Dishonorable Intentions

by Stuart Woods

  “Gladly.”

  “There is an American actress called Nathalie Dumont.”

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “I read in the newspaper that she is arriving in Moscow soon in conjunction with the release of her new film.”

  “Yes.” He had not read the newspaper, and he didn’t know.

  “I would like to invite her to dinner at my home. When I issue the invitation I would like to know that she will accept. It would embarrass me if she did not.”

  “I will be very glad to speak with her.”

  “You will ensure that she will accept?”

  Boris gulped. “I will. She will accept, without fail.”

  “Very good. Then, as I mentioned, there is one more thing.”

  “Please tell me.”

  “If the warrant is lifted, you will be free to return to Moscow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do not do so. Ever again.”

  Tirov was about to reply, but the phone had already been hung up.

  Tirov switched on his computer and looked up the phone number for Nathalie Dumont. He could not bring himself to dial the number, because he knew she would hang up the moment she heard his voice. There had been that encounter when he had bedded her, and it had not ended well.

  He went online to the website for the International New York Times and moved to the entertainment section. He found the article about Dumont’s visit to Moscow and found an attribution to her publicist, Howard Fine. Fine, Tirov reflected, despised him almost as much as Nathalie Dumont did. He thought about Howard Fine for a moment. He was old-school Hollywood, now in his seventies, on the last legs of his career. He needed a publicity coup.

  Tirov looked up the number for Howard Fine and rang it.

  “Hello,” a voice said. Not sleepy, in spite of the hour. Howard would be accustomed to the late-night phone call and would be ready for anything.

  “Howard, this is Boris Tirov, and I have very good news for you.”

  “You complete shit,” Fine replied. “How do you have the nerve to call me at this hour? How do you have the nerve to call me at all?”

  “Oh, I know what you think of me, Howard, but as I said, I have very good news for you—a coup that may allow you to hang on to a few of your clients for a while longer.” There was a brief silence, and Tirov knew he had the man hooked.

  “Go on,” he said finally.

  “I understand you are traveling to Moscow with Nathalie Dumont to promote her new film.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Moscow can be a difficult place for a Western publicist to deal with. How would you like it if I were to arrange for Nathalie to be invited by the president to have dinner with him?”

  “You can do that?”

  “I can. He has already expressed an interest in meeting her.”

  “And I can publicize that?”

  “You may do so.”

  “Without restriction?”

  “You may announce that Nathalie has the invitation and that she has accepted. After the dinner, neither you nor Nathalie may make any comment about the occasion. Is that perfectly clear? He is a very private person and does not wish his private meetings to be discussed.”

  “All right, I accept that condition.”

  “And so will Nathalie?”

  “She will, you can count on it.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow either you or Nathalie may expect a phone call from the Kremlin, extending the invitation. You must accept immediately. If you have her booked for that time, you must cancel it. There can be no variation, clear?”

  “I think that’s reasonable.”

  “It is mandatory. He is not a person who wishes to negotiate his schedule.”

  “All right, agreed. Now, Boris, what do you want from me?”

  “Only that you guarantee her appearance on schedule. He will, no doubt, send a car for her. For her, alone.”

  “All right, I guarantee her appearance.”

  “And you should not mention my name to Nathalie. You may take all the credit for this coup yourself.”

  “I have no problem with that,” Fine replied with a chuckle.

  “Oh, and there is one other thing, Howard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nathalie should be prepared to accommodate all of Viktor’s wishes. I’m sure you take my meaning.”

  “What? I can’t tell her that.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you tell her, merely that you prepare her for the eventuality. I think you can handle that, Howard—Nathalie is hardly a virgin, and you’re an old pro. You know how these things work. After all, the dinner will be the most important event of her trip, the crown jewel of a junket that the studio has paid dearly for and that is crucial to the success of the film in that market, and if she does not accept the invitation, or if she does not perform as expected—and enjoy the experience—things could go terribly wrong for her and for you in Moscow. You understand.”

  Fine sighed deeply. “Yes.”

  Tirov hung up.

  —

  Tirov had just gotten into bed when his phone rang. “Hello?”

  “I have him for you.”

  “Of course.” His breathing quickened.

  “Boris?”

  “Yes, Viktor?”

  “The prosecutor who filed the warrant against you is now an important judge, by my appointment. He has canceled the warrant, with a letter postdated twenty-four hours after the original filing, citing a lack of any supporting evidence. Anyone wishing confirmation of this may contact our ambassador in Washington, who is holding a regularly scheduled press conference tomorrow at two, Eastern time, at which a question will be asked about this and definitively answered.”

  “Thank you, Viktor. And Nathalie Dumont will be thrilled to accept your invitation to dinner at any time during her stay in Moscow that you may wish.” He gave him Howard Fine’s number. “He will arrange everything, and I am very sure that you will find her prepared to be excellent company.”

  “Thank you, Boris, and if that turns out to be true, perhaps you may visit Moscow sometime after all.” He hung up.

  Boris lay back in bed, taking deep breaths, trying to slow his heartbeat and his breathing.

  31

  Stone was having lunch alone, and Gala was out riding alone. Geoffrey entered the room. “A Ms. Holly Barker on the phone for you, Mr. Barrington.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning,” he said. “I presume you are at breakfast.”

  “I’m having a cheese Danish at my desk, if that’s what you call breakfast.”

  “You really must come here for a visit, and learn what breakfast is all about.”

  “I really must. I thought you might like to hear the fruits of your efforts.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Mr. Tirov arrived in Los Angeles last night aboard the luxurious new Emirates flight from London, having made the crossing in a private suite, only to be rumbled in immigration. He was taken to an interrogation room, where a letter from the director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement was read to him by an FBI agent, giving him thirty days’ notice of deportation.”

  “That long? Why didn’t they just bounce him?”

  “There were only two other legal alternatives. They could arrest and imprison him immediately, until he made bail, or just deport him and allow him to go anywhere. Neither was warranted for a person who has held a green card for eight years. What they did do was stamp his passport with a notice that he must depart the country from LAX, within thirty days, with a nonstop destination of Moscow.”

  “Where he would be arrested on the murder warrant?”

  “Exactly. Now, does that satisfy your definition of a pound of flesh?”

  “I would rather have had his head on a pik
e, but I suppose a pound of flesh will have to do.”

  “Mustn’t be greedy.”

  “Will he have any sort of appeal?”

  “Yes, and I’m sure he will have a first-rate immigration lawyer to argue his case, but, since he has a murder warrant out for him, his case is unarguable, and he is, essentially, fucked.”

  “Which is no less than he deserves. The man has stuck his thumb in the eye of almost everybody he has come into contact with in the States, and was rapidly becoming persona non grata in the film business.”

  “What is it they say in the movie business? ‘Be careful who you fuck on your way up the ladder of success, because you’ll meet them again on the way down.’”

  “I believe that’s the gist of it.”

  “I’m going to give serious thought to busting out of this place and coming to see you. How long will you be there?”

  “Awhile, maybe the summer.”

  “I expect there is a woman with you.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Any chance of her abandoning you?”

  “There’s always that chance, if my personal history is any indication.”

  Holly laughed. “That’s right, you do have a tendency to get dumped, don’t you?”

  “Let’s just say that they often find it necessary to be somewhere else. I’ve become inured to it.”

  “If I come I would prefer not to share your company.”

  “Duly noted. Will you keep me up to date on the woes of Mr. Tirov?”

  “I’ll pass along whatever I hear. If he appeals, I’m sure his hearing will be well-attended by the entertainment press and TV shows.”

  “I’ll set my DVR.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to saving the country from whatever the threat is today. Bye-bye.” Holly hung up.

  —

  Boris Tirov awakened at nine and buzzed downstairs for his secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. Tirov,” the young man said.

  “Telephone my agent and my publicist and tell them to be at Kim Kopchinsky’s office at ten forty-five AM today, without fail, and to be on time. I will take them to lunch afterward. Then call Kim’s secretary and tell her we’ll be arriving at that hour instead of eleven o’clock and to invite him to lunch, as well. Then book me a table for four in the garden at Spago Beverly Hills at half past noon.”

  “Yes, sir. You have calls from the Hollywood Reporter and People magazine requesting interviews. What shall I tell them?”

  “Tell them to call me back after lunch, and I’ll have a statement for them. Also, suggest that they tune in to a press conference by the Russian ambassador at two PM, Eastern, today.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  —

  Howard Fine was at his desk when his secretary buzzed. “Yes?”

  “Howard, there’s a man with an accent on the phone who says he’s calling from the Kremlin. Is that a new restaurant?”

  “No, my dear, it’s a large building in Moscow.”

  “Idaho?”

  “Russia.”

  “Oh!”

  “Put him through.” He waited for the buzz, then picked up the phone. “This is Howard Fine.”

  “Mr. Fine, I bring you greetings from President Viktor Petrov, of the Russian Federation.”

  “Please extend my greetings to the president.”

  “President Petrov wishes to extend, through you, an invitation to Miss Nathalie Dumont for dinner on Thursday of this week at seven o’clock PM at his official residence in the Kremlin. Will Miss Dumont accept?”

  “Miss Dumont will be delighted to accept,” Fine replied. “I expect she would like to know how to dress.”

  “It will be black tie,” the man replied. “I believe Miss Dumont is residing at the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski, across Red Square from the Kremlin.”

  “That is correct.”

  “The president’s car will collect Miss Dumont at the main entrance of the hotel at a quarter to seven Thursday evening.”

  “She will be on time,” Fine said.

  “Excellent. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Fine buzzed his secretary. “Get me Nathalie Dumont.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later, she buzzed him. “Ms. Dumont on line one.”

  “Nathalie?”

  “Hello, Howard,” she replied, sounding bored.

  “I have the most fabulous news!”

  “The news is always fabulous from you, Howard.”

  “Then try this on for size. On Thursday evening in Moscow, you will be dining at the Kremlin, at the personal invitation of the president of the Russian Federation.”

  “Who?”

  “Viktor Petrov, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Howard, if this is just some of your bullshit—”

  “I assure you, my dear, no bullshit is involved. I have just had the invitation from Petrov’s personal secretary, in the Kremlin. This will be electrifying news in Moscow and will do wonders for our premiere on Friday. You and your movie will be the talk of Russia, and that will be reflected in the grosses!”

  “Jesus! What do I wear?”

  “It’s black tie. Knowing the president’s famous eye for beautiful women, I should think something revealing would be appropriate. The president is sending his car for you, and I will have photographers recording your departure from the hotel, which is within sight of the Kremlin.”

  “Well, thanks, Howard. How did you pull this off?”

  “I have my contacts, my dear. I’ll see you aboard the studio’s jet tomorrow.” He hung up feeling very much full of himself.

  32

  Boris Tirov arrived at the office of his attorney, Kim Kopchinsky, at five minutes before the hour to find his agent, Karl Muntz, and his publicist, Jean Jarman, sitting in the waiting room. He greeted them with a wave and proceeded directly to Kopchinsky’s office without being announced.

  “Good morning, Kim,” Tirov said, taking a seat and indicating that the others should do so as well.

  “Just make yourselves comfortable,” Kopchinsky said wryly. “Anybody want a hot towel? A mani-pedi?”

  “Kim, turn on the TV to CNN, and be quick about it. You won’t want to miss any of this.”

  “What the fuck, Boris?”

  “Just do it, it’ll save billable hours.”

  Kopchinsky switched on the huge set on his wall and selected CNN.

  The anchor gazed into the teleprompter and said, “And now, we’re going to go to the Russian embassy in Washington, where we’re told an interesting question will be answered.”

  The TV switched to a small auditorium, where the ambassador was giving a boring answer to a question about the Ukraine.

  “Boris,” Kopchinsky said, “why are you putting us through this?”

  “Shut up, Kim, and listen.”

  Then an off-camera voice shouted, “Mr. Ambassador, do you have any comment on the news that the film producer Boris Tirov was questioned on his arrival at LAX last night and is being shipped back to Moscow to answer a charge of murder in the death of Elena Ivanov eight years ago?”

  “Yes, I do,” the ambassador replied. “Earlier this morning I spoke to the chief prosecutor in Moscow. He informed me that the warrant for Mr. Tirov’s arrest was withdrawn by the prosecutor only hours after first being filed, for lack of any evidence whatever. I spoke to the former prosecutor, now an important judge in the Russian Federation, and he told me that he remembered the incident well, that an assistant prosecutor in his office had filed the warrant with the wrong name on it, and when he discovered the error, the chief prosecutor ordered it withdrawn immediately, and he personally telephoned Mr. Tirov and apologized to him for any inconvenience. Accordingly, I spoke to the United States director of Immigration and Customs Enforce
ment this morning, and, as a result, he has now issued an order revoking the deportation order and has also apologized for the incorrect stamp entered into Mr. Tirov’s passport. This embassy has issued a new passport to Mr. Tirov, which will be delivered to him by a consular official in Los Angeles today.”

  As Kopchinsky switched off the TV there was a knock at his door. His secretary stood there along with a tall man in a business suit. “A gentleman from the Russian consulate to see Mr. Tirov,” she said. The man strode across the large office, shook Boris’s hand, and handed him an envelope with a large wax seal. “Mr. Tirov, your new passport, with the compliments of the ambassador.”

  “Thank you,” Boris replied, and the man left. Boris ripped open the envelope and held up the passport for all to see.

  “Boris,” Kopchinsky said, “how the fuck did you do that? I was ready to file the appeal.”

  “I made a phone call,” Boris said. “Questions, anybody?”

  The group stared at him dumbly. Finally Jean Jarman spoke. “Boris, this is a great relief. After all the fires I’ve had to put out for you lately at Centurion and the Bel-Air Country Club and the Arrington, I thought we were about at the end of our rope.”

  “Jean, I suggest you call the head of publicity at the studio and explain things to him. Kim, you call the head of the studio and explain what’s happened, and, Karl, you call the head of production and tell him I want an immediate public announcement that our deal is still on, or I will be suing before sundown.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you all at Spago Beverly Hills at twelve-thirty, and, Jean, I want press there to cover the lunch, especially the L.A. Times.”

  “Right, Boris,” she replied, producing a cell phone.

  —

  Stone and Gala were having a drink before dinner when Geoffrey announced a phone call from Holly Barker.

  Stone picked up the phone. “Hi, there.”

  “Hi. It appears that we’ve had something of a reversal.”

  “What sort of reversal?”

  “I’ve just e-mailed you a clip from a press conference with the Russian ambassador a few minutes ago.” She hung up.

  Stone got out his iPhone, found the e-mail, and he and Gala watched the press conference. They were dumbfounded. “How did he do that?” Stone asked.