Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

case, I’ve never heard of him.”
    “Some time back, maybe a couple of months ago, there was a big brouhaha in New York—a woman was kidnapped by some members of the Russian Mafia, and some of our people, along with some CIA people, tracked her to Brooklyn, in the area known as Little Russia. She was freed after a big shoot-out that included a couple of helicopters, one of them, apparently, operated by the Russian Mob. This fellow Majorov was said to have been aboard that one, and it was shot down, but his body was never recovered.”
    “How can I help you, Director?”
    “I have some information that says that Yuri Majorov is a guest in a hotel in Vegas called the New Desert Inn. I assume you know it.”
    “Yes.”
    “Word is, Majorov has been there for a couple of weeks.”
    “What would you like me to do about it, Director? Do we have enough for an arrest warrant?”
    “No, I don’t think we do, so don’t go over there with a SWAT team. I’d like you to visit the hotel and ask, politely, to speak with Mr. Majorov. If you find him there, question him on what he’s doing in the country. You might check, first, to see if he entered the country legally. If he didn’t, then you can turn him over to Immigration and Naturalization. If he’s in the country legally, then just make him uncomfortable about being here and get as much information from him as you can.”
    “Yes, sir, I’ll get right on that.”
    “Thank you, Arch. Let me know what you find out.” Kerry hung up and forgot about Yuri Majorov.
    •   •   •
    Archibald Carney buzzed his assistant. “Check the last thirty days with Immigration and see if somebody named Yuri Majorov entered the country legally, then send me two agents—whoever’s looking idle.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Three minutes later his assistant buzzed back. “A Yuri Majorov entered the country legally at JFK in New York twelve days ago.” Carney thanked him. Two special agents appeared in his office. He explained what he knew, and the source of his information. “Go over to the New Desert Inn. If Majorov is there, brace him politely and find out why. He’s apparently Russian Mob, so try and make him feel that he might be happier in Moscow.”
    •   •   •
    The two special agents, Morris and Thomas, presented themselves at the front desk at the New Desert Inn, flashed their badges, and asked for the manager.
    “How can I help you, agents?” the man asked.
    “Do you have a Russian citizen named Yuri Majorov registered here?”
    “I’ll check,” the manager said. He turned to a computer terminal and sent an e-mail to Pete Genaro:
Two FBI at front desk, asking for Majorov. What do?
A moment later, a message came back:
Send them up, then inform the guest that they are coming
.
    The manager turned back to the agents. “Yes, Mr. Majorov is registered here. He’s in suite 1530, top floor. The elevator is to your left.” He watched them walk away, then called 1530.
    “Yes? What you want?”
    “Please tell Mr. Majorov that the FBI are on the way to his suite.”
    “Shit.”
    “Just tell Mr. Majorov.”
    “Okay.” The man hung up, and the manager went back to his office.
    •   •   •
    The man who answered the phone, a muscular, not very bright man named Rackov, was terrified. “Tell the boss FBI are on the way up,” he said to his colleague, “then help me.” The man went to the bedroom to tell Majorov, who was in bed with a hooker and awoke only slowly, then he came back.
    “He’s getting up, I think.”
    Rackov tossed him a light machine gun just as the doorbell rang. Rackov ran to the door and looked through the peephole to find two men in business suits standing there. “Yes?” he shouted. “What you want?”
    “FBI,” one of them said, and they both held badges up to the peephole. “Open up.”
    Rackov motioned over his colleague. “Open door,” he said. The man opened the door, and Rackov opened fire, driving the two agents backward across the hallway until they fell in a bloody heap against the opposite wall.
    Majorov burst out of the bedroom, tying a robe around his naked body, and rushed over to the door. “What happened?” he demanded.
    “FBI are here,” Rackov said, pointing to the hallway.
    Majorov took one look at the two dead men, then started yelling orders. He ran back to the bedroom, ignoring the hooker, who was sitting up in bed, and started getting dressed.
    “What’s happening?” she asked.
    “I