by Kyle Mills
It didn't take long for the chaos to turn to order. Within two minutes the five men were lying on their stomachs, handcuffed, and the members of the SWAT team were sweeping the building. A few more minutes passed before Marsten's walkie-talkie came to life.
"We're clear in here, Troy. We've got five Caucasian males and one of 'em is Carlo Gasta. . . ."
A loud cheer went up in the room.
"We've also got a whole lot of something I'd bet is heroin."
Another cheer, augmented with a little backslapping. "All right," Marsten said. "Good job. Is it safe to let the vultures in?"
"Go ahead. We've got it under control."
"You heard him," Marsten said to the men surrounding him. "Let 'em out."
One of his men pulled the blankets off the windows and waved. Beamon and Laura watched as three television vans careened down the narrow road and skidded to a halt.
"Where were you keeping them?" Beamon asked as the cameramen set up their equipment and reporters messed with their hair.
"We had them penned up on the south perimeter." The activity level notched up again as the door to the warehouse opened and a stream of well-guarded wiseguys came pouring out. Gasta was last, straining against his handcuffs and the men holding him. The gold chains around his neck flashed in the sunlight when he tried to kick a reporter who got a microphone too close to him. It seemed that he'd temporarily forgotten his love affair with the media.
Beamon could see that he was shouting, but couldn't hear what. It didn't matter. All in all, it was the easiest three million dollars he'd ever earn.
Chapter 40
MARK Beamon had been impressing himself for the last ten minutes by managing to lie completely still in the middle of the large hotel bed without the aid of alcohol. Despite a bottle of champagne within easy reach, he was nearly completely sober. But it was starting to give him a headache.
The large television at the foot of the bed was replaying Carlo Gasta's capture for the fiftieth time. Leaked information on the van and heroin had led the media to begin speculating on a connection between Gasta and the excitement two nights before, allowing for some more gratuitous stripper footage. Beamon could almost feel the advertising rates going up. He figured he should be getting a piece of that action, but then remembered he'd already been more than fairly compensated.
The full-screen image of Gasta's enraged face faded and was replaced by a lively interview with a big-haired blonde in a rather small halter top, then, less interestingly, to the head of the LAPD. Finally it settled on the ever-present Charles Russell.
"I think we're sending a message that we aren't going to put up with this garbage." He was standing about halfway up a set of marble steps, framed dramatically by the Capitol. His suit, hair, and shirt were impeccable but his tie was slightly loose, hinting at the hard work he was doing for the American people.
"We have zero tolerance for organized crime and drugs, and you're starting to see the results of the initiatives of this administration. We are one hundred percent behind our law enforcement people and are doing everything possible to support them. It's that kind of partnership between Washington and the local agencies that produces results...."
Beamon grimaced and looked longingly at the bottle of champagne. He'd met Charles Russell no less than three times and could say with some certainty that he didn't know the meaning of the word partnership. He was the kind of politician who asked a question and then instantly glazed over if you gave him an answer he didn't want to hear. Russell's answer to everything was more jails, more cops, fewer rights, more things illegal. Punish, punish, punish.
"The capture of Carlo Gasta--one of the most powerful organized-crime figures in America, and perhaps the world--will be a major blow. . . ."
Beamon tuned him out and lit a cigarette. Honestly, he was probably being a little hard on Russell. Most politicians did everything for appearances, creating ineffective initiatives with no real goal other than more votes on Election Day. The ineffective policies Russell created were actually based on things he believed in. And while Beamon strongly disagreed with the theory that you could incarcerate and execute your problems away, he had to admit that Russell came off as fairly sincere in person. Crazy, megalomaniacal, and misguided--but sincere.
". . terrorism investigation, sir?"
Beamon caught the tail end of the reporter's question and returned his attention to the television.
"We have a coordinated effort between every law enforcement organization in America focused on finding these people, and I understand that the FBI is following substantial leads"
"Sir, there's speculation that--"
"I don't want to hear any more speculation," Russell responded angrily. "Unless you've got facts or sources who'll use their names, I've got no time for this...."
"Good for you," Beamon said, hitting the MUTE button and lying back on the bed. Russell hadn't mentioned Laura or the plan to set up an oversight committee to pick apart her investigation. In the end Beamon guessed that Russell's oversight idea was just saber rattling. If he got himself too personally involved, he'd set himself up to take the blame if a rocket attack ever came. No, he'd find some patriotic-sounding reason that adding yet another layer of oversight wouldn't work and then create a committee to Monday-morning-quarterback the investigation when it was over.
Beamon turned on his personal cell phone and checked for messages. Nothing. The Director's office seemed to have stopped calling. He guessed that P. C. was going ballistic at the Gasta tip going to the cops, but with one rocket to Beamon's credit, he would have to proceed carefully. And, as Laura had pointed out, that gave Beamon some time. But how much?
The truth was, there was no way to know. And what made that so maddening was the fact that there was nothing to do but wait for Laura to turn up something he could work with, or for Volkov to contact him again. He concentrated on the launcher, trying to come up with an angle that Laura hadn't already thoroughly attacked, but his brain was pretty much broken down at this point.
The most productive thing he could do was get some sleep. With a little luck he'd doze off with a cigarette in his hand and burn the hotel down with him in it.
Beamon closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He thought about Chet, picturing his bright-red hair and those stupid-looking freckles across his nose. He remembered first meeting him in Flagstaff--an impossibly young and ridiculously overeager first-office agent. But he'd had what it took to do something in the Bureau. He'd been smart, honorable, hardworking...
Beamon squeezed his eyes shut a little tighter and pushed the memory away. He'd have plenty of time to think about Chet. More time than he'd want. Not now, though. He only had a few days at best before the Director discovered the truth about his involvement in the death of those Afghans. The question he had to answer was: What was he going to do with that time?
First, get some sleep. He knew from experience that it would be a waste of time to try to think even moderately deep thoughts when he was this tired. He stubbed out his cigarette and flicked off the light, promising himself that he'd figure it all out in the morning.
Beamon awoke suddenly, confused and groggy. The television was still silently covering the Gasta story and the room was still nearly dark.
"Hello?"
The only answer was a ringing cell phone overpowering the ringing in his ears. All three phones were on the night-stand, and he had to fumble through them to figure out which it was.
"Yeah," he said noncommittally. They all looked pretty much alike and he wasn't sure who he was supposed to be when he answered anymore.
"Mark. I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
Beamon shook his head violently and looked at the clock. He'd been asleep for almost ten hours. The heavy hotel curtains were keeping the daylight out.
"Still nursing a case of jet lag."
"Have you tried melatonin?" Volkov said. "There's some on the plane. I should have told you."
"That's okay. I'm f
ine actually. Just needed to catch up a little."
"Are you watching television?"
"Yeah. It's playing The Carlo Gasta Show. You move fast."
"We don't have a problem, do we?"
"I told him I'd help him with the Afghans. I did and I've been paid. No problems."
"That's a very enlightened attitude. 'Rirn to CNN for a moment."
Beamon grabbed the remote and began flipping through channels until he found it. He'd expected a bunch of alarmist crap about terrorism or another angle on Gasta's arrest, but found a story on the recent coup in Laos instead. He turned the sound back on and listened to the description of General Yung's desperate takeover from the Communist government. It was a strange juxtaposition: politically sympathetic narrative over brutal images of jungle fighting, explosions, and lines of small, thin men with their arms tied behind them being run up muddy roads.
"Pol Pot reincarnated," Beamon said finally.
"Yes, they're all the same. One general replaces another, one president replaces another. A burst of violence that briefly attracts the attention of the world and then the less media-friendly strangulation of the country's population." "What's this have to do with me?"
"I had a very profitable relationship with General Yung's predecessor. Wait a moment . . . wait . . . there! You can see him in the right-hand corner of the screen."
The camera had panned quickly over a smoking tree-line, and for a brief moment a group of bamboo pikes topped with human heads was framed in the picture.
"Looks like you've had a little setback," Beamon said, lighting a cigarette and listening to the narrator discuss the former government's involvement in heroin trafficking. Funny how that subject kept coming up.
"That kind of thing really upsets me," Volkov said. "Beheadings?"
"No--sensationalist, irresponsible reporting."
"I don't follow you."
"All this talk about government corruption--as though all governments aren't corrupt. And then they have the gall to deride the former president as a Communist and in the same breath involve him in narcotics."
"I guess I see your point," Beamon said. "Drug trafficking does seem to be pretty firmly in the free enterprise camp."
"The truth is, he was a brutal dictator who nationalized companies not for philosophical reasons but so he could bleed them into his Swiss bank account--the actions of a capitalist with real conviction, as far as I'm concerned. But in some ways he was anti-American, and that leaves only two categories in which to put him: Communist or Muslim. And he since he was Buddhist .. ."
Beamon had never met an international crime lord before but had to admit that Volkov wasn't what he'd pictured. The man was kind of . . . chatty.
"In any event, Mark, I need to negotiate a relationship with General Yung, and I thought you might be interested in being my representative."
"Excuse me?"
"Laos has products that I'm interested in,,and a friendly government is always helpful. I'd like you to go to Laos and talk to the general on my behalf."
Beamon looked up at the screen again and watched people fleeing a burning village while being shot at from the trees.
"You know, Christian, I have to tell you . . . it looks kind of unpleasant there."
"Media hype," Volkov replied dismissively. "I'm not asking you to fight the war. Just to open a dialog."
"I don't know. I might not be a great choice. I've never gotten a handle on the Asians. Their motivations have always seemed kind of murky to me."
"Really? If I had my way, I'd deal with them exclusively. Oh, not the politicians, of course. Never the politicians. But their businessmen. For thousands of years the Chinese government has hated merchants--put them in the same category as criminals. If you were a Chinese entrepreneur, you never knew when the government would suddenly decide to send someone to execute you, or imprison you, or banish you--though often it had a great deal to do with how much money various government officials owed you. And when the businessmen and traders ran from that persecution, they spread across the Pacific Rim, creating some of history's greatest centers of commerce. To them all business is illegal--selling cars is no more or less dangerous or immoral than selling drugs. Keeping a--I think you Americans would say low profile'--is a matter of life or death." "The Jews of the East," Beamon said, quoting a book he'd read while getting what, until now, had been a completely useless history degree at Yale.
"Precisely. Industrious people consistently persecuted. The problem with what most people call 'organized crime' in the West is the low class of people involved. America is by far the best example of this. It's the land of opportunity. Anyone with intelligence and drive can make a wonderful life for himself in a career more palatable to polite society. People who choose the underworld in the U. S. tend to be the ones who couldn't compete above."
"Like Carlo Gasta."
"Exactly. In Thailand, or Laos for that matter, a man like Carlo Gasta would have never risen to a position of responsibility."
"You're quite a salesman, Christian. An exotic locale, umbrella drinks, a chance to bone up on my Southeast Asian history. It sounds like I should be paying you." Volkov laughed. "So you're interested?"
Actually, he could think of very few things he wanted to do less than put himself in the middle of a brutal civil war on the other side of the world. But he suspected that if he turned Volkov down here, he'd never hear from the man again. And if that happened, his chances of putting a bullet hole in him someday would decline to about zero.
"Money?"
"We're talking about a diplomatic call here, Mark. All jokes aside, I'm guessing you'll be well fed and drink some wine. I don't think this is a particularly high-dollar job." "Christian, please. There's a shooting war going on over there and no one seems to know exactly how it's going to turn out. I'd hate to see my head on a piece of bamboo." "We'll come to a number when you get back, based on how difficult the job turned out to be. Suitable?"
Beamon's impression was that he had to worry much more about Volkov killing him than quibbling over payment. "Fine."
"Wonderful. I'll send some preliminary intelligence to your e-mail address and have the rest for you on the plane." There was a short pause. "I'm glad you've agreed to go."
"Do you mind telling me what it is exactly you're after?" "I want to know if you think the general will be able to create stability in his country and if he's hostile to me and my organization."
"And if you don't like the answers I come up with?" "Then we'll discuss what you would charge to help me solve that problem."
Beamon nodded into the phone. This week he'd already helped an infamous Mob boss kill a bunch of heroin traffickers and now he was plotting the assassination of a foreign head of state. Maybe next week he could find time to start World War Three.
Chapter 41
"IS Gasta talking?"
The car was moving lazily along the maze of rural roads outside L. A. Beamon glanced back again but saw only darkness. Still not sure how Christian Volkov had managed to find him the first time, he had let his paranoia run free in ensuring they weren't being followed. If Volkov ever put him together with Laura, it seemed likely that his lifespan would be significantly shortened. "He talks a lot but he doesn't say anything," Laura replied. "We're pressuring him with the disappearance of Chet, but he isn't going to admit anything about that. He doesn't know about you and we can't tell him without blowing your cover. At this point the LAPD has him dead to rights on the drug charge and they're working to firm up the case against him for the execution of the Afghans. In the end, though, it will be interesting to see how that plays with a jury: LOCAL MOB ANTIHERO KILLS AFGHAN TERRORISTS." "Is he trying to deal?"
"He's playing it cool and his people aren't saying anything at all--they're trusting Gasta to make a deal for them all. The New York families are nervous enough about what Gasta knows to have coughed up some serious money for his legal team, and they can obviously smell something. When it comes out that thes
e Afghans had a rocket, the price of what Gasta knows about them is going to go through the roof"
"Don't buy it. He told me everything he knows already and it wasn't much."
"I'm not sure I have anything to buy it with. The LAPD isn't going to be anxious to deal away their collar, and we can't go after him for Chet's death because of your position. At this point I just want to keep him isolated enough that he can't shoot his mouth off and somehow screw up my investigation."
"How do you plan to do that?"
"I've convinced everybody involved that it makes sense to move him out of L. A. to the middle of Nowhere, West Virginia. We're saying it's for his protection, but really it's just to put some distance between him, the press, and his lawyer. I had to make a lot of promises to even get that, though."
"What did you find out about Volkov's bank that wired me the three mil?"
"A maze of offshore accounts that leads nowhere." "Big surprise. Great."
"There was one interesting thing, though." She reached behind her into the backseat, feeling around until she found a large roll of paper. "Take a look at this."
Beamon pulled the rubber band off it and flipped the dash light on. It turned out to be an unmanageable four feet long, covered with what looked like an impossibly complex flowchart.
"I had a team of our accountants put this together. What you're looking at is a graphical representation of the organizations involved in sending money to and receiving money from Carlo Gasta. At the top there you'll find three shell companies that had direct contact with Gasta in one way or another."
"Who owns those companies?"
"That's what the rest of that stuff is. They're all offshore corporations chartered in countries that allow corporations as opposed to individuals to be owners. Basically little islands that create laws to cater to money laundering." "Christ," Beamon said, running down the hundred or so companies and the lines and arrows connecting them. Laura was a whiz at this kind of crap but it didn't mean much to him. He'd never succeeded in getting his mind to wrap around this level of detail.