by Kyle Mills
Beamon started coughing and for a moment looked as though he was going to throw up.
"You okay, Mark?"
"Yeah," he said after he'd caught his breath. "Fine." "So do we have a deal?"
Chapter 45
ONE thing about being high-class criminal talent--you ended up spending way too much time in helicopters. Beamon glanced down at the top of the rolling carpet of alpine grass and stunted trees, and then at the expanse of blue water still miles away. It was a beautiful view--the day was nearly perfect: sunny, warm, and mercifully calm. Despite the conditions and the skill of the pilot, though, his stomach was on the verge of rebellion.
He'd stayed on for another half a day in Laos to give himself time to have one more polite but ultimately inconclusive discussion with General Yung. After that he'd been whisked back to his plane with effusive well-wishing aimed both at himself and Christian Volkov.
Five hours of sleep en route and the horse pills provided by Yung's doctor had brought him back from what felt like the brink of death to about ten feet from the brink of death. Another few days and he hoped to be back to his normal state of poor health.
Beamon leaned forward, careful not to upset the delicate balance that was keeping the dry heaves at bay, and searched the deep blue sky. Did the CIA have a plane up there, just out of sight? Was Jonathan Drake watching him via satellite? And most important, how did he feel about his new position as CIA stooge?
Honestly, he didn't much like Drake and had always felt a little like the mongoose to the CIA's snake. Probably not a fair evaluation of the Agency, but he just couldn't help himself--their motivations and results had always been hopelessly murky, and now, with the implosion of the Soviet Union and their proven ineffectiveness in the Middle East, their place in the world was even more confused. In this particular case, though, motivations were more or less irrelevant. He and Drake seemed to want the same thing: Christian Volkov's head on a platter.
Besides, it was hard to be morally indignant when he was more or less officially employed by organized crime. And as much as he hated to admit it, it felt good to have somebody behind him. Even if it was the Agency.
The helicopter began to lose altitude as the land below them disappeared into what looked like an inland sea. The pilot adjusted their trajectory a bit, aiming at a small white speck miles away. As they got closer the speck turned into a boat and then the boat into a yacht and then the yacht into what could only be described as a ship. Beamon looked down at it as they circled and examined the long, graceful lines of the gleaming hull. Based on the scale provided by the people on deck, his best guess at length was two hundred and fifty feet.
They touched down on the bow and Beamon jumped out, running beneath the downdraft toward a man dressed in the white shorts and shirt of a crewman.
"If you could follow me, sir."
Beamon trailed the man along the walkway, glancing up again at the sky and hoping again that someone was watching.
"Mark!"
Christian Volkov broke off from the men he was talking to and strode toward him, drink in hand. He gave Beamon's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "How are you? Are you feeling better?"
He'd obviously heard about his negotiator's less-than dignified performance in Laos. "A lot better, thank you, Christian."
"There are some people I'd like you to meet. Do you feel up to it?"
"Sure."
Volkov put a hand on his back and led him across the broad stern, where no less than ten people were standing around, talking and drinking. The pattern was fairly simple: The men were all middle-aged Asians and the women, with one exception, were all tall, mid-twenties, blond and barely dressed. Obviously, Volkov knew how to throw a party.
"This is Mark--the man I was telling you about." Beamon shook hands with two as yet unidentified men, one of whom said something in what sounded like Chinese. When Volkov laughed politely, Beamon was suddenly overcome by a sense of how sick, slow, and stupid he felt. The son of a bitch spoke Chinese.
"He says that you look like you've been drinking General Yung's, uh, would the expression be 'home brew'?" "Yes, it would," Beamon said. "And he's exactly right. Refusing to have a drink with the general struck me as rude." They all laughed again, and the man on the right spoke to Volkov in more than respectable English. "Your associate is very wise, Christian. Best not to insult the general." "Excuse me, gentlemen." The voice was youthful and feminine, with an upper-crust British accent.
Beamon turned and found its source to be the one exception to the herd of blondes roaming the deck, grazing hors d'oeuvres. Like the others, she was tall, twenty-something, and gorgeous, but her hair was a deep, shiny brown and her eyes were almost black. Her skin was also fairly dark--probably half from the sun and half from her parents. Whatever had created the color, it looked exactly right against her pale pink bikini. Perhaps Volkov didn't share his Asian friends' penchant for the California ideal.
"Mark, I don't think you've met Elizabeth."
"I don't think I have. Hello, Elizabeth."
She smiled beautifully. "Can I get you a drink, Mark?" "Just a water, please."
"Fizzy or regular?"
"With Alka-Seltzer, if possible. So, fizzy, I guess." Another dazzling smile and she was off to the bar. "Why don't I have my doctor fly in, Mark. He can have a look at you."
Beamon shook his head. "I got some pills in Laos. I'll be fine."
To Volkov's credit he looked genuinely concerned. "How did you find the general, Mark?" one of the men he'd just met piped in.
Beamon had no idea who these two Asians were. If he had to bet, he'd say one was from Thailand and the other from Myanmar--the other two corners of the Golden Triangle. Since their Lao counterpart's head was currently topping a pike outside of Luang Prabang, they undoubtedly wanted to know if General Yung would complete their little triad again. Unfortunately, Beamon had no idea what they knew or how much to say. He glanced over at Volkov but couldn't read anything from his expression. A test.
"He has a wonderful sense of hospitality," Beamon said. "But next time I think I'll stick to bourbon."
"Is he in control?"
"I didn't have time to investigate that fully. Obviously, I saw what he wanted me to see. He gives every appearance of consolidating his power, though there is resistance. How organized it is, I can't say for certain."
Being a criminal was turning out to be a lot like being a politician. Talk a lot but don't say anything.
Another woman glided up to them, ignoring Beamon and sliding an arm around one of the Asians' waists. It was kind of an odd sight: her glistening, six-foot body pressed against the five-foot-six, pudgy, middle-aged man. Not surprisingly, he didn't seem to be overly upset by the interruption.
"All you do is talk about business," she said with a pout that briefly blotted out the sun. "The food is getting cold." The man smiled. "You're right. We've been unforgivably rude. Perhaps we can talk later, Mark?"
"I look forward to it," Beamon said as the two men allowed themselves to be led to greener pastures.
"Are you sure you're all right, Mark?" Volkov asked again. "My doctor can be here in a few hours."
"I just need some rest and I'll be good as new."
Volkov looked past him. "Elizabeth, could you take Mark to his cabin, please?"
She handed Beamon a tall glass and he took a sip of the cold, fizzy liquid. For the thousandth time in his life, he said a quick, silent prayer for the souls of the brilliant men who had invented Alka-Seltzer.
"Sure. It's this way, Mark."
"Maybe we can get together tomorrow morning," Volkov said as Beamon was led away.
"Sure, Christian. Whatever works for you."
"Here you are, Mark."
The room was enormous and richly decorated in cheerful colors and polished brass. It kind of reminded him of the hotel suite Volkov had put him up in except for the three large portals looking out on the water.
"Thanks, Elizabeth," he said, tossing his lapt
op on the bed and eyeing the white marble shower through the bathroom door.
"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? Believe it or not, I actually took a massage class at university." Somehow he did believe it. That was the other thing about being a criminal--women seemed to love them. It must be the sense of danger, the rebel ideal. Helicopters, cash, and beautiful young women. At least at this level it looked like crime did pay.
For a moment he actually considered her offer. His introduction to Laotian moonshine had left his body feeling like the good general had run him over with that new Lamborghini. What he didn't need, though, was Jonathan Drake pulling up in a battleship, only to find some bikini-clad twenty-something sitting in the small of his back. The story would undoubtedly somehow make its way back to Carrie.
"You know, I think I'm just going to take a shower and crawl in bed."
"You're sure there's nothing I can do?"
"Hit me over the head with a monkey wrench."
She looked down at her nearly naked body. "Now, where would I keep a monkey wrench?"
"Then, I guess that's it."
"My number is on the phone directory next to the bed," she said, turning and walking back out into the hall, or whatever you called them on boats. "Ring me if you need anything."
Beamon decided to skip the shower and just flopped on the bed fully clothed. The events of the past weeks had become an unfathomable tangle at this point. And worse, doubts were beginning to creep into his mind, amplifying his headache.
He closed his eyes, considered setting the alarm, but decided against it. With a little luck he'd wake to the sound of machine-gun fire and the sight of Christian Volkov with some CIA guy's gun in his mouth. Then he wouldn't have to think about any of this anymore. It was just getting too complicated.
Chapter 46
A BURST of sharp, loud noises brought Mark Beamon back to consciousness and he rolled over in the luxurious bed. Gunfire? He smiled and moved his arm to shade his eyes from the powerful sunlight beaming through the portals behind him. Had the CIA finally decided to get off their asses and make an appearance?
The sound came again and Beamon's smile faded. "Come in," he yelled, propping some pillows behind him.
He didn't recognize the man Elizabeth ushered through the door, but based on the black leather bag in his hand, he could guess.
"Mark, this is Samuel Magnussen--Christian's doctor." "Nice to meet you," Beamon said, shaking the man's hand from his position on the bed.
"And you," the doctor said, with one of those Scandinavian lilts that sounded more like a mild speech impediment than an accent. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"A lot better," Beamon said honestly. "I told Christian not to bother you."
"It's no bother," he said, digging though his bag.
The exam was quick and standard: eyes, ears, nose, throat, blood pressure, temperature. Based on the doctor's expression, it looked as if he were going to live.
"I honestly don't recognize these pills," Magnussen said, examining the unlabeled bottle given to Beamon by Yung's doctor. "But you're feeling better and I wouldn't presume to second-guess a Lao physician about what is almost undoubtedly an illness relating to something you ate or drank there. . . ."
"Drank," Beamon said.
"Just so. I suggest following his recommendations. You'll be fine."
He left, but Elizabeth remained. Like Volkov, she had an expression of concern that seemed genuine, but hers was so much more attractive. "Mark, if you feel up to it, Christian would like to speak with you."
"Tell him I'm going to take a shower and get dressed. Say half an hour?"
"Fine."
"Mark!" Volkov stood and ducked under the umbrella shading him from what looked like the noon sun. Beamon would have reset his watch, but that would have meant he'd need to know roughly where on the planet he was. Somehow he guessed that information wouldn't be forthcoming.
"How are you feeling? Samuel tells me you're going to make it."
"It was touch and go there for a while, but I think I'm on the mend."
Volkov pointed to a chair across from him and Beamon took it, shooting one last glance at the sky before going under the umbrella. Still no CIA. Had they lost him? Were they organizing an attack? Was he somewhere beyond the Agency's long reach?
"So, how did you really find the general, Mark?" Beamon looked around him. They were alone on the stern of the boat. Volkov's Asian guests either had gone or were still sleeping off their evening with the blondes. "He's a nutcase."
Volkov smiled. "And that surprised you? They're all insane, Mark. Those in power are those willing to do what it takes to gain power. While the context varies, depending on the region, the rule itself is inviolable."
"Well, I'll tell you, Christian, he sees himself as some kind of revolutionary messiah. Kind of a combination of Papa Doc, Gandhi, and Keynes, depending on the particular moment."
Volkov nodded, prompting him to go on. Beamon just sat there, silent.
"That's all?"
"I think I've answered all the questions you wanted answered. I've earned my paycheck."
Volkov laughed. "I was hoping for something more than a ten-second description of General Yung's delusions." "No. you weren't."
"I wasn't?"
Beamon popped a cigarette into his mouth and began patting his pockets for a lighter. To his surprise, Volkov pulled out his own and flicked the flame to life. Beamon leaned into it and nodded his thanks.
"So tell me, Mark. What was my motivation for sending you there, if not to get a detailed description of the atmosphere?"
"What happened to the last guy you sent, Christian?" "The last guy?"
Beamon dragged in a lungful of smoke and let it roll from his mouth as he spoke. "He disappeared. Either you pulled him back because you thought he was in danger or he's buried in the jungle somewhere. Either way you needed to send someone else to talk to Yung. Not because you wanted to know about stability or competition--things a two-day trip couldn't determine--but because you wanted to know if your emissary would survive the trip. Maybe you even have some people on the ground there. If I'd been killed, you might have been able to figure out who did it and why."
Volkov turned away and looked out over the water. "I think you're being a little cynical, Mark. It's true that your safe return suggests certain things, but I thought it very unlikely that anyone would move against you there. And I am interested in your impressions."
"My impressions . . ." Beamon repeated. "You sent me out there as bait, Christian. My impressions are going to be expensive."
"How expensive?"
Beamon thought about that for a moment. When he'd been a first-office agent, he'd stuck his neck out for less than twenty grand a year. So that translated into . . .
"'No million."
"Fine. Joseph will wire it this afternoon."
"And this afternoon I'll give you my report."
"I have to wait?"
"I don't think Yung's going to lose his grip on Laos or make any deals with your competitors today. He's afraid of you, Christian."
Volkov's expression became thoughtful.
"Isn't that what you want?" Beamon said. "A wise man once said it's better to be feared than loved." "Machiavelli's statement was overly simplistic, Mark. Fear's a difficult balancing act. If someone's too afraid, they become panicked and dangerous. Not afraid enough, and they get bold. Generally it's a combination of fear and love that works."
Beamon nodded and took another drag on his cigarette. "Who was in your room that night in Laos, Mark?" Beamon had considered the possibility that Volkov would know something about Drake's visit. But his question and the fact that Beamon was still alive suggested that he didn't know Drake's identity or what was said. Beamon tried to stay relaxed and talked in smooth, even tones.
"An old associate."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to know what I was doing there."
"And what did
you tell him?"
"I told him the truth--that I had a client who had a business relationship with the prior regime and was interested in a relationship with the new regime."
"Is this man my competition for General Yung's business?"
"The heroin business?" Beamon said. The word had yet to be uttered and he watched Volkov's reaction carefully. There was none. "No. He's more a broker in information than tangibles."
Volkov nodded silently and Beamon braced himself for cross-examination.
"Thank you, Mark."
"That's it?" Beamon said, surprised.
"Not entirely. If you're interested, I might have something for you in the U. S. A much more difficult job, but the pay would be better."
"Another setup?" Beamon said, not yet ready to be dismissed. Where the hell were Drake and his storm troopers?
"I didn't set you up in Laos, Mark. The job had risks, but you knew that going in. Besides, every time we meet, I see more of your value. I'm starting to wonder if I can afford to let anything happen to you."
Chapter 47
MARK Beamon turned his rental car into a narrow alley without slowing, barely keeping the back end from slamming into a fire hydrant as the tires lost traction. After he'd managed to wrestle the vehicle back under control, he looked in the rearview mirror at the quiet L. A. street behind him. Nothing--just like after his last five extremely illegal maneuvers.
The town seemed dead. Not surprising, he supposed. The media had just broken the story about the rocket found outside of town, and a man with an Arabic accent had immediately called in to no less than five of the major local radio stations, assuring the good people of L. A. that it was only one of many. Any day now Allah would rain fire down on this most immoral of cities.
Volkov had provided the jet with the bed in the back for Beamon's return flight, and he was mending rapidly. In fact, he figured the hint of headache and nausea remaining was more the result of the mysterious pills prescribed by General Yung's doctor than the bug that had gotten hold of him. He pulled the red, white, and blue phone from his pocket and speed dialed Laura's number.