Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  Drake fell silent and let his boss consider what he'd just heard. A bead of sweat threatened to trickle out of his hairline and down his nose, but a slight adjustment of his head kept it in check.

  "What are you hearing about Laura Vilechi's investigation?" Holsten said finally.

  "I'm hearing the same thing you are--that it's going nowhere."

  "An attack is coming, though, Jonathan--have you been watching the news? People are starting to come out of hiding and go to work, go shopping, put their kids back in day care. When the fear fades too much, Yasin's people are going to use that launcher. And when they do, the FBI's investigation is going to get a huge shot in the arm. People are paying attention, Jonathan. They remember anyone who looks Arab. They're watching for contrails. It isn't going to be a surprise."

  "By then Volkov and Beamon will be gone, Alan. I guarantee it."

  Chapter 50

  THE combination of overeating and Laotian antibiotics was starting to make Beamon feel sick again. Despite that, he broke off a small piece of lighter-than-air piecrust and popped it in his mouth. When he swallowed, his stomach rumbled audibly.

  "That was undoubtedly one of the finest meals I've ever eaten, Christian."

  "I'll pass that on to Francois. He'll be pleased you enjoyed it."

  After Beamon's recitation of his apparently correct theory regarding Volkov's plan to double-cross Mustafa Yasin, the conversation had become somewhat subdued. Quiet small talk about the area, art, history, food. Volkov seemed a bit distant, as though he were trying to make a decision--probably whether or not this would be Beamon's last meal. Could he afford to have an independent operator running around with the blueprint for a takeover of the world heroin trade and the knowledge that he was facilitating al-Qaeda's war on America?

  Beamon nodded his thanks as Elizabeth cleared his plate and then looked out over the shimmering pool into the darkness. A beautiful setting. But for what? It seemed unlikely that Volkov had asked him here just for the considerable pleasure of his company.

  Finally the answer came. Volkov reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, sliding it facedown across the table toward Beamon.

  "I want you to talk to Carlo Gasta for me. To give him a message."

  Beamon's eyebrows rose a bit. "From what I hear, he's under heavy guard by the FBI. They seem to think the New York families would like to see him dead. His lawyer is the only person with access."

  "If it was easy, I'd get someone cheaper to do it." Beamon laughed. "I appreciate your confidence in me, Christian, but what do you want me to do? No one is getting in to see him."

  "How much?"

  Beamon pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He had to admit to liking the crime business just a little bit. It was a world where anything was possible. The only question worth asking was the one Volkov just posed. The interesting thing was that it was remotely possible that he actually could get to Gasta. But if he did, it was because of his connection to the FBI. When did you go from being undercover to being on the take? The line was surprisingly fuzzy.

  "My fee would be ten million, plus expenses, which could be substantial. And there would be no guarantees. If I can't pull it off, I'd still want five million to cover my out-of-pocket."

  Volkov shrugged. "Fine."

  "But before I agree to anything, I want to know why. No more going in blind like I did in Laos. How does Carlo Gasta fit into all this?"

  "Criminal Darwinism, remember?"

  "But Gasta's just a moron--we both know that. I mean, he's probably got some dirt on a few wiseguys, but no one who could bother you much."

  "You tell me why, then," Volkov said. "You must have a theory."

  "Honestly, you have me stumped. It seems like bad timing. You have enough on your plate right now."

  "Why don't you work on it."

  Beamon took a thoughtful pull on his cigarette. "I will. I figure if Chet Michaels, a wet-behind-the-ears kid from the FBI, could get close enough to scare you, I sure as hell can."

  Volkov didn't say anything for a moment, instead just staring across the table in a way that made Beamon strangely uncomfortable.

  "Let me help you a bit, Mark. I had nothing to do with the death of Chet Michaels. In fact, I've never had any contact with Carlo Gasta at all. He's probably vaguely aware of my existence, as most people in his position would be, but we've never spoken or had business dealings together."

  Beamon took another drag on his cigarette, hoping it kept his surprise from showing. He hadn't been prepared for the quiet forcefulness of Volkov's statement. The man was undoubtedly a hell of a liar, but was he that good? Why would he bother to lie, anyway? Chet was dead and Nicolai, while a powerful fabrication, was no real threat to him.

  Beamon finally realized that he hadn't reacted for far too long. Chet Michaels had been nothing more than a valuable business asset to Nicolai.

  "I've been paid for the inconvenience Chet's death caused me. Who was responsible is just an interesting intellectual exercise at this point."

  Volkov patted the corners of his mouth with his napkin and stood. "I'm afraid I have to go. But I'd like you to stay and be my guest here. I think you'll find it more comfortable than the hotel."

  "Thanks, but . . ."

  "Really, Mark. I insist."

  Obviously, Volkov wanted to keep an even closer eye on him than the hotel would allow. Beamon wanted to refuse, but he suspected Volkov wouldn't take no for an answer. "Thank you, then. I accept."

  "And I'll leave Elizabeth with you. I think you'll find--" Beamon held up his hand. "I appreciate the offer of the house, Christian, but I really don't need . . . companionship."

  Volkov looked a bit perplexed for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, of course--the boat. I'm afraid you have the wrong impression of Elizabeth. While she is very beautiful, she wasn't with the women entertaining our Asian friends.

  She's another one of my executive assistants. Joseph is wonderful with mathematics and business. Elizabeth's talents are languages and people. I say talent, but I really mean genius--and that isn't a word I use often. She speaks nine languages fluently and is conversant in a number of others. She even reads and writes Mandarin, which is something I struggle with."

  Beamon didn't bother to hide his surprise. "How'd she fall into your net, Christian? I'd think a nice English girl with her talents would be immune to your charms."

  "Oh, she's not English. She's Albanian. I first heard about her when she was only fourteen. Her father was a small-time criminal and was using her as a translator. In fact, he was renting her out as a translator to other criminals and politicians who needed things done discreetly."

  "And you hired her away?"

  "Not exactly. Her father sold her to me for the outrageous sum of twenty thousand U. S. dollars."

  Beamon wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. "Sounds like a bargain."

  "Perhaps the best I ever made."

  Chapter 51

  THE expansive flagstone patio, now illuminated only by the shimmering lights from the pool, was completely silent. Volkov had gone almost an hour ago, followed closely by the inestimable Francois and a literal wheelbarrow load of cooking accessories "that felt good in his hand." Elizabeth was somewhere in the house, Beamon guessed, but right now it looked totally dark behind him.

  He pulled the red, white, and blue phone from his pocket, turned it back on, and retrieved his messages. There were only two: Both were from Jonathan Drake, wanting to know if Volkov had reappeared yet. He didn't think he'd answer those right away.

  A light came on behind him and he craned his neck to see Elizabeth step out onto the patio, wearing only a nightshirt. She sat in the chair across from him, a lovely but disappointingly nonthreatening example of the new world of organized crime. Maybe she had a poisoned needle hidden in her hair or something. Probably not.

  "I've set up the master bedroom for you, Mark--it's the one on the ground floor. You should get some sleep."

  He tapped
the bottle of bourbon he'd found in the patio bar. "I'm just going to finish my drink, thanks."

  "Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?" "I think I'm good."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  She started to rise but sat back down when he spoke again.

  "How did you come to work for Christian, Elizabeth?" He couldn't help being a little curious about her side of the story.

  "He bought me from my father when I was fourteen," she said simply.

  "So he owns you?"

  "You can't own another person, Mark. Where I come from, you might call it an adoption. I can leave anytime I want--in fact, Christian has offered to help me find a . . . I guess you'd say 'normal' job. It's just never been the right time."

  "It would be hard to be ripped from your family at such a young age, though," Beamon probed. He'd never met a slave before.

  Her expression seemed to darken for a moment, but it might have just been the light.

  "My father wasn't a kind man."

  "So now Christian is like a father to you?"

  She actually laughed at that. "Christian has been wonderful to me and I owe him a lot--probably my life. But do I think of him as a father?" She shook her head. "You probably haven't noticed this because, well, of who you are, but Christian can be a little intimidating. In his defense, he tries not to be, but . . . well, it doesn't really work."

  "So, how would you describe your relationship, then?" She thought about the question for longer than it probably deserved. "He's like a cross between an uncle and a really brilliant professor that you love, but who's on kind of a different level."

  Beamon nodded and took a sip of his drink. "Good night, Elizabeth."

  He sat there for another hour, staring off into the darkness and working through the rest of his cigarettes before he dialed his phone.

  "Hel . . . hello?"

  "I didn't think you ever slept."

  "I thought I'd give it a try to see what it was like," Laura said, in a slightly muffled voice. "Are you okay?"

  "I need to talk to Carlo Gasta."

  "What?"

  "In person. Oh, and alone."

  "Are you joking?"

  "Nope."

  There was some rustling and he imagined her sitting up and turning on a light.

  "Well, you can't, Mark. They're moving him to West Virginia tomorrow for safekeeping. Saying that security is tight would be an understatement. No one is seeing him except his lawyer and people directly involved in the investigation. Did you get the message I left you?"

  "No."

  "As of tonight, the FBI is officially looking for you. The director's set up a five-man team."

  "Who's on it?"

  "He only picked people who truly hate you."

  "I guess there were people lining up for the job."

  "Just the opposite, actually. People were scattering like someone had thrown a grenade. The consensus seems to be that it was a no-win situation--that if you didn't want to be found you weren't going to be found. None of this is public yet, but it won't stay quiet forever. Then the press is going to get involved. . . ."

  Beamon lit his dead-last cigarette. Even his bulletproof lungs were starting to feel heavy. "I'm getting closer, Laura. We're on the right track."

  "Have you come up with a theory that works?" "I think so."

  "Damn!"

  "What?"

  "I worked on it all night. I thought this was it--this was the time I was going to beat you."

  "Being inside, I think maybe I had an unfair advantage." "Tell me."

  "You don't have time."

  "I don't?"

  "You're going to be too busy figuring out how to get me in to see Gasta, remember?"

  "Mark, I'm telling you, forget it. There is no way"

  "You said they're moving him tomorrow. Who's doing it?" "Scott Reynolds is coordinating."

  "Then call him."

  "You know him. You call him."

  "But he'll listen to you--he thinks I'm nuts, remember?"

  She didn't respond immediately, but he knew she was still there because he could hear her breathing.

  "Okay. Look, I'll call him and tell him what you want. But that's it. Then you're on your own, Mark."

  Beamon hung up the phone and looked down at the scrap of paper Volkov had given him. It was full of names--most he recognized, a few he didn't. Primarily mid-level mobsters with the occasional second-tier executive. The message he was supposed to deliver to Gasta was that he could give up any or all of the men on this list to cut a deal for himself, but that everyone else was strictly off-limits.

  The question Beamon couldn't answer was why. It would be a hell of a coup for law enforcement, but what did it do for Volkov? These people were gnats to him. What would rolling on these guys do for him that was worth the ten million that Beamon was going to charge him to do it?

  He kicked his feet up on the table and let the blue light flowing from the pool hypnotize him. What was he missing?

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when the ringing of his phone broke him from his trance. He assumed it was Laura and picked up. "Yeah."

  "Beamon, you son of a bitch, do you know where I am?" He recognized Scott Reynolds's voice immediately. The question seemed rhetorical, though, so he didn't bother answering.

  "It's four in the morning and I'm on a fucking pay phone behind a closed restaurant--standing here like a goddamn criminal. Unlike you, I like my career."

  Reynolds had been a hell of a street agent before his very successful move into management. There was no question that he was a stand-up guy, but he had a lot to lose.

  "I take it you talked to Laura."

  "How sure are you on this, Mark? I want goddamn guarantees. If I risk screwing myself here, are you going to find this fucking launcher?"

  "I don't know, Scott. But I think I've got a shot." "Odds?"

  "'Rvo chances out of five. That may be a little optimistic." "Son of a bitch! Couldn't you just have lied?"

  "Not this time, Scott. You need to go into this with your eyes open. I'd understand if you say no."

  "Shit! You know I've never liked you, Mark. Never." There was a short pause. "We're flying him to West Virginia tomorrow. The plane is going to have problems and we're going to have to land at a private strip--something remote. I'll let you know where. You won't have much time and it's up to you to figure out a way to get there."

  "Fine."

  Beamon hung up the phone and walked into the house, finding Elizabeth's room after a short search of the upstairs. She was curled up under a pink sheet, looking even less dangerous than she had earlier.

  "Elizabeth," he said quietly. "Elizabeth?"

  Her eyes opened slowly. "Mark?"

  "Sorry to wake you, but I need you to do something for me."

  She reached clumsily for the nightstand and felt around for a pair of glasses, which she perched on her nose. "Sure, Mark. What is it?"

  "I need a jet tomorrow. First thing."

  "No problem. I'll have one flown in."

  Beamon was still sitting on the deck when the sun started to rise. Layers of color began to appear above distant hills as the morning beat back the shadows that surrounded him.

  He wiped the dew off his phone and started to dial again. It was a hard call to make but he had no choice. As much as he wanted to believe that he was just paranoid and hopelessly cynical, it would nag at him until it finally drove him nuts.

  "Hello?" Laura sounded awake this time.

  "Morning."

  "How did it go? What did Scott say?"

  "Do you really want to know?"

  "I guess not."

  "I need you to do something for me."

  "What?"

  "How many times do you think the FBI's investigated crimes that the CIA may have been involved in?"

  "You mean in total? I don't know. A lot."

  "And how many of those investigations did we drop before they knew we
were looking?"

  "If I had to guess, I'd say more than half."

  "And how many of that half involved offshore companies and banks that they were using to finance operations that they wanted to keep quiet?"

  "What are you getting at, Mark?"

  "I want you to pull those files--all the investigations into the CIA that we shut down for one reason or another and that involved overseas shell corporations."

  "Why?"

  "I want you to compare the shell companies to the ones that were funding Carlo Gasta."

  The sun was blinding now and Beamon had to shade his eyes with his hand. "Laura? You still there?"

  "I'm still here but I'm not sure what you're telling me. Are you saying the CIA is involved in this? If you are, we need to--"

  "Will you do it?"

  "Are you going to tell me why?"

  "It's probably nothing. I'm just trying to cover the bases."

  "That's a bunch of bull, Mark."

  "Will you do it?" he repeated.

  She took a deep breath and let it out into the phone. "I'll try. They don't just keep those files lying around the coffee room, though, you know? And I'm guessing it would be better if no one knew I was pulling them."

  "Much better. Call me if you find anything." He hung up the phone and turned his chair so his back was to the sun.

  He hadn't been overly suspicious of Jonathan Drake trying to keep al-Qaeda's skirmishes in Afghanistan quiet. Spooks were like that; pointless secrecy was coded into their genes. He hadn't even been terribly worried when Drake had shown up in Laos. His story about tracking international organized criminals seemed credible--particularly with the Agency searching for its post-Cold War place in the world. The possibility that the CIA would be involved in helping al-Qaeda had never crossed Beamon's mind. But getting in bed with Christian Volkov to set them up? That sounded like just the kind of thing those creepy sons of bitches would be involved in.

  Chapter 52

  "I GOTTA take a piss," Carlo Gasta said to the man sitting across from him.

  "Hold it."

  "Fuck you! Take these cuffs off! I've got the right to go to the fucking bathroom!"

  Scott Reynolds looked up from his magazine for a moment and then out the window of the jet. Then he just went back to his article. Gasta glared at him, but it didn't take long to realize that he was being completely ignored.