Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

"He has a lot going on."

  Beamon fell into a chair and put his feet up on the one next to it. "Still can't stand to be in the same room with me?"

  "It was part of the deal," she admitted. "If you came, he didn't. He's still pretty angry with you, Mark. But he appreciates you helping us."

  Beamon nodded silently. His friend at the White House had called the CIA director at home and parroted Laura's concern that his organization was withholding information that might be useful in the FBI's investigation. Not surprisingly, this meeting got scheduled in a hurry.

  "So how are things going?" Beamon said through a yawn. The simple act of sleeping through the night was getting harder and harder for him.

  "Well, I wouldn't want to bore you any more than you already are," she snapped.

  Beamon stared at her for a moment. The stress was already starting to show. He knew it was impossible, but it seemed that new lines were etching themselves into her face almost hourly.

  "The captain's chair isn't that comfortable, is it?"

  Her expression softened a little and she actually seemed to blush. "Things aren't going that well. We know exactly where the photograph was taken and we've been able to pinpoint the time based on the weather. There's not a town within fifty miles and no one we can find saw anything--no Middle Eastern-looking men, no trucks, no usable tire tracks or footprints. We're watching all the roads out of there and looking into the sale and rentals of trucks big enough to carry that thing, but I'm not hopeful. We're covering all the bases on possible radical groups, right down to the animal-rights people. In the end, though, it's going to be al-Qaeda. I'm ninety percent certain.. . ."

  "Getting anywhere on the audio?"

  "We've got a decent voiceprint off it and we're running it against the tips we're getting and any possible suspects. Nothing."

  He really didn't envy her this one. The media was doing a hell of a job convincing America that missiles were going to start falling from the sky like rain and that many of them would have nuclear and biological payloads. If alQaeda managed to get a shot off, it didn't take a whole lot of imagination to figure out who was going to take the blame for letting it happen.

  "How's Brian doing with all this?"

  Laura's three-year marriage to a Georgetown University geology professor--and generally good guy--was starting to falter.

  That blush again. "This isn't what we needed right now. It's the hours: We never see each other anymore. He said we might as well not even be married. He actually said that." She averted her eyes toward the ceiling. "And he's right. I'd actually started doing a little better--being more careful with my time, but now this . . ."

  The door opened and she fell silent. Beamon didn't recognize the man who entered and dropped his laptop and files a little too hard on the table. He was actually kind of an impressive figure. Well over six feet tall with the thick chest and arms of a serious weight lifter and not just someone who popped into the gym every once in a while to alleviate guilt. His skin was well tanned, and his slicked-back black hair was a little longer than would normally be expected. The blue slacks and white shirt he wore were obviously tailor-made and created a well-thought-out backdrop for an expensive-looking tie. If he were to smile, which seemed unlikely, it was almost certain that his teeth would be ruler-straight and designer-white.

  Laura rose from her chair and stuck her hand out. "You must be Jonathan Drake. I'm Laura Vilechi."

  Beamon smiled. At times there was definitely something to be said for having the White House chief of staff as your best friend. Until now Laura had been confined to working with Drake's underlings, never laying eyes on the man himself Drake gave her hand a cursory shake and sat. He turned toward Beamon for a moment but didn't offer any kind of a greeting. It didn't matter. This was Laura's show.

  "Ms. Vilechi--" he started.

  "Call me Laura."

  "Fine. Laura, then. Apparently you had Tom Sherman call the DCI, who then called my boss, Alan Holsten, who has in turn called me with some vague notion that my people are not fully cooperating with you and your investigation."

  Laura opened her mouth to speak but he silenced her with an impatient and rather rude gesture. Beamon smiled. He and Laura were pretty good friends--it could even be argued that he was at least partially responsible for her meteoric rise through the FBI's ranks--and he still wouldn't have the guts to in any way suggest that she shut up. Maybe this meeting would turn out more entertaining than he'd thought.

  Drake continued in an irritated tone deadened by fatigue. Beamon had initially been dazzled by the man's impeccable grooming but now saw that behind it, he looked as if he hadn't slept in a couple of days.

  "Your belief that al-Qaeda is involved in this may be correct or it may not, Laura. Either way, we've shared everything we've got on them with you. What do you want from us? We can't do your job for you. . . ."

  Beamon had to stifle a laugh. Five more minutes of this kind of attitude and Drake was going to find himself at the hospital, having his laptop surgically removed from his ass. ". . . And since all you've provided us with on the weapon is a bunch of poorly supported theories that you seem to have gotten from the media, we've got no leverage with the Russians. Until you have something that's at least got some basis, they're going to deny that this is anything but a model built from materials purchased at Home Depot."

  Laura didn't answer immediately, instead nodding thoughtfully at his lecture.

  "You're right, Jonathan, the FBI has been slow in turning up concrete evidence. That's my fault and I'd like to apologize. We're hoping to get you more soon."

  Beamon had been wondering if Laura's suspicions about the CIA had been just an impression or if she had something more solid. The affected sweetness of her voice answered that question.

  "What I'm looking for," she continued politely, "is some information on the recent skirmishes that have taken place in Afghanistan,1brkmenistan, and Pakistan. Maybe even a few in Iran and 'flukey: I'm not certain of my intelligence, there. I understand that it's possible the al-Qaeda organization is involved."

  Beamon had guessed from Laura's tone that she was about to lower the boom and had been watching Drake's face intently as she spoke. He was good--there was no denying it--a natural-born liar. Whether it was his obvious fatigue or just surprise at the little blond woman's attack, Beamon spotted a split-second glitch in Drake's expression as he shifted gears.

  "We have been picking up some activity--"

  "I see," Laura said. "So when you said you'd shared everything you have, that wasn't entirely accurate." Drake had himself completely back under control when he spoke again. "Come on, Laura, this kind of thing isn't unusual and you know it. We've stabilized that region as much as it can be stabilized, but it's still wall-to-wall with warlords, Muslim fanatics, terrorists, and people who don't know how to do anything but fight. And as far as al-Qaeda being involved, who the hell knows? These guys aren't as easy to identify as they used to be--and as you know, they were never easy to identify."

  "But there's been an increase in the frequency and scale of the attacks over the last six months, isn't that right? And they cover a pretty wide geographic area, don't they? Too wide to be an individual warlord fighting over some piece of ground."

  The silence that ensued probably lasted no more than two seconds, but it spoke volumes. Drake was trying to calculate how much she knew and the absolute minimum he could reveal without seeming evasive.

  "You're assuming that the individual battles are connected in some way, and I don't think there's any evidence of that," he said finally. "This kind of violence ebbs and flows. We may just be seeing a reaction to the American-supported regime in Afghanistan, possibly with the involvement of displaced Taliban or al-Qaeda. Or it could be more perception than reality. We're just looking harder than we used to. In any event, I don't see how that would be relevant to your investigation. In fact, you could argue that if Mustafa Yasin is tying up his limited manpower in petty skirmishes on the
other side of the world, he might not be involved with this rocket launcher at all."

  Mistake, Beamon thought.

  "So you don't think information relating to Yasin's possible innocence and someone else's guilt would be relevant to our investigation?"

  It was Drake's turn to flush.

  "Could al-Qaeda be trying to take control of Afghanistan again, Jonathan? Could Yasin be trying to initiate radical Islamic revolutions in the surrounding countries?"

  "I hardly think that the activity we're seeing is of that kind of magnitude. And again, we don't know that alQaeda is involved."

  "So someone over there is just feeling a little pissy," Laura said. "Sort of Muslim PMS."

  Beamon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "What I'm trying to tell you," Drake said angrily, "is that the people in that region like nothing better than to kill each other and anyone else they happen across. I mean, look at their stance on the United States. We pour billions into their economies and help the Afghans drive the Soviets out of their country, and now they call us infidels and run planes into our cities."

  Beamon was a little slow in stifling his laugh this time, and Drake spun toward him. "Did you have something to add?"

  Beamon had an Ivy League degree in history--something he rarely admitted to--and the CIA's revisionism always struck him as funny in kind of an absurd way.

  "I'm sorry. No, nothing."

  "Please, Mr. Beamon. If you have something to say I'm sure we'd all like to hear it."

  The guy sounded like his second-grade teacher.

  "Well, I'll tell you, Jonathan: As I remember it, the CIA armed the Afghan people to the teeth in order to fight the Soviets and adopted a kind of 'We'll fight to the last Afghan' policy. Then, when the Soviets were driven out, we just flipped them the bird and walked out of there. In return for helping us bring down the Soviet Union and end the Cold War, we left them with half their male population dead or maimed and their country in ruins. And as far as pouring money into the economies over there, I think it's less goodwill than the fact we like to drive big cars. . . ."

  "I'm sick of people telling me that because we helped the Afghans fight off an occupying force, we somehow owe them. They had every opportunity to create a viable government after the Soviets pulled out, but they didn't, because they're a corrupt, violent, uneducated people. It wasn't our job to save them from themselves."

  "What we owed them or didn't owe them is neither here nor there, Jonathan. The fact is that al-Qaeda's mostly a bunch of non-Afghan Muslim fanatics that the CIA encouraged to go to Afghanistan and help the mujahideen. As I recall, you guys paid Osama bin Laden to build training camps so that we'd be dead sure that every nutcase in the Middle East could shoot a Stinger with either hand. Wouldn't it have made a little bit of sense to have stuck around and tried to create something productive for these guys to do? To have given them a little guidance?"

  "I don't have time to sit here and debate history with you, Mr. Beamon. It has no bearing on our discussion."

  "I'm curious as to what criteria you use to decide what is and isn't relevant," Laura said.

  The air rushed out of him in an exasperated gush and he threw his hands up.

  "Is there any pattern to the skirmishes we're seeing over there?" Laura asked.

  "No."

  "Are they using weapons similar to the one in the photograph?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do you know anything about who exactly has been attacked?"

  "Not really."

  "Have there been offensives against cities of any size or importance?"

  "Not that we know of"

  Beamon tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. That was it: This guy had his back up and Laura wasn't going to get anything more out of him.

  "Look, Jonathan," Beamon said, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. Laura would undoubtedly be glaring at him for interfering. "We don't want to take up any more of your time than we have to. Just give us the four W's and we're out of here."

  "I'm sorry?" Jonathan said.

  "Don't be sorry. Just tell us who, when, where, and why." "I think it's a little more complicated than that."

  "And maybe we're too dumb to understand it," Beamon said, leaning forward in his chair and looking directly at Drake. "Should we fly to Nebraska and finish this meeting with the President? He's a pretty smart guy--maybe he could help us understand the complications you're talking about. One thing I know for sure is that he's real interested in finding that launcher. From what I hear, it's about all he thinks about these days."

  Drake stared back fiercely but it didn't mean much. He would have checked into just how well connected Beamon was and would know that he could make good on his threat.

  Drake grabbed a thick cable protruding from the top of the table and connected it to his laptop. When he turned the computer on, the images on its screen were transmitted to a large monitor built into one of the walls. He tapped a few keys and a map of the Middle East appeared.

  "Where," he said simply.

  Beamon and Laura both leaned forward and watched as the screen zoomed in on the map and red dots appeared representing recent guerrilla activity. They seemed to be concentrated in, but not limited to, the Helmand province of Afghanistan and its borders with Pakistan and liirkmenistan.

  "All attacks were on insignificant encampments of no military or strategic value that we can discern," Drake said, tapping a few more commands into the computer. A moment later the "when" part of Beamon's question appeared next to the dots in the form of dates.

  "Who? We're not sure. Warlords, former Taliban, alQaeda, various tribes, all of the above. We just don't know. As far as why goes, your guess is as good as ours: ethnic hatred, religion, territory, money. Take your pick."

  Beamon glanced over at Laura but she seemed content to let him stay in the lead.

  "Okay, Jonathan, now we're getting somewhere. I can get my mind around this. What I'd like is for you to give us everything you've got on this subject, including inquiries you've made that came to nothing. Why don't you have it couriered over to Dave Iverson in two hours. And copy Tom Sherman at the White House. I'll let him know when to expect it."

  Beamon stood, not bothering to wait for Drake's response. "I guess that's about it." He nodded toward Laura. "Unless you have something else."

  "No, I think that'll do it." She moved around the table and shook hands with an unhappy Jonathan Drake. "It's been a pleasure," she lied. "I appreciate all your hard work."

  As they walked out into the hall and joined their less than bubbly escort again, Laura looked over at him and carefully mouthed the words thank you.

  "I told you to be careful!" Alan Holsten shouted, slamming the door to the conference room behind him. "They came in here with vague suspicions and left certain that we're hiding something. You read the files on Vilechi and Beamon and you still underestimated them."

  Holsten, the CIA's deputy director of operations, had been listening to the entire meeting through a microphone hidden beneath the table.

  "What did you want me to do, Alan? Tell them the truth--that we're involved in supplying Mustafa Yasin with weapons and that one of those weapons made its way to the United States? Or did you want me to tell them absolutely nothing, even when it was obvious that they knew we had something?"

  "You are involved in supplying Yasin," Holsten said forcefully. "Not we--you. This is your operation and it has been since the beginning. You made guarantees, Jonathan. And now . . ." His voice trailed off, leaving a silent threat hanging in the air.

  Drake was careful not to let the anger and suspicion he felt show on his face. While it was true that this particular off-the-books operation had been his concept, it was just as true that Alan Holsten had enthusiastically approved it. But that didn't matter now. Holsten was getting scared, and a man in his position could be very dangerous when cornered.

  "Our exposure on this is insignificant," Drake said calmly.

  "
Insignificant? Are you kidding me? I just listened to you stutter through an interrogation by the FBI's two top investigators. How are you planning on withholding the information they asked for now?"

  "I'm not. I have to give it to them. I have no choice." Mark Beamon's insistence that he send everything they had--even avenues that had come to nothing--was designed to keep the CIA from omitting information. If there was an obvious thread that hadn't been pulled or a line of inquiry that hadn't been pursued, it would be glaring.

  "You're just going to hand over our files on al-Qaeda's operations?" Holsten said through clenched teeth.

  "Like you said, Alan, I read the file on Beamon. It seems that it was accurate: He's not as dumb as he looks. But he's still five steps behind us. I anticipated his request and had a clean set of files prepared that will lead them exactly where we want them to go."

  Holsten didn't sit, choosing to remain standing by the door. "Very clever, Jonathan. But you're still giving them something to sink their teeth into. And the truth is, we don't know where that's going to lead them."

  "It won't lead them to us."

  Despite Drake's effort, his boss continued to look skeptical.

  "What will Mark Beamon's involvement be going forward?"

  "Limited. He's having problems at home with his inspection, something that we can amplify and use to distract him. Also, he and Dave Iverson can't even be in the same room together. That's why Iverson wasn't here today." "We don't want him involved in this, Jonathan. He's smart, experienced, and lucky. That's a very bad combination."

  Drake shrugged. "This is Laura Vilechi's investigation. Beyond her using his contacts at the White House, Beamon has nothing to do with it. The only reason he was here today was a clumsy attempt to intimidate me."

  "What do we know about her?"

  "She's tailor-made for us. Certainly an exceptional investigator, but unlike Beamon, she's chained to procedure. That makes her predictable. Also, we can count on her to file regular detailed reports that we'll have access to. We'll always know exactly where she is and where she's going." Holsten nodded slowly. Drake was relieved to see that his boss was calming down a bit. "You say the files you're sending won't lead to us. Will they lead to Volkov?" "Not in any obvious way. The FBI isn't even aware he exists right now. It's strange, but J. Edgar Hoover's early refusal to admit that organized crime existed seems to have held on in their culture: They don't seem ready to admit to the existence of people like Christian Volkov. Eventually, though, they'll come to him. That's the way we set it up. All roads eventually lead to Volkov."