Sphere Of Influence (15 page)

"I think you're pissing into the wind here, Laura. I mean, Dave gritted his teeth and agreed to use me for my contacts, but he and P
. C
. aren't going to let me take an active role in this investigation. No way."

"You know Scott Reynolds in L
. A
., don't you?" Beamon nodded.

"He agrees that this is something worth looking into. He's willing to prioritize getting the Afghans over getting Carlo Gasta."

"Reynolds is a good man. You can trust him."

"I agree. He also said that he's willing to keep this angle of investigation quiet from management."

"I don't understand, Laura. Why would you want to do that?"

She ignored the question. "We hear that Gasta has orders to kill these Afghans at their next meeting and steal their heroin."

"Orders from whom?"

"We don't know exactly."

"I still don't see what this has to do with me," Beamon said, careful not to let himself succumb to the hypnotic effect that drug dealers, mafiosi, and rocket launchers always seemed to have on him.

"We were able to get an undercover FBI agent close to Gasta two ways. First, we have an informant inside Gasta's organization and he vouched for our guy. Second, our guy told Gasta that he used to work for Nicolai."

Beamon searched his brain for the name but came up empty. "Who?"

"Nicolai is a criminal transaction specialist--assassination, drugs, arms deals, theft. If it's big and complicated, he's interested. But he's strictly a free agent, not affiliated with any particular organization."

"Never heard of him."

"That's probably because he doesn't really exist." "Excuse me?"

"The FBI conjured him out of thin air. Well, not exactly thin air--more like out of unsolved crimes and classified FBI operations. We created him for just this kind of a thing."

Beamon kicked his feet up onto his desk and thought about that for a few moments. "A creative and interesting idea," he said sincerely. "Did you come up with it?"

"Not me. Actually, I don't know who did."

"You still haven't answered my question. What does this have to do with me?"

"Like I said, Gasta has orders to hit these Afghans. The problem is, he's a little scared of them."

"Who would have thought he was that smart?" Beamon said.

"He wants our guy to call Nicolai and get him involved." Beamon couldn't help laughing. "Let me guess: Nicolai is about my age and build."

"He sure could be."

"You're too much, Laura."

"Look, Mark. We've got to move on this, and the 'Nicole file is pretty thick. You've got a hell of a memory for crime when you try. There aren't too many people in th
e
Bureau who could get on top of the material in the time we've got. Plus, it's your angle--your idea. And . . ." "And?"

"You're going to make me say this, aren't you?" "Say what?"

"Look, I don't think this is going to come to anything, but I want you involved. I'd feel better if you were involved. Okay?"

"I'm not sure what to say," Beamon responded honestly. "From what I'm hearing, you should turn me down--stay here and buckle down."

"News travels fast," he said.

"So what do you think?"

It had been years since he'd gone undercover, and he didn't remember particularly liking it. On the other hand, Laura looked like she was on her last leg; turning her down wasn't going to be easy.

"What I'm talking about is basically one meeting, Mark. You go in, you play our guy up in front of Gasta, and then you tell him you've got other commitments."

"I don't know, Laura. I've done some fairly high-profile stuff in the last few years. What if somebody recognizes me?"

"Is that a joke?"

She was right, of course. With all the weight he'd lost, the beard, and the continued graying and thinning of his hair, he barely recognized himself. Combined with the glasses that only his optometrist knew were bifocals, he was starting to look more like a college professor than an FBI agent.

"I don't know, Laura . . ."

"It's up to you."

The truth was that there was nothing for him to do in Phoenix right now. He was waiting for his ASACs to finish going through his comments on the inspection report, and the stress would most likely kill him before the weekend. Maybe this would be good for his mental outlook--help out a friend and get a little break from his life.

"What about this informant that helped our guy get inside?"

"What about him?"

"You said you don't know who ordered Gasta to hit the Afghans. Does your informant have any information?" "We don't know. Probably not. We're trying to initiate contact with him, but it takes time. We'll catch him before you go in . . . if you go in."

"When?"

"Soon. Tomorrow or the day after at the latest." "Your undercover guy. Is he any good? Reliable?"

"You ought to know: You pretty much trained him. It's Chet Michaels."

Beamon's eyes widened, remembering the glow-in-the-dark red hair and freckles that spread from Chet's nose across his pale cheeks. "You sent Howdy Doody undercover?"

Laura shrugged. "That's the other reason you're perfect for this job. He really did work for you for a couple of years."

One of the primary rules of undercover work: Keep it as real as possible. The more lies you told, the more chance you'd trip yourself up.

"Chet Michaels," Beamon said quietly, shaking his head. "Okay, you've sold me. Send me the files."

A tired smile spread across Laura's face. "Your secretary's copying them as we speak."

Chapter
17

BEAMON had a hot pan of Kraft macaroni and cheese burning one hand and a beer freezing the other when the phone rang. He ran across the living room and searched for a safe place to put the pan, finally just dropping it on the coffee table next to the three burned crescents already there.

"Yeah, hello?" he said, grabbing the phone and digging a magazine from beneath the sofa to use as a pot holder. "Mark! It's been a while. How are you?"

The voice was still clear and youthful, though some of the uncontrolled enthusiasm seemed to have dimmed a bit. The ravages of maturity.

"Chet. Yeah, it has been a while. I'm good. I hear some idiot put you undercover with the Mob."

"Can you believe it? And they love me. I guess as much as I don't look like a crook, I look like an FBI agent even less. Who would ever suspect?"

"You make a good point," Beamon said, finally tracking down the manual to his phone and flipping quickly through it.

"Hold on, Chet. I'm going to see if I can conference Laura in."

"Hey, Mark?"

"Yeah," Beamon said, skimming the instructions.

"I appreciate you doing this. I mean, being a big-shot SAC and all, I know you have better things to do." "You'd be surprised," he said, cutting Chet off and dialing Laura to connect her. Miraculously, it worked.

"Okay, Chet. You first. Do you have anything new since the last time you talked to Laura?"

"Not really. Gasta's getting himself worked up to hit these Afghans, but as far as I know he hasn't been contacted by them to set up another meeting yet. He hasn't even mentioned that John guy since the day we met him, but I'm still convinced that he's the money man we've been looking for."

"And you still think he's the one putting Gasta up to this thing with the Afghans."

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Laura, how about you? What have you got?" "As far as the mysterious 'John' goes, not much. The security tapes for the night Gasta met with him seem to have miraculously disappeared. There were no useful prints we could find in the office, and we got nothing from the other tenants on that floor. The company itself, First Federal Development Bank, is a shell corporation chartered in Niue, which is basically a medium-sized rock sticking out of the Pacific. Where the Afghans are concerned, we're not doing any better. We've run through pretty much every informant the DEA has and we've got nothing on a group of Afghans shopping around a big load of heroin--or any heroin at all, for that matter. It's looking like we're going to have to count on Chet to find them for us."

"And that's where Nicolai comes in," Beamon said. "Right," Chet agreed. "I played up my relationship with Nicolai to get Gasta to take me on. I have a feeling that if I don't produce, I'm going to lose a lot of credibility in his eyes. If that happens, I could get frozen out of the deal and then I won't be able to do anything to help you get your hands on these Afghans."

"But if Nicolai makes an appearance, you're okay, right? Even if Nicolai says no to Gasta's proposal?"

"The important thing is to make it look like we've got a good relationship and that you respect me. Call it a scheduling conflict and that you'd be interested in doing something with him in the future. Gasta's really susceptible to flattery."

"If Nicolai's got all this built-in credibility, could he help you get close to the money man you're after?"

"It's a good idea, Mark, but I don't think it will work. Unless I miss my guess, Gasta will keep Nicolai's involvement quiet. He wants to impress this John guy--particularly after pissing him off by bringing me to that meeting. He'll want to take all the credit for pulling this thing off" "So all he's looking to do here is hire Nicolai to help him kill these Afghans and steal their product. Then he'll just pay Nicolai's fee and no one will ever know Gasta didn't plan and execute the whole thing."

"Exactly."

"And you're sure it's not going to hurt you when Nicolai says no."

"I'm not dead sure but I don't think so. I said I worked for the guy--not that I had any influence over him." "Okay," Beamon said, pulling the phone to the full length of its cord and shoving a spoonful of mac and cheese in his mouth. "Set up a meeting."

"I'll get in touch with you when I get a time and place." "Mark," Laura cut in. "I opened an account for you in the Caymans and an e-mail account with a server set up in the Czech Republic. I faxed all the information to one of the techs at your office. He's setting up a laptop with all this stuff. Nicolai takes a hundred thousand just for showing up to a meeting."

"Sounds good. What about the informant you told me about--the one who introduced Chet to Gasta? Have you been able to get in touch with him yet?"

"We're still trying to set up a meeting," Laura said. "What about you, Chet? Can you get to him?"

"I don't think so, Laura. I've moved way beyond him and never really see him anymore. I think my trying to contact him now would look weird and wouldn't be worth the risk. I mean, I know it pays to be thorough, but this guy is too low on the totem pole to know anything that could help us."

"Okay, then," Laura said. "Is that it?"

"Seems like," Beamon said.

"I'll keep after that informant, Mark, and I'll let yo
u
know what I find out. Oh, and, Chet, if I don't talk to you, good luck and thanks for the assist." There was a click on the phone as she hung up.

"You still there, Chet?"

"Yeah, I'm here. It's gonna be fun working with you again, Mark. I've missed the sort of surreal quality of it." "Uh-huh. What's the girl with the nose ring think about all this?"

"My wife is fine with it. But I told her this was the last time."

"That's a promise you should keep," Beamon said seriously, "but the Bureau won't make it easy. From what I hear, you've done a good job, and that means they'll want you to go under again. Don't let them get to you. Your relationship with your wife's all that's important."

There was a fairly long silence before Chet spoke again. "I don't get it. Are you being sarcastic?"

"No, I'm not being sarcastic. I'm giving you the benefit of my age and wisdom. Do as I say, not as I've done." "Sure, Mark. I will. Hey, how's Carrie?"

"Good. She's good."

At least as far as he knew; he still hadn't called her. He wanted to have some kind of coherent plan for the rest of his life first.

Chapter
18

WOLFGANG had been motionless since before dawn, half buried in a mound of dead foliage near two granite boulders. The small muscular knot that had begun to tie itself in his lower back three hours ago was now bad enough to impair fast movement should it become necessary. He needed to stretch, to relieve some of the pressure, but that was out of the question. It seemed that every year he felt the discomfort of his job a little more acutely--the cramping muscles, the wet, rotting jungle soaking through his fatigues, the sharp rocks beneath him. At twenty-nine, it was already time to think about the day that he would no longer be capable of this kind of work.

Another interminably long hour passed before he heard it: a sound too quiet to be a coconut falling through the trees, but too loud to be one of the small reptiles scurrying around him in the dead leaves. He held his breath and flexed his hand around his rifle. It was possible that it was some kind of animal--something he hadn't seen yet, but he doubted it. The noise had an unnatural hesitancy to it that usually meant a human source.