Sphere Of Influence (51 page)

It was fairly stereotypical, almost a cliche in Volkov's mind. The closeness of it, the blue paint peeling from the walls, the bare wooden floor. The heat. No doubt every army interrogation room in Mexico looked almost identical.

He adjusted himself into a more comfortable position in the old wooden chair as Holsten began to circle. Volkov wasn't bound, but neither was he armed. Holsten, on the other hand, had a loaded pistol on his khaki hip, and there were a number of armed men just outside the door.

"I know all about you," Holsten said. Oddly, he had the same aura as many of the third-world maniacs Volkov had dealt with: soft but with a simmering desperation and an infinite capacity for cowardice and cruelty.

"I know about the Romanian orphanage, the time you spent in prison, the people you've killed. . . . You're apparently a very disciplined man and I admire that. But I have no constraints here. We both know that you'll eventually tell me what I want to know."

That was undoubtedly true, but "eventually" could be a long time. A lot could happen in "eventually."

Probably nothing would, though. It seemed likely that Mustafa Yasin had killed both Mark and Elizabeth. An
d
Joseph was loyal, but in the end would find himself powerless.

Volkov couldn't help letting his mind wander to Elizabeth and the day he'd taken her from her father. He shouldn't have let her go to Afghanistan. He should have found another way.

"Answer my question," Holsten said.

"I think I already have. 'Nice."'

"I want the goddamn truth: Where is Jonathan Drake?" Volkov took a deep breath and let it out, burning a good five seconds. It wasn't much, but every little bit would help. "As I told you, I gave him the ten million dollars he asked for and he's disappeared."

"And you don't know where."

"Why would I care, Alan? He provided me with all the information he had and certainly would never again be in a position at the CIA that would be useful to me. If I had to guess, I would say Brazil. It seems a popular country with Americans who need to get lost."

"And al-Qaeda?"

"On that front you've won. Without my involvement, Yasin will eventually solidify his ties with the Mexicans, making him one of the wealthiest drug lords in the world. And he'll use that position to kill thousands of Americans" For the first time Volkov looked directly into Holsten's eyes "Congratulations. When I'm dead, your part in all this will be completely obscured. You'll be able to use al-Qaeda's newfound strength to increase the CIA's budget and inflate your own importance."

Holsten raised his moisturized, manicured hand and struck Volkov across the face. The blow was laughably weak, though the satisfied smile spreading across Holsten's face suggested that he'd enjoyed the small taste of the violence to come.

"You're right, Christian. It's an unfortunate situation, but there is no reason for me not to use it to my advantage. And to do that, I need quick and decisive victories in the war against al-Qaeda. I need to know exactly what areas they control, their strength, access to weapons, where Yasin and his council can be found. And I need information o
n
your organization--your contacts, financial resources, business transactions in process . . ." His smile broadened. "I'll get all those things--I guarantee it. We have plenty of time."

Volkov opened his mouth to speak but fell silent when the metal door at the back of the room opened and a fat Mexican soldier entered carrying a cell phone. Holsten held his hand out but the man just walked past him and offered the phone to Volkov.

"What the hell's going on?" Holsten shouted.

The soldier, who almost certainly spoke no English, ignored him.

"What the fuck is going on?" Holsten screamed, pulling his gun and aiming it at Volkov. The Mexican stepped between them and moved forward until the barrel of the pistol was pressed to his chest.

Holsten froze. What else could he do? Shoot? Undoubtedly he realized that the Mexican's well-armed friends sitting in the hallway would take exception to that.

Volkov crossed his legs casually and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"I hear things aren't going so well down there." Volkov smiled at Mark Beamon's lazy American accent.

"It didn't work out exactly as planned. So often this is the case. I take it your trip went more smoothly."

"It could have been worse, but we'll see what comes of it. . . . Charles Russell, huh."

Volkov smiled again. "Of course. Who else?"

"I should have known. You delivered Carlo Gasta to the cops and now he's rolling over on half of New York. As the terrorism and law enforcement oversight czar, Russell's getting a hell of a lot of good publicity from all that."

Volkov looked up to see that Holsten had holstered his gun. The Mexican was standing in the doorway now, making sure that everything stayed under control.

"And I'm not finished yet. With a little luck, I might be able to put him in the White House."

"Oh, I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

There was a brief silence over the phone that Volkov couldn't read.

"What are you going to do, Mark?"

"You haven't left me with a lot of choices, have you? I got you a meeting with Castaneda. Holsten will be there, too, though--I couldn't get you a one-on-one. I hope what you have to sell is as good as I think it is. Your chair hurts my back."

The line suddenly went dead. Beamon had hung up.

Chapter
64

"WHO the hell do you think you're dealing with? We had an agreement!" Alan Holsten shouted, pacing back and forth across the thick carpet, jabbing his finger in the air. Their surroundings had improved significantly: Peeling paint had given way to cherry paneling and the unbearable heat had been extinguished by the central air conditioning of the attorney general's office.

"Can I offer anyone tea?" Salvador Castaneda said, carefully rearranging three cups on a silver service in an obvious effort to mask his nervousness.

Castaneda had sided with Holsten and now was being put in the awkward position of having to reconsider that alliance. He would be reluctant to reverse himself at this late date, though, and would be strongly biased toward continuing his support for America's Central Intelligence Agency. Despite his boorish behavior, Alan Holsten had the edge.

"I'd love some," Volkov said calmly.

"Milk?"

"Please."

Holsten came to a stop in the middle of the office and watched the bizarre ceremony with his mouth half hanging open.

"What the hell--"

Castaneda waved his hand and, surprisingly, Holsten shut up. He was obviously not too conceited to recognize that he was at the very edge of his sphere of influence and that the Mexican was in control.

Volkov accepted his tea with a calm, graceful smile.

"I intend to speak frankly because I believe that the time for subterfuge is past," Castaneda said, leaning against his desk. He was a handsome man in a calculated sort of way, with a thin mustache and well-tended hair that always made Volkov think of old American movies.

"It goes without saying that all of the decisions I've made have been based purely on business and that I hold no personal animosity toward anyone in this room."

Volkov took a sip of his tea. "Could I have a sugar, please?"

"Of course." Castaneda used a pair of small silver tongs to drop a cube into Volkov's cup.

"Jesus Christ," Holsten muttered, continuing to throw away his advantage. It was critical for Volkov to play up the difference between them--the unthinking volatility of the CIA versus his organization's calm, predictable efficiency.

"We had a deal," the attorney general continued, talking to Holsten but looking at Volkov, "based on your assurances that there was no one capable of keeping Mr. Volkov's organization together."

"There is no one," Holsten said emphatically.

"I have to disagree. A few hours ago I received a call from a former FBI agent named Mark Beamon, who insists that he is very much in control. And I've confirmed through the FBI that he is currently being sought for questioning in relation to the Afghans recently killed in Los Angeles."

Holsten opened his mouth to speak, but Castaneda ignored him. "I'm familiar with Mr. Beamon, as I think most people involved in my kind of business are. He was a dangerous opponent when he was with the FBI. Now, though"--he shook his head--"unbounded by the confines of that organization, I believe him to be fully capable of filling Mr. Volkov's shoes."

Volkov saw Holsten's face go blank for a moment. He'd assumed that Beamon was dead and was having to very quickly switch gears.

"Beamon is an undercover FBI agent," he stuttered.

"His job . . . his job is to destroy Volkov's organization. . . ."

"According to my information, he has resigned his position and is a wanted man. The charges against him are grave and seem to be easily proven. No, I think Mr. Beamon knows that he can never return to the U
. S
."

"This is insane," Holsten said, starting to pace again. "He's an FBI agent, for Christ's sake!"

Americans could be so blind, Volkov thought as he stirred his tea. To Holsten the idea that a government employee with Mark Beamon's reputation would go to work for organized crime was ludicrous. But Salvador Castaneda certainly would not share that sentiment. He was one of the most powerful politicians in Mexico and was a pivotal player in the illegal narcotics trade. In Mexico, as in many countries, the line between organized crime, politics, the military, and the police was blurry at best. Based on the world he had been born to, Castaneda would have no reason to believe that Beamon would do anything but run Volkov's organization to the best of his ability and reap the significant financial rewards for doing so.

"Mr. Holsten," Castaneda started again, "you have offered me two things: first, protection from Mr. Volkov's organization--something it would appear that you can't deliver, since you don't even know who's running it. And second, you've offered me the friendship of the CIA. But now there is some question as to whether that is yours to give. When I spoke with Mr. Beamon, he suggested that you have no backing for this operation, either at the CIA or within the political framework. In his mind, my best-case scenario is that you stay in your position for the next eight years until you are forced to retire. He makes a compelling argument that your career will not survive the next twelve months, though."

"Mark Beamon has no idea what he is talking about!" Holsten managed not to shout, but the anger in his voice was obviously just at the edge of his control. "Like you said, he isn't even an FBI agent anymore. And even when he was, he was nothing more than the special agent i
n
charge of an office thousands of miles from Washington. He has no idea about the inner workings of the CIA." "Then I suggest we get your boss, the Director, on the phone. We should discuss this situation fully and decide exactly what kind of support I can expect going forward should I decide to give you Mr. Volkov."

When Holsten just stood silently in. the middle of the office, Castaneda nodded knowingly and turned to Volkov. "What is it you ask of me?"

Volkov set his empty cup down on the table next to him and cleared his throat. "You're aware of al-Qaeda's ongoing takeover of the heroin refining and trafficking capabilities of the Middle East. And I know you're aware of the supply problems and increased scrutiny Yasin's involvement has caused and will continue to cause."

"Of course."

"My proposal is simple and mutually beneficial. We replace your current Middle Eastern suppliers with my associates in Asia."

Castaneda stared at him for a moment, blinking. "Simple? You think this is simple? And when exactly would you propose we do this?"

Volkov smiled easily. "I'm free Friday."

The attorney general laughed out loud. "Is this a joke?"

Volkov shook his head and pointed to the phone. "Have your assistant call Charles Russell's office. Use the name Paul Holt."

Out of the corner of his eye, Volkov could see Holsten's head swiveling back and forth as he tried to understand what was happening. He tensed visibly when Castaneda shrugged and pressed down the intercom, asking his assistant to do as Volkov instructed. A few moments later her voice came over the speaker on Castaneda's phone, telling him in Spanish that he was being connected.

"What . . . what did she say," Holsten asked. Castaneda ignored him and handed Volkov the phone.

"Hello? Mr. Russell?"

"Yes."

"I'm here with Salvador. Would you have a moment to speak with him?"

"Put him on."

Volkov handed the phone back to Castaneda, who sat down behind his desk and pressed it to his ear. He spoke very little, mostly just nodding as he listened to Russell's proposal. After about five minutes he gently replaced the handset and stared across the desk at Volkov. "Mr. Russell seems to have a great deal of confidence in you. He makes a compelling argument that I should give serious consideration to whatever you propose. I'm listening."

Volkov picked up his cup and refilled it from the pot on the desk. "On Friday we will coordinate an effort through your military and police to arrest Afghan and other Middle Eastern narcotics distributors in your country, confiscate their inventory, and destroy or take control of what infrastructure they have in place. The effort will be heavily publicized, with American reporters along on the raids. It will come out that this was a highly confidential operation, coordinated by you, President Garcia, and Charles Russell. Of course, all press releases from the Mexican government will go through Russell's people for approval and distribution."