Sphere Of Influence (45 page)

"I do. Information."

"Ten million dollars' worth? That would have to be a very tantalizing piece of information."

"It is. I think you'll consider it a bargain at that price."

He turned toward Beamon and smiled arrogantly. "We haven't heard from you, Mark. What do you think?" They locked eyes for a few seconds, but Beamon knew that Drake had him. This was where he was going to fail--four feet from the man who had ordered Chet's death. "It's not that much money in the scheme of things," Beamon heard himself say. "Why not?"

"I agree," Volkov said. "So, what do you have for us, Jonathan?"

Drake turned back toward Volkov and crossed his legs casually. "I discovered yesterday that Nicolai is a fabrication of the FBI." He motioned toward Beamon. "Your replacement for Pascal is actually an undercover federal agent."

Volkov considered that for a moment. "You don't disappoint, Jonathan. That is an interesting piece of information. Is this just an accusation or do you have proof?"

Drake leaned over and picked up the file that had been lying on the floor next to him. He tossed it onto Volkov's desk. "It's all in there."

Beamon was staring at the floor again, his mind an uncharacteristic blank. This was it. He was going to die and Drake was going to stroll out of there with ten million dollars. Volkov made no move to reach for the file on his desk. "Is this true, Mark?"

He didn't respond.

"I'm capable of opening a file."

Beamon looked up at him. "Yeah. I guess it is."

Volkov pursed his lips for a moment and then reached into one of his desk drawers. When his hand reappeared, there was a gun in it. Despite the fact that Volkov was undoubtedly one of the most powerful criminals in the world, Beamon couldn't help thinking how unnatural he looked holding the weapon. The idea that Volkov would do his own killing had never really crossed his mind.

"Wait," Beamon said, holding a hand out and looking over at Drake, who was just sitting there, smiling serenely. "For what?" Volkov said.

"I delivered your message to Gasta like you asked, and you still owe me money for that."

"Yes. . . ."

"There's one thing I want to do before I die. Give me three minutes instead of the money and we'll call it even." Volkov placed the gun on the desk, but his hand didn't move more than a few inches from it. "I'm intrigued. You have your three minutes."

"Thank you," Beamon said, and then lunged from his chair--not at Volkov but at Drake. His fist caught the much larger CIA man completely by surprise, connecting solidly enough to tip him over backward in his chair. Beamon wasn't sure if the soft crunch he'd felt was Drake's nose or the bones in his own hand, but it didn't really matter. Drake was lying on the floor, flinging blood back and forth as he shook his head in an effort to regain his bearings. But it was too late. Beamon swung an expensive Italian leather shoe into the man's ribs with all the anger and frustration he'd been choking on since Chet's death. This time the cracking of bone was accompanied by an incredibly satisfying squeal as the wind went out of Drake's lungs. Just like a pig.

"You stupid piece of shit," Beamon screamed, slamming his foot down again, this time on Drake's unprotected chest. "I traced the bank you used to pay Gasta back to a CIA operation from the eighties. That kind of sloppy shit really pisses me off."

Drake made a grab for Beamon's ankle but wasn't quite fast enough, and ended up exposing his arm to another vicious kick instead. The adrenaline running through Beamon had obviously increased his strength, because he heard the bones in Drake's muscular arm snap.

"Did you know Chet Michaels was married?" he shouted, continuing to kick the man. "He and his wife had just bought a house."

"Stop," Drake said weakly, trying to sit up. Beamon grabbed him by the hair and slammed the back of his head into the stone floor.

"He was getting a lot of pressure from his parents to have children, but he was going to wait a couple of years . . ." Beamon said, breathing hard. He was lining up to deliver another kick to Drake's ribs when he felt a han
d
on his shoulder. He spun around and found Christian Volkov, gun in hand, standing behind him. He'd honestly almost forgotten Volkov was there.

"Enough, Mark. That's enough."

Beamon turned back toward Drake, who was still conscious, and waited to get shot in the back. Instead, Volkov walked around him and crouched down beside the CIA man. For a moment Beamon thought he was going to try to help him to his feet, but he made no move to.

"The Central Intelligence Agency . .." Volkov said, his back inexplicably presented to Beamon. "A completely unpredictable lot. Impossible to do business with. Just another of the world's insane government organizations--no better than in Laos."

The blind rage that had gripped Beamon was starting to fade, replaced by confusion. And that confusion turned to shock when Volkov aimed his pistol at Drake. The CIA agent managed one last act: to raise his arms in terror before the deafening crack of the gun sounded. The bullet went through one of his hands before entering his forehead and blowing most of the back of his head off.

Volkov rose from his crouched position, spattered with blood, and picked up the chair Drake had been sitting in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Beamon. I should have let you do that." He tossed the gun onto his desk and sat down.

It took a few moments for Beamon to realize that Volkov wasn't going to kill him. In fact, from his position, Beamon figured that he could reach the gun on the desk before Volkov could. Despite that realization, though, he didn't move. "What did you call me?"

"Mr. Beamon. You are Mark Beamon, aren't you? The special agent in charge of the FBI's Phoenix office?" Beamon fell into the chair next to Volkov. "How long have you known?"

"Since right before our first meeting."

Beamon gazed down at the thick stream of blood running from Drake's broken head. A moment later two men he'd never seen before walked in and unceremoniously dragged the body out.

He and Volkov sat in silence for a long time. Beamo
n
could feel his hand starting to swell and stared blankly down at it.

"So here we are," Volkov said finally, breaking the silence.

Beamon looked up at him, still unsure what had just happened. "Where is that?"

"A decision point, I suppose. Do we go forward or go backward?"

"I . . . I'm not sure I follow you."

"The CIA approached me with this plan some time ago: to support al-Qaeda in a takeover of the heroin business in the Middle East. They correctly assumed that Mustafa Yasin would use the tools we provided to mount a violent campaign against the current drug lords, causing a disruption that would allow the Asians to move in and replace Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan as America's supplier of choice. And at that point the CIA planned to offer support to Yasin's victims in all this, creating an internal war that would at worst keep him occupied for years to come and at best kill him and most of his men."

"Why you?"

"I have strong relationships with the Asians and the Russians. As you can imagine, though, I resisted becoming involved. There were significant risks, not the smallest of which was the possibility that Yasin would use his new contacts and weapons against the U
. S
. But I really had no choice. If I didn't cooperate, one of my competitors certainly would have. And if the plan succeeded, they would have generated an opportunity for my Asian associates that I hadn't, and created a strong relationship with America's intelligence community. So, despite the risks, I had to get involved." Volkov paused for a moment. "But then, I assume you knew most of this already."

Beamon nodded.

"You live up to your reputation, Mark."

"You said we're at a decision point," Beamon said, now looking at the trail of blood Drake's head had left on the floor. It was kind of hypnotic. "What is it we have to decide?" "You already know the answer to that. We only have one path ahead of us. Do we take it or not?"

"What if we don't?"

"Then the status quo that the CIA has created is maintained. Yasin consolidates his position in the heroin trade, putting an end to the disruptions his war is causing. He becomes one of the wealthiest men in the world and gains inroads to a very sophisticated smuggling network--which he uses to wage war against your country."

"That doesn't sound particularly attractive. I assume you've come up with an alternative?"

"We simply finish what has been started."

Beamon almost laughed, but managed to keep it in check. "Are you asking me--an FBI agent--to help you flood America with Asian heroin?"

"My sources suggest that it would be more accurate to call you a former FBI agent. And your streets are already flooded with Middle Eastern heroin, so I see no great harm in it."

"I don't think so, Christian."

Volkov leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "If I were to write a dictionary, do you know how I would define the word government? I'd define it as 'a crime organization ruthless and powerful enough to do away with all those who can meaningfully oppose it.--

"I understand your point, Christian, but I've got a line in my head that I try not to cross. It's not always logical, but it's there. Can you understand that?"

"Would it make you feel better if I hired a group of mercenaries to slaughter thousands of people in some small South American country, then put on a uniform and called myself El Presidente? You could be an ambassador."

"I don't see myself as an ambassador."

"And I don't see myself as a hypocrite."

Beamon considered his position--something that didn't take very long. Options were fairly scarce.

"I want the launcher."

"Are we negotiating?"

"I guess we are."

"And if I get you the launcher, I want your contact in the White House."

Beamon shook his head. "No. I wouldn't get Tom involved in this even if I could. I owe him my life."

Volkov didn't seem particularly upset by the refusal. "Then I want you, Mark. Not to stand by and avert your eyes, but as an active participant. My assistant--my executive vice president, you could say--was killed recently. Probably by Jonathan. I need someone to stand in his shoes."

"What about Elizabeth and Joseph?"

"They're both brilliant, but they're children."

Beamon leaned back in his chair and focused on Volkov. "You know that killing Drake isn't the end of this. You still have Alan Holsten to deal with. He'll do whatever's necessary to protect himself"

"Yes, of course you're right. What I hope to have gained by Jonathan's death is some temporary confusion, and possibly plausible deniability for Holsten. Perhaps he can paint Jonathan as a rogue agent?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you know him?"

"Holsten? In passing. He's an ass. But he's not an idiot." Volkov nodded. "So where do we stand, Mark?" Beamon sighed quietly. "Can I use your phone?"

"Of course."

Beamon walked around the desk and dialed Laura. "Hello?"

"It's me."

"Are you all right? Where are you?"

"I'm with Volkov."

"Mark, we've got to get together and talk face-to-face. I'm serious here. This thing with the CIA . . ."

"Don't worry about it. I'm taking care of it."

"What do you mean, you're 'taking care of it'?" "I'm taking care of it. Let's leave it at that."

There was a short pause over the line. "Gasta's starting to talk, Mark, working out a deal. It looks like we might get some interesting stuff out of him. He's got a new lawyer too--a serious piece of high-class talent. Can I assume that this is all your doing?"

"I need you to do me a favor," Beamon said, ignorin
g
her question. "Call my secretary. Tell her to get my credentials out of my desk--she knows where they are. Mail them to the Director with a letter of resignation. Tell her to sign it for me--she's good at that. I'll send him one with my signature on it when I get a chance."

"Are you sure that's what you want?"

"No, but I don't think I have much of a choice at this point."

"He's still going to come after you, Mark. Your involvement with Gasta, the Afghans . . ."

"I know."

"I don't understand what you're doing here, Mark." "What I'm doing is helping you find your launcher, Laura. I'll call you."

He hung up the phone and sat down behind Volkov's desk. "I guess I'm officially in your employ. Do you have medical?"

Volkov laughed. "In fact, we have a very good plan through one of my American companies. I'll have Elizabeth do the paperwork."

Beamon pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Of course. He should have known.

Chapter
56

"How many goddamn people did we have watching him? How many?"

Alan Holsten slammed the door to his office and spun around to face his executive assistant--normally a very competent and unflappable thirty-five-year-old man. Right now he looked like a scared kid.