Doing Hard Time

by Stuart Woods

  Majorov was sill up, watching TV, when Vlad returned to the suite at the Bel-Air. “Is the work done?” he asked.

  “No. I got into the apartment, but there was no one there, just some clothes and things.”

  “Why didn’t you wait?”

  “Because I’ve been traveling all day, and I’m tired,” Vlad said, with the air of a man who didn’t want to be questioned. “I’ll call on them again tomorrow.”

  “See that you do.”

  “Yuri,” Vlad said irritably, “don’t annoy me again, otherwise you’ll have to do this job yourself. Now I am going to bed.”

  And he did, while Majorov smoldered.

  Teddy got up early and shaved and showered, while Betsy slept on. He got dressed, and by that time she was showing signs of life. He leaned over and kissed her awake.

  She glanced at the clock. “Why so early?”

  “It’s my first day on a movie set,” Teddy said. “They start early. What’s your plan for the day?”

  “I’m going to take a few more things to the hangar,” she said, “and buy some better towels for the apartment there.”

  “See you later, then.” Teddy took the elevator down to the garage, got into the Speedster, and drove to the studio. Something was nagging at him, but he couldn’t bring it into his frontal lobe; it just festered, somewhere in his brain.

  • • •

  Vlad woke early, as usual, and planned his day. First, he would visit Mr. and Mrs. Burnett and complete his business with them, then he would drive to Universal City and take the studio tour. He had already looked it up on the Internet and reserved a ticket.

  Majorov was breakfasting in the Bel-Air’s outdoor restaurant, and Vlad ignored him as he passed. He ordered his rental car from the valet, got into it, and drove toward Sunset. It was only after he had turned onto the boulevard that he realized his error: rush hour. It took twenty minutes just to get on the freeway, which had pretty much become a parking lot.

  • • •

  Teddy was very impressed with what he found on the soundstage: Peter’s production designer had constructed a Century City apartment inside the huge space, and as he walked around it, he wished he lived there. It was complete in every way, down to the dishes in the kitchen cabinets.

  A loud buzzer went off, and an amplified voice announced, “All quiet on the set. Cell phones off.” Teddy switched off his phone. A red light over the entrance to the stage went on, signifying that they were now sealed inside the huge space.

  Then Teddy’s frontal lobe lit up, and he knew what had bothered him: the toilet seat. He had a clear memory of visiting the bathroom before they left the apartment for dinner, and of closing the seat, reminding himself that he no longer lived alone. Another man had been in their penthouse.

  He stepped into a corner and switched his cell phone on again, waiting impatiently for it to boot up. He pressed the favorites button and selected Betsy’s number, pressing it to his ear and waiting for her to pick up. Nothing happened. He looked at the screen and found a “call failed” message. He tried again, to no avail. The studio, in spite of the earlier announcement, was jamming cell calls from the soundstage, just in case.

  • • •

  Betsy struggled out of bed and into the shower. She shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine after dinner, she now realized. Coffee would fix her, though. Then, as she got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself, she heard the doorbell. At least, she thought it was the doorbell; it had never rung before.

  She padded to the front door in her bare feet and peered through the peephole. A man stood outside, his back to the door; he was dressed in a black suit and a black fedora. Then he turned toward the door and rang the bell again. There was a gun in his hand.

  Oh, shit, she thought. As silently as she could, she slipped the security chain into its receptacle, then ran for the bedroom. She struggled into some clothes and looked for her handbag. Where the hell was it? She had her driver’s license and passport and car keys in the bag, and she couldn’t leave it here.

  • • •

  Vlad knelt and began using his lock picks.

  • • •

  Inside, Betsy heard the lock being tampered with. She looked around, panicked, and saw her handbag on the living room coffee table. She grabbed a pair of shoes, not bothering to put them on, ran into the living room, and snatched her handbag from the coffee table, knocking over a martini glass left there from the cocktail hour the evening before, and smashing it.

  • • •

  Outside, Vlad heard the glass break and put his ear to the door.

  • • •

  Betsy took the longest leap she could, trying to clear the broken glass, and failed. A sharp stab flashed through her foot and up her leg, but she ran anyway, ignoring the pain, past the front door and toward the kitchen and the service elevator. She pressed the button and waited, fidgeting with anxiety. The overhead light was on B. That meant the super could be holding the elevator in the basement. She thought about the stairs, but, remembering her foot, now bleeding copiously, she continued to watch the light. It began to move up. Please, she thought, no stops! As the elevator neared the penthouse, she heard the front door unlatch and open, then she heard a banging noise and what sounded like the screws of the chain lock tearing out of the doorjamb.

  • • •

  Vlad stepped inside and saw the broken glass on the floor next to the coffee table and, running away from it, a trail of blood leading toward the kitchen. He racked the silenced pistol and moved in that direction.

  • • •

  The elevator door finally opened, and Betsy pushed the G button. Seconds elapsed, and the door began to close. Through the remaining six inches of closure, she saw the little man enter the kitchen and turn toward her, raising his gun.

  She flattened herself against the elevator wall, and as it began to move, a small hole appeared in the door.

  • • •

  Vlad swore to himself. He watched the elevator light as it moved downward. Should he wait for it to return, or use the main elevator or the fire stairs? He opted for the main elevator, hoping the car would still be waiting.

  • • •

  Betsy struggled into her shoes as the service elevator descended, then began looking through her handbag for something. As the elevator door opened in the garage, she found a pack of tissues and crammed it into the elevator door, hoping that would prevent its closing, then she ran for her car, keys at the ready.

  • • •

  The main elevator was still at the penthouse level, and Vlad pressed the G button, gambling that there was a car involved in the woman’s escape plan. The elevator started down.

  Betsy got the car started and backed hurriedly out of her parking space, narrowly missing a concrete column in the process. She got the thing into gear and drove as quickly as she could through the garage and up to the street, turning toward the boulevard.

  • • •

  Vlad ran out of the elevator and began searching the garage for the woman. She couldn’t have gotten away this quickly; she must be in her car, somewhere in this space.

  • • •

  Peter Barrington yelled, “Cut,” and the red light over the soundstage door went out. Teddy ran outside, got a signal on his phone, and tried Betsy again.

  • • •

  As she turned onto Bundy, toward the airport, Betsy heard her phone ringing in her handbag. She managed to get it out without wrecking the car. “Billy?”

  “Get out of the apartment now,” Teddy said. “Don’t take anything, just get out.”

  “I am out,” Betsy said.

  “The toilet seat was left up by someone else.”

  “That evil little man got into the apartment,” she said. “I barely made it to the service elevator.”

  �
�Is anyone following you?”

  “I don’t believe so. I think I made it out of the garage before he could get downstairs.”

  “Make a few turns, and watch your rearview mirror. If he’s following you, he’ll be a couple of cars back. If you spot him, find a policeman. If you don’t, continue to the airport, and call me the minute you get inside the hangar. I’m on my way.”

  • • •

  Vlad got to his car and started it, but he didn’t know what she was driving. He searched the boulevard for a woman driving erratically, but saw nothing.

  • • •

  Betsy pulled into the hangar, and called Teddy.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the hangar. Nobody followed me, I’m sure of it. I waited within sight of the gate, and nobody came through for five minutes. You go back to work.”

  “Is Tim in his office?”

  “Yes, he’s at his desk.”

  “He has a gun. Tell him that if anyone follows you into the hangar, to shoot him and quickly.”

  “All right.” She hung up, got out of the car, went to the hangar door, and looked around, then she closed the hangar door. Tim looked up from his computer and waved. She waved back. She wasn’t about to tell him to shoot anybody.

  Teddy spent the day watching the shooting, helping when he could, and when they were done, rode back to the bungalow with Peter in his golf cart.

  “Have you got a couple of hours after work for some flying?” Peter asked.

  “Sure,” Teddy said. “I should be through here by five-thirty, and I can meet you at the hangar by six.”

  “I have to interview a woman for a job at five, but that shouldn’t take long.”

  “What sort of job?” Teddy asked.

  “We’re learning that Ruth Pearl can’t handle everything alone,” Peter said. “We’re getting a lot of invitations to industry functions and requests for interviews, and we need somebody to handle those, plus make personal arrangements—travel reservations, et cetera.”

  “You met my wife, Betsy, at the hangar,” Teddy said. “She used to be a VIP concierge at a Las Vegas hotel. Would you interview her for the job?”

  “Sure. Her background sounds good for us.”

  They arrived at the bungalow and found Stone Barrington on the front porch in a rocking chair. “Good morning,” he said. “I thought I might buy you lunch, Peter, if you’ve got the time.”

  “Sure, Dad. Give me a few minutes to return some calls, and we’ll go over to the commissary.”

  “Will you come with us, Billy?” Stone asked.

  “Of course,” Teddy replied. He knew why Stone wanted him there—to watch Peter’s back.

  “Sit with me while Peter makes his calls,” Stone said.

  Teddy took a rocking chair.

  “What’s new with Majorov and his assassin?” Stone asked.

  “He managed to find out where my wife and I are living and paid a visit this morning. She got out just in time.”

  “Is there any way you can take a more offensive tack?” Stone asked.

  “Only if I catch them outside the Bel-Air. That’s a very tightly secured place—not as tight as The Arrington, but tight.”

  “I see.”

  “For the moment I think the best use of my time is to cover Peter,” Teddy said. “Blocking an attempt on him is the best way for me to go on offense.”

  “I’ll trust your judgment,” Stone said.

  “Thank you. I want Vlad off the street as much as you do. My wife had a very close call this morning.”

  Peter finished his calls, and they went to lunch. After that, Stone excused himself, saying that he had to visit the Woodman & Weld offices on Wilshire.

  “Is someone driving you?” Peter asked. “I can get a studio car to take you.”

  “It’s all right,” Stone said. “One of Mike Freeman’s people is driving me.”

  • • •

  Later in the day Vlad parked across the street from the main gate at Centurion Studios and watched the employees leave work. One of them was driving an old Porsche Speedster, a car Vlad had admired in his youth.

  A few minutes later, a brown SUV drove through the studio gate with Peter Barrington in the front passenger seat. Vlad’s heart leaped; finally an opportunity. He waited for a couple more cars to follow the SUV, then he fell in behind it.

  • • •

  Half a block down the street, Stone Barrington sat in the front passenger seat of another brown SUV, with a Strategic Services agent at the wheel. “There,” Stone said, pointing. “I think that black car is following Peter’s.”

  The agent pulled into traffic. “How do you want to handle this?” he asked.

  “You’re armed, aren’t you?” Stone said.

  “Yes.”

  “So am I. Look for an opportunity to force that car over without attracting too much attention.”

  “I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,” the agent said. “We’re talking L.A. rush hour here.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  Five cars now separated Stone from Peter, and the black car following him was two cars ahead of Stone’s.

  “See if you can get alongside him,” Stone said, unholstering his pistol.

  “Wait a minute, now,” the driver said. “I can’t be involved in a shooting—that’s strictly against company policy, unless we’re shot at first.”

  “What kind of glass is in this car?” Stone asked.

  “This one has our stage one protection package,” the agent said. “The glass will stop a nine-millimeter bullet, and so will your door. It has a Kevlar lining.”

  “Then let’s crowd him—maybe he’ll take a shot at us, and I can fire back. I have the advantage of not driving, while he is.”

  “I don’t know about this,” the agent said. “Provoking a gunfight in rush hour traffic.”

  “I’ll take the responsibility with Mike Freeman. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Except getting shot,” the driver said, but he pulled into the left lane and managed to get a car closer to the black vehicle.

  Stone racked his pistol and switched it to his left hand, leaving his right free to operate the window control.

  “How much noise are you going to make?” the agent asked.

  “It’s a .380—not as much as a nine-millimeter or a .45.”

  “There’s a small blanket folded on the seat behind you,” the agent said. “Hide your weapon in that. You’ll get a better jump on the guy if he can’t see your gun, and the blanket will suppress noise and muzzle flash.”

  “Good idea.” Stone turned around, found the blanket on the rear seat, and pulled it into his lap. He twisted it around his left hand; he would be firing through the soft wool. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, rolling his window halfway down.

  • • •

  Vlad caught sight of a movement in his side mirror that brought him to attention: a brown SUV, like the one Peter Barrington rode in, suddenly pulled out into coming traffic and passed the car behind him, pulling up close, riding his bumper. He looked for a way to get away from the car, but he was in the middle of a block, moving slowly, and was surrounded by other cars; there was no way out. Then the SUV swerved and pulled up in the lane beside him.

  Vlad yanked the silenced pistol from its holster; he recognized the front passenger as Stone Barrington, from photos he had seen. As the car pulled alongside him he did not hesitate; he fired two shots at Barrington.

  • • •

  Stone saw the two stars appear in the armored glass. He had his left hand, wrapped in the blanket, up to the window’s edge and got off two quick shots. The blanket burst into flames.

  • • •

  Vlad’s hat flew off, exposing his white hair, and he felt the passing of another bu
llet. He stomped on the accelerator and gained half a length on the SUV, then he yanked the wheel to the left, forcing the other vehicle into oncoming traffic, where it collided with a delivery truck and stopped. Vlad then got around two cars and was only one behind the other SUV.

  • • •

  The agent produced a cell phone and used it as a walkie-talkie: “Sierra Sierra One, this is Sierra Sierra Three! Black car behind you. Take evasive action immediately! Repeat, take evasive action immediately!”

  • • •

  Stone got the blanket off his hand and stomped at the flames, finally extinguishing them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an LAPD foot patrolman coming toward them from across the street. He threw the smoldering blanket out his window and ran the glass down, to hide the bullet marks.

  “I’ve got this,” the agent said. “Just sit there quietly.”

  Stone stuck the gun back into its holster and sat there, trying to look benign, as the agent began explaining to the officer how the other car had forced him into traffic.

  • • •

  Vlad was ready to make his move when the vehicle beside him turned left. He swung into the left lane and gunned his car past the one car separating him from Peter Barrington. Then, to his astonishment, the brown SUV made a sudden right turn down a side street, leaving him stuck in the left lane. Traffic came to a halt as a light turned red half a block away. He had lost his opportunity, and what was worse, Stone Barrington had made him. How could the man know him? he wondered; they had never met.

  Then he felt something running down the side of his face. He looked into the rearview mirror and found a little nick in the bridge of his nose. The son of a bitch had grazed him!

  Teddy opened the hangar door with his remote control and drove inside and parked next to Betsy’s Mercedes. Tim Peters was doing something to an engine of the Mustang jet and gave him a wave.

  “Anything wrong?” Teddy asked.

  “Just topping off the oil,” Tim replied. “This bird had a long flight out here.”

  “Peter will be here fairly soon,” Teddy said. “Will you close the hangar door after he arrives?”