Dishonorable Intentions

by Stuart Woods

  “He sometimes brags about his friendship with Viktor Petrov,” she said. “Maybe he wasn’t lying.”

  Geoffrey announced that Dame Felicity was on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m told the Russian ambassador to the United States has just held a rather unusual press conference.”

  “Gala and I have just watched it, and we are very nearly speechless.”

  “My people in Moscow actually went to the Russian prosecutor’s office and viewed the arrest warrant. It had not been withdrawn.”

  “I wish I could explain it. Gala says Tirov has bragged about his friendship with Petrov.”

  “My information was that they were estranged. I will correct the record. See you at the weekend?”

  “Of course.” Stone hung up.

  “I wonder what Tirov did for Petrov?” Gala asked. “There must have been something.”

  “I’d certainly like to know,” Stone said.

  —

  In Los Angeles, Howard Fine watched a replay of the press conference in stunned silence. He was going to have to start cultivating Boris Tirov, he reckoned.

  A meeting was convened at Stalwart Studios, which included the CEO, the head of production, and the head of publicity. They watched the tape in silence, then the CEO said, “Anybody have any doubt what our new position on Tirov’s contract is?”

  Heads were shaken.

  “Let’s find Boris a bigger bungalow than we promised,” the CEO said, and the meeting broke up.

  At Spago Beverly Hills, Boris Tirov held court at a center table in the garden. Photographs were taken by an L.A. Times photographer and those of the trade publications.

  Across the garden, the film critic James Towbin switched seats with a companion so that his back was to Boris Tirov.

  “I am so very glad that I sent the Tirov report to the editor before it ran,” he said ruefully. “Otherwise, I’d be looking for a new job.”

  33

  The studio’s Boeing Business Jet, a corporate version of the 737, took off from Van Nuys Airport with nearly a full load, which included a digital film crew of three, two still photographers, the studio’s CEO and head of publicity, three assistant publicists, a Russian translator, the stars of the film, Rod Rambeau and Nathalie Dumont, their personal assistants, her makeup artist and hairdresser, and her personal publicist, Howard Fine, in addition to the airplane’s crew, a relief pilot, three flight attendants, and enough luggage to support a traveling circus. It would be a nonstop flight of some nine hours, with a stiff tailwind, to Moscow Ostafyevo Airport.

  Over Wichita a three-course lunch with four wines was served, then everyone settled in for the long flight. Rambeau and Dumont each occupied a small suite of four facing luxurious chairs; Nathalie shared hers only with Howard Fine, who dozed off almost immediately after dessert.

  Shortly, the studio head of publicity, George Hammond, approached Nathalie. “Nathalie,” he said, “Mr. Milestone would be very pleased if you would join him in his suite.” Marvin Milestone, the studio’s CEO, occupied an enclosed area that looked more like the living room in a small but luxurious apartment. As she rose from her seat, Nathalie wondered if a pass were in the offing. She was dressed in a Chanel suit and affected a cool, businesslike mien for this invitation. To her relief, Hammond, after opening the door for her, followed her inside.

  Marvin Milestone, a tall, elegantly dressed and barbered man with a face made florid by an unceasing flow of alcohol, rose to meet her and shook her hand. They had met half a dozen times socially, once at his home, but never at a business meeting.

  “Come in, Nathalie, and make yourself comfortable,” he said.

  Nathalie chose a large chair facing his and sat down, demurely crossing her legs. “George,” Milestone said to Hammond, “why don’t you go and check on the film crew?”

  Nathalie’s heart sank; it was going to be a pass.

  “Nathalie,” Milestone said when Hammond had gone, “I saw the final cut of the film yesterday, and I want to tell you how delighted I am with the quality of the film and with your delightful performance.”

  “Thank you, Marvin,” Nathalie replied with an appreciative smile.

  “As you can tell by the load this airplane is carrying, we are taking Moscow and the Russian Federation very seriously as a future market for our films. This is the first time we have made a major effort in that country, with a gala premiere, followed by a large seated dinner and a ball, and an all-out publicity effort, akin to what we might do for a Radio City Music Hall opening.”

  “I’m delighted to be a part of it,” Nathalie said.

  “And I was delighted to hear that Howard Fine, through means I can only imagine, has arranged for you to be invited to dinner by President Viktor Petrov. That Howard is really something, isn’t he?”

  “He certainly is.”

  “Have you met Viktor Petrov before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I know him fairly well, and I thought it might be a good idea to prepare you a little for your dinner with him.”

  “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. Prepare her?

  “You’ll find him—how shall I say?—gregarious. He can be quite warm-natured, especially after a few vodkas. My advice to you is, don’t try to keep up with him in the drinks department—you’ll want to keep your wits about you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Viktor has quite a reputation with the ladies. I understand that many of them have found him to be a charmer.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Nathalie, I recall from reading your contract that this is the first film in which you have had profits participation.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Two gross points, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and I’m very pleased about that.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy. My point is, if this junket goes the way we hope it will, we anticipate that ticket sales in the Russian Federation could add as much as twenty-five million dollars to this picture’s gross, perhaps even more. That would mean a very large contribution to your bank account, in addition to other worldwide income, of course.”

  “That’s certainly good news.”

  “Of course, that goal can only be achieved if we make a complete success of our publicity effort.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that. I just wanted you to understand that you have an important personal stake in making your dinner with Viktor Petrov a complete success.”

  Nathalie wondered what making the dinner a “complete success” would entail.

  “I’ve no doubt that Viktor will find you extremely alluring.”

  Nathalie thought that she now knew where this was headed. Milestone did not leave her in doubt.

  “If his reputation is to be believed, he will expect his attentions to be received warmly. Do you understand?”

  “I think I’m beginning to.”

  “Not that this would have to be unpleasant. The man does have a reputation for pleasing women.”

  “Ah.”

  “I would never ask you to sleep with the man—unless your heart were in it,” Milestone said. “But I did want you to understand what is at stake for you, personally.”

  “You’ve made that very clear,” Nathalie said.

  “And I hope my candor has not offended you.”

  “I appreciate your frankness,” she replied.

  “One other thing. Petrov also has a reputation for making things difficult for those who disappoint him. I mean, we could suddenly find that the fire department has shut down our theater for the premiere, or there could be a catering disaster for our dinner afterward, or the print for our showing could be ‘misplaced.’ It could be very unpleasant for us and wreck our plans for making this film
a hit in Russia.”

  “I see your point.”

  “I’m so glad.” He rose. “Now, I expect you’d like to get some sleep, in order to arrive in Moscow fresh. I understand there will be photographers at the airport and at the hotel. The news of your dinner with the president has piqued the interest of the Moscow public.” He shook her hand and opened the cabin door for her.

  Nathalie fixed a smile on her face and returned to her seat. Howard Fine was snoring gently by now. She retrieved her handbag and fished out her iPhone.

  “How did your meeting with Marvin go?”

  She looked up to see George Hammond standing there, smiling.

  “Very well, George,” she replied.

  “I’m delighted to hear it. Marvin just loved the movie, and he is a very perceptive man. It’s good for you to know his thinking.”

  “I expect so,” she replied.

  “Well, I’ll let you get a nap in. I’ll ask your makeup girl to freshen you a bit before we disembark.”

  “Thank you, George.” He went farther up the aisle.

  Nathalie fired up her iPhone and tapped the calculator app. She wanted to know what two percent of twenty-five million dollars came to. She was pleasantly surprised.

  34

  Stone and Gala received Felicity Devonshire in the library on Friday evening. It was raining outside, and she entered shaking water from her luxuriant red hair.

  “My goodness,” Felicity said, “you’d think we were in England.”

  “I like England in the rain,” Stone said.

  “Ah, that’s the secret for an American to feel at home in this country—he has to learn to enjoy the rainy days. Of course, it doesn’t matter if a man’s hair gets wet.”

  “Your hair looks lovely,” Gala said. “Even wet.”

  Geoffrey brought her a brandy and soda, she raised it to her hosts, and they all drank. “Now,” Felicity said, “more information has come my way about our recent lack of success in dealing with your Russian acquaintance.”

  Gala looked at Stone. “I knew you were mixed up in that business, but, Felicity, I had no idea you were.”

  “I was merely a supplier of commonly held information,” she replied. “Nothing that might fall under the Official Secrets Act.” She looked around. “Stone, are there any recording devices present in your home?”

  “There are none,” Stone said firmly. “Neither audio nor visual.”

  “Thank God for that,” she said. “I really should have inquired earlier, but I trusted you.”

  “I hope you still do.”

  “I do, and you, too, Gala, that’s why I can continue to speak about this without fear of disclosure. This information, if inference were taken to the extreme, would most certainly fall under the Act, and neither of you must ever say to anyone what I am about to say to you.”

  “Understood,” Stone replied, and Gala nodded.

  Geoffrey entered the room. “Dinner is ready to be served whenever you wish.”

  “Give us a few minutes, please, Geoffrey.”

  Geoffrey closed the door behind him.

  Felicity waited a moment, then continued. “I now know how your Russian acquaintance wriggled out of his deportation order.”

  “I would certainly be interested in knowing that,” Stone said.

  “Information, from a source I cannot disclose, has made me aware that, earlier this week, a telephone conversation took place between himself and a very high Russian official.”

  “I thought there was supposed to be an estrangement between them,” Stone said.

  “Apparently, the relationship warmed just enough for your acquaintance to plead for the disappearance of the record of the charge against him.”

  “Ah.”

  “Which raises the question—what did the official require of him in return?”

  “I have a feeling you are going to tell us,” Stone said.

  Felicity smiled a foxy smile. “I am. The official asked if his former friend were acquainted with a certain Hollywood actress, whose new film is premiering in Moscow tomorrow evening. When he replied in the affirmative, the official requested that he arrange for the actress to join him in his quarters for dinner. Apparently, your acquaintance was able to secure the woman for that purpose.”

  “I know who the actress is,” Gala said. “I read in one of the trades online that the female star is Nathalie Dumont, who is a friend of mine.”

  “You are correct,” Felicity replied. “Is she likely to accept such an obvious setup?”

  “Not to help Boris, she isn’t—she despises him.”

  “Then perhaps he worked through a third party—someone at her studio?” Stone suggested.

  “That makes sense—it’s the sort of thing Boris would think of.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Felicity pointed out. “And I’m dying to know. Would Ms. Dumont be agreeable to the assignation?”

  Gala thought about that. “Not as a matter of course, I think, but if there were something important in it for her, then probably.”

  “Oh good!” Felicity cried, clapping her hands. “It’s not often I get something this juicy crossing my desk.”

  “Suppose,” Stone said, “that Ms. Dumont learned of the origin of the request?”

  “She would not react well if she knew that it was Boris who desired it. In fact, I think she would take pleasure in refusing, if she thought it might cause him difficulties.”

  “Are you in touch with her?”

  “I have her cell number,” Gala replied. “Do you think it would work in Moscow?”

  “They seem to work everywhere these days,” Felicity said.

  Gala reached into her bag for her phone. “What should I say to her?”

  “Just that the dinner was arranged surreptitiously through Tirov, and that he’s getting something important in return.”

  “All right.” Gala went to her contacts and pressed the button. She turned on the speakerphone.

  The number rang a few times, then a robovoice message played. Gala shrugged. “Nathalie, it’s Gala. When you get this, please give me a call.” She hung up and looked at her watch. “Felicity, did you say that the assignation was for tonight?”

  “That was my information.”

  “It’s an hour or two later in Moscow.”

  “Three hours later.”

  “Then she’s probably at the Kremlin right now.”

  “Oh, well, there goes her virtue,” Felicity said, “in a manner of speaking.”

  —

  As they were going upstairs after dinner, Gala leaned close to Stone. “What was all that business about the Official Secrets Act?”

  “It would seem,” Stone said quietly, “that MI6 has somehow placed a recording device either in President Petrov’s office or on his phone lines. Or both.”

  “Oh.”

  35

  Nathalie Dumond stood in front of a three-way mirror in her hotel suite and gazed at herself in the dress she had chosen. He hair was piled high upon her head, and her dress was tight and strapless, exposing breasts of which she was proud, since they were her own and very beautiful. Her heels were high, bringing her total height to five feet, ten inches. Her only piece of jewelry was a choker of large diamonds, a relic of a former relationship with a billionaire boyfriend. She draped a black mink cape around her shoulders and secured it at the throat with a jeweled clasp. Perfection.

  Her doorbell rang, and she opened it to find Howard Fine waiting for her. “I’ll walk you down to the car,” he said.

  “Thank you, Howard.”

  They emerged from the elevator to find a brigade of TV cameramen and flash photographers lining a red carpet that had been laid from the lift to the curb outside, where awaited a large limousine of a type Nathalie had never seen before.

&nb
sp; “It’s a ZIL,” Howard said to her. “No high-up Russian would be seen in anything else.”

  The hotel doorman held open the car door, and Nathalie got in and arranged herself on the plush velvet seat. Howard leaned in and said, “Knock ’im dead,” and closed the door.

  The car pulled smoothly away, and the cabin was nearly silent. The ZIL drove directly across Red Square, in a blatant contravention of the traffic rules, and drove up an ornate ramp and into the Kremlin itself, and thence to an entranceway guarded by two tightly uniformed soldiers. A man in a black suit emerged from the building, held open the car door, and assisted her. She took the proffered arm and was escorted into a marble hallway and after a short walk, into an elevator. The man pressed a button, then left the car. “You will be met,” he said.

  The elevator rose to the top floor, and when the doors opened, the president of the Russian Federation, Viktor Petrov, stood waiting for her, encased in a finely tailored tuxedo. He was an imposing man of about fifty, perhaps six-two or -three, and more than two hundred pounds of firm muscle. His hair was iron gray, cut in a short military style. He made a good first impression.

  “Good evening, and welcome to my home,” Petrov said in lightly accented English. “I hope your drive here was not too tiring.”

  She laughed; the ride had been less than three minutes, and she had not expected him to be funny. “Hardly, and I’m very pleased to be here, Mr. President.”

  He offered her an arm and guided her into a large library of dark wood, gilt, and many leather-bound volumes. A small sofa awaited them, with a table set before it with vodka, other liquids, a mound of Beluga caviar, running to about a kilogram, she reckoned, with chopped onion and other condiments set beside it. He sat her down. “What do you wish to drink?”

  “Vodka, please.”

  “He poured them both a glass from a frosty bottle and sat down beside her, thigh to thigh. “May I serve you caviar?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  He spooned a heap onto a crystal dish, added condiments and a small spoon, no blinis or biscuits. They raised their glasses and drained them, then dug into the caviar.