Sphere Of Influence (33 page)

"How do you plan to do that?"

"I've convinced everybody involved that it makes sense to move him out of L
. A
. to the middle of Nowhere, West Virginia. We're saying it's for his protection, but really it's just to put some distance between him, the press, and his lawyer. I had to make a lot of promises to even get that, though."

"What did you find out about Volkov's bank that wired me the three mil?"

"A maze of offshore accounts that leads nowhere." "Big surprise. Great."

"There was one interesting thing, though." She reached behind her into the backseat, feeling around until she found a large roll of paper. "Take a look at this."

Beamon pulled the rubber band off it and flipped the dash light on. It turned out to be an unmanageable four feet long, covered with what looked like an impossibly complex flowchart.

"I had a team of our accountants put this together. What you're looking at is a graphical representation of the organizations involved in sending money to and receiving money from Carlo Gasta. At the top there you'll find three shell companies that had direct contact with Gasta in one way or another."

"Who owns those companies?"

"That's what the rest of that stuff is. They're all offshore corporations chartered in countries that allow corporations as opposed to individuals to be owners. Basically little islands that create laws to cater to money laundering." "Christ," Beamon said, running down the hundred or so companies and the lines and arrows connecting them. Laura was a whiz at this kind of crap but it didn't mean much to him. He'd never succeeded in getting his mind to wrap around this level of detail.

"Quite a mess, huh? From the top of the page to the bottom, it spans thirty years."

"So the companies that gave birth to all this were incorporated in the seventies?"

"Yup."

"But it all must lead to someone; there has to be a starting point."

"There were a couple of names on the original companies. I can guarantee you that they're either fictitious or long dead."

"As usual, I find myself in complete disagreement with you," Beamon said.

"That they're dead or fake names?"

"No, that this is interesting. I mean, where does this get us?"

"A little patience, Mark. I'm not to the good part yet. Flip the paper over."

With some difficulty Beamon did as she said and found a similar though much shorter flowchart.

"What you're looking at now is what you asked about--how you got paid your three million from Volkov. This little maze only goes back about fifteen years"

"How do these shell corporations and banks connect to the ones related to Gasta?"

"That's what's interesting: They don't. There are no overlapping organizations or owners at all."

Beamon considered that for a moment. It proved nothing, but it did bring up some disturbing possibilities "What are you thinking, Mark?"
,
"I don't know what to think."

"How old do you figure Volkov is?"

"That doesn't mean anything, Laura."

"It's worth talking about, though. How old?"

"Early forties"

"So the network that paid Gasta was started when Volkov was what? Thirteenish?"

"He could have built on a structure that he inherited from someone else. And he could have a hundred totally separate networks that he uses for different things. In fact, I'd expect it."

She nodded. "But it's an interesting concept. We've been wondering why Volkov would suddenly turn on Gasta--his own man. But what if he didn't? What if Gasta isn't his guy? What if there's somebody else involved here?"

"You tell me," Beamon said, holding up the paper in his hand. "Is there anything concrete here? Anything we can really use?"

"Probably not," she admitted. "There's no starting or ending point. We're running all of these dummy corporations against other organized-crime investigations we've done, trying to get some point of reference--a real company or a person that's connected to them--but we haven't been able to get either."

"Okay, let's change the subject, then. What about the house you found the rocket in?"

"Nothing there, either. The guy that owns it never met the renters face-to-face. No prints that didn't belong to the guy we found there or the men Gasta killed. No calls have come in and no one has come anywhere near the house. Not that we really expected them to, since the Afghans Gasta killed are all over TV. I wish we could have kept it quiet--maybe the guy with the launcher would have just rolled up one day."

A cell phone started ringing and Beamon cursed under his breath as he pulled three from his pocket. He finally figured out which one it was and picked up.

"Yeah."

"It's me."

The voice belonged to a friend of his at the National Security Agency whom he'd called the night before.

"I've got what you want," the man said quietly. Beamon had told him to keep the conversation fairly cloak-and-dagger and to expect payment for the service he was providing. He doubted that Volkov was listening, but if he was, having a contact at the NSA wouldn't hurt Nicolai's reputation any.

"I've e-mailed you our analysis of General Yung and the situation in Laos, along with some stuff from the CIA. The data is sketchy and it's too early to come up with any har
d
conclusions about the stability of the region. But you have everything we have now."

"Do you know how much support he's getting from the U
. S
.?"

"We're being pretty noncommittal at this point, but word is we see him as an improvement over the old regime and we'd like to see him hold on."

"Were you able to get anything personal? Anything like what we talked about?"

"I think so. He's a car nut."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Subscribes to no less than five auto-buff magazines and must have gone through a hell of a lot of trouble to get them when he was living in the jungle with his opposition movement. People close to him say that if he isn't talking about politics, he's talking about cars."

"Fine. I'll take a look at the data you sent tomorrow. Expect payment through the normal channel."

There was a click on the phone when his friend hung up. "Who was that?" Laura said.

"Friend of mine from NSA."

"What are you doing with them?"

"They're giving me what they have on Laos."

"Laos? What, the coup there? Why do you care about that?"

"Volkov called me last night and asked me to go over there and see if I can help him build a relationship with General Yung."

"General Yung? Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I just did."

"You're not thinking about going, though, right? The guy's a psychopath. Have you been watching what's going on over there on TV?"

Beamon shrugged. "I didn't say it was a good job. But it's the one he gave me. I don't see that I have much of a choice."

"Of course you have a choice!"

He ignored her and dialed a number into his phone. Surprisingly, Christian Volkov picked up personally.

"Christian. It's Mark."

"Is everything all right? You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"No, but I need something. I have information that General Yung is a fanatic about cars. I need something good to take along with me--like a Ferrari or something. Oh, and a cargo plane to fly it there."

There was a brief silence over the phone that was impossible to read. Time to see if organized crime was as efficient as some people contended.

"You know, Mark, I don't think there are very many paved roads there. And now, with all the bombing... Hang on. . . . Joseph! What was that elaborate four-wheel drive we rode in last time we were in Saudi Arabia? . . . Really? . . . Mark, Joseph says Lamborghini made a sport utility vehicle. I think that might be more appropriate." "Sounds good to me."

"Joseph! I need one of those on a cargo plane tomorrow. It's going to go to Laos with Mark. . . . What? . . . Good question, hold on. Mark? Would he have a color preference?"

"Uh, I have no idea."

"Probably black," Volkov said. "Military dictators love black. Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. I don't know anything about cars. Could you send me information on why this truck's so great--why it's better than others?"

"Of course. Good-bye, Mark. I'll see you soon."

"And that," Beamon said after hanging up, "is why we'll never stop organized crime."

"Why?" Laura said.

"How long do you think it would take me to get the FBI to put a Lamborghini on a cargo plane and fly it to Laos?" "Twenty years?"

"Volkov's going to do it in twenty hours and he gave me a choice of color."

"Please explain to me what you're doing here, Mark. You're not really going, right? You're just making him think you are."

"No, I'm really going."

"Think about this for a second," Laura said. "You're a
n
FBI agent and you're going to negotiate on behalf of a major organized-crime figure with a foreign leader who the State Department is probably already talking to. I mean, I've told everyone at Headquarters who'll listen that you're responsible for finding the rocket, but that's only going to go so far. The Director's never going to authorize you to do this. Even if he wanted to, it would take six months for him to get permission."

Beamon lit a cigarette. "I'm going to do what it takes to get Christian Volkov. And in the process I'm going to help you find your launcher. So, what are you worried about? Has it occurred to you that Laos is one of the major heroin producers in the world?"

The silence in the car extended for more than ten minutes.

"You're going too far," Laura said finally. "You're leaving yourself no way out."

"There's already no way out for me."

Another long silence.

"Mark. I'm asking you not to go."

He turned toward her but couldn't read anything from her expression. She'd go along with him if he asked her to--he knew that. But by keeping her mouth shut on this, she'd end up getting crucified alongside him.

"Tell you what, Laura. You tell the Director my plan. See if he goes for it."

She turned toward him for a moment, an expression of relief and gratitude playing across her face. "Thank you, Mark."

Chapter
42

THE driver snaked the BMW through the small private airport, finally coming to a halt in a secluded back corner. Beamon leaned forward over the seats to get a better look at the blinding white of the jet parked on the tarmac in front of them. It was smaller and sleeker than the one he'd flown in to meet Volkov a few days earlier. How many of these things did the man have?

"The pilot's already on board, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Beamon hadn't brought much in the way of luggage: a laptop with a pair of underwear, a white dress shirt, and a toothbrush stuffed in the side pocket of the case. It was his sincere hope that his time on the ground in Laos would be measurable in hours and not days. Minutes would be even better.

"That should do it, Charles," Beamon said, throwing the door open and stepping out into the scorching sun. The moment he did, a tinny version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" began to play in one of the pockets of his blazer.

He had gone to an electronics store earlier that day and a rather enthusiastic young woman had helped him organize his growing collection of phones. The one the FBI had the number to got a faceplate that looked like a flag and the patriotic ring. Gasta's got green snakeskin and "Taps." Volkov's rated a slightly more attractive blue snakeskin and an ominous fugue. Finally, he'd added an expensive satellite phone to his arsenal. In the unlikely event that h
e
could figure out the instruction manual, it was supposed to work anywhere in the world.

He stopped halfway to the plane and turned his back to it as he flipped the red, white, and blue phone open. The BMW he'd arrived in was already disappearing around a hangar.

"Hello."

"How are things going?" Laura said.

"I'm not bad, I suppose."

"Were you able to get out of that trip to Laos like you thought?"

Beamon was confused for a moment. He'd never said he thought he could get out of it, or even that he'd try. It suddenly occurred to him that she was signaling him. Someone else was on the line.

"Didn't work out," he said. "I'm pretty much roped in at this point." For good measure he threw in "Sorry, I know you're against it."

"Mark, I talked to the Director and he won't okay this trip. We just don't have the authority."

"Well, I'll tell you, Laura, I'm not really in a position to turn back now."

"Mark, I don't think you understand. The Director's giving you a direct order. You're not to go to Laos."

Beamon sighed quietly. He'd known that this would be P
. C
.'s reaction. The only reason he'd had Laura ask was to get her off the hook. "Look, I gotta go, Laura. . . ." "Mark--"