Sphere Of Influence (39 page)

"And what was his reaction?"

"Honestly, he didn't seem to care."

"You're sure, Mark. You're sure that's all you said."

"If he finds anything out, Jonathan, I'm dead before you are. So if I suddenly disappear, start looking for a good plastic surgeon. If not, don't worry about it."

That seemed to calm him down a bit. "So you're telling me you didn't get anything that we might be able to use?" "You mean other than the goddamn mile-wide trail I gave you? Not really. He did say he might have another job for me. That's it. It's his move."

Just as it always was He was getting pretty tired of being dumber and slower than this asshole.

"Let me know the minute he gets in touch with you, Mark. Seriously--the minute."

"I will. See if you can get your act together next time. Volkov is starting to make us look like a couple of amateurs. It's getting embarrassing."

The hotel room was pretty basic--nowhere near the opulence of the one Volkov had provided him and that he would return to later that night. He was fairly certain that no one was watching or listening, though. For now, anyway. He pressed a handful of ice against his forehead and sat down at a small desk, centering a pad of hotel stationery in front of himself. First he wrote down the names of the actors in the drama he'd gotten himself involved in: Chet Michaels, the Afghan heroin dealers, Carlo Gasta, Christian Volkov, Mustafa Yasin, General Yung, and now Jonathan Drake. Staring down at the list, he tried to get his mind to put some sense to what was going on.

Too many goddamn players. This kind of thing just wasn't his forte.

The ice was starting to melt down his face, so he stuffed it in a pillowcase and pressed it against the back of his neck, trying to concentrate. Despite the complexity of this thing, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something obvious.

The knock broke his train of thought just as the effort was beginning to amplify his headache. He crossed the room and pulled the door open, starting back toward the bed without bothering to look who was there.

"Mark, are you all right? What happened in Laos?"

He flopped down on the mattress and pressed the ice-filled pillowcase against his forehead again. "I didn't find your launcher, if that's what you mean."

"What did you find, then?" she said.

That was something he didn't really want to think too hard about. "I basically did exactly what Volkov wanted me to. In fact, I did such a great job, I made another two million."

"You're becoming very successful."

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"I guess not."

"I'm hoping you're doing better," Beamon said.

"Not much. We've identified the men Gasta killed. No surprises and not much help. All four are thought to be tied to al-Qaeda, one we suspect was involved in the attack on the USS Cole."

Beamon sighed quietly. "Any known associates we can look for?"

"Not really. The information we have on these men is sketchy at best. Honestly, we're probably worse off than we were before. The tightening of the connection to alQaeda is getting the military's trigger finger itchy."

"Are they going to move on it?"

"Not yet. With the exception of Charles Russell, who's taken a pretty uncompromising scorched-earth stance, I think Congress and the President are going to wait and watch. They won't admit it, but having a rocket launcher buzzing around has made them all a little more thoughtful--well, that and the fact that they're not sure who to shoot at."

Beamon leaned back against the headboard. "So after all this, what we've learned is where the launcher won't be."

Laura nodded. "The threats are just smoke. With all this plastered across the TV, we can safely say that Yasin will target somewhere else. He's gotten what he wanted in L
. A
.--fear."

"We can always just hope that's the only missile they have and that now they're out of ammo," Beamon said. "Seems overly optimistic."

"Yeah. What else you got?"

"My fingers crossed that you've turned up something that can help me? At this point I'll take anything--no matter how far-fetched. The fact that I'm here should tell you how desperate I am. If the Director finds out, I'll be as dead as--" She cut herself off.

"As dead as me?"

"I'm sorry, Mark. I--"

He waved his hand, silencing her. "I'm not that easily offended. I wish I could help you, Laura, I really do. But I have to admit that I'm stuck. I can almost make things fit together, but not quite."

"How so?"

Beamon took a deep breath. "Christian Volkov. Based on my trip to Laos for him, we can assume he's involved with the Asian heroin machine. The Afghans are horning in on the market, though, and he wants a piece of that action. So he backs Yasin and helps him take over the Golden Crescent."

Laura nodded, but didn't say anything.

"And then there's Carlo Gasta," Beamon continued. "We assume he's one of Volkov's U
. S
. connections--a cog in the new Afghan distribution system Volkov is setting up. It all couldn't be more simple. Two of the classic and most easily understood motivators are at play here: money and religion."

He had purposely left out Jonathan Drake's visit to him in Laos. It seemed safer to keep that to himself for now. "Okay," Laura said, "based on those assumptions, what's happening? Let me give it a try. Everything was going great--al-Qaeda is having success in the Golden Crescent and is starting to sell heroin in the U
. S
to people like Gasta. But that's not ultimately what Yasin wants--he wants to destroy the U
. S
. So he uses some of his new contacts in Russian organized crime to get this boutique rocket launcher and he uses his new friends in Mexico to smuggle it here. Next thing you know, they're sending snapshots to the press. How would a man like your Christian Volkov react? We've got to figure he'd get spooked and decide he needs to distance himself from this whole thing. He tells Gasta to get rid of the Afghan drug dealers. . . . But why? Did he think that it would put an end to any further terrorist acts? Maybe these Afghans could identify his role in this thing? And in the meantime he finds out about Chet, who he met face-to-face. He gives the order to get rid of him too."

"That's the worst theory I've ever heard. And I can say that with real certainty because it's pretty much the same one I came up with."

Laura looked down at the floor. "Yeah, it's pretty lame."

"Three problems jump out at me," Beamon said. "First, Chet didn't meet Volkov. When you meet this guy, it's on his turf and you have no idea where in the world you are. I doubt he ever sets foot in the U
. S
. Best case, Chet met one of Volkov's people. Second--and it hurts me to say this--Christian Volkov isn't afraid of the FBI. As far as we're concerned he doesn't exist, right? And even if the FBI figures it out, I doubt we'd be able to get him. Third, let's not forget that he's the one who called the cops in on Gasta. How the hell does that fit into all this?"

"So if he's not afraid of us and Chet didn't meet him, why'd he have Chet killed?"

Beamon slid the pillowcase down over his eyes and stared into the cold darkness. "I'm not sure he did." "What? I thought the only reason you were here is because you wanted to get this guy."

"Those bank records you went through can't even put him together with Gasta," Beamon said. "You told me yourself that there was no connection between the accounts I was paid through and the accounts that Gasta was paid through."

"There could be ten different explanations for that." "Yeah, but . . . I don't know, Laura. You should meet this guy. He's . . ."

"A sadistic criminal mastermind?"

"That's just it. He's really not. Is he ruthless? Yeah, sure. But he's not ten feet tall with horns and a pointed tail. Honestly, he seems like a pretty reasonable guy. Is he a criminal? I don't know. . . . It kind of depends on your perspective and which side of which border he's standing on at the time."

"What the hell are you talking about, Mark? He's a heroin dealer and God knows what else. He makes his living peddling death and misery to the world."

"That's true. But certainly not on the scale of a Philip Morris or Anheuser-Busch."

"Going native, are you?"

"Look, I just watched an entire village of farmers get gunned down in cold blood and a little kid get hacked apart by a guy with a machete. Christian Volkov didn'
t
have anything to do with that. You know who did? The new president of Laos--a man America is supporting." He sighed quietly and sank deeper into the mattress. "Don't listen to me, Laura. I'm just frustrated out of my mind. The answer's right in front of us--I know it is. We just can't see it."

He fell silent, turning the myriad pieces of this investigation over and over in his mind, trying to create a coherent theory. Nothing. He knew from experience that he'd been concentrating on the problem for too long. He wouldn't solve it tonight.

Chapter
48

THE big-screen television was barely visible in the glare coming through the hotel suite's windows. It wasn't the image that was important, though, it was the commentary that was so damaging. Small hand-to-mouth businesses shutting their doors permanently, people panicking about the huge drop in the values of their retirement accounts, big corporations laying the groundwork for government handouts. Could America take a year of this? What about two?

Instead of giving the FBI credit for turning up the terrorist cell in L
. A
., the media had decided to use it to give credibility to their baseless reports of suspected Muslim fanatics with batteries of rockets in every city in America. Any tip, however unsupported, became certain death lurking just around the corner for hundreds of Americans. And it was quickly becoming Laura's fault.

Next, the politicians would jump on the bandwagon and FBI management would start to back away from her. Someone would have to pay for the American people's fear and suffering. Someone always had to pay.

Beamon continued to pace back and forth in front of the television, as he had since he'd woken from his deathlike five-hour nap. Physically and mentally, he felt as if he were back to about ninety percent, and with most of his neurons firing again, a coherent theory had finally formed. He'd been trying to punch holes in it for more than thirty minutes now, and so far he couldn't find any fatal weaknesses beyond the fact that it seemed a little farfetched. For the first time in all this, he had something that fit all the facts.

The knock at the door startled him and he stopped pacing abruptly. He hadn't given anyone the location of the hotel suite that Volkov had provided--not even Laura. Unless it was a lost room-service guy, it stood to reason that one of Volkov's people was on the other side of that door. Why? Clearly the man preferred to give orders long distance. Why would he send someone personally with no warning?

Beamon stood motionless in the middle of the floor, staring at the door. He knew that his tenuous cover would eventually fall apart--the only reason it had lasted this long was probably because Volkov had to deal with the same inefficiency as everyone else when it came to getting information out of the U
. S
. bureaucracy. At some point, though, his informants would take the doughnuts out of their mouths and get back to him on the identity of the enigmatic Nicolai.

He grabbed his .357 off the nightstand and walked quietly across the room. Holding it casually behind his back, he took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

"Mark! My God, you look like a new man. Can I come in?"

Beamon stepped aside to let Elizabeth through and then cautiously poked his head out the door and looked both ways. The hall was empty.

"Nice room," Elizabeth commented as he closed the door and locked it. "Christian usually puts me in the Holiday Inn."

Except for the British accent, she was almost unrecognizable as the bikini-clad girl on Volkov's boat. She was wearing a tan silk blouse and an elegant but formfitting black skirt. Her dark hair flowed across her shoulders and framed a face that suddenly seemed to exude an unlikely combination of youth and worldliness. Had all that been there before? Probably. It seemed almost certain that, considering her former nearly naked state, he hadn't really given a great deal of thought to her face.

"You have a balcony out here?" she said, striding acros
s
the room and gazing out at the light of the setting sun playing across the city.

"What are you doing in the States?" Beamon asked, sliding his gun into the waistband of his slacks.

"Christian wanted me to come and pick you up. Are you free this evening?"

Good question. Had Volkov's people managed to follow him earlier? Did they know about his meeting with Laura? Had they been able to figure out who she was?

"For what?"

She turned and smiled. "I don't know. He just told me to come and get you. So? Are you free?"

He didn't have any choice, he knew. If he was going to keep this ball in play, he'd just have to assume that his cover was solid until someone finally put him out of his misery.