Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  "Please do. Leave the door open just a crack, though, please."

  They watched silently as she gathered her things from the closet. Her gun was next to her phone on the night-stand, but there was no way to get either.

  She went into the bathroom and pushed the door almost closed, concentrating on steadying her breathing. She was now officially scared. The CIA didn't screw around with high-ranking FBI agents and then just let them go back to work the next day to tell the tale. Was Mark right? Had they killed Chet? Were they going to do the same thing to her?

  She pulled on her slacks and buttoned up her blouse, trying to think. She could scream, but the hotel was pretty soundproof and they'd be through the door in about two seconds. Maybe on the way out? No, they would have planned for that somehow.

  "Are you ready, Ms. Vilechi?"

  She took a few deep breaths and stepped out of the bathroom. One of the men led the way to the door and the other stayed behind her as they exited into the hall.

  They'd made it about ten feet down the corridor when two men appeared from a small alcove that housed the floor's ice machine. Less than three seconds later they had both CIA agents lying on their stomachs, each with a nearly invisible strand of wire looped tightly around their necks.

  Laura retreated a few feet but then stopped, not sure what to do. Distinguishing friends from enemies wasn't as simple as it had once been. The men holding the garrotes were both thin, with short, dark hair and nice but nondescript suits. She was fairly certain that she'd never seen either of them before in her life.

  "Mark Beamon sends his compliments, ma'am," one of the men said through a thick accent that sounded German. He looked up at her and smiled politely. "Would you mind very much opening the door to your room?"

  She knew she should be running for the stairs but instead found herself pulling her key card from her pocket and holding the door open while they pulled the two suddenly very cooperative CIA agents inside.

  "Mark asks that you perhaps make yourself difficult to find for a few days," the German man said, still with that relaxed smile. He didn't seem particularly concerned by the fact that he was on the verge of strangling an agent of the U. S. government.

  "What . . . what about them?"

  "We'll take care of them."

  "You're not going to kill them, are you?" she said. "You can't kill them."

  "Mark was very specific that they not be harmed."

  She looked down at the blood starting to flow from the shallow cuts opening around the neck of the man who had grabbed her earlier. The German followed her gaze.

  "Not to be harmed in any permanent way," he corrected.

  Chapter 59

  "I HEAR you met Wolfgang," Beamon said into the satellite phone Joseph had finally managed to teach him to use. "Mark! What the hell's going on?"

  "Alan Holsten is pretty interested in finding me. It stood to reason that he'd try to go through you."

  "Alan Holsten? You mean Deputy Director of Operations Alan Holsten?"

  Beamon walked across the wide terrace and examined an enormous pot full of blooming flowers. "You know him?"

  "The DDO," she said quietly. "That's great, Mark. That's just great."

  "Can you make yourself scarce while I get all this straightened out?"

  "No, I can't make myself scarce--I'm in the middle of one of the biggest investigations in the history of the FBI. I may not be doing a very good job, but I can't just disappear."

  "You're doing a great job, Laura. You don't know it but you're getting closer and closer. Can you get some protection, then? If not, you're welcome to keep Wolfgang."

  "I don't need European mercenaries watching my back," she said, the anger and frustration audible in her voice. "I'll get some people from the FBI."

  "Find people you've got some history with, Laura. Holsten's got a lot of influence, and you're his best bet to get to me."

  "How far would he go to accomplish that?"

  Beamon didn't answer. The truth was he didn't know. "Mark, we need to talk to somebody at the Bureau about all this. It's getting too big for us to handle alone. . . ."

  "Give me and Christian a couple of days, Laura. I don't need a leak here, okay?"

  "You and Christian. . . . Getting to be good friends, are you?"

  "I'm not sure what we're getting to be."

  "It was supposed to be a joke, Mark. The correct response is that you're setting him up and about to get him." Beamon laughed. "I'm not going to get him, Laura. Even if I wanted to, I doubt I could. Christian's a reasonable guy with what's starting to look like a pretty clear agenda."

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Go ahead."

  "What side are you on, Mark? Do you know anymore?" "America's side," he said, then laughed again. "Damn, that sounded patriotic. Somebody get me a flag."

  "What about Jonathan, Mark? Should I be worried about him too?"

  "Jonathan's dead."

  There was a short silence over the line. "Did you . . . did you kill him?"

  "No, Laura, I didn't kill him. But he's still dead, and that takes care of about half our problem. This thing with alQaeda is too lunatic-fringe for a lot of people to be involved. I'm guessing that Drake and Holsten dreamed this one up on their own. So now we've just got to steer clear of Holsten for a little while."

  "Just Holsten. Great."

  "What's going on with the launcher?"

  "Nothing," she said miserably. "It could be anywhere. I'm working with DEA, local narcotics people, and Immigration, but I'm not hopeful. At this point, pathetic as it sounds, we're waiting for a launch and hoping to get something from that."

  Beamon turned away from the flowers and wandered back to the house. "I'm working on it, Laura. I expect to have something for you soon. I don't know what, but something."

  "I hope you're right."

  He pushed through a set of glass doors and found Christian Volkov sitting with his feet on his desk, speaking an unidentifiable language into a telephone headset. He waved toward a chair.

  "Look, I've gotta go, Laura. I'm checking my messages, so if you need me, leave one."

  "Mark?"

  "Yeah."

  "I know what you've given up to help me. I just wanted to say . . . well, thanks."

  He hung up the phone just as Volkov tossed his headset onto his desk.

  "I'm sorry, Mark. I've tried, but I think it's hopeless." "What's hopeless?"

  "Finding your rocket launcher. The Afghans are still blaming me for the deaths of their people in L. A., and the fact that I had Carlo Gasta arrested hasn't really helped. At a minimum they wanted him dead."

  "You're telling me that you can't get a single thing out of them that could help me?" Beamon asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism. Volkov hadn't failed at anything since they'd met.

  "I can't just come out and ask where they're keeping their launcher and the rockets, Mark. They're already suspicious and wouldn't tell me even if they weren't. Besides, the Arabs just aren't phone negotiators. They're technophobes by nature--they only trust face-to-face meetings."

  "Meaning?" Beamon said.

  "Meaning that I can set up a meeting if you want me to. You can go and physically sit down with Mustafa Yasin. Personally, I'd recommend against it. I think it's unlikely that you'd get anything useful--much more likely that they'll just kill you as payment for their men who died in L. A. An eye for an eye and all that. . . . It wouldn't be a pleasant death, Mark."

  "You paint such a rosy picture."

  "An accurate picture, I think."

  Beamon pulled a lighter from the fancy ashtray that had appeared next to the chair he favored and lit a cigarette. But you want me to go, don't you, Christian? I mean, it works for you. I convince Yasin to trust you again or they kill me and get their eye for an eye. Either way, your relationship with al-Qaeda is improved. And the more they trust you, the easier it's going to be for you to screw them." "For God's sake," Volkov said, letting his feet fall from his
desk loudly. "I just told you not to go. In the long run, your death would cost me more than it would gain me. Listen to me very carefully, Mark. You didn't cause any of this--it was the CIA's doing. Leave it to the American authorities to straighten out. It's their job."

  Of course, Volkov was right. He wasn't an FBI agent anymore. In fact, it was hard to imagine how he could get much further from his former life at the bureau.

  "I can't just let this go, Christian."

  "No, of course you can't. And I won't insult your intelligence--if you get killed doing something that I believe is pointless and extremely dangerous, I'm going to do everything I can to use your death to my advantage. I won't be happy about it, though."

  "I feel so much better, knowing that you'll feel a brief moment of remorse before you use my mutilated corpse to help you hook America's children on Asian heroin."

  "I do what I can," Volkov said, leaning to his right and looking around Beamon. "Elizabeth. Come in."

  Beamon twisted around in his chair and watched her approach. She was dressed head to toe in a flowing black gown that revealed nothing of her. Even her eyes were partially obscured by black mesh.

  "That's a new look," Beamon said suspiciously.

  "You're going to need a translator, and I speak Arabic." Beamon frowned. He hated being predictable. "That doesn't seem like such a good idea. I think I'll just go this one alone."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," Volkov said. "Many of Yasin's people don't speak English, and he refuses to. You have to have a translator."

  "Look, I think--" Beamon began.

  Elizabeth cut him off "We're just about ready to go, Mark. I've gathered some information for you--you can read over it on the plane."

  "But--"

  She pulled off her headdress and looked at her watch. "Forty-five minutes?" Then she spun on her heels and hurried out of the office.

  "It's not my first choice to send a woman--Elizabeth particularly--into this," Volkov said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd make sure she returns."

  Beamon turned back to him. "I don't want her, Christian. I'll make do."

  Volkov shook his head. "Everything in life costs, Mark. The price for a chance at saving America from itself may be your life and Elizabeth's. I think it's too expensive. But it's up to you."

  Beamon stared out the window, trying to convince himself that he had a choice. But he didn't. How many people would die if that launcher was used? Besides, Volkov was right--this was going to be a fairly delicate piece of negotiating, and he wasn't going to get far using just his charades skills.

  "I'll bring her back."

  "If it was anyone but you, I wouldn't let her go at all." Volkov reached for a glass of water on the desk and took a quick sip. "You have three days, Mark. On Saturday I'm going to cut the Middle East off from the Mexican distribution lines. When that happens, my relationship with the Afghans is going to sour very quickly, and Yasin's people in America will be completely out of my reach--and out of yours, too, I think."

  "Three days. Okay."

  "Be very careful, Mark. I won't be available to help you--even if I could. I'm leaving for Mexico tonight to meet with the attorney general."

  "Of Mexico? Salvador Castaneda?"

  Volkov nodded.

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  Beamon shrugged. "We know that Castaneda is a facilitator of narcotics trafficking--taking bribes and such. And we know that President Garcia looks the other way. That's why Mexico's been decertified. Our relationship with them is probably at a hundred-year low."

  "Castaneda is much more powerful than your DEA imagines. He doesn't take bribes so much as he oversees his country's narcotics machine. He's the critical link in coordinating traffickers with the military and police. Actually, he's quite an administrator. If he weren't such a sadistic, backstabbing cretin, I'd be looking to make him part of my organization when he leaves office."

  "So that's it," Beamon said. "That's how you're planning on pulling this off He has all the contacts and can coordinate the whole thing for you."

  Volkov nodded. "He'll prefer dealing with the Asians, I think. More money, less risk."

  "That's a lot to hang on an 'I think."'

  Volkov smiled. "Not to worry. I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."

  Chapter 60

  ANOTHER goddamn helicopter.

  This one was a Russian military rig with two rotors, an enormous cargo hold, and an absolute minimum of creature comforts. Beamon had already plowed through the box lunch Francois had prepared and now all there was to do was gaze out over the mountainous, sunburned landscape below. He felt a long way from home.

  Another half hour passed before he spotted what looked like a small encampment in the distance. He leaned forward, as though that would help him penetrate the dusty haze that seemed to blanket this part of the world. "Is that it?" he shouted into the microphone suspended in front of his mouth.

  The pilot nodded.

  "Not too close. Land a good half mile away."

  The young man behind the controls flipped a few switches and the wildly vibrating helicopter smoothed out a bit as it started to descend. Individual structures were starting to become visible, and Beamon gave the encampment they were hurtling toward another quick look before sliding out of his seat and ducking back into the cargo hold.

  "We're there," Elizabeth said with quiet resignation that made her hard to understand over the noise. She was strapped into an uncomfortable-looking jump seat, wearing all her Muslim garb with the exception of the elaborate headpiece.

  "Yeah, we're there," Beamon shouted. "I'm sorry I got you into this, Elizabeth. My plan was to come in here alone."

  She reached up and grabbed his shirt, pulling him close enough that she could speak in a more or less normal tone. "You asked me once why I didn't just get a real job. Why didn't you?"

  Beamon shrugged. "I guess 'cause I'd miss the rush." "Same with me. But I suppose you have to live with the fact that sometimes the rush is a little more than you bargained for."

  A broad, nervous smile spread across her face, and Beamon couldn't help returning the grin. Had there been women like this when he'd been in his twenties? Not that he could remember.

  "Get ready," he said, starting toward the back of the airship. He fell to his knees when the skids hit the ground but managed to haul himself back to his feet with the aid of a large crate, which he then slid behind.

  The sound of the engine was quickly dying as he dialed a number into his satellite phone.

  "Hello?" came an Irish voice.

  "Daniel? It's Mark. How are things?"

  "Fine. Everything's quiet."

  The engines went silent but the helicopter continued to rock gently, buffeted by the wind attacking the fuselage. "Is she there?"

  "Yeah, it's pretty early here."

  Beamon had sent Daniel and another of Volkov's men to watch Carrie's house, with orders to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe. He thought it was unlikely that the CIA would go after her, but who knew what Holsten would do if he started feeling truly desperate?

  "Okay. Thanks, Daniel." He hung up and then took a deep breath before dialing Carrie's number.

  "Hello?" She sounded groggy, but years as a doctor had made her accustomed to being awakened at all hours. "Cathe!"

  "Mark? Where are you? I can barely hear you. Are you back in Phoenix?"

  "Not exactly. I'm still kind of tied up on this investigation."

  "That's interesting. I'm hearing that you quit the FBI. Is that true?"

  "Who told you that? Laura?"

  "No. Laura keeps telling me everything is fine. But I think she's lying. She sounds ... I don't know. Horrible." "Then, who?"

  "Two FBI agents I didn't know showed up at my door yesterday. They wanted to know if I could help them find you."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "Everything I know, which is nothing. They said I should call them right away if I heard from you."
>
  "You do that, Carrie. Call them right after we hang up and answer all their questions as truthfully as you can. More than likely they're listening to this conversation anyway."

  "Are you kidding? You think my phone is tapped?" "Probably," he said honestly. If not by the Bureau, certainly by the CIA.

  "What's going on, Mark? Did you really quit? And why do they want to find you so badly?"

  "The answers are yes and it's a long story."

  "Maybe they want you back?" she said with uncharacteristic optimism.

  Beamon couldn't help smiling despite his position wedged behind a crate full of weapons on a Russian helicopter in the Afghan desert. "Yeah, they want me all right."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I actually picked up a really lucrative consulting contract," he said. Not a lie. "Sorry I didn't call sooner, but I wanted to straighten things out first. There hasn't been a lot of time."

  "That doesn't explain my phones being tapped. Is your client the Mob or something?" The joke sounded a little strained. It would have been a lot more strained if she knew she wasn't thinking big enough.

  "Mark?"

  Beamon spun around and saw Elizabeth peeking around the crate he was hiding behind.

  "They're coming," she said. He nodded and she disappeared again.

  "Look, I have to go. I just wanted to say . . ." Good-bye came to mind. "I just wanted to say hello."

  He turned the phone off before she could say anything more and followed Elizabeth to a large set of sliding doors that had been thrown open to the desert.

  The wind was cold and filled with enough sand to actually sting his skin as he jumped to the ground. He helped Elizabeth out of the helicopter and looked through the black mesh into her eyes.

  "Show time," he said as they started forward to meet the approaching group of well-armed men. While nasty-looking machine guns seemed to be in good supply, none were yet pointed at his head. A good sign.

  "The man in front, the kind of tall one," Elizabeth said, "is Mohammed Wakil. He's one of Yasin's top people. Did you read the stuff I gave you on him?"

  Beamon nodded.

  "He speaks enough English to pick up a word here and there, so be careful what you say to me. . . ."