by Stuart Woods
“I visited the gentleman late last night and had a word with him.”
“How did you do that?”
“I thought we decided it was better if you didn’t know.”
“Well, I didn’t want to know before you did it, so I guess it’s better if I don’t know afterward.”
“I think that’s best, too. I believe I delivered the correct message. I don’t think he will annoy you again. In fact, I don’t think he will annoy anyone again. I couched my request in general terms—no names were mentioned.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps not really, but we’ve already agreed it’s best if you don’t.”
“Yes, we have.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Stone?”
Stone thought about that. “Do you have any experience dealing with bears, Billy?”
“Russians?”
“No, not Russians—real bears.”
“None whatever, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind, I’m just rambling. Thank you, Billy, hope to see you again soon.”
“Same here, Stone.” They both hung up.
—
Boris Tirov was tearing into a huge breakfast; he had never been so hungry. His two minions were hungry, too. Only Chichi seemed uninterested in food or drink. He had stared disconsolately at his bowl of strong coffee, which normally held water, then he had curled up in his kitchen bed and gone to sleep.
“What happened here last night?” Tirov demanded of nobody in particular.
“We were all shot with darts, drugged, and made unconscious,” Ivan said.
“Obviously,” Sergei agreed.
“I know that, you imbeciles, but who did this?”
“Probably someone hired for his expertise,” Ivan said.
“But who hired him? Who would do this to me?”
“Boss,” Ivan said, “the list is long.”
“My ex-wife? Would Gala do this?”
“No, boss, not Gala,” Ivan said. “She’s too nice a person.”
“She’s not a nice person, she just doesn’t have the guts.”
“How about the lawyer?” Sergei posited.
“The lawyer? Barrington? He’s just a lawyer—he doesn’t know how to do this stuff, and he doesn’t have the guts, either.”
“Boss, who got you into trouble with the immigration?” Ivan asked.
“The lawyer,” Sergei offered.
“The lawyer, the lawyer! Shut up about the lawyer!” Tirov shouted.
“It’s the sort of thing a lawyer would do,” Sergei replied.
“Our friends had trouble with the lawyer before, remember? The stories we heard? That stuff in Paris? That was the same guy, wasn’t it? Barrington?”
“It wasn’t Barrington in my house last night,” Tirov said. “I heard his voice—it wasn’t Barrington.”
“Somebody he hired,” Ivan said.
“That’s right,” Sergei offered.
“Who would he know, a lawyer like him?”
“Somebody very good,” Ivan said. “I mean, he walked in here, put three men and a dog out of action, then . . .” Ivan stopped. “Then what did he do? You said you heard his voice?”
“He talked to me,” Tirov said. “I was lying on the bed, and he talked to me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I should be nice to people.”
“What people?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t mention anybody in particular. Just people in general, I guess. No, I take that back—he mentioned studio executives and waiters.”
“And why did he think you would do that? Be nice to people?” Ivan asked.
“Because he said he would come back and kill me if I didn’t do it.”
The two men stared at him blankly. “Did you believe him?” Sergei asked finally.
“Yes,” Tirov replied.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to kill the lawyer.”
“Didn’t the guy last night say he would kill you if you weren’t nice?”
“Yes.”
“Killing the lawyer isn’t nice.”
“If I kill the lawyer, there’s nobody to pay the guy from last night.”
“Unless it’s not the lawyer.”
“What’s not the lawyer?”
“Unless it’s not the lawyer paying the guy.”
Tirov thought about that. “The guy last night will never know it was me that killed the lawyer.”
Ivan shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I guess you want us to kill the lawyer,” Sergei said.
“No, I want to do it myself.”
Sergei brightened. “No kidding?”
“No kidding. Get me a pistol with a silencer.”
“Okay,” Sergei said.
44
Billy got home from the office; his wife drove herself, and she was still working, so he had the house to himself. He went into his workroom and picked up an electronic box that was connected to a phone line. The box was connected to a tape recorder, and it had a green light on its front, which was blinking. He opened the box and rewound the tape inside, and what he overheard was a conversation in the kitchen between Boris Tirov and his two minions, Ivan and Sergei. Billy did not like what he heard.
—
Tirov was in his home office when Sergei returned with the silenced gun and handed it to him. “This is a fucking .22!” Tirov yelled.
“Boss, it’s the best thing for the job.”
“A .22 is too light, it won’t kill him outright.”
“It will, if you shoot him twice in the head from close up.”
“I could kill him with a baseball bat from close up. Why would I want to get close up?”
Sergei sighed. “Boss, I think we need to go do some target practice, okay?”
“Okay,” Tirov said.
Sergei drove them through the hills to Mullholland Drive, then took a left and drove until the road became unpaved. They passed an illegal garbage dump, then he turned off the rough road onto something that was little more than a track. When he had put a hill between them and Mullholland, Sergei stopped the car and pressed the trunk button.
He came out with two plastic bags, one filled with small melons and one with guns. “Okay, boss,” Sergei said, “what kind of gun you feel comfortable that will kill the guy?”
“A nine-millimeter or a .45,” Tirov replied.
Sergei went and set up a row of half a dozen melons. He took a .45 from the plastic bag, checked to be sure it was loaded, then handed it to Tirov. “Okay, one in the chamber, safety is on. We’re about twenty feet from the first melon, the one on the left. Put a round in that melon. Take your time.”
“I haven’t fired a pistol since I was in the KGB,” Tirov said, adopting a combat stance and aiming the weapon. He fired, and the round kicked up the dirt well behind the melon, a foot high.
“Again,” Sergei said. “Keep shooting until you hit it.”
Tirov fired until the gun was empty. All the rounds missed, except the last one, which hit the melon next to the one he was aiming at.
Sergei handed him another gun. “Okay, try it with the nine-millimeter.”
Tirov fired another magazine and missed every time.
“My point is, hardly anybody but an expert can hit anything the size of a head from twenty feet. I mean, I’m very good, and I might hit two out of three.” He took the pistol from Tirov and handed him the .22. “Now walk over there to three feet and fire two into a melon, any melon.”
Tirov walked over and fired two rounds into the melon.
“See? You either get close or you get yourself a rifle with a scope and practice a lot. The easy way is to get close.”
“I get it,” Ti
rov said. “I don’t mind getting close. I’d like to look him in the eye while I’m killing him.”
“If you look him in the eye, he’ll duck or run or fight you. A pro doesn’t look the mark in the eye—he walks up behind him and shoots the guy before he knows anybody’s there.”
“That may not be easy,” Tirov said.
“This is why so few people are professional hit men for a living,” Sergei explained. “It’s hard. People don’t want hard, they want easy. This is why they hire hit men. Handing over cash to a pro is easy. Do-it-yourself is hard.”
Tirov handed the .22 to Sergei. “Reload this. I want to see how far away I can hit him.”
Sergei popped in a loaded magazine and stood back.
Tirov began firing, getting closer and closer. He was at five feet before he hit a melon, and he missed the next two. “Okay, it looks like three feet,” he said, half to himself.
“Good,” Sergei said. “Now where do you see this happening?”
“Where do you suggest?” Tirov asked.
“I like parking garages,” Sergei replied. “My favorite is a parking garage outside a movie theater, because everybody arrives and leaves at the same time.”
“But I have to wait for him to go to the movies,” Tirov complained.
“There is that. Okay, a parking garage anywhere except at a shopping mall. People are coming and going all the time in a shopping mall. A parking garage at an office building is good—people come to work, later they go home. And the acoustics are good—you can hear somebody coming fifty yards away.”
“Forget about fucking parking garages, Sergei, I’m not going to sit around waiting for him to go to a parking garage.”
“In that case, you gotta catch him going somewhere. You drive up beside him, shoot him through the window and scram. You need a good driver for that one.”
“I can’t wait for him to drive somewhere.”
“Okay, then you invite him. Ask him to lunch, and shoot him when he’s on the way.”
“He’s not going to accept an invitation to lunch from me.”
“Because you haven’t been nice to him?”
“Exactly.”
“Then get somebody who’s been nice to him to give him the invite.”
“I’ll think about it,” Tirov said.
45
Gala was sitting at a desk in the study of Stone’s Arrington house, her laptop on the desk. It was going well: she had her conclusion in mind now, and the dialogue in the final scenes was going well. Her cell phone rang. Without looking at it, she picked it up. “Hello?”
“Gala, it’s Boris. Please don’t hang up, I have something important to say.”
“What is it, Boris, and make it quick—I’m working.”
“First of all, I want to apologize to you for the trouble I’ve made. I’m very sorry, and I won’t do it again.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
“I want to apologize to Mr. Barrington, too. I’d like to take both of you to lunch at the Bel-Air.”
“Boris, that’s crazy. Why would Stone want to have lunch with you?”
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” Tirov said, “and she says it’s very important to my recovery that I personally apologize to everyone I’ve offended.”
“Then either your therapist is insane, or she has no idea how many people you’ve offended. It would take years for you to personally apologize to all of them.”
“I’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t I? Please do this for me. Ask Mr. Barrington if he will bring you to lunch at the Bel-Air. After all, I have to apologize to you, too.”
“All right, I’ll ask him, but I won’t recommend it.”
“That’s all I ask. I suggest tomorrow at one o’clock, in the Bel-Air garden restaurant. Later tomorrow afternoon, I have to leave for a location shoot. I’m starting a big Western, and I won’t be back for weeks.”
“I’ll ask him. Goodbye.” She hung up. He had broken her concentration; now she had to get her head back into the scene she was working on.
—
Stone stopped in. “Can you break for a bite?”
She closed the laptop. “Sure, I can use a break.”
“I’ll have lunch sent to the pool.”
They settled down at a table there, and the food arrived.
“Stone,” she said reluctantly, “I have to ask you a favor.”
“Sure, how can I help?”
“I had a call from Boris this morning.”
“Oh, no,” Stone groaned.
“It’s all right, it’s nothing bad.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He’s begun to see a therapist, and as part of his treatment she has insisted that he see the people he’s offended and apologize to them personally.”
“That sounds like a twelve-step program.”
“Maybe it is, I don’t know, but he’s begged me to bring you to lunch at the Bel-Air tomorrow, so that he can apologize to you.”
“I don’t want his apology,” Stone said. “I just want him to be absent from our lives.”
“I want that, too, and this may be the best way to accomplish it.”
“I’m not sure I could have lunch with him without stabbing him with a fork.”
“He was really very pathetic on the phone. I believe he’s sincere. And I know him well enough that he won’t let up until he’s seen us.”
“How about later in the week?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow afternoon to go on location for several weeks.”
Stone sighed. “I don’t want to see him—not yet, anyway. I’m still too angry with him. Next time we’re in L.A., maybe. When is he coming back from his location shoot?”
“He said several weeks.”
“I’m sorry, I know you want this, but I don’t really trust myself to see him, not even in a public place.”
“All right, I’ll tell him.”
—
When they had finished lunch, Gala called Tirov.
“Gala?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak to him? Will the two of you join me?”
“I’m sorry, Boris, he has a business meeting tomorrow. He said perhaps next time we’re in L.A.”
“As you wish,” Tirov said, and there was ice in his voice.
“I’ll call you next time we’re in L.A.”
“My therapist says that if someone I’ve offended won’t meet me, then I should send a gift.”
“If you like, fine.”
“I’ll have it messengered to the Arrington tomorrow, before I leave for location. What suite number?”
“Just address it to Stone—the hotel will know. Have a good shoot.” She hung up and went back to work. The lunch break helped; she got her scene finished.
The following morning Gala finished her script. She read through it once more, and was pleased with how well it flowed. She e-mailed it to her agent, who would print and messenger the hard copy to the studio.
She and Stone had lunch by the pool again, and they celebrated her completion of the script with champagne.
As they were finishing lunch, the butler approached. “Mr. Barrington, please excuse me. A delivery came for you, from Tiffany’s. I put it on the table in the study.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’m not expecting anything.”
“I forgot to tell you,” Gala said. “When I told Boris you couldn’t have lunch, he said that his therapist had told him that if he couldn’t see someone to whom he was apologizing, he should send a gift instead. He’s always loved Tiffany’s—it’s probably a clock or a piece of crystal.”
—
When they had finished lunch, they went into the house, and Stone found a large sky-blue box on the study table, tied with a white rib
bon. There was no card. He was about to untie the ribbon when he stopped and looked at the box carefully. It looked like every other Tiffany’s box he had ever seen: there were no marks or blemishes. He thought about it for a minute, then he sat down and got out his cell phone.
Gala came into the room. “Oh, is this the one from Boris?” She reached for the ribbon. “Shall I open it for you?”
“No!” Stone said, stopping her short. “Please don’t touch it.” He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.
“Billy Barnett,” a man’s voice said.
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“What’s up?”
“I had a lunch invitation from Boris Tirov yesterday. He told Gala his therapist wanted him to apologize to people he had offended.”
“Really?”
“I declined, and he said he would send a gift instead. It arrived a few minutes ago. It’s a large box from Tiffany’s.”
“Where is the box?”
“On a table in my study.”
“Have you touched it?”
“No.”
“Don’t. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Please let the front gate know I’m coming.”
Stone hung up, called the front gate and told them to let Billy in when he arrived.
—
Billy walked into the room without knocking, carrying a briefcase, and went straight to the box. He walked slowly around it, then lifted it carefully and peered at the bottom and set it down again. “Would you and Gala please leave the room?” he asked.
“Gala, please leave the room,” Stone said.
She started for the door, then stopped. “What about you?”
“I’m going to stay with Billy.”
She left the room and closed the door behind her.
“Are you sure?” Billy asked.
“If you’re staying, I’m staying.”
Billy set his briefcase on the table slowly, then opened it. He removed a small box cutter, placed his hand on top of the box, and pressed the box cutter against the side until it pierced the cardboard. Then he began sawing, until he had cut a circular hole about four inches in diameter. He then put the cut cardboard and the box cutter into the briefcase, bent over and sniffed at the hole. “Uh-oh,” he said. He removed a small flashlight from his briefcase and shone its bright light into the box, then he turned it off and stepped back. “There’s a piece of plastic explosive in there half the size of my hand—about four ounces, I estimate. Enough to destroy this room and kill anyone near it.”
