Sphere Of Influence (44 page)

"Of course it is. Remember my trip to Laos and the Asians I met on Volkov's boat? When the disruptions from the Middle East are at their worst and Yasin's organization is spread as thin as possible, Volkov and the CIA are going to pull their support and replace al-Qaeda with the Asians. Yasin's going to find himself cut off from the weapons and intelligence and money he's come to rely on, and everyone in the Middle Eastern drug trade who's still alive is going to want him and his men dead. And you know who will be there to help all that along?"

"The CIA."

"But it didn't quite work out," Beamon continued, his anger still building. "Al-Qaeda managed to get one of the toys they'd been supplied into the U
. S
."

"So the CIA got scared," Laura said. "And they pulled out, trying to cut ties to anything that could connect them to this . . . Jesus. Chet."

"And finally we get an explanation of why Volkov fingered Gasta: He wanted to keep the CIA occupied, and putting Gasta in the hands of the FBI would definitely throw a wrench in their plan to get themselves out of this. And something I never told you--I ran into Jonathan Drake in Laos. He wanted me to help him find Volkov. And I fell for it." Beamon shook his head. "Jesus, if it hadn't been for Volkov making sure he was out of their reach, he and I would both be dead right now."

"Mark . . . do you remember the description of the man Chet and Gasta met with?"

Beamon remembered it exactly. Drake.

"Mark, are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"We've got to call the White House. You've got to talk to Tom Sherman about this. We're really exposed here."

"We'll talk when I get back . . ." Beamon said. "Figure out what we're going to do."

"Back from where?"

"Hell if I know."

Chapter
54

"JUST curve around to your left and you'll find him," Elizabeth said. Beamon nodded his thanks and started forward along a path constructed of what looked like loose volcanic gravel. He didn't know much about trees, but the ones lining the path looked like something that would grow in the American South: large and bushy, with long tendrils hanging nearly to the ground and a sweet smell. The sky was a uniform blue without so much as a streak of haze to break it. . . .

He shook his head and forced himself to stop investigating for a moment. He had no idea where he was, and a botanical survey of the area sure as hell wasn't going to help--he didn't know a magnolia from an aspen.

As Elizabeth had promised, Volkov was just around the bend, sitting on a bench surrounded by a well-tended flower garden. He didn't look up from what he was reading when Beamon approached.

"Good book?" Beamon said, stopping a few feet away. "Absolutely fascinating," Volkov responded, still staring down at the page. "It's a sort of nonrevisionist history of the United States. I've never completely understood the American psyche by reading other texts--they were always too cluttered with noble intangibles like fleeing religious persecution and the quest for freedom. Do you know what prompted the Boston Tea Party?"

"London giving the East India Company a monopoly on tea imports?"

"Yes, but it wasn't the oppression of the masses that wa
s
the issue. It was Sam Adams's blind hatred of the British and the fact that one of the wealthiest men in the Colonies, John Hancock, saw these kinds of legal monopolies cutting into his profit margin. When I look at how America has evolved, that makes much more sense to me than a saintly painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware in search of freedom and equality."

"Washington had a favorite general," Beamon said. "A big guy; they called him Ox Knox. When Washington got into the boat to cross the Delaware, Knox was already in it. Do you know what Washington said to him?"

"Most of the books I've read would have him saying something like 'Forward to free God's people." "

Beamon shook his head. "He said, 'Shift that fat ass, Harry, but do it slowly or you'll swamp the damn boat.'" "Exactly! Right there--more insight into the American mind than a hundred 'I regret I have only one life to give for my country.' "Volkov slammed the book down on the bench next to him. "Have a seat, Mark. How did things go in Utah? Isn't that where you took the jet? Utah?" Beamon sat down on a surprisingly comfortable boulder and studied Volkov for a moment. How deeply was he involved with the CIA? At one time probably pretty deeply, but now the CIA undoubtedly wanted him dead. They would be running hard and fast from this thing with the Afghans, but it was a fair bet that Volkov didn't have that option. The kind of people he dealt with would expect him to live up to his agreements.

"Expensive," Beamon responded finally. "Utah was expensive. I had to call in a lifetime's worth of markers to get this done."

"You did it? You spoke to Gasta?"

Beamon nodded.

"And?"

"I think I got my--your--point across. But even with the names on that paper, I don't know what kind of a deal they're going to give him. The Feds will try to get him with the death of Chet Michaels."

"Yes, I suppose they will. Do you think he can be trusted to stay within the parameters I've set for him?"

"He's afraid of you. I made sure of that."

"That isn't an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

"I appreciate how difficult a job this was, Mark. The ten million you requested will be deposited in your account this afternoon. If you have any other expenses that need to be covered, let Joseph know."

Beamon nodded.

"Are you all right, Mark?"

"What do you mean?"
,
"You seem--I don't know. Tense. Upset."

Beamon cursed himself silently. He was too angry right now; it was compromising his ability to think straight. The sudden redirecting of his quest for revenge from Volkov to his own government had thrown him. He was having a hard time centering himself again. "I guess I'm just a little tired. Maybe we could talk later."

"Of course. Get Elizabeth to put you up in the guesthouse."

"And if I'd rather go back to L
. A
.?" Beamon said, a little too indignantly.

Volkov's brow knitted. "What's wrong with you today, Mark? If you want to go back to L
. A
., I'll have someone fly you there. Are you sure you're all right?"

Chapter
55

"RISE and shine, Mark."

Elizabeth strode across the large room and threw open the curtains, sending a beam of heat and light across the bed. Beamon had decided against going back to L
. A
. the day before, finally admitting to himself that he felt safer here with Volkov--out of the Agency's and the FBI's reach.

He just needed a little time to figure out his next move--or, more accurately, how he was going to get that son of a bitch Jonathan Drake. Before this was over he'd see that bastard dead or behind bars for the rest of his life. Preferably dead.

"Christian would like to see you in about an hour, Mark. Can you make it?"

"Yeah, I can make it."

"You don't look that great. Did you sleep at all?" "Some."

"You know what you need?"

He propped himself up on his elbows. "What?"

"A good breakfast." She motioned toward the door and a man in a white uniform entered, pushing a cart topped with covered silver trays.

"Francois!" Beamon said, recognizing the man instantly. "My savior. How are you this morning?"

"I am well, Mark. Very well," he said through a thick accent. "I think you will be quite pleased with what I have prepared for you this morning. It is . . . an American medley, I think you would say."

"I put some clothes for you in the closet, Mark--I think they'll be your size. Christian will be in his office at eleven."

"Thanks, Francois," Beamon said as the man parked the cart near a set of windows overlooking Volkov's endless property and then disappeared out into the hallway. The fact that he was starting to like the staff as much as he begrudgingly liked Volkov was yet another source of worry to him.

"Do you need anything else?" Elizabeth said.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette."

"Of course not."

"Then, that's it."

She started to leave but paused at the door. "Francois made sausage, eggs, and hash browns. He's never seen a hash brown in his life, but he tried very hard. You should tell him how good they were, no matter what."

"No problem. And hey, Elizabeth . . . thanks--for everything. Really."

She looked a little self-conscious. "Sure, Mark. My pleasure."

Beamon showed up at Volkov's office door five minutes early, freshly showered and clothed in a luxurious pair of slacks, a linen shirt, and a pair of shoes that probably cost what he made in a month at the FBI.

The slacks would have been a perfect fit had he not just sucked up Francois's breakfast like a Shop-Vac. The sausage had obviously been handmade and delicately spiced with something characteristically unidentifiable and wonderful. And the hash browns . . . what could he say except that he respected a man who wasn't afraid to use lard. Being able to eat without feeling nauseous was a nice change of pace. More proof that Carrie was right and he really was nuts. Being doomed seemed to agree with him.

He stood in front of the closed door for a moment, trying to think back only a few weeks to his life before all this. More and more they seemed like someone else's memories. Thoughts of Carrie caused him to sag a little. She'd been so gung-ho for him to quit the Bureau and take a job in the private sector. He wondered what she'd think if she could see how successful he'd become.

Beamon took a deep breath and pushed through the door, walking across the stone floor with confidence he didn't feel. Volkov was sitting behind an expensive-looking but unremarkable desk, talking to someone sitting in one of two chairs lined up in front of it. Beamon could only see the back of the man's head as he approached.

"Mark! Right on time," Volkov said. "Are you feeling better this morning?"

"Much, thanks."

"Then I'd like to introduce you to someone."

Jonathan Drake stood and turned toward him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mark."

Beamon almost stopped short but managed to keep himself moving. He plastered a polite smile across his face and offered his hand.

"Have a seat, Mark," Volkov prompted. If he sensed that anything was wrong, he gave no indication.

Beamon released Drake's hand and sat. What else could he do but wait to see where this was going?

"That breakfast was wonderful, Mark. Francois made me the same thing you had. Hash browns . . . a truly sublime creation."

"His were particularly good," Beamon mumbled, focusing on Drake in his peripheral vision.

"Mark, here, has taken on some of Pascal's duties," Volkov said. "I don't know if you're aware that he disappeared in Laos."

"I wasn't," Drake responded smoothly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Jonathan has a proposition for me, Mark. I thought you might help me assess it."

Out of the corner of his eye Beamon saw Drake look over at him.

"This might be something we should talk about alone, Christian."

Volkov didn't react to the suggestion and Drake wa
s
forced to take the hint that his request for a private audience had been denied.

"We've both worked very hard on this . . . operation," Drake started. "And we've both made commitments. I think it's safe to say that you and I agree it's too late to pull out."

Volkov nodded and Drake cleared his throat.

"It's come to my attention that my boss, Alan Holsten, the deputy director of operations, has no intention of going through with this. He's concerned solely about his personal exposure and he wants out."

"I see," Volkov said calmly.

Beamon kept his eyes focused on the floor in front of him, trying to stifle his rage enough to think coherently about what was happening. He could come up with about twenty scenarios, but they all seemed to end the same way--with him dead.

"As you can imagine," Drake continued, "Holsten also wants to destroy anything that can connect him to the Afghans. Unfortunately, that includes us. I'm guessing that this doesn't come as a surprise to you."

Volkov's expression turned thoughtful for a moment. "A disappointment, Jonathan, not a surprise. But as you say, I've made commitments. My course is set. Now, what is it you want?"

"What do I want? I want passports and money--ten million dollars. I want to disappear from the CIA's radar and live out the rest of my life comfortably."

Volkov frowned and looked at Beamon. "Everybody wants ten million of my dollars all of a sudden."

When Beamon didn't respond to the inside joke, Volkov refocused his attention on Drake. "I'm sure that I would sleep better knowing that you are 'living out the rest of your life comfortably,' but I don't think it's worth that much to me. I assume you have something more valuable to offer than my peace of mind."