Dishonorable Intentions

by Stuart Woods

  He did so. “You know, I had a call from the tourist office an hour ago. They were worried about something exactly like this.”

  “Don’t worry, the tourists will be flocking to the ranch when they read that.”

  “What are your sources for all of this?”

  “The Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office, members of the cast and crew of the movie, employees of La Fonda, the snake wrangler, and for the part about the rattlesnake in Gala Wilde’s bedroom, a source who prefers to remain anonymous. And the quotes from Boris Tirov are, word for word, from my notes. And I recorded them.” She held up a tiny digital recorder and pressed a button. “Let me set you straight, you fucking little bitch,” Tirov was saying. “It’s a solid piece,” she said.

  “I don’t like using anonymous sources.”

  “Who does? But when it’s a choice between getting a front-page story while keeping someone’s name out of it and not getting the story at all, which way do you come down?”

  He threw up his hands.

  “I come down on the front page,” she said. “Every time.”

  “Okay, okay, we’ll run it tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Chuck. Stop by anytime.” He had been stopping by her place in the evenings a couple of times a week for the past six months, and she wanted him to know that he could continue to do so.

  —

  The following morning, breakfast was delivered to Boris Tirov’s suite at seven AM, and the tray set on his lap as he sat up in bed. The Santa Fe paper was placed on the tray with the headline in plain view, upper right-hand corner of the front page. He grabbed the paper and read it, continued on page 3, then he threw it across the room, spilling his orange juice in the effort. Tirov began screaming in Russian.

  —

  Stone Barrington, Gala Wilde, and Billy Barnett sat at the breakfast table while Stone read the New Mexican piece aloud. Gala’s face was buried in her hands. “Oh, God,” she said, “Boris is going to explode now.”

  “Tell me,” Stone said, “is the anonymous source anyone in this room?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Billy said, buttering his English muffin.

  “I’m going to have to go around armed, now,” Stone said.

  “I think, perhaps, my work here is done,” Billy said.

  “You mean you’re just going to light the fuse, then fly back to L.A.?”

  “I’ll stay on, if that’s what you want, but I think my boss back at Centurion, who happens to be your son, would like me back soon. He expects to use his airplane this weekend, to fly up to their place in Carmel.”

  “Give me one more day, if you can.”

  “All right. How do you want to handle this?”

  “I will place myself entirely in your hands, Billy. What would you like me to do?”

  “I’d like you to have dinner and go to bed,” Billy replied.

  “Without you?”

  “I may be feeling a bit dyspeptic this evening.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t we send Gala over to her sister’s for dinner tonight, then you and I can sort of hang around here.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Billy said. “Why don’t you both go over to the Eagle place and have dinner? I think it would be much better if you were not here this evening—and could prove it.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Gala said.

  “Gala,” Stone replied, “I’d be grateful if you would remember that you’re not hearing anything at all.”

  “Suddenly, I’m deaf?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to be in another room while Billy and I have this discussion.”

  “I think I’m going to go and have a long soak in a hot tub.”

  “What a good idea,” Stone said.

  After breakfast, Stone drove out to the airport, asked which hangar his airplane was in, then drove to it. He unlocked the forward luggage compartment, removed a small leather case, and tossed it into the car.

  Back at Gala’s house, he went to the study, unlocked the little case and removed a startlingly small .45 pistol, reduced from 39 ounces to 21 by its maker, Terry Tussey. He threaded the holster and a magazine case onto his belt, shoved another magazine into the pistol, and holstered it. He reflected that he should have felt safer, but he didn’t.

  55

  Boris Tirov was back on his set on time that morning, and he made a special effort to be affable with everyone and charming to the more important members of the cast and crew. He settled into his on-set chair a few minutes before shooting and called his L.A. attorney.

  “Good morning, Boris,” the man said, sounding weary.

  “Good morning, Kim. I’d like you to file a lawsuit today.”

  “Who are we suing this time?”

  “A newspaper called the Santa Fe New Mexican, a reporter named Christy Mayson and her editor, whoever that is.”

  “And what are we suing for?”

  “Libel.”

  “Boris, I’ve explained American law on this subject to you more than once. We will have to prove actual malice to win. Are you personally acquainted with this reporter?”

  “Yes, I met her yesterday when she came to the set to interview me.”

  “Do you have a sexual relationship with her?”

  “No, but that’s not a bad idea.”

  “And I assume that you don’t know her editor, since you can’t come up with his name.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “It’s going to be, practically speaking, impossible to prove actual malice on the part of two professional people, one of whom you just met and the other, you don’t know at all. Are the allegations they made about you true?”

  “Get on the Internet, go to the paper’s website, and read the article,” Tirov said. “Call me when you’ve filed the suit.”

  “I’m not licensed to practice in New Mexico. I’ll have to find a local attorney to bring the suit.”

  “Then do it.” Tirov hung up.

  —

  Kim Kopchinsky found the newspaper article and read it. He found it plausible that two attempts had been made on Tirov’s life—he had often been tempted himself, but the man did pay his legal bills on time. The part about putting a rattlesnake in his ex-wife’s bedroom did not seem too far-fetched, given his previous experience with his client during the divorce proceedings, and the part about having another rattlesnake put in his client’s bed seemed just, if not legal. He called Tirov back.

  “Yeah?”

  “Boris, I’ve read the newspaper article, and I’ve noticed that both the Santa Fe sheriff and hotel employees have been cited as sources. There is one anonymous source, for the part about the rattlesnake in your wife’s bedroom, but having witnessed your behavior during the divorce, I find it completely plausible that you would do such a thing. Now, it’s one thing to represent you in career and divorce negotiations, but it’s quite another to file a frivolous lawsuit against a reputable newspaper, and I am unwilling to sully the good name of this law firm by being a party to such an idiotic proceeding.”

  “Are you willing to be fired right now?”

  “I’d be proud to be fired by you, Boris. I might even take out an ad, bragging about it. Go fuck yourself.” Kopchinsky hung up the phone, feeling unaccountably clean.

  Boris could feel his blood pressure going up. He got out of his chair and walked into the street, headed for the armorer’s trailer at one end. He walked up to the open window through which the man issued and accepted firearms.

  “Morning, Mr. Tirov,” the man drawled. “What can I do you for?”

  “Good morning, Frog. Give me a shotgun,” Tirov said.

  “What kind did you have in mind?”

  “What do you mean, what kind?”

  “I’ve got twelve- and ten-gauges, both antiq
ues, with open hammers. That do you?”

  “How about something sawed off?”

  The man disappeared into his trailer and came back with a weapon sporting about eight inches of barrel. “How ’bout this ’un?”

  “Fine. Give me a box of ammo.”

  “All we got is blanks.”

  “I want a box of live ammo for that shotgun.”

  “Coupla things, Mr. Tirov. First of all, you load this weapon with live ammo, and you’re breaking the law. It’s a felony to possess a shotgun with a barrel shorter than eighteen inches.”

  “Then how come you’ve got one?”

  “This ain’t a shotgun, it’s a prop, unless you load it with live shells. Second thing is, this place ain’t a firing range, it’s a prop business, and we don’t stock no live ammo—at all, for any weapon. I’ve already been accused of issuing live rounds to whoever shot you, and I didn’t like it much.”

  “You’re fired,” Tirov said. “Get your ass off my set.”

  “Tell you what, you round up the thirty-four folks I’ve issued firearms to and tell ’em to bring their weapons down here, and when they’ve done that and checked ’em in, I’ll get my ass off your set. Then I’ll call my union rep and my lawyer, and this shoot will be shut down before the sun sets. Oh, and good luck staging all them shoot-outs in the script without no weapons. You’ll have to find somebody in L.A. who will replace mine.”

  Boris stared at him for a long moment, trembling with rage, then he swallowed it and said, “Sorry about that. Carry on.”

  “Yessir, I’ll do that, because I signed a contract, but don’t you bother calling on me for work in the future.”

  Boris turned and walked away, seething. His internal rage gauge was threatening to blow its top off, and he had to relieve the pressure. There was only one way to do that.

  56

  Gala knew as well as Stone and Billy that Boris was coming for her, and probably for Stone as well. Boris didn’t know Billy, of course, or he would be coming for him, too.

  There were times when she still regretted the divorce. She had loved Boris, when he was in good temper, and the sex had been just fabulous. She still sometimes woke up in the night in the middle of a dream about Boris, and turned to Stone, who was always willing, for release.

  Twice since the divorce, she had succumbed to Boris; if he walked into the house right now she would be unable to trust herself with him. Many times they had fucked on the kitchen island in this house, because they couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom. It made her wet just thinking about it.

  Stone came into the kitchen, where she was sitting in front of the fire, and made them both a drink.

  “This thing is coming to a head, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “That’s up to Boris,” he replied.

  “I think the newspaper article will be enough to set him off. He reaches a point where he’s so angry that he can no longer control himself. He appears to be cool and calm when he’s actually boiling inside. He becomes more, not less, calculating, and eventually, more violent. He told me that once, when in that state, he killed a man with a steak knife in the middle of a restaurant, then sat back down and finished his steak. That was in Russia, when he was still under Petrov’s protection and he could do whatever he wanted.”

  “He’s not in Russia anymore,” Stone pointed out, “and there’s no Petrov here to protect him.”

  Billy came into the kitchen and sat down.

  “Can I get you a drink, Billy?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’m going to fly back to L.A. tonight. Peter needs the airplane tomorrow morning. My bags are already in the car. I just wanted to thank you both for your hospitality. You’ve made me very comfortable here.”

  “You must come back and bring your wife whenever you can, Billy,” Gala said. “You’ll always be welcome.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Gala, we’ll take you up on it one of these days.” He turned toward Stone. “You going to be okay here on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Stone replied. “You’ve been just great, Billy, and I appreciate everything you’ve done.” The two men shook hands, and Billy left.

  “I don’t understand,” Gala said. “What is Billy doing?”

  Stone turned to her. “Here’s how it goes. Billy needed a break from work,” he said. “You invited him to visit Santa Fe and stay at your house. He was a quiet houseguest, read a lot and took walks. Sometimes he went into Santa Fe to take a look at the town. He was polite and charming, and you were happy to have him. Tonight, he left the house, went to the airport, and flew back to Los Angeles. Those are the things you need to remember—just those things. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, whatever you say.”

  “Now, let’s have some dinner and go to bed.”

  —

  Billy drove out the front gate, then pulled over to the side of the road, got out his phone and called Landmark Aviation. “This is Billy Barnett. I’m in a Citation Mustang, which is in your hangar.”

  “Yes, Mr. Barnett, what can we do for you?”

  “How late are you open?”

  “Until nine PM.”

  “Please pull my airplane out of the hangar, top it off—Jet A, negative Prist—and leave it on the ramp for my late departure. Charge the fuel to my credit card on file.”

  “Of course. What time will you be departing?”

  “As soon as I can get there.”

  “We’ll have it ready for you, Mr. Barnett.” She hung up.

  Billy drove down a side street off Tesuque Village Road and worked his way around until he was behind Gala’s house. He left the car in a side road, climbed over the fence, and walked toward the rear of the house. He stopped, checked his weapon, then climbed into a tree that gave him a good view from about twelve feet up. Then he made himself as comfortable as possible, braced between two limbs.

  Billy was a patient man and, when he chose to be, a still one. He did not move for insects or noises in the night, nor to scratch himself when he itched. He closed his eyes and let his imagination wander; he sometimes had good ideas when he did that. All he had to do was wait, and he was good at waiting.

  —

  Stone and Gala finished their dinner and did the dishes together. Stone took Bob out for a brief walk, and when the dog had done his duty, went back inside.

  Gala was already in bed when Stone got back, and she held out a hand. She wanted him.

  He undressed, switched off the lights, and got into bed. She was ready for him, and they turned their attention to each other, pleasing each other slowly. When they were sated, she said, “I’ve been such a fool.”

  “Why? That’s such an odd thing to say.”

  “Oh, never mind. Go to sleep. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  Soon, he went to sleep.

  57

  Boris got into his car and drove around for a while, looking forward to his approaching task.

  When it was done, he’d take Gala back—no, he’d summon her, and she would come. He was sure of that. He hoped he’d have enough time with Stone Barrington before he died, so that he could reveal, under torture, the identity of the man he had sent to frighten him into staying away. He would reserve special treatment for that man.

  He had no doubt that his plan for the night would work, but he had brought along the weapon that Sergei had supplied to him, with its very effective silencer.

  He wished he could call Viktor Petrov and tell him about his plans, as he had done when they were fast friends years ago. Viktor had loved hearing his plans, then reading the investigative reports of the beatings and killings to see how the details matched. Sometimes Viktor had insisted that Boris recite them to him over drinks, followed by sex with two or more women.

  After he had summoned Gala once more, he would give her everything she loved, then shoot
her in the head with Barrington’s gun. He smiled at the thought.

  It would be nice to get back to work on his movie, but then he remembered something: he had one more killing to look forward to before he could enjoy the film: the reporter Christy Mayson, at the New Mexican, would receive a visit from him. The fact that she hated him made the thought even more entertaining.

  Later, when his film was done shooting and he had returned to L.A., he had others to attend to: that twerp who ran the admissions committee at the country club; Leo Goldman, at Centurion, and maybe Bacchetti, the new head of production there, too. Then there was Barrington’s kid, the director, just for the hell of it. He would be a busy man for a while.

  He parked for a while on Upper Canyon Road, to enjoy the view of the city’s lights; he even dozed for a while. Then he awoke and found it to be a little after one AM. Time to go.

  —

  Billy Barnett stirred in his tree; there was a scuffling and growling sound coming from the bushes near his hideout, then there was a high bark and more scuffling. It was the coyotes or other animals, come for the snake’s carcass that Billy had left for them. From the inside of the house he heard Bob bark.

  Stone sat up in bed. “What is it, Bob?”

  Bob growled, then went to the door and looked outside, toward the noises. “It’s only coyotes, Bob,” Stone said quietly. “Get in your bed.” Bob reluctantly returned to his bed and put his head down. The coyotes were quiet now.

  Stone searched for sleep again and found it.

  Boris Tirov checked his weapon, abandoned his car, and headed for the rear fence of Gala’s house. Conscious of the dog’s presence in the house, he got over the fence very quietly.

  Billy Barnett opened his eyes. It was time; someone was nearing the rear of the house. He watched without moving.

  Billy Barnett could see Tirov from where he sat, and he knew what would come next. He watched as the man picked the lock on the kitchen door, then stood by the door.

  Billy let himself down gently from the tree. He wanted to be at the open back door when Stone emerged from the bedroom, as Tirov no doubt wished him to. It was Billy’s hope that Stone would have an opportunity to shoot Tirov, instead of requiring himself as backup. He was certainly prepared to kill Tirov if it became necessary, but then he would have to leave his own weapon at the scene for the police to take from Stone, and he liked the weapon.