Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

entered the four-digit code.
    •   •   •
    “Igor!” the young man cried. It was nearly seven PM , and he was still watching the screen. “The airplane is back! It looks like it’s landing in Santa Monica!”
    “Okay,” Igor said. “I’m going home to pack. I’ll head to L.A. tomorrow morning.”

Yuri Majorov’s Gulfstream landed at McCarran International in Las Vegas, and a waiting Rolls swept him to his hotel. Once in his enormous suite, he called Igor’s cell number.
    “Welcome to the United States,” Igor said upon answering. “Are you in Las Vegas?”
    “Yes. Have you found this Billy Burnett?”
    “I’ve learned where he parks his airplane,” Igor said. “At Santa Monica Airport. I’m there now. He must have hangar space, though, because his airplane is not on any ramp—I’ve checked every one. Don’t worry, though, I’ll find him.”
    “I want him in Las Vegas within forty-eight hours,” Majorov said.
    “Voluntarily or not?”
    “I’ll leave that to your judgment. Just get him here.” Majorov hung up and began to undress for the shower. As he was about to turn on the water, the phone rang and he picked up the bathroom extension. “Yes?”
    “Good evening, Mr. Majorov, this is Pete Genaro. Welcome to our inn. Is everything all right with your suite?”
    “Yes, it’s fine, thank you, Mr. Genaro.”
    “May I arrange some company for you this evening?”
    “Late this evening. I’m going to play some poker after dinner.”
    “Of course. I’ll see to it.”
    Majorov hung up and got into the shower.
    •   •   •
    Pete Genaro hung up in a sweat. He was accustomed to dealing with VIPs, but Majorov scared him. The man was a big stockholder in the hotel and casino and demanding in a cold, steely way. He was accustomed to having exactly what he wanted, and to deny him anything was to incur his icy wrath. He called his wrangler and arranged for the most beautiful girl in his stable to be at the poker table when Majorov tired of playing.
    •   •   •
    Igor had spent the entire afternoon at Santa Monica Airport. It was a small field, but still there were a lot of airplanes parked there and a lot of places for them to park. He had worked his way through the lot of them, until finally he came to the last: Cloverfield Aviation. It was small and a little seedy. He opened the door and walked in to find a lad of no more than eighteen behind the desk, reading a girlie magazine.
    “Hi, there,” Igor said.
    The boy dropped his magazine and set an airport directory on top of it. “Yessir?”
    “I’m looking for a friend of mine, and I think he hangars his airplane with you. His name is Billy Burnett.”
    “What kind of airplane is it?”
    “A JetPROP, like a Malibu, with a turbine engine. His tail number is N123TF.”
    “Oh, yessir, he parks here. He got in less than an hour ago.”
    “Have you got an address for him? I want to look him up while I’m in town.”
    The boy flipped through a loose-leaf notebook. “Looks like all we’ve got is a phone number,” he said. He wrote it down on a slip of paper and handed it to Igor.
    Igor looked at the number: it was the one he’d called from Mesa Grande, now disconnected. “Is this the only information you have on him?”
    “Yessir, that’s it.”
    “Do you know where he’s staying?”
    “No, sir, I don’t.”
    “Thanks very much,” Igor said, and left. He wadded up the slip of paper and threw it into a waste bin on the way out the door. The hangar door was open a couple of feet, and he walked in and looked around. The JetPROP was there, dripping water from having been washed. Igor walked around the airplane, inspecting it carefully. He stopped at an inspection panel on the right side rear of the airplane and read the placard. The emergency locator transmitter was housed there. He opened his briefcase, took out a Leatherman tool and selected the proper screwdriver blade, then unscrewed the inspection hatch and took a GPS locator from his briefcase, along with a Velcro patch, and affixed it inside the panel, but out of sight. He switched on the unit, then walked a few steps away, got out his laptop, and checked the reception. It was working fine.
    He got into his rental car and drove to his hotel on Santa Monica Beach, the one called Shutters. As he entered the front door he nearly bumped into a couple walking across the lobby toward the restaurant, a middle-aged man and a younger, blonde woman.