by Kyle Mills
"You sound scared, Elizabeth."
"I am. Aren't you?"
"Yeah. It's fine to be scared, but it's not so good to sound scared, okay?"
Wakil stopped in front of them, but the young boys accompanying him just passed by and headed straight for the helicopter. It was stuffed with gifts, though nothing quite so benevolent as the Lamborghini he'd taken to Laos. Mostly Russian rifles, heavy machine guns, and land mines. All the wonderful little gadgets that people turned to when there were a few dollars to be made, or their god spelled his name differently from their neighbor's god, or they thought Marx and Engels's book was better than Adam Smith's . . .
Wakil spoke in Arabic and Elizabeth whispered the translation in Beamon's ear.
"He wants to know if you're Mark."
"Tell him I am."
Wakil turned and motioned for them to follow. Beamon SPHERE OF INFLUENCE glanced back at the helicopter one last time and saw Wakil's men throwing boxes recklessly through the cargo doors, shouting gleefully.
"He wants us to go with him, I think," Elizabeth said. Probably not a bad idea. He didn't know much about military weaponry but guessed some of it didn't react well to being thrown from helicopters. The last thing he needed was to be blown to bits by the Islamic version of the Hitler Youth.
The encampment he'd seen in the distance was just that--an encampment. It consisted of five large tents, a few worn-out military vehicles, and a few camels. Honest--to-God camels. He leaned into Elizabeth's ear. "Just like in the movies."
Her only response was a short nod that was almost imperceptible beneath the folds of black cloth.
Wakil pushed open a flap and indicated that they were to enter. Beamon went through first, with Elizabeth a little too close behind. Inside, the ground was covered with colorful rugs and pillows, and the sound of the wind was replaced by the sound of flapping fabric.
Beamon stood motionless near the entrance, looking down at the man sitting cross-legged on the floor. You had to say one thing about Christian Volkov: The son of a bitch was well connected. Three weeks ago, Beamon would have laughed at anyone who suggested that he would one day be standing five feet from Mustafa Yasin.
He couldn't help being a little mesmerized by the man. Yasin was even more impressive in person than in his pictures. He exuded a charismatic intensity like no one else Beamon had ever met. When he spoke he did so quietly, but the sound easily overpowered the drone of the wind on the tent.
"He invites you to sit," Elizabeth said.
Beamon sank onto a dusty pillow and Elizabeth knelt next to him. He heard the flap open and two women--at least, he assumed there were women under there somewhere--entered, carrying trays of food. They were laid in front of Beamon and he took the hint, beginning to eat reluctantly. It looked and tasted a hell of a lot better than General Yung's home brew, but he guessed it was just as deadly. As a precaution, he'd gulped a few antibiotics and a bottle of Pepto on the way there. Yasin didn't eat.
"Christian regrets not being able to come here himself," Beamon said, mimicking his successful performance in Laos. "You understand that it is very difficult for him to travel now."
Yasin didn't react, just stared out along his impressive nose.
"I'm here," Beamon continued respectfully, "in hopes that we can again find the trust that we lost through our mistake of employing Carlo Gasta in America."
Elizabeth's translation still got no reaction, so Beamon just shut up. He needed something to tell him he was on the right ass-kissing track here. For all he knew, he was just digging himself in deeper.
Yasin sat with statue like stillness. Signs of life were minimal until he finally spoke.
"Our brothers are dead or being held hostage by America's FBI because of your man, Gasta," Elizabeth whispered, her lips brushing Beamon's ear. "And he stole from us. How can you possibly atone for that? How can you expect to regain our trust?"
Of course Gasta was completely unconnected to Volkov, but now probably wasn't the time to go into the CIA's involvement.
"We believe," Yasin continued, "that Christian Volkov either ordered this action or that he cannot control his people."
"Christian did not order it," Beamon said. "Why would he? He's taken great risks and incurred great expense to build a relationship with you. In the past he has come here personally in friendship."
The conversation was frustratingly slow with Elizabeth translating both sides.
"Then why is Gasta not dead? He is in the custody of the American authorities, where he is in a position to expose us all."
"It was the best option under the circumstances," Beamon answered. "Carlo Gasta was greedy and looking to go out on his own. He had backing to do so from our enemies. Christian had him arrested and has made it clear that his only chance at survival is by informing on those people." In truth Beamon still hadn't figured out why Volkov had gone to such great lengths to get Gasta to roll over on a bunch of more or less irrelevant wiseguys, but this imaginary explanation worked well in the current context. "Even if the men who turned Gasta against us aren't indicted immediately," Beamon continued, "they've been rendered harmless. It would have been impossible to kill them all, but Christian has created a situation where the American authorities will do our job for us. And the compensation for the heroin you lost is on the helicopter we came in. Right now your men are unloading double the heroin's value in weapons, and we're making arrangements to purchase the remaining heroin that your people have brought into America."
Yasin was obviously suspicious. "You still wish to buy our product?"
"Of course. It was our agreement."
Al-Qaeda was being squeezed financially by its ambitions in the region and the loss of its financial cornerstone, Osama bin Laden. They were desperate for cash, and Beamon's payment in weapons instead of currency didn't go very far to solve that problem.
"When?"
"As soon as we can set up meetings between your people and ours."
Yasin frowned regally. "And I should trust you?', "I told you the circumstances of your men's deaths as openly as I can. Of course, if you aren't comfortable dealing with our people, I understand. It may take time, but we are committed to rebuilding our relationship. Perhaps we should just postpone the transactions indefinitely. Until you're confident again."
It was a risky suggestion, but Beamon was fairly certain that Yasin didn't have the U. S. contacts to unload that much product without the help of Volkov or the now permanently indisposed Jonathan Drake. The question was: How badly did he need the money?
Yasin stood suddenly. "Excuse me for a moment."
He disappeared through the tent flap, giving Beamon a glimpse of the armed men--boys--outside.
"How am I doing?" he whispered to Elizabeth. "I think they're going to kill us."
"Really? I thought he was starting to like me. I can be very charming, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"We're not dead yet," he whispered as Yasin reappeared and sat in front of them again.
Beamon felt Elizabeth's grip on his arm tighten as the Arab spoke, but he wasn't sure how to interpret the pressure.
"He says he'll agree to one transaction," she whispered excitedly.
Beamon nodded slowly, stalling for a few moments. He needed all three--he had to locate all the rockets, not just one. And he needed to do it before Christian blew this whole thing up.
"We would be happy to do all three," he said as smoothly as possible. "We have the money set aside." "One," Yasin responded forcefully. "Then we will discuss the others."
It wasn't difficult to see that the man wasn't going to change his mind. One was all they were going to get. That meant he had to pick the cell that was going to use their rocket first in order to have a chance at getting hold of the launcher.
"When?"
"Tonight." Yasin clearly wasn't an idiot. He wasn't going to give Beamon enough time to set up an ambush. "Where?"
"El Paso, Texas."
Beamon neede
d more information than that. He needed to know where the others were. He needed some clue as to where the launcher was going to be.
"Texas," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Texas could be a problem. As you know, the Mexicans are very concerned about the disruption in their heroin supply. If they were to find out you're going around them directly to the American market, it could destroy everything we've worked to build. Would it be possible to choose a place where the Mexicans have fewer ears?"
Yasin stroked his long beard thoughtfully. "New York." Beamon laughed quietly. "You pick difficult locations, my friend. Right now Carlo Gasta is informing on some of the most powerful organized-crime figures in America, most of whom are based there. New York is a powder keg." He glanced over at Elizabeth, but she seemed to be having no problem getting across the concept of a powder keg. Yasin's face darkened and he focused his piercing stare on Beamon, who stared back but tried to remain passive. Finally the Arab stood again and walked out of the tent without a word. When he was gone, Elizabeth whispered in Beamon's ear, "You're trying to find out where all of them are?"
He nodded. "And he's trying to decide if I'm just pumping him for information so I can set him up again. But he can't figure how I could possibly use the general locations of well-hidden terrorist cells to my advantage."
"I'm a little curious about that too."
Yasin was gone a solid five minutes this time. When he returned, he sat again and said simply, "Las Vegas." Beamon took a deep breath and let it out slowly, giving himself a few seconds to think. That was it--those were the three locations. If he were a terrorist, which one would he go for next? Where would he send the launcher?
"We have no people in Las Vegas right now," Beamon said, hoping that Yasin would assume that with no infrastructure there, Volkov's organization would have a hard time setting up an ambush. "Maybe New York would be better. The Mob is in an uproar, but at least we have a reliable organization in place. I mean, if you want to do it tonight. . . ."
Yasin's dark eyes narrowed. "No. Las Vegas. If you don't have people there, send them. Tonight."
"I can't convince you--"
"No."
Beamon affected a worried expression and stood. "I'm going to have to leave immediately to try to get this set up. As a show of good faith, I'll have the money wired to your account in Iraq immediately and you'll be able to confirm the transfer before you send your people."
Yasin blessed him with a short nod.
"Okay," Beamon said, pulling a notepad from his pocket and jotting down Laura's cell phone number, then handing it to Yasin. "I'll have my people on their way to Vegas in a few hours. Have your people call this number and tell the woman who answers where and when they want to meet."
The helicopter's cargo hold was just a dirty, empty cavern when they returned, but it was still one hell of a welcome sight. They couldn't take off immediately because Yasin's men had been so intoxicated with their new toys, they had uncrated them only a few feet away. Beamon watched them through a small window as they moved the mess of materiel to a safer distance.
A sudden high-pitched, warbling scream made him jump and he spun around to see Elizabeth peeling off her burka to reveal a pair of khaki shorts and a white blouse.
"Jesus Christ," Beamon said, clutching his chest. "A little respect for the condition of my arteries, please."
"Sorry, Mark. Women in this part of the world do that when they're happy. It seemed appropriate. I never thought we'd leave here."
"Ye of little faith," Beamon said, dialing Laura's number into his satellite phone.
"Hello?"
"It's Mark. Listen, a nice man named Mustafa Yasin is going to call you at this number--so find yourself someone who can translate fast. He's going to want you to send people to buy some heroin from a group of his men in Las Vegas. I'm going to take care of paying for it, so you don't need to worry about that. Just pick it up, thank everybody nicely, and have someone very quietly follow the bastards. Then all you're going to do is settle in and watch them. Don't--I repeat, don't--do anything else.
Just surround the shit out of them and hide. Do you understand?"
"Mark, what--"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to be able to get anyone to help you with this? I can get you some people if you need them. . . ." "No, I'll take care of it."
He clicked the phone off and once again hoped that Vegas had been the right guess.
Elizabeth sat down on the dirty floor a few feet away from him and hugged her knees to her chest. "You're trying to find the launcher--the one they're using to threaten the Americans with. . . ."
Beamon nodded, suddenly realizing that he didn't know what Elizabeth had been told about him. He assumed that she still thought he was Nicolai.
"I have to ask you, Mark: Why Las Vegas? Why not El Paso or New York?"
"Why do you think?"
"Because he mentioned it last, right?"
"I hadn't really thought of that. Good point, though." "Why, then?"
"You've got to remember that if Yasin's people use that launcher, they expose themselves and risk getting caught. He has to make it count. I see El Paso as a transition point. I'm guessing that his people smuggled the rocket over the border there and are waiting for instructions on where to go. Think about it. What's in El Paso? I mean, what's there that would make a real statement? If you blow something up, you'd probably get more Mexicans than you would Americans."
"Why not New York, then? That would be a statement." "These rockets have a range of only about twelve miles and no real guidance system. If you wanted to hit something major, you'd have to have a pretty straight shot and be only a few miles from it. Besides, they've already hit New York. They want to make the point that no one is safe no matter where they are."
"So, by process of elimination, Las Vegas."
"More than just elimination. Huge buildings with profiles that are the proverbial broad side of a barn, surrounded by empty desert. And the best part is that the casinos are full all the time, making them a fantastic nighttime target."
"No visible contrail at night."
"Precisely. With the cover of dark, their chance of getting away is a hell of a lot better."
The helicopter started to vibrate as the engines began to warm up.
"Pretty smart, Mark. I hope you're right."
Chapter 61
THE ring of fire in the sky seemed like a different sun than the one he knew. Christian Volkov always looked forward to summer--the long, warm afternoons reading outside, the landscape coming to life. The Mexican sun, though, wasn't so benevolent. It shone mercilessly, burning and finally killing everything beneath it.
The plane that had dropped him on this desolate airstrip had taken to the air as soon as he'd disembarked, moving out of reach in case the situation deteriorated. Volkov looked out over the red dirt and broken rocks that made up the landscape around him and searched for any sign of human habitation. Except for the makeshift runway, there was nothing. No roads, no structures, no sign of the bleached garbage that clung to the rest of Mexico.
It wasn't long before a plume of dust appeared on the horizon and began to lengthen steadily. He knew he should feel frightened or at least nervous. He rarely entered the world of the people he did business with, preferring to maintain the cocoon of misdirection and confusion he'd constructed around himself by having them come to him. In this instance, though, he'd had no choice. Mexico was the key to his future now, and there was little chance that the attorney general could be persuaded to leave his borders or be swayed by one of Volkov's messengers.
The source of the dust was visible now: No fewer than four Mexican army jeeps were speeding recklessly toward him across the desert. When they were only a few hundred meters from him, the column split, sending two of the jeeps flying past him on either side. All four vehicles skidded to a stop simultaneously, engulfing him in a choking cloud of red dust that forced him to hold his breath
and close his eyes. His welcome thus far was less than hospitable. It could only be a bad sign.
By the time the air cleared, the jeeps in front of him were empty and being used as cover by no fewer than eight men, each with a firearm aimed at him. Volkov turned in a slow circle, confirming that the soldiers behind had taken an equally aggressive posture.
As he came around to his original position he saw another vehicle following the same path the jeeps had but at a much slower speed. It looked like some kind of American sport utility, though he couldn't be certain of the make. Like his new friend Mark Beamon, he knew very little about cars.
The vehicle rolled to a graceful stop behind the dirty, fatigue-clad men guarding him, and Volkov watched a man in khaki slacks and a white golf shirt step out.
"Alan Holsten, I presume," Volkov said as the man closed the gap between them on foot. He had a smallish frame and a soft, well-tended look to him that hadn't been completely apparent in the photos Volkov had seen. In person he looked very much the product of his wealthy and pampered upbringing.
"Mr. Volkov," he said. "Or should I say Mihai Florescu?" It had been a long time since Volkov had heard his real name spoken. He wondered if there was any spark of that boy left in him.
"I suppose you're surprised that Castaneda would turn on you like this."
Volkov looked around him again. The guns had been raised in deference to the CIA man's presence but were still at the ready. "Surprised may be too strong a word. But I am disappointed that he'd make such an obvious mistake."
Holsten let out a loud, condescending laugh. "That's your weakness, Christian: arrogance. Do you know what you are?"
"I know exactly what I am, Alan."
Holsten wagged a finger at him. "There it is again--that fatal arrogance. Tell me, then. Are you a businessman? A victim of an unjust homeland? A revolutionary? Let me clue you in, Christian--you're just a drug dealer. Maybe a little wealthier and a little smarter than some hood on the street, but no different."
Volkov didn't argue. He didn't seem to be in a very good position to debate, and nothing Holsten had said was really untrue.