Dishonorable Intentions

by Stuart Woods

  “I would be pleased to offer my advice, Mr. Barrington. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I have a houseguest at the moment, a Ms. Gala Wilde, who is a Hollywood screenwriter and a person of some substance. She has, since her divorce a year ago, been troubled by the unwanted attentions of her former husband, a man of Russian birth named Boris Tirov.”

  “The film producer?”

  Stone was surprised that Holmes had heard of him. “Yes.”

  “I thought the most recent in his series of thrillers was disappointing.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Stone said, “and that could, in fact, be a contributing factor in his attentions to his former wife—an ego thing, perhaps.” This didn’t make any sense to Stone, but Holmes apparently thought it did.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “And what form are his attentions taking?”

  “He has pursued her relentlessly, even though they live in different cities—he in Los Angeles, she in Santa Fe, New Mexico—and he has even followed her to England, on the pretense of doing business here.”

  “I am aware that Mr. Tirov sometimes films at Pinewood Studios,” Holmes said.

  “He has followed her to this house by boat,” Stone said, “and has even intruded upon the dock of Dame Felicity Devonshire, where he was repelled by her armed security people. Dame Felicity was alarmed to hear that he has connections to the Russian mob.”

  “Ah, yes, I had heard that. I am astonished to hear that he would intrude upon your privacy here, and especially upon that of Dame Felicity. Do you think he understands who she is?”

  “I’ve no way of knowing that,” Stone admitted, “but I was surprised to hear that he had to be repelled by her guards.”

  “I suppose Americans—and Russians—might be less aware of her identity than Englishmen.”

  “Perhaps so.”

  “I take it you wish to have your property protected by the Hampshire police?”

  “I am reluctant to make such a request, but I would be grateful for your advice on how to proceed.”

  “I should think that a uniformed officer at your gate and another on your dock for a few days might achieve the desired result,” Holmes said.

  “That would be extremely generous of you.”

  “I’ll see to it upon my return to my office.”

  “I wonder if there is a suitable police charity to which I might contribute by way of thanks?”

  “There is.” Holmes told him its name, and Stone instructed Geoffrey to ask the estate manager, Major Bugg, to produce a check, which Holmes found to be very generous. He was also able to persuade the policeman to depart with a bottle of the Oloroso.

  On his way out, the chief inspector was also glad to reacquaint himself with the commissioner of New York City Police, whom he had met on an earlier visit to Windward Hall.

  As he departed, Stone felt glad that Holmes now rated his own car and driver, since he would have not wished the gentleman to attempt the roads with so much Oloroso on board.

  “How much did the man have to drink?” Dino asked as the car drove away.

  “About half a bottle of very potent sherry,” Stone replied.

  “Any luck with police help?”

  “A uniformed officer at the gate and another at the dock.”

  “I would call that sherry well spent,” Dino said.

  “I would call it expensive police protection,” Stone replied, “given the rarity of the Oloroso.”

  “How rare was it?”

  “Probably obtainable only at auction, after spirited bidding.”

  “You may have a point,” Dino agreed.

  “Would you like to try a glass?”

  “I would.”

  “Come with me,” Stone said, and they repaired to the library to conduct a tasting.

  20

  Before departing for Rome, Stone called the cell number of the CIA station chief in Rome.

  “How are you, Jim?”

  “As well as can be expected, Stone. Are you coming to Rome for the opening of the Arrington?”

  “I am, and I hope you got your invitation.”

  “I did, and my wife is going nuts. We’ll be there. Tell me, would you like some hangar space in our facility at Ciampino?”

  Ciampino was Rome’s principal general aviation airport.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “When do you expect to arrive there?”

  “Between four and five this afternoon.”

  “A line cart will be waiting to escort you to our hangar there. Are you being met by a car and driver?”

  “I expect Marcel to provide that transportation.”

  “I will leave word at the gate, and the vehicle will be escorted into the hangar. Please wait for your airplane to be towed inside before deplaning—it’s more secure that way. I assume your tail number is unchanged?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you at the festivities tomorrow night.” They both hung up.

  Stone called Marcel duBois’s office and asked for a large Mercedes van to meet them at Ciampino.

  Stone hung up the phone and found Dino watching him. “You never cease to amaze me,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “You are probably the only American civilian who would have the balls to make that phone call.”

  “You will have noticed that I didn’t ask for anything.”

  “No, you waited for him to offer.”

  “It seemed the polite way to handle it, and as result, your tender body will be protected from attempts by terroristic opportunists.”

  “As will yours and Gala’s.”

  “I can find nothing to object to in that.”

  Dino laughed. “Come to think of it, neither can I.”

  —

  They lifted off Stone’s airfield at mid-afternoon and followed their filed flight plan across Europe, thence to Rome, where they were vectored for landing at Ciampino. As promised, a golf cart bearing a large sign, FOLLOW ME, led them to a large hangar, and the door opened to admit them. A lineman waved them to a stop just outside, then a tug attached itself to the airplane’s nosewheel and towed them into the hangar, where a large black Mercedes van awaited.

  The driver loaded their luggage into the van, then drove them out of the hangar and off the airport to the autostrada for Rome. They drove into the very heart of the city to the hill overlooking the Spanish Steps, past the Hassler Villa Medici hotel and the Trinità dei Monti church to the new Arrington.

  Though the hotel was not yet officially open, they were greeted inside the front door by the general manager, the head bellman, and the director of housekeeping and whisked to the penthouse floor and into one of three presidential suites with a spectacular view of St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance, plus a view of the Medici Gardens from another terrace.

  Vivian Bacchetti awaited them in the living room, and Dino’s bags were whisked into their bedroom, while Stone and Gala were ushered into the presidential bedroom. They left the staff to unpack for them and returned to the large living room, where a waiter was uncorking a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame champagne.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the general manager said, “welcome to the Arrington. Your garments will be pressed and returned to your rooms shortly by way of the service entrance, so that you will not be disturbed.”

  Stone thanked the man, then returned to the champagne, which had been poured into Baccarat flutes. They all drank thirstily.

  “A good flight?” Viv asked.

  “The best kind—an uneventful one,” Stone replied. “And are your security arrangements for the hotel complete?”

  “Didn’t you see all the guards downstairs?”

  “Not a one.”

  “And that’s the way we
at Strategic Services prefer it. It does not reassure guests to have men in black uniforms and body armor waving around automatic weapons. That would cause them to wonder what they are being protected from.”

  “Good point,” Stone said. “What opposition, if any, do you anticipate?”

  “None from the local Mafia. Yours and Dino’s actions of last year have both thinned their ranks and cooled their ardor. We look for generic opposition—protesters and deluded Middle Eastern terrorists wishing to make a name for themselves.”

  “Is that last one a possibility?”

  “Both Italian and American intelligence sources, plus our own people, consider that possibility remote in the extreme. Nevertheless, we have done everything possible to anticipate it. Should anyone have anything to protest—political, environmental, or whatever—we will leave them to the Italian police, who have cleared sufficient cell space to accommodate a large crowd.”

  “I feel safer already,” Stone said. Then the doorbell rang, and Stone’s partner in the Arrington and the company’s CEO, Marcel duBois, swept into the room, hugging, kissing, and shaking hands, and inquiring of their health, their happiness, and any possible desires they might dream up.

  Stone introduced Gala. “We are all well, happy, and most comfortably accommodated, Marcel,” Stone said. “You have outdone yourself.”

  “Thank you, Stone, and let me mention two things. If there is any object or item in this suite that you desire, please steal it and take it home with you. I refer, especially, to the cashmere dressing gowns and slippers, custom-made by the house of Loro Piana, to the measurements you provided.”

  The women oohed and aahed.

  “Does that mean I can take the Bechstein grand piano home with me?” Dino asked.

  “Should you wish it, my good friend, Dino. I will have it airfreighted to your New York apartment, and it will arrive before you do.”

  “Only joking, Marcel,” Dino replied. “I did not doubt your hospitality.”

  “Thank you for the Mercedes van that met us at the airport, Marcel,” Stone said.

  “It will be at your disposal for your entire stay,” Marcel replied, “and it will return you to Ciampino when you really must go.”

  “Marcel, I know how hard you’ve worked to bring off this opening, and I want to thank you sincerely for leaving nothing for me to do.”

  “Stone, your presence, and that of your friends, is all you need provide on this occasion. Now, if there is nothing else I can do for you here, I beg to leave you, for others are more demanding.” He shook their hands again and left.

  “What a charming and generous man,” Gala said when he had gone.

  “And that,” Stone said, “is only your first impression. There is much more to come.”

  21

  They had dinner in their suite that evening, and the following day the women took the van and went shopping, while Stone talked with Joan and a few clients on the phone and Dino administered the NYPD from afar.

  The following morning the new hotel began to fill with its first guests, all of whom had booked months ahead for the occasion. Because so many Los Angeleans had experienced the Bel-Air Arrington, there was a particularly large contingent from the film business, with many faces that Stone recognized but could not necessarily name.

  One fact, though, registered with Stone instantly as he entered the grand ballroom, where dinner was being served: Boris Tirov was sitting at an all-Hollywood table, his eyes locked with Stone’s.

  Stone immediately found Marcel. “At table number eight there is a man to whose presence I object,” he whispered in the Frenchman’s ear. “His name is Boris Tirov.”

  Marcel whipped out a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket and consulted it. “Yes, it is here. Cine International Studios, an Italian company, bought the table months ago, to entertain Hollywood people, and Tirov is their guest. Why do you object to his presence?”

  “He is Gala’s ex-husband, and he has been harassing her since their divorce. Is there any way to get him thrown out of here?”

  “Not without insulting the studio,” Marcel replied. “Instead, I will assign a couple of security people to keep an eye on Tirov and see that he does not disturb you or your lady.”

  “Thank you, Marcel.” Stone returned to table number one and his group. Only Marcel’s seat was empty, and he would join them when he could. From his seat, Stone had a good view of Tirov’s table. He seemed to be trying to attract Gala’s attention.

  “Don’t look at Boris,” Stone said to her. “I’m sorry he’s here, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Security will keep an eye on him, though.”

  “I would not give him the satisfaction of looking that way,” she replied.

  Then the orchestra stopped playing, and the leader came to the microphone. “A very special request to honor a very special lady,” he said, and gave the orchestra a downbeat.

  “Oh, God,” Gala said, keeping her smile fixed. “That’s the theme from Boris’s first film. He always referred to it as ‘our song.’”

  “Just keep looking at me,” Stone said, “and ignore it.”

  “Looking at you is always comforting,” she said.

  —

  Dinner was served, and everyone at table one relaxed, seemingly unaware of Tirov’s presence in the room. Then, as dessert was served, Stone’s eye was caught by movement at the Cine International table. Boris Tirov had got to his feet, and he left the table and began to cross the ballroom, stopping along the way to greet acquaintances. As he neared table number one, Stone got to his feet, then Tirov veered away and headed toward a hallway where the restrooms were. Stone followed him, ignoring Gala’s tugging at his sleeve. It was the first time he and Tirov had been in the same place since the incident at his pool at the Bel-Air Arrington.

  He saw Tirov enter the men’s room and two plainclothes security men take up station outside. Stone walked through the door and found Tirov alone there, zipping his fly and heading for a sink to wash his hands.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Barrington,” he said, glancing at him in the mirror.

  Stone checked his tie in the mirror. “I thought I’d give you an opportunity to take another swing at me while you’re still sober,” he said.

  “And have your security goons all over me?”

  “I’ll see that they don’t interfere.”

  “How did Gala enjoy her visit from the Three Bears?” Tirov asked.

  “How did you enjoy being banned from Centurion Studios, the Bel-Air Country Club, and the Arrington, all on the same day?”

  “I suppose you had a hand in all that?”

  “Actually, I had nothing to do with Centurion and the country club, but I did have the pleasure of seeing you banned from the Bel-Air Arrington, just as you will be banned from this hotel and any other the company should ever open. If you enjoy that sort of thing, I’ll see what other indignities I might be able to inflict on you.”

  Tirov swung around to face him, and suddenly, there was a switchblade in his hand. “I think it’s time to see how you operate without a liver,” he said.

  As Stone squared away to face him he heard the men’s room door open, and a voice called out, “Everything all right in here, Mr. Barrington?”

  Stone thought about that for a moment before answering and decided that he had no wish to bloody a brand-new men’s room, especially with his own blood. “Not quite,” he replied. “There’s a man in here with a knife.”

  Two men with guns entered the room, and Tirov tossed the knife into the hole in the sinktop that led to a trash bin.

  “Gentlemen,” Stone said, “please place this man in handcuffs, then recover the knife and turn both over to the Rome police, as quietly as possible. I think a night or two in a Roman jail would do him a lot of good.”

  The two guards began carrying out Stone’s instruc
tions.

  Tirov managed a sardonic smile. “You and I will discuss this on another occasion,” he said. “Perhaps in the company of Gala.”

  “Gentlemen,” Stone said to the guards, “on second thought, remove the handcuffs and stand away from him, between him and the knife. Oh, and you might frisk him for other weapons.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes, and the two of you can wait outside and make sure no one enters until we’re done here.”

  They patted down Tirov and removed the handcuffs, then left the room.

  “Now,” Stone said, “what would you like to discuss?”

  Tirov came straight at him with a big swing, and Stone managed to catch his wrist and use his momentum against him, throwing him against a urinal. Tirov tried again, and Stone hit him once with a straight left to the nose, then struck him once, hard, under the heart. The man went to his knees, a hand to his face, where blood was flowing.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” Stone asked.

  Tirov said nothing but stayed on his knees.

  Stone went to the door and opened it. “Give him a chance to clean himself up, then throw him out the back door and radio your colleagues at the entrances to see that he doesn’t reenter the premises.”

  Stone walked back to his table and sat down. Dino handed him a napkin. “There’s a little blood on your knuckles,” he said.

  Stone took the napkin and wiped his hand.

  “Anybody I know?” Dino asked.

  “Nope,” Stone replied.

  “How badly did you hurt him?” Gala asked quietly.

  “Not badly enough,” Stone replied. He had a feeling that he was going to have to do it again.

  22

  Stone attended a board meeting of the Arrington corporation the following morning, and it dragged on through lunch.

  Afterward, Marcel took him aside for a moment.

  “I understand there was an altercation in the men’s room during dinner last night.”