by Kyle Mills
"He's become unstable, unreliable. Wait . . . a burr under my saddle. Is that right?"
Beamon nodded.
"On the street he's become a liability. In the court system he could become an asset, if you understand me." Unfortunately, Beamon understood perfectly. "Criminal Darwinism."
"Excuse me?"
"Criminal Darwinism," Beamon repeated. "If you think about it, the police are the natural predators of criminals. And, like all predators, they generally take only the weak and stupid. In the end, all they succeed in doing is culling the herd, making the whole stronger. And smart criminal organizations will take it one step further--purposely giving up people who are causing problems to further their own purposes and to appease law enforcement officials and politicians."
"Criminal Darwinism," Volkov repeated. "May I use that? I've never heard it expressed so eloquently."
"Be my guest," Beamon said, taking another sip of his water. He wanted a cigarette something awful, but guessed that this guy was one of those assholes who didn't allow smoking in his house. Yet another reason to want him dead. "I have to wonder, Christian: Why is it you're being so open with me?"
"You seem trustworthy."
"Should I translate that as I'm never going to leave here alive?"
"I'm many things, but I am not a ... a . . . sore loser."
It suddenly occurred to Beamon that it really wouldn't matter if "Nicolai" talked. The FBI, the cops, the politicians--they all wanted Gasta so bad they could taste it. The fact that his arrest was convenient for an international crime lord was neither here nor there. Like Laura said: What were they going to do--tell the press that Carlo Gasta was just some small-time crook and that the man in power was out of America's reach?
"Having said that," Volkov continued, "it is my intention to see Gasta in jail. Can I count on you to not interfere?" "You have me at a disadvantage."
"It isn't my intention to threaten you."
"Well, then, I have to say that I want my money and your plan doesn't work for me. I mean, I wish you well, but in this case our interests seem to conflict."
"I understand." Volkov stood and walked to his desk, pushing the intercom button on his phone. "Joseph, could you come in here for a moment, please?"
Beamon adjusted himself in his chair and moved his hand subtly closer to his gun. He was probably going down, but not before he did everything in his power to make sure Christian Volkov preceded him.
Joseph appeared a moment later, looking about as threatening as kitten. "What can I do for you, Christian?" "We have Nicolai's bank account number, don't we?" Joseph looked at Beamon and recited the one Laura had given him when they'd put his cover together.
"Is that correct?" Volkov asked.
Beamon hadn't actually memorized it but felt depressingly confident in the competence of Volkov's organization. He nodded.
"Joseph, please wire three million dollars into that account as soon as the banks open."
Joseph nodded and disappeared again through the door. Beamon wasn't sure exactly what had just happened, but when Volkov stretched his hand out, he stood and took it.
"It's my understanding that your obligations to Carlo Gasta are finished and that now the money isn't an issue. Have we reached an understanding?"
"I guess we have."
Volkov put a hand on Beamon's back and walked him to the door. "Joseph will take you back to my plane. We'll have you on the ground in L. A. in a few hours."
Beamon passed through the door . But then stopped and turned around. "Oh, Christian. Those raviolis with the green sauce . . . Give your chef my compliments."
Volkov's smile seemed strangely genuine. "Francois has been perfecting that recipe for years. He'll be very happy to hear you enjoyed it."
Beamon followed Joseph back outside and climbed into the Expedition again. He intended to do everything in his power to see Christian Volkov dead. But he'd spare the chef if at all possible.
Beamon glanced at his watch. They'd been in the air for almost two hours and he still hadn't been thrown out the window. He looked around him again, though for no particular reason. The plane was pretty much empty. It was just him, the less-than-dangerous-looking female pilot, and a handful of really good puff pastries.
He popped another in his mouth and thought about what had just happened. It was almost certain that he had just sipped Perrier with the man he was looking for--the man ultimately responsible for Chet's death. And on the surface that seemed like a step in the right direction. But was it really? What did he really have that he hadn't had yesterday? A description of a medium-sized man of unknown nationality, with medium-length brown hair, almost certainly living somewhere on the planet Earth.
The worst part, though, was that their business together appeared to have been concluded. It seemed highly unlikely that the paths of Nicolai and Christian Volkov would ever cross again. The question was, what could he do about that?
He could hijack the plane, fill it with an FBI SWAT team, and force the pilot to take him back. But Volkov would see that coming a mile away. Besides, what was the likelihood he was anywhere the FBI could operate, anyway?
Assuming that Volkov actually wired him the three million--and Beamon had a strange feeling he would--the FBI could try to trace the money back. Another waste of time. If there was one thing organized-crime lords could do, it was make money materialize out of the ether.
He could track down Gasta and sweat him for information on Volkov. But what were the chances Gasta had ever even seen this guy? Based on Chet's description of the man he and Gasta had met, it was one of Volkov's people and not the man himself.
His last, and equally bad, idea was to save Gasta from the cops again and see if he could make Volkov angry. An action that would almost certainly get him summarily executed.
"Fuck!"
A moment later the pilot appeared from the cockpit. "Did you need something, sir?"
Beamon twisted his face into a polite smile. "I sneezed." "God bless you."
Chapter 37
MARK Beamon couldn't even seem to muster the energy to yawn. The memory of the last time he'd slept was starting to get fuzzy, as was his ability to think coherently. He'd gone so far as to stretch out on the bed in the back of Volkov's jet, but that nagging feeling that Wolfgang was going to jump out of a utility hatch and slit his throat had kept his eyes from closing. All in all, it had been a long flight.
He slumped over in the backseat of the car and leaned against the window. It took a few moments for him to realize that he had no idea where they were. He wasn't all that familiar with L. A., but he'd swear he'd never seen this part of town before. A jolt of adrenaline partially pulled him from his stupor and he reached behind him, once again wrapping his hand around the butt of his gun.
"Are you sure you know where you're going?" he said to the back of the driver's head.
"Yes, sir. In fact, we're here."
The Mercedes turned and glided to a stop in the courtyard of an elegant-looking hotel.
"This isn't where I'm staying," Beamon said.
"I believe it is, sir. Room 305."
Beamon didn't move for a moment but then decided to just go with the flow. He jumped out of the car and entered the hotel, striding purposefully toward the clerk manning the front desk. The lobby was otherwise empty. Business and vacation travel had more or less ground to a halt since the launcher photograph had appeared.
"Hi. I'm in, uh, Room 305."
"Of course, sir. Welcome." The man handed him a card key. "I've been instructed to tell you that all of your expenses are being taken care of by your employer. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for you."
A thin smile spread across Beamon's face as he turned and started for the elevator. Volkov obviously wasn't finished with him. And that meant he had another shot.
The room turned out to be enormous--a two-bedroom suite with a large balcony overlooking a garden. Fresh flowers were everywhere, and a bottle of champagne
was accompanied by a personal note from the hotel manager that included his home number should any problems arise that couldn't be solved by his staff Even more interesting was a box about six inches square topped with an elegant bow. A bomb? No, too melodramatic: Volkov had his chance and passed it up. Beamon opened it and found another cell phone to add to his growing collection. A sticky note on top of it read: You might find this profitable.
What few possessions he'd had at his other hotel were arranged neatly in one of the bedrooms, along with an elaborate assortment of sweets on a heavy silver platter. Beamon sat down on the bed and grabbed a fork, turning his personal cell phone on and retrieving his messages as he attacked a piece of fresh cheesecake. An impressive five from the Director's secretary, each with increasing urgency. The last one was from Laura. He checked the phone Gasta had the number to next. Nothing.
Sighing quietly, he dialed Laura.
"Hello?"
"Did you miss me?", "Mark! Where have you been?"
"I honestly have no idea."
"We've got to meet."
It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know where his rental car was. Still confident in Volkov's efficiency, he took a quick look around and found the keys next to a note giving the car's location in the hotel's parking lot.
"Just us again, right?" "Yeah, just us."
"What are you still doing here?" Beamon said, sliding into the booth across from Laura. Her hair had pulled itself partially from the band tying it back, and individual blond strands were floating around in the breeze created by an overhead fan. Dark circles had painted themselves beneath her eyes, and a tall glass of milk sat in front of her on the table. Despite his own situation, he couldn't help feeling a pang of concern. Her pieces usually fit together so tightly.
"Looking for you."
"Why? I delivered Afghans. I don't think I can help you anymore."
"Maybe I was just worried about you. After we talked you just disappeared again. I thought something might have happened to you."
A man appeared and slid a beer onto the table. "On me--for having the guts to leave your house."
Beamon guessed he was the empty diner's owner by the bitterness in his voice.
"Thanks."
"So? Did something happen to you?" Laura said when the man retreated out of earshot.
Beamon shook his head. "What's going on, Laura? You look like you're on your last leg."
She pushed her glass of milk around on the table with her index finger. "You were right."
"About what?"
"Have you been watching the news?"
"No."
"It's all turning against me, Mark. I haven't found the launcher and I haven't found the people responsible for it being here. The pressure's getting worse, and it goes all the way up. The President and Charles Russell are pushing to create yet another oversight committee--this one just to look over my shoulder. So I'm going to end up with a bunch of thirty-year-old Ivy Leaguers second-guessing everything I do and trying to make themselves look good at my expense."
"Don't take this so personally, Laura. Politicians have always had a love-hate relationship with the Bureau. Every time they want to take a bribe or chase a skirt, they have to wonder if we're taping it. Now they get their revenge. It's not you."
She just kept playing with her glass of milk. "You know, I kind of always wanted to be you. I wanted to be the person everyone called when things got really tough. The kind of person who'd do what had to be done. . . ."
"How do you like it?"
"It's more than I bargained for. Knowing that a rocket could come out of nowhere at any minute and hit anything. And that if it does, it's my fault."
He wanted to tell her that it wouldn't be her fault--that it would be the fault of the assholes who actually fired the rocket. But people had been telling him similar things for years, and it never helped. The buck had to stop somewhere.
"How did you handle it, Mark?"
He opened the can of beer and took a swig. "I drink, remember?"
When she looked up at him, he swore that her eyes looked a little wet.
"There's more," he said. "What is it?"
She wiped at her eyes, confirming his suspicion. "The press . . . they're starting to turn on me, too . . . starting to say that I don't have what it takes to be in charge. . . ." She pulled out a roll of 'Mims and offered him one. He shook his head.
"Are you getting anywhere, Laura?"
She shook her head. "Everything I've done has been a waste of time. We're pretty sure that the rocket and launcher were manufactured somewhere in the former Soviet Union. Guess where that piece of detective work got me."
"Knowing the Russians as I do, I'd say nowhere." "Exactly right. We're following up on your drug angle, trying to make deals with some of the big traffickers to see if they know anything about how a rocket launcher might have been smuggled into the States and who might be involved. Guess where that's getting me."
"Knowing drug traffickers as I do, I'd say nowhere." "Right again. We're still tracking sales and rentals of trucks big enough to haul this thing--unfortunately, they don't have to be all that big--and have local cops looking for them on the roads. Know where that's getting me?" "Just a guess here. Nowhere?"
"Worse! I've got people chucking the Bill of Rights right out the window! Yesterday some cops about a hundred miles from here had a kid in a U-Haul facedown on the road with a gun in the back of his head. He was a surfer and had a good tan. They thought he might be Arab."
"Lovely."
"And finally, I've got a bunch of politicians wanting me to point my finger so they can start lobbing cruise missiles--but there's nowhere to target anymore. They're putting a lot of pressure on me to say Sudan or whatever so that they can look like they're hitting back. You know where that's going to get me?"
"Feeling responsible for the deaths of thousands of dirt-poor Sudanese women and children who had nothing to do with any of this?"
"Goddamn right!" she nearly shouted..
Beamon reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Laura, you're going to have to calm down or you're going to die. I'm serious."
"How can I calm down? I am a complete failure! The only decent leads I have came from you. And it's not even your case." She popped another Timis and began chewing violently.
"It could be worse."
"How?"
"You could be me."
She looked up at him. "The Director said that the only reason he'd accept for you not returning his calls was that you were dead."
"Still wanting Gasta, is he?"
Laura just raised her eyebrows.
He wondered how much he should tell her. It was possible that the information he had could help, but it also had the potential to blow up in their faces.
"An interesting thing happened to me, Laura. I was walking around after we talked last night, and some German guy comes up to me--to Nicolai--and tells me his boss wants to meet me. Next thing I know, I'm on a very nice jet for about twelve hours. When I get off I'm God knows-where and I meet this guy named Christian Volkov. . . ."
Laura pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. "You know how to spell that?"
"He didn't say. Do your best and run it though the computers. You should call Jonathan Drake at the CIA, too, and see if he can turn up anything."
She nodded. "What did he want?"
Beamon leaned back in the booth but didn't answer. "Mark, what did he want?"
"He just seemed to want to talk about some of the things I'd done, to size me up. I couldn't figure it out, but when I got back, he'd moved me to a nice hotel and put me up in a suite. I think he's courting me as a potential employee. It was an interview."
Keeping secrets from her was harder than he thought it would be.
"So you think he's the one who Chet met with? The one behind Gasta?"
"Him or one of his people. Probably ... maybe."
She looked at him searchingly for a moment. "Are you holding ou
t on me, Mark?"
"Yes."
"You don't think you can trust me?"
"I'm absolutely certain I can trust you--you've already started lying to the Director to try to protect me. I don't want you to go down with me, Laura."
"I want the information, Mark. Then you and I can decide what to do with it. But I want everything."
"Honestly, Laura, I doubt this guy has much to do with your problem."
"But are you sure?"
"No."
"Could he be involved in terrorism?"
"Directly? I doubt it. Volkov's a businessman. Besides, this is a guy who seems to really cherish his anonymity. Terrorism is high profile and a money-losing proposition any way you look at it."
"So you think he has no connection to this?"
"I didn't say that. If he's behind Gasta, then he's involved with Afghan heroin on some level. If we're right and Mustafa Yasin is trying to get control of the heroin trade in the Golden Crescent, maybe Volkov is backing him. Or maybe he's backing the other side. I honestly don't know."
"But either way, he might have information on where the launcher came from and where it is now."
"It's possible. He strikes me as a guy with a lot of information."
"What else?"
"You're sure you want to hear all this?"
"I'm sure."
"He's the one who called in the tip to the cops. The real reason he wanted to talk to me was because I interfered by helping Gasta get away. He paid me three mil not to get in the way next time."
"Dollars? Three million dollars?"
"I'm guessing it's already in my account. I think he wants Gasta in custody so he can roll over on some people Volkov has no use for anymore."
"It's like that depressing theory of criminal Darwinism you have."
"I thought you never listened to my theories."
"I'm not sure I understand, Mark. If it's true that he wanted Gasta arrested, why tell him to execute the Afghans? The cops would move in before it happened or would start a shooting match that Gasta would probably get killed in. A dead Carlo Gasta couldn't roll over on inconvenient people. It seems that this Volkov was leaving a lot to chance."