Doing Hard Time

by Stuart Woods

  Yuri Majorov, the son, had been trained as a KBG officer right out of Moscow University, but his career had been rocked by the Glasnost movement, which changed nearly everything in the former Soviet Union, even to some extent the KGB. After that, he had made large sums of money by putting together syndicates of investors to buy former state enterprises that were being privatized. His investors were largely criminal organizations.

  Majorov was believed to have combined and reorganized these Russian Mafia groups into a kind of criminal conglomerate, which had many investments in legitimate businesses. They were very big in hotels.

  Then came the interesting part: Majorov had been involved in an attempt to take over The Arrington, a new hotel built in Bel-Air, Los Angeles, by a group formed by Stone Barrington, who had inherited a large piece of land in that community from his murdered wife, Arrington, who had been the widow of the movie star Vance Calder, who had assembled the land over decades.

  Majorov was believed to have been in New York when a friend of Barrington’s had been kidnapped by a Russian Mafia group, and to have been in a helicopter shot down in the ensuing battle between the Russians and a combination of NYPD and CIA units. He was thought to have perished in the crash.

  Teddy thought of adding an addendum to the file, pointing out that Majorov was alive and well in Las Vegas and still trying to get The Arrington, but he thought better of it. Such a note would simply start a search for whoever had put it there, and he didn’t need the attention. Instead, he closed the file and did a search for Michael Freeman. In reading the file he confirmed the story that Freeman had told him at their meeting. He logged off the mainframe and considered his options.

  It was clear that Teddy would be doing a favor to just about everybody—Barrington, the CIA, the NYPD, and the group that owned The Arrington—by simply eliminating Majorov. This, though, was not as easy as he would have liked it to be. First of all, his face was now known at the New Desert Inn, as was the Burnett alias, and Majorov would surely have heavy personal security.

  Teddy had come to a point where he had been offered a way out of his fugitive existence and into an interesting and safe environment, and to risk that over a revenge killing, however satisfying, would be foolish.

  There was a better way. He dug out Michael Freeman’s card and called the cell phone number written on the back.

  “Mike Freeman.”

  “Mike, this is Billy Barnett.”

  “Hello. Good to hear from you so quickly. I hope you are calling to accept my offer.”

  “I’m giving that very serious thought, and I think it might be a favorable alternative for me, but there’s something in the way, something I thought that you, and perhaps some of your acquaintances, would like to know about.”

  “Please tell me about it. I have about fifteen minutes before a meeting is convening in my office.”

  “If this conversation is being recorded, please turn it off.”

  “This is an ordinary cell phone, and no recording is being made at this end.”

  “Good. Have you ever heard of a Russian named Yuri Majorov?”

  “I have. I am under the impression that the gentleman is now deceased.”

  “Mr. Majorov is not only alive, but he appears to be the person who sent two men to track a certain Porsche Cayenne and kill Peter Barrington and his two friends. Fortunately I overheard a conversation the two men were having in Russian when they stopped for gas at the garage in New Mexico where I was working.”

  “Perhaps you could enlighten me on the subject of what happened to those two men? I was told you, quote, ‘had a word with them, and they turned around and went home.’ I found that story implausible.”

  “Quite right,” Teddy said. “I think they suspected me of overhearing their conversation, and they came after me. They are now buried inside their large SUV in the New Mexico desert and are extremely unlikely ever to be found.”

  “Now,” Mike said, “I find that story to be extremely plausible.”

  “As a result of that incident, Mr. Majorov sent two other men, separately, to find and kill me.”

  “And what happened to those two?”

  “The bodies of both were discovered, on separate occasions, in the trunks of their rental cars in the garage of a Santa Monica hotel.”

  “So is your trail now free of Majorov’s employees?”

  “I fear not. There are indications that another is now sniffing around. It occurs to me that now would be a good time to accept your offer, adopt a new identity, and join Strategic Services, in whatever capacity you deem best.”

  “I’m extremely glad to hear that, Billy,” Mike said. “What’s holding you back?”

  “I don’t think I should do that while Majorov is still dispatching his minions to find me and do me harm. Eventually, somebody would turn up at Strategic Services, looking for Billy Burnett.”

  “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 t
hat 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 questioning 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.”