by Kyle Mills
"Did Joseph offer you a drink?"
"No."
Volkov shook his head, smiling. "He has a very sharp mind, but I need to work on his social graces."
"He seems like a good kid."
"Oh, he is--the crown jewel of my college recruiting program."
Beamon laughed but then realized that Volkov wasn't joking. "You're serious."
"Of course. One of my associates found him working two jobs, putting himself through the equivalent of a community college in Australia. He was doing brilliantly and at the same time helping to support his parents and siblings.
One of my companies gave him a scholarship to get an M. B. A. in America and then a job when he graduated. Now, seven years later, he's one of my executive assistants."
"Part Aborigine, isn't he?" Beamon said.
Volkov nodded. "There's still very real bigotry in Australia against the native people. And where there's bigotry, there are very talented, very frustrated people looking for an opportunity."
"No Americans?"
Volkov shook his head and took a sip of the drink in his hand. "Of course, I employ a great number of Americans in my U. S. corporations, but none are close to me. Could you excuse me for a moment, Mark? Please make yourself a drink."
Volkov went inside the house and Beamon wandered to an outdoor bar next to an elaborate stainless-steel grill. He poured himself a club soda while trying to picture Volkov barbecuing with friends. What would the conversation be? So I think if we assassinate the foreign minister of Swaziland, we can gain control of the drug flow through there and insert a puppet regime. Do you want Swiss or cheddar on your burger?
"Bad news," Volkov said as he came back through the door. "Francois has refused to make the shrimp raviolis you like so much. I tried to insist but he threw a spoon at me. Apparently they don't complement what he's preparing. The good news is that whatever it is he's making, it smells wonderful."
"I'm not worried," Beamon said. "I have nothing but confidence in Francois."
"Well-founded, I think. What are you drinking, Mark?" "Club soda. I'm not much of a drinker."
That elicited a broad smile from Volkov. "I'll tell you what, Mark. Let's make a pact. We're going to have a nice evening: a night of conversation instead of giving orders and worrying about who's sneaking up behind us. I'll promise not to have you killed for what you say tonight, and you promise likewise." They shook hands, consummating the agreement, and then Volkov reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of wine. "I've been wanting to uncork this for a while," he said. "It's a '49 Yago Condal .. . from Spain."
Beamon looked skeptically at the bottle. "You might want to wait for better company, Christian. I don't really know one wine from another."
"Honestly, I don't either," Volkov said, gazing down at the thin, angular bottle. "I like the history of it, though. Think about what Spain had been through in the years before this wine was produced. They had managed to stay out of World War Two, but their own civil war had left them ostracized by most of the world and in the hands of a military dictator. . . ."
Beamon couldn't believe he was finally getting to use his history degree. If only his father were alive to see it. "But they'd only have to stick it out a little longer. The world needed Spain's help with the Koreans. And Franco would turn out to have a fairly good record as military dictators go." Volkov smiled as he uncorked the bottle and poured it gently into a carafe. "That's very true."
About halfway through the apparently arduous decanting process, a tinny rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner" started playing in Beamon's pocket.
"Would you excuse me for a moment, Christian?" "Of course."
Beamon walked along the edge of the pool and put the phone to his ear. "Yeah."
"We've got problems, Mark." Laura's voice. "The L. A. office followed up on those strippers who helped Gasta get away. When they described the guy that hired them, guess who it sounded like?"
"Jesus, it's about time they figured that out. I was starting to get embarrassed for you guys."
"Jesus Christ, Mark. You went and hired them yourself?"
"I needed reliable gals. No way to know if they're worth rubbernecking unless you look 'em in the, uh, eye."
"Mark! For God's sake! We've got four dead bodies and now they know you were directly involved. This goes way beyond the Laos thing."
"Wait till they find out I used an FBI credit card." "You didn't."
"Mine was over the limit."
"The Director's going to have a heart attack. I don't even know what to tell you here."
Even though he'd known this was coming, Beamon had expected to feel fairly emotional when the actual hammer dropped. Now that the moment was here, though, he didn't feel anything.
"So, where do I stand, Laura?"
"I don't know. Caroll wants you in his office first thing tomorrow morning--and this time you'd damn well better show up. Maybe you can cut a deal--convince him that he doesn't want the press to get ahold of this. . . ." Her voice faded for a moment. "Shit, Mark. I don't know . . . I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I got you into this."
"Don't be stupid. I got myself into this."
"Can I tell him that you'll be on a plane tonight? That you'll be there tomorrow?"
"What about all those other things you've got me working on," Beamon said, looking behind him. Volkov was paying him no attention at all--he seemed absorbed by his wine bottle.
"We're going to have to go on without you. It may be already too late for you to save yourself here, Mark. I don't know. But I guarantee that if you miss this meeting it's all over."
He didn't respond.
"Mark?"
Laura's investigation was dead in the water but his continued to move forward. Whether Volkov was actually behind Chet Michaels's death was starting to become a question mark, but either way he was the key to all this. If he wasn't responsible for Chet's death, he knew who was. And he was almost certainly in bed with Mustafa Yasin.
"No. A face-to-face meeting is out of the question." "What?", "You heard me."
"Mark, we tried to work around management on this thing and we had a pretty good run. But now it's time to try to save yourself."
"It's too late for that--we both know it. Look, I'm a little busy right now. I'll call you later."
"Mark, wait--"
Beamon turned off the phone and stuffed it in his pocket as he walked back to the bar. Volkov handed him a glass of wine.
"I'm surprised to see you in L. A., Christian."
"I have a computer technology company based here. Internet gambling."
"Internet gambling?"
He nodded. "It's an enormous growth industry with really exciting potential for innovation. The younger generation that's been weaned on computers will be coming of age soon and won't have patience for conventional games like blackjack. Everything is going to have to be an elaborate multimedia experience. Imagine, every personal computer more interesting than Las Vegas."
"I'm not much of a computer person myself," Beamon said, taking a sip of the wine. It was pretty good. "Tell me, Christian . . . I'm curious. How did you get into this?" "Computer gambling?"
"Organized crime."
"That label--it's so . . ."
"Melodramatic?"
"Yes. Though I suppose it's correct. On some level I am a criminal. I just don't think of myself as one."
"But isn't it true that you're involved in the heroin trade?"
"And currently heroin is illegal in the U. S. and Europe, though much more destructive products are not. Gambling, on the other hand, may or may not be legal, depending on where you happen to be at the time. You can give a dying cancer patient morphine to relieve his suffering, but not marijuana. The numbers racket used to be very profitable for the American Mob. Now the government's taken it over, called it a lottery, and enforced its monopoly." "I suppose, like everything, it's a matter of perspective," Beamon prompted.
"You would be surprised to know how
much money I give conservative politicians and right-wing Christian groups. The only competitors I really fear are the governments. It's best for me if all things pleasurable remain illegal."
"You didn't answer my question. How did you get involved in all this?"
"I'm sorry." He took a thoughtful sip of his wine. "I was unlucky enough to have not been born American. Where I grew up, 'crime' was the only way to survive. Despite the communist ideals of the country where I was born, the gap between the haves and have-nots was too wide to see across. Of course, business prospered there, but only for those connected to the government and under its protection. If any private citizen managed to make a life for themselves, the police called them traitors, murdered them, and then gave their burgeoning enterprise to one of the ruling elite. In any event, I fell in with a group who were close to a powerful official and were therefore allowed to operate. I had an aptitude for the work and did well. When the Soviet Union collapsed, I was able to move in on the less efficient operations that were no longer protected by the government and military. Since then I've continued to grow." He motioned toward a table with two chairs pushed up to it and they both sat.
"It's funny, really. This isn't where I pictured myself. But there was always another deal to be done. As you know, you either grow or you die in this business."
"So now you make a living providing the people what they want," Beamon said. "Drugs, women, black-market goods, whatever. Victimless crimes."
"Crimes in which one is a willing victim would be more accurate."
The opening was there. Beamon tried to decide whether this was a safe moment to test his new theory. Probably not, but he doubted a better time would present itself. "What about supplying weapons to al-Qaeda so that they can take over the heroin trade in the Golden Crescent? Are all their victims willing?"
Volkov's eyes flashed briefly but otherwise his expression remained passive. Beamon knew that there was no going back now: He had let on that he knew more than he had been told.
"The American government can supply anyone they want with arms," Volkov said. For the first time there was a hint of anger in his voice. "They themselves have armed the Afghans, the Iranians, and the Iraqis, to mention only a few. They have overthrown democratically elected governments and replaced them with despots to further their interests and the interests of American corporations. Of course, this is all legal because they can arbitrarily define legality and intimidate the rest of the world with their military and economic power."
"I didn't mean to offend you, Christian."
"You haven't."
Beamon reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. The act of lighting it calmed him down a bit. "I certainly didn't mean to imply that you were looking to get in bed with Yasin."
Volkov didn't respond immediately, and Beamon couldn't help being a little impressed with himself. He was playing chess against a more skilled opponent and had made him hesitate. For the first time Volkov was having to think before he spoke.
"But didn't you just suggest that I was involved in that very thing?"
Beamon shrugged and feigned disinterest in continuing the conversation.
"You obviously have something to say, Mark. Say it." "Remember our pact," Beamon said.
"I remember."
Beamon took another sip of his wine and set his cigarette in a thoughtfully provided ashtray. "It was something you said to me a few days ago. You said that you'd deal with the Asians exclusively if you could. Why? Because they're intelligent and reliable. They have the same philosophy as you. The difference between the illegal and legal is arbitrary at best. Yasin, it seems to me, is on the other side of the spectrum. He's motivated by religion, by politics, by his own delusions. Overall, an unstable and unpredictable man. Not your kind of guy."
Beamon paused to take a drag off his cigarette. So far so good. He wasn't dead yet.
"Go on," Volkov said.
"Okay, I will. Yasin is in the process of taking over as much of the heroin machine in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran as he can--not just production but refining and distribution. And he's doing that with weapons and intelligence provided by you. But he's in for a bit of a surprise, isn't he?"
"Is he?"
"I think so. His little war has caused a fairly serious disruption in the flow of heroin out of that region, and everyone down the line is starting to get nervous. They're starting to worry that Yasin and his people are nuts and are going to be impossible to deal with."
Beamon paused again, this time to take a sip of wine. Volkov didn't seem ready to speak, so he figured he might as well continue.
"I'm guessing that sometime soon, all the support you're giving al-Qaeda is going to come to an abrupt halt and you and your Asian friends will use the nervousness of the Mexican, American, and European distributors to move right on in. You'll have nearly complete control of the world heroin trade before Yasin knows what hit him. That's why you needed me to go talk to General Yung. Before long you're going to need as much product as the Asians can provide."
Beamon leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. His cards were pretty much on the table now. Volkov still wasn't reacting, though. He was just sitting there, staring off into the darkness. It was almost a minute before he spoke.
"It's a fine line, Mark. . . . You want clever people working for you. But there's such a thing as too clever." "Remember our pact," Beamon said again.
"I remember. And you do the same."
Chapter 49
JONATHAN Drake crossed the driveway quickly, still wondering why he was there. Was being asked to meet at Alan Holsten's suburban home a vote of confidence, or was it because the DDO didn't want to be seen with him at Langley?
The latter was the most likely answer. The game Drake had been playing was almost over, and it looked like he was going to lose. Holsten was simply trying to decrease his chances of getting caught in the ensuing storm.
Drake jumped up onto the front porch but didn't have to knock. The door opened almost immediately and Holsten, wearing a golf shirt and a pair of tan slacks, motioned him in. The entry was dark, as was the rest of the house. It was almost eleven and it looked as though Holsten's wife and two daughters were already asleep.
Drake silently followed his host through the house and into a windowless office, thinking through the events of the past few weeks one last time.
He knew now that the loss of Gasta to the L. A. police had been the beginning of the end. With al-Qaeda's L. A. cell now in the hands of the FBI, and Mark Beamon inexplicably finding a way to get close to Christian Volkov, it was only a matter of time before someone glimpsed the truth. Admittedly the puzzle was complicated, but nearly all the pieces were available now.
At this point the only thing that could solve his immediate problems would be the deaths of both Christian Volkov and Mark Beamon--something that in the short term seemed unlikely.
"Where do you stand, Jonathan?" Holsten said, closing the door to the claustrophobic home office behind them. "Do you have any movement?"
Holsten's liberal use of the word you made it even clearer that he was continuing to back away from this operation and planned to leave his subordinate holding the bag to whatever degree possible. Drake knew that if he told the truth tonight, he would leave Holsten considering options that would end with him dead. He had to get out before it came to that.
"Beamon's fully on board," Drake said. "He wants Volkov and is willing to do whatever it takes to get him--he's already thrown away his career and probably his life."
"He wants Volkov because he thinks Volkov ordered the death of his friend," Holsten said. "What's he going to do when he finds out that it was actually you?"
The anger that had been so evident in their recent meetings was gone, replaced by a cold monotone that made Drake even more certain that it was time to cut and run. Holsten had a beautiful home, a prominent social standing, an important job, a family. He would do whatever was necessary to protect th
at.
"There's nothing that would lead him to me, Alan. How could he possibly find out about my involvement?" "Volkov might tell him. And Gasta can identify you." Drake shook his head. "Why would he believe Volkov, the man who he thinks killed his friend? No, our biggest problem with Beamon is that the FBI's starting to actively look for him."
"They won't find him if he doesn't want to be found," Holsten said.
"Which is good for us--he's the key to all this. He tells me that he can position Volkov so we can get him. And based on his reputation, I'm willing to bet that he can do what he says."
Drake watched his boss's face carefully, trying to see if he believed the string of lies he was being told. One week--that was all the time he needed to sell Beamon's identity to Volkov and use the money to disappear.
"And you'll take them both out," Holsten said.
Drake nodded. "Volkov's organization is completely reliant on him--particularly now that Pascal, his former number two, is dead. With Volkov gone, there will be a feeding frenzy as his enemies rip apart his organization and divide it up for themselves. By the time the FBI's investigation leads them that far--if it ever does--Christian Volkov will be nothing more than a hazy maze of legends and hearsay."
"And Gasta?"
"Neither he nor any of his people have said a word." "They will."
"Eventually. Right now he's dealing with the New York families through the lawyer they provided him. They're telling him that they'll kill him if he says anything. And the FBI is telling him that they can protect him out of one side of their mouth and threatening him with the death penalty out of the other."
"It's just a matter of time," Holsten said. "He'll have to deal."
"Alan, he has no idea who I am--only a physical description and a maze of dummy corporations and overseas banks that have no connection to organized crime. The FBI wanted Gasta and now they've got him. They want to believe al-Qaeda is behind the launcher and now they have evidence of that. They're not going to dig deeper. Why would they?"