Sphere Of Influence (40 page)

"I guess I am."

"Great! I've got a car downstairs."

Elizabeth pushed a garage door opener on the visor and turned the car off the winding road toward a nondescript iron gate surrounded by densely packed trees. They eased through as it opened and then accelerated up a steep and winding driveway that went on for about a quarter of a mile. The house suddenly became visible when the grade leveled out--a graceful building constructed of red stucco, intermittently lit by tiny spotlights set into a well-tended yard.

Elizabeth let the car roll to a slightly bumpy stop in the cobblestone courtyard and Beamon jumped out.

"You coming?" he said.

"I've got a few errands to run actually. I'll see you a little later."

He watched her turn and disappear down the driveway again, suddenly realizing how quiet it was.

"Mark!"

Beamon instantly recognized the young man jogging across the uneven ground.

"Joseph. It's good to see you."

They shook hands and Joseph motioned toward the front door. "Come on in."

The interior was pretty much what he expected--high ceilings and an open floor plan, tastefully decorated in an understated southwestern theme.

"Just through those doors," Joseph said. "Christian's by the pool."

"Christian's here?" Beamon said, unable to disguise his surprise.

"Yeah. Out by the pool."

Beamon pushed through the door at the back of the house and found himself on a large terrace overflowing with brightly colored flowers and dominated by a kidney-shaped pool.

"Mark! How are you feeling?" Christian Volkov said, circumnavigating some deck furniture and shaking his hand warmly.

"Much better, thank you."

"Samuel wanted me to follow up. Not having any problems?"

"No problems at all," Beamon said, a little distracted. They seemed to be alone on the terrace, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was armed and, assuming he hadn't been officially fired yet, within his jurisdiction. It was conceivable that he could actually arrest Volkov. The only problem was that for some reason the idea seemed absurd.

"Did Joseph offer you a drink?"

"No."

Volkov shook his head, smiling. "He has a very sharp mind, but I need to work on his social graces."

"He seems like a good kid."

"Oh, he is--the crown jewel of my college recruiting program."

Beamon laughed but then realized that Volkov wasn't joking. "You're serious."

"Of course. One of my associates found him working two jobs, putting himself through the equivalent of a community college in Australia. He was doing brilliantly and at the same time helping to support his parents and siblings.

One of my companies gave him a scholarship to get an M
. B. A
. in America and then a job when he graduated. Now, seven years later, he's one of my executive assistants."

"Part Aborigine, isn't he?" Beamon said.

Volkov nodded. "There's still very real bigotry in Australia against the native people. And where there's bigotry, there are very talented, very frustrated people looking for an opportunity."

"No Americans?"

Volkov shook his head and took a sip of the drink in his hand. "Of course, I employ a great number of Americans in my U
. S
. corporations, but none are close to me. Could you excuse me for a moment, Mark? Please make yourself a drink."

Volkov went inside the house and Beamon wandered to an outdoor bar next to an elaborate stainless-steel grill. He poured himself a club soda while trying to picture Volkov barbecuing with friends. What would the conversation be? So I think if we assassinate the foreign minister of Swaziland, we can gain control of the drug flow through there and insert a puppet regime. Do you want Swiss or cheddar on your burger?

"Bad news," Volkov said as he came back through the door. "Francois has refused to make the shrimp raviolis you like so much. I tried to insist but he threw a spoon at me. Apparently they don't complement what he's preparing. The good news is that whatever it is he's making, it smells wonderful."

"I'm not worried," Beamon said. "I have nothing but confidence in Francois."

"Well-founded, I think. What are you drinking, Mark?" "Club soda. I'm not much of a drinker."

That elicited a broad smile from Volkov. "I'll tell you what, Mark. Let's make a pact. We're going to have a nice evening: a night of conversation instead of giving orders and worrying about who's sneaking up behind us. I'll promise not to have you killed for what you say tonight, and you promise likewise." They shook hands, consummating the agreement, and then Volkov reached behind th
e
bar and pulled out a bottle of wine. "I've been wanting to uncork this for a while," he said. "It's a '49 Yago Condal .. . from Spain."

Beamon looked skeptically at the bottle. "You might want to wait for better company, Christian. I don't really know one wine from another."

"Honestly, I don't either," Volkov said, gazing down at the thin, angular bottle. "I like the history of it, though. Think about what Spain had been through in the years before this wine was produced. They had managed to stay out of World War Two, but their own civil war had left them ostracized by most of the world and in the hands of a military dictator. . . ."

Beamon couldn't believe he was finally getting to use his history degree. If only his father were alive to see it. "But they'd only have to stick it out a little longer. The world needed Spain's help with the Koreans. And Franco would turn out to have a fairly good record as military dictators go." Volkov smiled as he uncorked the bottle and poured it gently into a carafe. "That's very true."

About halfway through the apparently arduous decanting process, a tinny rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner" started playing in Beamon's pocket.

"Would you excuse me for a moment, Christian?" "Of course."

Beamon walked along the edge of the pool and put the phone to his ear. "Yeah."

"We've got problems, Mark." Laura's voice. "The L
. A
. office followed up on those strippers who helped Gasta get away. When they described the guy that hired them, guess who it sounded like?"

"Jesus, it's about time they figured that out. I was starting to get embarrassed for you guys."

"Jesus Christ, Mark. You went and hired them yourself?"

"I needed reliable gals. No way to know if they're worth rubbernecking unless you look 'em in the, uh, eye."

"Mark! For God's sake! We've got four dead bodies and now they know you were directly involved. This goes way beyond the Laos thing."

"Wait till they find out I used an FBI credit card." "You didn't."

"Mine was over the limit."

"The Director's going to have a heart attack. I don't even know what to tell you here."

Even though he'd known this was coming, Beamon had expected to feel fairly emotional when the actual hammer dropped. Now that the moment was here, though, he didn't feel anything.

"So, where do I stand, Laura?"

"I don't know. Caroll wants you in his office first thing tomorrow morning--and this time you'd damn well better show up. Maybe you can cut a deal--convince him that he doesn't want the press to get ahold of this. . . ." Her voice faded for a moment. "Shit, Mark. I don't know . . . I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I got you into this."

"Don't be stupid. I got myself into this."

"Can I tell him that you'll be on a plane tonight? That you'll be there tomorrow?"

"What about all those other things you've got me working on," Beamon said, looking behind him. Volkov was paying him no attention at all--he seemed absorbed by his wine bottle.

"We're going to have to go on without you. It may be already too late for you to save yourself here, Mark. I don't know. But I guarantee that if you miss this meeting it's all over."

He didn't respond.

"Mark?"

Laura's investigation was dead in the water but his continued to move forward. Whether Volkov was actually behind Chet Michaels's death was starting to become a question mark, but either way he was the key to all this. If he wasn't responsible for Chet's death, he knew who was. And he was almost certainly in bed with Mustafa Yasin.

"No. A face-to-face meeting is out of the question." "What?"
,
"You heard me."

"Mark, we tried to work around management on thi
s
thing and we had a pretty good run. But now it's time to try to save yourself."

"It's too late for that--we both know it. Look, I'm a little busy right now. I'll call you later."

"Mark, wait--"

Beamon turned off the phone and stuffed it in his pocket as he walked back to the bar. Volkov handed him a glass of wine.

"I'm surprised to see you in L
. A
., Christian."

"I have a computer technology company based here. Internet gambling."

"Internet gambling?"

He nodded. "It's an enormous growth industry with really exciting potential for innovation. The younger generation that's been weaned on computers will be coming of age soon and won't have patience for conventional games like blackjack. Everything is going to have to be an elaborate multimedia experience. Imagine, every personal computer more interesting than Las Vegas."

"I'm not much of a computer person myself," Beamon said, taking a sip of the wine. It was pretty good. "Tell me, Christian . . . I'm curious. How did you get into this?" "Computer gambling?"

"Organized crime."

"That label--it's so . . ."

"Melodramatic?"

"Yes. Though I suppose it's correct. On some level I am a criminal. I just don't think of myself as one."

"But isn't it true that you're involved in the heroin trade?"

"And currently heroin is illegal in the U
. S
. and Europe, though much more destructive products are not. Gambling, on the other hand, may or may not be legal, depending on where you happen to be at the time. You can give a dying cancer patient morphine to relieve his suffering, but not marijuana. The numbers racket used to be very profitable for the American Mob. Now the government's taken it over, called it a lottery, and enforced its monopoly." "I suppose, like everything, it's a matter of perspective," Beamon prompted.

"You would be surprised to know how much money I give conservative politicians and right-wing Christian groups. The only competitors I really fear are the governments. It's best for me if all things pleasurable remain illegal."

"You didn't answer my question. How did you get involved in all this?"

"I'm sorry." He took a thoughtful sip of his wine. "I was unlucky enough to have not been born American. Where I grew up, 'crime' was the only way to survive. Despite the communist ideals of the country where I was born, the gap between the haves and have-nots was too wide to see across. Of course, business prospered there, but only for those connected to the government and under its protection. If any private citizen managed to make a life for themselves, the police called them traitors, murdered them, and then gave their burgeoning enterprise to one of the ruling elite. In any event, I fell in with a group who were close to a powerful official and were therefore allowed to operate. I had an aptitude for the work and did well. When the Soviet Union collapsed, I was able to move in on the less efficient operations that were no longer protected by the government and military. Since then I've continued to grow." He motioned toward a table with two chairs pushed up to it and they both sat.

"It's funny, really. This isn't where I pictured myself. But there was always another deal to be done. As you know, you either grow or you die in this business."

"So now you make a living providing the people what they want," Beamon said. "Drugs, women, black-market goods, whatever. Victimless crimes."

"Crimes in which one is a willing victim would be more accurate."

The opening was there. Beamon tried to decide whether this was a safe moment to test his new theory. Probably not, but he doubted a better time would present itself. "What about supplying weapons to al-Qaeda so that they can take over the heroin trade in the Golden Crescent? Are all their victims willing?"

Volkov's eyes flashed briefly but otherwise his expression remained passive. Beamon knew that there was n
o
going back now: He had let on that he knew more than he had been told.

"The American government can supply anyone they want with arms," Volkov said. For the first time there was a hint of anger in his voice. "They themselves have armed the Afghans, the Iranians, and the Iraqis, to mention only a few. They have overthrown democratically elected governments and replaced them with despots to further their interests and the interests of American corporations. Of course, this is all legal because they can arbitrarily define legality and intimidate the rest of the world with their military and economic power."

"I didn't mean to offend you, Christian."