Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "Of course."

  Beamon walked around the desk and dialed Laura. "Hello?"

  "It's me."

  "Are you all right? Where are you?"

  "I'm with Volkov."

  "Mark, we've got to get together and talk face-to-face. I'm serious here. This thing with the CIA . . ."

  "Don't worry about it. I'm taking care of it."

  "What do you mean, you're 'taking care of it'?" "I'm taking care of it. Let's leave it at that."

  There was a short pause over the line. "Gasta's starting to talk, Mark, working out a deal. It looks like we might get some interesting stuff out of him. He's got a new lawyer too--a serious piece of high-class talent. Can I assume that this is all your doing?"

  "I need you to do me a favor," Beamon said, ignoring her question. "Call my secretary. Tell her to get my credentials out of my desk--she knows where they are. Mail them to the Director with a letter of resignation. Tell her to sign it for me--she's good at that. I'll send him one with my signature on it when I get a chance."

  "Are you sure that's what you want?"

  "No, but I don't think I have much of a choice at this point."

  "He's still going to come after you, Mark. Your involvement with Gasta, the Afghans . . ."

  "I know."

  "I don't understand what you're doing here, Mark." "What I'm doing is helping you find your launcher, Laura. I'll call you."

  He hung up the phone and sat down behind Volkov's desk. "I guess I'm officially in your employ. Do you have medical?"

  Volkov laughed. "In fact, we have a very good plan through one of my American companies. I'll have Elizabeth do the paperwork."

  Beamon pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Of course. He should have known.

  Chapter 56

  "How many goddamn people did we have watching him? How many?"

  Alan Holsten slammed the door to his office and spun around to face his executive assistant--normally a very competent and unflappable thirty-five-year-old man. Right now he looked like a scared kid.

  "Four, sir. We don't--"

  "Four men? You had four men on Jonathan Drake, plus electronic surveillance and real-time access to his bank records, and you lost him?"

  "Sir, we don't know how he did it. But it was obviously intentional and well planned--"

  "Of course it was intentional and well planned, you stupid son of a bitch! That's why I had you watching him! Fuck!" "Sir, we think this is only a temporary loss of contact. We're doing everything we can to find him, and we expect to reacquire him soon."

  "And why do you expect that?"

  "Because he didn't take anything, sir--just the clothes on his back and the money in his wallet. We've frozen all his accounts and are watching for him to try to access them." Holsten dropped into his chair and closed his eyes, trying to ease the headache that was in the process of turning blinding.

  "Sir--"

  "Shut up!" Holsten shouted. "Just stand there and be quiet!"

  His assistant had no idea what was going on--only that Holsten had wanted Jonathan Drake watched. But now Drake was gone and the implication was obvious. He had painted a fairly attractive picture of their situation last time they'd met. But now Holsten knew that it had all been a lie designed to keep him docile long enough for Jonathan to set up his escape.

  Now he was the only one left who had been directly involved in the Afghanistan operation. If it came to the surface, he would be the one singled out for responsibility. Everything he had, everything he'd worked for, would disappear in a matter of hours.

  Holsten rubbed his temples and tried to concentrate. Mark Beamon was the key to this. Drake would sell Beamon's true identity to Volkov and use the money to disappear forever. There might still be time.

  "Mark Beamon," Holsten said. "What do we have on him?"

  "The FBI's stepped up their search for him but with no success. From what we can tell, the task force they've created isn't working very hard. The consensus seems to be that if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

  "Can we find him?"

  His assistant shrugged. "I honestly doubt it. The FBI is set up for this kind of thing and he's one of theirs. I'm not sure why we would be more successful--"

  "Bullshit!" Holsten leaned forward over his desk and jabbed a finger toward his assistant. "We are going to find that son of a bitch! What isn't the FBI doing? What are they missing?"

  His assistant smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his expensive suit and cleared his throat nervously. "He has a confidante, sir. Laura Vilechi--the lead investigator on the rocket launcher investigation. The FBI's already talked to her and she swears she has no idea where he is."

  "But we think she's holding out."

  "It seems likely. Beamon's generated a number of leads on the launcher case, and based on his reputation, there's no reason to believe he's stopped working it. . . ."

  Holsten nodded. "Then I think we need to talk to her. Very quietly. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Holsten leaned back in his chair and chewed the end of a pencil compulsively. Another angle the FBI wasn't considering was Christian Volkov, who they weren't aware existed. Volkov almost certainly knew where both Drake and Beamon were, but it was unlikely that he would expose himself. At least, not intentionally.

  "Contact the Mexican attorney general too. I want to talk to him."

  "I'm sorry, sir. . . . Did you say the attorney general of Mexico?"

  Holsten nodded.

  It was certain that Volkov would move forward with the CIA's plan to oust the Afghans from the heroin trade--he'd made too many commitments to walk away now. The key to the changeover from Middle Eastern to Asian heroin was in the Mexican distribution lines. The attorney general of Mexico was up to his eyeballs in the narcotics trade--little happened without his knowledge and approval. It might be possible to catch up with Volkov there.

  "Tell him I have a proposal for him that he'll find interesting. No one else is to know that we're talking, though." "I understand, sir. I'll contact him right away."

  Chapter 57

  THE gravel path was longer than he'd thought. After a half a mile or so, it had turned to dirt, winding itself through shaded stands of trees and floral-scented clearings, meandering ever forward.

  They'd been walking for over an hour now, with Volkov doing most of the talking, telling the fascinating and probably rather selective story of his life, and running down the basic structure of his organization. With that background in place, he finally made his way to more current issues. "The situation is a simple one, Mark. You already know it. Middle Eastern heroin floods into Mexico through a number of channels and is transported across the border into the U. S. Al-Qaeda has at this point managed to gain control of enough of the supply to begin dealing directly with the Mexicans. Until recently they had been bringing in relatively small shipments through other avenues and selling directly to people like Carlo Gasta."

  "Just to pay the bills," Beamon said.

  "Exactly. They needed the cash, but didn't yet have the critical mass to create the necessary relationships." "Shouldn't you have moved a little earlier? I mean, if they're already at the point where they're building relationships with Mexico . . ."

  "No, it was important for the Mexicans to meet Mustafa Yasin's people. It's been a complete disaster, of course. Inexperience, language barriers, Muslim fanaticism, unstable supply . . . And to make matters worse, word of al-Qaeda's methods has spread across the Middle East. Now, if their target sees them coming, they destroy everything and all Yasin ends up with is a burned-out shell."

  "Making the disruption you're counting on even worse. I suppose the rocket launcher and all the publicity hasn't hurt, either."

  Volkov nodded gravely. "It certainly added to the Mexicans' fears. But--and I want to be clear on this, Mark--I regret what's happened to your country. The effect on Drake and the CIA has more than offset any benefits with the Mexicans--not to mention the hundreds of millions I'
ve lost because of the destabilization of the American economy." He stopped for a moment and looked directly into Beamon's face. "I know that as a man who's dedicated his life to the FBI--to an ideal--you must think of me as rather . . . amoral. Perhaps even evil?"

  "I don't know what I think of you, Christian. I really don't."

  He seemed to accept that and started walking again. "So you need the Mexicans," Beamon said. "You need them to agree to dump the Afghans and start doing business with your Southeast Asian friends. I honestly don't see how you're going to pull that off, Christian. There are too many people involved, too many opportunities for the Afghans to circle their wagons. I mean, you'd have to do this impossibly fast--the changeover would have to happen almost instantaneously. How do you even know that Yasin hasn't already noticed you laying the groundwork for this thing?"

  "Simple--because I haven't done anything yet. No one knows the status of this but you and me. Holsten might suspect, of course, but he can only guess at this point."

  Beamon looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "When is it you think all this is going to happen?"

  "Next week."

  Beamon laughed--partially at the absurdity of Volkov's statement and partially at the fact that he was strolling along a dirt path, planning a multibillion-dollar drug deal. "Next week, huh? Just when are you going to get around to letting the people involved know?"

  "As you said, Mark, leaks are unacceptable. Everything has to be done at the very last moment possible. It's vital that everything happen quickly and smoothly. The narcotics business, you might be surprised to know, is primarily based on trust."

  "I'm not sure I see how, in a matter of hours, you're going to convince all those people that they should dump their current suppliers and move their business to you." "You let me worry about that."

  "Okay, I will," Beamon said. Volkov had done exactly what he said he was going to do so far. No reason to start doubting him now. "What about the CIA? You still have the same problem you always did. Even with Jonathan dead, Alan Holsten isn't going to want to risk being left twisting in the wind if the FBI comes up with any of this. He must know that I'm involved and that I've gotten close to you. Jonathan probably would have had to tell him that much."

  "Certainly, he is . . . what would you say? A wild card?" "That seems optimistic. I'm guessing he wants you dead more than anything he's ever wanted in his life."

  "Oh, I think he probably wants you dead more." "Good point. Either way, he's going to be pulling out all the stops right about now. He knows at least part of your plan, so this is his chance. After you succeed--or fail--you'll just disappear again. If he's going to find you, he's got to do it now."

  "If he's going to find us, Mark. Us."

  Beamon frowned. He wondered if it would actually be possible for him to piss off any more U. S. government agencies. As far as he knew, he was still in the good graces of the Park Service. . . .

  "Perhaps he won't be as aggressive as you think," Volkov said. "It seems a foregone conclusion that it's in America's best interest that I complete this deal."

  "But it's not in his best interest. The FBI already sees the connection between the drugs, Gasta, and al-Qaeda. And a complete changeover in America's heroin supply structure isn't going to be lost on the DEA. Holsten won't take a chance that someone from the FBI might eventually arrive at your door to find you still alive. And as far as Jonathan's disappearance causing confusion that you can use, don't count on it. Count on Holsten assuming that Jonathan ran and sold me out or is in the process of selling me out for retirement money."

  "I suspect you're right, Mark. But my course is already set."

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, Beamon smoking furiously and Volkov calmly enjoying the near-perfect day.

  "Can we change the subject a bit?" Beamon said finally. "The launcher."

  "That's the only reason I'm here, Christian."

  "Yes, I know. . . . According to my intelligence, four rockets were smuggled into America. The FBI has one." "Jesus," Beamon muttered.

  "As you probably already guessed, the remaining rockets are held by three separate cells, with no contact with or knowledge of the others. The launcher is in a truck with a driver who's familiar with the unit's operation. He has no idea where the cells are located until he is contacted by Mustafa Yasin himself. What you might not know is that each cell also has a shipment of heroin that came in with the rockets. The sale of the heroin was being set up through Jonathan before he was aware of their terrorist ambitions. Now, though, after Gasta's attack on the L. A. cell, Yasin has pulled his people back. He's suspicious. But he's also desperate for cash."

  "Do you have the locations of the cells?"

  Volkov laughed quietly. "You give me too much credit, Mark. I managed to keep my relationship with Yasin from completely falling apart by seeing that Gasta was arrested. But he still thinks Gasta might have been under my control. It was a serious blow to the trust between us."

  "We need to figure out a way to find those rockets, Christian."

  "I understand, Mark, and I'll do everything I can to help you. But I have to say that I'm not hopeful."

  Chapter 58

  IT was nearly midnight but Laura Vilechi still couldn't sleep. She had been sitting on the bed in the small L. A. hotel room for two hours now, flipping the channels on the television to see if the press had found another colorful way to say that her investigation was a joke.

  In truth, it was hard to blame them--facts were facts. Despite all the theories, manpower, and scientific minutiae, she'd gotten almost nowhere. Her only stroke of brilliance had been dragging Mark into it and then manipulating him into throwing his life away to help her. She looked over at her cell phone on the nightstand, trying to will it to ring. She had no idea where Mark was now--or even if he was alive. How long would it take for a man like Christian Volkov to figure out that he had an FBI agent--hell, a well-known FBI agent--working for him? And what would happen when he did?

  She pushed herself into a more upright position on the bed and looked across the room into a large mirror hanging on the wall. The flowing blond hair and bright-red pajamas didn't exactly create an imposing image. Maybe the press was right. Maybe she wasn't up to the task of running an investigation of this size and complexity. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives at stake, and it was looking as though the FBI had entrusted them to just another semi-competent bureaucrat. As long as Mark was pointing her in the right direction, she might manage to do a thorough but uninspired job.

  She concentrated on the mirror harder, examining the deepening lines around her eyes that, she'd told herself, were badges of wisdom. Now they just looked like stress, age, and lack of sleep.

  Finally sliding off the bed, she walked into the bathroom and began stuffing her things into a leather bag sitting on the edge of the tub. Gasta was in West Virginia, and the physical evidence from the terrorist cell here--including the rocket and the bodies--had been carefully packaged and flown to the FBI's lab. L. A. was dead as far as this investigation went. It was time for her to get off her ass, get back to D. C., and work harder. Enough self-pity. And more than enough waiting for Mark to do her job for her.

  The knock on the door startled her and she leaned out of the bathroom, feeling her mood darken even further. Another damned reporter. It was the third time they'd tracked her down, despite her efforts to steer clear of them. Maybe they should be looking for the launcher.

  "Who is it?" she said, padding barefoot toward the door. She was only a few feet away when she heard the lock click. A moment later the door was thrown open and two men in dark suits rushed in. She turned and ran for the nightstand and her gun but wasn't fast enough. One of the men grabbed her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth while the other quietly shut the door.

  Laura surprised herself by half remembering her Quantico self-defense training and executed a sloppy countermove that was obviously anticipated. Her instructor would have been completely disgust
ed. She tried again, this time going for the man's groin, but whoever he was, he was strong as hell and good at this kind of thing. There was no way to get free.

  She was lifted off her feet and swung around to face the other man, who was now standing calmly in the middle of the room.

  "Ms. Vilechi," he said quietly. "I'm sorry about the melodrama." He pulled an identification card from his pocket and held it up in front of her. "We're from the CIA. We just need to talk to you."

  She felt her feet hit the ground and the arms holding her withdraw. When she glanced behind her, though, she saw that the man had only retreated a few inches and was ready to grab her again if necessary.

  "Have you been watching too many movies or something?" she said, trying to use anger to hide her fear. "What the hell do you think you're doing? If you'd have shown up ten minutes later, I'd have been wearing my gun and I might have shot one of you."

  "Calm down, Ms. Vilechi. Like I said, we're sorry about the entrance--we just needed to talk to you."

  "Then talk and get the hell out of here," she said, forcing herself to follow the man's advice to calm down. If Mark's suspicions about the CIA were right, she might actually be in danger here. How desperate were they at this point? "Maybe we could find a more suitable place," the man said. "We'd appreciate it if you could come with us for a little while."

  It obviously wasn't a request, but Laura knew she had to treat it as one. If she looked scared, they'd think she knew something. And the truth was, she really didn't. She made a show of glancing at her watch.

  "I've got two hours before I have to get on a plane back to D. C. You can have one of those hours if you drop me at the airport afterward. Let me call my office and tell them I'm not going to need a car."

  "That won't be necessary, ma'am. This won't take long." She started chewing her lip before she realized she was doing it. Despite his politeness, he obviously wasn't going to take no for an answer.

  "I don't suppose you mind if I put some clothes on." The man motioned to his partner, who examined the bathroom. "It's fine."