Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "We don't have it," Mohammed said.

  "Fuck!"

  It was just like the movies. Time seemed to slow down as Gasta jerked back and went for his gun. Chet's breath caught in his chest and he went for his, too, trying to force back panic and thoughts of his new wife as he ripped his Beretta from its holster. He wasn't sure, but he guessed that it took less than a second for the meeting to go from civil conversation to the very edge of disaster.

  Chet's hand continued to tighten on the grip of his pistol as he centered it on Mohammed's chest, causing sweat to wring from his palm and trickle down his arm. He was about to die--he knew it. That stupid wop was finally going to get him killed.

  "You're fucking with the wrong person," Gasta screamed, retreating slowly with his gun stretched out in front of him. "I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you're about to be dead!"

  Chet tried again to will his boss to calm down, letting the words Shut up, you stupid son of a bitch echo in his mind. He knew what Gasta was thinking: that he had five heavily armed men parked less than a mile away. He seemed to believe that he was the only person clever enough to bring backup to this meeting. And it was apparently completely lost on him that, with the exception of Chet, the men he'd brought were fat, middle-aged wiseguys whose best weapon was the intimidation their rusty reputations could provide. The problem was, Mohammed didn't look intimidated. In fact, he looked a little bored.

  Chet knew the man was from somewhere in Afghanistan, and that made it pretty much certain that he'd faced down a lot more intimidating people than a fortyish Mob boss and his freckled, redheaded lieutenant. "Mr. Gasta, please," Mohammed said, spreading his empty hands wide. "You do not understand. We are very happy to have business with you. There has been a delay in our supply."

  Chet couldn't figure out what was going on. Was this asshole telling the truth or just stalling until his men got in position? He shifted his gaze past Mohammed and stared intently into the darkness, trying to spot the pack of dusty Afghans he imagined were crawling toward them with knives in their teeth, then spun around, partially blinding himself, to make sure no one was sneaking up behind them. "What the fuck do you mean, 'a delay'?" Gasta shouted. "We have a business arrangement here, you piece of shit!" Chet winced. He had spent the last year working his ass off to move up in Gasta's organization, starting as a messenger boy, then being promoted to driver, then to soldier. And now, through a combination of luck, hard work, and brains, he'd gotten what he wanted: close to Gasta. Just in time for the son of a bitch to get him killed.

  "I must apologize," Mohammed said calmly. "I just learned--"

  "That one of your camels died?"

  Gasta's confidence was being bolstered by the fact that both he and Chet were aiming guns at an unarmed man. He'd obviously decided he was in a position to push, but Mohammed remained serene.

  "The reason does not matter. What is important is that we will have your shipment in one week."

  "This might be the way you sand niggers do business at home, but now you're in a country where we live up to our goddamn agreements," Gasta shouted, stretching his pistol out in front of himself a little more.

  Chet's finger tightened on the trigger as Mohammed removed the knapsack he was wearing and extracted a small package covered in duct tape.

  "I have a sample. This is for you." He held it out and Gasta inched toward it. When he got within range, he slapped the package out of the man's hand and retreated a few feet. "I came here to buy a truckload of product and you insult me with this? Let me show you what I think of your fucking sample." Chet jumped when Gasta fired three rounds into it, sending a small cloud of heroin rising lazily into the still air.

  Gasta glanced back at Chet before spewing a string of racial slurs that lasted a full ten seconds and then starting to slowly advance on Mohammed again. Chet knew the look and understood what Gasta wanted him to do. He was more than happy to oblige.

  "Carlo, take it easy, man," Chet said, running up behind his boss and grabbing him from behind. "Take it easy, it's not worth it."

  "You come into my country and insult me? We should have just killed every fucking one of you after what you did to the World Trade Center," Gasta screamed, making a show of struggling against Chet's grip, giving every appearance that he wanted to break free and tear Mohammed apart with his bare hands. It was all for show, though. In the end, Carlo Gasta was a coward.

  Chapter 4

  "BONJOUR, Christian. Cava?"

  Through the trio of five-meter-tall windows behind his desk, Volkov could see a deep glow building on the horizon. In a few more minutes the darkness laid out before him would begin to gather color and shape until it became the ocean and jungle-topped cliffs that bordered his home. He wondered if he would ever tire of the metamorphosis. "Christian?"

  Volkov answered in French. Although he* was a brilliant administrator, Pascal had no gift for languages. "I'm fine. And you?" He remained transfixed by the evolution of the dawn as he spoke.

  "I am very glad to have you back from Afghanistan safely."

  "You worry too much, Pascal."

  "You do a great deal to fuel my fears."

  Volkov smiled sadly. "I know I do, and I'm sorry. So what news, my friend?"

  He heard the bank of televisions set into the far wall come to life and glanced at their reflections in the window in front of him. He could follow all the commentaries at once without difficulty--one of a number of unusual mental gifts he'd developed over the years.

  Euronews, Fox, and CNN were continuing their minute-to-minute coverage of the rocket launcher photograph in America, with the BBC taking a moment to run a brief story on a recent coup in Laos. Volkov focused on the BBC report for a moment, concentrating on the reflection of an Asian man in military garb speaking energetically into a bouquet of microphones.

  "As you can see, Christian, there is a great deal of news." Volkov continued to gaze at the empty Cuban landscape that spread out behind his isolated home. The red limestone of the cliff that bordered the western boundary of his property began to glow as though it had its own power source. It was a spectacular sight that lasted for only a few moments. "Has there been an official announcement from the Americans as to the authenticity of the photograph?" "No, no official word. However, the independent experts hired by the news agencies have completed their examinations and unanimously declared them unaltered. The American government will eventually do the same." Volkov took a deep breath and let it out slowly but didn't speak.

  "Perhaps the Americans shouldn't have celebrated Osama bin Laden's demise so energetically, eh, Christian?"

  Volkov nodded silently. Before bin Laden had been transformed from a fundamentally flawed human being into an omnipresent martyr for radical Muslims to rally around, he had chosen the formerly obscure Mustafa Yasin as his successor.

  Yasin, a former economist, had shrunk the ranks of alQaeda, restructuring it using principles developed by Special Forces and organized crime. The remaining operatives, numbering less than a thousand, were well educated, well trained, and highly motivated. One was now more likely to find an al-Qaeda operative studying engineering in a foreign university than to discover bombs in a dusty training camp in Somalia. At least that would have been true a year ago. Now more and more of these elite troops were being drafted to carry out Yasin's takeover of the Middle Eastern heroin trade.

  "Have they identified the weapon yet, Pascal?"

  "No. Apparently it doesn't fit any known model. There was some early speculation that it might be a fake, but I believe most experts are now saying that it is likely real. They correctly speculate that it is an unsophisticated system being built by criminal concerns inside the former Soviet Union. The possibility that it could contain radioactive or biological material is also being put forth by the media." "And what is America's reaction?"

  "The military is being mobilized and the navy is going to sea, though I don't think anyone knows to what end. The FBI is--"

  "W
hat's America's reaction?"

  Pascal nodded his understanding. "Fear. Air traffic has nearly ceased, though it seems likely that if the terrorists actually had Stingers in the country, they would have shown them in the picture. Schools are running at half capacity, businesses are closed . . ."

  Volkov leaned back in his chair and laced his hands on top of his head. "Al-Qaeda has always believed that they were responsible for the collapse of the Soviet Union, and now they believe that they can do the same to the United States." He let out a short laugh. "With Mustafa Yasin leading them, they may be right."

  "But this is hardly of the same magnitude as the destruction of the Trade Centers. . ."

  "No, it's much worse. Why is America the world's only superpower, Pascal? It's certainly not their military. Missiles cannot be used against friends, or countries with the ability to respond in kind, or against weak countries with strong patrons, or even against countries that have something they need. And while the Americans certainly can bomb the small number of countries not included on that list, they cannot gain control over them because of their unwillingness to send their sons to die on foreign soil. So, in the end, the practical use of their armies is extremely limited. America's power is in its economy--its ability to dominate other countries financially. Yasin understands that if he can destroy that wealth, he effectively pulls America's teeth." Volkov closed his eyes for a moment and tried to concentrate. His situation had been hopelessly complex two days ago. Now it was impossible. He attempted to conjure a reasonable hypothesis as to what this would mean to him going forward but quickly gave up. The permutations seemed endless.

  "The investigation will be led by the FBI," Pascal said. With whatever assistance they need from the other American and international law enforcement organizations. Officially, David Iverson, the assistant director in charge of the counterterrorism section, will be the lead man. Our sources suggest that the driving force behind the investigation, though, will actually be Laura Vilechi--apparently a woman of uncommon intelligence and tenacity."

  "And what has she learned so far?"

  "According to our sources, very little. With nothing concrete to grasp, they can do very little but round up Arab immigrants and illegals, hoping to find something. . . ." "Are they making any progress identifying the origin of the weapon?"

  "No. They're trying to enlist the help of the Russians, but without actually obtaining the unit and tracing the individual parts to the former Soviet states, the Russians will be unwilling to take responsibility and cooperate in any meaningful way, even without our interference."

  "And we won't interfere," Volkov said. "We are completely silent on this, do you understand?"

  "Of course."

  Volkov tried to ignore the sensation of his carefully constructed anonymity slipping irretrievably away. "And the CIA?"

  "We understand that Ms. Vilechi has contacted them. For obvious reasons, it seems fairly certain that the FBI will receive very little useful information from the Agency."

  Volkov nodded. "What about our contacts? What have we been able to discover?"

  "Nothing beyond what the media has been able to put together. In order to find more, I would have to make direct inquiries. Do you want me to do that?"

  "No. . . . We need to focus on drawing as little attention to ourselves as possible. At some point, that will become impossible, but for now, let's try to stay far in the background."

  Volkov spun his chair around and for the first time that morning faced Pascal. "Is there anything else?"

  His assistant just stood there, staring down at the floor. "Pascal? Are you all right?"

  Finally he looked up again. "What does it mean, Christian?"

  Volkov glanced over at the bank of televisions, watching the images playing across them for a moment. "To us? I don't know. But there's nothing we can do now except to try to protect ourselves from any immediate danger." He paused for a moment. "We leave for the house in Chile as soon as possible. We've been here too long. Don't make any preparations or inform anyone we're moving until the last possible moment. And then only inform people who absolutely need to know."

  "May I suggest the house in Seychelles instead? We have good people already there, and it will cause less disruption when we arrive."

  "Fine. When can we leave?"

  "Elizabeth and Joseph are taking care of it. Can you be ready to board a plane in two hours?"

  Volkov nodded and his assistant started for the door. "Pascal?"

  The man stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you."

  "Of course."

  Chapter 5

  "ARE you going to eat that or just play with it?" Beamon stabbed a tortellini and popped it in his mouth. It took almost more energy than he had to chew and swallow.

  "Come on, Mark. Quit being so tight-lipped."

  "I'm just an honest, hardworking SAC, Carrie. Nobody tells me anything anymore."

  A disbelieving frown spread across Carrie Johnstone's face--a really spectacular one. She was wearing her shoulder-length auburn hair down tonight, and the loose curls framed her face perfectly, though he knew from experience she hadn't given much thought to it.

  Like him, she was wearing glasses nearly full time now. The difference was that his were nothing more than a badge of advancing years, while hers--little round lenses with almost imperceptible wire rims that somehow seemed just a bit subversive--seemed to enhance her features. "There are terrorists running around America with a rocket launcher, and you're telling me you don't know anything about it," she said.

  Beamon looked around the nearly empty restaurant, trying to spot their nervous waitress. "I guess I haven't been paying that much attention."

  Another beautiful frown. "I saw Laura on TV, but she pretty much said the same thing you guys always say: 'We have numerous leads and are following up on them rigorously.'"

  "Laura said rigorously?"

  "She might not have used that exact word, but it was something similar. Have you talked to her?"

  Not since she'd told him to piss off.

  "Nope."

  Carrie sliced thoughtfully into the bland-looking vegetarian dish she'd ordered and looked around the cavernous room. "Couldn't we have just eaten at your place? This is creepy."

  "What is?"

  "What do you mean, 'What is?' The fact that any minute now, some fanatic could just blow us to pieces."

  "I doubt anyone would waste a rocket on a mid-priced Italian restaurant in Phoenix."

  "But you don't know that. You don't know for sure." Beamon shrugged. There was just no goddamn way he was going to let some Middle Eastern fruitcake with a piece-of-shit surplus rocket launcher keep him from doing exactly what he wanted to. "Thousands of people die getting run over by drunk drivers every year, and all anyone ever worries about is terrorists and plane crashes. You have a better statistical chance of being killed by a shark in your hot tub."

  "I know it's irrational, but it's hard to help, Mark. The fact that something could come out of nowhere . . . One minute you're just working or talking about nothing with a friend, and the next you're dead. I guess it's like snakes. Most are harmless but . . ." She shuddered.

  The image of the World Trade Center flashed briefly across his mind. He blinked hard and watched Carrie as she popped something that might have been eggplant into her mouth. What if she had been in it when it had collapsed?

  After twenty-odd years in the FBI, it was easy--critical to what was left of his sanity, really--that he view crime as clinically and dispassionately as possible. But what if she had died that day in September? What if she had been taken from him just because a bunch of semiliterate Muslims decided God was angry.

  "You still there, Mark? What are you thinking about?" "Nothing."

  He ran a finger absently along the edge of his plate as she continued to eat. They'd been together for what seemed like a long time now--easily the longest relationship of his adult life, if he optimistically assumed that they sti
ll had a relationship.

  The year before, when he'd become the target of the FBI and Congress, he'd made the monumental mistake of dumping her. He'd done it with the best intentions: He loved her and he didn't want to drag her and her young daughter down with him. She hadn't seen it that way, though. What she'd seen was a lack of trust--a lack of commitment. And maybe there was some truth to that. Or maybe he'd just wanted to cut loose of everything. With the benefit of hindsight, though, that breakup had positioned itself firmly at number one on the rather long list of dumb things he'd done in his life.

  So now, despite a fairly obscene amount of groveling on his part, they'd "slowed things down." That's what women said when they were on the fence as to whether or not you were a complete loser: "I think we should slow things down."

  There was still hope, though. The necklace he'd given her as a peace offering was dangling from her neck. It shone in the candlelight like . . . well, not like forgiveness, but maybe like the distant possibility of forgiveness.

  "What's happening with the inspection?" Carrie said, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. "You haven't said a word about it all night. Is it over?"

  An interesting choice of words.

  "Just about."

  "And?"

  Beamon quoted a line from the report that pretty much summed it up. "'While the office has been effective, this has been despite the management and administration, not because of it.'"

  "That seems unfair."

  Beamon blew air from his nose in an audible rush. Not quite a laugh. "I guess it is, in a way. It should have been worse. The kid running the inspection seems to think I'm a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Jesus Christ. He softened the blow."

  Finally spotting their waitress standing by a window, searching for terrorists, Beamon drained his beer and motioned for a refill. "Kind of a strange position to be in. Every time I turn around these days, politics are working for me instead of against me. It's hard to get used to for some reason."