Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "Quite a mess, huh? From the top of the page to the bottom, it spans thirty years."

  "So the companies that gave birth to all this were incorporated in the seventies?"

  "Yup."

  "But it all must lead to someone; there has to be a starting point."

  "There were a couple of names on the original companies. I can guarantee you that they're either fictitious or long dead."

  "As usual, I find myself in complete disagreement with you," Beamon said.

  "That they're dead or fake names?"

  "No, that this is interesting. I mean, where does this get us?"

  "A little patience, Mark. I'm not to the good part yet. Flip the paper over."

  With some difficulty Beamon did as she said and found a similar though much shorter flowchart.

  "What you're looking at now is what you asked about--how you got paid your three million from Volkov. This little maze only goes back about fifteen years"

  "How do these shell corporations and banks connect to the ones related to Gasta?"

  "That's what's interesting: They don't. There are no overlapping organizations or owners at all."

  Beamon considered that for a moment. It proved nothing, but it did bring up some disturbing possibilities "What are you thinking, Mark?", "I don't know what to think."

  "How old do you figure Volkov is?"

  "That doesn't mean anything, Laura."

  "It's worth talking about, though. How old?"

  "Early forties"

  "So the network that paid Gasta was started when Volkov was what? Thirteenish?"

  "He could have built on a structure that he inherited from someone else. And he could have a hundred totally separate networks that he uses for different things. In fact, I'd expect it."

  She nodded. "But it's an interesting concept. We've been wondering why Volkov would suddenly turn on Gasta--his own man. But what if he didn't? What if Gasta isn't his guy? What if there's somebody else involved here?"

  "You tell me," Beamon said, holding up the paper in his hand. "Is there anything concrete here? Anything we can really use?"

  "Probably not," she admitted. "There's no starting or ending point. We're running all of these dummy corporations against other organized-crime investigations we've done, trying to get some point of reference--a real company or a person that's connected to them--but we haven't been able to get either."

  "Okay, let's change the subject, then. What about the house you found the rocket in?"

  "Nothing there, either. The guy that owns it never met the renters face-to-face. No prints that didn't belong to the guy we found there or the men Gasta killed. No calls have come in and no one has come anywhere near the house. Not that we really expected them to, since the Afghans Gasta killed are all over TV. I wish we could have kept it quiet--maybe the guy with the launcher would have just rolled up one day."

  A cell phone started ringing and Beamon cursed under his breath as he pulled three from his pocket. He finally figured out which one it was and picked up.

  "Yeah."

  "It's me."

  The voice belonged to a friend of his at the National Security Agency whom he'd called the night before.

  "I've got what you want," the man said quietly. Beamon had told him to keep the conversation fairly cloak-and-dagger and to expect payment for the service he was providing. He doubted that Volkov was listening, but if he was, having a contact at the NSA wouldn't hurt Nicolai's reputation any.

  "I've e-mailed you our analysis of General Yung and the situation in Laos, along with some stuff from the CIA. The data is sketchy and it's too early to come up with any hard conclusions about the stability of the region. But you have everything we have now."

  "Do you know how much support he's getting from the U. S.?"

  "We're being pretty noncommittal at this point, but word is we see him as an improvement over the old regime and we'd like to see him hold on."

  "Were you able to get anything personal? Anything like what we talked about?"

  "I think so. He's a car nut."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Subscribes to no less than five auto-buff magazines and must have gone through a hell of a lot of trouble to get them when he was living in the jungle with his opposition movement. People close to him say that if he isn't talking about politics, he's talking about cars."

  "Fine. I'll take a look at the data you sent tomorrow. Expect payment through the normal channel."

  There was a click on the phone when his friend hung up. "Who was that?" Laura said.

  "Friend of mine from NSA."

  "What are you doing with them?"

  "They're giving me what they have on Laos."

  "Laos? What, the coup there? Why do you care about that?"

  "Volkov called me last night and asked me to go over there and see if I can help him build a relationship with General Yung."

  "General Yung? Why didn't you tell me this?"

  "I just did."

  "You're not thinking about going, though, right? The guy's a psychopath. Have you been watching what's going on over there on TV?"

  Beamon shrugged. "I didn't say it was a good job. But it's the one he gave me. I don't see that I have much of a choice."

  "Of course you have a choice!"

  He ignored her and dialed a number into his phone. Surprisingly, Christian Volkov picked up personally.

  "Christian. It's Mark."

  "Is everything all right? You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

  "No, but I need something. I have information that General Yung is a fanatic about cars. I need something good to take along with me--like a Ferrari or something. Oh, and a cargo plane to fly it there."

  There was a brief silence over the phone that was impossible to read. Time to see if organized crime was as efficient as some people contended.

  "You know, Mark, I don't think there are very many paved roads there. And now, with all the bombing... Hang on. . . . Joseph! What was that elaborate four-wheel drive we rode in last time we were in Saudi Arabia? . . . Really? . . . Mark, Joseph says Lamborghini made a sport utility vehicle. I think that might be more appropriate." "Sounds good to me."

  "Joseph! I need one of those on a cargo plane tomorrow. It's going to go to Laos with Mark. . . . What? . . . Good question, hold on. Mark? Would he have a color preference?"

  "Uh, I have no idea."

  "Probably black," Volkov said. "Military dictators love black. Is there anything else?"

  "Yeah. I don't know anything about cars. Could you send me information on why this truck's so great--why it's better than others?"

  "Of course. Good-bye, Mark. I'll see you soon."

  "And that," Beamon said after hanging up, "is why we'll never stop organized crime."

  "Why?" Laura said.

  "How long do you think it would take me to get the FBI to put a Lamborghini on a cargo plane and fly it to Laos?" "Twenty years?"

  "Volkov's going to do it in twenty hours and he gave me a choice of color."

  "Please explain to me what you're doing here, Mark. You're not really going, right? You're just making him think you are."

  "No, I'm really going."

  "Think about this for a second," Laura said. "You're an FBI agent and you're going to negotiate on behalf of a major organized-crime figure with a foreign leader who the State Department is probably already talking to. I mean, I've told everyone at Headquarters who'll listen that you're responsible for finding the rocket, but that's only going to go so far. The Director's never going to authorize you to do this. Even if he wanted to, it would take six months for him to get permission."

  Beamon lit a cigarette. "I'm going to do what it takes to get Christian Volkov. And in the process I'm going to help you find your launcher. So, what are you worried about? Has it occurred to you that Laos is one of the major heroin producers in the world?"

  The silence in the car extended for more than ten minutes.

  "You're going too far," Laura
said finally. "You're leaving yourself no way out."

  "There's already no way out for me."

  Another long silence.

  "Mark. I'm asking you not to go."

  He turned toward her but couldn't read anything from her expression. She'd go along with him if he asked her to--he knew that. But by keeping her mouth shut on this, she'd end up getting crucified alongside him.

  "Tell you what, Laura. You tell the Director my plan. See if he goes for it."

  She turned toward him for a moment, an expression of relief and gratitude playing across her face. "Thank you, Mark."

  Chapter 42

  THE driver snaked the BMW through the small private airport, finally coming to a halt in a secluded back corner. Beamon leaned forward over the seats to get a better look at the blinding white of the jet parked on the tarmac in front of them. It was smaller and sleeker than the one he'd flown in to meet Volkov a few days earlier. How many of these things did the man have?

  "The pilot's already on board, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  Beamon hadn't brought much in the way of luggage: a laptop with a pair of underwear, a white dress shirt, and a toothbrush stuffed in the side pocket of the case. It was his sincere hope that his time on the ground in Laos would be measurable in hours and not days. Minutes would be even better.

  "That should do it, Charles," Beamon said, throwing the door open and stepping out into the scorching sun. The moment he did, a tinny version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" began to play in one of the pockets of his blazer.

  He had gone to an electronics store earlier that day and a rather enthusiastic young woman had helped him organize his growing collection of phones. The one the FBI had the number to got a faceplate that looked like a flag and the patriotic ring. Gasta's got green snakeskin and "Taps." Volkov's rated a slightly more attractive blue snakeskin and an ominous fugue. Finally, he'd added an expensive satellite phone to his arsenal. In the unlikely event that he could figure out the instruction manual, it was supposed to work anywhere in the world.

  He stopped halfway to the plane and turned his back to it as he flipped the red, white, and blue phone open. The BMW he'd arrived in was already disappearing around a hangar.

  "Hello."

  "How are things going?" Laura said.

  "I'm not bad, I suppose."

  "Were you able to get out of that trip to Laos like you thought?"

  Beamon was confused for a moment. He'd never said he thought he could get out of it, or even that he'd try. It suddenly occurred to him that she was signaling him. Someone else was on the line.

  "Didn't work out," he said. "I'm pretty much roped in at this point." For good measure he threw in "Sorry, I know you're against it."

  "Mark, I talked to the Director and he won't okay this trip. We just don't have the authority."

  "Well, I'll tell you, Laura, I'm not really in a position to turn back now."

  "Mark, I don't think you understand. The Director's giving you a direct order. You're not to go to Laos."

  Beamon sighed quietly. He'd known that this would be P. C.'s reaction. The only reason he'd had Laura ask was to get her off the hook. "Look, I gotta go, Laura. . . ." "Mark--"

  "Don't hang up this phone, Beamon!", He recognized the voice. The man himself.

  "I'm glad we could finally catch up, sir," Beamon lied. He turned in a slow circle to make sure no one was within earshot. The plane was the only thing within two hundred yards, and despite the open door, it looked deserted.

  "You will not go to Laos," Caroll said, dispensing with any pleasantries. "You're an employee of the United States government and are not going to negotiate with a foreign dignitary on behalf of organized crime. We're supporting this new regime and it would be a disaster if General Yung discovered that we sent an undercover FBI agent to talk to him."

  Beamon really didn't have time for this. There was undoubtedly a world-class lunch getting cold in the jet. "Like I said, I'm really not in a position to turn back, sir." "Well, then, put yourself in a position to turn back, goddamn it. We're risking an international incident!"

  "An international incident? With Laos?" Beamon said, feeling strangely bored by the conversation despite the fact that he knew he was about to finally, irretrievably, end his career. It felt like shooting a lame horse. "What are they going to do, sir? Spit at us from across the ocean? Besides, if you don't tell Yung, he'll never find out. And if he does, he'll get really angry and make an official statement which will be played once on the eleven o'clock news, right after a story about a yam that looks like Teddy Roosevelt."

  The silence over the phone suggested that the Director was uncharacteristically speechless. Unfortunately, it didn't last.

  "I want you to listen to me very carefully," Caroll said, enunciating with exaggerated clarity. "You are officially removed from this case. I expect you in my office tomorrow morning."

  Beamon looked down at the phone and, before he knew what he was doing, hung it up. It felt kind of . . . liberating. No need to worry about how he was going to weasel out of this thing anymore. Every bridge was now burning brightly behind him.

  "Hey, how you doing, Tegla?" Beamon said as he entered the plane. The now familiar dark face of his pilot peeked out from the cockpit.

  "Mark. It's nice to see you again."

  "Same here." He took a seat in a plush leather chair. It didn't look like this plane had a bed, but the chair was about as comfortable as they got.

  "If you're ready, we'll get under way," Tegla said, ducking out of the cockpit and closing the door in the side of the plane.

  "Sounds good."

  "Francois made you some more of those shrimp raviolis you like so much. I'll heat them up as soon as we're in the air."

  Beamon smiled. Man, how he loved those things. Ten or twenty would almost certainly be enough to make him forget his problems.

  "Oh, and Mark? You'll find some documents under your chair: Christian thought you'd like to review them en route."

  Beamon retrieved them and leafed through the well-organized folder, which contained, among other things, a brief history of Laos, recent newspaper articles, an up-to-date analysis of what he was getting himself into, and everything you ever wanted to know about Lamborghini four-wheel drives. All in all, it looked at least as thorough as the data he'd received from the NSA.

  What it didn't include, though, was a clear outline of exactly what it was he--Nicolai--was supposed to accomplish there. Of course, it didn't take a great deal of imagination to figure out. Laos had only one thing that would interest a man like Volkov. Heroin.

  Volkov was wondering if his relationship with the prior regime was going to come back to haunt him. Would Volkov's support for Yung's sworn enemy be held against him? Even if Yung was the forgive-and-forget type, it seemed likely that his first order of business would be to wipe the slate clean--to renegotiate his predecessor's arrangements.

  It seemed to Beamon that Volkov needed to know two things: First, had the region become so unstable that Yung couldn't reliably deliver product even if he wanted to? And second, was he considering hitching his wagon to someone else? Neither of these questions would be easy to answer in what would hopefully be an extremely short visit. But then, Volkov would certainly know that. So why this trip?

  The landing gear hitting the ground jolted Beamon awake and caused the Laotian history book he'd been reading to slide to the floor. After God knew how many shrimp raviolis and an amazing almond-encrusted salmon, keeping his eyes open had become absolutely impossible. "Are we there?"

  "No, Mark. We're switching planes."

  He looked out the window and into complete darkness. How she'd managed to hit the runway, he had no idea. Tegla gathered up the pieces of the file that Beamon had strewn around during the flight, and he watched her take the armload of documents to the shredder in the back of the plane.

  "Christian hates paper," she explained as she finished destroying the information, then hurried
back across the plane and opened the door in its side. Beamon grabbed his laptop and followed her outside into a rain so hot, it felt like a shower. He looked away from the plane as she closed the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. By the time she came alongside him, he could make out the large, curved shapes of the hangars in front of them.

  "This way," Tegla said, flipping an umbrella open and sharing it with him as they started toward a dead-looking cargo plane.

  "This part of the trip won't be quite as comfortable, but it won't be as long, either," she said as they entered the plane.

  It was basically hollow and completely empty except for a large sport utility vehicle tied down with what looked like a heavy net. Beamon examined the gleaming truck in the dim light while Tegla busied herself in the cockpit. He leaned close to the windshield, careful not to put a spot on it with his nose, and studied the leather and polished wood interior. Volkov didn't disappoint.

  The sound of the props started as a low rumble and turned deafening very quickly. Tegla reappeared for a moment and pointed to a jump seat, which Beamon strapped himself into.

  He finally noticed a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach when the plane began to taxi. The only thing certain about his trip to Laos was that he was completely on his own. The FBI sure as hell wasn't behind him, and the fact that Volkov needed to send him on this little errand suggested that his power base in Laos was pretty much nonexistent. Or maybe even worse than nonexistent: Maybe Yung was openly hostile. Was Volkov sending him into the lion's den, just to see what would happen? If Yung mailed Beamon back in numerous small boxes, Volkov would be able to safely assume that his relationship with Laos had soured.

  This time a jolt of adrenaline accompanied the impact of the landing gear and Beamon found himself wide-awake as Tegla wrestled the plane across a less than smooth runway. The light that was bleeding around the curtain leading to the cockpit didn't look completely artificial, so Beamon assumed it was daytime, though he had no way to confirm that. He felt his back pressed into his seat as the plane decelerated, and he gripped the armrests tightly until it finally came to a full stop.