Doing Hard Time (26 page)

Yuri Majorov sat down on the toilet lid, breathing hard. He took some deep breaths to try to slow his heartbeat, but he was seriously frightened. He reckoned that if he had been a fraction of a second slower, he would be dead. When he got his breathing under control he called the hotel manager, who said he would call the police.

“Don’t do that,” Majorov said. “Nothing will come of it, and I don’t wish to speak to the police. Move me to another suite, immediately, then tomorrow morning, replace the glass, patch the bullet holes, and clean up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Majorov sat on the toilet lid a little while longer, thinking. Who would have the temerity to order this hit? Surely not Pete Genaro, whom Majorov judged to be a timid man, accustomed to doing what he was told. The name Barrington occurred to him. Since he had ordered the hit on Peter Barrington he had lost four employees to assassination. This experience had to be the fifth attempt. Then he heard the approach of a wailing police car, then another.

His assailant would be gone by now, and Majorov got into his clothes. Fortunately, he had not unpacked, and he didn’t wait for a bellman. He tidied the bed, then carried his case to the door and opened it to find an assistant manager about to ring his bell.

“I have another suite for you, sir,” the young man said. “One floor down, at the rear of the hotel.”

“Let’s take the stairs,” Majorov said. The young man escorted him to the suite and left. Majorov called the manager.

“I’m sorry about the police, sir,” the man said. “We didn’t call them—a neighbor must have heard the shots.”

“Tell the police the suite is empty, that this must be an act of vandalism.” He hung up and poured himself a stiff brandy. He was still not calm.

Half a brandy later, he took out his cell phone and called his pilot.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have the airplane ready at eleven tomorrow morning,” Majorov said. “File for Santa Monica.”

“Yes, sir. Any other passengers?”

Majorov thought for a moment. “One,” he said, then he hung up and found another number in his contacts list, a fellow Russian who lived in Brooklyn.

“Good evening, Yuri,” the man said in Russian.

“Good evening, Boris. I am in New York for the night, departing for Los Angeles at eleven tomorrow morning from Atlantic Aviation, at Teterboro. I would like to take with me the most accomplished and reliable assassin you know.”

“That will be Vladimir Chernensky,” Boris said without hesitation.

“Is he available?”

“I will see that he is. How long will he be gone?”

“A few days, perhaps a week—less, if he is very efficient. He should bring his own tools.”

“He will be at Atlantic Aviation at ten-thirty.”

“How much should I pay him?”

“I will deal directly with him, and you may reimburse me later.”

“Thank you, Boris. Is all well?”

“Things have calmed down in Brooklyn since your last visit,” Boris replied, wryly.

“Good. Thank you for your assistance.” Majorov hung up.

• • •

Harry Katz knocked on Pete Genaro’s office door and was bade to enter and sit.

“Good morning, Harry,” Genaro said. “I just got a call from my bank. The money I wired abroad has been returned. What happened?”

“I was told that the operation was a failure, the patient survived, and that it couldn’t be helped. That’s all I know, but I take it literally. My contact is not a stupid person, and he doesn’t employ stupid people.” Harry took a thick envelope from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Here’s the rest of your money.”

“I see,” Genaro said. “No, I don’t, not really.”

“These things happen. Do you want me to pursue it further?”

A little chime from his computer caused Genaro to turn and look at the screen. “Well, well,” he said. “Majorov’s airplane has just taken off from Teterboro, filed for Santa Monica. ETA is three-ten
PM
, Pacific time. It’s a Gulfstream 450, and the likely FBO will be Atlantic Aviation.” Genaro read out the tail number. “Plenty of time for you to get to Santa Monica, Harry. I’d like you to handle this personally.”

“Pete, I’m sorry, but I do not possess the requisite skills to accomplish that mission the way you would want it done.”

Genaro looked at him hard for a moment, then relaxed. “All right, who do we know who could take care of this?”

“I don’t have a man you can trust,” Harry replied, “but there is someone you know in L.A.—in Santa Monica, in fact—who has proven adept at dealing with such problems.”

Genaro’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, Billy Burnett.”

“Exactly.”

Genaro opened a desk drawer and fished out the slip of paper Harry had given him. “I have an address, but not a phone number.”

“I can get the number through a contact at the phone company in L.A. I’ll call you with it.”

“Mr. Burnett seems to communicate exclusively through throwaway cell phones,” Genaro said.

“He’s almost certainly renting his apartment,” Harry said, “and there is very likely a phone there.”

Genaro pushed the thick envelope back across the desk. “This should cover all you’ve done so far, plus another trip to L.A., if necessary,” he said. “I want you to ensure, by whatever means necessary, that Mr. Burnett gets the message in plenty of time to meet that airplane.”

Harry tucked the envelope back into his pocket. “I’ll get it done, Pete.” He got up and left.

• • •

It took Harry less than half an hour to track down the number of the penthouse apartment in Santa Monica. He thought about making the trip, but first he would try the phone number. It rang five times before it was picked up by a woman.

“Hello?” She sounded uncertain—worried, even.

“Charmaine, don’t be alarmed, this is a friendly call. It’s important that you give Billy Burnett a message.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have the wrong number.”

“Don’t hang up until you have the message, and you should write it down.” There was no reply, so Harry continued. “Yuri Majorov is landing at three-ten
PM
at Santa Monica Airport. He is aboard a Gulfstream 450.” He recited the tail number. “There is reason to believe that he is coming to Los Angeles to harm Billy.”

“I know your voice—this is Harry Katz, isn’t it?”

“Pete Genaro asked me to get the message to Burnett.”

“Does Majorov know our address?”

“No, he does not. Only Pete and I know it. I saw you shopping in Beverly Hills and followed you home—that’s how I got the address. I got the number through a friend at the phone company.”

“Why was Pete looking for Billy?”

“At Majorov’s behest. He seemed to want badly to find Billy, but Pete has now ousted Majorov from his ownership position at the casino and taken over as CEO. He despises Majorov and wants no harm to come to you and Billy.”

“Are you in Los Angeles?”

“No, I’m in my office at the casino. No one is looking for Billy, except Majorov. I don’t know what resources he has in L.A., but if I learn anything else, I’ll call this number.”

“Let me give you a cell number,” she said. “I may not be here when you call again.”

Harry wrote it down.

“Give me your cell number.”

He gave it to her.

“Thank you, Harry. Goodbye.” She hung up.

Harry called Pete.

“Yes?”

“Mission accomplished,” Harry said.

“Keep me posted,” Pete replied, then hung up.

Teddy was on time at Peter Barrington’s bungalow for his first day. Peter greeted him and waved him to the sofa.

“I’m looking forward to my first lesson in your airplane tomorrow,” Peter said.

“I think you’ll enjoy the airplane,” Teddy said. “By the way, I’ve found you a hangar at Santa Monica Airport.”

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” Peter asked. “I don’t even have an airplane, yet.”

“I’m told that hangars for sale at Santa Monica are rare, and this is a very good opportunity. The hangar belongs to a rock singer named Craig Livingston.”

“Sure, I know who he is.”

“It’s big enough to hold a jet and two smaller airplanes. Livingston is having financial problems, and he wants out of the hangar badly. He’s already sold his two smaller airplanes.”

“How much does he want for the hangar?”

Teddy told him. “I think he’ll take half that and be glad to get it.” He handed Peter Livingston’s attorney’s card.

“Tell me about the track to learning to fly a jet,” Peter said.

“What kind of jet?”

“A Citation Mustang.”

“You’ll need your instrument rating and a multi-engine rating, and probably some turbine time, before they’ll accept you for training at Flight Safety. Livingston’s pilot is also a mechanic and a flight instructor. He could give you a lot of dual time in a Mustang.”

“I got a multi-engine rating when I was at Yale,” Peter said. “Relax for a minute while I make a phone call.” Peter went to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

Teddy flipped through a flying magazine that was on the coffee table.

• • •

“Dad?

“Good morning, Peter.”

“I’m sitting here with Billy Barnett, talking about my flight training, and Billy has found a hangar at Santa Monica Airport that I can buy.”

“Why do you need a hangar?” Stone asked. “You don’t have an airplane.”

“I thought I might remedy that. You’ve got the new Citation M2 on order. What are you going to do with your Mustang?”

“Well, I was going to sell it.”

“Then sell it to me.”

“Do you know what’s involved with learning to fly a jet?”

“Yes, Billy has briefed me on all that.”

“And you’re willing to take the time to train?”

“I can start now, and then do it more intensively when we’ve finished this film.”

“Then I’ll make you a gift of the airplane,” Stone said.

“Dad, I can afford to buy it from you.”

“And I can afford to give it to you.”

Peter grinned. “All right, I accept.”

“And you want to buy this hangar?”

“Yes, and I think it’s a really good deal.” Peter explained the circumstances and Livingston’s need to sell quickly. He gave his father Livingston’s attorney’s number. “Will you negotiate the deal?”

“I’ll call him now and get back to you,” Stone said.

They hung up.

“Did you hear that?” Peter said.

“Are you buying his Mustang?”

“He’s giving it to me.”

Billy laughed. “That’s a much better deal.”

They talked about flight training in the Mustang for a few minutes, then Peter’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Congratulations, kiddo, you’ve just bought yourself a hangar. His attorney accepted our offer, after calling his client. He faxed me his ground lease with the airport, which runs another eighty-six years, which looks good, and we can wrap it up today.”

“That’s great, Dad.”

“And one of Mike Freeman’s pilots is available to fly your new Mustang out here. He’s waiting for my call after we’ve closed.”

“Perfect.”

“Livingston’s pilot is making a hundred grand a year, and with all the work he’s doing—servicing his airplanes, taking care of paperwork, training—he’s worth it. I think you should hire him.

“I’ve pulled a boilerplate contract from our database, and after I’ve typed in the parties’ names and made a few small changes, I’ll fax it to you. Fax it back to both me and the lawyer and ask the bank to wire the funds to the lawyer, then we’ve closed. The bank will want you to fax them a letter.”

“I’ll do it the moment I get the contract.” He saw Billy answer his cell phone, then leave the room. “Thanks, Dad.” He hung up and waited for Billy to return.

• • •