Sphere Of Influence (37 page)

Drake started slowly, careful to offer only information that Beamon probably already had or that wouldn't be particularly useful. It was a balancing act. He had to build trust without giving him anything substantial.

"Volkov is not directly involved in terrorism--he's only interested in money and power. If increased terrorism is a by-product of him getting what he wants, though, then I don't think he really cares."

"Why now? The opium trade has been around for a thousand years."

"But it changed significantly when the Taliban gained control of most of Afghanistan. The supply of cheap high-quality heroin coming out of Afghanistan went through the roof, and that cut into the Asians' market share." Drake motioned around him. "Obviously, Volkov is heavily involved with the Asians."

"So he's looking to hitch his wagon to the Afghans." "Exactly--he sees them as the future. But the production and refining system was really fragmented and unsophisticated, particularly after all our bombing runs. In the end it is easier for Volkov to support a consolidation under Yasin than to try to deal with literally hundreds of small players. He's been supplying al-Qaeda with arms and intelligence through his Russian connections for over a year."

"And if all goes well, Yasin ends up with a billion-dollar income, connections to Russian organized crime, and near-foolproof smuggling lines into the U
. S
."

"That's about the size of it. The FBI is doing everything it can to find the launcher, but they're missing the big picture. It's just the tip of the iceberg if Yasin is able to consolidate his position in the Golden Crescent."

"Do you know who Volkov is? I mean, who he is really?" Beamon said.

"We're honestly not sure. We think he was born Mihai Florescu in Romania sometime around 1958. His parents were killed in one of the government's purges and he ended up in an orphanage. He has no formal education to speak of--he's completely self-taught. Ironically, we hear that he always wanted to be a college professor--literature, I think it was. Kind of funny. Anyway, he ended up on the street, like a lot of kids did during Ceaulescu's regime, and got into dealing in black-market goods. He had a knack for it but still ended up in jail when he was about fourteen. Apparently, somebody there saw potential in him, because when he got out, he went to work for a criminal organization of some sort. And he moved up. It starts getting fuzzy after that. As he got older and wiser he got harder to track. He became at least ten different people and a hundred different offshore corporations."

"Why didn't you say anything about this when we met with you in Langley?"

"Volkov has powerful friends, Mark. I wasn't going to take any chances. The more people that know about this, the better the chance Volkov will find out that I'm after him. And if that happens, I'm a dead man."

"Why tell me, then?"

Drake grinned. "As I see it, you don't have any friends at the FBI willing to listen to you." He let the smile fade. "Look, Mark. I'm putting my life in your hands by talking to you about this Some of my own people don't know this much." "Likewise," Beamon said.

"So we're outcasts. The question is: Should we be outcasts together?"

There was a long pause before Beamon spoke. "I guess maybe we should."

"Great. Do you have any ideas?"

"No good ones. When--if--I leave here, I'm guessing I'll be going to see him."

"Face-to-face?" Drake said, genuinely surprised. "You're going to meet him face-to-face?"

"I reckon. Maybe you can use some of that fancy equipment you guys spend so much money on to track my plane."

"Maybe. We'll give it a shot. But in case we lose you for some reason, look for clues as to where you are and pay attention to what his plans are--particularly if they relate to where he's going and where we might have an opportunity to intercept him."

"Yeah," Beamon said quietly.

Drake had to struggle not to smile. The great Mark Beamon was going to lead him straight to Volkov, and the CIA would be able to get rid of them both in one fell swoop. Then all he'd have to do was figure out how to get to Gasta and the immediate danger would be over.

Beamon started coughing and for a moment looked as though he was going to throw up.

"You okay, Mark?"

"Yeah," he said after he'd caught his breath. "Fine." "So do we have a deal?"

Chapter
45

ONE thing about being high-class criminal talent--you ended up spending way too much time in helicopters. Beamon glanced down at the top of the rolling carpet of alpine grass and stunted trees, and then at the expanse of blue water still miles away. It was a beautiful view--the day was nearly perfect: sunny, warm, and mercifully calm. Despite the conditions and the skill of the pilot, though, his stomach was on the verge of rebellion.

He'd stayed on for another half a day in Laos to give himself time to have one more polite but ultimately inconclusive discussion with General Yung. After that he'd been whisked back to his plane with effusive well-wishing aimed both at himself and Christian Volkov.

Five hours of sleep en route and the horse pills provided by Yung's doctor had brought him back from what felt like the brink of death to about ten feet from the brink of death. Another few days and he hoped to be back to his normal state of poor health.

Beamon leaned forward, careful not to upset the delicate balance that was keeping the dry heaves at bay, and searched the deep blue sky. Did the CIA have a plane up there, just out of sight? Was Jonathan Drake watching him via satellite? And most important, how did he feel about his new position as CIA stooge?

Honestly, he didn't much like Drake and had always felt a little like the mongoose to the CIA's snake. Probably not a fair evaluation of the Agency, but he just couldn't help himself--their motivations and results had always bee
n
hopelessly murky, and now, with the implosion of the Soviet Union and their proven ineffectiveness in the Middle East, their place in the world was even more confused. In this particular case, though, motivations were more or less irrelevant. He and Drake seemed to want the same thing: Christian Volkov's head on a platter.

Besides, it was hard to be morally indignant when he was more or less officially employed by organized crime. And as much as he hated to admit it, it felt good to have somebody behind him. Even if it was the Agency.

The helicopter began to lose altitude as the land below them disappeared into what looked like an inland sea. The pilot adjusted their trajectory a bit, aiming at a small white speck miles away. As they got closer the speck turned into a boat and then the boat into a yacht and then the yacht into what could only be described as a ship. Beamon looked down at it as they circled and examined the long, graceful lines of the gleaming hull. Based on the scale provided by the people on deck, his best guess at length was two hundred and fifty feet.

They touched down on the bow and Beamon jumped out, running beneath the downdraft toward a man dressed in the white shorts and shirt of a crewman.

"If you could follow me, sir."

Beamon trailed the man along the walkway, glancing up again at the sky and hoping again that someone was watching.

"Mark!"

Christian Volkov broke off from the men he was talking to and strode toward him, drink in hand. He gave Beamon's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "How are you? Are you feeling better?"

He'd obviously heard about his negotiator's less-than dignified
performance in Laos. "A lot better, thank you, Christian."

"There are some people I'd like you to meet. Do you feel up to it?"

"Sure."

Volkov put a hand on his back and led him across the broad stern, where no less than ten people were standin
g
around, talking and drinking. The pattern was fairly simple: The men were all middle-aged Asians and the women, with one exception, were all tall, mid-twenties, blond and barely dressed. Obviously, Volkov knew how to throw a party.

"This is Mark--the man I was telling you about." Beamon shook hands with two as yet unidentified men, one of whom said something in what sounded like Chinese. When Volkov laughed politely, Beamon was suddenly overcome by a sense of how sick, slow, and stupid he felt. The son of a bitch spoke Chinese.

"He says that you look like you've been drinking General Yung's, uh, would the expression be 'home brew'?" "Yes, it would," Beamon said. "And he's exactly right. Refusing to have a drink with the general struck me as rude." They all laughed again, and the man on the right spoke to Volkov in more than respectable English. "Your associate is very wise, Christian. Best not to insult the general." "Excuse me, gentlemen." The voice was youthful and feminine, with an upper-crust British accent.

Beamon turned and found its source to be the one exception to the herd of blondes roaming the deck, grazing hors d'oeuvres. Like the others, she was tall, twenty-something, and gorgeous, but her hair was a deep, shiny brown and her eyes were almost black. Her skin was also fairly dark--probably half from the sun and half from her parents. Whatever had created the color, it looked exactly right against her pale pink bikini. Perhaps Volkov didn't share his Asian friends' penchant for the California ideal.

"Mark, I don't think you've met Elizabeth."

"I don't think I have. Hello, Elizabeth."

She smiled beautifully. "Can I get you a drink, Mark?" "Just a water, please."

"Fizzy or regular?"

"With Alka-Seltzer, if possible. So, fizzy, I guess." Another dazzling smile and she was off to the bar. "Why don't I have my doctor fly in, Mark. He can have a look at you."

Beamon shook his head. "I got some pills in Laos. I'll be fine."

To Volkov's credit he looked genuinely concerned. "How did you find the general, Mark?" one of the men he'd just met piped in.

Beamon had no idea who these two Asians were. If he had to bet, he'd say one was from Thailand and the other from Myanmar--the other two corners of the Golden Triangle. Since their Lao counterpart's head was currently topping a pike outside of Luang Prabang, they undoubtedly wanted to know if General Yung would complete their little triad again. Unfortunately, Beamon had no idea what they knew or how much to say. He glanced over at Volkov but couldn't read anything from his expression. A test.

"He has a wonderful sense of hospitality," Beamon said. "But next time I think I'll stick to bourbon."

"Is he in control?"

"I didn't have time to investigate that fully. Obviously, I saw what he wanted me to see. He gives every appearance of consolidating his power, though there is resistance. How organized it is, I can't say for certain."

Being a criminal was turning out to be a lot like being a politician. Talk a lot but don't say anything.

Another woman glided up to them, ignoring Beamon and sliding an arm around one of the Asians' waists. It was kind of an odd sight: her glistening, six-foot body pressed against the five-foot-six, pudgy, middle-aged man. Not surprisingly, he didn't seem to be overly upset by the interruption.

"All you do is talk about business," she said with a pout that briefly blotted out the sun. "The food is getting cold." The man smiled. "You're right. We've been unforgivably rude. Perhaps we can talk later, Mark?"

"I look forward to it," Beamon said as the two men allowed themselves to be led to greener pastures.

"Are you sure you're all right, Mark?" Volkov asked again. "My doctor can be here in a few hours."

"I just need some rest and I'll be good as new."

Volkov looked past him. "Elizabeth, could you take Mark to his cabin, please?"

She handed Beamon a tall glass and he took a sip of th
e
cold, fizzy liquid. For the thousandth time in his life, he said a quick, silent prayer for the souls of the brilliant men who had invented Alka-Seltzer.

"Sure. It's this way, Mark."

"Maybe we can get together tomorrow morning," Volkov said as Beamon was led away.

"Sure, Christian. Whatever works for you."

"Here you are, Mark."

The room was enormous and richly decorated in cheerful colors and polished brass. It kind of reminded him of the hotel suite Volkov had put him up in except for the three large portals looking out on the water.

"Thanks, Elizabeth," he said, tossing his laptop on the bed and eyeing the white marble shower through the bathroom door.

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? Believe it or not, I actually took a massage class at university." Somehow he did believe it. That was the other thing about being a criminal--women seemed to love them. It must be the sense of danger, the rebel ideal. Helicopters, cash, and beautiful young women. At least at this level it looked like crime did pay.

For a moment he actually considered her offer. His introduction to Laotian moonshine had left his body feeling like the good general had run him over with that new Lamborghini. What he didn't need, though, was Jonathan Drake pulling up in a battleship, only to find some bikini-clad twenty-something sitting in the small of his back. The story would undoubtedly somehow make its way back to Carrie.