Sphere Of Influence (14 page)

Chet stared off in the dark for a few moments, considering his position. "I'll tell you, Scott, my read is that I need to produce on this. If I can't set up a meeting between Gasta and Nicolai, my credibility is going to be shot to hell. And if that happens, I could find myself out of the loop on the next meeting with the Afghans."

Reynolds nodded. "All right, Chet. Call me tomorrow and we'll try to have something put together."

Chapter
15

PASCAL thrashed back and forth violently but he couldn't dislodge it. The insect, a large cockroach, continued its slow march up his leg, perhaps drawn to the odor of urine that now permeated his trousers.

His fear that the jungle's predators would instinctively sense his helplessness and slowly creep up on him had not materialized. The truth was so much more terrifying. The insects that had scurried away in terror at his thrashing six hours ago were becoming bolder. Would they devour him a millimeter at a time?

He threw his body right again, nearly upsetting his chair but managing to dislodge the roach and send it toppling to the floor. It righted itself and began to wander away. But it would be back.

By following the shadow of the door as it moved steadily across the floor, Pascal determined that he had been there for somewhere around fifteen hours. Another long night wasn't far away.

He tilted his back and opened his mouth, catching a few precious drops of water and letting them trickle down his raw throat. Thankfully, it had rained intermittently since he'd been trapped there, soaking through the thatched roof and providing him with enough liquid to at least partially quench his growing thirst.

He wondered again whether Volkov was concerned about his absence yet, but he knew the answer was no. Even if Christian hadn't been caught in a similar trap in America, he would undoubtedly assume that Pascal wa
s
peacefully negotiating a business relationship with General Yung. He probably wouldn't become concerned until midday tomorrow. And what then? Pascal trusted him--something rare in the business they'd chosen--but he didn't hold much hope. Volkov's power base in Laos had disintegrated after Yung's coup. It was why he had been sent here.

A second droplet of water missed his mouth and splattered across his forehead. It didn't matter: He wouldn't survive for long on what could filter through the roof. Truthfully, he wasn't sure he wanted to. While dehydration wasn't reputed to be the most pleasant way to die, there were certainly worse alternatives.

"Not thirsty? I would have thought a cool drink of water was exactly what you needed."

Pascal jerked his head in the direction of the door and saw the broad form of a man backlit in the entrance. "Who are you?" Pascal said in English. His throat would barely allow the words out.

The figure moved through the door and walked around the perimeter of the small hut, pausing for a moment to look down at the body of the pilot and cover his nose with his hand against the rotting stench that was quickly gaining strength.

"You," Pascal said quietly.

Jonathan Drake's smile was perceptible even in the dim light. "You'll have to accept my apologies for making you wait so long. I assure you that I was on a plane as soon as I heard you were . . . available."

Except for Volkov, Pascal was the only person in the organization who was aware of the CIA's involvement in supplying Mustafa Yasin with weapons and intelligence. Obviously this was enough of a concern to Drake to use the CIA's influence in Laos to have him brought here. "I have a few questions for you, Pascal. Let's start with the most interesting first. Does Christian believe that the CIA is going to continue with this operation, or does he think we're going to back out?"

Pascal considered his position as carefully as his exhausted mind would allow. He would be dead soon, of tha
t
there was little doubt. By nature he wasn't a fearful man, but he was realistic. He would not be able to remain silent in light of what Drake was willing to do to him. And he didn't think that Christian would expect him to.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Pascal."

"He doesn't know what to believe."

"But he doesn't trust me."

"Christian trusts few people."

"What is he doing to protect himself?"

"He is doing nothing at this point. He sent me here to negotiate with General Yung. This should tell you that he is preparing to honor his agreement to help you replace the Middle Eastern heroin producers with his Asian contacts."

Drake looked down again and watched the insects writhing over the corpse at his feet. "Okay, Pascal. Here's another interesting one. Where is he?"

In the end, that was the piece of information Drake really needed. Of course, he would want whatever general information he could pry out of Pascal, but finding and killing Volkov would go a long way toward ensuring that he and his organization were never linked to the weapon that al-Qaeda had managed to smuggle into America. "This has gone too far," Pascal said, trying to give himself time to think. "Christian warned you of the risks of your plan. He never wanted to be involved in any of this, but you forced his hand. To not see it through now makes no sense. It is true that people--that Americans--may fall victim to this rocket, but there will be many more to follow if you allow al-Qaeda to solidify its position in the Middle Eastern heroin trade."

The only effect his argument had was to make the CIA man's anger come to the surface.

"I asked you where he is," Drake growled. "I suggest you focus on that question."

"Christian has made commitments," Pascal said. "He has no choice but to see what you have started through to the end. Talk to him. Ask for his help in protecting your anonymity. He can be trusted. It is convenient for him to have ties to the CIA."

Drake stared down at him. "It's convenient, is it?" Pascal didn't see the blow coming, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had. Drake's fist came across his face with startling force.

"You are nothing!" Pascal heard through ringing ears. "You are a flicking arrogant little drug dealer. You and Volkov live or die at my convenience. Do you understand that?" Drake grabbed Pascal's hair and pulled his head back, staring into his eyes. "The fact that I even have to deal with people like you makes me sick."

Pascal laughed, spraying spit and blood onto Drake's shirt. "It's funny: Christian feels the same way about you." The second blow was even harder--delivered with much of Drake's considerable weight behind it. Pascal was certain that his jaw was broken, but the pain wasn't as bad as he would have expected. The end wasn't far away.

"Where is he?"

Pascal's disdain for the man standing in front of him continued to grow. Drake cared nothing for the people who would fall victim to a better-funded, more powerful al-Qaeda. He cared nothing for the people whose lives depended on America's FBI finding the launcher. He was only concerned about protecting himsel
f
"Cuba," Pascal lied. As his anger rose, so did his courage. Time was his and Christian's enemy now. The longer he could keep from revealing Christian's location, the better the chance that he would survive to kill this bastard.

"Cuba," Drake repeated quietly. "Okay. That's a start. But I think we need to make sure."

Chapter
16

AFTER he concentrated on them for an hour, the endless columns of numbers in front of Beamon had completely lost their meaning. He squinted and tried to focus, but it was pointless: They had become nothing more than indecipherable symbols.

He tossed the budget report on his desk and leaned back in his chair, trying to block out the buzz of activity outside his office door and let his mind go blank. As usual, it didn't work. After about twenty seconds he found his thoughts wandering back to his dinner with Carrie.

She had been right, of course. While it was doubtful that he had the tolerance for boredom necessary to be the greatest SAC in the history of the bureau, he could certainly do this job at a competent level. The bottom line was, he just didn't want to. In fact, he was starting to wonder if he wanted any of it anymore.

He'd put everything into the Bureau--never marrying, working fourteen-hour days, often seven days a week, no kids, hardly any friends outside the organization. No real life at all.

Not that it had been what he would call a terribly painful sacrifice. He'd loved it. How much luckier could you get than to have somebody pay you to chase bad guys all day. Honestly, he'd have done it for free.

Things were different now, though, and it wasn't just the SAC job. During his last investigation, the FBI--his family--had turned on him. And as if that weren't bad enough, they'd done it just to make life a little easier for a bunch o
f
low-life politicians. He imagined that this was what it felt like to have a spouse cheat on you. You still loved her, but something was gone. Something that would never come back.

Of course, there were the people he'd helped--there would always be that. And he'd made a few true, lifelong friends over the years. But the rest was just starting to look like smoke. He sometimes found himself half wishing that he'd just gone out in a blaze of glory--gunned down, fired, or slamming his credentials down on the director's desk. God knew there had been multiple opportunities for all three.

For the first time in his life he was thinking seriously about resigning, but at this point he had to admit to himself that he wouldn't be storming out, he'd be crawling out. That plan also made it kind of critical that he figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. A complicated issue.

There was another option, of course: He could always request a demotion. Hell, if he just waited a few more weeks for that inspection report to come out, asking probably wouldn't even be necessary.

"Mark? Mark!"

Beamon blinked his eyes hard and sat up abruptly. "Laura. Are you early?"

"Actually, I'm late," she said, dropping into a chair in front of his desk. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he lied. "I'm fine." It occurred to him that he wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, lost in thought. Looking at his watch was out of the question, though. Laura would almost certainly pick up on it.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. What about you? You look tired."

"A little jet-lagged is all," she said. "I just came in from Los Angeles."

Beamon decided not to bring up the fact that an hour's time difference rarely resulted in jet lag. "What were you doing in L
. A
.? Seems like a long way from Washington."

"I was there talking to a guy who's undercover in Carlo Gasta's organization."

"Carlo Gasta? That asshole Mob guy?"

She nodded.

"Spreading yourself a little thin, aren't you? The rocket launcher thing isn't enough to hold your attention?" Laura rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "Last week he and Gasta met with a heroin dealer from Afghanistan."

"Really," Beamon said. "So you think there might be something to my idea about al-Qaeda staking itself to a piece of the drug trade?"

"Probably not. Having said that, though . . ."

"You're desperate."

"That pretty much sums it up. The stock market's dropping like a stone, the airlines are looking for another bailout, retail sales are through the floor . . . People are afraid to leave their houses: They're just sitting around with the TV on, listening to all the horrible things that could potentially happen to them. The economy is on the verge of crumbling, thousands of lives are at risk, and I'm just standing around with my mouth hanging open." Beamon had never seen her like this. The cool facade that she showed the world, the one she'd been wearing ever since he'd known her, was coming apart right there in his office. And behind it there was something that looked like . . . panic.

"I don't think there's anybody who could do more, Laura. You're as good at this game as anyone I've ever met."

"But am I as good as you? Could you do more?" Beamon tried to smile, but it seemed uncomfortable under the force of her stare. She was actually expecting a straight answer.

"Too technical for me, Laura. All those suspects and foreign governments and politicians and weapons systems . . . no, this one's tailor-made for you. I have a feeling the answer will be in the details."

"You're so full of shit. You do think you could do better. I know you do."

"I'm an obsessive-compulsive egomaniac, Laura. Of course I think I could do better." He grinned. "Do you have time for a drink? Maybe more than one?"

She shook her head. "The jet's waiting to take me back to D
. C
."

The silence that ensued looked to be in danger of getting overly long.

"I'm guessing you didn't come here just to say hello. What do you want? More access to the White House?" She shook her head.

"Then, what?"

"I have a problem . . ." she began.

"Somehow I guessed that."

"I want to pursue this angle of investigation . . ." "You mean the Afghan drug dealers?"

She gave him a short nod. "And I want you to be involved. But Dave and P
. C
. aren't going to go for it." Beamon nodded knowingly. P
. C
. were not only FBI Director Peter Caroll's initials but an acronym for his political leanings. A former liberal judge with no investigative background, he was a man who actually called short people "vertically challenged."