Doing Hard Time (22 page)

Kerry Smith, deputy director for investigations at the FBI, took the call from Lance Cabot.

“Kerry, I have some new information on one Yuri Majorov,” Lance said.

“What, where he’s buried, maybe?”

“According to my information, from a source I respect, Majorov is not only alive, but is, at this moment, at the New Desert Inn, in Las Vegas.”

“What’s your source?”

“Giving you that wouldn’t help you, and my source wouldn’t reveal his source.”

“So this is a third-hand rumor? If you believe it, why don’t you do something about it?”

“I suppose you could characterize it as a rumor, but pursuing Mr. Majorov is not within the purview of my charter. I have now done my duty as a citizen, having reported the information to a responsible law enforcement official, and that splashing sound you hear is me washing my hands of this matter. Good day to you, Kerry.” He hung up.

Kerry sighed, went to the contacts menu on his computer, and clicked on the number of the agent in charge for the FBI office in Las Vegas.

“This is AIC Carney.”

“Good morning, Arch. This is Kerry Smith.”

“Hello, Director.”

“Arch, have you ever heard of a man called Yuri Majorov?”

“Ummm, that may sound familiar.”

“Arch, it’s okay if you’ve never heard of him.”

“In that 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 am checking out of the hotel,” Majorov replied, and started throwing the contents of his closet into two suitcases.

• • •

The desk clerk looked up from his work to see Mr. Majorov striding through the lobby, followed closely by two large men pushing a luggage cart laden with bags. He picked up the phone and called the bell captain. “I think Mr. Majorov is going to want his car,” he said. “Right now.”

As he hung up the phone, it rang while it was still in his hand. “Front desk.”

“It’s Margie, the housekeeper. One of my maids on the fifteenth floor says there are two dead men in the hall outside 1530.”

“She must be crazy,” the desk clerk said. “Check it out yourself, then call me back.” He hung up, then thought perhaps he should tell the manager about this.

• • •

“Airport,” Majorov said to the driver. The car moved away, and he turned toward Rackov. “Why did you shoot them?” he asked.

“They were FBI,” Rackov said. “They showed badges.”

“But what did they want?”

“They wanted to come in the suite.”

“They said nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the airport and were admitted to the ramp, where Majorov’s Gulfstream 450 awaited. The two pilots were walking around the aircraft, inspecting it.

Majorov and the two bodyguards got out of the car, and the first thing they heard was approaching sirens. Majorov looked around him and found no one watching. He reached into his jacket and came out with the small Beretta Nano that he habitually carried. He pointed it at the two bodyguards and said, “Take out your weapons.” As they did, he shot both of them, then he ran around the car and shouted to one of the pilots, “Call the police!” Then he rapped on the window of the car. “Call Mr. Genaro at the hotel and tell him to send a lawyer to the police station.”

He didn’t have long to wait for the police, because they were now driving onto the ramp, lights and sirens on. He set the Beretta on the tarmac and raised his hands.

“Thank God you’re here!” he shouted, as two uniformed officers approached him.

Genaro answered the phone and listened for a moment. “Why does he need a lawyer?” he asked the driver.

“I think because he shot the two bodyguards.”

Genaro began blinking rapidly. “Where are you?”

“At the airport.”

Genaro hung up and found the hotel manager standing in his doorway. “What?”

“I sent the two FBI agents up to 1530, and the housekeeper just called to say that they’re both dead, lying in the hallway.”

“Two FBI agents are dead in my hotel? What the fuck?”

“I have no idea. Mr. Majorov and his two bodyguards left the hotel right before I got the call. I don’t know where he was going.”

“He was apparently going to the airport,” Genaro said. “Elsie!” he shouted at his secretary. “Get me the hotel’s lawyer—whatshisname, Greenbaum!”

• • •

Kerry Smith’s private line rang. “Deputy Director Smith.”

“Sir, it’s Arch, in Las Vegas.”

“Yes, Arch. How did the meet with Majorov go?”

“Very badly, I’m afraid. Both my agents are dead, apparently shot by Majorov’s bodyguards.”

“
What
? Say that again.”

Arch repeated the information. “LVPD picked up Majorov at the airport. He had shot the two bodyguards, and he claims they shot the agents, then kidnapped him. They’re holding him at the main police station.”

“That is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard!” Kerry said.

“And ten minutes after they got him to the police station a lawyer for the New Desert Inn showed up, met privately with him, and is now demanding his release.”

“Did Majorov mention why his own bodyguards would kidnap him?”

“The lawyer told the police that some criminal element in Moscow had ordered him kidnapped and forcibly brought home.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“What do you want me to do, sir?”

“There’s nothing you can do, since he’s in the hands of the local police.”

“Killing two federal agents is a federal crime.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Unless we have evidence that Majorov killed them himself or ordered them killed, then all he’s done is shoot the bodyguards. Are they dead?”

“Yes, sir, they were both shot in the head.”

“Get the ballistics report and find out if Majorov’s weapon—I assume he had a weapon—killed our two men. If it only killed the bodyguards, we don’t have a federal case against him, unless there were witnesses.”

“The only other person in the suite at the time of the shootings was a hooker, who apparently was in bed with Majorov. She says she heard gunfire, and one of the bodyguards came into the bedroom where they were sleeping and got them up.”

“So Majorov has a witness who exonerates him.”

“It would appear so, sir.”

“Get over to the police station yourself and interview everybody concerned, including the hooker, then get back to me.”

“Yes, sir.” The AIC hung up.

Kerry thought for a few seconds, then called Lance Cabot.