Sphere Of Influence (27 page)

Laura had seemed strangely desperate. Not so much about the launcher, but to convince herself that he hadn't just thrown away what was left of his life. She seemed to want to believe that the elaborate story she'd concocted was something more than the very brief reprieve it realistically was. She had bought him some time, though. The question now was what he was going to do with it.

The bottom line was that he wanted the man who'd ordered Chet's death. Of course, he knew it wouldn't change anything--Chet would still be dead and he would still be alive. But sometimes revenge was all there was left.

He knew now that his plan to deliver Gasta and the Afghans had been a carefully contrived fantasy. Even if everything had worked the way it was supposed to, he'd never really planned on leading the FBI to Gasta. In the end he would have used the success of the heist to stay close to Gasta and get his hands on the man's boss.

Now, though, his investigation--if anyone in their right mind would call it that--was dead in the water. Gasta had disobeyed him and owed him money, making it kind of unlikely that the mobster would be anxious to ever get within rifle range of Nicolai again.

Beamon lit a cigarette and just kept walking. There didn't seem to be much else for him to do, and despite a little residual pain from his injuries, it felt good.

He'd made it almost a mile when his cell phone rang, confusing him for a moment. Hadn't he turned it off? A jolt of adrenaline ran through him when he discovered that it wasn't the phone Laura had the number to that was ringing.

"Yeah."

"You live up to your reputation."

Beamon didn't answer immediately, taking a moment to calm down and slip back into Nicolai.

"Do I?"

"Shit yeah!" Carlo Gasta laughed drunkenly. "Strippers! You are the man. The man! We made those cops look like a bunch of assholes!"

"What the hell happened, Carlo? Why'd you shoot?" "Look, Nicolai ... I'm sorry about that. Really, I am. My boss wanted those guys dead, you know? What could I do? And we used twenty-twos with silencers. The cops didn't hear us. That's not what brought those fuckers down on us."

"Then you have a leak in your organization," Beamon said. "My sources tell me that the police knew exactly where you were supposed to be. If you'd gone all the way to that amphitheater, you'd have found a SWAT team waiting for you."

"Bullshit! This ain't coming from my guys. I'd trust them with my life."

"Then you should be more careful who you trust," Beamon said, letting a little anger creep into Nicolai's voice. "Because if it wasn't for my intervention you'd be calling me from prison."

"Hey, take it easy, man. No question that you saved my ass and I owe you for that. Look, I know it wasn't the prettiest deal you ever did, but everything worked out. Can we put it behind us?"

"Where's my goddamn money?"

"We're cutting the product up now. You'll get it soon. Relax. You earned it." Gasta laughed loud enough to make Beamon pull the phone away from his ear. "Goddamn strippers! You are the shit, man. Look I gotta go. Gotta go work on getting you your cash."

"Give me a number where I can reach you, Carlo. I've got people in the LAPD. If they turn up anything interesting, I'll let you know."

"555-3847 is my cell. Talk to you. . . ." The line clicked as he hung up.

"Great," Beamon said to the empty street. Somehow Gasta contacting him didn't make him feel better, and the reason was obvious. He really had earned that three million dollars. It suddenly occurred to Beamon that not only was he an organized criminal, he was a really good one. He'd more or less lost track of where he was when he came upon a pay phone that looked like it had escaped the wrath of the local vandals. After sticking in a few coins, he dialed Carrie's number. She was out of town until tomorrow but for some reason he wanted to hear her voice.

"Hi, you've reached the home of Dr. Carrie Johnstone. You can leave a message or, if it's an emergency, you can beep me at 555-9394. Sorry I missed your call."

He hung up, feeling like a middle-aged adolescent. That didn't stop him from digging in his pocket for more change, though. Something about her voice provided a brief illusion that none of this had happened.

"Nicolai?"

Beamon dropped the phone and spun around, reaching behind him for his gun.

The weathered, broad-shouldered man standing at the curb didn't react at all, other than to smile politely. He was probably in his early thirties and spoke with what might have been a German accent.

Despite the fact that Beamon already had his hand wrapped around the butt of his .357 and the young man standing in front of him had his hanging at his sides, Beamon knew he was outmatched. If he pulled his gun, this kid would kill him. Or worse, take it away from him. Frankly, he just didn't need that kind of humiliation right now.

"And who are you?" Beamon said, surprising himself with his calm tone. No doubt Nicolai's influence.

"My name is Wolfgang. My employer wanted me to ask if you would be available to meet with him."

Beamon released his gun. "Who's your employer?" "That is probably something you should talk to him about."

Beamon looked up the road and saw a gray Mercedes gliding toward them. How had this guy tracked him down? The FBI obviously couldn't.

"When were you thinking?"

"Now, if it's convenient."

Of course it didn't really matter if it was or not, but at least the kid was polite.

"Sure. Why the hell not?"

Chapter
35

"WHAT the fuck happened, Jonathan?" The temperature in the conference room seemed to drop as Alan Holsten walked through the door. "There were police everywhere. Where the hell did they come from? And where the hell were you?"

Drake shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wanted to stand and use his superior height and bulk to assert himself, but knew it would be pointless.

"It was an anonymous tip, Alan. Someone phoned in an anonymous tip. It wasn't possible for my people to complete the mission."

"An anonymous tip," Holsten repeated. "From whom?" "I don't know yet. It could have been anyone--one of Gasta's enemies, someone being paid off inside his organization . . ."

"Or it could have been Volkov."

Of course that was a possibility. If Volkov had ears inside Gasta's organization, he might have guessed that the CIA would use the heroin transaction as an ambush. If he was working under the assumption that the CIA was abandoning its plot against al-Qaeda, he could be interfering. By protecting Gasta, Volkov knew he would create a distraction that might temporarily deflect attention from him. Drake would be forced to concentrate his resources on hunting Gasta down before the police did.

"It's possible, Alan, but unlikely, I think. A much more probable--"

"Then, tell me how Gasta got away. How did a man tha
t
you described as stupid and completely under your control orchestrate what we're seeing on television?"

Drake had spent most of the day trying to come up with an answer to that question. Only an hour ago he'd gotten his first shred of useful information on the subject.

"He didn't orchestrate it, sir. Someone else did. According to my sources, Gasta hired a man named Nicolai to help him plan the operation."

Holsten nodded coldly. "Nicolai. Why didn't we know about this?"

Drake knew he had to tread lightly here. "Because Gasta wanted to please me. He solicited Nicolai to help him complete the mission I sent him on because he was afraid to fail. But when he succeeded, he wanted to take the credit."

"Your operation has completely fallen apart, Jonathan. The FBI has the bodies of the Afghans and they're going to use them to trace the launcher. Gasta is still alive, and if the police find him before you do, they'll have a direct path to us."

"They won't find him."

"Prove it to me. Prove to me that you aren't just blowing sunshine up my ass like you have for the past two weeks--that you actually have a fucking single clue what you're doing."

Drake stiffened but remained silent.

"Are you in touch with Gasta? Do you know where he is?"

The truth was, he didn't. Gasta had hidden out with the spoils of his victory against the Afghans and wasn't answering his cell phone. Thinking that he'd successfully completed the task Drake had charged him with, he would see no need for immediate communication.

"Not yet," Drake said. "But he'll call me in the next day or--"

"That's not good enough!" Holsten screamed. "What else is there, Jonathan? What else have you done to fuck this thing up?"

Drake laced his hands calmly in his lap but didn't immediately respond. He had information that Volkov wa
s
personally supplying al-Qaeda with weapons and intelligence so that they could continue their destabilization of the heroin supply flowing into the U
. S
. through Mexico. But he couldn't tell Holsten that. The time for honesty was gone; his position was becoming more and more precarious. All that mattered now was protecting himself.

"There's nothing, Alan. I'll find Gasta and get rid of him. He'll be dead in the next two days. I guarantee it."

"And what about this Nicolai?"

"I assume he's holed up with Gasta, though I can't be sure. We're working on identifying and locating him now." Holsten pulled a file from under his arm and threw it at Drake. "Let me save you the trouble. Nicolai is Mark Beamon."

"What?" Drake clawed the file open and began sifting through its contents.

"Laura Vilechi sent him undercover when Michaels reported meeting an Afghan heroin dealer. She thought there might be a connection."

Drake pushed aside an old article on Beamon from The Washington Post and uncovered Michaels's report.

"So far," Holsten continued, "the FBI is keeping the fact that they had men inside Gasta's organization quiet. They haven't been able to contact Beamon, but they're working on the assumption that Gasta froze him out of the deal. I'm guessing it won't be long before they find out he ignored his orders to arrest Gasta and was directly involved in the deaths of those Afghans."

Drake looked up at Holsten. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he get involved in something like that? Why wouldn't he just hand Gasta over?"

"Because, you stupid son of a bitch, he was there when Gasta called you. He was there when you told Gasta to kill Michaels. And now he's after your ass."

"But . . ." Drake fell silent. He wasn't sure what else to say. "You know what's at stake here, Jonathan. You've supplied one of America's most dangerous enemies with weapons. You've allied yourself with a major international organized-crime figure. You've ordered the death of an undercover FBI agent." Holsten slammed his hand down o
n
the table. "You will bring this operation under control immediately, do you understand me? I'm giving you one more chance before I get involved personally."

Holsten turned and walked from the room without further explaining his vague threat. Drake felt the perspiration start to leak from his forehead as the deputy director of operations slammed the door behind him. His life was now in danger. If he was dead, Holsten could paint him as a rogue agent and deflect blame. There could be no more mistakes. But if there were, he had to make sure he had a way out.

Chapter
36

WITH great difficulty Beamon had refused repeated offers of top-shelf booze, instead opting for coffee and Cokes in an effort to sober up. He'd been less coy when the scent of garlic and herbs filled the cabin and had already packed away more than he'd eaten in any given twenty-four hours over the last year. Why? He wasn't sure. The fact that it was some of the best food he'd ever tasted might have had something to do with it. But there was something else. The condition of his stomach, after reaching an all-time low about ten hours before, seemed to be improving. Maybe there was a silver lining to being completely doomed. With absolutely no upside, there wasn't all that much left to worry about. It was a badly tarnished silver lining, to be sure, but a silver lining nonetheless.

He sliced into a shrimp ravioli dabbed with a complex green sauce and popped it in his mouth. Fantastic. Wolfgang, his young chaperon, was sitting in a deep leather chair on the other side of the plane, reading a book. He seemed wholly unconcerned that Nicolai was still armed and now also holding a sharp knife--confidence that was undoubtedly well founded.

Beamon finally pushed the plate away, fearing that if he shoveled in another bite, he might actually injure himself. A moment later a woman who he'd thought was the stewardess but now suspected was the pilot appeared and cleared the plate.

"Did you enjoy your meal, sir?"

Beamon looked up at her. "It was wonderful, thank you."

She was a striking woman, over six feet tall, with smooth, dark skin, dramatic bone structure, and the pleasant accent of a native African. When she smiled, she revealed a truly magnificent set of teeth. "In that case, can I interest you in dessert? We have--"

"Thank you, but no. As much as I'd like to, I better not risk it." He motioned to the complete darkness outside the window next to him. "Where are we?"