Sphere Of Influence (55 page)

"What's the Director saying?"

"What can he say? I've got the launcher."

Chapter
68

"JESUS! What are you using? A spoon?"

Christian Volkov watched silently as the doctor continued digging around in Beamon's shoulder.

"You had a great number of wood splinters, Mark. That was the deepest--and the last." He irrigated the wound and taped a large bandage over it before gathering up his torture devices and walking silently from the room.

Beamon motioned toward the elaborate bank of unmanned computer terminals against the wall. "So, were you able to get the space shuttle down safely?"

Volkov smiled. "If I understand your question, the answer is yes. Everything went as smoothly as could be expected. No significant resistance."

Beamon had actually considered just pretending that none of this had happened, but the see-no-evil, hear--
no-evil
defense seemed a little strained at this point.

"And the Afghans?"

"In Mexico? Almost all dead. A few escaped, but I expect them to be found within the next twenty-four hours." Beamon eased his shirt back on and began buttoning it. "Is something wrong, Mark? It's not just the shoulder. . . . You look unhappy."

"I guess I'm just trying to figure out where 'flooded America with Asian heroin and exterminated every Afghan south of El Paso' is going to fit on my resume." Volkov shrugged. "Yasin is cut off from his income stream, and the support he enjoyed from me and the Central Intelligence Agency is gone. In addition to that, you found you
r
rocket launcher. It seems to me that you have very little to complain about. Everything went beautifully, no?"

"For you, maybe. And for Laura. She found the launcher and you're on your way to being the wealthiest man in the world--if you're not already. As for me, I'm still wanted by the FBI for helping Carlo Gasta kill those men in
L
. A
. among
other things."

"You're turning into a real glass-is-half-empty person, Mark. It doesn't suit you."

Beamon stood and stuck his hand out. "It's been interesting knowing you, Christian."

Volkov didn't move from behind his desk. "Are you going somewhere?"

"By my reckoning, we're even. I was kind of hoping you'd just let me walk out of here. Was I being naive?" "I'm not sure I agree that all our accounts have been settled."

"No?"

"As I see it, I still owe you for taking my message to Carlo Gasta. Ten million, wasn't it? Plus expenses?"

"If you just have one of your planes take me home, we'll call it good."

"Home? Do you mean back to your apartment in Phoenix? My understanding is that the FBI has two men waiting for you there. As you say, your activities over the past month haven't been . . . um, within the normal parameters set out by your government. You've been in a similar position in the past, haven't you? You don't seem to learn from your mistakes."

"There's a difference this time."

"What's that?"

"I'm actually guilty. Sort of fundamental, don't you think? I'm going to have to go back and face the music sometime."

"Face the music for what? For finding a rocket launcher that would have killed hundreds if not thousands of people before it was located? For stopping Mustafa Yasin from gaining enormous wealth and power? Perhaps Alan Holsten and Charles Russell will be kind enough to leave their beautiful homes and families to visit you in prison."

Beamon frowned. Admittedly, his return to the U
. S
. wasn't something he was looking forward to.

"As I see it, you have two options," Volkov said. "I can pay you the money I owe you and provide you with a new identity that will allow you to live out a luxurious retirement abroad . . ."

Beamon tried to picture that--skipping from one place where he didn't speak the language to another place where he didn't speak the language, wandering through the rest of his life with nothing to do. He'd die of boredom.

"You said I had two options. That's only one."

"Stay and work for me."

Beamon laughed.

"Why do you think that's funny? It's a serious offer." "I'm an FBI agent, Christian."

"No you're not. You're an unemployed man wanted in his own country."

"I don't see myself as some kind of international crime lord."

Volkov smiled mischievously. "A bit too late to avoid that designation, isn't it? You've just helped orchestrate the largest drug deal in history. The best you can do is take the first option and be a retired international crime lord. Try to think outside the box for a moment, Mark. In the greater context, what do I do that's so horrible?"

"Well, you peddle drugs that destroy people's lives and cause incredible misery and suffering."

"Nonsense. People don't subject themselves to misery and suffering voluntarily. I'm surprised that you would be so unsympathetic."

"Unsympathetic?"

"How would you react if some teetotaler made the observation that bourbon had caused you nothing but misery and then presumed to take it away from you?"

It was a good point.

"You supply weapons that are used to butcher innocent people."

Volkov opened his mouth to speak but Beamon held up his hand and silenced him. "I know what you're going to say: that my own government has done the same thing i
n
Guatemala, Cuba, Libya, Afghanistan, and God knows how many other countries for reasons no better than yours. The difference is, I don't work for that branch of the government."

"I was going to say no such thing, Mark."

Volkov reached into one of his drawers and pulled out a pistol. For a moment Beamon thought he'd argued too well, but Volkov just put it down on his desk and dug what looked like a set of car keys from his pocket, which he placed on the desk next to the gun.

"Once again, Mark, I'd argue that people pursue things that give them pleasure. I've put two things in front of me. One I will give to you. Do you want the gun so you can use it to kill someone of a different race or creed or political philosophy than yours? Or would you prefer the car--a Ford Excursion, I believe. Low miles. Leather . . ."

Beamon could see where this was going but responded anyway. "I guess I'd have to take the car."

"Of course you would--you're an American and Americans are obsessed with the acquisition of wealth. The pleasure you might get from killing, say, a black man would pale in comparison to the pleasure you'd get from owning a nicer vehicle than your neighbor's." Volkov pushed the keys and gun a little farther across the desk toward Beamon. "Now, imagine you're Northern Irish. Or Congolese. Or Croatian. Which do you choose, Mark?"

Beamon frowned but didn't speak. The really absurd thing about Volkov's argument was that it was about ninety-eight percent true.

"So it's agreed," Volkov said, leaning back in his chair. "You'll stay and work with me. Not because you want to, but because you have no other choice."

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't think so."

Volkov shook his head sadly but his eyes seemed to smile. "Poor Mark Beamon. So confused, yet so predictable." He leaned to his right a bit, looking past Beamon through the open door of his office. "Elizabeth! Do you have those tapes ready?"

She appeared a moment later, hurrying across the room in a yellow skirt and black blouse that were probably ver
y
stylish but made her look a little like a bee. Beamon watched her put a video into one of the televisions bolted to the wall.

"How's the shoulder?" she asked, walking over and gently tracing her finger around the bandage beneath his shirt. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"I'll survive."

She blinked her big brown eyes and then disappeared out the door.

"Another reason to come work for me. Elizabeth seems quite taken with you. . . ."

"A girl that age would kill me."

"Somehow I knew you'd say that." Volkov jabbed at the remote on his desk and the television on the wall came to life.

The camera work was jerky, adding an interesting sense of claustrophobia and desperation to the footage of him and a column of Mexican soldiers marching through the jungle. It turned even more dramatic when the bullets started flying and he pressed his back against a tree, his inadequate-looking shotgun at the ready. Some strategic editing had removed the part where he'd sat around smoking and considering making a break for it.

The camera panned over his mutilated comrades and then cut to a distant view of one of the machine-gun nests before following him as he leaned out from his cover and fired his shotgun. The tiny screen made the act look impossibly heroic when it was actually stupid, futile, and perhaps suicidal. A little more artful editing made it appear that he and his Mexican comrades had managed to single-handedly defeat the machine gunners.

"No helicopter," Beamon commented.

A slightly pained expression crossed Volkov's face. "You know, it was a Russian model and might have clouded the issue."

"What issue?"

"What issue? Why, your incredible heroism in the service of your country, of course. The thing with the shotgun . . . that may be the most moronic act I've ever witnessed. If I'd for a moment thought you'd do somethin
g
like that, I would never have sent you. It did make for some riveting footage, though."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Beamon mumbled.

Volkov laughed and leaned over his desk again. "Elizabeth! Where's the voiceover on this thing with Mark in Mexico? The audio is just a bunch of shooting and yelling now."

"That's a preliminary edit we got from Fox, Christian. They haven't finished the narrative yet, but I understand it's going to make Mark look like a saint."

Beamon watched his image as the camera followed him to the destroyed building full of heroin and then tightened on his face as he gazed thoughtfully down at his fallen comrades. The whole thing was wrapped up by a big narcotic bonfire that he knew for a fact had never happened.

"Christian, how did you--"

"Shhhh. It gets better."

The screen went blank for a moment. When it came back on, the image had changed to one of Charles Russell standing behind a lectern.

"Blah, blah, blah," Volkov said, fast-forwarding a bit before hitting the PLAY button again.

". . . agencies involved, from local law enforcement to ATF, DEA, and the Central Intelligence Agency, as well as substantial resources abroad." Volkov paused the tape for a moment and glanced at Mark. "I'm guessing that would be me." He pushed PLAY again.

"Having said that, special recognition has to go to the FBI, which took the lead in this and really pulled out the stops to find that launcher before anyone could be harmed. First, I want to single out Laura Vilechi, who coordinated what seems to me to be an impossibly complicated investigation. But most of all, I'd like to commend Mark Beamon, who many of you are familiar with." He shook his head in a strangely engaging gesture of disbelief. "Mark really put himself in harm's way on this thing. And he delivered--"

Volkov hit the FAST FORWARD button again. "The rest is about his involvement in all the drug arrests in Mexico. You know the speech--`a new era in cooperation with th
e
Mexican authorities, a major blow to heroin trafficking and organized crime ...'"

Beamon wasn't sure he understood what was going on. He just sat there with his mouth shut.

The jerky motions on the screen slowed to normal speed again when Laura appeared, speaking to a room packed with reporters. "I have to say that I really can't take credit for any of this Mark Beamon came up with the initial concept of the terrorist cells being linked to narcotics trafficking and he turned up the location of the launcher--almost getting killed in the process. . . ."

Volkov cut the tape off and the screen went blank. "She goes on like that for quite a while, downplaying her involvement. That's a loyal friend you have there, Mark. Don't take her for granted." He leaned out around the desk again. "Elizabeth! Are those last two we saw--the ones with Russell and Vilechi--airing yet?"

"They're in heavy rotation, Christian. Those weren't copies sent to us--I taped them right off American TV." Beamon scooted his chair around so that he could look directly at Volkov. "I don't mean to be dense, but I'm not sure what's going on here."

"I believe your career was just saved--though I have to tell you that I'm personally insulted that you'd go back to the FBI when you could work for me. In any event, I understand that your director is preparing a press conference that will continue to shine a very favorable light on you." "Why?"

"I don't think he has any choice at this point. The FBI needed a win and he isn't going to risk tainting it."

"You know what I mean, Christian. Why did you do this?"

Volkov shrugged. "You've helped me a great deal since we first met--and you saved my life. It was the least I could do. Though, honestly, I don't think any of this is in your best interest."