Sphere Of Influence (3 page)

And that was it. Obviously a man of few words. The image switched back to Forrest Sawyer.

"We're taking you to the White House press conference now," he announced as the screen flickered, finally stabilizing on an image of Charles Russell standing behind a lectern adorned with the presidential seal.

"We don't have a great deal of information yet, so this is going to be brief," Russell began.

Beamon ignored him and scanned the line of grave-looking people at the back of the podium, finally settling on a woman with blond hair pulled back into a severe ponytail and a conservative blue jacket and skirt. She was looking dutifully at the politician, but Beamon guessed she wasn't listening to a word he said. He knew from personal experience that she'd be calculating how long she was going to be stuck there, wasting time.

"We received a copy of the same photograph and audio as the media and it's being examined by the top people in the field. The FBI is taking the lead in this investigation and is already coordinating with the other U
. S
. and international law enforcement agencies to get on top of this as quickly as possible. As I said before, we don't have a great deal of information yet. We only received the photograph and the tape a few hours ago. Mainly what I want to say to the American people is to stay calm. All we've got here is
a picture, nothing more. We need--"

Beamon pushed the MUTE button and jumped off the chair, backing slowly away as he watched Russell speak soundlessly on-screen. He kept his eyes glued to the television, but barely saw it as his mind focused itself on the problem of the photograph. Why just a picture? Why no
t
use that rocket, kill a few godless Americans? Did it not work? Was it the only one? Were these Arab fruitcakes just real smart? If so, the rocket itself was the least of America's problems.

When Russell and his entourage finally filed off-screen, Beamon turned and began digging through the papers on his desk. It took a little effort, but he finally managed to find his Rolodex and dial a number from it.

"Laura Vilechi."

Now that he'd been kicked upstairs, Laura had taken over as the FBI's investigative savant. In fact, he was the one who had provided her with her first big break, tirelessly defending her against the still slightly chauvinistic organization they both worked for. She was an incredibly effective investigator, though her style was totally different from his. She was the master of detail and procedure--she missed nothing. Where Beamon tended to sneak up on criminals and spring out from the woodwork, Laura just wore them down.

"You look good on TV. Just the right mix of adoration and submissiveness in Russell's presence."

"Mark?"

"None other. I haven't talked to you in a while. Anything new?"

"Very funny. Nothing I can talk about."

"Come on, Laura. Throw me a bone. Did they give it to you? Is this officially your case?"

"No one else wants it."

Beamon stifled a pang of jealousy. "So, what's the inside story? The picture's real, isn't it."

"We're still in preliminary--"

"Don't start. . . ."

She sighed into the phone. "Okay, Mark. Okay. Ninety percent certain."

"I knew it. Tell me more."

"I'm starting to feel like I'm having phone sex."

"I'm in management, Laura. I've got to get it where I can." "I wish there was more I could tell you. The weapon's a modified multiple-rocket launcher. Normally it would be a bunch of tubes mounted together."

Beamon tried to picture that. What he didn't know about military hardware was a lot. "Like the ones the Japanese shot at Godzilla with?"

"A strange analogy, but yeah. Except this one has been torn apart and a single tube has been mounted to a trailer. Less destructive power but more mobile and easier to conceal."

"Who built it?"

"We don't know. The rocket has the characteristics of a number of different military models but doesn't really match any one of them. And like I said, the launcher's been heavily modified."

"Do you know what it can do?"

"We're guessing a range of about twelve miles, based on averages, and we're pretty sure it doesn't have any guidance system to speak of."

"What about the payload?"

"I don't know. Pretty destructive."

"Conventional, or could it be biological or nuclear?" "Not nuclear in the sense of an atomic bomb, but there is the possibility that it could have radioactive material that would be spread around in a blast. We doubt biological: There are easier ways to deliver that kind of thing." "Well, I guess it doesn't really matter."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Mark. Give."

"They're not looking to use it. Think about it, Laura--when al-Qaeda knocked down the World Trade Center, we taught the world that the U
. S
. economy can be brought to a grinding halt by a few guys with box cutters. What did the audio that came with that tape say--that they were going after malls, office buildings, airlines ... businesses. And by marking schools, they get parents to stay home from work with their kids. They'll keep making threats, keep the fear as high as they can. And when talk doesn't do it anymore and people start heading back to work, they'll blow something up. Then they'll start making threats again--milk the explosion for as long as they can until they're forced to blow something else up. How long until our economy implodes?"

"We came up with about the same idea. Kind of puts the government in a tough spot. Either whip up the panic, keep people at home, and cripple the economy, or downplay it and force a rocket attack."

"Any idea who these guys are?"

"The People's Front of Judea?"

Beamon laughed, a first for the day. That particular terrorist organization existed only in an old Monty Python movie. He'd always used it as a synonym for the multitude of crazies inhabiting the world. "What are you getting from the--"

"Oh, shit!"

"What's wrong, Laura?"

"Dave's coming. He'll kill me if he finds out I've been talking to you."

Dave was Dave Iverson, Laura's boss, and a man who hated Beamon with unbridled passion.

"Jesus, Laura, when is he going to let that go? I said I was sorry."

"Mark, you put a bra in his suitcase at a conference and his wife found it and left him. Sorry doesn't really cut it, does it?"

"I swear, people will never let me live that down. It was a joke; how was I supposed to know he was having an affair with a woman who wore that exact size?"

"Look, Mark, don't call me anymore. I'm serious, okay? I've got a lot on my plate here and I'm not looking for any extra trouble."

Beamon could hear the pain in her voice. They had been friends for years and it had obviously been a hard thing for her to say. Hard but smart. She'd watched him shoot himself in the foot over and over again and wasn't going to make the same mistake.

Beamon hung up the phone and flopped back into the papers on his desk.

Not your case.

He repeated that to himself precisely ten times to get it into his head. There was no way he was going to be able to get involved. He was a SAC a thousand miles from headquarters. Terrorism was the worst kind of case, anyway. N
o
matter how great a job you did, in no way would it deter the next wacko with an axe to grind.

Besides, why would he want to get involved in something like that when he could be curling up with an inspection report just bursting with colorful charts and graphs proving conclusively that he was an idiot?

Chapter
3

MILES from L
. A
., in the more or less open desert, the temperature was probably ten degrees cooler than it was in the city. Despite that, Chet was sweating. A lot.

He focused on taking slow, even breaths that were shallow enough that the slightly artificial rise and fall of his chest wouldn't be noticeable beneath his soaked shirt. It was a bastardization of a breathing technique he'd seen on some cheesy early-morning yoga show led by an extremely attractive has-been actress in an extremely formfitting leotard. Who knew he'd ever put her principles to use?

Starting to feel a little calmer, Chet continued to slowly scan his surroundings. The only illumination was provided by a single set of headlights beaming from an idling car. He could see a distance of about twenty yards before the circle of light faded to gray, and then to a black expanse that went on for miles before being broken by the distant lights of L
. A
.

"You're Mohammed?" Carlo Gasta said, taking a few steps toward an Arab-looking man wearing dirty fatigues. Chet seized the opportunity to move left a few feet, into a position where the headlights were directly behind him. Hadn't it been John Wayne who suggested that you always keep the sun at your back? The Duke was rarely wrong in such things.

Although he was standing only ten feet away, Mohammed's age was impossible to determine. His deep-brown eyes had a youthful clarity to them, but what littl
e
of his face was visible behind his long black beard looked worn and tired.

"You're Mohammed?" Gasta said again, his tone hinting at the beginnings of anger. The New York accent and stylish suit that gleamed a little too brightly in the glaring light made him seem hopelessly out of place. By contrast, the man he was speaking to seemed a part of the desert that surrounded them.

"I am Mohammed." His accent was thick, and for some reason that made him even more imposing. Chet looked past him into the darkness. There was no way this guy was alone. The question wasn't if he had men out there but how many. How many just beyond the circle of light? The man said nothing else, and Chet could see Gasta's head beginning to bob up and down in a mannerism he was unfortunately very familiar with. His boss was starting to get pissed off.

"What? Do you want to have tea? Where the fuck is it?" Chet tried to will Gasta to stay calm. It had never worked before, but you never knew. If you wished hard enough...

"We don't have it," Mohammed said.

"Fuck!"

It was just like the movies. Time seemed to slow down as Gasta jerked back and went for his gun. Chet's breath caught in his chest and he went for his, too, trying to force back panic and thoughts of his new wife as he ripped his Beretta from its holster. He wasn't sure, but he guessed that it took less than a second for the meeting to go from civil conversation to the very edge of disaster.

Chet's hand continued to tighten on the grip of his pistol as he centered it on Mohammed's chest, causing sweat to wring from his palm and trickle down his arm. He was about to die--he knew it. That stupid wop was finally going to get him killed.

"You're fucking with the wrong person," Gasta screamed, retreating slowly with his gun stretched out in front of him. "I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you're about to be dead!"

Chet tried again to will his boss to calm down, letting th
e
words Shut up, you stupid son of a bitch echo in his mind. He knew what Gasta was thinking: that he had five heavily armed men parked less than a mile away. He seemed to believe that he was the only person clever enough to bring backup to this meeting. And it was apparently completely lost on him that, with the exception of Chet, the men he'd brought were fat, middle-aged wiseguys whose best weapon was the intimidation their rusty reputations could provide. The problem was, Mohammed didn't look intimidated. In fact, he looked a little bored.

Chet knew the man was from somewhere in Afghanistan, and that made it pretty much certain that he'd faced down a lot more intimidating people than a fortyish Mob boss and his freckled, redheaded lieutenant. "Mr. Gasta, please," Mohammed said, spreading his empty hands wide. "You do not understand. We are very happy to have business with you. There has been a delay in our supply."

Chet couldn't figure out what was going on. Was this asshole telling the truth or just stalling until his men got in position? He shifted his gaze past Mohammed and stared intently into the darkness, trying to spot the pack of dusty Afghans he imagined were crawling toward them with knives in their teeth, then spun around, partially blinding himself, to make sure no one was sneaking up behind them. "What the fuck do you mean, 'a delay'?" Gasta shouted. "We have a business arrangement here, you piece of shit!" Chet winced. He had spent the last year working his ass off to move up in Gasta's organization, starting as a messenger boy, then being promoted to driver, then to soldier. And now, through a combination of luck, hard work, and brains, he'd gotten what he wanted: close to Gasta. Just in time for the son of a bitch to get him killed.

"I must apologize," Mohammed said calmly. "I just learned--"

"That one of your camels died?"

Gasta's confidence was being bolstered by the fact that both he and Chet were aiming guns at an unarmed man. He'd obviously decided he was in a position to push, but Mohammed remained serene.

"The reason does not matter. What is important is that we will have your shipment in one week."

"This might be the way you sand niggers do business at home, but now you're in a country where we live up to our goddamn agreements," Gasta shouted, stretching his pistol out in front of himself a little more.