Sphere Of Influence (43 page)

"Screw you," he said, yanking one of his shackled hands painfully over to the seat belt clasp in his lap. With some effort he managed to release it and jumped up from the seat. Without a word and without looking up, Reynolds stuck a foot out and used it to shove Gasta back into his seat.

"Son of a bitch!" Gasta spat out as he fell backward, further straining his already full bladder.

He wanted to kill these bastards more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. If he could just get free of the shackles securing his hands to the chain around his waist, he'd rip Special Agent in Charge Scott Reynolds's throat out. What did he have to lose? He was fucked and he knew it.

So far he and his men were keeping their mouths shut while he negotiated with the families about what he would and wouldn't say. Or, more accurately, while the families pointed out all the different ways they could get to him no matter what the Feds did to protect him.

Eventually, though, he'd have to deal. When the FBI found out that he'd done their man Chet Michaels, he'd have to talk a blue streak just to stay alive. He'd just have to take his chances with the boys in New York.

The mysterious John, who had started all this shit, had slunk away like a scared dog. At least that's what it looked like. In truth John probably wouldn't be able to contact him even if he wanted to. Gasta was broke and his son--
of-a
-bitch lawyer was being paid by the families. No way was he going to get any messages that didn't go through New York first. And unless he wanted to get stuck with some moron of a public defender, that situation wasn't going to change anytime soon.

A sudden urgent buzzing coming from the cockpit broke Gasta away from his violent revenge fantasies, and he leaned out into the aisle to try to see what was going on. Reynolds and the other two Feds flying with them did the same.

"What's going on up there?" Reynolds shouted. "We've got a warning light!"

"What the hell does that mean?" Reynolds said, getting out of his seat and walking to the front of the plane. Gasta leaned out farther, trying to see into the cockpit.

"We've got an engine overheating," Gasta heard the pilot say. He sounded scared.

"What the fuck's going on up there?" Gasta shouted, feeling his own fear starting to build. He glanced out the window and saw an empty red landscape some thirty thousand feet below. "Hey! We're not going to crash, are we?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Reynolds yelled back.

Gasta struggled to get his seat belt back on as the pilot radioed that they had a mechanical problem and were going to try to set down at an airstrip twenty miles away. "I can't reach my belt! Somebody buckle it for me!" No one responded.

"Hey! Buckle my fucking belt!"

He looked up hopefully when Reynolds turned toward him, but the FBI agent just took a seat near the cockpit. "Hey--"

The plane dropped suddenly, making the words catch in his throat. Gasta closed his eyes tightly and held the arm of his seat in sweaty hands, saying a silent prayer as the jet began to buck violently and the pilot's shouts became more urgent.

"We're going in too fast! Fuck! Pull up! Pull up!" Gasta felt the tears begin to flow down his cheeks and he almost lost control of his aching bladder. "Oh my God, oh my God," he kept repeating. "I'm going to die."

There was a gentle bump and he felt the plane decelerate smoothly before coming to a graceful stop. When he opened his tear-filled eyes he saw the pilot standing in the cockpit door.

"Shit, I'm sorry, guys. That alarm just meant my microwave popcorn was ready."

Everyone in the plane but Gasta burst out laughing. Still confused about what just happened, Gasta didn't resist when Reynolds grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet.

"If you pissed on our seats, I'm going to beat the shit out of you."

"I . . . I didn't," was all Gasta could manage to get out. "Why don't we go take a walk while they eat their popcorn?" Reynolds said, pushing Gasta toward the now open door in the side of the plane. When he got to the stairs, Gasta saw another small jet parked on the otherwise deserted airstrip.

"What's that?" he said, coming to an abrupt halt. Reynolds gave him a shove from behind and he nearly fell to the ground. "Don't worry, Carlo. You're safe. I'd never let anything happen to a nice guy like you."

The old office in the back of the hangar didn't have much in it other than two chairs and a thick layer of dust. There was no power, so light was provided by a couple of broken windows and a sizable hole in the roof. An appropriately ominous meeting place, Beamon thought. He'd have to compliment Scott on his choice if he ever got the chance. He'd heard the FBI's jet land about two minutes earlie
r
and he could actually feel the adrenaline starting to trickle into his bloodstream. It was starting to look a lot like he was working for Christian Volkov. Even to him.

Another extremely long minute went by before Carlo Gasta appeared in the doorway, looking scared as hell. Reynolds gave him a shove forward, then disappeared back outside. Beamon clicked the timer on his watch. He had ten minutes.

"I told you hitting the Afghans would be risky."

"Fuck," Gasta said in disbelief. "You set me up. I can't believe it--you're a goddamn Fed!"

Beamon shook his head slowly. "I swear to God, you're one of the stupidest sons of bitches I ever met. If I was a Fed, would I have planned that heist for you? Would I have helped you get away from the cops? Jesus Christ, the only thing I left for you to figure out on your own was where to stash the stuff--and you couldn't even handle that."

Gasta was obviously confused, as he was meant to be. He just stood there and stared, trying to get his tiny mind around what was happening.

"Sit," Beamon ordered, pointing to the chair in front of him. Gasta did as he was told.

"Where's my money, Carlo?"
,
The fear visible in Gasta's eyes intensified.

"You do remember the three million you owe me." "I . . . the cops . . . They got the drugs."

"Excuses. It's always excuses with you Italian guys." "Are you . . . are you going to kill me?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends. Honestly, I was just going to let it go--too much time and effort for not very much money. But the guy I'm working for has suddenly taken an interest in you. Why? I have no idea."

"I thought you worked on your own."

"I do. Call him a client. His name is Christian Volkov." Gasta's eyes widened and he tugged uncomfortably at the shackles keeping his hands bound to his waist. "There's no such person. You're trying to scare me. Christian Volkov is just a bullshit story. He doesn't really exist." "Well, that bullshit story just went through a whole lot of trouble and expense to get you and me together. Yo
u
should be flattered, really. Do you have any idea how much it costs to get an FBI special agent in charge to fake engine trouble on a Bureau jet? More money than you've ever seen in your life."

"What does he want with me?" Gasta said, starting to sound a little panicked. "I don't know anything about him. I've never done anything to him."

"Now, that's not entirely true. Because of you, his negotiations with the Afghans have stalled. You've cost him a lot of money."

"But I didn't mean to. I didn't know. . . ."

Beamon pulled the piece of paper Volkov had given him from his pocket and held it in front of Gasta's face.

"Do you recognize the names on this paper?"
,
He nodded nervously.

"These are the people that you can give up. Do any deal you can--but only with these names."

Gasta scanned the paper carefully. Beamon had actually considered modifying it--adding a few names. Then, when Gasta gave up people who hadn't been approved, Volkov would have him killed. Chet Michaels would be partially avenged and Beamon would sleep a little better. But that was too much like murder.

"My lawyer won't do it," Gasta whined. "He works for some of the guys on that list."

"We've lined up a new lawyer for you. One of the top men in the country. As a favor to Christian, he's agreed to take you on pro bono."

"They'll kill me."

"They'll certainly try. I'd suggest getting some kind of protective custody worked into your deal."

"But if I do that, then you wouldn't be able to get to me, either," Gasta said, a thin smile spreading across his face. Beamon shook his head in disbelief. The little pissant had gone from nearly soiling himself to wanting to negotiate in five short seconds.

"You're in protective custody now," Beamon said, pulling his .357 from its holster. He pressed it against Gasta's forehead and pulled the hammer back. "Do you feel safe?"

Chapter
53

MARK Beamon picked at the food in front of him as the small jet he was on sped smoothly to . . . where? He hadn't even bothered to ask. His best guess was that he was being taken back to Christian Volkov's luxurious hideout du jour so that he could report on his meeting with Gasta. What would he say? The truth, probably. It was hard not to feel at least a little uncomfortable with the fact that lately the only person he ever told the truth to was Christian Vollcov. "Tegla, can I use my phone?"

The pilot's dark face peeked out of the cockpit. "Of course, Mark."

He turned it back on and dialed to pick up his messages. Laura. Laura again. And Laura again. He cleared the messages and punched in her number.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"Jesus, I've been trying to get in touch with you forever. Where are you? Can we get together and talk?"

"I don't know where I am exactly--I'm on a plane. If it can wait, I should be back in L
. A
. in a day or two."

"It definitely can't wait."

She sounded strange. Fear?

"I don't know what to tell you first, Mark."

"How about the good news. I could use a little cheering up."

"Uh, okay. The Director said that if you're not found within the week, the whole thing's going public. You'll be an officially wanted man."

Beamon took a deep breath and let it out. "That's the good news?"

"Everything's relative."

"Didn't Einstein say that?"

"What's going on with this CIA thing, Mark?"

"What do you mean?"

"We had to go back a lot of years. During the S&L crisis the FBI did an investigation of a Minnesota bank that was going under. It was connected to a bunch of offshore corporations, and when it started to look like it might be a front for funneling money to the Noriega regime, the investigation was just shut down and sealed with no explanation."

"If it was sealed, how'd you get ahold of it?"

"I have friends in this organization too," she said. "You know Tim Lang, right? He was the lead investigator. I talked to him and he said, confidentially, that he was ninety percent sure the CIA was behind that bank."

Beamon moved to the seat farthest from the cockpit, pressing the phone closer to his mouth and speaking quietly. "So, are you telling me that there's a connection to one of the companies financing Gasta?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mark. One of the offshore corporations connected to that bank has an ownership interest in a company that has an ownership interest in a company that's involved in a partnership that has a partner who--"

"What the hell are you talking about? Are they connected or not?"

"They're connected. It's complicated, but they're connected."

Beamon felt his jaw tense and he gritted his teeth with near audible intensity. This was supposed to have been an exercise in paranoia--an impossible angle that he needed to cover just to make himself feel better. He hadn't expected Laura to find anything.

"What about Volkov?" Beamon said through a slightly constricted throat. "Are there any CIA connections to the institutions that he used to pay me?"

"None that we could find. What's going on, Mark? Wh
y
is the CIA involved with Carlo Gasta? What's their connection to the Afghans?"

"Shit!" Beamon spat out. The fucking CIA.

"Mark, are you going to tell me what's going on?" Beamon slammed a fist into the plastic window of the jet, making it flex perilously.

"Mark?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Probably not, but at this point I think I have to." Beamon glanced toward the front of the plane. Tegla was wearing a set of headphones and had apparently missed his tantrum. "The CIA is involved with Volkov and they're supporting al-Qaeda's bid to take over the heroin business in the Middle East."

"Why would the CIA be involved in something like that?"

"Think about it, Laura. They support Yasin while he picks fights and makes enemies of every drug refiner and trafficker in the region. The supply flowing through Mexico into the U
. S
. starts to get disrupted because of the fighting. People start getting nervous about dealing with Muslim fanatics...."

"Are you saying this is all a setup?"