by Kyle Mills
"Thinking? What kind of thinking?"
"I'm gonna think about how to keep you from getting your fat ass shot off."
That seemed to be the right answer because Mikey let him out. Chet was halfway across the bar when he heard someone yell his name. He spun and looked back at the table he'd just left.
"You think hard on that," Mikey shouted. "Okay?"
Chet ate the last of an entire roll of Life Savers but he knew he wasn't going to fool anyone. He was sitting in his car, parked a quarter of a mile down a dirt road that branched off a rural highway outside of L. A. It was an ideal spot. He'd been able to see miles behind him for most of the drive there. There were always risks, of course, but he felt confident that no one could have followed him. He was a little early, and probably five minutes passed before a set of headlights appeared over a rise, easily visible in the darkness despite the distance. He watched as they continued along the highway and then turned toward him.
Chet stepped out into the still air and walked forward as the approaching headlights went out and a car glided to a stop in front of him. It was too dark to see the faces of the two people who emerged until they were only a few feet way.
"Chet?"
He nodded and the blond woman offered her hand. "I'm Laura Vilechi. I don't think we've ever met."
Her handshake was firm but not so strong that it was like she was trying to prove something. Based on her reputation, he supposed she already had.
"Nice to meet you. You're a friend of Mark's, aren't you?"
"Mark Beamon? Yeah, I am."
"I used to work for him in flagstaff," Chet said, "before I got transferred to L. A." When she released his hand, the man standing next to her took it.
"How are things, Chet? Everything all right?"
"Yeah, I'm good, Scott. Things are still going good." Scott Reynolds was the special agent in charge of the FBI's L. A. criminal division. The fact that he and Laura Vilechi were here in person meant that the Bureau had taken the report Chet had filed a lot more seriously than he'd thought they would. This was a whole lot of high-level management to be standing around in the desert with a guy who'd only been an agent for five years.
"You okay to talk, Chet?" Laura said. She obviously smelled the beer on his breath.
"I just had a couple. Didn't have much of a choice, you know?"
She shrugged casually in an unsuccessful attempt to put him a little more at ease. "That's undercover work." "You're running the rocket launcher investigation, aren't you?" Chet said. He couldn't believe she'd flown all the way to L. A. to meet with him. What if he'd wasted her time?
"I'm sorry to say that I am."
"Uh, so . . . what are you doing here?"
"Scott sent me your last report. I thought it made for interesting reading."
"Really?", The report she was referring to was his description of Gasta's meeting with Mohammed. Chet had toyed with the idea that there might be a connection between him and the terrorist in the photograph, but hadn't really given it all that much thought. There were a lot of Afghans and Arabs in the world. Ninety-nine point nine percent of them weren't psychos. Some of them were just plain old drug dealers.
"Look, Chet, there's a chance that the people with the rocket launcher might be tied to the Afghan heroin trade. Actually, it's an angle that Mark Beamon came up with. Far-fetched but . . . well, you know Mark: When it comes to things like this, he's right more than he's wrong."
Chet grinned. "Mark's pretty much nuts but I think he may be a genius."
"Yeah, that about sums up how I feel about him, too. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about this Mohammed?"
"Not much," Chet said apologetically. "I mean, the word is he's Afghan--or, more accurately, that he's from Afghanistan. But then, I heard that from Carlo Gasta, and he isn't exactly a geographer, you know? Jeez, Ms. Vilechi, when I wrote that report, I didn't think you'd come out here personally. The whole thing is probably nothing." "Probably," Laura said. "On the other hand, we think alQaeda may be trying to expand its presence in the heroin business. There could be a connection."
Chet tried to remember any detail of the meeting with Mohammed that he might have left out of his report. There was nothing, though. They'd talked, Gasta had thrown a tantrum, and then they'd left.
"Your write-up said that Mohammed postponed the transaction. Do you know when your next meeting will be?" Chet shook his head. "I'm not sure what's going on right now. I haven't had time to put this on paper yet, but Gasta took me to meet someone last night." He looked over at Reynolds. "I think it's the guy we've been looking for." "The money man?"
Chet nodded. "We met him in an office in the Sun America Center in Century City: it has First Federal Development Bank on the door."
Reynolds wrote the name on a small pad.
"The guy was pissed that Gasta brought me and didn't let me stay for the meeting. But when Gasta came out he had the idea that the Afghans were shopping for another contact. Now he's planning on killing them at our next meeting and grabbing the drugs. I don't think it's his idea, though--I think it's coming from this other guy."
"Can you describe him?"
"Not very well. Big guy, stocky. He looked tall, but he was sitting, so I can't be sure. His hair's almost black, short, and kind of slicked back. I'm honestly not sure I'd know him if I saw him again."
"Name?"
"Just John. He's nobody I've ever seen. Not connected to the families as far as I know."
Reynolds finished writing in his pad and stuck it back in his pocket. "Maybe there's a security camera tape. We'll get on it."
"There's more."
"What?"
"Gasta seems pretty set on hitting the Afghans, but he's worried about it. I managed to convince him that they weren't going to just roll over and play dead. . . ." "Yeah?" Reynolds prompted.
"He wants me to bring in Nicolai to help."
Reynolds took a deep breath and blew it out. "Great." "Who's Nicolai?" Laura said.
"I'll explain on our ride out," Reynolds answered. "What do you want to do, Chet?"
"I'm not sure . . . I take it that getting ahold of this Mohammed guy is kind of a priority now."
"Top priority," Laura said. "I admit it's a long shot, but under the circumstances it has to supersede your organized-crime investigation. We've got a rocket launcher floating somewhere out there. . .."
Chet stared off in the dark for a few moments, considering his position. "I'll tell you, Scott, my read is that I need to produce on this. If I can't set up a meeting between Gasta and Nicolai, my credibility is going to be shot to hell. And if that happens, I could find myself out of the loop on the next meeting with the Afghans."
Reynolds nodded. "All right, Chet. Call me tomorrow and we'll try to have something put together."
Chapter 15
PASCAL thrashed back and forth violently but he couldn't dislodge it. The insect, a large cockroach, continued its slow march up his leg, perhaps drawn to the odor of urine that now permeated his trousers.
His fear that the jungle's predators would instinctively sense his helplessness and slowly creep up on him had not materialized. The truth was so much more terrifying. The insects that had scurried away in terror at his thrashing six hours ago were becoming bolder. Would they devour him a millimeter at a time?
He threw his body right again, nearly upsetting his chair but managing to dislodge the roach and send it toppling to the floor. It righted itself and began to wander away. But it would be back.
By following the shadow of the door as it moved steadily across the floor, Pascal determined that he had been there for somewhere around fifteen hours. Another long night wasn't far away.
He tilted his back and opened his mouth, catching a few precious drops of water and letting them trickle down his raw throat. Thankfully, it had rained intermittently since he'd been trapped there, soaking through the thatched roof and providing him with enough liquid to at least partially quench his growing t
hirst.
He wondered again whether Volkov was concerned about his absence yet, but he knew the answer was no. Even if Christian hadn't been caught in a similar trap in America, he would undoubtedly assume that Pascal was peacefully negotiating a business relationship with General Yung. He probably wouldn't become concerned until midday tomorrow. And what then? Pascal trusted him--something rare in the business they'd chosen--but he didn't hold much hope. Volkov's power base in Laos had disintegrated after Yung's coup. It was why he had been sent here.
A second droplet of water missed his mouth and splattered across his forehead. It didn't matter: He wouldn't survive for long on what could filter through the roof. Truthfully, he wasn't sure he wanted to. While dehydration wasn't reputed to be the most pleasant way to die, there were certainly worse alternatives.
"Not thirsty? I would have thought a cool drink of water was exactly what you needed."
Pascal jerked his head in the direction of the door and saw the broad form of a man backlit in the entrance. "Who are you?" Pascal said in English. His throat would barely allow the words out.
The figure moved through the door and walked around the perimeter of the small hut, pausing for a moment to look down at the body of the pilot and cover his nose with his hand against the rotting stench that was quickly gaining strength.
"You," Pascal said quietly.
Jonathan Drake's smile was perceptible even in the dim light. "You'll have to accept my apologies for making you wait so long. I assure you that I was on a plane as soon as I heard you were . . . available."
Except for Volkov, Pascal was the only person in the organization who was aware of the CIA's involvement in supplying Mustafa Yasin with weapons and intelligence. Obviously this was enough of a concern to Drake to use the CIA's influence in Laos to have him brought here. "I have a few questions for you, Pascal. Let's start with the most interesting first. Does Christian believe that the CIA is going to continue with this operation, or does he think we're going to back out?"
Pascal considered his position as carefully as his exhausted mind would allow. He would be dead soon, of that there was little doubt. By nature he wasn't a fearful man, but he was realistic. He would not be able to remain silent in light of what Drake was willing to do to him. And he didn't think that Christian would expect him to.
"Don't make me repeat myself, Pascal."
"He doesn't know what to believe."
"But he doesn't trust me."
"Christian trusts few people."
"What is he doing to protect himself?"
"He is doing nothing at this point. He sent me here to negotiate with General Yung. This should tell you that he is preparing to honor his agreement to help you replace the Middle Eastern heroin producers with his Asian contacts."
Drake looked down again and watched the insects writhing over the corpse at his feet. "Okay, Pascal. Here's another interesting one. Where is he?"
In the end, that was the piece of information Drake really needed. Of course, he would want whatever general information he could pry out of Pascal, but finding and killing Volkov would go a long way toward ensuring that he and his organization were never linked to the weapon that al-Qaeda had managed to smuggle into America. "This has gone too far," Pascal said, trying to give himself time to think. "Christian warned you of the risks of your plan. He never wanted to be involved in any of this, but you forced his hand. To not see it through now makes no sense. It is true that people--that Americans--may fall victim to this rocket, but there will be many more to follow if you allow al-Qaeda to solidify its position in the Middle Eastern heroin trade."
The only effect his argument had was to make the CIA man's anger come to the surface.
"I asked you where he is," Drake growled. "I suggest you focus on that question."
"Christian has made commitments," Pascal said. "He has no choice but to see what you have started through to the end. Talk to him. Ask for his help in protecting your anonymity. He can be trusted. It is convenient for him to have ties to the CIA."
Drake stared down at him. "It's convenient, is it?" Pascal didn't see the blow coming, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had. Drake's fist came across his face with startling force.
"You are nothing!" Pascal heard through ringing ears. "You are a flicking arrogant little drug dealer. You and Volkov live or die at my convenience. Do you understand that?" Drake grabbed Pascal's hair and pulled his head back, staring into his eyes. "The fact that I even have to deal with people like you makes me sick."
Pascal laughed, spraying spit and blood onto Drake's shirt. "It's funny: Christian feels the same way about you." The second blow was even harder--delivered with much of Drake's considerable weight behind it. Pascal was certain that his jaw was broken, but the pain wasn't as bad as he would have expected. The end wasn't far away.
"Where is he?"
Pascal's disdain for the man standing in front of him continued to grow. Drake cared nothing for the people who would fall victim to a better-funded, more powerful al-Qaeda. He cared nothing for the people whose lives depended on America's FBI finding the launcher. He was only concerned about protecting himself "Cuba," Pascal lied. As his anger rose, so did his courage. Time was his and Christian's enemy now. The longer he could keep from revealing Christian's location, the better the chance that he would survive to kill this bastard.
"Cuba," Drake repeated quietly. "Okay. That's a start. But I think we need to make sure."
Chapter 16
AFTER he concentrated on them for an hour, the endless columns of numbers in front of Beamon had completely lost their meaning. He squinted and tried to focus, but it was pointless: They had become nothing more than indecipherable symbols.
He tossed the budget report on his desk and leaned back in his chair, trying to block out the buzz of activity outside his office door and let his mind go blank. As usual, it didn't work. After about twenty seconds he found his thoughts wandering back to his dinner with Carrie.
She had been right, of course. While it was doubtful that he had the tolerance for boredom necessary to be the greatest SAC in the history of the bureau, he could certainly do this job at a competent level. The bottom line was, he just didn't want to. In fact, he was starting to wonder if he wanted any of it anymore.
He'd put everything into the Bureau--never marrying, working fourteen-hour days, often seven days a week, no kids, hardly any friends outside the organization. No real life at all.
Not that it had been what he would call a terribly painful sacrifice. He'd loved it. How much luckier could you get than to have somebody pay you to chase bad guys all day. Honestly, he'd have done it for free.
Things were different now, though, and it wasn't just the SAC job. During his last investigation, the FBI--his family--had turned on him. And as if that weren't bad enough, they'd done it just to make life a little easier for a bunch of low-life politicians. He imagined that this was what it felt like to have a spouse cheat on you. You still loved her, but something was gone. Something that would never come back.
Of course, there were the people he'd helped--there would always be that. And he'd made a few true, lifelong friends over the years. But the rest was just starting to look like smoke. He sometimes found himself half wishing that he'd just gone out in a blaze of glory--gunned down, fired, or slamming his credentials down on the director's desk. God knew there had been multiple opportunities for all three.
For the first time in his life he was thinking seriously about resigning, but at this point he had to admit to himself that he wouldn't be storming out, he'd be crawling out. That plan also made it kind of critical that he figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. A complicated issue.
There was another option, of course: He could always request a demotion. Hell, if he just waited a few more weeks for that inspection report to come out, asking probably wouldn't even be necessary.
"Mark? Mark!"
Beamon blinked his eyes hard and sat up abru
ptly. "Laura. Are you early?"
"Actually, I'm late," she said, dropping into a chair in front of his desk. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he lied. "I'm fine." It occurred to him that he wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, lost in thought. Looking at his watch was out of the question, though. Laura would almost certainly pick up on it.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. What about you? You look tired."
"A little jet-lagged is all," she said. "I just came in from Los Angeles."
Beamon decided not to bring up the fact that an hour's time difference rarely resulted in jet lag. "What were you doing in L. A.? Seems like a long way from Washington."
"I was there talking to a guy who's undercover in Carlo Gasta's organization."
"Carlo Gasta? That asshole Mob guy?"
She nodded.
"Spreading yourself a little thin, aren't you? The rocket launcher thing isn't enough to hold your attention?" Laura rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "Last week he and Gasta met with a heroin dealer from Afghanistan."
"Really," Beamon said. "So you think there might be something to my idea about al-Qaeda staking itself to a piece of the drug trade?"
"Probably not. Having said that, though . . ."
"You're desperate."
"That pretty much sums it up. The stock market's dropping like a stone, the airlines are looking for another bailout, retail sales are through the floor . . . People are afraid to leave their houses: They're just sitting around with the TV on, listening to all the horrible things that could potentially happen to them. The economy is on the verge of crumbling, thousands of lives are at risk, and I'm just standing around with my mouth hanging open." Beamon had never seen her like this. The cool facade that she showed the world, the one she'd been wearing ever since he'd known her, was coming apart right there in his office. And behind it there was something that looked like . . . panic.
"I don't think there's anybody who could do more, Laura. You're as good at this game as anyone I've ever met."
"But am I as good as you? Could you do more?" Beamon tried to smile, but it seemed uncomfortable under the force of her stare. She was actually expecting a straight answer.