Sphere Of Influence (48 page)

"It's not my first choice to send a woman--Elizabeth particularly--into this," Volkov said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd make sure she returns."

Beamon turned back to him. "I don't want her, Christian. I'll make do."

Volkov shook his head. "Everything in life costs, Mark. The price for a chance at saving America from itself may be your life and Elizabeth's. I think it's too expensive. But it's up to you."

Beamon stared out the window, trying to convince himself that he had a choice. But he didn't. How many people would die if that launcher was used? Besides, Volkov was right--this was going to be a fairly delicate piece of negotiating, and he wasn't going to get far using just his charades skills.

"I'll bring her back."

"If it was anyone but you, I wouldn't let her go at all." Volkov reached for a glass of water on the desk and took a quick sip. "You have three days, Mark. On Saturday I'm going to cut the Middle East off from the Mexican distribution lines. When that happens, my relationship with the Afghans is going to sour very quickly, and Yasin's people in America will be completely out of my reach--and out of yours, too, I think."

"Three days. Okay."

"Be very careful, Mark. I won't be available to help you--even if I could. I'm leaving for Mexico tonight to meet with the attorney general."

"Of Mexico? Salvador Castaneda?"

Volkov nodded.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

Beamon shrugged. "We know that Castaneda is a facilitator of narcotics trafficking--taking bribes and such. And we know that President Garcia looks the other way. That's why Mexico's been decertified. Our relationship with them is probably at a hundred-year low."

"Castaneda is much more powerful than your DEA imagines. He doesn't take bribes so much as he oversees his country's narcotics machine. He's the critical link in coordinating traffickers with the military and police. Actually, he's quite an administrator. If he weren't such a sadistic, backstabbing cretin, I'd be looking to make him part of my organization when he leaves office."

"So that's it," Beamon said. "That's how you're planning on pulling this off He has all the contacts and can coordinate the whole thing for you."

Volkov nodded. "He'll prefer dealing with the Asians, I think. More money, less risk."

"That's a lot to hang on an 'I think."'

Volkov smiled. "Not to worry. I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."

Chapter
60

ANOTHER goddamn helicopter.

This one was a Russian military rig with two rotors, an enormous cargo hold, and an absolute minimum of creature comforts. Beamon had already plowed through the box lunch Francois had prepared and now all there was to do was gaze out over the mountainous, sunburned landscape below. He felt a long way from home.

Another half hour passed before he spotted what looked like a small encampment in the distance. He leaned forward, as though that would help him penetrate the dusty haze that seemed to blanket this part of the world. "Is that it?" he shouted into the microphone suspended in front of his mouth.

The pilot nodded.

"Not too close. Land a good half mile away."

The young man behind the controls flipped a few switches and the wildly vibrating helicopter smoothed out a bit as it started to descend. Individual structures were starting to become visible, and Beamon gave the encampment they were hurtling toward another quick look before sliding out of his seat and ducking back into the cargo hold.

"We're there," Elizabeth said with quiet resignation that made her hard to understand over the noise. She was strapped into an uncomfortable-looking jump seat, wearing all her Muslim garb with the exception of the elaborate headpiece.

"Yeah, we're there," Beamon shouted. "I'm sorry I go
t
you into this, Elizabeth. My plan was to come in here alone."

She reached up and grabbed his shirt, pulling him close enough that she could speak in a more or less normal tone. "You asked me once why I didn't just get a real job. Why didn't you?"

Beamon shrugged. "I guess 'cause I'd miss the rush." "Same with me. But I suppose you have to live with the fact that sometimes the rush is a little more than you bargained for."

A broad, nervous smile spread across her face, and Beamon couldn't help returning the grin. Had there been women like this when he'd been in his twenties? Not that he could remember.

"Get ready," he said, starting toward the back of the airship. He fell to his knees when the skids hit the ground but managed to haul himself back to his feet with the aid of a large crate, which he then slid behind.

The sound of the engine was quickly dying as he dialed a number into his satellite phone.

"Hello?" came an Irish voice.

"Daniel? It's Mark. How are things?"

"Fine. Everything's quiet."

The engines went silent but the helicopter continued to rock gently, buffeted by the wind attacking the fuselage. "Is she there?"

"Yeah, it's pretty early here."

Beamon had sent Daniel and another of Volkov's men to watch Carrie's house, with orders to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe. He thought it was unlikely that the CIA would go after her, but who knew what Holsten would do if he started feeling truly desperate?

"Okay. Thanks, Daniel." He hung up and then took a deep breath before dialing Carrie's number.

"Hello?" She sounded groggy, but years as a doctor had made her accustomed to being awakened at all hours. "Cathe!"

"Mark? Where are you? I can barely hear you. Are you back in Phoenix?"

"Not exactly. I'm still kind of tied up on this investigation."

"That's interesting. I'm hearing that you quit the FBI. Is that true?"

"Who told you that? Laura?"

"No. Laura keeps telling me everything is fine. But I think she's lying. She sounds ... I don't know. Horrible." "Then, who?"

"Two FBI agents I didn't know showed up at my door yesterday. They wanted to know if I could help them find you."

"What did you tell them?"

"Everything I know, which is nothing. They said I should call them right away if I heard from you."

"You do that, Carrie. Call them right after we hang up and answer all their questions as truthfully as you can. More than likely they're listening to this conversation anyway."

"Are you kidding? You think my phone is tapped?" "Probably," he said honestly. If not by the Bureau, certainly by the CIA.

"What's going on, Mark? Did you really quit? And why do they want to find you so badly?"

"The answers are yes and it's a long story."

"Maybe they want you back?" she said with uncharacteristic optimism.

Beamon couldn't help smiling despite his position wedged behind a crate full of weapons on a Russian helicopter in the Afghan desert. "Yeah, they want me all right."

"What are you going to do?"

"I actually picked up a really lucrative consulting contract," he said. Not a lie. "Sorry I didn't call sooner, but I wanted to straighten things out first. There hasn't been a lot of time."

"That doesn't explain my phones being tapped. Is your client the Mob or something?" The joke sounded a little strained. It would have been a lot more strained if she knew she wasn't thinking big enough.

"Mark?"

Beamon spun around and saw Elizabeth peeking around the crate he was hiding behind.

"They're coming," she said. He nodded and she disappeared again.

"Look, I have to go. I just wanted to say . . ." Good-bye came to mind. "I just wanted to say hello."

He turned the phone off before she could say anything more and followed Elizabeth to a large set of sliding doors that had been thrown open to the desert.

The wind was cold and filled with enough sand to actually sting his skin as he jumped to the ground. He helped Elizabeth out of the helicopter and looked through the black mesh into her eyes.

"Show time," he said as they started forward to meet the approaching group of well-armed men. While nasty-looking machine guns seemed to be in good supply, none were yet pointed at his head. A good sign.

"The man in front, the kind of tall one," Elizabeth said, "is Mohammed Wakil. He's one of Yasin's top people. Did you read the stuff I gave you on him?"

Beamon nodded.

"He speaks enough English to pick up a word here and there, so be careful what you say to me. . . ."

"You sound scared, Elizabeth."

"I am. Aren't you?"

"Yeah. It's fine to be scared, but it's not so good to sound scared, okay?"

Wakil stopped in front of them, but the young boys accompanying him just passed by and headed straight for the helicopter. It was stuffed with gifts, though nothing quite so benevolent as the Lamborghini he'd taken to Laos. Mostly Russian rifles, heavy machine guns, and land mines. All the wonderful little gadgets that people turned to when there were a few dollars to be made, or their god spelled his name differently from their neighbor's god, or they thought Marx and Engels's book was better than Adam Smith's . . .

Wakil spoke in Arabic and Elizabeth whispered the translation in Beamon's ear.

"He wants to know if you're Mark."

"Tell him I am."

Wakil turned and motioned for them to follow. Beamo
n
SPHERE OF INFLUENCE
g
lanced back at the helicopter one last time and saw Wakil's men throwing boxes recklessly through the cargo doors, shouting gleefully.

"He wants us to go with him, I think," Elizabeth said. Probably not a bad idea. He didn't know much about military weaponry but guessed some of it didn't react well to being thrown from helicopters. The last thing he needed was to be blown to bits by the Islamic version of the Hitler Youth.

The encampment he'd seen in the distance was just that--an encampment. It consisted of five large tents, a few worn-out military vehicles, and a few camels. Honest--
to-God
camels. He leaned into Elizabeth's ear. "Just like in the movies."

Her only response was a short nod that was almost imperceptible beneath the folds of black cloth.

Wakil pushed open a flap and indicated that they were to enter. Beamon went through first, with Elizabeth a little too close behind. Inside, the ground was covered with colorful rugs and pillows, and the sound of the wind was replaced by the sound of flapping fabric.

Beamon stood motionless near the entrance, looking down at the man sitting cross-legged on the floor. You had to say one thing about Christian Volkov: The son of a bitch was well connected. Three weeks ago, Beamon would have laughed at anyone who suggested that he would one day be standing five feet from Mustafa Yasin.

He couldn't help being a little mesmerized by the man. Yasin was even more impressive in person than in his pictures. He exuded a charismatic intensity like no one else Beamon had ever met. When he spoke he did so quietly, but the sound easily overpowered the drone of the wind on the tent.

"He invites you to sit," Elizabeth said.

Beamon sank onto a dusty pillow and Elizabeth knelt next to him. He heard the flap open and two women--at least, he assumed there were women under there somewhere--entered, carrying trays of food. They were laid i
n
front of Beamon and he took the hint, beginning to eat reluctantly. It looked and tasted a hell of a lot better than General Yung's home brew, but he guessed it was just as deadly. As a precaution, he'd gulped a few antibiotics and a bottle of Pepto on the way there. Yasin didn't eat.

"Christian regrets not being able to come here himself," Beamon said, mimicking his successful performance in Laos. "You understand that it is very difficult for him to travel now."

Yasin didn't react, just stared out along his impressive nose.

"I'm here," Beamon continued respectfully, "in hopes that we can again find the trust that we lost through our mistake of employing Carlo Gasta in America."

Elizabeth's translation still got no reaction, so Beamon just shut up. He needed something to tell him he was on the right ass-kissing track here. For all he knew, he was just digging himself in deeper.

Yasin sat with
statue like
stillness. Signs of life were minimal until he finally spoke.

"Our brothers are dead or being held hostage by America's FBI because of your man, Gasta," Elizabeth whispered, her lips brushing Beamon's ear. "And he stole from us. How can you possibly atone for that? How can you expect to regain our trust?"

Of course Gasta was completely unconnected to Volkov, but now probably wasn't the time to go into the CIA's involvement.

"We believe," Yasin continued, "that Christian Volkov either ordered this action or that he cannot control his people."

"Christian did not order it," Beamon said. "Why would he? He's taken great risks and incurred great expense to build a relationship with you. In the past he has come here personally in friendship."

The conversation was frustratingly slow with Elizabeth translating both sides.