by Kyle Mills
"An anonymous tip," Holsten repeated. "From whom?" "I don't know yet. It could have been anyone--one of Gasta's enemies, someone being paid off inside his organization . . ."
"Or it could have been Volkov."
Of course that was a possibility. If Volkov had ears inside Gasta's organization, he might have guessed that the CIA would use the heroin transaction as an ambush. If he was working under the assumption that the CIA was abandoning its plot against al-Qaeda, he could be interfering. By protecting Gasta, Volkov knew he would create a distraction that might temporarily deflect attention from him. Drake would be forced to concentrate his resources on hunting Gasta down before the police did.
"It's possible, Alan, but unlikely, I think. A much more probable--"
"Then, tell me how Gasta got away. How did a man that you described as stupid and completely under your control orchestrate what we're seeing on television?"
Drake had spent most of the day trying to come up with an answer to that question. Only an hour ago he'd gotten his first shred of useful information on the subject.
"He didn't orchestrate it, sir. Someone else did. According to my sources, Gasta hired a man named Nicolai to help him plan the operation."
Holsten nodded coldly. "Nicolai. Why didn't we know about this?"
Drake knew he had to tread lightly here. "Because Gasta wanted to please me. He solicited Nicolai to help him complete the mission I sent him on because he was afraid to fail. But when he succeeded, he wanted to take the credit."
"Your operation has completely fallen apart, Jonathan. The FBI has the bodies of the Afghans and they're going to use them to trace the launcher. Gasta is still alive, and if the police find him before you do, they'll have a direct path to us."
"They won't find him."
"Prove it to me. Prove to me that you aren't just blowing sunshine up my ass like you have for the past two weeks--that you actually have a fucking single clue what you're doing."
Drake stiffened but remained silent.
"Are you in touch with Gasta? Do you know where he is?"
The truth was, he didn't. Gasta had hidden out with the spoils of his victory against the Afghans and wasn't answering his cell phone. Thinking that he'd successfully completed the task Drake had charged him with, he would see no need for immediate communication.
"Not yet," Drake said. "But he'll call me in the next day or--"
"That's not good enough!" Holsten screamed. "What else is there, Jonathan? What else have you done to fuck this thing up?"
Drake laced his hands calmly in his lap but didn't immediately respond. He had information that Volkov was personally supplying al-Qaeda with weapons and intelligence so that they could continue their destabilization of the heroin supply flowing into the U. S. through Mexico. But he couldn't tell Holsten that. The time for honesty was gone; his position was becoming more and more precarious. All that mattered now was protecting himself.
"There's nothing, Alan. I'll find Gasta and get rid of him. He'll be dead in the next two days. I guarantee it."
"And what about this Nicolai?"
"I assume he's holed up with Gasta, though I can't be sure. We're working on identifying and locating him now." Holsten pulled a file from under his arm and threw it at Drake. "Let me save you the trouble. Nicolai is Mark Beamon."
"What?" Drake clawed the file open and began sifting through its contents.
"Laura Vilechi sent him undercover when Michaels reported meeting an Afghan heroin dealer. She thought there might be a connection."
Drake pushed aside an old article on Beamon from The Washington Post and uncovered Michaels's report.
"So far," Holsten continued, "the FBI is keeping the fact that they had men inside Gasta's organization quiet. They haven't been able to contact Beamon, but they're working on the assumption that Gasta froze him out of the deal. I'm guessing it won't be long before they find out he ignored his orders to arrest Gasta and was directly involved in the deaths of those Afghans."
Drake looked up at Holsten. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he get involved in something like that? Why wouldn't he just hand Gasta over?"
"Because, you stupid son of a bitch, he was there when Gasta called you. He was there when you told Gasta to kill Michaels. And now he's after your ass."
"But . . ." Drake fell silent. He wasn't sure what else to say. "You know what's at stake here, Jonathan. You've supplied one of America's most dangerous enemies with weapons. You've allied yourself with a major international organized-crime figure. You've ordered the death of an undercover FBI agent." Holsten slammed his hand down on the table. "You will bring this operation under control immediately, do you understand me? I'm giving you one more chance before I get involved personally."
Holsten turned and walked from the room without further explaining his vague threat. Drake felt the perspiration start to leak from his forehead as the deputy director of operations slammed the door behind him. His life was now in danger. If he was dead, Holsten could paint him as a rogue agent and deflect blame. There could be no more mistakes. But if there were, he had to make sure he had a way out.
Chapter 36
WITH great difficulty Beamon had refused repeated offers of top-shelf booze, instead opting for coffee and Cokes in an effort to sober up. He'd been less coy when the scent of garlic and herbs filled the cabin and had already packed away more than he'd eaten in any given twenty-four hours over the last year. Why? He wasn't sure. The fact that it was some of the best food he'd ever tasted might have had something to do with it. But there was something else. The condition of his stomach, after reaching an all-time low about ten hours before, seemed to be improving. Maybe there was a silver lining to being completely doomed. With absolutely no upside, there wasn't all that much left to worry about. It was a badly tarnished silver lining, to be sure, but a silver lining nonetheless.
He sliced into a shrimp ravioli dabbed with a complex green sauce and popped it in his mouth. Fantastic. Wolfgang, his young chaperon, was sitting in a deep leather chair on the other side of the plane, reading a book. He seemed wholly unconcerned that Nicolai was still armed and now also holding a sharp knife--confidence that was undoubtedly well founded.
Beamon finally pushed the plate away, fearing that if he shoveled in another bite, he might actually injure himself. A moment later a woman who he'd thought was the stewardess but now suspected was the pilot appeared and cleared the plate.
"Did you enjoy your meal, sir?"
Beamon looked up at her. "It was wonderful, thank you."
She was a striking woman, over six feet tall, with smooth, dark skin, dramatic bone structure, and the pleasant accent of a native African. When she smiled, she revealed a truly magnificent set of teeth. "In that case, can I interest you in dessert? We have--"
"Thank you, but no. As much as I'd like to, I better not risk it." He motioned to the complete darkness outside the window next to him. "Where are we?"
"Not far from our destination," she said vaguely.
"Oh, right. I went on vacation there last year. How much longer?"
Another stunning smile. "Not long. If you're tired, there's a bedroom in the back. Please feel free to use it." "I'm fine. But thanks for the offer."
Beamon watched her move back toward the cockpit and looked around the plane again. He knew almost nothing about private jets, but he'd been on enough to know that this one was big--much larger than the FBI's. And a hell of a lot nicer too. All leather, exotic woods, and heavy brass. He'd obviously managed to get someone's attention. Another two hours passed before an obvious loss of altitude saved him from the onset of a nasty food coma. He glanced at his watch, which read eight P. M., and then out the window. The sun was bright and low on the horizon. Dawn. He tried to calculate in his mind where in the world it would be early morning if it was early evening in L. A., but that kind of math just wasn't his forte. It didn't really matter anyway.
As they descended, he watched the endless carpet of tightly
packed pine trees get closer and closer. There wasn't much else to see--no towns, no roads. For a moment he thought they might be crashing and wasn't quite sure how he felt about the possibility. It would go a long way to solving his personal problems.
As they continued to descend, though, what had looked like a long gouge in the trees became a well-maintained runway. Beamon kept his face pressed to the glass as the plane touched down but still couldn't see anything of interest. By the time the plane rolled to a stop, Wolfgang was already busy opening the door. He didn't get out but invited Beamon to.
The weather was cool, almost fall-like, as he stepped down onto the tarmac. A pleasant change from L. A. and Phoenix. He put his sunglasses on and watched a tan Ford Expedition speeding toward him. It came to a hurried stop a few feet away and the driver jumped out. He was black, too, but with a smaller frame and lighter skin than the pilot. Beamon guessed that he was in his early thirties. "Nicolai. I'm Joseph, Christian Volkov's executive assistant." The Australian accent nailed it. Aborigine blood. Quite an international crew.
"Christian Volkov?" Beamon said, shaking the man's outstretched hand.
"I'll take you to him now."
Beamon climbed into the vehicle and they were immediately on their way. The pavement was replaced with a rutted dirt road after less than a mile, slowing their progress significantly.
"It's a beautiful spot," Beamon said as Joseph carefully maneuvered around a deep pothole. "Where are we?" "Not far from Christian's home."
Beamon nodded as though that was a credible answer. He might as well give up trying to place himself on a map. The house was impressive but not spectacular. Probably seven or eight thousand square feet, constructed primarily of gray stone and glass. The setting was the most remarkable thing about it: fantastic views of some mountain range or other, and nothing but pristine wilderness in every direction. With the exception of the airstrip, Beamon wondered if there was anything more than an old mine or hunting cabin within five hundred miles.
As he stepped out of the vehicle, it suddenly occurred to him how alone he was. His status as an FBI agent, tenuous as it was, generally could be counted on to carry some weight. Here, though, it was completely meaningless. Right now, for all intents and purposes, Mark Beamon didn't exist. There was only Nicolai.
The house was haphazardly furnished and Beamon found himself skirting the occasional box or crate as he was led through it. His years of investigative experience weren't necessary to deduce that whoever Christian Volkov was, he'd just moved in.
The room he was finally ushered into was quite large, with a back wall made almost entirely of glass and an enormous fireplace complete with stone gargoyles to the right. Heavy beams that looked as if they had been hewn from the local trees supported an arched ceiling. Again, most of the furniture seemed to be missing, but for some reason the sparse decor looked more studied here: A large desk with a bright red iMac on it and a few chairs was about all there was. The man behind the desk was staring at the computer screen, slowly maneuvering his mouse.
Joseph had already disappeared and Beamon moved forward, examining his apparent host carefully. He was seated, but it was still clear that he wasn't particularly tall--perhaps five foot nine or ten. His hair was medium length and he had a slight but solid build. Age? Early forties, based on the lines around his eyes and the chiseled angularity of his slightly sunburned face. His eyes glowed a little as they picked up the light from the computer screen, but didn't seem particularly piercing. There was something, though . . . something Beamon couldn't put his finger on. Something telling him that the bland aura emanating from the man had been carefully and purposefully crafted.
He finally looked up when Beamon was only a few feet away. "Nicolai. I was just rereading some information Joseph put together on you."
His upper-crust British accent seemed to be too careful for English to be his native language.
"Anything interesting?" Beamon said.
"Fascinating, really. You've had quite a career."
He stood and came around the desk. His gait was graceful and relaxed but didn't betray anything about the man. They shook hands and Volkov pointed to one of two chairs in front of his desk. Beamon sat.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
"Sure. Maybe a sparkling water?"
Volkov walked over to a small refrigerator against the wall and pulled out two. He poured them into heavy crystal glasses and handed one to Beamon before taking a seat in the chair next to him.
Beamon forced himself further into his Nicolai persona, using it to keep himself calm, to keep the rage and hate building inside him from surfacing.
This had to be the man--the son of a bitch who had casually given the order to extinguish Chet Michaels's life. Beamon was suddenly very aware of the .357 still holstered against the small of his back. He looked around, confirming at least the illusion that they were alone. If he pulled his gun, would he have time to get a shot off? Probably. Of course, he'd almost certainly be dead seconds later, but not before he got to watch this bastard's brain leak all over the tasteful stone floor.
No question, it was an option worth considering.
"I know we've never met," Volkov said, "but we had a common associate in South Africa. Carl Munchen." Beamon didn't react to the name, though it seemed to be a fairly bad sign that Munchen was connected with the man sitting in front of him. The FBI had credited Nicolai with his assassination.
"I'm really in your debt," Volkov continued. "I can't tell you how convenient Carl's death was to me."
"I've never been to South Africa," Beamon said honestly.
Volkov smiled and took a sip from his glass. "Of course. My mistake."
"I don't mean to be rude, but who are you and why am I here?"
"I'm sorry, I assumed Joseph had told you. I'm Christian Volkov."
Beamon kept his expression passive, giving away no indication of recognition, but also not admitting to being unfamiliar with the name.
The truth was, he'd never heard of Volkov. The FBI was aware that men like him existed, though--floating like ghosts from country to country with a handful of semi-legitimate passports and involving themselves in drugs, arms dealing, gambling, counterfeit goods, slavery, and many other "businesses."
The money and political power men like this controlled was staggering. But because of the carefully international nature of their crimes, they were virtually untouchable. America's own law enforcement agencies could barely stand each other. The idea of international coordination sophisticated enough to catch and prosecute someone like this was more or less a joke.
"And who are you?" Volkov asked. "Nicolai is just a name on an Interpol file."
"Call me Mark."
"I'm glad we could get together to talk, Mark." Beamon wondered if Volkov had gotten a dossier on Chet before he'd had him killed. If he knew that Chet had been only thirty-three. If he knew Chet's wife's name. If he knew that both of Chet's parents were still alive to attend their son's funeral.
Volkov crossed his legs, revealing work boots where Beamon would have expected a pair of two-thousand-dollar loafers. "I have to admit, Mark . . . I'm not sure I understand you."
"How so?"
"I've been asking myself why someone like you would get involved with Carlo Gasta. Why you would involve yourself in something so unpredictable and banal as the theft of a shipment of heroin?"
"Gasta owed me money. He killed a young FBI agent I had been cultivating."
Volkov frowned. "Chet Michaels. Yes. Unfortunate." Beamon had to struggle not to pull his gun out and blow the back of Volkov's smug head off. "If Gasta managed to succeed in getting ahold of the heroin, he'd have the money to pay me. He's fairly stupid, though, and it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to do it on his own. I didn't involve myself directly--just a bit of consulting."
"How much?"
"Consulting?"
"Money."
"Three million, U. S. But it was more the principle than the cash
."
Volkov put his empty glass down on a small table next to him, and Beamon couldn't help thinking about the fingerprints it contained. He already figured his chances of leaving there alive at less than fifty percent, though. With some of the guy's china in his pants, his chances would probably decline to around zero.
"And the entire operation was wonderfully successful," Volkov said. "Thanks, in part, to a number of attractive women taking their clothes off on critical thoroughfares. I assume that was your doing."
Beamon shrugged. "Apparently there was a leak somewhere. The police knew where the transaction was going to take place. If Gasta had been captured, I wouldn't get paid."
Volkov nodded thoughtfully but didn't speak. The silence wasn't overtly threatening, but after about a minute Beamon started wondering if he'd said something he shouldn't have.
"I have to say in all modesty that I don't make a habit out of being outsmarted," Volkov said, finally breaking the silence.
Beamon considered the seemingly out-of-place comment for a moment. "It was you," he said finally. "You leaked the location to the LAPD."
"And it was my expectation that Carlo Gasta would be arrested with a gun in his hand, surrounded by Afghan drug dealers and heroin. But because I underestimated him--and by that, I mean that he would be able to convince you to get involved--I've lost both him and the drugs." He paused for a moment. "Though I understand that the Afghans' bodies are now in the hands of the American authorities."
Beamon took a sip of his Perrier. "And you'd like me to tell you where Gasta is."
"Yes."
"I honestly don't know."
"And if you did?"
"I wouldn't tell you. First, if Gasta gets arrested, I don't get paid. Second, while he owes me two of the three million for the trouble he's caused me, the other million is payment for my involvement. Double-crossing an employer--even an idiot like Carlo Gasta--would be bad for my reputation."
Volkov leaned back in his chair, raising the front legs off the ground, but didn't say anything.
"May I ask why you're so interested in someone like Gasta? Why would you care about him one way or another?"