Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  Gasta motioned toward Claude. "That's not your doctor."

  "I told you I wasn't traveling alone," Beamon said, surprised by the coldness of his--Nicolai's--voice. Applied schizophrenia.

  Gasta glanced around the small room, looking increasingly nervous. He was undoubtedly wondering how many of Nicolai's other "associates" were lurking just out of sight.

  "Can we talk?"

  Beamon thought about it for a moment. "Claude. Cinq minutes, s'il vows plait."

  He'd practiced that and a few other simple phrases until they rolled from his tongue effortlessly. Nicolai, he'd decided, was multilingual.

  Heiss strode across the floor with impressive confidence that Beamon knew he didn't feel and paused to allow Gasta's men to precede him into the hall.

  "What kind of work does Claude do?" Gasta said after the door clicked shut.

  "He does the kind of work you'd think he would." Gasta nodded, and for some reason the meekness of the motion enraged Beamon. The fact that this small-time, badly dressed little pissant could cause the death of someone like Chet .

  He forced his anger back again by remembering who he was. Nicolai didn't care about Chet Michaels. "What do you want, Carlo?"

  "I told you. I want to talk. To make peace."

  Chet's assessment had been right, Beamon realized. Gasta had brought Nicolai in on his own. His boss, whoever that was, didn't know and wouldn't be there to protect him from Nicolai's wrath. Gasta was scared. And why not? Nicolai was a fabrication to be feared.

  "You can start by telling me that the hundred thousand you owe me is in my account."

  When he didn't answer, Beamon shook his head. "Carlo . . . what am I going to do with you?"

  Gasta just stood there, frozen.

  "You ordered the death of an FBI informant who I spent a great deal of money cultivating," Beamon said. "And then, to make it worse, you had your men beat the hell out of me. Those were fairly grave errors on your part."

  "I told Mikey and Tony not to touch you," Gasta said hesitantly. "They liked Chet. . . . They didn't listen to me. . . ."

  Beamon hadn't thought it possible, but his hatred for this worthless piece of shit notched a little higher. Gasta had gotten drunk and lost control, giving an order that he shouldn't have. And now he was blaming his own bad judgment on two men who had been with his family since before he was born. For all he knew, he had just condemned them to death.

  "They could have killed you, but they didn't," he said hopefully.

  "And that's the only reason you're still alive, Carlo. If I'd been two more hours finding a phone, Claude and his men would have been paying you a visit."

  Gasta finally managed to muster the courage to make a pathetic effort to look defiant, but didn't speak.

  "I'll tell you, Carlo. I can't decide whether it's worth the trouble to kill you or not."

  "I had orders," Gasta said, once again trying to deflect blame from himself "I didn't want to kill Chet--you heard me on the phone. It wasn't my decision. You have to understand that Chet left me exposed and exposed people I worked with. They don't tolerate things like that."

  "Then maybe I should be talking to them?"

  "Don't think that's possible."

  Beamon stared at him for a long time, trying to decide what Nicolai would do in this situation. How much energy and time would he expend on this little man? How much of this would he take personally?

  "I had over a million dollars invested in Chet, and now that investment's gone," Beamon said finally. "And then, of course, there's my pain and suffering, which I expect to be compensated for. Tell your boss I expect two million dollars in my account by noon tomorrow, New York time."

  Gasta stared at the floor and then gave the answer that Beamon had counted on. "He isn't going to do that." "Then I guess you owe me the money."

  "I don't have it."

  Beamon nodded slowly. "I don't want you to take this personally, Carlo, but I have a reputation that I have to protect to maintain my credibility. People don't cross me and survive. I'm sorry."

  Beamon surprised himself again by how easy it had been to tell the man in front of him that he was as good as dead. He wondered if he should be worried about how well Nicolai's persona was beginning to fit him.

  Gasta took a step backward but didn't otherwise seem to know how to react to the offhand statement. He finally managed to process what it meant, and the stench of his hangover intensified noticeably as he started to sweat. "It's because of Chet--and you--that I don't have the money. I don't know what he told the Feds--I've had to go underground. I'm completely cut off from my businesses and most of my people."

  Beamon didn't answer. Gasta's problems seemed irrelevant to the situation at hand. While politics and law enforcement could be insufferably complex, crime was refreshingly simple: money or death.

  "I can get it," Gasta blurted. "But not by tomorrow." "I'm not really in the mood to negotiate, Carlo."

  "The drug shipment Chet told you about--it's real and it's happening in a few days. When I get it, I'll sell the drugs and you'll have your money."

  Beamon nodded slowly but didn't speak. He had suspected that this was the way things would go. Gasta's men hadn't done any lasting damage to him--except for the ankle, which was probably an accident. And even more telling was the fact that they hadn't so much as touched his face, leaving no marks that might draw attention.

  The fact was, Gasta still needed him. He needed cash and needed to redeem himself in the eyes of his boss. That meant this heroin heist had to go off without any problems.

  "When?" Beamon said.

  "Soon. This week," he said hopefully.

  "Fine. I'll extend your deadline. But if I don't have my money within a few weeks, I'm sending Claude back for you."

  Although Beamon's tone was obviously a dismissal, Gasta just stood there, staring at the floor.

  "I need your help," he admitted finally.

  "Let me get this straight: You want me to get my own money?" Beamon said, laughing. "I didn't want to be involved last night, and believe me, my opinion of you hasn't changed." He paused and affected a thoughtful expression. "But then, you probably can't pull it off alone, can you?" Gasta wouldn't meet his gaze.

  Beamon remained silent for a long time, as though he were considering the situation, which actually was progressing exactly as he had hoped.

  "Okay, Carlo. My fee would be one million plus the two million you owe me."

  Beamon assumed that the number would be satisfactory to Gasta, since his alternative was death.

  "And then we'd be even?"

  "And then we'd be even."

  Of course that wasn't true. He would use Gasta to find the man who had ordered Chet's death and then he'd crucify them both.

  "Okay," Gasta said finally.

  "Okay, what?"

  "We have a deal. Three million. When can we talk? There isn't much time."

  Chapter 25

  DESPITE four inches of rock-hard snow beneath his feet, it was almost unbearably hot. Over the past three hours Christian Volkov had stripped off layer after layer of clothing until he was left in only a pair of work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt.

  He hefted an armload of firewood onto the neat stack that he had been constructing for the better part of the morning. There was something about physical labor outdoors that always helped him step back and think.

  "Christian?"

  Volkov turned and leaned against the woodpile. Joseph was hopelessly out of place here: His dark, worried face and slight build seemed to get swallowed up by the endless landscape of Kazakhstan that spread out around them. "The young FBI agent is dead."

  "We have confirmation of that?"

  "Yes. We're certain."

  The first of many deaths, Volkov guessed. Jonathan Drake was beginning the process of severing connections between al-Qaeda and the CIA. It was to be expected, of course, and Drake had been careful to warn him that these kinds of actions would be forthcoming. But an FBI agent
...

  "And what have we discovered about this man Nicolai?" Volkov said.

  "Our man inside Gasta's organization says he's still alive and in hospital. It was apparently Nicolai's contention that he was aware Chet Michaels was an FBI agent and that Michaels was on his payroll."

  A hundred meters behind Joseph, Volkov saw another figure leave his new house and begin running gracefully toward them through the snow.

  "Do we have any indication that Drake is behind Nicolai's involvement?"

  "No. The contrary seems to be true. Every indication is that he came to Gasta through Chet Michaels. It's possible that the CIA isn't even aware of Nicolai's existence. I've put everything we've been able to find so far on him in your computer. It isn't much."

  As the figure grew nearer, its youthful, feminine figure and long, dark hair became visible. When Elizabeth stopped next to Joseph, she was breathing hard. Despite that, she managed to silently mouth "General Yung" and hold out a satellite phone.

  Volkov looked at it but didn't immediately reach for it. The fact that the general hadn't returned any of his calls since the disappearance of Pascal wasn't as telling as he wished it was. The Asians disliked confrontation and the delivery of bad news. They'd rather just kill you.

  He finally took the phone and pressed it to his ear. "Bonjour, General. Comment allez-vous?", Volkov heard a voice on the line translate his words into Lao, although he knew Yung to speak excellent French. The general was obviously nervous and thought he might need the extra time to consider his words more carefully. Volkov heard him reply and the translator spoke a moment later. "I am well and hope that you are the same, Mr. Volkov. Please accept my apologies for not calling sooner, but I had no information to impart about your man, Pascal. You understand that he insisted on going out into the countryside against my recommendation. While it is largely under my control, there is rebel activity in the area. We regret that we still cannot locate him but are making every effort to do so."

  Volkov nodded into the phone. Pascal was dead, of that he had little doubt. Whether or not General Yung was involved in his murder was another matter. At least for the moment it was an unanswerable question and therefore irrelevant. What was relevant, though, was that without Yung's cooperation, Volkov's entire plan was in jeopardy. He had no choice but to continue to try to create an alliance between the new Laotian regime and his organization.

  "I assure you," the translator continued, "I am most anxious to continue the promising dialog begun with your man regarding the future of our business relationship."

  Volkov tossed another piece of wood on the pile. "As am I, General. As am I."

  Chapter 26

  THEY were late.

  It was something Beamon hadn't counted on when he'd agreed to the meeting place. He tried to roll the window up tighter, but the mechanism just hummed uselessly. The dusty scent of the California desert was seeping into the cracks of the car, overpowering the filtered air blasting from the air conditioner, trying to make him remember Chet. He lit another cigarette with a shaking hand and felt himself calming down a little as the smoke filled the car. Twisting around in his seat, he squinted against the powerful afternoon sun and surveyed the empty desert behind him. Heiss had trailed him at a distance of about a mile to make sure he wasn't followed--his last duty on this fucked-up operation. The memory of Claude would be enough to keep Gasta in line.

  The quiet purr of an engine began to separate itself from the light desert breeze, and Beamon stepped from the car with the assistance of a cane he'd purchased after checking himself out of the hospital. The approaching vehicle appeared over a rise, and Beamon raised a hand to block the glint off its windshield as it rolled to a stop in front of him. He quickly jumped into the backseat.

  "Mark! What the hell's going on?" Concern and exhaustion were equally visible in Laura's face as she turned around in the passenger seat to face him. Scott Reynolds, Chet's boss--former boss--just watched him in the rearview mirror. "What's with the cane, Mark? Are you all right? Where's Chet?"

  "Chet's dead."

  "What?" Reynolds said. "What did you say?"

  "He's dead. Gasta had him killed."

  The silence that descended on the small car lasted a long time. The wind was starting to pick up, and all Beamon could hear above the persistent ringing in his ears was the dust being driven against the window.

  "What happened, Mark?" Laura said, not bothering to protest when he lit another cigarette.

  "The informant you found dead must have given him up," Beamon said, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. "They . . . they took us out into the desert, shot him, and then kicked the shit out of me."

  Scott Reynolds sagged forward as Beamon spoke, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

  For a moment Laura didn't seem to know what to do or say--an unusual position for her. "Mark, I want you to tell us exactly what happened."

  Beamon took a deep drag on the cigarette and let the smoke roll from his mouth as he spoke. "Gasta was drunk when I got there . . . arrogant, belligerent. The way he was acting seemed kind of off, but I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. The more we talked, the more I thought he knew something that I didn't--that he was building up to something. Then you called and it all made sense. . . ." Reynolds's head came up from the wheel for a moment. "What happened? What did you do?"

  "I tried to maintain my credibility. I said Chet was an FBI agent before Gasta could come out with it. I told him that Chet was on my payroll." Beamon had to stop talking for a moment when his throat constricted, but tried to play it off with another drag on his cigarette. "I thought I could convince Gasta that Chet was dirty and he could just cough up a little money and make all his problems go away."

  "But it didn't work . . ." Laura prompted.

  "It was going fine until Gasta made a phone call. He was scared and was looking for an excuse not to kill a federal agent. Whoever he talked to changed his mind."

  "Shit," Reynolds said quietly.

  Laura pulled her feet up on the seat and leaned back against the dash. No one seemed to know what else to say. A young FBI agent was dead, and despite more than sixty years of law enforcement experience among them, no one was sure what to do.

  "Do you . . . do you have any idea who he called, Mark?"

  Beamon shrugged, sending a shooting pain through his neck. "I figure the obvious answer is the right one. We know that Gasta took Chet to meet that guy John and that he wasn't very happy about the meeting. It seems to follow that the guy would check Chet out. Somehow--probably through your dead informant--his cover got blown. It seems pretty likely that this same guy was on the other end of the phone, ordering him dead."

  Reynolds didn't lift his head from the wheel when he spoke this time. "We know that Gasta has heavy support from somewhere--somebody big backing him financially and helping him force his way into the heroin trade. But we've never been able to figure out who it is. Gasta's just a dumb-ass wiseguy who wants to be a movie star. I'd bet just about anything that he wouldn't have the balls to kill an FBI agent on his own."

  Another long silence.

  "Mark," Reynolds said, looking back at him for the first time. "Where . . . where is he?"

  "Out in the desert. They buried him."

  "Jesus. . . . We can't just leave him out there." Something in those words sent a surge of adrenaline through Beamon. For a moment it was as if he were outside his body, watching himself lose his carefully constructed illusion of control and powerless to do anything about it. He reached out and grabbed Reynolds by the shirt, pulling him partway over the seat.

  "You think I want to leave him out there rotting in the fucking desert?" Beamon screamed. "Is that what you think?"

  Laura came to life and jammed her arms between them, pulling them apart with surprising force. "Mark! Calm down! That isn't what Scott meant and you know it."

  "Hey, fuck you," Reynolds said, making a grab for Beamon that Laura managed to block. "Chet worked for
me, not you. I liked the kid too. And I'm the sorry son of a bitch who's going to have to go to his house and look his wife in the face and tell her he's dead, you sanctimonious prick!"

  "Shut up, both of you!" Laura shouted. "Look . . . Chet's dead. There's nothing we can do about that. Let's try to concentrate on things we can do something about."

  "Like what?" Reynolds said.

  "Like getting the people responsible. Like getting the rocket launcher. Chet's dead, but the people al-Qaeda could kill with that thing aren't yet. We can still save them."

  "So what are we talking about?" Beamon said, managing to get at least partial control over himself.

  "As I see it, we've got enough to put Carlo Gasta on death row. The question is, do we want to? If we take down Gasta now, the chance of us getting the man behind him goes to about zero: He'll run far and fast. And so will the Afghans. I mean, the connection here is thin, but . . ." She seemed to weaken as she spoke. "But it's as good as anything I've got."

  Beamon leaned back in the seat and looked out the window, trying to remove himself from the conversation. He already knew what he was going to do.

  "What you're saying," Reynolds said, "is that you want to just leave Gasta on the street."

  "Look, Scott, I know how you both felt about Chet. I'm just thinking out loud, okay?" She looked at Beamon through the smoke hanging in the air. "Mark, where do you stand? If we were to leave you in, is there any chance you could get to the guy behind Gasta? Or better yet, the Afghans?"

  "Gasta's painted himself into a corner," Beamon said. "He thinks that Nicolai is seriously considering putting a bullet in the back of his head."

  "Do you think you can convince him to trust you?" "I already did."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He came to visit me in my hospital room."

  "Your hospital room!" Reynolds cut in. "What are you talking about?"

  "Haven't you wondered why he didn't kill me too? He still has to pull off this heroin heist. He's got to regain face with his boss and he is desperate for the money. The problem is, he isn't sure he can do it alone."