Sphere Of Influence (41 page)

"You haven't."

Beamon reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. The act of lighting it calmed him down a bit. "I certainly didn't mean to imply that you were looking to get in bed with Yasin."

Volkov didn't respond immediately, and Beamon couldn't help being a little impressed with himself. He was playing chess against a more skilled opponent and had made him hesitate. For the first time Volkov was having to think before he spoke.

"But didn't you just suggest that I was involved in that very thing?"

Beamon shrugged and feigned disinterest in continuing the conversation.

"You obviously have something to say, Mark. Say it." "Remember our pact," Beamon said.

"I remember."

Beamon took another sip of his wine and set his cigarette in a thoughtfully provided ashtray. "It was something you said to me a few days ago. You said that you'd deal with the Asians exclusively if you could. Why? Because they're intelligent and reliable. They have the same philosophy as you. The difference between the illegal and legal is arbitrary at best. Yasin, it seems to me, is on the other side of the spectrum. He's motivated by religion, by politics, by his own delusions. Overall, an unstable and unpredictable man. Not your kind of guy."

Beamon paused to take a drag off his cigarette. So far so good. He wasn't dead yet.

"Go on," Volkov said.

"Okay, I will. Yasin is in the process of taking over as much of the heroin machine in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran as he can--not just production but refining and distribution. And he's doing that with weapons and intelligence provided by you. But he's in for a bit of a surprise, isn't he?"

"Is he?"

"I think so. His little war has caused a fairly serious disruption in the flow of heroin out of that region, and everyone down the line is starting to get nervous. They're starting to worry that Yasin and his people are nuts and are going to be impossible to deal with."

Beamon paused again, this time to take a sip of wine. Volkov didn't seem ready to speak, so he figured he might as well continue.

"I'm guessing that sometime soon, all the support you're giving al-Qaeda is going to come to an abrupt halt and you and your Asian friends will use the nervousness of the Mexican, American, and European distributors to move right on in. You'll have nearly complete control of the world heroin trade before Yasin knows what hit him. That's why you needed me to go talk to General Yung. Before long you're going to need as much product as the Asians can provide."

Beamon leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. His cards were pretty much on the table now. Volkov still wasn't reacting, though. He was just sitting there, staring off into the darkness. It was almost a minute before he spoke.

"It's a fine line, Mark. . . . You want clever people working for you. But there's such a thing as too clever." "Remember our pact," Beamon said again.

"I remember. And you do the same."

Chapter
49

JONATHAN Drake crossed the driveway quickly, still wondering why he was there. Was being asked to meet at Alan Holsten's suburban home a vote of confidence, or was it because the DDO didn't want to be seen with him at Langley?

The latter was the most likely answer. The game Drake had been playing was almost over, and it looked like he was going to lose. Holsten was simply trying to decrease his chances of getting caught in the ensuing storm.

Drake jumped up onto the front porch but didn't have to knock. The door opened almost immediately and Holsten, wearing a golf shirt and a pair of tan slacks, motioned him in. The entry was dark, as was the rest of the house. It was almost eleven and it looked as though Holsten's wife and two daughters were already asleep.

Drake silently followed his host through the house and into a windowless office, thinking through the events of the past few weeks one last time.

He knew now that the loss of Gasta to the L
. A
. police had been the beginning of the end. With al-Qaeda's L
. A
. cell now in the hands of the FBI, and Mark Beamon inexplicably finding a way to get close to Christian Volkov, it was only a matter of time before someone glimpsed the truth. Admittedly the puzzle was complicated, but nearly all the pieces were available now.

At this point the only thing that could solve his immediate problems would be the deaths of both Christia
n
Volkov and Mark Beamon--something that in the short term seemed unlikely.

"Where do you stand, Jonathan?" Holsten said, closing the door to the claustrophobic home office behind them. "Do you have any movement?"

Holsten's liberal use of the word you made it even clearer that he was continuing to back away from this operation and planned to leave his subordinate holding the bag to whatever degree possible. Drake knew that if he told the truth tonight, he would leave Holsten considering options that would end with him dead. He had to get out before it came to that.

"Beamon's fully on board," Drake said. "He wants Volkov and is willing to do whatever it takes to get him--he's already thrown away his career and probably his life."

"He wants Volkov because he thinks Volkov ordered the death of his friend," Holsten said. "What's he going to do when he finds out that it was actually you?"

The anger that had been so evident in their recent meetings was gone, replaced by a cold monotone that made Drake even more certain that it was time to cut and run. Holsten had a beautiful home, a prominent social standing, an important job, a family. He would do whatever was necessary to protect that.

"There's nothing that would lead him to me, Alan. How could he possibly find out about my involvement?" "Volkov might tell him. And Gasta can identify you." Drake shook his head. "Why would he believe Volkov, the man who he thinks killed his friend? No, our biggest problem with Beamon is that the FBI's starting to actively look for him."

"They won't find him if he doesn't want to be found," Holsten said.

"Which is good for us--he's the key to all this. He tells me that he can position Volkov so we can get him. And based on his reputation, I'm willing to bet that he can do what he says."

Drake watched his boss's face carefully, trying to see if he believed the string of lies he was being told. On
e
week--that was all the time he needed to sell Beamon's identity to Volkov and use the money to disappear.

"And you'll take them both out," Holsten said.

Drake nodded. "Volkov's organization is completely reliant on him--particularly now that Pascal, his former number two, is dead. With Volkov gone, there will be a feeding frenzy as his enemies rip apart his organization and divide it up for themselves. By the time the FBI's investigation leads them that far--if it ever does--Christian Volkov will be nothing more than a hazy maze of legends and hearsay."

"And Gasta?"

"Neither he nor any of his people have said a word." "They will."

"Eventually. Right now he's dealing with the New York families through the lawyer they provided him. They're telling him that they'll kill him if he says anything. And the FBI is telling him that they can protect him out of one side of their mouth and threatening him with the death penalty out of the other."

"It's just a matter of time," Holsten said. "He'll have to deal."

"Alan, he has no idea who I am--only a physical description and a maze of dummy corporations and overseas banks that have no connection to organized crime. The FBI wanted Gasta and now they've got him. They want to believe al-Qaeda is behind the launcher and now they have evidence of that. They're not going to dig deeper. Why would they?"

Drake fell silent and let his boss consider what he'd just heard. A bead of sweat threatened to trickle out of his hairline and down his nose, but a slight adjustment of his head kept it in check.

"What are you hearing about Laura Vilechi's investigation?" Holsten said finally.

"I'm hearing the same thing you are--that it's going nowhere."

"An attack is coming, though, Jonathan--have you been watching the news? People are starting to come out of hiding and go to work, go shopping, put their kids back in da
y
care. When the fear fades too much, Yasin's people are going to use that launcher. And when they do, the FBI's investigation is going to get a huge shot in the arm. People are paying attention, Jonathan. They remember anyone who looks Arab. They're watching for contrails. It isn't going to be a surprise."

"By then Volkov and Beamon will be gone, Alan. I guarantee it."

Chapter
50

THE combination of overeating and Laotian antibiotics was starting to make Beamon feel sick again. Despite that, he broke off a small piece of lighter-than-air piecrust and popped it in his mouth. When he swallowed, his stomach rumbled audibly.

"That was undoubtedly one of the finest meals I've ever eaten, Christian."

"I'll pass that on to Francois. He'll be pleased you enjoyed it."

After Beamon's recitation of his apparently correct theory regarding Volkov's plan to double-cross Mustafa Yasin, the conversation had become somewhat subdued. Quiet small talk about the area, art, history, food. Volkov seemed a bit distant, as though he were trying to make a decision--probably whether or not this would be Beamon's last meal. Could he afford to have an independent operator running around with the blueprint for a takeover of the world heroin trade and the knowledge that he was facilitating al-Qaeda's war on America?

Beamon nodded his thanks as Elizabeth cleared his plate and then looked out over the shimmering pool into the darkness. A beautiful setting. But for what? It seemed unlikely that Volkov had asked him here just for the considerable pleasure of his company.

Finally the answer came. Volkov reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, sliding it facedown across the table toward Beamon.

"I want you to talk to Carlo Gasta for me. To give him a message."

Beamon's eyebrows rose a bit. "From what I hear, he's under heavy guard by the FBI. They seem to think the New York families would like to see him dead. His lawyer is the only person with access."

"If it was easy, I'd get someone cheaper to do it." Beamon laughed. "I appreciate your confidence in me, Christian, but what do you want me to do? No one is getting in to see him."

"How much?"

Beamon pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He had to admit to liking the crime business just a little bit. It was a world where anything was possible. The only question worth asking was the one Volkov just posed. The interesting thing was that it was remotely possible that he actually could get to Gasta. But if he did, it was because of his connection to the FBI. When did you go from being undercover to being on the take? The line was surprisingly fuzzy.

"My fee would be ten million, plus expenses, which could be substantial. And there would be no guarantees. If I can't pull it off, I'd still want five million to cover my out-of-pocket."

Volkov shrugged. "Fine."

"But before I agree to anything, I want to know why. No more going in blind like I did in Laos. How does Carlo Gasta fit into all this?"

"Criminal Darwinism, remember?"

"But Gasta's just a moron--we both know that. I mean, he's probably got some dirt on a few wiseguys, but no one who could bother you much."

"You tell me why, then," Volkov said. "You must have a theory."

"Honestly, you have me stumped. It seems like bad timing. You have enough on your plate right now."

"Why don't you work on it."

Beamon took a thoughtful pull on his cigarette. "I will. I figure if Chet Michaels, a wet-behind-the-ears kid from the FBI, could get close enough to scare you, I sure as hell can."

Volkov didn't say anything for a moment, instead just staring across the table in a way that made Beamon strangely uncomfortable.

"Let me help you a bit, Mark. I had nothing to do with the death of Chet Michaels. In fact, I've never had any contact with Carlo Gasta at all. He's probably vaguely aware of my existence, as most people in his position would be, but we've never spoken or had business dealings together."

Beamon took another drag on his cigarette, hoping it kept his surprise from showing. He hadn't been prepared for the quiet forcefulness of Volkov's statement. The man was undoubtedly a hell of a liar, but was he that good? Why would he bother to lie, anyway? Chet was dead and Nicolai, while a powerful fabrication, was no real threat to him.

Beamon finally realized that he hadn't reacted for far too long. Chet Michaels had been nothing more than a valuable business asset to Nicolai.

"I've been paid for the inconvenience Chet's death caused me. Who was responsible is just an interesting intellectual exercise at this point."

Volkov patted the corners of his mouth with his napkin and stood. "I'm afraid I have to go. But I'd like you to stay and be my guest here. I think you'll find it more comfortable than the hotel."

"Thanks, but . . ."

"Really, Mark. I insist."

Obviously, Volkov wanted to keep an even closer eye on him than the hotel would allow. Beamon wanted to refuse, but he suspected Volkov wouldn't take no for an answer. "Thank you, then. I accept."