“Yes, I do,” the ambassador replied. “Earlier this morning I spoke to the chief prosecutor in Moscow. He informed me that the warrant for Mr. Tirov’s arrest was withdrawn by the prosecutor only hours after first being filed, for lack of any evidence whatever. I spoke to the former prosecutor, now an important judge in the Russian Federation, and he told me that he remembered the incident well, that an assistant prosecutor in his office had filed the warrant with the wrong name on it, and when he discovered the error, the chief prosecutor ordered it withdrawn immediately, and he personally telephoned Mr. Tirov and apologized to him for any inconvenience. Accordingly, I spoke to the United States director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement this morning, and, as a result, he has now issued an order revoking the deportation order and has also apologized for the incorrect stamp entered into Mr. Tirov’s passport. This embassy has issued a new passport to Mr. Tirov, which will be delivered to him by a consular official in Los Angeles today.”

As Kopchinsky switched off the TV there was a knock at his door. His secretary stood there along with a tall man in a business suit. “A gentleman from the Russian consulate to see Mr. Tirov,” she said. The man strode across the large office, shook Boris’s hand, and handed him an envelope with a large wax seal. “Mr. Tirov, your new passport, with the compliments of the ambassador.”

“Thank you,” Boris replied, and the man left. Boris ripped open the envelope and held up the passport for all to see.

“Boris,” Kopchinsky said, “how the fuck did you do that? I was ready to file the appeal.”

“I made a phone call,” Boris said. “Questions, anybody?”

The group stared at him dumbly. Finally Jean Jarman spoke. “Boris, this is a great relief. After all the fires I’ve had to put out for you lately at Centurion and the Bel-Air Country Club and the Arrington, I thought we were about at the end of our rope.”

“Jean, I suggest you call the head of publicity at the studio and explain things to him. Kim, you call the head of the studio and explain what’s happened, and, Karl, you call the head of production and tell him I want an immediate public announcement that our deal is still on, or I will be suing before sundown.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you all at Spago Beverly Hills at twelve-thirty, and, Jean, I want press there to cover the lunch, especially the L.A. Times.”

“Right, Boris,” she replied, producing a cell phone.

—

Stone and Gala were having a drink before dinner when Geoffrey announced a phone call from Holly Barker.

Stone picked up the phone. “Hi, there.”

“Hi. It appears that we’ve had something of a reversal.”

“What sort of reversal?”