Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "How could you let it go this far?"

  Drake remained passive, sitting motionless at the table. His boss's tirade was just a release of fear and frustration: There had been no choice but to get rid of Chet Michaels, and Holsten had approved the sanction personally. However, it had been a barely audible verbal authorization given in the small office he kept in his home. There would be no paper trail to follow if it should ever come to that. "I gave Gasta strict orders that no one was to know of my existence, Alan. I told him that if anyone ever found out, I would pull my support from him. There was no way to know he was going to ignore that order."

  "I told you we shouldn't get involved with that son of a bitch--that we'd end up getting flicked."

  That wasn't even vaguely true, of course, but it was undoubtedly how Holsten remembered it.

  "We've talked about this before, Alan. Gasta is arrogant, has an inferiority complex, and is stupid. The first two made him easy to manipulate, but the last always had the potential to make him unpredictable. But we needed him.

  We needed someone who could take on a fair amount of Afghan heroin--to keep the money flowing to us and to al-Qaeda. It's not like we could just ask Congress for the financing--"

  "You said you could control Gasta."

  "I said that he was the most controllable person who met our criteria. Going with someone bigger, smarter, or more powerful would have been too dangerous. They wouldn't have needed our support as desperately and they would have asked questions."

  Holsten laughed bitterly. "Jesus Christ, Jonathan. This whole thing is crumbling around you and you're giving me a dissertation on why you've made all the right decisions. Well, you haven't made the right decisions. And you failed to control an uneducated street punk from Brooklyn."

  Drake ignored the insult. Alan Holsten seemed to think that the world moved along an even, predictable path--that all things could be modeled and statistically analyzed, just as his Harvard professors had taught him. But this was the real world.

  The fact that Chet Michaels had seen him was, at first, a more or less minor issue. When a background check on the man revealed him to actually be an FBI agent, though, there had been little choice as to what action to take.

  "I want to know what you're doing to make this all disappear, Jonathan. And I want to know now!"

  Drake forced himself to remain calm. Holsten was the CIA's deputy director of operations and the only other man in the Agency who knew the full details of this operation. He had the potential to become extremely dangerous if he lost confidence.

  "Alan, you have to understand that we didn't kill Michaels, Gasta's men did. Anyone investigating his disappearance would simply assume that his cover was somehow blown and that Gasta did away with him. The fact that Gasta is still on the street is a major embarrassment to the FBI, and they'll be happy to have something to pin on him."

  "But is Gasta under control, Jonathan? He's scared now and that could make him even more unpredictable."

  "I don't think so. He brought an undercover agent to meet me and he gave the order to have him killed. He recognizes that he's in a dangerous position and he's going to look to me for help and advice. From here on he'll do everything I say, exactly."

  "You're sure about that," Holsten said, gripping the back of the chair he was standing in front of tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.

  Drake nodded. "He has no real choice. I pulled the money we originally wired him for this drug buy and I've made it clear that there will be no more coming."

  "What about the FBI? They're going to come after Gasta when they find out that their man's disappeared." "But that works perfectly for us, Alan. Gasta's already gone into hiding. He won't be able to draw money from his normal operations, and we've cut him off. With no other source of cash, he has no choice but to go after the heroin. "

  "And you're confident that the FBI won't be able to find him?"

  "Absolutely. I have people in Washington who are keeping me up-to-date on the L. A. office's investigation into Gasta as well as Laura Vilechi's investigation into the rocket launcher. I'll always be one step ahead of them. But as far as Gasta is concerned, it doesn't really matter: He'll be dead before the FBI even realizes their man is gone, and that will be the end of it. Gasta will be posthumously blamed and there will be no reason to look any further." Holsten didn't speak for a long time, and Drake could feel the perspiration starting at his hairline.

  "You're very smooth, Jonathan. Very convincing. But I sometimes wonder what's really going on in your head." "If you don't think I've told you the truth, I suggest you check it out yourself."

  "Oh, I think it's the truth. But I think it's been attractively packaged. You've allowed al-Qaeda to smuggle a sizable weapon into the U. S. and hold the American people hostage. We know from our intelligence that they have three operable rockets, but you have no idea where they are. And now the FBI agent. . . . You're very good at telling me how this all works for us, but I'm not convinced. Chet Michaels met with a drug supplier from Afghanistan, and Laura Vilechi knows from us that the Afghans are fighting in the Golden Crescent. The drug connection isn't going to be something they miss forever."

  "Like I said, Alan, I've got ears high up in the FBI, and I'm hearing nothing about Gasta in relation to the terrorism investigation. He's being handled out of the L. A. office as nothing more than another organized criminal."

  "When is Gasta meeting with the Afghans again?" "A week."

  "And you guarantee that no one will walk away from that meeting?"

  Guarantees were dangerous, but there was little choice at this point. "No one will. Gasta will attack them based on my orders, and anyone who survives that firefight will be taken care of by our people. It will just look like a drug buy gone wrong."

  "Gasta is top priority," Holsten said, stating the obvious, as he often did when he was frightened. "If we can't get the Afghans, so be it. Let them drive away. Recovering the launcher, whatever al-Qaeda is or is not accomplishing in the drug trade--that's all second priority now. We have to focus on the CIA's exposure."

  "It's all being taken care of Alan. We're in the process of cutting off contact with al-Qaeda and destroying all evidence of our involvement. But we have to do it carefully. We don't want to tip Volkov off that we're shutting this operation down. The illusion of continued business with him is critical to our being able to get close enough to kill him." Holsten's expression darkened. "It hasn't done much good so far, though, has it, Jonathan? Does he know we were behind the attack on his house in the Seychelles?" "We would certainly be one entry on a very long list. All of his enemies would know that he would have to send someone to reassert his power over Laos. In any event, with Pascal dead, he's weakened."

  Jonathan knew that this was true but wondered now if killing Pascal would have the devastating effect he had hoped for. The few bank accounts they knew about were already gone, and large fires had sprung up in areas where the CIA suspected Volkov had houses. The speed and efficiency with which he had cut himself off from everything he had built was startling, though this was something better left unsaid at this point.

  "You're keeping in touch with Volkov," Holsten said. "Keeping him reassured?"

  "Of course."

  "We have to get to him, Jonathan. Everything the FBI uncovers has to lead to a dead end. Nothing can go through to us."

  "I understand. But Gasta and his people have to be our first priority. Volkov will be difficult for the FBI to reach, even if they discover his existence. Based on my information, the investigation into the launcher is pretty much stalled now. They have no physical evidence to work with and aren't getting much international cooperation."

  Holsten nodded slowly, and for a moment Jonathan thought the discussion was over.

  "What about Mark Beamon?"

  "I had the information regarding his inspection report leaked. It was perfect for us: heavily critical of his ASACs, blaming them for his own failings as a manager. The implication is th
at he was going to let his ASACs go down in his place. He's got his hands full with them right now. That, combined with the fact that he and Laura Vilechi's boss can't even be in the same room together, should keep him out."

  Chapter 23

  MARK Beamon opened his eyes to a woman dressed in white, holding his wrist and looking at her watch. He tried to pull away, but she was stronger and more determined than she looked.

  "Stop being such a baby," she said. "You're going to be fine. You have quite a few cuts and bruises, and a sprained ankle, but no broken bones. Do you understand? You're going to be fine."

  Apparently satisfied with his pulse rate, she dropped his arm unceremoniously and held up something that looked like a business card. "The police officer that brought you here told me to give you this. When you're feeling up to it, he'd like to talk to you." She placed the card on the table next to his bed and disappeared through a door without another word.

  His head was beginning to clear and he managed to push himself into a sitting position and look around him at the private hospital room. Satisfied that he was alone, he fell back onto the mattress. His memory of the night before was hazy at first, but once the images started to come, he couldn't make them stop: his meeting with Gasta, Chet's death out in the desert, Mikey and Tony beating the shit out of him, finally finding the highway and being picked up by a disinterested cop.

  Chet.

  Beamon felt the tears starting again, but he forced them back with thoughts of a drunk, swaggering Carlo Gasta. What had happened? How had Chet's cover been blown?

  The answer was obvious. The mysterious man behind Gasta had taken the time to do a little digging after his accidental meeting with Chet and had somehow come up with his real identity. It was he whom Gasta had called last night. And it was he who had given the order.

  Beamon threw the covers off and slid carefully from the bed. The pain when his left foot touched the ground was excruciating, but he stood anyway, putting his full weight on it in a pointless act of defiance. Gritting his teeth and refusing to favor his injury, he walked stiffly to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

  An examination, made easier by the less-than-modest hospital gown, suggested that the nurse was right. Most of the skin on his arms, legs, and torso was an uneven yellow/brown, broken by the occasional laceration. Only a few of the cuts had been bad enough to warrant stitches. His face was another story entirely. Other than a few little scratches he'd gotten when Tony had thrown him to the ground, there wasn't a mark on it. He ran a hand along his dirt- and sweat-matted beard, looking for hidden swelling or abrasions. Nothing.

  A brief search of the room turned up his glasses but not his clothes or what was left of the cell phone he'd had in his pocket. Ignoring a crutch propped against the wall, he pushed through the door and started down the hall, watching everyone he passed carefully with semi-controlled paranoia. In the end, though, no one seemed to be particularly interested in a middle-aged man hobbling by with his ass hanging out.

  He finally found a pay phone near the elevator and dialed Laura Vilechi's cell number.

  "Yeah, hello."

  "It's Mark."

  "Mark! Jesus, we've been going nuts trying to find you. Are you all right? What happened? Where's Chet? Was his cover blown?"

  Beamon looked around him and confirmed that there was no one within earshot. "Look, I've only got a second, okay. Listen carefully. I'm at the San Bernardino County Hospital. Call Claude Heiss--I think he's still working out of the L. A. office. He grew up in Quebec. Tell him to come here and meet me. He's Nicolai's bodyguard and doesn't speak much English, mostly French. You got that?" "Mark, what's going on?"

  A couple of people stopped a few feet away to wait for the elevator.

  "We'll talk later. Tell him I need him now. And, Laura, no one else comes within ten miles of this hospital--do you understand?"

  "I'll take care of it."

  "And . . . and could you call Carrie and tell her I'm okay but that I won't be able to talk to her for a little while?" "Sure, Mark. But what--"

  He hung up the phone and made his way back to his room, closing the door firmly behind him and pulling the drapes shut against the possibility of a sniper firing from the building next door. It was hard not to dwell on the fact that he was weak, injured, and completely unarmed. Glancing at the clock, he wondered how long it would take Claude to get there. Carlo Gasta was probably just getting over his hangover and would be wondering if leaving Nicolai alive had been such a good idea.

  The next hour and a half turned out to be one of the longest he'd ever lived through. He'd tried watching television, but every channel was still harping on the recent terrorist threat against hospitals--not exactly what he needed at this point. He'd turned it off, but without anything else to occupy his time, he'd started second-guessing himself and creating elaborate scenarios that could have saved Chet. He tried to focus on his hatred for Carlo Gasta and the mysterious man behind him, but it didn't work. All he could think about was how young Chet had been--the years that had been taken away from him.

  When the door to his room was suddenly thrown open, Beamon jumped off the bed, ready to make whatever pathetic effort at defending himself he could manage. He'd been ready to die last night, but now he was ready to live. He was going to find the son of a bitch who had ordered Chet's death. And, if possible, he was going to put a bullet in him.

  "Nicolai," the man said through a thick French accent, closing the door behind him.

  Beamon fell back onto the bed, the adrenaline-provided illusion of strength dissipating quickly. "Claude. Jesus Christ."

  Beamon hadn't seen Heiss in years, but he was still perfect for the role. Six feet tall, broad shouldered, and weathered from a lifelong obsession with sailing.

  Beamon motioned him over and leaned into his ear. "Laura gave you some background?"

  "A little," Heiss whispered back.

  "Okay. You're high-class muscle. You don't speak much English. Are you armed?" He nodded again. "Good. It's possible that Carlo Gasta is going to come after me, but I don't know. We just need to play it cool."

  "Do you think someone is listening?" Claude whispered.

  "Not really, but paranoia's working for me so far." Claude nodded and retreated to a corner by the door, his hand inside his suit jacket.

  He looked the part as much as anyone could, and he was a solid agent. The drawback was that, as far as Beamon knew, he'd never pulled his gun in the line of duty. Hopefully the image would be enough.

  Chapter 24

  THE television bolted to the wall across from his bed glowed with a recap of the week's events as they related to "The New Threat." Beamon recognized the strategically timed and somewhat vague releases from the FBI as an indication that Laura's investigation was either crawling or completely stalled. To the experienced eye, the official reports were being shampooed--given more body and volume than they actually had.

  Not that the media seemed to notice. They were more than able to fill their dance cards with endless interviews of terrified victims, demonstrations of the destructive power of various rocket systems, endless replays of called-in terrorist threats, details on possible biological and chemical payloads, far-fetched speculation as to when and where death would come streaking across the sky.

  Interestingly, the government wasn't doing much yet to rein in the panic. Support for struggling businesses and laid-off workers was in the offing, but pleas for America to go about its business were few and far between. He assumed that was Laura's doing. It seemed likely that as long as the panic was running high, the terrorists wouldn't waste their precious ammunition.

  He wondered how she was holding up. The recriminations hadn't started yet, but his infallible instinct for such things suggested that they would start within the week. The television audience would soon become numb to the endless hours of guesses, and when they started to tune out, the media would have to find a new angle to bring them back. How would Laura handle her sudden tr
ansformation from brilliant, hardworking civil servant to the woman who was going to allow al-Qaeda to start blowing up suburban kindergartens?

  "Shit," Beamon said under his breath.

  Claude looked over at him and Beamon just waved a hand dismissively, sinking deeper into the pillows behind him. The constant nausea that he'd been learning to live with over the last year was getting worse. It seemed to be spreading to his mind, keeping him trapped in this bed and interfering with his ability for logical thought.

  Leaving him alive and killing Chet was just another in a long list of cruel tricks the gods had played on him. If one of those fat fucks had put a bullet in him instead, who would have really cared? His ASACs would certainly be happy to be rid of him. Carrie would get a chance to find herself a nice, stable man to be with. Chet, though . . . There were so many people who loved him. There was so much he'd planned to do.

  Beamon was staring at the wall, lost in himself, when Claude suddenly jumped to his feet and went for his gun. Beamon knew he should be scared, or at least startled, but for some reason he felt neither of those things. He actually had difficulty even generating enough curiosity to roll his head toward the door. When he finally did, he found himself looking at Carlo Gasta, flanked by the two men who had killed Chet and beat the hell out of him. Tony and Mikey stayed by the door, trying not to shrink under Claude's withering stare, as their boss centered himself at the foot of Beamon's bed.

  The hate and rage that suddenly gripped Beamon quickly eclipsed the despair and self-pity he had been sinking into. It felt good.

  "Nicolai," Gasta said simply.

  He didn't look much better than Beamon did. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin actually looked gray under the strong lights. The familiar stink of a near-terminal hangover was quickly filling the room.

  Beamon remained silent; his throat felt so constricted, he wasn't sure he could speak even if he wanted to. He tried to force Chet from his mind but failed miserably. His second method worked better. He replaced himself with Nicolai. He'd let Mark Beamon have his wish and be dead for a while.