Dishonorable Intentions (13 page)

B
oris Tirov checked out of Claridge's at two
PM
the following day. While the porters loaded his nine pieces of luggage into the van that would follow his limousine, he stopped at the cashier's desk and checked every single item charged to his suite during his stay, questioning two of them that amounted to an aggregate of less than ten pounds. Satisfied, he signed the bill and left the hotel.

He was driven to Heathrow Airport, followed by the van containing his luggage and his two bodyguards, and thence to the VIP check-in for the new Emirates Air flight to Los Angeles. He showed his Russian passport to the agent at the desk and waved an arm at his pile of luggage and two companions. “All that is mine, including the two gentlemen, who are flying in the economy. You may divide the luggage among the three of us and charge the overage to my credit card, which you have on file.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tirov,” the young woman said. “Your cart is waiting.”

Tirov got into an electric cart and was driven past the throngs directly leading to the tunnel to the giant A380 aircraft. There, he got out of the cart, showed his boarding pass, and walked past the crowd waiting to board, many of whom glowered at him. Once aboard the aircraft he was escorted to a door in the forward cabin and admitted to his private suite, which included a sitting room, bedroom, and toilet with a separate shower. A bottle of champagne was iced and waiting in a silver cooler.

“May I pour you a glass of champagne, Mr. Tirov?” the attendant asked.

“Yes, please.”

She poured champagne. “Your phone and Internet service are up and running, sir,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“What time is my scheduled massage?”

“About two hours after takeoff, sir. I will remind you fifteen minutes early, so that you will have time to get into your robe.”

“Very good. And may I have something to read?”

“Of course, we have a variety of magazines on board. What would you prefer?”

“Playboy?”

“Of course, sir.” She went to a compartment and retrieved the magazine. “It's on your reading list. We'll be taking off as soon as the other passengers are seated, about twenty-five minutes.
Our arrival time in Los Angeles is seven
PM
Pacific time, and the time difference is eight hours. Would you like dinner?”

“Yes, thank you,” Tirov said.

She hung up his jacket. “Dinner will be served shortly after takeoff. Just buzz, if you think of anything else,” she said. She departed the suite, closing the door behind her.

Tirov got into his comfortable armchair, fastened his seat belt, and opened his magazine. Half an hour later, the gigantic airplane began to move, and shortly it rumbled down the runway and into the air. Ten minutes later, his dinner was served and a coffee poured for him. His tray was then collected, and he settled in for the flight. They were already at cruising altitude.

—

T
irov had expected to spend most of the trip taking phone calls and responding to e-mails, but none of either was received. He inquired of the flight attendant if his services were in working order and was told they were. He was unaccustomed to that silence. Soon, he undressed and lay down for a nap.

He was awakened for his hour's massage, then fell asleep again. He didn't wake until the flight attendant rang and informed him that landing was an hour away. He showered and changed his clothes and relaxed until the aircraft was docked
at the gate. Another cart awaited him and drove him to immigration. He had a Global Entry card and a Known Traveler Number, so he checked in at a kiosk. Unusually, he was directed to entry lane number 10. Ordinarily, he did not have to speak to an immigration officer or clear customs.

He presented his passport to the officer in the booth, who consulted his computer. “Ah, yes, Mr. Tirov,” the man said. “Welcome back to the United States. We've been expecting you.”

Expecting him? No one had ever said that to him before. “Thank you,” he said, pleased.

The officer tucked a blank red card into his passport and returned it to him. “Please give this to the uniformed officer just there.” He nodded toward a large man in a uniform.

Tirov approached the man and handed him the passport and card.

The officer didn't even glance at it. “Right this way, Mr. Tirov,” he said, leading the way. They came to an unmarked door off the entry hall; the man opened it with a key and held it for him. “Please have a seat,” he said. “Someone will be with you shortly.” He handed Tirov his passport and closed the door behind him.

Tirov found himself in a small room with a table and three chairs, all of which were steel and bolted to the floor. The walls were gray and blank, and it seemed a good deal warmer than the air in the entry hall. Fifteen minutes passed, and Tirov took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.

Another ten minutes passed, and Tirov was beginning to sweat. A door on the opposite side of the room from the one he had entered opened and a man in a dark suit with a briefcase entered and sat down. “Good evening, Mr. Tirov,” he said. “I am Special Agent Martini of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I see your passport, please?”

Tirov retrieved the document from his jacket pocket and handed it over. “FBI? What is this about?”

“One moment, please.” The agent inspected the passport carefully, opened it to a blank page, removed a large rubber stamp and an ink pad from his briefcase, and carefully stamped the page. He then took a red marking pen and drew a diagonal line across the page containing Tirov's name and photograph. Finally, he handed back the document.

Tirov opened it to the stamped page and read the message:
This passport is not valid for exit from any port of entry of the United States of America without the written permission of the Director of the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement or the Attorney General of the United States.

“What the hell does this mean?” Tirov demanded.

The agent tucked his stamp and pen into his briefcase, removed an envelope and handed it to Tirov. “Read this, please, in my presence.”

Tirov opened the envelope, removed a letter, and read it. It was on the letterhead of the director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement:

To: Boris Tirov

Dear Mr. Tirov:

When you applied for permanent residence in the United States some eight years ago, you completed and signed a form and made a sworn statement that you had never committed a crime in your country of origin, nor had you ever been arrested, nor had a warrant ever been issued for your arrest. It has come to the attention of this Bureau that an arrest warrant on a charge of murder had been issued shortly before your departure from the Russian Republic, and that the warrant remains open and in force.

Therefore, your certificate of residency and work permit for the United States are hereby canceled, and you are ordered to depart the United States within thirty days of this date. When you leave the country you must depart from Los Angeles International Airport on a flight whose nonstop destination is Moscow.

You have the right to file an appeal of this order with a federal court during your thirty-day grace period.

The letter was signed by the director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

The FBI agent shoved another document across the table, along with a pen. “Sign this, indicating your receipt and understanding of the letter.”

“But I don't understand it,” Tirov said.

“The letter is clear and straightforward,” the agent said. “Sign here. If you refuse to sign, you will be detained and shipped out on the next nonstop flight to Moscow.”

Tirov signed the document. “My attorney is going to hear about this,” he said.

The man returned the document to his briefcase. “You must also understand that, since you no longer have a valid work permit, you may not be employed or work in the United States, nor may you accept payment for any previous work in this country.” He shoved another document across the table. “This is a list of your known financial accounts in the United States. Read it, and tell me if it is complete.”

Tirov read the document, which contained the names and account numbers of a dozen of his personal and business bank and investment accounts. “Yes, it is complete.”

“You have no other financial accounts in this country other than these?”

“I do not.”

“Sign here.”

Tirov signed.

“You may now continue to U.S. Customs, where your luggage and that of your two companions will be thoroughly examined. Any funds or financial documents found will be seized and held until your departure from this country.” He handed Tirov a business card. “You must notify this office of your intended departure date and flight number twenty-four
hours before departure. Good day.” The man got up, unlocked the outer door, and held it open until Tirov could retrieve his jacket and briefcase.

Outside, his two companions awaited, in the custody of two uniformed officers, along with two large carts containing his luggage. They were marched into the customs hall, where four officers proceeded to open and search every piece of his luggage. The process took nearly four hours.

Tirov got into his limousine exhausted and livid. He called his attorney from the car.

S
tone and Gala woke at the usual time, and their breakfast was brought to the master suite, along with the daily papers. Stone read the London
Times
first, while Gala read the
International New York Times.

Gala gasped and showed her paper to Stone. In the lower left-hand corner of the front page was a headline: F
ILM
P
RODUCER
C
HARG
ED WITH
M
URDER
.
That gave him a little thrill. He read the article, which after two paragraphs was continued on the entertainment page.

The article reproduced all the allegations in Felicity's document, plus the writer, James Towbin, film critic of the
Los Angeles Times
, had sought comment from members of the management of the studio with which Tirov was about to sign a production deal. They professed themselves shocked and appalled at the news of the murder charge and said that any projected deal
with Mr. Tirov would be held in abeyance until the producer had had an opportunity to clear his name.

“Good God! Is this stuff true?” Gala asked.

“It is, according to the
Los Angeles Times
,” he said. “And that is a credible newspaper.”

“Boris never mentioned any of this to me. Now I understand why he never had any interest in returning to Russia, even for a visit. He was afraid of being arrested.”

“It would appear so. It would also appear that he is going to have his hands full for the next month, trying not to get returned to Russia, where a trial and a long prison sentence might await him, so he will have little time to devote to harassing you.”

“Well, that's a good thing,” she said. “I don't think I understood until this moment how preoccupied I have been with his stalking of me. I feel an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders.”

“I'm glad you feel that way,” Stone said.

“Can the U.S. government really do this to him?”

“Certainly, if he lied on his application for a green card about his legal problems in Moscow. That's probably a felony, as well, and even if he manages to stay in the country, he might be prosecuted for that.”

“Then he is either going to be in a U.S. jail or a Russian one?”

“Very likely,” Stone said with some satisfaction.

Gala sat up in bed and looked Stone in the eye. “Tell me the truth, did you have anything to do with this?”

“Are you sure you want the truth?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How on earth did you manage it?”

“First, I asked a friend with connections in Moscow to research Boris's background. Then I sent the resulting report to James Towbin, the film critic of the
L.A. Times
, who, you may remember, had an unfortunate confrontation with Boris in the bar at the Arrington, resulting in a sore jaw for Mr. Towbin and the ejection of Boris from the hotel's grounds. The rest is journalism, and no doubt Mr. Towbin and his editors investigated the truth of the allegations and found them not wanting.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were doing this?”

“Because you instructed me not to mention Tirov to you again, and I took you seriously.”

—

S
till in the back of his car in Los Angeles, Tirov reached his attorney, who had been sound asleep. “Kim, something terrible has happened.”

“I know, I read the
Times
this morning. Do you have any idea what time it is, Boris?”

“I'm sorry, I'm just off a plane from London, and I have no idea.”

“Well, as long as I'm awake, let me give you my best advice. You are going to be besieged by the press for days over this. Are you at home?”

“I'm on the way home in my car.”

“Well, don't be surprised if you find them camped on your doorstep when you get there.”

“Oh, shit! What am I going to say?”

“You are going to say that, on advice of your attorney, you have
nothing whatever
to say at this time. You may say that, after taking legal advice, you might be filing suit against a number of people over the propagation of these outrageous lies.” He paused, waited for a reply, and got none. “Boris, these
are
outrageous lies, aren't they?”

Boris thought about that. “It's complicated,” he said.

“
Complicated?
You had damned well better not say that to the media. You get some sleep, if you can, then you, your agent, and your publicist be in my office at, let's see, eleven o'clock, and together we'll figure out how to handle this. I should tell you that I had a call this afternoon from the head of your new studio saying that the signing of contracts is on hold, and that you are to say nothing to the press until you have talked with their counsel. Come to think of it, I'd better ask him to join us. Now, Boris, go home, get some rest, and I'll see you all at eleven o'clock.” He hung up.

—

A
s Tirov's car turned into his front drive, a swarm of a dozen people, some of them with lights and cameras, eddied around his car. “Get us inside!” Tirov yelled at his driver,
and the gates were already swinging open. Once through the gates, they began to swing shut again and the crowd, being intimately acquainted with the laws of trespass, hurried to get outside before being trapped inside.

The car pulled to a halt at the front door, followed by the baggage van. Tirov got out, expecting his butler to be at the door, but then he remembered that he had not warned his staff that he was being detained at the airport. He fumbled for his house key, finally found it, and went into the house. His minions began taking luggage upstairs, while Tirov headed for his home office. There was one phone call he had to make, and right now.

He sat down at his desk and pressed a speed-dial button on the phone. Immediately, a male voice answered:
“Da?”

Tirov switched to his native tongue. “This is Boris Tirov. I wish to speak to him.”

“One moment.”

It was a long moment. “Mr. Tirov, he is unable to take your call at this moment, having guests for breakfast.”

“Please ask him to call me. He has the number.”

“I shall do so. He did ask me to tell you that he has read the
International New York Times
.”

“Good, that will save us both time.”

“That is what he said.” The man hung up.

Tirov went to the bar and poured himself a stiff brandy, then sat down at his desk again to wait for the call, if indeed it would ever come.

Another two hours passed before the phone rang.