Doing Hard Time

by Stuart Woods

  “That will do nicely,” Harry said. He got up and went down the hall to Pete’s old office. He photographed the photograph of Majorov with his cell phone, then he used a throwaway cell phone to call a number in New York’s Little Italy.

  “Who are you calling?” a man’s voice answered.

  “I’m calling the person I’m speaking to. You know who this is?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m in need of some extermination work,” Harry said.

  “What kind of pest are we talking about?”

  “A large rat—you don’t need a name.”

  “Tell me what I need.”

  “The infestation is in the penthouse of the Excelsior Hotel. You know it?”

  “How about access?”

  “From the roof of the taller building across the street. It’s well within spraying distance of standard equipment.”

  “What sort of markings does the rat have?”

  “Give me an e-mail address, and I’ll send you a photo.”

  The man gave him an address, and Harry e-mailed the picture.

  “Nice one,” the man said.

  “You’ll know him when you see him.”

  “When is that?”

  “He should be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Write down this number and wire twenty large.”

  “No success, I’ll need a full refund.”

  “You got it.”

  “Give me an hour, then check and call me back.” He gave the man the number. He hung up and went back to Genaro’s office.

  “It can be done tonight,” he said. “I’ll need twenty grand wired to this offshore account number right away and the other twenty in cash.”

  Genaro took the account number. “You’ll be responsible?”

  “I’ll return the money if it doesn’t happen.”

  Genaro nodded. “Go.”

  Jolly Tonio got the call and agreed to ten thousand for the job.

  “It’s gotta be tonight,” his client said. “There’ll be a photo in your mailbox in five minutes.” He recited the address and details of the building. “The custodian will spend the evening in a bar down the street. A key to the building will be taped to the photo.”

  Jolly noted everything, then opened the case that held the custom-made sniper’s rifle that he relied on for such work. He checked the weapon’s action and the number of rounds in the magazine, then closed the case and went to a closet, where he selected his wardrobe: a gray business suit, white shirt, dark tie, and a black fedora, then a reversible raincoat—tan on the outside, black on the inside. He tucked a folding stool into an inside pocket of the raincoat, then folded the soft fedora and stuck it in the inside pocket. Finally, he went into his bathroom and selected a dark, bushy mustache from an assortment, tucked it into a little box with some adhesive, and selected a pair of black eyeglasses with nonprescription lenses.

  He put on the raincoat, black side out, locked his apartment, then opened the mailbox and removed a blank envelope. On the cab ride to a corner a block short of his destination, he checked the photo and slipped the building key into a pocket, then, using his reflection in a window, he glued the mustache in place and put on the fedora and the black glasses.

  As he walked to the building he presented a dark figure—dark everything—and older. He stopped in front of the building. The lobby was lit only by a single fixture, and his key worked. He checked a back exit and found that it opened into a walkway to the street behind the building. Ideal. He unfolded his stool, stood on it, and unscrewed the bulb in the fixture; he wore driving gloves so there would be no prints.

  Jolly took the elevator to the top floor, then blocked the door open with a trash can from the hallway; he walked up a flight and, using his key, let himself onto the roof. He walked to the parapet and looked down one floor and across the street at the Excelsior Hotel. The penthouse was, literally, a house set down on top of the building, surrounded by a planted deck. The living room lights were on, and a bedroom was lit by a single bedside lamp. Two people were standing at a bar in the living room having a drink. The man was the man in the photograph; the woman was wearing a tight black dress, low-cut.

  Jolly unfolded his stool and sat down on it, the case in his lap. He opened it and assembled the weapon, bolted on the scope, then laid it carefully on the parapet. He used a pocket range-finder to get the correct distance, then sighted in the weapon and adjusted the sight for the range. Finally, he shoved in a magazine of six rounds and laid the rifle on the parapet again.

  Jolly took an iPhone from his pocket, switched it on, and plugged an earpiece into his ear, then selected an album of Chopin waltzes and settled in for the duration. He was a calm person who could sit for hours, unmoving, as long as he had music to listen to.

  Most of an hour passed while the two people chatted and drank, then they moved into the bedroom and began to undress. The process was businesslike; the woman was a hooker. That meant she wouldn’t stay long after her work was done; the man would then be alone, and there would be no one to call the police until the following morning, when the maid found him.

  The two people had sex by the light from the living room and the single lamp by the bed. They were done in twenty minutes.

  Jolly rechecked everything as the woman got dressed, collected her money from the dresser top, and left. The man went, naked, into the bathroom, and the light came on. Jolly decided to take him as he came out of the bathroom. He would be a better target standing than in the bed. The rifle was semiautomatic; he would fire three times rapidly: the first to shatter the glass of the sliding door, the second at the man’s chest, the third to the head. Jolly liked head shots; they were final. He took careful aim through the scope at the empty space outside the bathroom.

  The man stepped out of the bathroom, and Jolly fired the first round through the thick glass. It shattered. A second later, as he was squeezing off the second round, the man dived back into the bathroom. Shit!

  The bathroom light went off. Jolly waited for a moment, but it was clear the man wasn’t coming out, not until he had summoned the police or hotel security from the bathroom phone.

  Jolly quickly picked up the ejected shells, dismantled the rifle, and packed it into the case. As he stood to leave he heard a police car in the distance, then saw it come around the corner and head for the hotel. He walked quickly to the door, let himself into the building with his key, and removed the trash can blocking the elevator door. As the car moved down he used a corner of the rifle case to break the light fixture over his head, so that when the door opened, light would not pour into the dark hallway downstairs.

  Once down, he let himself out of the building through the rear exit, set down his case, folded the fedora and put it into a pocket, then took off the raincoat and reversed it, so that it was tan on the outside. He removed the mustache and the glasses and put them into his pocket, then he walked to the street behind the building, then another two blocks before hailing a cab.

  Once headed downtown, he made a quick phone call.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. Negative result—couldn’t be helped.”

  The man at the other end hung up, and so did Jolly. He wouldn’t get paid for tonight, but there would be other nights.

  • • •

  Harry Katz got a cell phone call a few minutes later.

  “Hello?”

  “The operation failed—the patient survived. A wire is on its way back to you.”

  “What happened?”

  “It couldn’t be helped.” The man hung up.

  “Damn it,” Harry muttered to himself. Tomorrow morning, he’d have to refund Genaro’s money.

  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 be
en 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?”