House Justice (36 page)

He turned his attention to the access road leading to Tully’s estate. It came off the 101 and was approximately two miles long. Tully’s security was able to see vehicles approaching when they were within half a mile of the house, but beyond the half mile point the access
road wasn’t visible from the house because the road curved and then disappeared from view as it wound through the small hills surrounding the estate.

It might be possible, he thought, to set up an ambush on the access road, but that would be difficult for one man working alone. And as security conscious as Tully appeared to be, he assumed that some of Tully’s bodyguards would accompany him whenever he left the house and he might even travel in an armored car.

So. He couldn’t breach the house and an ambush on the access road was highly problematic. It appeared the only option he had was to wait until Tully left his home, then follow him and try to catch him alone the way he had done with Jimmy Franco. He’d been lucky with Franco and maybe he’d get lucky with Tully as well—but he didn’t like any plan that relied on luck as a primary component.

He picked up the binoculars again to examine the house and just as he did he saw a flash of light off to his right. He turned his head slowly and looked in that direction. There was another small hill to the north of his position and he could see two men on the hill, lying on their bellies, partially hidden by low-growing shrubs. One of the men had binoculars and he appeared to be doing exactly what the florist was doing—studying Tully’s house.

Who were these men and why were they watching Tully’s house?

“It’s not going to be easy to invade Tully’s house,” Mikhail told Yuri.

Mikhail Biryukov was ex-KGB. The collapse of the Soviet Union, combined with a new group of bureaucrats in the Russian government, had ended his career. He could have retired, he was old enough, but there was no such thing as a Russian pension plan that provided a living wage. The only pension ex-KGB personnel had was what they managed to steal when they were in power, and Mikhail hadn’t stolen enough. So now he worked for Yuri and Uncle Lev.

He and Yuri were sitting in the sunroom of the house in Coronado that Yuri had taken from Marty Taylor. The sunroom was Yuri’s favorite room because of the view, and Mikhail loved the view as well. In fact, he loved everything about San Diego. As soon as he had enough money—he was very careful when he stole from Yuri—he would retire here. He didn’t want to see snow again for as long as he lived.

Usually, Yuri used him for activities that didn’t really make use of his talents. He supervised Yuri’s thugs, provided security for some of Yuri’s operations, and was always in charge of moving contraband in and out of the country. And if Yuri wanted someone killed, he’d do that, too, although Ivan was usually given those assignments. It was not particularly challenging work but every once in a while a job would come along that required more than muscle and intimidation. This was one of those jobs.

“Rudy and I observed his place for an entire day,” Mikhail said. “We can’t breach the gates unless we use explosives and if we try to scale the walls, his security people will know it. If they don’t kill us coming over the wall, they’ll be able to barricade themselves inside the house and hold us off indefinitely. And unless we disable the landline, cut his alarm system, and jam their cell phone transmissions, his security people will be able to call for reinforcements from the local police.”

“How many security people does he have?” Yuri asked.

“There are always three armed guards on the estate; they work two twelve-hour shifts. His head of security lives on the property as well. There are other people in the house during the day—gardeners, maids, secretaries, cooks, and so forth—but none of them stay overnight. So he’s always protected by at least four people. But, like I said, the problem isn’t the number of guards he has. The problem is that I can’t find a way to get inside the estate before his guards call the police and barricade themselves inside. And a gun battle with automatic weapons could destroy many of the valuable things he owns.”

Yuri lit a cigarette and stared at Mikhail through a veil of smoke. He didn’t like what he was hearing and was waiting for Mikhail to say something that he would like.

“The best thing to do,” Mikhail said, “is take him when he leaves the house.”

He took out a hand-drawn map that showed the access road leading to the estate. The map was drawn to scale because Mikhail believed in doing things right. Taking a pen from his pocket to use as a pointer, he explained, “This road goes from the highway to his house. Do you see this curve? I’ll put a vehicle across the road that will force Tully’s car to stop, and a second vehicle, something with four-wheel drive, in this gully here. The second vehicle won’t be visible at night. Tully’s driver will stop when he sees our blocking vehicle, and our second vehicle will come out of the gully and box him in from behind. After we kill the security people Tully has with him in his car, we’ll take him back to his house and—”

“Is Tully’s vehicle armored?”

“No. When I was researching Tully, I found out that he was in a minor automobile accident two years ago, and the man who was driving at the time was cited by the police and later fired by Tully. Ivan and I paid a visit to the driver. He said Tully normally travels in a Mercedes Benz sedan. It has bulletproof windows and puncture-resistant tires, but it’s not armored. But whenever Tully goes anywhere, his head of security is always with him as well as an armed driver.”

“Will Tully’s ex-driver tell anyone that you visited him?”

“No. Like I said, Ivan accompanied me.”

Yuri gestured for Mikhail to continue.

“If we take Tully on the access road, we may have to disable his vehicle and we can’t leave it sitting on the road riddled with bullet holes. So I’ll use a tow truck to block the access road, and after we have Tully we’ll tow his Mercedes back to his house. Then Tully, with my gun pressed against his ribs, will tell his guards that the Mercedes broke down and to open the gates to allow it to be put inside the garage.”

“Won’t his security people see the bullet holes in the Mercedes?”

“No. Remember, it will be dark and the tow truck will obscure the vehicle it’s towing.”

“Won’t his people wonder why he didn’t call back to the estate and tell them to come and pick him up after the Mercedes broke down?”

“Probably, but guards don’t question their boss. If Tully tells them to open the gates, they will, and then we’ll eliminate the guards.”

Yuri lit another cigarette. He looked at the map a bit longer, then closed his eyes and reviewed Mikhail’s plan in his mind.

“What’s to keep Tully from calling the police when you stop his car on the access road?” he asked.

“I will have to purchase a cell-phone jammer. The one I need will cost about five thousand dollars.”

It would actually cost two thousand.

“Is there a radio in Tully’s car?”

“No,” Mikhail said. “His ex-driver said they only use cell phones to communicate from the car. But there is a problem that I haven’t addressed. Tully rarely leaves his house, and in order for this plan to work, we need him to leave at night, at a prearranged time. I can’t sit with half a dozen men and a tow truck parked indefinitely on the access road.”

Yuri rose from the chair where he’d been sitting, walked over to a window, and stood there for a while looking out at the bay. God, he was going to miss this place.

“I think I can get him to leave his house,” he finally said. “Be ready to go tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” Mikhail said. He could tell that Yuri was expecting him to leave, but he remained seated.

“Is there something else?” Yuri asked.

“You realize that if we do this, we’re going to get an enormous amount of attention from the authorities. Does Uncle Lev know what you’re planning?”

“Of course,” Yuri said. “Do you think I’d do something of this magnitude without consulting him?”

Only if you have a death wish, Mikhail thought.

Marty Taylor was locked in a bedroom in Yuri’s house—
his
house. He was allowed out for meals and to use the bathroom but otherwise forced to stay in the room. They’d taken his cell phone and there was no landline in the room.

The bedroom was on the second floor. There was a window he could have crawled through, and if he hung by his arms from the window ledge, he probably wouldn’t break his legs when he dropped. The problem wasn’t breaking a leg, however; the problem with a window escape was that Yuri’s rip-your-balls-off pit bull roamed the backyard.

Marty had no idea what Yuri was planning but he was planning something. He’d seen and heard Yuri’s thugs coming and going from the house all day. But the most worrisome thing was the task that Yuri had given him: he had been told to write down all his major assets and where they were located.

He had waited too long to sell his stuff.

He was lying on the bed with his eyes closed, trying to remember how much he’d told Yuri about his possessions. Yuri knew, of course, about his yacht, his sailboat, and his other house in San Diego. All of his cars were parked at the San Diego houses, so Yuri knew about them, too. He might even know about the damn racehorse, because Marty thought he remembered bitching to him one time about how the animal was only good for its semen. The good news was that he didn’t think he’d ever told Yuri about the house in Maui and the land in Arizona. And something else he might be able to hide was some of the artwork he’d purchased over the years. There was artwork in both San Diego houses, including some really expensive sculptures, but a lot of other pieces were stored in a secure, temperature-controlled warehouse in La Jolla.

If he was lucky, and depending on Yuri’s memory, he might be able to hide an old racehorse, a dozen pieces of very valuable art, the land in Arizona, and the house in Maui. He figured the most he’d get from selling those things was, at best, five million—which was not nearly enough for him to live the rest of his life the way he’d been living the last fifteen years. What he had to do was get away from the bastard and call that lady from the Justice Department. And he needed to escape before Yuri sold all of his possessions—and then killed him.

The door to the bedroom opened. His main babysitter was a man named Andrei, a stocky, mean-looking little prick in his fifties. Marty was taller, stronger, and younger than Andrei but none of that mattered because Andrei carried a pistol in a shoulder holster.

“Get up,” Andrei said. “The boss wants to talk to you. He said bring the list.”

Shit
.

Yuri was standing at the bar in the sunroom drinking iced coffee when Marty entered. He directed Marty to take a seat on the couch.

“Let me see,” Yuri said, holding out a hand.

Marty passed him the list and Yuri put on his reading glasses to study it.

“I thought you owned a house in Hawaii,” Yuri said.

Shit
.

“I do, but it’s co-owned with a guy I went to Stanford with.”

Yuri looked at him for a moment, apparently to see if he was lying, but Marty didn’t even blink.

“Where are the deeds for the houses, titles for the cars and boats, provenances for the artwork?”

“My accountant keeps all that stuff.”

“Okay,” Yuri said. “I want you to call your accountant today and tell him to have the necessary papers delivered here. Andrei will be on the line with you when you make the call, and Andrei’s English is excellent.”

Shit
.

Yuri handed Marty a four-page document and a pen.

“Don’t read it, just sign it. That gives me power of attorney.”

Marty just looked at the document, then shook his head. He didn’t shake his head because he was refusing to do what Yuri wanted—he shook it in disbelief that this was happening to him—but the next thing he knew he was on the floor and his head was ringing. He looked up and saw Andrei standing over him with a pistol in his hand; Marty’s blood was on the barrel.

Marty struggled back onto the couch—and signed the power of attorney.

Yuri handed him a business card. “I want you to call that woman and tell her you want to sell your houses in San Diego and you want them sold fast, even if you have to take a loss. Tell her you’ll find another agent if the houses aren’t sold in a week and she’ll lose an enormous commission.”

Yuri handed him a second card. “Call that man and tell him to sell your cars, except for the Porsche I’m using. Tell him to send people here and to your other place to pick them up. I want all the vehicles stored in his warehouse in Chula Vista by tomorrow.”

The son of bitch had really thought this through.

Yuri handed him a third card. “That woman will take care of the artwork in both houses. Tell her to send people who know how to package things so that they won’t get damaged.”

Jesus. He
had
to figure out some way to slow this thing down.

Turning to Andrei, Yuri said, “Have Stephan go over to Marty’s other house to supervise the movers. You stay and take care of things here.”

Andrei grunted acknowledgment of the order.

“When you talk to those agents,” Yuri said to Marty, “you’ll tell them that I have power of attorney and you’ve authorized me to act on your behalf regarding all sales. Give them my cell phone number. And when you call, Andrei will be listening and if he hears you tell these people anything other than what I’ve told you—if, for example, you imply that I’m forcing you to sell—Andrei will put your left hand into the garbage disposal and not remove it until your fingers are gone. You may need your right hand to sign papers in the future.”

Marty looked over at Andrei. The thug was standing next to him, at the end of the couch, looking at him dispassionately, probably prepared to smack him in the head again. If he was quick enough, he might be able to pull the gun from Andrei’s shoulder holster and blow Yuri’s head off. But he knew he wasn’t going to try. He had the speed—but he didn’t have the guts.