Sphere Of Influence (28 page)

"Not far from our destination," she said vaguely.

"Oh, right. I went on vacation there last year. How much longer?"

Another stunning smile. "Not long. If you're tired, there's a bedroom in the back. Please feel free to use it." "I'm fine. But thanks for the offer."

Beamon watched her move back toward the cockpit and looked around the plane again. He knew almost nothing about private jets, but he'd been on enough to know that this one was big--much larger than the FBI's. And a hell of a lot nicer too. All leather, exotic woods, and heavy brass. He'd obviously managed to get someone's attention. Another two hours passed before an obvious loss of altitude saved him from the onset of a nasty food coma. He glanced at his watch, which read eight P
. M
., and then out the window. The sun was bright and low on the horizon. Dawn. He tried to calculate in his mind where in the world it would be early morning if it was early evening in L
. A
., but that kind of math just wasn't his forte. It didn't really matter anyway.

As they descended, he watched the endless carpet of tightly packed pine trees get closer and closer. There wasn't much else to see--no towns, no roads. For a moment he thought they might be crashing and wasn't quite sure how he felt about the possibility. It would go a long way to solving his personal problems.

As they continued to descend, though, what had looked like a long gouge in the trees became a well-maintained runway. Beamon kept his face pressed to the glass as the plane touched down but still couldn't see anything of interest. By the time the plane rolled to a stop, Wolfgang was already busy opening the door. He didn't get out but invited Beamon to.

The weather was cool, almost fall-like, as he stepped down onto the tarmac. A pleasant change from L
. A
. and Phoenix. He put his sunglasses on and watched a tan Ford Expedition speeding toward him. It came to a hurried stop a few feet away and the driver jumped out. He was black, too, but with a smaller frame and lighter skin than the pilot. Beamon guessed that he was in his early thirties. "Nicolai. I'm Joseph, Christian Volkov's executive assistant." The Australian accent nailed it. Aborigine blood. Quite an international crew.

"Christian Volkov?" Beamon said, shaking the man's outstretched hand.

"I'll take you to him now."

Beamon climbed into the vehicle and they were immediately on their way. The pavement was replaced with a rutted dirt road after less than a mile, slowing their progress significantly.

"It's a beautiful spot," Beamon said as Joseph carefully maneuvered around a deep pothole. "Where are we?" "Not far from Christian's home."

Beamon nodded as though that was a credible answer. He might as well give up trying to place himself on a map. The house was impressive but not spectacular. Probably seven or eight thousand square feet, constructed primarily of gray stone and glass. The setting was the most remarkable thing about it: fantastic views of some mountain range or other, and nothing but pristine wilderness in every direction. With the exception of the airstrip, Beamon wondered if there was anything more than an old mine or hunting cabin within five hundred miles.

As he stepped out of the vehicle, it suddenly occurred to him how alone he was. His status as an FBI agent, tenuous as it was, generally could be counted on to carry some weight. Here, though, it was completely meaningless. Right now, for all intents and purposes, Mark Beamon didn't exist. There was only Nicolai.

The house was haphazardly furnished and Beamo
n
found himself skirting the occasional box or crate as he was led through it. His years of investigative experience weren't necessary to deduce that whoever Christian Volkov was, he'd just moved in.

The room he was finally ushered into was quite large, with a back wall made almost entirely of glass and an enormous fireplace complete with stone gargoyles to the right. Heavy beams that looked as if they had been hewn from the local trees supported an arched ceiling. Again, most of the furniture seemed to be missing, but for some reason the sparse decor looked more studied here: A large desk with a bright red iMac on it and a few chairs was about all there was. The man behind the desk was staring at the computer screen, slowly maneuvering his mouse.

Joseph had already disappeared and Beamon moved forward, examining his apparent host carefully. He was seated, but it was still clear that he wasn't particularly tall--perhaps five foot nine or ten. His hair was medium length and he had a slight but solid build. Age? Early forties, based on the lines around his eyes and the chiseled angularity of his slightly sunburned face. His eyes glowed a little as they picked up the light from the computer screen, but didn't seem particularly piercing. There was something, though . . . something Beamon couldn't put his finger on. Something telling him that the bland aura emanating from the man had been carefully and purposefully crafted.

He finally looked up when Beamon was only a few feet away. "Nicolai. I was just rereading some information Joseph put together on you."

His upper-crust British accent seemed to be too careful for English to be his native language.

"Anything interesting?" Beamon said.

"Fascinating, really. You've had quite a career."

He stood and came around the desk. His gait was graceful and relaxed but didn't betray anything about the man. They shook hands and Volkov pointed to one of two chairs in front of his desk. Beamon sat.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Sure. Maybe a sparkling water?"

Volkov walked over to a small refrigerator against the wall and pulled out two. He poured them into heavy crystal glasses and handed one to Beamon before taking a seat in the chair next to him.

Beamon forced himself further into his Nicolai persona, using it to keep himself calm, to keep the rage and hate building inside him from surfacing.

This had to be the man--the son of a bitch who had casually given the order to extinguish Chet Michaels's life. Beamon was suddenly very aware of the .357 still holstered against the small of his back. He looked around, confirming at least the illusion that they were alone. If he pulled his gun, would he have time to get a shot off? Probably. Of course, he'd almost certainly be dead seconds later, but not before he got to watch this bastard's brain leak all over the tasteful stone floor.

No question, it was an option worth considering.

"I know we've never met," Volkov said, "but we had a common associate in South Africa. Carl Munchen." Beamon didn't react to the name, though it seemed to be a fairly bad sign that Munchen was connected with the man sitting in front of him. The FBI had credited Nicolai with his assassination.

"I'm really in your debt," Volkov continued. "I can't tell you how convenient Carl's death was to me."

"I've never been to South Africa," Beamon said honestly.

Volkov smiled and took a sip from his glass. "Of course. My mistake."

"I don't mean to be rude, but who are you and why am I here?"

"I'm sorry, I assumed Joseph had told you. I'm Christian Volkov."

Beamon kept his expression passive, giving away no indication of recognition, but also not admitting to being unfamiliar with the name.

The truth was, he'd never heard of Volkov. The FBI was aware that men like him existed, though--floating like ghosts from country to country with a handful of semi-legitimate passports and involving themselves in drugs, arms dealing, gambling, counterfeit goods, slavery, and many other "businesses."

The money and political power men like this controlled was staggering. But because of the carefully international nature of their crimes, they were virtually untouchable. America's own law enforcement agencies could barely stand each other. The idea of international coordination sophisticated enough to catch and prosecute someone like this was more or less a joke.

"And who are you?" Volkov asked. "Nicolai is just a name on an Interpol file."

"Call me Mark."

"I'm glad we could get together to talk, Mark." Beamon wondered if Volkov had gotten a dossier on Chet before he'd had him killed. If he knew that Chet had been only thirty-three. If he knew Chet's wife's name. If he knew that both of Chet's parents were still alive to attend their son's funeral.

Volkov crossed his legs, revealing work boots where Beamon would have expected a pair of two-thousand-dollar loafers. "I have to admit, Mark . . . I'm not sure I understand you."

"How so?"

"I've been asking myself why someone like you would get involved with Carlo Gasta. Why you would involve yourself in something so unpredictable and banal as the theft of a shipment of heroin?"

"Gasta owed me money. He killed a young FBI agent I had been cultivating."

Volkov frowned. "Chet Michaels. Yes. Unfortunate." Beamon had to struggle not to pull his gun out and blow the back of Volkov's smug head off. "If Gasta managed to succeed in getting ahold of the heroin, he'd have the money to pay me. He's fairly stupid, though, and it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to do it on his own. I didn't involve myself directly--just a bit of consulting."

"How much?"

"Consulting?"

"Money."

"Three million, U
. S
. But it was more the principle than the cash."

Volkov put his empty glass down on a small table next to him, and Beamon couldn't help thinking about the fingerprints it contained. He already figured his chances of leaving there alive at less than fifty percent, though. With some of the guy's china in his pants, his chances would probably decline to around zero.

"And the entire operation was wonderfully successful," Volkov said. "Thanks, in part, to a number of attractive women taking their clothes off on critical thoroughfares. I assume that was your doing."

Beamon shrugged. "Apparently there was a leak somewhere. The police knew where the transaction was going to take place. If Gasta had been captured, I wouldn't get paid."

Volkov nodded thoughtfully but didn't speak. The silence wasn't overtly threatening, but after about a minute Beamon started wondering if he'd said something he shouldn't have.

"I have to say in all modesty that I don't make a habit out of being outsmarted," Volkov said, finally breaking the silence.

Beamon considered the seemingly out-of-place comment for a moment. "It was you," he said finally. "You leaked the location to the LAPD."

"And it was my expectation that Carlo Gasta would be arrested with a gun in his hand, surrounded by Afghan drug dealers and heroin. But because I underestimated him--and by that, I mean that he would be able to convince you to get involved--I've lost both him and the drugs." He paused for a moment. "Though I understand that the Afghans' bodies are now in the hands of the American authorities."

Beamon took a sip of his Perrier. "And you'd like me to tell you where Gasta is."

"Yes."

"I honestly don't know."

"And if you did?"

"I wouldn't tell you. First, if Gasta gets arrested, I don'
t
get paid. Second, while he owes me two of the three million for the trouble he's caused me, the other million is payment for my involvement. Double-crossing an employer--even an idiot like Carlo Gasta--would be bad for my reputation."

Volkov leaned back in his chair, raising the front legs off the ground, but didn't say anything.

"May I ask why you're so interested in someone like Gasta? Why would you care about him one way or another?"

"He's become unstable, unreliable. Wait . . . a burr under my saddle. Is that right?"

Beamon nodded.

"On the street he's become a liability. In the court system he could become an asset, if you understand me." Unfortunately, Beamon understood perfectly. "Criminal Darwinism."

"Excuse me?"

"Criminal Darwinism," Beamon repeated. "If you think about it, the police are the natural predators of criminals. And, like all predators, they generally take only the weak and stupid. In the end, all they succeed in doing is culling the herd, making the whole stronger. And smart criminal organizations will take it one step further--purposely giving up people who are causing problems to further their own purposes and to appease law enforcement officials and politicians."

"Criminal Darwinism," Volkov repeated. "May I use that? I've never heard it expressed so eloquently."

"Be my guest," Beamon said, taking another sip of his water. He wanted a cigarette something awful, but guessed that this guy was one of those assholes who didn't allow smoking in his house. Yet another reason to want him dead. "I have to wonder, Christian: Why is it you're being so open with me?"

"You seem trustworthy."

"Should I translate that as I'm never going to leave here alive?"

"I'm many things, but I am not a ... a . . . sore loser."

It suddenly occurred to Beamon that it really wouldn'
t
matter if "Nicolai" talked. The FBI, the cops, the politicians--they all wanted Gasta so bad they could taste it. The fact that his arrest was convenient for an international crime lord was neither here nor there. Like Laura said: What were they going to do--tell the press that Carlo Gasta was just some small-time crook and that the man in power was out of America's reach?