Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

pulled out a map. “It’s right here where Pico Boulevard meets the beach.”
    Teddy drove to the hotel, which was beautiful and across the road from the beach. He checked into a suite, unpacked, and called the concierge to arrange a massage.
    •   •   •
    Pete Genaro’s phone rang. “Genaro.”
    “It’s Vinnie,” a man’s voice said.
    “Where did he go?”
    “I checked, but he didn’t file a flight plan—just took off. He could be anywhere.”
    “Okay,” Genaro said. He hung up and tapped in a number.
    “This is Charmaine.”
    “Did you find out where Mr. Burnett was headed?”
    “I asked him where he lived, but he avoided answering. He did say he would be in and out of L.A. for a while. I asked him for a phone number, but he gave me the same cell number you have.”
    “Yeah, I ran that. It was a throwaway.”
    “I didn’t feel that I could push him any further.”
    “You got any plans for one of your L.A. trips?”
    “I could go whenever you like.”
    “Give him a couple of days, then call him and tell him you’re coming into town. I want to know more about this guy. I watched him on the cameras, and he’s one hell of a poker player. I had the impression that he could have walked away with a lot more of our money if he’d put his mind to it.”
    “I’ll give him a call, then.”
    •   •   •
    The following morning in Paris a phone rang in an office building, and Majorov answered. “Yes?”
    “It’s Andrei. I’ve been through all the GPS tracking tapes.”
    “And what did you learn?”
    “We lost Ivan and Yevgeny at a little town called Mesa Grande, in New Mexico,” the man said.
    “What do you mean, ‘lost them’?”
    “I mean that, as far as GPS is concerned, they vanished into thin air.”
    “You mean they removed the tracker from their car?”
    “I don’t know, maybe it failed. They stopped in the town, maybe for petrol, then the recording shows they left the main road and drove into the desert a few hundred feet, then the signal was lost. I had a look at the satellite map, and there is nothing there.”
    “What do you mean, ‘nothing there’?”
    “The town has maybe half a dozen buildings, mostly on the highway. Where the signal disappeared, there is nothing but desert.”
    “What about the Cayenne?”
    “It was in Mesa Grande overnight, then continued to Los Angeles. It has been on the grounds of The Arrington for two days, hasn’t moved, but I can’t find the car by satellite.”
    “Could they have removed the tracker from the car?”
    “It’s possible, but it’s unlikely that they would find it, unless they were looking for it. It would have been placed in a wheel well.”
    “I want Ivan and Yevgeny found,” Majorov said. “What’s the nearest place we have somebody?”
    “Phoenix, Arizona. We could have somebody there tomorrow morning. He could fly into Gallup, which is only a few kilometers from Mesa Grande.”
    “Do it,” Majorov said. “I want to get to the bottom of this.”
    “It will be done.”

Stone, Mike, and Dino played golf at the Bel-Air Country Club, where Mike was a member, and later, at the bar, Stone raised the subject of Billy Burnett.
    “Peter told me this story about losing a tire in New Mexico, and the guy who replaced it for him.” He related the whole event to Mike, who had not been present at the time.
    “So what troubles you about that?” Mike asked.
    “It troubles me that some very smart gas pump jockey in New Mexico knows me, or at least knows who I am.”
    “You’re a famous guy, Stone,” Dino said, with more than a tinge of irony. “Or maybe infamous is a better word.”
    “Okay, there are a few square blocks of New York City where my name might be familiar, but . . .”
    “Maybe they read
Vanity Fair
in New Mexico,” Dino said. There had been an article about Arrington’s death in that magazine. “Or maybe he read that journalist’s book about you and Arrington.”
    “I’m sorry, but that just doesn’t make any sense,” Stone said.
    “What are you thinking, Stone?” Mike asked. “Do you have a hypothesis?”
    “A very shaky one,” Stone replied. “I’m wondering if the guy could be Teddy Fay.”
    The other two men regarded him silently for a moment.
    “So,” Mike said slowly, “you think that the CIA’s number one fugitive, who hasn’t been heard of for a couple of years, moved to New Mexico, just in time to change Peter’s tire for him? Or do you think that