by Kyle Mills
The obvious answer, of course, was General Yung. He certainly had known the time of Pascal's arrival and could have had a group of mercenaries on standby while he retrieved the information on Volkov's whereabouts. That was far from certain, though. It could have been any one of a hundred enemies whom he had collected over the years. The disintegration of his power base in Laos would not go unnoticed, and it was not unreasonable to expect someone to take advantage of his temporary weakness there and attempt to move in on his business interests.
If the situation were reversed, it was exactly how he would have done it: pay off the men driving Pascal and get rid of the plane. Then, if the attack was unsuccessful, the general would be the obvious suspect. And either way, Yung would be suspicious of Pascal's sudden disappearance and would assume that he had just been there as a spy.
Of course, there was also Jonathan Drake and the CIA, an organization with a significant presence in Laos. Despite his protests to the contrary, was Drake trying to end their relationship?
The truth was, there was no way to know. It wasn't the first time he'd been attacked like this, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The problem in this case was that his business with General Yung, one way or another, had been left unfinished. Despite the uncertainty of his situation, he would have to reach out to Yung again. Soon.
"Christian? Are you all right?"
Volkov looked up at the man sitting in a deep leather chair across from him. He was thirty-three but looked younger, with dark, smooth skin and closely cropped, curly black hair. While certainly not ready to take Pascal's place in the organization, he was nevertheless a very talented young man.
"I'm fine, Joseph. A bit tired from my visit with Charles Russell. It was a long flight." Volkov pointed to the laptop in the younger man's lap. "Where do we stand?"
"The procedures were very clear and detailed. It's all going smoothly."
Everything was temporarily in flux. They were flying toward a house that no one, not even Pascal, had known about. New corporations were being formed, bank accounts were being closed and new ones opened, houses were being burned and new ones purchased. Volkov estimated that the loss of Pascal would cost over fifty million U. S. dollars. Legal fees alone would rise into the millions. Volkov leaned his head back on the seat, feeling the darkness that he was so familiar with trying to descend on him, to leave him helpless and broken as it had so many times before. He couldn't allow it, though. Not now "Pascal has a sister in France," he said quietly. "You'll need to tell her that he is ... he is dead. Tell her it was an auto crash or some other accident. He had a five-million-dollar life-insurance policy through one of our European corporations. See that there are no delays in her receiving the money." He paused for a moment, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. "And tell her that . . . tell her that he was a good friend to me."
Chapter 19
DESPITE the seriousness of his situation, Beamon had to struggle not to smile.
He was in the backseat of a black Cadillac with way too many gold accents, sandwiched between two enormous mounds of Italian-American flesh. The mound to his right, inevitably named Tony, had a nose that looked like it had been broken at least a hundred times and dark, beady eyes that were beginning to disappear into his fleshy face. Mikey, an equally stereotypical specimen, had a slightly straighter nose but made up for it with a seventies-looking clip-on tie.
"So tell me, Mikey," Beamon said, prying himself free and leaning forward a bit to stretch his back. "How many tracksuits do you own?"
The man just stared straight forward with a military intensity. Obviously he didn't have much of a sense of humor and thought that Beamon--Nicolai--was trying to pry important information out of him.
"I don't know. Why?"
"Never mind," Beamon said, looking over the front seat at the winding road in front of them. He'd thought the meeting was to be held at Carlo Gasta's downtown office, but when he'd arrived, he'd been ushered into this car. He wasn't crazy about this type of thing not going as expected, but so far there seemed to be nothing to get worked up about.
"Where are we going?"
Silence.
Every attempt he'd made to pry something useful out of these overweight bookends had gone nowhere, so Beamon decided to use the time to review the countless facts he'd shoehorned into his mind over the past forty-eight hours. The files that combined to create the fictional persona Nicolai encompassed fifteen years of complex crimes and scams. He thought he had a grasp on most of it but sincerely hoped there wouldn't be a quiz.
Finally exhausting his limited capacity for concentrating on detail, Beamon focused on the bigger picture. What did the individual acts contained in those files say about Nicolai? What kind of a man was he?
Beamon had always thought that undercover work and acting were the same thing. In this case you read the file--basically a script--then you created a person in your head who would do those sorts of things. It was a form of applied schizophrenia--something he should be pretty good at, according to Carrie.
They turned off the road and into the driveway of a smallish house built into the side of a hill and Beamon followed Tony--or was it Mikey?--out of the car and took in the rolling quilt of city lights spread out below.
"This way."
He was marched to the porch and one of his new friends knocked gingerly on the front door. It took probably a minute before Beamon heard footsteps approaching from inside.
"So this is the famous Nicolai," Carlo Gasta said, pulling the door open and stepping out of the way as his men ushered Beamon inside. "I thought you'd be taller."
Beamon was going to offer his hand but it felt strangely unnatural. Nicolai, as it turned out, wasn't a handshaker. And neither was Gasta, apparently. He turned and led them through the gaudily decorated entry, trailing the distinct scent of alcohol and aftershave.
When they entered the living room, Chet rose from a sofa to greet him. Beamon decided that Nicolai would make an exception and shake hands with his old assistant. "It's good to see you again," Chet said respectfully. "We appreciate you meeting with us."
Beamon just nodded and sat down on the sofa uninvited.
Gasta was standing with his back to them at a bar, mixing himself a drink. Beamon saw that he was swaying a little from the ones he'd had already and that worried him a little, though he wasn't exactly sure why.
"What do you drink, Nicolai?"
"Nothing."
"I don't trust a man who won't drink with me."
Beamon surveyed the room casually. The men who had brought him there were standing against the wall with their eyes locked on him.
"I don't care."
Gasta looked a little angry when he turned around. It was likely that he was accustomed to being firmly in command--particularly in his own home.
"You know what made me think of you on this deal," Gasta said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and smacking them against the palm of his hand. "It was that job you did in Detroit."
Beamon called up the details of a multimillion-dollar diamond heist he'd read about in one of the files Laura had given him. Gasta's glassy eyes suddenly became just a little bit probing.
"I understand you have something that might interest me," Beamon said, ignoring the inference.
"That was a hell of an operation," Gasta said, obviously not willing to let the subject go. "The one in Detroit, I mean."
Was it possible that he could be any more obvious? He undoubtedly had some kind of information on that job that would suggest Nicolai wasn't involved.
"The FBI and Interpol blame me when it rains, Carlo. I had nothing to do with that. As I recall, two security guards were killed--but not before they'd managed to get a few shots off." He shook his head in disgust. "I don't make a practice out of getting into gunfights with eight-dollar-an-hour rent-a-cops."
Gasta looked disappointed. "Well, then you haven't really done much in the U. S., have you?"
"I haven't. You have a better cl
ass of law enforcement here. I prefer to avoid the FBI."
That got a laugh out of Gasta. "Bunch of flicking idiots." He spread his arms wide, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. "They've been busting their asses for years and they can't touch me."
It was odd but true. Beamon had never been able to figure out how someone like Carlo Gasta had stayed out of prison for so long. Perhaps it had something to do with the mysterious banker Chet had met.
"Hats off to you. You've done well for yourself."
Gasta took a seat in a chair across from Beamon, and his people took that as the signal that they, too, could sit. A moment later Beamon found himself between his sweaty new friends Tony and Mikey again. Chet, wisely, took the chair next to Gasta.
"So, do you know why you're here?" Gasta said.
"Chet tells me you want to steal a shipment of heroin. Is that correct?"
Gasta nodded.
"Then I have to ask the obvious question. Why?"
Gasta looked at the two men flanking Beamon and laughed. They took the hint and laughed along.
"For the money. Why the fuck else?", Beamon acted as though he was considering Gasta's statement for a good thirty seconds. He saw Nicolai as a thinker, a man who didn't speak without carefully considering his words. "I'll tell you, Carlo, my involvement in the drug trade has been fairly limited, so I'm no expert, but isn't the markup on this stuff enormous--ten, twenty times? It seems that with those kinds of numbers, the initial cost of the product is almost irrelevant."
"I don't consider two million dollars irrelevant," Gasta said.
Beamon nodded thoughtfully. "I came here because Chet's proved himself to be smart and reliable, and I respect him. But honestly, if I was going to get involved with this, I'd be more inclined to just invest the money." He knew that Chet just wanted him to suck up to Gasta and say he had a scheduling conflict, but it seemed out of character. Why would someone like Nicolai show up to a meeting like this if he already knew he was unavailable?
"Hey, you want to give me a couple of million dollars? Fine. Give me a couple of million dollars."
Tony and Mikey laughed on cue but they were sounding increasingly nervous. Chet remained silent.
Beamon opened his mouth to explain why he wasn't going to be writing Gasta a check anytime soon but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He'd just bought it and Laura was the only person who had the number. "Excuse me a moment," he said, pulling it from his pocket and flipping it open. "Yes?"
"Can I talk?" she said.
"Go ahead."
"We found the informant, Mark. He's dead."
Beamon nodded serenely as she spoke, but his mind was racing, trying to recalculate his position.
"We have to assume that they know about Chet." "I agree," he replied simply.
"Are you in Gasta's office?"
"No."
"Can you tell me where you are?"
"No."
"Can you get out of there?"
He thought about that for a moment. "It doesn't look good."
"Talk to me, Mark. What can I do?"
"As near as I can tell, nothing. Just sit tight. I'll get back to you."
He cleared his suddenly very dry throat and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. "I'm sorry about that. Now, where were we?"
"We were finding out that the great Nicolai is afraid of a bunch of sand niggers," Gasta replied with a flash of his infamous temper.
Beamon remembered the reports Chet had written on Gasta. He drank a lot, but he drank even more when he was scared. At first Beamon had assumed the man was just nervous about his first meeting with Nicolai. But it was more than that--an incongruous combination of fear and arrogance. Beamon thought about lighting a cigarette to calm himself down but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Unfortunately, it seemed that Nicolai didn't smoke.
The men sitting next to him had relieved him of his .357 before he'd gotten in the car with them. He hadn't thought much about it at the time--standard procedure. Now, though, he wasn't so sure.
"I am afraid of them," Beamon replied calmly. "Your average Middle Eastern heroin dealer isn't a forgiving man, Carlo. They're violent, unpredictable, and they hold a grudge. Anyone who would cross them for an insignificant amount of money has either very poor judgment or an ulterior motive."
This time Gasta laughed hard enough to get himself coughing. "Which do you think it is, Nicolai? Bad judgment?" He looked over at Chet. "You think I have bad judgment?"
That was it. Gasta's syntax and body language clinched it. Somehow Chet's cover had been blown. Now the only question was what Beamon was going to do about it. He didn't immediately respond, giving himself time to run various scenarios in his head--trying to come up with one that didn't end up with him and Chet dead.
"That would be my guess, Carlo. You probably don't even know that Chet is a federal agent. I'd call that bad judgment, wouldn't you?"
Beamon had to struggle not to look over at Chet in the silence that ensued. Come on, kid. Protest already.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Chet said finally, rising from his chair and pointing at Beamon. "This is bullshit, Carlo. He's trying to fuck us. He probably wants the heroin himself."
"Oh, please," Beamon said, waving a hand lazily in the air and ignoring the fact that the two men who had been on the sofa with him were now standing behind Gasta with guns drawn. He could tell from the orchestration of their movement that they'd known the entire time. The whole thing had been a setup.
"In fact I did know," Gasta said, trying to sound forceful but not quite succeeding. Beamon beating him to the punch had deflated him a bit.
"What I want to know," Gasta said, jabbing a finger toward him, "is who the fuck you are!"
Beamon looked over at Chet for a moment. The poor kid looked like he was on the verge of panic, but Beamon knew he could be counted on to hold it together.
"You already know who I am, Carlo. Chet and I have a mutually beneficial arrangement. He provides me with useful information and points out opportunities like this one. And for that, he won't have to live on his government pension in his old age. Works well on both sides, don't you think?"
The story wasn't exactly airtight but Gasta's uncertainty was definitely growing. If Beamon could fan it a little more, he and Chet might just walk out of there.
"You're full of shit!" Gasta shouted.
Beamon reached into his pocket, ignoring the added attention he got from the men pointing guns at him, and pulled out a cigarette. Time for Nicolai to start smoking.
"Come on, Carlo," he said, taking a lighter off the table in front of him. "Why would I lie? Why would I even bring it up if it weren't true?"
"Fuck!" Gasta screamed suddenly, jumping from his chair and throwing his drink in Chet's face. A few moments later Gasta was pacing back and forth across the room, running his hand through his hair compulsively.
"What are you so upset about, Carlo? I'm guessing that Chet was going to hit you with this sooner or later. He's a greedy little bastard but he can be damn useful. I'm guessing there's all kinds of evidence that he can make disappear."
Gasta stayed in motion, an expression of panicked concentration etched deeply into his face. Beamon literally would have given a number of fingers off his right hand to know what the man was thinking.
"Carlo . . ." Beamon began.
Gasta came to an abrupt stop and spun to face him. "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" His words were punctuated by Mikey pulling the hammer back on his revolver. Or was it Tony?
Beamon watched Gasta take a cell phone from his pocket and start dialing, then stop, then start again. He finally put it up to his ear.
"We have confirmation." There was a long pause as whoever was on the other side of the line spoke.
"There's something else. . . . Yes. . . . We've got information that he's on the take." Pause. "No, I think it's good information. No . . . I don't know. I think it's worth looking into."
The next paus
e seemed to go on forever. Who was he talking to? The only answer Beamon could come up with was the man Chet had met a few days earlier. John the Banker.
"But it's a-- Yes. I understand, but--"
The more desperate Gasta's tone became, the tighter the knot in Beamon's stomach got. He sucked hard on his cigarette but it wasn't helping anymore. He'd figured he had a fair chance of controlling this Mob moron, but he hadn't counted on the man on the other end of that phone. All he could do was sit there on the gaudy animal-print sofa and watch this thing spiral out of control.
"All I'm saying is that maybe we should check it out. He might . . . yes. I said yes. Okay." Now the desperation had turned to resignation. Beamon dared a quick look over at Chet. He'd heard the change in tone too. Gasta was being convinced to do something he didn't want to do. And that something was almost certainly killing an FBI agent and an unaffiliated criminal named Nicolai.
"I understand," Gasta said, and turned off the phone. He went straight to the bar to replace the drink he'd doused Chet with.
"Carlo . . ." Beamon tried again.
"I told you to shut up," he said without turning around. He downed a third of a glass of vodka and looked at Beamon's reflection in the mirror on the wall. "Do you know how much trouble you've caused me? I brought Chet into my organization because of his relationship with you. Now I'm fucked--I'm going to have to go underground."
The drink, the speech ... He was clearly working himself up to something.
"Goddamn it! He was into all my finances, met the people I work with, knows everything I'm into!" Gasta was shouting now, the spit flying from his mouth visible in the powerful track lights. He walked around his men and grabbed Beamon by the front of his shirt. "Do you know what you've done?"
Beamon grabbed one of Gasta's fingers and bent it backward. The man winced in pain as Tony walked up and pressed the barrel of his pistol to Beamon's temple. Or was it Mikey?