Sphere Of Influence (12 page)

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"

Chet leaned his head against the window and looked out at a police barricade set up in front of a sprawling hospital. He'd heard the new threat by the asshole with the rocket launcher on the radio earlier that day. It seemed he was considering blowing up a hospital now. According to the news, seriously ill people all over the country were fleeing their sickbeds as if they were on fire. Between them and the people who got sick or hurt and just stayed home, predictions were for a significant death toll.

"Fucking towelheads! Trying to make me look like an asshole in front of--" He cut himself off and jabbed Chet hard in the chest. "No one in the organization hears about this until I tell them. You got that?"

"Hears about what?"

"Fuck . . ." Gasta muttered.

"Hears about what, Carlo?"

"John said that those sand niggers have the product; they're just stalling, trying to see if they can find someone who'll pay more. He says they're showing it around--that they'll do this one deal with me, but afterward they're going to cut me out." He banged on the wheel again, making the car careen across the centerline of the empty street. "Sons of bitches come in here like they own this country. No loyalty, just bullshit."

"What are you going to do?" Chet said.

"I'm going to teach them some respect."

"What does that mean?"

"These people understand war, Chet. They understand a handshake deal. But they think Americans are soft. And they think Catholics are shit under their heel. They would never treat one of their own this way."

Chet turned and watched the city lights play across Gasta's face. Those weren't his words. Gasta couldn't find the Middle East on a map if you put a gun to his head. He'd heard that little speech from whoever this John was. The guy was good--Chet had to admit that. Telling Gasta that the Afghans were looking for bigger and better things played well to the feelings of inferiority beat int
o
him by the years of being compared to his father. And the religion thing--that was a nice touch. Gasta liked to wear his meaningless Catholicism on his sleeve, just like the old-time gangsters he worshiped.

"That doesn't answer my question, Carlo."

"You want me to answer your question? Okay, I'll answer your question. I'm going to put a bullet in the head of every last one of those fucks and piss in the hole. Then I'm going to take their heroin to pay for my trouble. I'm going to teach them that in this country we live up to our agreements. They either deal with me or they deal with nobody." That's exactly what Chet had been afraid o
f
"Hold on now, Carlo. Let's think about this for a second. What did you just tell me? These people understand war. They don't care if they die, man. They go into the military when they're six years old, for Christ's sake."

"Fucking kicked their asses in Afghanistan."

"No we didn't. We dropped bombs from the stratosphere and let the Northern Alliance kick their asses. Jesus, Carlo. What're we gonna do? Ask the Air Force to cover us at our next meet? Drive there in a tank? We're going in there with the same guns they got. We don't have an edge."

"What, are you scared of these assholes? Maybe I need to find somebody with balls to work for me."

"You saw that Mohammed guy, Carlo. He's badass and he isn't alone. At that last exchange I'll bet they had ten guys out there with rifles aimed at our heads. That's the way they work, man. It's like going up against a bunch of psycho Marines."

Chet could see from Gasta's face that at least some of what he was saying was getting through.

"Who is that guy, Carlo? You trust him?"

Gasta's hand shot out and he grabbed Chet hard by the back of this neck. "You just forget all about him. You understand me?"

"Sure, Carlo. Sure. I understand."

Gasta released him and went back to his erratic driving. "We can't walk away from this, Chet. There's too much money on the table."

And that was the problem, Chet knew. The financial rewards that came with the heroin trade were sky-high--enough to make Carlo the big man he'd always wanted to be. And while it was true that Carlo Gasta's fear was stronger than his anger, his vanity lorded over all.

"What are we talking about here, Carlo? I mean, how would we do it?"

"They said they'd have the stuff this week--after they've fucking shopped it around to everybody on the West Coast," he said, starting to sound a little hesitant. "So we go to the buy and blow their goddamn heads off--send a message about what I do to people who try to fuck me." "Jesus, Carlo, they got, like, those machine guns that sit on tripods and shit. They're desert fighters, man--they're born to it. If we just go in there shooting, we better hope we get killed quick, 'cause if not, they're going to take us back to wherever they came from and spend a few days cutting us apart."

Gasta just stared through the windshield.

"I mean, do you know where we could find them, maybe? Then we could hit them when they're not expecting it."

Gasta shook his head and Chet blew out a long breath. The silence that descended on the car lasted almost fifteen minutes.

"What about your old boss?" Gasta said finally.

During the long lull in the conversation Chet had actually said a prayer that this wouldn't come up, breaking his steadfast policy of never bothering God with business problems.

"I don't think he'd be interested," Chet replied tentatively.

"What, he doesn't want to do business with me? I'm not good enough for him?"

"That's not what I meant, Carlo. I just don't think this is his kind of thing."

"You don't think," Gasta repeated angrily. "I don't want you to think. I want you to call him and ask."

Chet knew he was pretty much backed into a corner now. Playing up his relationship with the notorious criminal known only as "Nicolai" had been how he'd managed to finagle his way into Gasta's organization. It could become a major problem if he didn't produce now. In fact, it could get dangerous.

"Honestly, Carlo. That was a long time ago. I'm not even sure how to contact him anymore."

"You're a smart kid. You'll figure it out."

Chet knew the tone, the low voice, the short answers. Gasta wasn't going to let this go. It had taken a long time and a hell of a lot of work to gain Gasta's confidence--he didn't need to blow it now. Besides, if he could help make things work out, maybe he'd impress this John guy and get some recognition from him--get a chance to move up. "I'll see what I can do. You know he takes a hundred grand just for a meeting, right?"

Gasta nodded. "Not a problem. The cash out on this deal will be fucking huge."

Chapter
13

PASCAL braced himself on the seat in front of him as the heavily armored vehicle skidded to a stop in what seemed more like an extraordinarily long mud puddle than a road. The driver rolled down his window and began speaking Lao to the leader of a group of men who had suddenly appeared from the dense jungle and surrounded them. Pascal ignored the damp breeze blowing through the open window and the scent of sweat and explosives that it carried, instead staring through the front windshield at a man aiming a handheld rocket directly at him.

The undecipherable conversation became heated, drowning out the erratic bursts of gunfire coming from somewhere nearby. The driver seemed strangely adamant for a man who had a missile aimed at him, but his steadfast resolve prevailed and the men surrounding them reluctantly melted back into the jungle. The vehicle's engine roared again and they jerked forward, continuing toward the city of Luang Prabang.

General Yung could scarcely have picked a worse time to rise up and overthrow the Laotian government. Christian had enjoyed a long and very profitable relationship with the former president, who had been intimately involved in the cultivation and export of heroin from his country. Now, though, nothing was certain. Poppy fields and refining facilities had almost certainly been destroyed in the coup, supply lines would be made unsafe by inevitable rebel activity, and there was no guarantee that General Yung would honor his predecessor's agreements where his country's number-one export was concerned.

None of this could be tolerated. When the time came for Volkov to turn against al-Qaeda, the transition from Middle Eastern to Asian suppliers would have to be seamless to the point of being almost transparent. Yasin, while hampered by his own unwavering religious fanaticism, was in no way a stupid man. There could be no warning that might afford him time to protect his position and no cracks remaining for him to slither through after the transition was complete.

The palace at the center of the city seemed to be untouched by the violence that had gripped Laos over the past weeks. Pascal stepped from the vehicle into a hot, drenching rain and walked toward a man wearing an impeccable military uniform. He was flanked by myriad well-armed guards and civilian assistants, one of whom seemed to have the sole purpose of holding the general's umbrella. "General Yung, I am Pascal."

The Asian man smiled pleasantly and offered his hand. "I am so sorry that Mr. Volkov could not come personally," he said in accented but perfectly acceptable French.

"You understand he's extremely busy right now," Pascal replied.

Something flickered in Yung's eyes but Pascal didn't know what it was. He had always wished he had Christian's insight into human nature, but knew he never would. His talents revolved around numbers, precision, and efficiency--a different but equally valuable gift.

"Please follow me," Yung said, turning in a military fashion and striding through the broad door centered in the building. "I'm looking forward to our discussion."

His office was a bit haphazard--a cheap desk in the middle of what looked like an ancient library--an effective combination of austerity, tradition, and learning.

"Can I offer you a drink, my friend? I think you'll enjoy it. I make it myself."

"No, thank you, General."

He didn't want to be here any longer than was absolutely necessary. Once again this brutal, half-educated little man's timing had been the height of inconvenience. At this moment Christian was on a plane for America to attend his mysterious meeting with Charles Russell, leaving the entire organization in the hands of loyal but inexperienced children.

"Can I offer you something else?"

"Nothing."

"Then please have a seat," he said, pointing to a folding chair. "What is it you came all this way to discuss?" Pascal sat stiffly. "Our future."

"Indeed?"

"We're concerned about the stability of Laos following your takeover. There still seems to be a significant amount of fighting, and we have reports of groups loyal to the former president organizing in the jungle."

The general nodded gravely.

"Our concern is that the flow of heroin from your country will become unreliable."

The general's eyes widened at the word heroin, as though he were unaware that it was the basis of Laos's economy. "My concern," Yung began, "was to throw off the yoke of communism, to bring my country into the twenty-first century. I will provide freedom to my people and create opportunities for education and economic development. . . ." Pascal frowned. He simply didn't have time to indulge the general's delusions of grandeur.

"And does that plan for economic development include the continuation of your country's relationship with Mr. Volkov?"

Yung's smile was polite but a bit strained. "Of course, I have nothing but respect and admiration for your employer. And I would be honored to discuss a relationship that would be mutually beneficial."

"Then may I suggest--"

"But you have concerns," Yung interrupted. "And I want you to feel . . . confident." He motioned toward the open doorway to the office, and Pascal craned his neck to watch one of Yung's guards approach.

"You understand that I am quite busy right now," the general continued. "And I am afraid that I have some things to attend to. Please accompany my assistant. He will take you on a tour of the city and the outlying areas. I believe that you will be satisfied with the stability of my country. And tonight I would be honored if you would be my guest for dinner, where we can talk more."

Yung pulled a stack of papers from his desk and began shuffling through them before Pascal could protest. He had been dismissed by this arrogant little man whose entire country wasn't worth half the assets Volkov controlled. And now he would be forced to waste his time dining in this godforsaken country instead of being on a plane back to the Seychelles.

He nodded respectfully toward Yung, knowing there was nothing else he could do.

Pascal sat impatiently in the passenger seat of the armored car as his driver took him to every island of calm in the area, pointing out the uncommon serenity of their country in broken French, ignoring the sound of gunfire and distant columns of smoke with almost comic diligence.

"Yes, that's fine. Very informative," Pascal said for the tenth time. "Could you please take me back now?" Yung's assistant ignored him, swinging the vehicle onto a narrow mud road leading into the jungle. Pascal twisted around, looked past the smiling men crammed into the back of the truck, and watched all evidence of civilizatio
n
disappear. Soon, even the seemingly omnipresent sound of killing was swallowed by the thick, wet plant life that had closed in behind them.