He’s in suite 1530, top floor. The elevator is to your left.” He watched them walk away, then called 1530.

  “Yes? What you want?”

  “Please tell Mr. Majorov that the FBI are on the way to his suite.”

  “Shit.”

  “Just tell Mr. Majorov.”

  “Okay.” The man hung up, and the manager went back to his office.

  • • •

  The man who answered the phone, a muscular, not very bright man named Rackov, was terrified. “Tell the boss FBI are on the way up,” he said to his colleague, “then help me.” The man went to the bedroom to tell Majorov, who was in bed with a hooker and awoke only slowly, then he came back.

  “He’s getting up, I think.”

  Rackov tossed him a light machine gun just as the doorbell rang. Rackov ran to the door and looked through the peephole to find two men in business suits standing there. “Yes?” he shouted. “What you want?”

  “FBI,” one of them said, and they both held badges up to the peephole. “Open up.”

  Rackov motioned over his colleague. “Open door,” he said. The man opened the door, and Rackov opened fire, driving the two agents backward across the hallway until they fell in a bloody heap against the opposite wall.

  Majorov burst out of the bedroom, tying a robe around his naked body, and rushed over to the door. “What happened?” he demanded.

  “FBI are here,” Rackov said, pointing to the hallway.

  Majorov took one look at the two dead men, then started yelling orders. He ran back to the bedroom, ignoring the hooker, who was sitting up in bed, and started getting dressed.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “I am checking out of the hotel,” Majorov replied, and started throwing the contents of his closet into two suitcases.

  • • •

  The desk clerk looked up from his work to see Mr. Majorov striding through the lobby, followed closely by two large men pushing a luggage cart laden with bags. He picked up the phone and called the bell captain. “I think Mr. Majorov is going to want his car,” he said. “Right now.”

  As he hung up the phone, it rang while it was still in his hand. “Front desk.”

  “It’s Margie, the housekeeper. One of my maids on the fifteenth floor says there are two dead men in the hall outside 1530.”

  “She must be crazy,” the desk clerk said. “Check it out yourself, then call me back.” He hung up, then thought perhaps he should tell the manager about this.

  • • •

  “Airport,” Majorov said to the driver. The car moved away, and he turned toward Rackov. “Why did you shoot them?” he asked.

  “They were FBI,” Rackov said. “They showed badges.”

  “But what did they want?”

  “They wanted to come in the suite.”

  “They said nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the airport and were admitted to the ramp, where Majorov’s Gulfstream 450 awaited. The two pilots were walking around the aircraft, inspecting it.

  Majorov and the two bodyguards got out of the car, and the first thing they heard was approaching sirens. Majorov looked around him and found no one watching. He reached into his jacket and came out with the small Beretta Nano that he habitually carried. He pointed it at the two bodyguards and said, “Take out your weapons.” As they did, he shot both of them, then he ran around the car and shouted to one of the pilots, “Call the police!” Then he rapped on the window of the car. “Call Mr. Genaro at the hotel and tell him to send a lawyer to the police station.”

  He didn’t have long to wait for the police, because they were now driving onto the ramp, lights and sirens on. He set the Beretta on the tarmac and raised his hands.

  “Thank God you’re here!” he shouted, as two uniformed officers approached him.

  Genaro answered the phone and listened for a moment. “Why does he need a lawyer?” he asked the driver.

  “I think because he shot the two bodyguards.”

  Genaro began blinking rapidly. “Where are you?”

  “At the airport.”

  Genaro hung up and found the hotel manager standing in his doorway. “What?”

  “I sent the two FBI agents up to 1530, and the housekeeper just called to say that they’re both dead, lying in the hallway.”

  “Two FBI agents are dead in my hotel? What the fuck?”

  “I have no idea. Mr. Majorov and his two bodyguards left the hotel right before I got the call. I don’t know where he was going.”

  “He was apparently going to the airport,” Genaro said. “Elsie!” he shouted at his secretary. “Get me the hotel’s lawyer—whatshisname, Greenbaum!”

  • • •

  Kerry Smith’s private line rang. “Deputy Director Smith.”

  “Sir, it’s Arch, in Las Vegas.”

  “Yes, Arch. How did the meet with Majorov go?”

  “Very badly, I’m afraid. Both my agents are dead, apparently shot by Majorov’s bodyguards.”

  “What? Say that again.”

  Arch repeated the information. “LVPD picked up Majorov at the airport. He had shot the two bodyguards, and he claims they shot the agents, then kidnapped him. They’re holding him at the main police station.”

  “That is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard!” Kerry said.

  “And ten minutes after they got him to the police station a lawyer for the New Desert Inn showed up, met privately with him, and is now demanding his release.”

  “Did Majorov mention why his own bodyguards would kidnap him?”

  “The lawyer told the police that some criminal element in Moscow had ordered him kidnapped and forcibly brought home.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “There’s nothing you can do, since he’s in the hands of the local police.”

  “Killing two federal agents is a federal crime.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Unless we have evidence that Majorov killed them himself or ordered them killed, then all he’s done is shoot the bodyguards. Are they dead?”

  “Yes, sir, they were both shot in the head.”

  “Get the ballistics report and find out if Majorov’s weapon—I assume he had a weapon—killed our two men. If it only killed the bodyguards, we don’t have a federal
case against him, unless there were witnesses.”

  “The only other person in the suite at the time of the shootings was a hooker, who apparently was in bed with Majorov. She says she heard gunfire, and one of the bodyguards came into the bedroom where they were sleeping and got them up.”

  “So Majorov has a witness who exonerates him.”

  “It would appear so, sir.”

  “Get over to the police station yourself and interview everybody concerned, including the hooker, then get back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The AIC hung up.

  Kerry thought for a few seconds, then called Lance Cabot.

  “Cabot.”

  “It’s Kerry Smith.”

  “Yes, Kerry?”

  “We sent two special agents to the New Desert Inn to interview Majorov, and his bodyguards killed both of them.”

  “I’m sorry, Kerry, you’re not making any sense.”

  “You’re not listening, Lance. Majorov’s bodyguards killed both our agents when they went to his suite, then they apparently hustled Majorov out of the hotel and to the airport, where he shot them both. He now claims they were kidnapping him.” He gave him all the information he had.

  “My condolences on the loss of your agents,” Lance said. “Is there anything else I can do for you? I’m in a meeting.”

  “Nothing!” Kerry shouted, then banged down the phone.

  • • •

  Lance called Mike Freeman.

  “Yes, Lance?”

  “Your information about Majorov was correct,” Lance said.

  “Will anything come of his being there?”

  “A great deal has already come of it,” Lance said. He relayed what Kerry Smith had said to him.

  “That’s bizarre,” Mike said. “What are the charges against Majorov?”

  “None, so far. He lawyered up immediately, and he may very well be released shortly, if he hasn’t been already.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, Mike, this is merely a courtesy call. Goodbye.” Lance hung up.

  Mike called Billy Barnett on the cell number he had been given.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Mike Freeman.”

  “Hello, Mike. What’s up?”

  “I made a call about Majorov to someone who made a call to the FBI, who sent two agents to see him. As far as I can tell, Majorov’s bodyguards killed the agents, then Majorov killed the bodyguards at the airport and is claiming they kidnapped him.”

  “If I read that in the newspapers I wouldn’t believe it,” Teddy said.

  “Neither would I.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I. I’ll let you know when I hear more.” Mike hung up.

  • • •

  Pete Genaro sat in his office, staring at the blotter on his desk. Majorov sat across from him, sipping a brandy and soda.

  “Thank you for sending Mr. Greenbaum,” Majorov said. “He was very good.”

  “You’re welcome,” Genaro said. “Mr. Majorov, I would be grateful if you would not kill anyone else in my hotel.”

  Majorov shrugged. “I have not killed anyone in your hotel, only the two bodyguards who were kidnapping me. I believe Mr. Greenbaum has convinced the police that that is so. However, the police have asked me to remain in Las Vegas until their investigation is complete—a few days, Greenbaum says. I suppose my suite is still available?”

  “Yes,” Genaro said tonelessly.

  “What have you heard from your skip tracer fellow?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Billy Burnett has disappeared without a trace. My man is the best in the business, and he has been unable to find him or the girl.”

  Majorov set down his drink and spread his hands. “I must ask you to provide security for me while I am in the hotel,” he said.

  “All right,” Genaro said. “I can spare one man, but not outside the hotel.”

  “I will remain in the hotel and the casino,” Majorov said, rising. “Now I will go to my suite.”

  “Of course,” Genaro said.

  Stone walked into the Four Seasons at lunchtime; Mike Freeman was waiting for him at the bar. The headwaiter seated them immediately at Mike’s usual table, and half a bottle of a good Chardonnay was waiting for them in an ice bucket.

  As soon as they had ordered, Mike took a deep breath and began. “I have news of Yuri Majorov,” he said.

  “Did they find his body?”

  “In a manner of speaking. It’s occupying a suite at the New Desert Inn, in Las Vegas.”

  “Is it breathing?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then we should probably call someone in law enforcement, shouldn’t we?”

  “I have already done so, if rather indirectly. As a result, two FBI agents were sent to the hotel to question him, and his bodyguards killed them both.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly, but that’s not all: Majorov was taken to the airport by his bodyguards, and there he shot both of them, then called the police. When they arrived, he claimed that they were kidnapping him.”

  “Hold on, I’m getting dizzy,” Stone said, taking a gulp of his wine.

  “You’re going to get dizzier. Majorov was released by the LVPD and is back at the hotel. Turns out, he entered the country legally, and there are no charges of any kind against him.”

  “How did you learn about this?”

  “From Billy Barnett.”

  “Is he in New York?”

  “Not yet.” Mike thought about that for a moment. “Well, he could be in New York—he could be anywhere, for that matter—but my assumption is that he’s still in L.A.”

  “Does this mean that Peter is in danger from Majorov?”

  “I don’t believe so. In the circumstances, I don’t think Majorov is likely to do anything more boisterous than playing blackjack at his hotel. Too many law enforcement and intelligence agencies are now aware of his presence in the country.”

  “I’m going to go back to L.A.,” Stone said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Mike said.

  “Do you have business there?”

  “My business is such that I have business everywhere, or at least, wherever I want to go. We’ll take the company airplane.”

  “Thank you, Mike.”

  “When would you like to go?”

  “I’ve got a few things to clear up at the office. I’ll pick you up at, say, four o’clock? We can beat most of the rush hour to Teterboro and we’ll be at The Arrington in time for dinner.”

  “Sounds good,” Mike said.

  “I’ll let Peter and the staff know we’re coming in.”

  Their lunch arrived, and they devoted their attention to that.

  • • •

  Back in his office, Stone called Emma Tweed, who was at her New York office.

  “Hi, there.”

  “Hi. Mike Freeman and I both have some business in L.A., so we’re going back out there. Would you like to come?”

  “I’d really like that, but my being in the New York office has caused a kerfuffle, and it’s going to take me a few days to sort it out. How long are you staying?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “Then I’ll be here when you get back,” she said. “Give my love to Tessa and the kids.”

  “Will do.”

  • • •

  They landed at Santa Monica at seven PM, Pacific time, and were shortly at The Arrington. Peter, Ben, and the girls greeted them in the living room.

  “Dinner in half an hour,” Peter said. “What brings you two back so soon?”

  “It’s complicated,” Stone said. “We both have business to conduct out here. Let’s lea
ve it at that.”

  “If you say so,” Peter said.

  “How’s your shooting going, fellas?”

  “We’re a week into it and two days ahead of schedule,” Ben replied. “There are advantages to shooting on soundstages instead of on improvised locations.”

  “How are you getting along with Leo Goldman?”

  “Very well. He’s been helpful in moving things along.”

  “Have you seen Billy Barnett?” Stone asked Peter.

  “I’ve seen him in the commissary at lunch a couple of times. I believe he’s still working at the armory.”

  “He seems like a very useful fellow,” Stone said. “What’s he going to be doing when he finishes renovating all those weapons?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said. “I’ll ask him.”

  “I would have thought that such a competent and versatile fellow might be of use to you in your work,” Stone said.

  “You know, the same thought occurred to me,” Peter said, “but I haven’t done anything about it. Maybe I’ll have a chat with him this week.”

  Suddenly Stone liked the idea of having Teddy Fay around Peter. The man had been protective of him before, and perhaps he would continue to be.

  Teddy Fay sat at his usual table at the Centurion commissary and picked at his lunch while reading the Los Angeles Times story about the adventures of Majorov the previous day. Why wasn’t the guy in jail?

  He began to wonder if the events of the day before had made Majorov more vulnerable. Had he replaced his bodyguards? If he turned up dead now, would the police blame the Russian Mafia? Still, Teddy’s face was known at the New Desert Inn, and that face was connected to a name. Those odds were too long for Teddy.

  He finished his lunch and went back to the armory. The new gunsmith had started, and he would have the man well broken in before another day had passed.

  Teddy was calling it a day at three when he had a phone call.

  “Billy Barnett.”

  “Billy, it’s Peter Barrington. How are you?”

  “Very well, thanks, Peter.”

  “I wonder if you could stop by my bungalow and see me when you finish work today?”

  “I’ve just finished,” Teddy said. “Is right now good for you?”