Sphere Of Influence (20 page)

A couple of people stopped a few feet away to wait for the elevator.

"We'll talk later. Tell him I need him now. And, Laura, no one else comes within ten miles of this hospital--do you understand?"

"I'll take care of it."

"And . . . and could you call Carrie and tell her I'm okay but that I won't be able to talk to her for a little while?" "Sure, Mark. But what--"

He hung up the phone and made his way back to his room, closing the door firmly behind him and pulling the drapes shut against the possibility of a sniper firing from the building next door. It was hard not to dwell on the fact that he was weak, injured, and completely unarmed. Glancing at the clock, he wondered how long it would take Claude to get there. Carlo Gasta was probably just getting over his hangover and would be wondering if leaving Nicolai alive had been such a good idea.

The next hour and a half turned out to be one of the longest he'd ever lived through. He'd tried watching television, but every channel was still harping on the recent terrorist threat against hospitals--not exactly what he needed at this point. He'd turned it off, but without anything else to occupy his time, he'd started second-guessing himself and creating elaborate scenarios that could have saved Chet. He tried to focus on his hatred for Carlo Gasta and the mysterious man behind him, but it didn't work. All he could think about was how young Chet had been--the years that had been taken away from him.

When the door to his room was suddenly thrown open, Beamon jumped off the bed, ready to make whatever pathetic effort at defending himself he could manage. He'd been ready to die last night, but now he was ready to live. He was going to find the son of a bitch who had ordere
d
Chet's death. And, if possible, he was going to put a bullet in him.

"Nicolai," the man said through a thick French accent, closing the door behind him.

Beamon fell back onto the bed, the adrenaline-provided illusion of strength dissipating quickly. "Claude. Jesus Christ."

Beamon hadn't seen Heiss in years, but he was still perfect for the role. Six feet tall, broad shouldered, and weathered from a lifelong obsession with sailing.

Beamon motioned him over and leaned into his ear. "Laura gave you some background?"

"A little," Heiss whispered back.

"Okay. You're high-class muscle. You don't speak much English. Are you armed?" He nodded again. "Good. It's possible that Carlo Gasta is going to come after me, but I don't know. We just need to play it cool."

"Do you think someone is listening?" Claude whispered.

"Not really, but paranoia's working for me so far." Claude nodded and retreated to a corner by the door, his hand inside his suit jacket.

He looked the part as much as anyone could, and he was a solid agent. The drawback was that, as far as Beamon knew, he'd never pulled his gun in the line of duty. Hopefully the image would be enough.

Chapter
24

THE television bolted to the wall across from his bed glowed with a recap of the week's events as they related to "The New Threat." Beamon recognized the strategically timed and somewhat vague releases from the FBI as an indication that Laura's investigation was either crawling or completely stalled. To the experienced eye, the official reports were being shampooed--given more body and volume than they actually had.

Not that the media seemed to notice. They were more than able to fill their dance cards with endless interviews of terrified victims, demonstrations of the destructive power of various rocket systems, endless replays of called-in terrorist threats, details on possible biological and chemical payloads, far-fetched speculation as to when and where death would come streaking across the sky.

Interestingly, the government wasn't doing much yet to rein in the panic. Support for struggling businesses and laid-off workers was in the offing, but pleas for America to go about its business were few and far between. He assumed that was Laura's doing. It seemed likely that as long as the panic was running high, the terrorists wouldn't waste their precious ammunition.

He wondered how she was holding up. The recriminations hadn't started yet, but his infallible instinct for such things suggested that they would start within the week. The television audience would soon become numb to the endless hours of guesses, and when they started to tune out, the media would have to find a new angle to bring the
m
back. How would Laura handle her sudden transformation from brilliant, hardworking civil servant to the woman who was going to allow al-Qaeda to start blowing up suburban kindergartens?

"Shit," Beamon said under his breath.

Claude looked over at him and Beamon just waved a hand dismissively, sinking deeper into the pillows behind him. The constant nausea that he'd been learning to live with over the last year was getting worse. It seemed to be spreading to his mind, keeping him trapped in this bed and interfering with his ability for logical thought.

Leaving him alive and killing Chet was just another in a long list of cruel tricks the gods had played on him. If one of those fat fucks had put a bullet in him instead, who would have really cared? His ASACs would certainly be happy to be rid of him. Carrie would get a chance to find herself a nice, stable man to be with. Chet, though . . . There were so many people who loved him. There was so much he'd planned to do.

Beamon was staring at the wall, lost in himself, when Claude suddenly jumped to his feet and went for his gun. Beamon knew he should be scared, or at least startled, but for some reason he felt neither of those things. He actually had difficulty even generating enough curiosity to roll his head toward the door. When he finally did, he found himself looking at Carlo Gasta, flanked by the two men who had killed Chet and beat the hell out of him. Tony and Mikey stayed by the door, trying not to shrink under Claude's withering stare, as their boss centered himself at the foot of Beamon's bed.

The hate and rage that suddenly gripped Beamon quickly eclipsed the despair and self-pity he had been sinking into. It felt good.

"Nicolai," Gasta said simply.

He didn't look much better than Beamon did. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin actually looked gray under the strong lights. The familiar stink of a near-terminal hangover was quickly filling the room.

Beamon remained silent; his throat felt so constricted, he wasn't sure he could speak even if he wanted to. H
e
tried to force Chet from his mind but failed miserably. His second method worked better. He replaced himself with Nicolai. He'd let Mark Beamon have his wish and be dead for a while.

Gasta motioned toward Claude. "That's not your doctor."

"I told you I wasn't traveling alone," Beamon said, surprised by the coldness of his--Nicolai's--voice. Applied schizophrenia.

Gasta glanced around the small room, looking increasingly nervous. He was undoubtedly wondering how many of Nicolai's other "associates" were lurking just out of sight.

"Can we talk?"

Beamon thought about it for a moment. "Claude. Cinq minutes, s'il vows plait."

He'd practiced that and a few other simple phrases until they rolled from his tongue effortlessly. Nicolai, he'd decided, was multilingual.

Heiss strode across the floor with impressive confidence that Beamon knew he didn't feel and paused to allow Gasta's men to precede him into the hall.

"What kind of work does Claude do?" Gasta said after the door clicked shut.

"He does the kind of work you'd think he would." Gasta nodded, and for some reason the meekness of the motion enraged Beamon. The fact that this small-time, badly dressed little pissant could cause the death of someone like Chet .

He forced his anger back again by remembering who he was. Nicolai didn't care about Chet Michaels. "What do you want, Carlo?"

"I told you. I want to talk. To make peace."

Chet's assessment had been right, Beamon realized. Gasta had brought Nicolai in on his own. His boss, whoever that was, didn't know and wouldn't be there to protect him from Nicolai's wrath. Gasta was scared. And why not? Nicolai was a fabrication to be feared.

"You can start by telling me that the hundred thousand you owe me is in my account."

When he didn't answer, Beamon shook his head. "Carlo . . . what am I going to do with you?"

Gasta just stood there, frozen.

"You ordered the death of an FBI informant who I spent a great deal of money cultivating," Beamon said. "And then, to make it worse, you had your men beat the hell out of me. Those were fairly grave errors on your part."

"I told Mikey and Tony not to touch you," Gasta said hesitantly. "They liked Chet. . . . They didn't listen to me. . . ."

Beamon hadn't thought it possible, but his hatred for this worthless piece of shit notched a little higher. Gasta had gotten drunk and lost control, giving an order that he shouldn't have. And now he was blaming his own bad judgment on two men who had been with his family since before he was born. For all he knew, he had just condemned them to death.

"They could have killed you, but they didn't," he said hopefully.

"And that's the only reason you're still alive, Carlo. If I'd been two more hours finding a phone, Claude and his men would have been paying you a visit."

Gasta finally managed to muster the courage to make a pathetic effort to look defiant, but didn't speak.

"I'll tell you, Carlo. I can't decide whether it's worth the trouble to kill you or not."

"I had orders," Gasta said, once again trying to deflect blame from himself "I didn't want to kill Chet--you heard me on the phone. It wasn't my decision. You have to understand that Chet left me exposed and exposed people I worked with. They don't tolerate things like that."

"Then maybe I should be talking to them?"

"Don't think that's possible."

Beamon stared at him for a long time, trying to decide what Nicolai would do in this situation. How much energy and time would he expend on this little man? How much of this would he take personally?

"I had over a million dollars invested in Chet, and now that investment's gone," Beamon said finally. "And then, o
f
course, there's my pain and suffering, which I expect to be compensated for. Tell your boss I expect two million dollars in my account by noon tomorrow, New York time."

Gasta stared at the floor and then gave the answer that Beamon had counted on. "He isn't going to do that." "Then I guess you owe me the money."

"I don't have it."

Beamon nodded slowly. "I don't want you to take this personally, Carlo, but I have a reputation that I have to protect to maintain my credibility. People don't cross me and survive. I'm sorry."

Beamon surprised himself again by how easy it had been to tell the man in front of him that he was as good as dead. He wondered if he should be worried about how well Nicolai's persona was beginning to fit him.

Gasta took a step backward but didn't otherwise seem to know how to react to the offhand statement. He finally managed to process what it meant, and the stench of his hangover intensified noticeably as he started to sweat. "It's because of Chet--and you--that I don't have the money. I don't know what he told the Feds--I've had to go underground. I'm completely cut off from my businesses and most of my people."

Beamon didn't answer. Gasta's problems seemed irrelevant to the situation at hand. While politics and law enforcement could be insufferably complex, crime was refreshingly simple: money or death.

"I can get it," Gasta blurted. "But not by tomorrow." "I'm not really in the mood to negotiate, Carlo."

"The drug shipment Chet told you about--it's real and it's happening in a few days. When I get it, I'll sell the drugs and you'll have your money."

Beamon nodded slowly but didn't speak. He had suspected that this was the way things would go. Gasta's men hadn't done any lasting damage to him--except for the ankle, which was probably an accident. And even more telling was the fact that they hadn't so much as touched his face, leaving no marks that might draw attention.

The fact was, Gasta still needed him. He needed cash and needed to redeem himself in the eyes of his boss. Tha
t
meant this heroin heist had to go off without any problems.

"When?" Beamon said.

"Soon. This week," he said hopefully.

"Fine. I'll extend your deadline. But if I don't have my money within a few weeks, I'm sending Claude back for you."

Although Beamon's tone was obviously a dismissal, Gasta just stood there, staring at the floor.

"I need your help," he admitted finally.

"Let me get this straight: You want me to get my own money?" Beamon said, laughing. "I didn't want to be involved last night, and believe me, my opinion of you hasn't changed." He paused and affected a thoughtful expression. "But then, you probably can't pull it off alone, can you?" Gasta wouldn't meet his gaze.

Beamon remained silent for a long time, as though he were considering the situation, which actually was progressing exactly as he had hoped.

"Okay, Carlo. My fee would be one million plus the two million you owe me."