Dishonorable Intentions (20 page)

B
oris awoke well after dawn in a groggy state. He wriggled his fingers and toes, then sat up. He was a little thick-headed, but apparently unharmed; he thought he had had an especially vivid dream. The young woman who had fallen asleep next to him, after performing her duties, was gone.

He got up and went into the kitchen for coffee, which his men always prepared for him. There was no coffee, just a half-eaten sandwich on the table. Boris felt a little dizzy and sat down until the feeling passed. He noticed that the kitchen door to the back garden stood open, so he got up and closed it. As he did, he noticed a lump on the back lawn. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision, then went back to the bedroom, got his glasses and put them on.

The lump on the back lawn moved a little, and Boris went
outside to investigate. He prodded it with a toe, and it turned and looked at him. It was Ivan, one of his men.

He sat up and rubbed his face, then got to his feet unsteadily. “Good morning, boss,” he said.

“What is this?” Tirov asked, plucking a dart from the man's back.

“I don't know, boss.”

Tirov pointed the dart at another lump. “Is that Sergei? And Chichi?”

Ivan gazed at the lumps. “Yes, boss.”

Tirov walked over to Sergei and plucked a dart from his neck. He examined the dog and could find no darts, but there was a lump of food on the ground. Both Sergei and the dog stirred.

“Get on your feet, Sergei!” he yelled. “You too, Chichi!”

Both of them struggled to stand. Chichi made it, but Sergei collapsed again. Tirov kicked him hard in the buttocks. “Get up, you ox!” he yelled in Russian. Sergei finally made it to his feet.

“What has happened here?” Tirov demanded. He got no answer from anybody, but as he thought about it, he realized that his vivid dream was no dream. He felt his own neck, found another dart, and yanked it out. “Invaded!” he shouted. “My house has been invaded! Where were you?”

“Unconscious, boss,” Ivan said. “You too?”

“Go inside and make coffee,” Tirov said. “We all need it, Chichi, too.”

—

B
illy Barnett arrived at work at the studio bungalow half an hour early, as usual, and made coffee in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, all the staff were at their desks, most of them drinking his coffee. It was an Italian roast, espresso, and made very strong. Anyone who was not quite awake would be soon.

Billy's direct line rang. “Billy Barnett.”

“Good morning, Billy, it's Stone Barrington.”

“Good morning, Stone.”

“I've had second thoughts about our conversation the other night, Billy, and I don't want you to take that chance.”

“Please hold for a moment, Stone.” He set down the phone, walked around his desk, and closed his office door, then came back and picked up the phone. “It's done,” he said.

“What's done?”

“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.

—

B
oris 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.

B
illy 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.

—

T
irov 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,” Tirov 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.