Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

Majorov said. The young man escorted him to the suite and left. Majorov called the manager.
    “I’m sorry about the police, sir,” the man said. “We didn’t call them—a neighbor must have heard the shots.”
    “Tell the police the suite is empty, that this must be an act of vandalism.” He hung up and poured himself a stiff brandy. He was still not calm.
    Half a brandy later, he took out his cell phone and called his pilot.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Have the airplane ready at eleven tomorrow morning,” Majorov said. “File for Santa Monica.”
    “Yes, sir. Any other passengers?”
    Majorov thought for a moment. “One,” he said, then he hung up and found another number in his contacts list, a fellow Russian who lived in Brooklyn.
    “Good evening, Yuri,” the man said in Russian.
    “Good evening, Boris. I am in New York for the night, departing for Los Angeles at eleven tomorrow morning from Atlantic Aviation, at Teterboro. I would like to take with me the most accomplished and reliable assassin you know.”
    “That will be Vladimir Chernensky,” Boris said without hesitation.
    “Is he available?”
    “I will see that he is. How long will he be gone?”
    “A few days, perhaps a week—less, if he is very efficient. He should bring his own tools.”
    “He will be at Atlantic Aviation at ten-thirty.”
    “How much should I pay him?”
    “I will deal directly with him, and you may reimburse me later.”
    “Thank you, Boris. Is all well?”
    “Things have calmed down in Brooklyn since your last visit,” Boris replied, wryly.
    “Good. Thank you for your assistance.” Majorov hung up.
    •   •   •
    Harry Katz knocked on Pete Genaro’s office door and was bade to enter and sit.
    “Good morning, Harry,” Genaro said. “I just got a call from my bank. The money I wired abroad has been returned. What happened?”
    “I was told that the operation was a failure, the patient survived, and that it couldn’t be helped. That’s all I know, but I take it literally. My contact is not a stupid person, and he doesn’t employ stupid people.” Harry took a thick envelope from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Here’s the rest of your money.”
    “I see,” Genaro said. “No, I don’t, not really.”
    “These things happen. Do you want me to pursue it further?”
    A little chime from his computer caused Genaro to turn and look at the screen. “Well, well,” he said. “Majorov’s airplane has just taken off from Teterboro, filed for Santa Monica. ETA is three-ten PM , Pacific time. It’s a Gulfstream 450, and the likely FBO will be Atlantic Aviation.” Genaro read out the tail number. “Plenty of time for you to get to Santa Monica, Harry. I’d like you to handle this personally.”
    “Pete, I’m sorry, but I do not possess the requisite skills to accomplish that mission the way you would want it done.”
    Genaro looked at him hard for a moment, then relaxed. “All right, who do we know who could take care of this?”
    “I don’t have a man you can trust,” Harry replied, “but there is someone you know in L.A.—in Santa Monica, in fact—who has proven adept at dealing with such problems.”
    Genaro’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, Billy Burnett.”
    “Exactly.”
    Genaro opened a desk drawer and fished out the slip of paper Harry had given him. “I have an address, but not a phone number.”
    “I can get the number through a contact at the phone company in L.A. I’ll call you with it.”
    “Mr. Burnett seems to communicate exclusively through throwaway cell phones,” Genaro said.
    “He’s almost certainly renting his apartment,” Harry said, “and there is very likely a phone there.”
    Genaro pushed the thick envelope back across the desk. “This should cover all you’ve done so far, plus another trip to L.A., if necessary,” he said. “I want you to ensure, by whatever means necessary, that Mr. Burnett gets the message in plenty of time to meet that airplane.”
    Harry tucked the envelope back into his pocket. “I’ll get it done, Pete.” He got up and left.
    •   •   •
    It took Harry less than half an hour to track down the number of the penthouse apartment in Santa Monica. He thought about making the trip, but first he would try the phone number. It rang five times before it was picked up by a woman.
    “Hello?” She sounded uncertain—worried, even.
    “Charmaine, don’t be alarmed, this is a friendly call. It’s important that