Sphere Of Influence (30 page)

"Still wanting Gasta, is he?"

Laura just raised her eyebrows.

He wondered how much he should tell her. It was possible that the information he had could help, but it also had the potential to blow up in their faces.

"An interesting thing happened to me, Laura. I was walking around after we talked last night, and some German guy comes up to me--to Nicolai--and tells me his boss wants to meet me. Next thing I know, I'm on a very nice jet for about twelve hours. When I get off I'm
God knows
-where and I meet this guy named Christian Volkov. . . ."

Laura pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. "You know how to spell that?"

"He didn't say. Do your best and run it though the computers. You should call Jonathan Drake at the CIA, too, and see if he can turn up anything."

She nodded. "What did he want?"

Beamon leaned back in the booth but didn't answer. "Mark, what did he want?"

"He just seemed to want to talk about some of the things I'd done, to size me up. I couldn't figure it out, but when I got back, he'd moved me to a nice hotel and put me up in a suite. I think he's courting me as a potential employee. It was an interview."

Keeping secrets from her was harder than he thought it would be.

"So you think he's the one who Chet met with? The one behind Gasta?"

"Him or one of his people. Probably ... maybe."

She looked at him searchingly for a moment. "Are you holding out on me, Mark?"

"Yes."

"You don't think you can trust me?"

"I'm absolutely certain I can trust you--you've already started lying to the Director to try to protect me. I don't want you to go down with me, Laura."

"I want the information, Mark. Then you and I can decide what to do with it. But I want everything."

"Honestly, Laura, I doubt this guy has much to do with your problem."

"But are you sure?"

"No."

"Could he be involved in terrorism?"

"Directly? I doubt it. Volkov's a businessman. Besides, this is a guy who seems to really cherish his anonymity. Terrorism is high profile and a money-losing proposition any way you look at it."

"So you think he has no connection to this?"

"I didn't say that. If he's behind Gasta, then he's involved with Afghan heroin on some level. If we're right and Mustafa Yasin is trying to get control of the heroin trade in the Golden Crescent, maybe Volkov is backing him. Or maybe he's backing the other side. I honestly don't know."

"But either way, he might have information on where the launcher came from and where it is now."

"It's possible. He strikes me as a guy with a lot of information."

"What else?"

"You're sure you want to hear all this?"

"I'm sure."

"He's the one who called in the tip to the cops. The real reason he wanted to talk to me was because I interfered by helping Gasta get away. He paid me three mil not to get in the way next time."

"Dollars? Three million dollars?"

"I'm guessing it's already in my account. I think he wants Gasta in custody so he can roll over on some people Volkov has no use for anymore."

"It's like that depressing theory of criminal Darwinism you have."

"I thought you never listened to my theories."

"I'm not sure I understand, Mark. If it's true that he wanted Gasta arrested, why tell him to execute the Afghans? The cops would move in before it happened or would start a shooting match that Gasta would probably get killed in. A dead Carlo Gasta couldn't roll over on inconvenient people. It seems that this Volkov was leaving a lot to chance."

And that was something that bothered Beamon too. Volkov didn't seem the type.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, considering the problem. Finally, Laura spoke.

"The Director wants Gasta. He's responsible for the death of an FBI agent and the deaths of those Afghans. Not to mention the drugs. What are you going to do?"

"I'm not going to do anything. I don't even know where he is."

"You think Volkov will find him and phone in another tip to the cops? That he wasn't just screwing with you?" "That's what I think."

"If you're confident, we can probably use that." "Use it?"

"Are you confident?"

"I think so. Yeah."

Laura pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed. "Director Caroll? Mark Beamon just called me."

The shouting on the other side of the phone was audible from across the table.

"He's in pretty deep, sir, and hasn't been able to get to a phone. He doesn't know where Gasta is right now, but he's doing everything he can to locate him. He thinks it will take another day, maybe two. Yes, sir. He's going to contact us but he says it won't come directly from him--it's too dangerous. It will be another anonymous tip. Yes, sir. I don't know--that's what he told me. I only talked to him briefly. Thank you, sir."

She shut off the phone and looked up at him. "See where that gets us."

"You're being stupid, Laura. I'm beyond saving--we both know it. It's time for you to start distancing yourself from me, okay? This situation is only going to get worse." She started playing with her glass again, seeming to not hear him.

"What is it now?" he said.

She didn't answer.

He grabbed the glass. "Laura?"

"Remember when we talked a few days ago? When I told you that finding the guy behind Gasta wasn't going to be a priority for the Bureau?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that was true, you know." "I know."

"Spit it out, Laura."

"I didn't need to say that. I . . . I did it on purpose. I wanted--I needed--you to pull one of your crazy stunts. I was desperate."

Beamon was caught off guard by the statement and wasn't immediately sure what to say. In the end he just laughed. "I always knew you were an evil bitch."

"Mark, I'm serious."

"Me too."

"If you lose your job . . ." her voice trailed off.

"No great catastrophe. It's not that good a job."

She finally found the resolve to look him in the eye. "Do you want to see where your crazy stunt got us?"

"What do you mean? I thought you said you were getting nowhere."

"I did. I said I was getting nowhere. So far, though, your record's not bad."

Chapter
38

"DIAL the phone, Mark."

"No."

"Dial it."

"Look, I don't want to, okay? What am I going to say?" Laura accelerated the car slightly and flipped down her visor, blocking the glare off the empty desert highway in front of them.

"It doesn't matter what you say. You just need to say something. She's worried about you or she wouldn't be leaving messages at my house."

"Tell me where you're taking me."

Laura pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed a number into it. "Carrie? Hey, it's Laura. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. Yeah. . . . You can't even imagine." Beamon grimaced, knowing what was coming.

"Hey, guess who's sitting right here next to me? None other. . . . Want to talk to him? Hang on."

Beamon made a halfhearted attempt to look pissed off but was just too tired. He took the phone and pressed it to his ear. "Carrie? Hi. How are you?"

"I'm okay, Mark. Where have you been? The people at your office just say you're out. It's all been very secret agent. . . ."

He had to admit, as out of control as his life had gotten over the last week, it was great to hear her voice. Even better live than on the machine.

"It's probably not as interesting as it sounds," he lied. "I got conned into doing an undercover job for a friend."

"Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" "Thanks, Carrie. Always nice to talk to you."

"That's not what I mean. I mean that you're the SAC--Phoenix. Is it common for people in your position to do undercover work?"

"Like I said, just a quick favor for a friend."

"Anybody I know?"

In fact, it was. Chet Michaels had been a first-office agent in Flagstaff, where Carrie lived and Beamon used to work. In fact, Chet had been at Beamon's apartment when Carrie had asked him to the wedding that was technically their first date.

"No. No one you know."

"Well, I bet you're really good at playing the desperate criminal type."

"I've already made over three million dollars."

She laughed. "If it was anybody else, I'd think that was a joke."

"Tax-free. I'm thinking about switching careers."

"So you're doing okay? You're not going to get yourself shot at."

"Nah. I'm good. A little tired. Maybe I am getting too old for this."

"I'd like to get together and talk, Mark. How much longer is this job going to last?"

Beamon stared out the window, squinting against the sun. It was a good question. The rest of his life? "limns out it could be a little longer than I thought."

"Really? What about the inspection? Is that done? How did it go?"

The inspection. He'd almost forgotten about that.

"No, it's not quite finished," he said, not knowing if it was true or not. "I think it's going to turn out better than I thought." Definitely a lie. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Maybe it would be better to wait until we can get together."

He glanced over at Laura, who was pretending not to be listening. "Are you finally dumping me?"

"Mark! No. It's nothing like that. Kind of the opposite, actually."

"Well, you've got me now, and I can't guarantee when we're going to get to talk again. Maybe you should just say what you want to say."

There was a brief silence over the phone. "Okay. I will. It's about what we talked about at dinner . . . about your job."

"Yeah?"

"I told you that I thought you could do really well at it if you tried."

"Mmm-hmm."

"I've been thinking about that. Maybe it's all about doing what you love. Someone once said to me that life is not a rehearsal. Counting on getting your reward after you die is kind of a leap. So maybe what it's really about is making yourself happy."

"What happened to striving for mental health, balance, and self-improvement?"

"As much as I hate to admit it, I'm starting to feel the irresistible pull of your philosophy. . ."

"My philosophy?"

"Psychotic, self-destructive, hedonistic wacko-ism."

"So you're giving up obsessive soul-searching, self-doubt, and Amish-like discipline?"

"Touche. What I'm saying is that if a little denial and a couple of beers helps get you through the day, it's not such a bad thing. And if you hate that job, why not just take a demotion or whatever you have to do to get back to the one you loved? When you're lying on your deathbed, you won't be thinking, Damn, I wish I'd have gotten a higher SES rating. . . . Mark? Are you still there?"

Was it possible that she had finally convinced herself to take him back full-time, just when it was too late? The gods continued their mean streak where he was concerned. "Yeah, I'm still here. I'm just surprised."

"Me too."

Another long silence.

"Emory's been asking about you."

Laura had pulled off the main road and was heading toward an old prefab house sitting in what looked like the middle of nowhere.

"You tell her I'll see her--see you both--soon. Look, Carrie, I've got to go. But don't worry, okay? Laura's watching out for me."

"That makes me feel a little better," she said, sounding genuinely relieved. "Hurry up and finish what you're doing. I'd like to talk some more."

"Me too."

He hung up and handed the phone back to Laura as she eased the car around the dilapidated house to a more discreet parking space in the back.

"Thanks a lot, Laura. Now I'm really depressed."

She set the brake and jumped out, leaning back through the open door. "I think I have something that's going to cheer you up."

The house was simplistic in design, nothing more than a slightly crooked box surrounded by a yard devoid of anything but sand, and open expanses in every direction. It was as if the building had fallen from the sky and landed there by chance.

"Is this where the FBI's putting you up, Laura? I've got a four-thousand-dollar-a-night suite. Maybe I could put in a good word for you with Christian."

She ignored him and pushed the front door open. After his eyes adjusted, he saw that the interior was about what he'd expected: furniture with the stuffing hanging out, a dirty shag carpet, water-stained walls. The windows had been covered with thick black cloth, creating a depressing gloom.

"Where are we?" Beamon said.

"This is it, Mark. We traced the van those Afghans were driving. It wasn't easy, but it led us here."