Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "--of Allah's greatness. America will pay for--"

  He hit the MUTE button. If there was one thing he truly hated, it was revolutionary jargon. The world had finally gotten rid of the communists and their "imperialism" this, "capitalist dog" that, and now you had to listen to these idiots. Hardly an improvement.

  The video was strangely riveting and he watched until the screen faded into current scenes from America's cities. Restaurants and stores closed, offices empty, silent street interviews with haggard-looking people who for some reason had been forced from their homes and into the dangerous and malignant world.

  Beamon looked down at the report in his lap for another few seconds but then just tossed it on his desk. The fact that he had to spend his time worrying about whether his debits equaled his credits while some nut was running around the country with a rocket launcher was really cruel. Not your case.

  He was still repeating that to himself when he pulled a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. On it was a rough drawing he'd made of the map Jonathan Drake had projected on the wall in Langley. Normally, Beamon wasn't really a detail person, but when it came to interesting crimes, his mind could grab and hold things with almost photographic detail.

  He ran his hand across the paper, smoothing out Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and all the other -stans, focusing on the little dots representing recent fighting. They meant something--he was sure of that. But what?

  He reached for another beer but immediately dropped it and sent it rolling across the floor.

  "Jesus Christ!" he said, grabbing his chest. "You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here this late?" Neither of his two ASACs replied; they just stood there in the doorway to his office like extras from Night of the Living Dead. "What?" Beamon said, spinning his chair to face them.

  His number two, Rick Sterling, finally took a step forward. "We've heard some things."

  "What things?" Beamon motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. "You guys want to sit?"

  His other ASAC answered by moving through the door and leaning silently against the wall.

  Beamon pulled out the now sweat-dampened map and laid it on the table. "What do you know about Afghanistan?"

  "They supply almost three-quarters of the world's heroin. I know everything about Afghanistan."

  "Okay," Beamon said. "This is a map I drew of it." Mastretta squinted at the poor rendering. "It is?" "Use your imagination, asshole."

  "What are the dots?"

  "Those represent small encampments that have been recently attacked."

  "By whom?"

  "This is just between us?" 5

  Mastretta nodded.

  "Maybe by al-Qaeda."

  That got the DEA man's attention. "Does this have something to do with the rocket launcher?"

  Beamon shrugged and tapped the map again. "Like I said, the places that have been attacked are more encampments than towns or cities--small, you know?"

  Mastretta fished a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and peered down at the map, nodding thoughtfully.

  "Any ideas, Jaime?"

  "I'm guessing you have one already."

  "I have a suspicion. But you're the expert."

  "The dots on your map correspond to areas we know are active in the heroin trade--agricultural and distribution centers in the Helmand province of Afghanistan, refining and transportation points along the borders, especially the borders with Pakistan and Turkmenistan."

  "You feel pretty confident about that?" Beamon said. "It's interesting that you bring this up . . ."

  "Why?"

  "We've been seeing some weird things lately.. .. It seems like the heroin supply isn't as reliable as it's been in the past--nothing major, just a few missed shipments and things like that. If there's fighting going on, it may explain that."

  A slow smile spread across Beamon's face. "I thought the new Afghan regime was putting an end to poppy cultivation."

  Mastretta laughed. "That's the party line. The truth, though, is that they give seminars on how to grow them more efficiently. They took that page out of the Taliban's book."

  "And the government officials take a cut."

  Mastretta nodded. "We're actually not talking about a whole lot of money, though. The real money is made by the people who refine it, cut it, transport it, and sell it. Back when the Taliban was more or less taxing heroin imports, they were seeing only about twenty mil a year out of what's really a multibillion-dollar industry."

  "So this stuff mostly comes to the States?"

  "Most of it, though they're major suppliers to Europe too. Like I said, probably about seventy-five percent of the world's heroin is coming out of Afghanistan right now." "What about Burma--Myanmar? I thought they were major suppliers."

  "They're actually the second-largest producer now, the leader of the Golden Triangle, which also includes Laos and Thailand. They've been getting squeezed by the Afghans over the past few years, though, and they're pretty pissed about it. . . . I figured you for an expert on drugs, Mark." Beamon shrugged. He had a talent for quickly forgetting things that didn't matter--it cut down on mental clutter. As far as he was concerned, the drug war had been lost a long time ago.

  "How does all this heroin get here?"

  "Lots of ways. For the most part, though, it's smuggled in through Mexico."

  Beamon folded up his map and shoved it in his pocket, lost in thought for a moment.

  "What's going on behind those beady little eyes, Mark?" "I'm not sure," he said honestly.

  "Oh, come on. You're thinking that al-Qaeda's trying to get into refining, transport, and sales--the money end of the heroin business. And if that's the case, you figure they used their new money and contacts to get ahold of that rocket launcher and smuggle it into the States."

  "What if I do think that? Would it be a reasonable theory?"

  Mastretta took his reading glasses off and flopped into a kitchen chair. "It might be. We've been doing a pretty good job cutting al-Qaeda off from its money. First we run most of them out of Afghanistan, then we start putting heavy pressure on financial institutions and Arab charities--not to mention coercing those asshole Saudis and Egyptians to stop stabbing us in the back. . . ."

  "Thanks, Jaime," Beamon said, heading for the kitchen door. He stopped with his hand on the knob. "And I was never here, right?"

  "Well, if you need any more help with what we didn't talk about just now, give me a call."

  "Laura!"

  "Mark?"

  Beamon leaned forward over the wheel, surveying the desolate street before running the stop sign in front of him. "Didn't wake you up, did I?"

  "It's four in the morning."

  He laughed. "I didn't. I didn't wake you up."

  He heard her sigh over the cell phone. "I don't sleep much these days."

  "Did that ass Drake send you the stuff we asked for?" "Yeah, we got it--by the truckload. We're just starting to dig through it. You called at this hour to ask me that?" "Not just that."

  "What, then?"

  "I've got something you should follow up on."

  "I'm listening."

  "I had a thought that the fighting Drake told us about is over heroin production and transportation facilities--that it relates to Mustafa Yasin expanding his presence in the narcotics business. Think about it. What could be more perfect for him? He sells heroin to the U. S., addicting our kids, and then uses the money to buy sophisticated self-contained weapons. And as a bonus, he gets access to the smuggling lines into the U. S to get those weapons here. From a radical Muslim perspective, it's got kind of an elegant symmetry to it, don't you think?"

  "Where are you getting this?"

  "Just a thought I had. I ran it by Jaime Mastretta and he seems to feel pretty good about it. You should talk to him." There was silence over the phone for a moment. "What about the CIA? Wouldn't they have figured this out?" "I guess it's possible that they missed the connection, but I doubt it. I mean, they were the catal
ysts for the Afghan drug trade. The caravans that the CIA used to get weapons to the mujahideen were coming back empty. It didn't take long for somebody to start loading them up with opium."

  "Why wouldn't they tell us?" she asked, but her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

  "My guess would be that they've got interests in the heroin trade over there and are using the money to finance some of their off-the-books stuff. Wouldn't be the first time: Remember Nicaragua and Laos?"

  "It's an interesting theory, Mark, but it seems pretty academic to me right now. The question I need to answer is: Where is the launcher?" Her tone turned thoughtful. "How can I use this to find the launcher . . . ?"

  "Think drugs, Laura. Middle Eastern heroin is smuggled through Mexico by a fairly organized and efficient group of people. If the launcher came in that way, it could be that somebody will remember something. Maybe somebody noticed a few Middle Eastern heroin dealers acting suspiciously--more suspiciously than Middle Eastern heroin dealers usually act, I mean. I saw that the Mexicans were just decertified. If it comes out that they were somehow involved in this, life's going to get even worse for them. Maybe you can use that to get a little cooperation." "Maybe. . . . Let me think about this, Mark."

  "Does it sound like something worth following up on?" "As much as I hate to admit it, it's probably the best lead I've got right now."

  Chapter 12

  "CARLO? What's up?" Chet said groggily. He stepped back from the door and let Gasta walk by him. "What time is it?"

  "Get dressed."

  "Why? What's going on?"

  "Just get your clothes on. You've got three minutes."

  Chet blinked hard, trying to clear away the remnants of the deep sleep he'd been awakened from. "Sure, Carlo. Sure."

  He hurried into his bedroom and pulled on a pair of slacks, trying to run through the last few days in his head. Had he said or done anything that could have pissed anyone off? Had he confused any of the constant stream of lies that kept him alive? Getting woken up in the middle of the night and ordered to get dressed in three minutes was not a good sign in his business. The Mob didn't give warnings.

  "Get a fucking move on!"

  Chet looked away from the window he'd been thinking about crawling out of and saw Gasta standing in the bedroom door. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and his stare was clear and intense.

  He seemed like an almost completely different person. First, he was completely sober. Second, he looked vaguely nervous. Gasta didn't get vaguely nervous; he had only two demeanors: overconfident arrogance and scared shitless arrogance. And finally, he was wearing a suit. Not the normal retro-gangster fashion he favored, but a normal, conservative suit. Like one a . . . Chet tried to stifle the thought but couldn't: like one an undertaker would wear. "What's going on, Carlo?" Chet said again as he slid a tie through his collar and hoped his hands weren't shaking too much to tie the knot. "Where are we going?"

  Gasta just stood there.

  When he was finished dressing, Chet reached for the .45 on his nightstand.

  "You won't need that," Gasta said. "Let's go."

  Chet had expected to be driving, with Gasta watching him and giving him directions to a secluded corner of the empty desert surrounding L. A. Instead he was in the passenger seat, looking out the window as Gasta maneuvered his Corvette through the nearly silent streets of Century City. Chet still had no idea where they were going or why, but if Gasta was going to put a bullet in his head, it seemed like he would find a more practical place to do it. Or would he? Chet kept his hand close to the door handle, just in case it became necessary to bail out and make a run for it.

  "What's this?" Chet said as Gasta turned into the parking garage of a glass high-rise. Again, no answer.

  They stopped in a dark corner of the nearly empty garage and Gasta got out. Chet didn't immediately follow, quietly swearing to himself in the deep leather seat. The building above would be empty this time of night. Maybe Gasta just didn't feel like driving all the way out in the desert. He'd do it here and have Tony pick up the body for disposal.

  Chet jerked away from the sudden banging on the window. A moment later Gasta yanked the door open. "Jesus Christ, Chet, what's your problem? Get the fuck out of the car."

  Chet did so slowly, looking around him for an escape route. He was unarmed but a hell of a lot faster than Gasta. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that he could make it to an exit before Gasta--well known for his poor marksmanship--could put a bullet in him. Or he could just use his college wrestling skills to try to get the gun away from the older man. That was probably a better bet. He moved to within a foot of Gasta, crowding him enough to make it difficult for the man to pull his gun. "I've worked my ass off for you, Carlo. I've been nothing but loyal. You taking me for a ride, here?"

  Gasta's brow furrowed for a moment and then a smile began to spread across his face. "You know what you're gonna die of, Chet? A flicking ulcer--that's what you're going to die of. Now, quit being such a dumb-ass and let's go. We're gonna be late."

  When he started walking again, Chet didn't follow. The speech had seemed sincere, but was it?

  Gasta stepped into an open elevator and turned around. "Jesus Christ! Would you get in the goddamn elevator?"

  Chet finally convinced his legs to move and he walked slowly forward, taking a deep breath before stepping through the elevator doors. Gasta stuck a key into a slot above the buttons and they started up.

  When the doors opened, it was onto a generic but well-maintained hall. They walked past a number of large doors with business names stenciled on them, finally stopping at one belonging to the First Federal Development Bank. Gasta pulled another key out and they went inside.

  The outer office was dark and empty, but there was a dim light coming from an open door at the back of it. Gasta straightened his jacket and squared his shoulders, then started forward.

  Chet followed his boss into the inner office, trying to take everything in so that he could remember important details later. Overall there wasn't much to look at: a desk, a few chairs, and some pictures that you could buy already framed at Kmart. The only illumination was provided by a single desk lamp that had been turned slightly toward the door, creating an uncomfortable glare.

  Gasta sat in a chair in front of the desk and Chet took a position behind him. It would look properly subservient, but he actually figured it as the best spot to see around the glare and get a look at the man sitting behind the desk. He seemed tall, with dark hair kind of slicked back. His shoulders were extremely broad and heavy-looking through the deliberately formless jacket he was wearing. Probably muscle and not fat, but it was impossible to be certain. His face had no features prominent enough to be obvious in the bad light and was partially obscured by large tinted glasses.

  "Who the hell is this, Carlo?" The man's voice was cold, but the anger beneath it was obvious.

  "This is Chet. I told you about him."

  "Why is he here?" This time the words were spoken through clenched teeth.

  "He's my new right hand--handling a lot of the business end for me now. All he does is worry, but he's smart as shit. I thought you two should meet."

  Chet ignored the compliment, still trying to identify the man behind the desk. He wasn't a player in any of the New York families--of that, Chet was certain. A drug lord he wasn't aware of, maybe? A greedy investment banker that Carlo had met through one of his celebrity playmates?

  "You thought we should meet," the man growled. "Relax, John. He's okay. I'd trust him with my life, all right?"

  Chet was only half listening at this point, focusing on concocting a plan to get close to the man sitting in front of him. Was this the mysterious source of Carlo Gasta's money? "You trust your life to anyone you want, Carlo, but I make my own decisions about who I deal with. Do you understand me?"

  Gasta nodded and stared at his feet.

  "Now, get him the hell out of here."

  Gasta twisted around
and waved toward the door. "You heard him. Get the fuck out."

  "Goddamn it!" Gasta shouted. It was the first sound he'd uttered since climbing into the Corvette and pulling out of the parking garage. Chet's ears actually rang a bit from the sudden volume of it as he watched Gasta pound on the dashboard. Obviously the meeting hadn't gone as planned.

  Kyle Mills "You okay, Carlo?"

  "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"

  Chet leaned his head against the window and looked out at a police barricade set up in front of a sprawling hospital. He'd heard the new threat by the asshole with the rocket launcher on the radio earlier that day. It seemed he was considering blowing up a hospital now. According to the news, seriously ill people all over the country were fleeing their sickbeds as if they were on fire. Between them and the people who got sick or hurt and just stayed home, predictions were for a significant death toll.

  "Fucking towelheads! Trying to make me look like an asshole in front of--" He cut himself off and jabbed Chet hard in the chest. "No one in the organization hears about this until I tell them. You got that?"

  "Hears about what?"

  "Fuck . . ." Gasta muttered.

  "Hears about what, Carlo?"

  "John said that those sand niggers have the product; they're just stalling, trying to see if they can find someone who'll pay more. He says they're showing it around--that they'll do this one deal with me, but afterward they're going to cut me out." He banged on the wheel again, making the car careen across the centerline of the empty street. "Sons of bitches come in here like they own this country. No loyalty, just bullshit."

  "What are you going to do?" Chet said.

  "I'm going to teach them some respect."

  "What does that mean?"

  "These people understand war, Chet. They understand a handshake deal. But they think Americans are soft. And they think Catholics are shit under their heel. They would never treat one of their own this way."

  Chet turned and watched the city lights play across Gasta's face. Those weren't his words. Gasta couldn't find the Middle East on a map if you put a gun to his head. He'd heard that little speech from whoever this John was. The guy was good--Chet had to admit that. Telling Gasta that the Afghans were looking for bigger and better things played well to the feelings of inferiority beat into him by the years of being compared to his father. And the religion thing--that was a nice touch. Gasta liked to wear his meaningless Catholicism on his sleeve, just like the old-time gangsters he worshiped.