Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  Beamon nodded.

  "Are you all right, Mark?"

  "What do you mean?", "You seem--I don't know. Tense. Upset."

  Beamon cursed himself silently. He was too angry right now; it was compromising his ability to think straight. The sudden redirecting of his quest for revenge from Volkov to his own government had thrown him. He was having a hard time centering himself again. "I guess I'm just a little tired. Maybe we could talk later."

  "Of course. Get Elizabeth to put you up in the guesthouse."

  "And if I'd rather go back to L. A.?" Beamon said, a little too indignantly.

  Volkov's brow knitted. "What's wrong with you today, Mark? If you want to go back to L. A., I'll have someone fly you there. Are you sure you're all right?"

  Chapter 55

  "RISE and shine, Mark."

  Elizabeth strode across the large room and threw open the curtains, sending a beam of heat and light across the bed. Beamon had decided against going back to L. A. the day before, finally admitting to himself that he felt safer here with Volkov--out of the Agency's and the FBI's reach.

  He just needed a little time to figure out his next move--or, more accurately, how he was going to get that son of a bitch Jonathan Drake. Before this was over he'd see that bastard dead or behind bars for the rest of his life. Preferably dead.

  "Christian would like to see you in about an hour, Mark. Can you make it?"

  "Yeah, I can make it."

  "You don't look that great. Did you sleep at all?" "Some."

  "You know what you need?"

  He propped himself up on his elbows. "What?"

  "A good breakfast." She motioned toward the door and a man in a white uniform entered, pushing a cart topped with covered silver trays.

  "Francois!" Beamon said, recognizing the man instantly. "My savior. How are you this morning?"

  "I am well, Mark. Very well," he said through a thick accent. "I think you will be quite pleased with what I have prepared for you this morning. It is . . . an American medley, I think you would say."

  "I put some clothes for you in the closet, Mark--I think they'll be your size. Christian will be in his office at eleven."

  "Thanks, Francois," Beamon said as the man parked the cart near a set of windows overlooking Volkov's endless property and then disappeared out into the hallway. The fact that he was starting to like the staff as much as he begrudgingly liked Volkov was yet another source of worry to him.

  "Do you need anything else?" Elizabeth said.

  "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette."

  "Of course not."

  "Then, that's it."

  She started to leave but paused at the door. "Francois made sausage, eggs, and hash browns. He's never seen a hash brown in his life, but he tried very hard. You should tell him how good they were, no matter what."

  "No problem. And hey, Elizabeth . . . thanks--for everything. Really."

  She looked a little self-conscious. "Sure, Mark. My pleasure."

  Beamon showed up at Volkov's office door five minutes early, freshly showered and clothed in a luxurious pair of slacks, a linen shirt, and a pair of shoes that probably cost what he made in a month at the FBI.

  The slacks would have been a perfect fit had he not just sucked up Francois's breakfast like a Shop-Vac. The sausage had obviously been handmade and delicately spiced with something characteristically unidentifiable and wonderful. And the hash browns . . . what could he say except that he respected a man who wasn't afraid to use lard. Being able to eat without feeling nauseous was a nice change of pace. More proof that Carrie was right and he really was nuts. Being doomed seemed to agree with him.

  He stood in front of the closed door for a moment, trying to think back only a few weeks to his life before all this. More and more they seemed like someone else's memories. Thoughts of Carrie caused him to sag a little. She'd been so gung-ho for him to quit the Bureau and take a job in the private sector. He wondered what she'd think if she could see how successful he'd become.

  Beamon took a deep breath and pushed through the door, walking across the stone floor with confidence he didn't feel. Volkov was sitting behind an expensive-looking but unremarkable desk, talking to someone sitting in one of two chairs lined up in front of it. Beamon could only see the back of the man's head as he approached.

  "Mark! Right on time," Volkov said. "Are you feeling better this morning?"

  "Much, thanks."

  "Then I'd like to introduce you to someone."

  Jonathan Drake stood and turned toward him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mark."

  Beamon almost stopped short but managed to keep himself moving. He plastered a polite smile across his face and offered his hand.

  "Have a seat, Mark," Volkov prompted. If he sensed that anything was wrong, he gave no indication.

  Beamon released Drake's hand and sat. What else could he do but wait to see where this was going?

  "That breakfast was wonderful, Mark. Francois made me the same thing you had. Hash browns . . . a truly sublime creation."

  "His were particularly good," Beamon mumbled, focusing on Drake in his peripheral vision.

  "Mark, here, has taken on some of Pascal's duties," Volkov said. "I don't know if you're aware that he disappeared in Laos."

  "I wasn't," Drake responded smoothly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Jonathan has a proposition for me, Mark. I thought you might help me assess it."

  Out of the corner of his eye Beamon saw Drake look over at him.

  "This might be something we should talk about alone, Christian."

  Volkov didn't react to the suggestion and Drake was forced to take the hint that his request for a private audience had been denied.

  "We've both worked very hard on this . . . operation," Drake started. "And we've both made commitments. I think it's safe to say that you and I agree it's too late to pull out."

  Volkov nodded and Drake cleared his throat.

  "It's come to my attention that my boss, Alan Holsten, the deputy director of operations, has no intention of going through with this. He's concerned solely about his personal exposure and he wants out."

  "I see," Volkov said calmly.

  Beamon kept his eyes focused on the floor in front of him, trying to stifle his rage enough to think coherently about what was happening. He could come up with about twenty scenarios, but they all seemed to end the same way--with him dead.

  "As you can imagine," Drake continued, "Holsten also wants to destroy anything that can connect him to the Afghans. Unfortunately, that includes us. I'm guessing that this doesn't come as a surprise to you."

  Volkov's expression turned thoughtful for a moment. "A disappointment, Jonathan, not a surprise. But as you say, I've made commitments. My course is set. Now, what is it you want?"

  "What do I want? I want passports and money--ten million dollars. I want to disappear from the CIA's radar and live out the rest of my life comfortably."

  Volkov frowned and looked at Beamon. "Everybody wants ten million of my dollars all of a sudden."

  When Beamon didn't respond to the inside joke, Volkov refocused his attention on Drake. "I'm sure that I would sleep better knowing that you are 'living out the rest of your life comfortably,' but I don't think it's worth that much to me. I assume you have something more valuable to offer than my peace of mind."

  "I do. Information."

  "Ten million dollars' worth? That would have to be a very tantalizing piece of information."

  "It is. I think you'll consider it a bargain at that price."

  He turned toward Beamon and smiled arrogantly. "We haven't heard from you, Mark. What do you think?" They locked eyes for a few seconds, but Beamon knew that Drake had him. This was where he was going to fail--four feet from the man who had ordered Chet's death. "It's not that much money in the scheme of things," Beamon heard himself say. "Why not?"

  "I agree," Volkov said. "So, what do you have for us, Jonathan?"

  Drake turned b
ack toward Volkov and crossed his legs casually. "I discovered yesterday that Nicolai is a fabrication of the FBI." He motioned toward Beamon. "Your replacement for Pascal is actually an undercover federal agent."

  Volkov considered that for a moment. "You don't disappoint, Jonathan. That is an interesting piece of information. Is this just an accusation or do you have proof?"

  Drake leaned over and picked up the file that had been lying on the floor next to him. He tossed it onto Volkov's desk. "It's all in there."

  Beamon was staring at the floor again, his mind an uncharacteristic blank. This was it. He was going to die and Drake was going to stroll out of there with ten million dollars. Volkov made no move to reach for the file on his desk. "Is this true, Mark?"

  He didn't respond.

  "I'm capable of opening a file."

  Beamon looked up at him. "Yeah. I guess it is."

  Volkov pursed his lips for a moment and then reached into one of his desk drawers. When his hand reappeared, there was a gun in it. Despite the fact that Volkov was undoubtedly one of the most powerful criminals in the world, Beamon couldn't help thinking how unnatural he looked holding the weapon. The idea that Volkov would do his own killing had never really crossed his mind.

  "Wait," Beamon said, holding a hand out and looking over at Drake, who was just sitting there, smiling serenely. "For what?" Volkov said.

  "I delivered your message to Gasta like you asked, and you still owe me money for that."

  "Yes. . . ."

  "There's one thing I want to do before I die. Give me three minutes instead of the money and we'll call it even." Volkov placed the gun on the desk, but his hand didn't move more than a few inches from it. "I'm intrigued. You have your three minutes."

  "Thank you," Beamon said, and then lunged from his chair--not at Volkov but at Drake. His fist caught the much larger CIA man completely by surprise, connecting solidly enough to tip him over backward in his chair. Beamon wasn't sure if the soft crunch he'd felt was Drake's nose or the bones in his own hand, but it didn't really matter. Drake was lying on the floor, flinging blood back and forth as he shook his head in an effort to regain his bearings. But it was too late. Beamon swung an expensive Italian leather shoe into the man's ribs with all the anger and frustration he'd been choking on since Chet's death. This time the cracking of bone was accompanied by an incredibly satisfying squeal as the wind went out of Drake's lungs. Just like a pig.

  "You stupid piece of shit," Beamon screamed, slamming his foot down again, this time on Drake's unprotected chest. "I traced the bank you used to pay Gasta back to a CIA operation from the eighties. That kind of sloppy shit really pisses me off."

  Drake made a grab for Beamon's ankle but wasn't quite fast enough, and ended up exposing his arm to another vicious kick instead. The adrenaline running through Beamon had obviously increased his strength, because he heard the bones in Drake's muscular arm snap.

  "Did you know Chet Michaels was married?" he shouted, continuing to kick the man. "He and his wife had just bought a house."

  "Stop," Drake said weakly, trying to sit up. Beamon grabbed him by the hair and slammed the back of his head into the stone floor.

  "He was getting a lot of pressure from his parents to have children, but he was going to wait a couple of years . . ." Beamon said, breathing hard. He was lining up to deliver another kick to Drake's ribs when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around and found Christian Volkov, gun in hand, standing behind him. He'd honestly almost forgotten Volkov was there.

  "Enough, Mark. That's enough."

  Beamon turned back toward Drake, who was still conscious, and waited to get shot in the back. Instead, Volkov walked around him and crouched down beside the CIA man. For a moment Beamon thought he was going to try to help him to his feet, but he made no move to.

  "The Central Intelligence Agency . .." Volkov said, his back inexplicably presented to Beamon. "A completely unpredictable lot. Impossible to do business with. Just another of the world's insane government organizations--no better than in Laos."

  The blind rage that had gripped Beamon was starting to fade, replaced by confusion. And that confusion turned to shock when Volkov aimed his pistol at Drake. The CIA agent managed one last act: to raise his arms in terror before the deafening crack of the gun sounded. The bullet went through one of his hands before entering his forehead and blowing most of the back of his head off.

  Volkov rose from his crouched position, spattered with blood, and picked up the chair Drake had been sitting in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Beamon. I should have let you do that." He tossed the gun onto his desk and sat down.

  It took a few moments for Beamon to realize that Volkov wasn't going to kill him. In fact, from his position, Beamon figured that he could reach the gun on the desk before Volkov could. Despite that realization, though, he didn't move. "What did you call me?"

  "Mr. Beamon. You are Mark Beamon, aren't you? The special agent in charge of the FBI's Phoenix office?" Beamon fell into the chair next to Volkov. "How long have you known?"

  "Since right before our first meeting."

  Beamon gazed down at the thick stream of blood running from Drake's broken head. A moment later two men he'd never seen before walked in and unceremoniously dragged the body out.

  He and Volkov sat in silence for a long time. Beamon could feel his hand starting to swell and stared blankly down at it.

  "So here we are," Volkov said finally, breaking the silence.

  Beamon looked up at him, still unsure what had just happened. "Where is that?"

  "A decision point, I suppose. Do we go forward or go backward?"

  "I . . . I'm not sure I follow you."

  "The CIA approached me with this plan some time ago: to support al-Qaeda in a takeover of the heroin business in the Middle East. They correctly assumed that Mustafa Yasin would use the tools we provided to mount a violent campaign against the current drug lords, causing a disruption that would allow the Asians to move in and replace Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan as America's supplier of choice. And at that point the CIA planned to offer support to Yasin's victims in all this, creating an internal war that would at worst keep him occupied for years to come and at best kill him and most of his men."

  "Why you?"

  "I have strong relationships with the Asians and the Russians. As you can imagine, though, I resisted becoming involved. There were significant risks, not the smallest of which was the possibility that Yasin would use his new contacts and weapons against the U. S. But I really had no choice. If I didn't cooperate, one of my competitors certainly would have. And if the plan succeeded, they would have generated an opportunity for my Asian associates that I hadn't, and created a strong relationship with America's intelligence community. So, despite the risks, I had to get involved." Volkov paused for a moment. "But then, I assume you knew most of this already."

  Beamon nodded.

  "You live up to your reputation, Mark."

  "You said we're at a decision point," Beamon said, now looking at the trail of blood Drake's head had left on the floor. It was kind of hypnotic. "What is it we have to decide?" "You already know the answer to that. We only have one path ahead of us. Do we take it or not?"

  "What if we don't?"

  "Then the status quo that the CIA has created is maintained. Yasin consolidates his position in the heroin trade, putting an end to the disruptions his war is causing. He becomes one of the wealthiest men in the world and gains inroads to a very sophisticated smuggling network--which he uses to wage war against your country."

  "That doesn't sound particularly attractive. I assume you've come up with an alternative?"

  "We simply finish what has been started."

  Beamon almost laughed, but managed to keep it in check. "Are you asking me--an FBI agent--to help you flood America with Asian heroin?"

  "My sources suggest that it would be more accurate to call you a former FBI agent. And your streets are already flooded with Middle Eastern heroin, so I se
e no great harm in it."

  "I don't think so, Christian."

  Volkov leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "If I were to write a dictionary, do you know how I would define the word government? I'd define it as 'a crime organization ruthless and powerful enough to do away with all those who can meaningfully oppose it.--

  "I understand your point, Christian, but I've got a line in my head that I try not to cross. It's not always logical, but it's there. Can you understand that?"

  "Would it make you feel better if I hired a group of mercenaries to slaughter thousands of people in some small South American country, then put on a uniform and called myself El Presidente? You could be an ambassador."

  "I don't see myself as an ambassador."

  "And I don't see myself as a hypocrite."

  Beamon considered his position--something that didn't take very long. Options were fairly scarce.

  "I want the launcher."

  "Are we negotiating?"

  "I guess we are."

  "And if I get you the launcher, I want your contact in the White House."

  Beamon shook his head. "No. I wouldn't get Tom involved in this even if I could. I owe him my life."

  Volkov didn't seem particularly upset by the refusal. "Then I want you, Mark. Not to stand by and avert your eyes, but as an active participant. My assistant--my executive vice president, you could say--was killed recently. Probably by Jonathan. I need someone to stand in his shoes."

  "What about Elizabeth and Joseph?"

  "They're both brilliant, but they're children."

  Beamon leaned back in his chair and focused on Volkov. "You know that killing Drake isn't the end of this. You still have Alan Holsten to deal with. He'll do whatever's necessary to protect himself"

  "Yes, of course you're right. What I hope to have gained by Jonathan's death is some temporary confusion, and possibly plausible deniability for Holsten. Perhaps he can paint Jonathan as a rogue agent?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Do you know him?"

  "Holsten? In passing. He's an ass. But he's not an idiot." Volkov nodded. "So where do we stand, Mark?" Beamon sighed quietly. "Can I use your phone?"