Sphere Of Influence

by Kyle Mills

  The camera panned over his mutilated comrades and then cut to a distant view of one of the machine-gun nests before following him as he leaned out from his cover and fired his shotgun. The tiny screen made the act look impossibly heroic when it was actually stupid, futile, and perhaps suicidal. A little more artful editing made it appear that he and his Mexican comrades had managed to single-handedly defeat the machine gunners.

  "No helicopter," Beamon commented.

  A slightly pained expression crossed Volkov's face. "You know, it was a Russian model and might have clouded the issue."

  "What issue?"

  "What issue? Why, your incredible heroism in the service of your country, of course. The thing with the shotgun . . . that may be the most moronic act I've ever witnessed. If I'd for a moment thought you'd do something like that, I would never have sent you. It did make for some riveting footage, though."

  "Seemed like a good idea at the time," Beamon mumbled.

  Volkov laughed and leaned over his desk again. "Elizabeth! Where's the voiceover on this thing with Mark in Mexico? The audio is just a bunch of shooting and yelling now."

  "That's a preliminary edit we got from Fox, Christian. They haven't finished the narrative yet, but I understand it's going to make Mark look like a saint."

  Beamon watched his image as the camera followed him to the destroyed building full of heroin and then tightened on his face as he gazed thoughtfully down at his fallen comrades. The whole thing was wrapped up by a big narcotic bonfire that he knew for a fact had never happened.

  "Christian, how did you--"

  "Shhhh. It gets better."

  The screen went blank for a moment. When it came back on, the image had changed to one of Charles Russell standing behind a lectern.

  "Blah, blah, blah," Volkov said, fast-forwarding a bit before hitting the PLAY button again.

  ". . . agencies involved, from local law enforcement to ATF, DEA, and the Central Intelligence Agency, as well as substantial resources abroad." Volkov paused the tape for a moment and glanced at Mark. "I'm guessing that would be me." He pushed PLAY again.

  "Having said that, special recognition has to go to the FBI, which took the lead in this and really pulled out the stops to find that launcher before anyone could be harmed. First, I want to single out Laura Vilechi, who coordinated what seems to me to be an impossibly complicated investigation. But most of all, I'd like to commend Mark Beamon, who many of you are familiar with." He shook his head in a strangely engaging gesture of disbelief. "Mark really put himself in harm's way on this thing. And he delivered--"

  Volkov hit the FAST FORWARD button again. "The rest is about his involvement in all the drug arrests in Mexico. You know the speech--`a new era in cooperation with the Mexican authorities, a major blow to heroin trafficking and organized crime ...'"

  Beamon wasn't sure he understood what was going on. He just sat there with his mouth shut.

  The jerky motions on the screen slowed to normal speed again when Laura appeared, speaking to a room packed with reporters. "I have to say that I really can't take credit for any of this Mark Beamon came up with the initial concept of the terrorist cells being linked to narcotics trafficking and he turned up the location of the launcher--almost getting killed in the process. . . ."

  Volkov cut the tape off and the screen went blank. "She goes on like that for quite a while, downplaying her involvement. That's a loyal friend you have there, Mark. Don't take her for granted." He leaned out around the desk again. "Elizabeth! Are those last two we saw--the ones with Russell and Vilechi--airing yet?"

  "They're in heavy rotation, Christian. Those weren't copies sent to us--I taped them right off American TV." Beamon scooted his chair around so that he could look directly at Volkov. "I don't mean to be dense, but I'm not sure what's going on here."

  "I believe your career was just saved--though I have to tell you that I'm personally insulted that you'd go back to the FBI when you could work for me. In any event, I understand that your director is preparing a press conference that will continue to shine a very favorable light on you." "Why?"

  "I don't think he has any choice at this point. The FBI needed a win and he isn't going to risk tainting it."

  "You know what I mean, Christian. Why did you do this?"

  Volkov shrugged. "You've helped me a great deal since we first met--and you saved my life. It was the least I could do. Though, honestly, I don't think any of this is in your best interest."

  Beamon couldn't help being skeptical. "That's it?" Volkov played with the remote on his desk. "Of course, if I can't have you working for me directly, having someone highly placed in the FBI might be useful."

  Beamon laughed. "It's true that I crossed the line on this thing, Christian--maybe a few times--but I'm not going on the take, for Christ's sake. It's just not my style. I'm a windmill tilter by nature."

  " 'On the take,' " Volkov said with disgust. "Don't be absurd, Mark. I'm merely suggesting that we could be of help to one another from time to time."

  "No offense, Christian--I've got nothing against you. In fact, I'm embarrassed to say I kind of like you. But it would make me very happy if we could just avoid each other for the rest of our lives." He twisted around in his chair to face the open door to the office. "Elizabeth! Can I grab a plane back to Phoenix?"

  "Sure, Mark. I've got to bring one in. Give me about an hour."

  Beamon stood and offered his hand for a second time, and for a second time Volkov didn't move.

  "So you're going to allow the director of the FBI to just tear up your letter of resignation and give you back your old job as the SAC-Phoenix. You're going to return to an organization that has taken every opportunity to pillory you--and probably will again. Back to a government that supplied al-Qaeda with weapons and ordered the death of a young man you were close to. And for all this they'll pay you a pathetic government salary and promise you a barely livable pension."

  "You make it sound so attractive."

  "It's actually bourbon, right?" Volkov said, standing and walking through the open doors behind him to a bar on the terrace.

  Beamon nodded and followed him into the cool evening air, though he wasn't sure why.

  "Okay, I understand that you don't want to work for me," Volkov said, handing him a full glass and pouring a vodka for himself. "Have you ever considered starting a consulting company? You'd be free to take other contracts, of course, but I think I could probably offer you enough business that you could make a living. In fact, you could probably make a very comfortable living."

  "You're a real piece of work, Christian. I just helped you do the biggest drug deal in history and still you've almost got me convinced that you're just a misunderstood businessman. Thank you, but no."

  "Then, what? What are you going to do now? Back to Phoenix and the FBI? It seems like a waste."

  Beamon took a sip of his bourbon. After being virtually certain that his future would be spent in a prison cell, his old job and life should have seemed pretty attractive. Why didn't they?

  "Perhaps a guaranteed minimum contract for your new consulting company would help. You make what . . . a little over a hundred thousand dollars a year?"

  Beamon nodded.

  "What if I guaranteed you, oh, I don't know . . . a hundred thousand a day."

  Beamon felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily and he did a few quick mental calculations. "That's thirty-six point five million a year."

  "Twenty-six million," Volkov corrected. "Five-day workweek."

  Beamon smirked. "I just helped you make a hundred billion, and now you're quibbling over a few dollars." "Are we negotiating?"

  "No, we're not. I'm--"

  "Here's an interesting example of the kind of thing I could use help with," Volkov interrupted, pulling a small piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to Beamon. "This came across my desk yesterday. The men at that email address have nuclear material to sell and are looking for a buyer."

  Beamon glanc
ed down at the paper, then tossed it on the bar. He wasn't going to play this game. "That shit's never weapons grade. It always ends up being the dirt out of a Chernobyl flowerpot or something."

  Volkov shrugged. "Based on the information I have, I believe that this is weapons grade. And I believe they have a significant amount available."

  Beamon wasn't immediately sure how to respond. "Are you going to broker it?" he said finally.

  Volkov shrugged. "Everyone loves a war, Mark--there's good money in it. But this . . . it's an investment in chaos. Frankly, there's nothing I hate more than a terrorist. Despite that, you wouldn't believe the number of them that I come across. They always need something. Weapons, passports, information, training . . ."

  "This is blackmail."

  "Of course it's blackmail. I'm a criminal, remember? So, what do you think? Would your new consulting company be interested in finding a buyer for this product?"

  Beamon looked down at the piece of paper on the bar but didn't move.

  "There's no reason for you to make a decision this very minute, Mark. Francois has been planning tonight's dinner for days. Perhaps you'd like to join me?"

  Beamon stayed focused on the paper. "Is he making those shrimp things?"

  "I understand that he is."

  Chapter 69

  ALAN Holsten slammed his cell phone repeatedly into the dashboard of his car as he sped through the silent suburban neighborhood. Over the last five days all his power and connections had proven to be completely useless. With Carlo Gasta's help, Charles Russell was in the process of decimating the New York crime families, and through Volkov and Salvador Castaneda he had created the illusion of crushing the Mexican heroin trade. Russell's alliance with Christian Volkov had been very productive, helping the politician turn both himself and Mark Beamon into heroes of the war on organized crime and terrorism when they were actually in bed with both.

  He slammed his phone into the dash again at the thought of the press Beamon was getting. As a disgraced FBI agent wanted for murder, Beamon had been a serious threat. As a well-connected national hero, he was the most dangerous man alive. Volkov could be counted on not to pick a fight with the CIA--he'd won and there was no profit in continuing a feud. Beamon, though, was clearly a man who held a grudge.

  Holsten threw the phone into the passenger seat and cursed loudly in the empty car. He had people working around the clock trying to locate Beamon before he could slip back across the U. S. border, but with no success so far. At home the FBI agent would be nearly untouchable, but if the CIA could get to him in Mexico or the former Soviet Union, his sudden disappearance would get lost in an impenetrable maze of jurisdiction and corruption.

  He glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. Despite the hour, he picked up his phone, confirmed that it was still working, and dialed a number at Langley.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What have you got?"

  "We're still working on it, sir. Beamon hasn't contacted anyone at the FBI--they seem to have no more idea where he is than we do. Laura Vilechi's reappeared but she's heavily protected now. We're also watching Carrie Johnstone and monitoring international flights, but I think it's unlikely that he'd be flying commercially. . . ."

  Holsten shut off the phone without another word and slammed it one last time into the dash before hitting his garage remote and skidding into his driveway.

  He jumped out of the car and stalked through the dark house, stopping abruptly when he spotted a dim light bleeding from beneath the door to his home office. Had he left it on? He always kept the door locked, but his wife had a key in case of an emergency. Had she been in there? Holsten started toward it but slowed again when the unmistakable scent of tobacco smoke hit him. No one ever smoked in his house--Kate didn't allow it. He finally stopped five feet from the door, not entirely sure what to do. "Kate?" he said quietly. "Are you in there?"

  "I'm afraid she isn't."

  Holsten spun toward the unfamiliar voice and, when he did, found an automatic pistol hovering an inch from his face. He froze, staring at the gun with an intensity that made it impossible for him to see the man holding it. His knees suddenly felt weak and for a moment he thought he was going to fall.

  "Please," the man said, flicking the barrel toward the door to the office. His voice was youthful and the accent almost certainly German. Holsten tried to get a look at his face but could see little in the darkness: short hair, eyes cast in shadow, a nondescript nose.

  "Please," the man repeated.

  Holsten could feel the sweat beginning to run down his sides but managed to calm himself enough to speak. "What do you want?"

  The man's answer was simply to pull the hammer back on the pistol.

  "Okay! Okay, I'm doing it," Holsten said, turning slowly and opening the door to his office. "Just stay cool. I'm the deputy director of operations at the CIA. Think very hard about what that will mean if you hurt me."

  Holsten felt the barrel press into the back of his head, prompting him through the door.

  "I hear you've been looking for me, Alan."

  The contents of his desk had been emptied onto its top and Mark Beamon was sifting through the piles of documents. Holsten wasn't sure what to say. He just stood there, listening to the door being closed behind him.

  "Cat got your tongue?" Beamon said, looking up from an open file.

  "What are you going to do to me?"

  The FBI agent scowled. "Your wife and daughters are fine--they're upstairs sleeping. Nice of you to ask, you flicking lowlife."

  Holsten was trying to focus, to run though his options. There weren't many. Beamon had made it back to the U. S. and he had heavy support--Russell in the Cabinet, Tom Sherman at the White House, Peter Caroll at the FBI, and, perhaps most significantly, Christian Volkov.

  "Sit."

  Holsten did as he was told.

  "I think," Beamon said, speaking slowly, "that we both pretty much know what's happened over the last month and who's done what to whom. For instance, I know that you and Jonathan Drake are responsible for arming Afghan terrorists, and I know that you approved the assassination of Chet Michaels."

  Holsten opened his mouth to protest, but Beamon silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  "I don't want to hear it, Alan. I didn't come here to talk about the past. I want to talk about where we go from here." "Where's Jonathan?" Holsten said.

  "You'll be happy to know he's dead. I don't think he'll protest too much when you try to shift the blame for all this onto what's left of his shoulders."

  Holsten wasn't sure what he was hearing. Was Mark Beamon saying that he was just going to leave this thing alone?

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to come to an understanding. The FBI--particularly a woman named Laura Vilechi--isn't finished with this thing. She'll be tracking back that launcher and determining exactly who was involved, and she'll be trying to figure out who's ultimately responsible for Chet's death. She already knows a lot and I'm guessing that she's eventually going to come around to you. Also, I think she's still pissed off about you sending those goons to her hotel."

  Holsten began to feel a little nauseous at the realization that the FBI was already hard on his trail. What was he going to do? Was it still viable to go after Vilechi?

  "Why are you telling me all this?"

  "Because you'd have found out anyway. And you'd have come up with some dumb-ass scheme to get rid of Laura and obscure your involvement in all this. I can already see it in your beady little eyes: You're wondering how you can get to her--get both of us--aren't you?"

  "What do you want?" Holsten asked, suddenly wondering if he was being recorded. "You've got nothing on me and I deny everything you've accused me of. Be careful how you go forward on this--you're not the only person in this room with powerful friends."

  "Look, Alan, I don't plan on being involved in this investigation going forward--I've done my part. But I can't allow you to harm Laura or anyone working for her. Any other m
ethod you want to use to try to weasel out of this thing is fine with me, but Laura and her team are off-limits. Do we understand each other?"

  A thin smile spread across Alan Holsten's face. "Since you seem to think I'm some kind of criminal, I have to ask a hypothetical question. What would I get in return for this favor?"

  "You wouldn't believe the things I've done over the last month, Alan. How many deaths I've been involved in. At this point, one more wouldn't make much of a difference to me. So the answer is that you get to live." Beamon pointed to the man standing next to the closed door. "If anything happens to Laura, you'll spend the rest of your short life looking over your shoulder and wondering when Wolfgang here is going to put a bullet in you from seven hundred yards away."

  EPILOGUE

  BEAMON stopped in the middle of the well-manicured lawn and pressed the phone to his ear a little harder. The sun was about to drop behind the horizon and a hot wind was starting to kick up.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but this isn't really negotiable."

  "Don't push me, Beamon," Peter Caroll said. "You think you've put yourself in the catbird seat, that you're above the law. Let me assure you that you're not."

  Above the law. He'd never really given that cliche much thought. Now, though, he found himself in a strange position. Despite his bluster, the Director would not be anxious to see Beamon brought to justice for the things he'd done because it would badly taint one of the FBI's few true victories in recent memory and dispel the illusion that Caroll was continuing to "turn the organization around."

  "Actually, sir, right now, I think I pretty much am above the law. If you'd like to test your political juice against mine, be my guest."

  "Look, this isn't productive," Laura cut in. "Let's get back to the issue at hand. Can we do that?"

  When the Director's voice came over the phone again, the raw fury in it made him sound a little like someone was strangling him. If only it were true . . .