Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "That doesn't answer my question, Carlo."

  "You want me to answer your question? Okay, I'll answer your question. I'm going to put a bullet in the head of every last one of those fucks and piss in the hole. Then I'm going to take their heroin to pay for my trouble. I'm going to teach them that in this country we live up to our agreements. They either deal with me or they deal with nobody." That's exactly what Chet had been afraid of "Hold on now, Carlo. Let's think about this for a second. What did you just tell me? These people understand war. They don't care if they die, man. They go into the military when they're six years old, for Christ's sake."

  "Fucking kicked their asses in Afghanistan."

  "No we didn't. We dropped bombs from the stratosphere and let the Northern Alliance kick their asses. Jesus, Carlo. What're we gonna do? Ask the Air Force to cover us at our next meet? Drive there in a tank? We're going in there with the same guns they got. We don't have an edge."

  "What, are you scared of these assholes? Maybe I need to find somebody with balls to work for me."

  "You saw that Mohammed guy, Carlo. He's badass and he isn't alone. At that last exchange I'll bet they had ten guys out there with rifles aimed at our heads. That's the way they work, man. It's like going up against a bunch of psycho Marines."

  Chet could see from Gasta's face that at least some of what he was saying was getting through.

  "Who is that guy, Carlo? You trust him?"

  Gasta's hand shot out and he grabbed Chet hard by the back of this neck. "You just forget all about him. You understand me?"

  "Sure, Carlo. Sure. I understand."

  Gasta released him and went back to his erratic driving. "We can't walk away from this, Chet. There's too much money on the table."

  And that was the problem, Chet knew. The financial rewards that came with the heroin trade were sky-high--enough to make Carlo the big man he'd always wanted to be. And while it was true that Carlo Gasta's fear was stronger than his anger, his vanity lorded over all.

  "What are we talking about here, Carlo? I mean, how would we do it?"

  "They said they'd have the stuff this week--after they've fucking shopped it around to everybody on the West Coast," he said, starting to sound a little hesitant. "So we go to the buy and blow their goddamn heads off--send a message about what I do to people who try to fuck me." "Jesus, Carlo, they got, like, those machine guns that sit on tripods and shit. They're desert fighters, man--they're born to it. If we just go in there shooting, we better hope we get killed quick, 'cause if not, they're going to take us back to wherever they came from and spend a few days cutting us apart."

  Gasta just stared through the windshield.

  "I mean, do you know where we could find them, maybe? Then we could hit them when they're not expecting it."

  Gasta shook his head and Chet blew out a long breath. The silence that descended on the car lasted almost fifteen minutes.

  "What about your old boss?" Gasta said finally.

  During the long lull in the conversation Chet had actually said a prayer that this wouldn't come up, breaking his steadfast policy of never bothering God with business problems.

  "I don't think he'd be interested," Chet replied tentatively.

  "What, he doesn't want to do business with me? I'm not good enough for him?"

  "That's not what I meant, Carlo. I just don't think this is his kind of thing."

  "You don't think," Gasta repeated angrily. "I don't want you to think. I want you to call him and ask."

  Chet knew he was pretty much backed into a corner now. Playing up his relationship with the notorious criminal known only as "Nicolai" had been how he'd managed to finagle his way into Gasta's organization. It could become a major problem if he didn't produce now. In fact, it could get dangerous.

  "Honestly, Carlo. That was a long time ago. I'm not even sure how to contact him anymore."

  "You're a smart kid. You'll figure it out."

  Chet knew the tone, the low voice, the short answers. Gasta wasn't going to let this go. It had taken a long time and a hell of a lot of work to gain Gasta's confidence--he didn't need to blow it now. Besides, if he could help make things work out, maybe he'd impress this John guy and get some recognition from him--get a chance to move up. "I'll see what I can do. You know he takes a hundred grand just for a meeting, right?"

  Gasta nodded. "Not a problem. The cash out on this deal will be fucking huge."

  Chapter 13

  PASCAL braced himself on the seat in front of him as the heavily armored vehicle skidded to a stop in what seemed more like an extraordinarily long mud puddle than a road. The driver rolled down his window and began speaking Lao to the leader of a group of men who had suddenly appeared from the dense jungle and surrounded them. Pascal ignored the damp breeze blowing through the open window and the scent of sweat and explosives that it carried, instead staring through the front windshield at a man aiming a handheld rocket directly at him.

  The undecipherable conversation became heated, drowning out the erratic bursts of gunfire coming from somewhere nearby. The driver seemed strangely adamant for a man who had a missile aimed at him, but his steadfast resolve prevailed and the men surrounding them reluctantly melted back into the jungle. The vehicle's engine roared again and they jerked forward, continuing toward the city of Luang Prabang.

  General Yung could scarcely have picked a worse time to rise up and overthrow the Laotian government. Christian had enjoyed a long and very profitable relationship with the former president, who had been intimately involved in the cultivation and export of heroin from his country. Now, though, nothing was certain. Poppy fields and refining facilities had almost certainly been destroyed in the coup, supply lines would be made unsafe by inevitable rebel activity, and there was no guarantee that General Yung would honor his predecessor's agreements where his country's number-one export was concerned.

  None of this could be tolerated. When the time came for Volkov to turn against al-Qaeda, the transition from Middle Eastern to Asian suppliers would have to be seamless to the point of being almost transparent. Yasin, while hampered by his own unwavering religious fanaticism, was in no way a stupid man. There could be no warning that might afford him time to protect his position and no cracks remaining for him to slither through after the transition was complete.

  The palace at the center of the city seemed to be untouched by the violence that had gripped Laos over the past weeks. Pascal stepped from the vehicle into a hot, drenching rain and walked toward a man wearing an impeccable military uniform. He was flanked by myriad well-armed guards and civilian assistants, one of whom seemed to have the sole purpose of holding the general's umbrella. "General Yung, I am Pascal."

  The Asian man smiled pleasantly and offered his hand. "I am so sorry that Mr. Volkov could not come personally," he said in accented but perfectly acceptable French.

  "You understand he's extremely busy right now," Pascal replied.

  Something flickered in Yung's eyes but Pascal didn't know what it was. He had always wished he had Christian's insight into human nature, but knew he never would. His talents revolved around numbers, precision, and efficiency--a different but equally valuable gift.

  "Please follow me," Yung said, turning in a military fashion and striding through the broad door centered in the building. "I'm looking forward to our discussion."

  His office was a bit haphazard--a cheap desk in the middle of what looked like an ancient library--an effective combination of austerity, tradition, and learning.

  "Can I offer you a drink, my friend? I think you'll enjoy it. I make it myself."

  "No, thank you, General."

  He didn't want to be here any longer than was absolutely necessary. Once again this brutal, half-educated little man's timing had been the height of inconvenience. At this moment Christian was on a plane for America to attend his mysterious meeting with Charles Russell, leaving the entire organization in the hands of loyal but inexperienced children.

&nbs
p; "Can I offer you something else?"

  "Nothing."

  "Then please have a seat," he said, pointing to a folding chair. "What is it you came all this way to discuss?" Pascal sat stiffly. "Our future."

  "Indeed?"

  "We're concerned about the stability of Laos following your takeover. There still seems to be a significant amount of fighting, and we have reports of groups loyal to the former president organizing in the jungle."

  The general nodded gravely.

  "Our concern is that the flow of heroin from your country will become unreliable."

  The general's eyes widened at the word heroin, as though he were unaware that it was the basis of Laos's economy. "My concern," Yung began, "was to throw off the yoke of communism, to bring my country into the twenty-first century. I will provide freedom to my people and create opportunities for education and economic development. . . ." Pascal frowned. He simply didn't have time to indulge the general's delusions of grandeur.

  "And does that plan for economic development include the continuation of your country's relationship with Mr. Volkov?"

  Yung's smile was polite but a bit strained. "Of course, I have nothing but respect and admiration for your employer. And I would be honored to discuss a relationship that would be mutually beneficial."

  "Then may I suggest--"

  "But you have concerns," Yung interrupted. "And I want you to feel . . . confident." He motioned toward the open doorway to the office, and Pascal craned his neck to watch one of Yung's guards approach.

  "You understand that I am quite busy right now," the general continued. "And I am afraid that I have some things to attend to. Please accompany my assistant. He will take you on a tour of the city and the outlying areas. I believe that you will be satisfied with the stability of my country. And tonight I would be honored if you would be my guest for dinner, where we can talk more."

  Yung pulled a stack of papers from his desk and began shuffling through them before Pascal could protest. He had been dismissed by this arrogant little man whose entire country wasn't worth half the assets Volkov controlled. And now he would be forced to waste his time dining in this godforsaken country instead of being on a plane back to the Seychelles.

  He nodded respectfully toward Yung, knowing there was nothing else he could do.

  Pascal sat impatiently in the passenger seat of the armored car as his driver took him to every island of calm in the area, pointing out the uncommon serenity of their country in broken French, ignoring the sound of gunfire and distant columns of smoke with almost comic diligence.

  "Yes, that's fine. Very informative," Pascal said for the tenth time. "Could you please take me back now?" Yung's assistant ignored him, swinging the vehicle onto a narrow mud road leading into the jungle. Pascal twisted around, looked past the smiling men crammed into the back of the truck, and watched all evidence of civilization disappear. Soon, even the seemingly omnipresent sound of killing was swallowed by the thick, wet plant life that had closed in behind them.

  "You've done an excellent job showing me the area," Pascal said, deciding to take another approach. "And I intend to tell General Yung how helpful you were. But I believe he is expecting me back and will be concerned if I don't return soon."

  The man didn't respond, concentrating on maintaining the truck's momentum in the thick mud. Pascal clenched his teeth and tapped his foot impatiently on the rusted floorboard of the vehicle. He let thirty excruciating minutes pass before he spoke again.

  "This is ridiculous! We are in the middle of nowhere. Take me back to the city immediately!"

  For a moment he thought his outburst had worked. The driver stepped on the brake and the truck came to an abrupt halt. But then he turned off the engine.

  Pascal leaned forward, peering through the humidity-fogged windshield. The clouds had parted and he had to squint against the glare of the sun to see the grass but standing on three-foot stilts in the middle of a small clearing.

  "Come," the driver said, throwing his door open and stepping out.

  Pascal heard splashes as the men in back jumped to the ground.

  "Why? Where are we?"

  "Come." His voice was more insistent this time.

  Pascal didn't move, trying to grasp what was happening. Why would he have been brought to such a place?

  The passenger door was suddenly yanked open and he was dragged out into the mud. Confused, he didn't bother to struggle as he was pulled roughly to his feet and marched toward the hut. When he twisted around to look behind him, he saw that no less than five rifles were trained on him.

  "I want to speak to General Yung! I want to speak to him now!"

  He was shoved up the makeshift stairs and into the even more oppressive heat of the hut, where he was forced into a chair constructed of bamboo. A few moments later his hands and feet were secured tightly to it. The men who had bound him retreated outside, and Pascal looked around, his eyes beginning to adjust to the gloom. A recognizable shape began to form in a pile of debris next to the wall, and he leaned forward to see better. It was a man, lying as though discarded, with a profound stillness that could only signify death. His face was swollen and broken, making it unrecognizable, but his clothes revealed his identity: It was the broken body of his pilot.

  The sound of an engine suddenly flared in the silence, followed by the splashing of tires as the truck that had brought him started back down the road.

  "Wait!" Pascal shouted, starting to feel his own heart beating powerfully in his chest. "Wait! Is anyone there? Hello?"

  He pulled hard on the leather straps securing him to the chair, but it was hopeless. The bonds were tight enough that his hands and feet were already starting to go numb. "Hello?" he shouted again.

  No answer. Just the buzz of insects and call of birds. He felt another surge of adrenaline at the sound of a snapping stick outside the hut, and he swung his head desperately toward the open door. What had made it? An animal? Was it watching, trying to decide whether he was safe prey? "Go away," he shouted, trying again to free his hands but succeeding only in opening a cut in the top of his wrist. "Is there anyone out there? Hello?"

  Chapter 14

  CHET watched the crowd part respectfully, letting Mikey through the bar untouched. The stocky fifty-year-old made his way straight to their table, five beers dangling from his thick fingers. He forced himself into the booth next to his four companions, overcrowding it to the point that Chet could barely free his arm enough to get his beer to his mouth.

  "Goddamn weeknight and you can't hardly move in this place," Mikey complained. "You used to be able to come in here at nine o'clock on Saturday and the place was empty."

  Despite the cheesy and threadbare atmosphere, this former Mob-only hangout was becoming increasingly hip with the local yuppie crowd. While it was true that the pasta was cheap and above average, the well-dressed twenty-somethings who poured in every night were less interested in the cuisine than they were in mixing with the "criminal element."

  Chet hated the place. He felt on display. But the aging and amply fed men surrounding him loved it. Their chances of slinking off to a cheap hotel with some slender young thing just out of college increased from zero to five or ten percent here--still far from a sure thing, but more than they had a right to hope for. The notorious Carlo Gasta, who made an appearance at least twice a week, generally batted a thousand.

  "Well, we're all here," Mikey said, twisting around as best he could and looking directly at Chet.

  "Yeah, I can see that."

  "So, you gonna tell us what's going on?"

  Chet shrugged and took a sip of his second beer of the evening. Mikey had put a third down in front of him and he was wondering what he was going to do about that: No was his absolute limit tonight, even with the huge plate of carbonara he'd just put away.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What the fuck do you mean, what am I talking about? I'm talking about the sand niggers."

  The wall of fl
esh surrounding him leaned forward in unison and murmured quietly. Chet couldn't make out distinct words over the horrible eighties music blaring from overhead speakers, but he got the gist.

  "I don't know, man. I don't know what's going on with those guys."

  "On the level? You're not bullshitting us?"

  Chet nodded. He'd always liked Mikey, and he hated to pile on yet another lie, but Gasta had been clear that he was to keep his mouth shut on this particular subject.

  "Damn it," Mikey said, taking another hit off his beer. "I don't mind telling you that I have a real bad feeling about this whole thing. I think that son of a bitch is finally going to get our asses shot off"

  Chet looked around him at the thick faces of his colleagues. The dissent in the ranks had obviously been discussed and was unanimous.

  The five men crowded into the booth made up the group closest to Gasta--his main management and muscle. At thirty-four, Chet was the youngest by probably fifteen years and the only one who was looking to make a name for himself The others had already paid their dues with Gasta's father in their younger years and weren't looking to drag their bad backs and clogged arteries into another shooting war. If Chet told them that Gasta was planning on executing and ripping off the formidable Mohammed and his partners, half of them would probably have heart attacks right there in the bar.

  "Look, guys, don't worry about it," Chet said, pushing against the enormous man next to him.

  "Where you going?" Mikey said. "You ain't gonna finish your beer?"

  "Nab, I got some thinking to do and I need a clear head."