Sphere Of Influence (10 page)

"The President has certified twenty of the twenty-four countries," Russell continued. "Myanmar has been denied certification as it was last year. Haiti and Cambodia were not granted certification but have been granted national interest waivers." He paused just as Volkov had. "Also, this year, in light of the poor record of its new administration, Mexico has been denied certification but has been provided a national interest waiver." Russell held up a hand, again fending off questions. "Following President Fox's assassination--"

Volkov turned off the television and smiled. "My flawless record remains intact."

Every year since the certification program's inception, he and Pascal weighed in with their predictions. And every year he was right and Pascal was wrong.

"I'm told that Carlo Gasta's experience with Afghans isn't the only evidence of disruption in the heroin supply line this week," Pascal said, changing the subject. He obviously didn't want to dwell on the fact that he'd lost their little competition again.

"Really?" Volkov said, deciding to wait until dinner to gloat.

"We have reports of five separate instances that promised heroin shipments could not be delivered."

"And the Mexicans?"

"They're angry. Obviously they have their own production capability, but it certainly isn't sufficient to meet demand."

Volkov nodded silently. Most of the heroin that flowed into America every day originated in the Middle East, was transported into Mexico, and then was smuggled across the border by a confusing confederation of Mexican organized crime, police, and military. Problems, until now unheard of, could create dire consequences for the extensive but delicate Mexican distribution system.

"We aren't seeing any open fighting between the Mexican smuggling cartels," Pascal said. "But if the unreliability in supply should continue--and particularly if it should worsen--I don't think fighting is far away."

One of their informants had told them of the Afghans' failure to deliver product to Carlo Gasta in L
. A
., and Volkov found that failure telling. It had been a direct transaction, quietly circumventing the Mexicans. These deals would be prioritized, as the quick cash they provided was critical to al-Qaeda's operations.

"Exactly what you predicted is beginning to happen, Christian. Mustafa Yasin's ambitions are becoming known throughout the region. Refiners and transporters are expecting the attacks, making al-Qaeda's victories more costly. More importantly, though, they are resigning themselves to their eventual defeat. They are strategizing to inflict as many casualties on al-Qaeda as possible and then completely destroying their own infrastructure and warehoused product so that Yasin comes away with very little." Volkov took a sip of water from a heavy crystal glass on his desk and listened to the rain begin. In a few minutes they would have to raise their voices to be heard over what would undoubtedly be a magnificent storm. "Are the Mexicans aware that Yasin is going around them and sending people to the U
. S
. directly?"

"No. Those types of transactions are fairly limited at this point--just enough to keep his cash flow positive while he tries to solidify his position. Should I make the Mexicans aware of it?"

Volkov shook his head. "Not yet."

"When?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "This has always been a difficult situation, but now, with the CIA's involvement uncertain, it's almost impossible."

"At some point, though, al-Qaeda will complete its task and consolidate its power. Then they'll have the opportunity to create a relationship with the Mexicans. We have to act before that happens."

Volkov leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and trying unsuccessfully to put order to the events of the past week. What he did know, though, was that his own best interests and those of the CIA might well have irretrievably diverged. His survival depended on his guessing when al-Qaeda was at its weakest and being ready to move at that moment.

"Where does our relationship with Charles Russell stand?" "It's excellent. We've provided the Republican party with a great deal of money over the years and we were a strong supporter of his during his senatorial campaigns. Obviously this was all done through our legitimate U
. S
. corporations. He has no idea you even exist."

Volkov leaned back in his chair again. As he'd predicted, the wind was beginning to vibrate the windows behind him and the rain was creating a dull roar as it pounded the roof. "I think it may be time he learns of my existence."

Pascal didn't bother to hide his surprise. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I believe it's time that Mr. Russell and I meet." "Christian, are you sure that's wise? I could have a CEO from one of your stateside companies meet with him on your behalf. Or perhaps we could set up a teleconference. . . ."

Volkov shook his head. "No. What I have to say to him will have to be done personally."

Pascal was silent for a moment, knowing better than to ask for details not offered.

"Of course, Christian. When?"

"As soon as possible."

"I'll set it up before I leave for Laos."

"You've been able to get the general to agree to a meeting?"

"I spoke with him directly. I leave tomorrow."

Volkov spun his chair to face the windows. This situation was becoming unbearably dangerous. It seemed likely that both he and Pascal would be gone at the same time, with neither of their returns guaranteed. But what choice was there? Time was quickly running out.

"You understand as well as I do that our power base in Laos is almost nonexistent now," Volkov said. "If things look too unstable, turn around and come back immediately. I'd be very disappointed if you let yourself get killed."

The storm was already subsiding and he could hear Pascal start for the door. "I'll be fine, Christian."

The door closed and Volkov was alone again. He closed his eyes and laid his head against the back of the chair. He was only forty-three years old and it was already starting to become hazy how he had come to be where he was. The same thing had always driven him, he supposed: necessity. Not a particularly noble or powerful motivator, really, just a by-product of the hopeless poverty he'd been born to.

His first memories were of living on the streets in Bucharest, being cared for by a ragged and pale little girl that he now guessed had been no older than thirteen. Sh
e
had told him that she was his sister but he had no reason to believe they had any real biological connection. But she had protected him and fed him and taught him to steal, so the title seemed legitimate.

By the time he was old enough to contribute, to repay her for what she had for some reason done, she'd fallen ill. Possibly an early victim of AIDS contracted from years on the streets as a prostitute. He would never know for sure. All he knew was that for all the power he now had, he'd been unable then to do anything to help her or to even ease her suffering. She'd finally died lying under a torn plastic bag he'd found to try to keep the rain from soaking her.

Volkov stood and walked out onto the stone terrace, splashing through the water pooled there and looking down on the dark ocean.

He'd taken the knowledge she'd given him and added to it, eking out an existence the only way available to him--as a small-time criminal. But even as he achieved a few minor victories and managed to rise from the constant fear of starvation to mere poverty, he began to understand the trap he'd walked into. Every deal seemed to lead to an-- other larger and more dangerous one. His childhood hadn't really allowed for anything so grandiose as ambition, and he'd had no real thirst for power or excessive wealth, but he knew that if he didn't involve himself in that next transaction, someone else would. And if they could use the money and goods they obtained to buy allies, or guns, or knives, then they would become a threat to him. In the dangerous and highly competitive business of crime under Ceausescu's reign in Romania, one moved forward or died.

And now, after years of unavoidable transactions, he found himself at the head of an empire. He honestly didn't know how large, though Pascal had once told him he was one of the world's wealthiest men. A meaningless distinction as far as he could tell. He had no hope of ever retiring and enjoying the things his wealth could buy. His future was the same as his past--one necessary transaction after another until the day he finally made a fatal mistake.

Chapter
11

THE FBI's Phoenix office was almost completely silent as Beamon weaved through the empty cubicles toward his office. At the threshold he reached for the light switch, but then thought better of it and just made his way to his desk in the semidarkness.

The FBI's jet had dropped him off at ten-thirty and he'd decided to come here to the office instead of going home. The truth was that his meeting with the CIA earlier that day had actually cheered him up a little. While the case still wasn't his, he'd actually accomplished something positive for a friend. Instead of wasting his rare good mood, he figured he'd expend some of it on Bill Laskin's inspection report. By his estimate, the warm fuzzies he'd garnered from helping Laura stick it to the CIA, combined with the six-pack he'd purchased on the way in, would be just enough to get him through the final pages without hanging himself. After half an hour of what felt like hard work, he'd managed to get through two beers but only three pages. He tried harder, blocking out everything but the report on his lap, to no effect. He just couldn't seem to absorb any of it tonight. Grabbing the television remote from a drawer, he pressed the POWER button and watched an old video of Osama bin Laden standing at the mouth of a cave, speaking into a microphone. The translator's voice was heavily accented.

"--of Allah's greatness. America will pay for--"

He hit the MUTE button. If there was one thing he truly hated, it was revolutionary jargon. The world had finall
y
gotten rid of the communists and their "imperialism" this, "capitalist dog" that, and now you had to listen to these idiots. Hardly an improvement.

The video was strangely riveting and he watched until the screen faded into current scenes from America's cities. Restaurants and stores closed, offices empty, silent street interviews with haggard-looking people who for some reason had been forced from their homes and into the dangerous and malignant world.

Beamon looked down at the report in his lap for another few seconds but then just tossed it on his desk. The fact that he had to spend his time worrying about whether his debits equaled his credits while some nut was running around the country with a rocket launcher was really cruel. Not your case.

He was still repeating that to himself when he pulled a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. On it was a rough drawing he'd made of the map Jonathan Drake had projected on the wall in Langley. Normally, Beamon wasn't really a detail person, but when it came to interesting crimes, his mind could grab and hold things with almost photographic detail.

He ran his hand across the paper, smoothing out Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and all the other -stans, focusing on the little dots representing recent fighting. They meant something--he was sure of that. But what?

He reached for another beer but immediately dropped it and sent it rolling across the floor.

"Jesus Christ!" he said, grabbing his chest. "You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here this late?" Neither of his two ASACs replied; they just stood there in the doorway to his office like extras from Night of the Living Dead. "What?" Beamon said, spinning his chair to face them.

His number two, Rick Sterling, finally took a step forward. "We've heard some things."

"What things?" Beamon motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. "You guys want to sit?"

His other ASAC answered by moving through the door and leaning silently against the wall.

Beamon pulled out the now sweat-dampened map and laid it on the table. "What do you know about Afghanistan?"

"They supply almost three-quarters of the world's heroin. I know everything about Afghanistan."

"Okay," Beamon said. "This is a map I drew of it." Mastretta squinted at the poor rendering. "It is?" "Use your imagination, asshole."

"What are the dots?"

"Those represent small encampments that have been recently attacked."

"By whom?"

"This is just between us?" 5

Mastretta nodded.

"Maybe by al-Qaeda."

That got the DEA man's attention. "Does this have something to do with the rocket launcher?"

Beamon shrugged and tapped the map again. "Like I said, the places that have been attacked are more encampments than towns or cities--small, you know?"

Mastretta fished a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and peered down at the map, nodding thoughtfully.

"Any ideas, Jaime?"

"I'm guessing you have one already."

"I have a suspicion. But you're the expert."

"The dots on your map correspond to areas we know are active in the heroin trade--agricultural and distribution centers in the Helmand province of Afghanistan, refining and transportation points along the borders, especially the borders with Pakistan and Turkmenistan."