by Kyle Mills
"I'd love some," Volkov said calmly.
"Milk?"
"Please."
Holsten came to a stop in the middle of the office and watched the bizarre ceremony with his mouth half hanging open.
"What the hell--"
Castaneda waved his hand and, surprisingly, Holsten shut up. He was obviously not too conceited to recognize that he was at the very edge of his sphere of influence and that the Mexican was in control.
Volkov accepted his tea with a calm, graceful smile.
"I intend to speak frankly because I believe that the time for subterfuge is past," Castaneda said, leaning against his desk. He was a handsome man in a calculated sort of way, with a thin mustache and well-tended hair that always made Volkov think of old American movies.
"It goes without saying that all of the decisions I've made have been based purely on business and that I hold no personal animosity toward anyone in this room."
Volkov took a sip of his tea. "Could I have a sugar, please?"
"Of course." Castaneda used a pair of small silver tongs to drop a cube into Volkov's cup.
"Jesus Christ," Holsten muttered, continuing to throw away his advantage. It was critical for Volkov to play up the difference between them--the unthinking volatility of the CIA versus his organization's calm, predictable efficiency.
"We had a deal," the attorney general continued, talking to Holsten but looking at Volkov, "based on your assurances that there was no one capable of keeping Mr. Volkov's organization together."
"There is no one," Holsten said emphatically.
"I have to disagree. A few hours ago I received a call from a former FBI agent named Mark Beamon, who insists that he is very much in control. And I've confirmed through the FBI that he is currently being sought for questioning in relation to the Afghans recently killed in Los Angeles."
Holsten opened his mouth to speak, but Castaneda ignored him. "I'm familiar with Mr. Beamon, as I think most people involved in my kind of business are. He was a dangerous opponent when he was with the FBI. Now, though"--he shook his head--"unbounded by the confines of that organization, I believe him to be fully capable of filling Mr. Volkov's shoes."
Volkov saw Holsten's face go blank for a moment. He'd assumed that Beamon was dead and was having to very quickly switch gears.
"Beamon is an undercover FBI agent," he stuttered.
"His job . . . his job is to destroy Volkov's organization. . . ."
"According to my information, he has resigned his position and is a wanted man. The charges against him are grave and seem to be easily proven. No, I think Mr. Beamon knows that he can never return to the U. S."
"This is insane," Holsten said, starting to pace again. "He's an FBI agent, for Christ's sake!"
Americans could be so blind, Volkov thought as he stirred his tea. To Holsten the idea that a government employee with Mark Beamon's reputation would go to work for organized crime was ludicrous. But Salvador Castaneda certainly would not share that sentiment. He was one of the most powerful politicians in Mexico and was a pivotal player in the illegal narcotics trade. In Mexico, as in many countries, the line between organized crime, politics, the military, and the police was blurry at best. Based on the world he had been born to, Castaneda would have no reason to believe that Beamon would do anything but run Volkov's organization to the best of his ability and reap the significant financial rewards for doing so.
"Mr. Holsten," Castaneda started again, "you have offered me two things: first, protection from Mr. Volkov's organization--something it would appear that you can't deliver, since you don't even know who's running it. And second, you've offered me the friendship of the CIA. But now there is some question as to whether that is yours to give. When I spoke with Mr. Beamon, he suggested that you have no backing for this operation, either at the CIA or within the political framework. In his mind, my best-case scenario is that you stay in your position for the next eight years until you are forced to retire. He makes a compelling argument that your career will not survive the next twelve months, though."
"Mark Beamon has no idea what he is talking about!" Holsten managed not to shout, but the anger in his voice was obviously just at the edge of his control. "Like you said, he isn't even an FBI agent anymore. And even when he was, he was nothing more than the special agent in charge of an office thousands of miles from Washington. He has no idea about the inner workings of the CIA." "Then I suggest we get your boss, the Director, on the phone. We should discuss this situation fully and decide exactly what kind of support I can expect going forward should I decide to give you Mr. Volkov."
When Holsten just stood silently in. the middle of the office, Castaneda nodded knowingly and turned to Volkov. "What is it you ask of me?"
Volkov set his empty cup down on the table next to him and cleared his throat. "You're aware of al-Qaeda's ongoing takeover of the heroin refining and trafficking capabilities of the Middle East. And I know you're aware of the supply problems and increased scrutiny Yasin's involvement has caused and will continue to cause."
"Of course."
"My proposal is simple and mutually beneficial. We replace your current Middle Eastern suppliers with my associates in Asia."
Castaneda stared at him for a moment, blinking. "Simple? You think this is simple? And when exactly would you propose we do this?"
Volkov smiled easily. "I'm free Friday."
The attorney general laughed out loud. "Is this a joke?"
Volkov shook his head and pointed to the phone. "Have your assistant call Charles Russell's office. Use the name Paul Holt."
Out of the corner of his eye, Volkov could see Holsten's head swiveling back and forth as he tried to understand what was happening. He tensed visibly when Castaneda shrugged and pressed down the intercom, asking his assistant to do as Volkov instructed. A few moments later her voice came over the speaker on Castaneda's phone, telling him in Spanish that he was being connected.
"What . . . what did she say," Holsten asked. Castaneda ignored him and handed Volkov the phone.
"Hello? Mr. Russell?"
"Yes."
"I'm here with Salvador. Would you have a moment to speak with him?"
"Put him on."
Volkov handed the phone back to Castaneda, who sat down behind his desk and pressed it to his ear. He spoke very little, mostly just nodding as he listened to Russell's proposal. After about five minutes he gently replaced the handset and stared across the desk at Volkov. "Mr. Russell seems to have a great deal of confidence in you. He makes a compelling argument that I should give serious consideration to whatever you propose. I'm listening."
Volkov picked up his cup and refilled it from the pot on the desk. "On Friday we will coordinate an effort through your military and police to arrest Afghan and other Middle Eastern narcotics distributors in your country, confiscate their inventory, and destroy or take control of what infrastructure they have in place. The effort will be heavily publicized, with American reporters along on the raids. It will come out that this was a highly confidential operation, coordinated by you, President Garcia, and Charles Russell. Of course, all press releases from the Mexican government will go through Russell's people for approval and distribution."
"Of course."
"Then, I'll coordinate the shift in supply to my Asian associates and give you my word that all of this"--he waved his hand in a lazy arc, indicating Castaneda's involvement in his kidnapping--"is behind us."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll continue to be tied to an increasingly unstable heroin supply under the intensifying spotlight brought about by al-Qaeda's terrorist activities. And then, of course, there's Mark Beamon. I'll be dead, but you'll still have him to deal with. I honestly don't know how he'll react."
"This is absurd," Holsten said as Castaneda sank further into his soft leather chair. "We can help you stabilize your Middle Eastern supply lines and we're asking almost nothing in return. Why would you bend over backward for Charl
es Russell--an elected official--at the risk of making an enemy of the CIA?"
Castaneda finally met Holsten's gaze. "I'm beginning to think that you don't speak for the CIA, Alan. And what Russell has offered me is quite valuable."
"What?"
"In return for my cooperation, he has guaranteed the certification of Mexico's antinarcotics effort for as long as I am in office. Are you prepared to offer more?"
Chapter 65
CHRISTIAN Volkov twisted his head slowly back and forth, trying to relax the knot in the back of his neck. Thanks to the eminently reliable Mark Beamon, he had arrived back at his home in nearly untouched condition. The one exception was a light bruise on one cheek, thanks to Alan Holsten, and the inexplicable ache in his neck that accompanied it. Well, not entirely inexplicable. He just wasn't as young as he once was.
The expansive room was dimly lit, making the myriad monitors and television screens more easily visible. There were no fewer than ten people lined up along the wall, most sitting in front of computer terminals with headsets similar to the one he was wearing. Volkov walked toward the open door leading to a broad terrace but didn't step through. He just turned and stood with his back to the doorway, letting the breeze chill his sweat-dampened skin and listening to the chorus of Spanish voices filling the room.
As expected, Castaneda had enthusiastically accepted Charles Russell's offer of guaranteed certification for Mexico and the opportunity to replace the volatile and highly public Afghans with the efficient and shadowy Asians. Now all Volkov had to do was perform the nearly impossible task of coordinating the end of Mustafa Yasin's brief narcotics career.
Surprisingly, the only disastrous glitch so far had been Volkov's inability to convince Castaneda to keep Alan Holsten incommunicado during the transition. It seemed that holding the CIA's deputy director of operations against his will was too much to ask. Not surprising, but it added yet another facet to an already insurmountably complex situation.
"We've got a plane with a mechanical problem stuck in Panama," Volkov heard Elizabeth say. She sounded a little panicked. "Can we cover it?"
Joseph spoke quietly to one of the people sitting along the wall as he gazed at the computer screen in front of him. "I'm not sure. . . . We might be able to bring in a cargo plane we have on the ground in Nicaragua. Are we in contact with them?"
Volkov wiped the perspiration from his upper lip and listened intently to his assistants' conversation. He had been entrusted with literally hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of product and virtual control of Mexico's military and law enforcement, based on his insistence that he would succeed in this. If he didn't, he'd spend the rest of his short life running from the people he'd failed.
Elizabeth tapped a button on the phone attached to her hip and started speaking quietly into her headset, pacing back and forth across the room.
"Elizabeth?" Volkov prompted.
She held up a hand and continued to talk, finally clamping a hand over her headset's microphone. "We're okay. They can be in the air in a few minutes. We're looking at no more than an hour's delay."
"Let the people on the ground know and tell them the price of the shipment will be cut by one-third for the inconvenience," Volkov said.
She nodded and went back to speaking quietly into her headset.
With the latest of what seemed like a hundred problems averted, Volkov tried to calm himself and focus on the big picture for a moment.
His entire future was to be determined by two critical hours, one of which was already gone. Timing was everything now. The literally hundreds of drug traffickers, Mexican police, and soldiers had to be coordinated with absolute precision. Once the Afghans had been led to the slaughter, Volkov immediately had to appease an extremely nervous Mexican narcotics machine with hundreds of tons of Asian heroin. And all of this had to be accomplished so effectively that resistance to the new order of things would seem completely pointless.
"Joseph! Have you located that ship yet?" Volkov said. The young man spun around to face him and shook his head. "I've been on to everyone, Christian. The Mexicans have flown all over the area and it's just not there. It could have sunk, but the weather's calm and clear."
The ship in question was part of an Afghan heroin shipment that was scheduled to come ashore in half an hour to rendezvous with a group of Mexican smugglers. Of course, that plan had changed a bit. During the exchange of something like three tons of heroin, the Mexican police would descend, confiscate the product, and arrest everyone involved--all under the watchful eye of a CBS camera crew. And then, after all the pictures had been taken and interviews given, the media would be escorted away and the Mexican traffickers would be freed along with the heroin and their money. The Afghans, on the other hand, would not fare so well. They would disappear forever.
"If the Afghans don't arrive, we are going to have to take responsibility for filling the order."
"We're down to one backup plane in the area, Christian. If we use it now . . ."
"Do it," Volkov said. "If we have any more problems, we'll have to solve them as they arise. Reroute the American television crew to Belao and notify the police there to be mindful that they're being watched."
"Okay, Christian."
"And find that damned boat!"
Joseph gave him a frightened nod and leaned over the shoulder of a man staring into a computer screen.
The crux of the entire operation was knowing the precise moment that the Afghans discovered that their people were being captured and killed all over Mexico. When that time came, Yasin would order them to pull back and be ready to defend themselves: The element of surprise would be gone.
"Do you think they're on to us?" Elizabeth said. "Do you want us to go to phase two?"
He honestly didn't know.
"Christian?"
"No. Not yet. We're going to stay with our original plan." The phone on Volkov's hip began to ring and he jabbed a button, activating his headset. "Go ahead."
"We have completed number fourteen," a deep voice said in Spanish.
Volkov jogged over to an empty computer terminal and scrolled down, skimming the various operational summaries until he got to fourteen. It was a raid on an airstrip in central Mexico that the Afghans used as a transition point.
"What did you find?"
"Four men and approximately one ton of product." "Hold on. . . . Joseph! Fourteen's completed--they've got one ton of product."
"One moment, Christian."
He tapped a few commands into a laptop and concentrated on the screen. "Okay, Christian. Just tell them to leave the stuff there. We can use it as a backup in case we run into any more problems."
Volkov reactivated his headset. "Clear the area and leave the product in place."
"Understood. What about the four men?"
Volkov frowned. There was really only one possible answer. "Make sure they're never found."
The line went dead and he pulled the mike away from his mouth. "Joseph! What about that ship?"
"Still nothing, Christian."
Volkov took a deep breath and let it out. "Where's Mark? Is he on the ground in Mexico yet? Are we in contact with him?"
"Who knew the Mexicans even had helicopters that could get off the ground?" Mark Beamon shouted, taking a drag on his cigarette. The young blond man sitting across from him had an intense mix of fear, determination, and nausea on his face that prompted Beamon to move his feet out of the kid's likely vomiting range.
The large airship was being buffeted around like a badminton birdie and there were no windows, leaving their location and ultimate destination a complete mystery. In addition to the two of them, there were fifteen Mexican soldiers crammed into the cargo hold, increasing the ambient temperature to over a hundred. Beamon's cigarette deadened his sense of smell a bit, but the stench of sweat and bad breath--some of it his own--was still nearly unbearable.
The thing that kept him from beating the blond kid to the punch and throwing up on his o
wn shoes was the fact that his curiosity was powerful enough to keep him distracted. What the hell was he doing here?
Castaneda had obviously gotten a good story from the FBI, because he'd dusted Christian off and sent him on his way pretty quickly after their conversation. Beamon saw it as a testament to his criminal talent that he could pluck Volkov from certain death with a mere phone call. His resume was starting to look pretty good if he just left off all the FBI crap.
The problem was that Volkov, after arriving home safely and without so much as a thank-you, had banished Beamon to a run-down military base in a region of Mexico that even scorpions avoided. He'd spent a few hours on the ground there and then had been herded onto this helicopter with a bunch of people he couldn't communicate with to fly to God knows where.
The obvious implication was that he had served his purpose and Volkov wanted to be rid of him. Hopefully the obvious answer wasn't the correct one in this case. Try as he might, though, he couldn't come up with another explanation. Beamon lit another cigarette from the embers of his first one and looked up at the blond American kid in front of him again. Nausea had now overtaken determination as the easiest thing to read in his face. The pale green hue was hard to miss.
"What's in there?" Beamon shouted, nodding toward a hard suitcase on the young man's lap.
"Camera," he managed to get out.
"A camera for what?"
Talking seemed to make him feel better and his voice gained strength. "I work for Fox. I'm here to get the story." "What story?"
He shrugged. "Whatever story there is, I guess. Do you know where we're going?"
"Nope."
Beamon felt his phone start to vibrate and he plugged it into an elaborate set of headphones that canceled out the noise from the helicopter.
"Hello? Hello?" he said into the mike hanging in front of his mouth.