“A good point,” Mike said. “Why do I think you have a plan to prevent that happening?”
“As it happens, I do. I considered cutting off the head of the snake, but there would, no doubt, be other snakes involved who might be as tenacious as their colleague.”
“A reasonable assumption. Do you have an alternative plan?”
“It seems to me that you have connections with people who would be pleased to see Mr. Majorov not only out of business, but out of breath, as it were.”
“That is entirely possible,” Mike replied.
“I thought that, rather than my taking on the Majorov task personally, it might be better for everyone involved to have him brought to heel in a more legally satisfying manner. Do you think that it might be in the best interests of your acquaintances if you initiated that process with a phone call to someone I don’t need to know about?”
“I think that is a very sensible suggestion,” Mike said. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”
Teddy gave him the number of a new throwaway phone. “That should be operative within the hour, whereas the number I’m now calling from will terminate shortly.”
“Got it,” Mike said. “I’ll get back to you when I can. Oh, can you tell me the present whereabouts of Mr. Majorov?”
“I believe him currently to be an honored guest of the New Desert Inn hotel and casino, in Las Vegas.”
“Thanks, and goodbye for the moment.”
Teddy hung up, hoping that he had done the right thing. Still, he had one more call to make. He called the New Desert Inn and asked for Pete Genaro. “Tell him it’s Billy Burnett,” he said to the operator.
Genaro was on the line in a flash. “Well, hello, Billy. How are you?”
“I’m very well, Pete, although I realize that may not be good news to you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Genaro said, sounding wounded.
“Pete, you and I have had a cordial relationship up until now, but I suspect that you may be in cahoots with Mr. Majorov in seeking my demise.”
“Nothing like that, I assure you,” Genaro said. “Mr. Majorov only wishes to meet you.”
“You may tell Mr. Majorov that I have no wish to meet him, but that if I should do so, he would not enjoy the meeting.”
“Now, now, Billy, don’t misjudge the man.”
“I know just about all I need to know about Mr. Majorov, and my advice to you would be to put as much distance between you and him as possible, and as quickly as you can. The relationship will not profit you or your business. Now, I will hang up before you can complete your trace, but I did want to mention that whoever is tracking me now will meet with the same end as the previous trackers, if he is not called off immediately. Good day, Pete.” He broke the connection.
“Did you get it?” he asked his chief of security, who was standing next to his desk.
The man hung up the other phone. “Not enough time,” he said. “All I can tell you is that the call came from somewhere in the southwestern United States.”
Genaro was alarmed. “Could that mean Vegas?”
“Could be.”
Mike Freeman called the new director of central intelligence, Lance Cabot, on his private office line. It was the first time that Mike had used that number.
“Cabot.”
“Good day, Lance, it’s Mike Freeman. Have you a moment?”
“Yes, but not much more than that, Mike.”
“This won’t take long. It’s my understanding that some of your people came up against a Russian named Yuri Majorov not so very long ago.”
“That is correct, and Mr. Majorov did not survive the encounter.”
“I have come across some very reliable information to the effect that not only did Majorov survive the encounter but that he is presently in the United States.”
Lance was quiet for a moment. “May I ask the source of your information?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t divulge that, but I believe it to be solid, or I wouldn’t have troubled you.”
“Do you have a location?”
“He is staying at the New Desert Inn hotel and casino in Las Vegas.”
“And how long will he be there?”
“I don’t know that, but I believe he may have been there for a couple of weeks.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?”
“I have no expectations in that regard. I simply thought that you would like to know, and that if you want something done about it, you have the appropriate tools at your disposal. I won’t take any more of your time, Lance. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, and thank you,” Lance said.
• • •
Harry Katz sat at the bar at Shutters and went over his notes carefully. He had thought that he might have missed something, and he found it: Jimmy Sayer had said that Charmaine had gotten married. If that were so, and if she got married in Los Angeles County, there would be a record of it. He opened his laptop on the bar, went to the L.A. County website, and clicked on public records, then marriage licenses and marriages.
He looked at licenses and found them arranged alphabetically. There were two dozen Burnetts, in the current year, but none of them a William J. or W. J. Disappointing.
Harry ordered another drink and thought it over, then he went to the list of marriages. About the same number of Burnetts, but still not the right ones. Then Harry had a little accident: he pressed the up arrow, and it stuck and began scrolling. He poked at it a few times before it released, and he found himself looking at a list of Barnetts, one letter different. And there, at the bottom of the list, was a W. J. Barnett, of 1147 Third Street, Santa Monica. It occurred to him that simply changing one letter in a name would throw off computer searches. He wrote down the address and checked the map app on his iPhone. It was only a few blocks from where he sat. He signed for his drink and left the bar, returned his laptop to his room, and left the hotel.
Five minutes later he stood in front of the address he sought. It was Michael’s restaurant. He went inside and approached the headwaiter.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I hope so. Do you have an employee here by the name of William J. Barnett? Or Burnett?”
“I believe I know all the employees,” the man said, “and there isn’t one by that name. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Perhaps you still can help. Do you have a table for one?”
The man checked his reservations list. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t. However, if you like, you can order dinner at the bar.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Harry took a seat at the bar, ordered a drink, and asked for a menu.
• • •
A couple of blocks away, Teddy sat at his computer and saw a flag from the public records page of the Los Angeles County website. “Uh-oh,” he said aloud. “Not good.” Intriguing, though. How, he wondered, would anyone know to search that particular record in looking for him?
“Betsy,” he called.
She came out of the bathroom.
“Did you tell anyone that we got married?”
“No,” she said, then went back into the bathroom. A moment later she came out again. “Wait,” she said, “I called my ex-husband, because I knew he’d start looking for me if I left town without telling him. He’s never been able to accept the divorce and keeps trying to win me back.”
“So, you thought if you told him you were married, he’d let go?”
“Exactly. Was it the wrong thing to do?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Could someone find us because I told him that?”
“Probably not, but it could help someone who was looking. Now that I think of it, I don’t believe we should go to Michael’s anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because when recording our marriage, I used Michael’s as a home address.”
• • •
Harry Katz had an excellent dinner at Michael’s bar, but question
ing the bartender about the existence of a Barnett or Burnett employee got him no further. He asked for a check.
His cell phone went off, and he answered it. “Harry Katz.”
“Harry, it’s Pete Genaro.”
“Hi, Pete.”
“Where are you?”
“At a restaurant in Santa Monica. Charmaine’s ex-husband said he got a call from her and that she said she had gotten married. I believe that Billy Burnett changed his name to Barnett and married Charmaine under that name. There’s a marriage recorded, and it gives his address as the address of this restaurant.”
“Harry, I had a call from Burnett, and he knows somebody is on his trail again. This is not good for you, and I think you should break off your investigation.”
“But, Pete, I feel I’m getting close, here.”
“Harry, the closer you get the more danger you’re in. Have you forgotten what I told you about the last two guys who did what you’re doing?”
“No, and I had a conversation with the LAPD about that. One of the investigating detectives was somebody I knew.”
“And how are they doing in their investigation?”
“They’re completely stymied.”
“That should tell you even more about Billy Burnett.”
“I see your point. Do you want me to come home?”
“Do this, Harry: trace Burnett if you can but don’t approach him. Just let me know where he is, and I’ll pass it on to Majorov, then it’s his problem.”
“All right, Pete, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want, Harry.”
“Then you got it.” Harry paid his check and left the restaurant. It was a pleasant night, and he decided to walk a bit. He wondered if Billy Burnett had used a nearby address for his marriage certificate and might, perhaps, live a few doors away, but he had no further information that might tell him where.
Kerry Smith, deputy director for investigations at the FBI, took the call from Lance Cabot.
“Kerry, I have some new information on one Yuri Majorov,” Lance said.
“What, where he’s buried, maybe?”
“According to my information, from a source I respect, Majorov is not only alive, but is, at this moment, at the New Desert Inn, in Las Vegas.”
“What’s your source?”
“Giving you that wouldn’t help you, and my source wouldn’t reveal his source.”
“So this is a third-hand rumor? If you believe it, why don’t you do something about it?”
“I suppose you could characterize it as a rumor, but pursuing Mr. Majorov is not within the purview of my charter. I have now done my duty as a citizen, having reported the information to a responsible law enforcement official, and that splashing sound you hear is me washing my hands of this matter. Good day to you, Kerry.” He hung up.
Kerry sighed, went to the contacts menu on his computer, and clicked on the number of the agent in charge for the FBI office in Las Vegas.
“This is AIC Carney.”
“Good morning, Arch. This is Kerry Smith.”
“Hello, Director.”
“Arch, have you ever heard of a man called Yuri Majorov?”
“Ummm, that may sound familiar.”
“Arch, it’s okay if you’ve never heard of him.”
“In that case, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Some time back, maybe a couple of months ago, there was a big brouhaha in New York—a woman was kidnapped by some members of the Russian Mafia, and some of our people, along with some CIA people, tracked her to Brooklyn, in the area known as Little Russia. She was freed after a big shoot-out that included a couple of helicopters, one of them, apparently, operated by the Russian Mob. This fellow Majorov was said to have been aboard that one, and it was shot down, but his body was never recovered.”
“How can I help you, Director?”
“I have some information that says that Yuri Majorov is a guest in a hotel in Vegas called the New Desert Inn. I assume you know it.”
“Yes.”
“Word is, Majorov has been there for a couple of weeks.”
“What would you like me to do about it, Director? Do we have enough for an arrest warrant?”
“No, I don’t think we do, so don’t go over there with a SWAT team. I’d like you to visit the hotel and ask, politely, to speak with Mr. Majorov. If you find him there, question him on what he’s doing in the country. You might check, first, to see if he entered the country legally. If he didn’t, then you can turn him over to Immigration and Naturalization. If he’s in the country legally, then just make him uncomfortable about being here and get as much information from him as you can.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll get right on that.”
“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?”
Doing Hard Time (Stone Barrington) Page 14
