Sphere Of Influence (6 page)

"I know you didn't."

"So? What do you think?"

Beamon laughed. "About what? I don't know anything. I hear you're leaking that al-Qaeda is behind it. Is that just bullshit to feed the media?"

"At least for now Mustafa Yasin looks good to us."

"I don't know, Laura. I don't envy you. Now that we've shown we can be hurt, we're never going to get rid of these assholes. The war against terrorism has the potential to end up like the war on drugs."

"Not my problem, Mark. I'm just trying to find a rocket launcher."

"Have you checked with customs?"

"They're making sure their asses are covered: We figure Yasin's people would have sent the launcher in pieces. It'd probably just look like construction material or equipment. The rocket would be tougher to disguise, but smaller."

"I'm guessing they don't have many of those," Beamon said.

"Why?"

"Like you said, harder to smuggle in. Besides, if they had a warehouse full of them, they'd have started this thing out with a bang. No, I figure they've got one or two and they're going to milk them for all they're worth while they try to get more across the border."

"We came to the same conclusion. In fact, we figure they only brought the rocket and launcher together briefly for the purpose of taking that photo. We're working under the assumption that one terrorist cell has the launcher and that there are one or more with the rockets. Yasin learned from the Trade Center investigation: He's a fanatic for keeping his cells completely separate. In the Trade Center case we found letters and wills and even tattoos of Osama bin Laden. This time I wouldn't be surprised if the different cells don't even speak the same language."

"It pays not to put all your eggs in one basket. What about the audio?"

Laura groaned. "Don't remind me. We have a hotline set up for anyone who might recognize the voice. We're getting literally thousands of calls. People are phoning in about anyone with a beard and an accent."

"So you pretty much have nothing."

"Well, we have our informants, who are pointing to Yasin as the mastermind here."

"Are you sure they aren't just telling you what you want to hear? Yasin's taken bin Laden's place as the poster child for everything that's wrong with the world."

"We've been hearing about something big for a while now. I'm actually fairly confident that he was involved on some level."

Beamon nodded into the phone. Laura never made statements like that unless she was pretty much dead certain.

"Well, I guess it's all pretty academic. I seriously doubt we'll ever see him in an American jail."

"Not my problem either. I just want the weapon." Beamon lit another cigarette. "I have to wonder why you're telling me all this, Laura."

"Dave and I I. . ." she began hesitantly. "Well, we met with the CIA about this yesterday."

"And?"

"And we both agreed that they're holding out on us." "What's that mean to me?" Beamon asked, although he already knew the answer.

"I'm just going to come out and say it, Mark. We need your influence at the White House to get them to open up. We need to apply a little pressure."

Beamon blew a smoke ring at the ceiling but didn't speak.

"Look, Mark, you know damn well that if it was my call, you'd be on this case. Hell, at this point I'd love to just give it to you and walk away. But it's not my call."

"What's in it for me?"

"What do you want?"

Good question. A glowing inspection report that he didn't deserve? Involvement in a case that wasn't his to help him forget about the job that was his? Hell, did he even want to be an FBI agent anymore?

"Dinner. Next time I see you, you have to cook me dinner."

"I don't cook, Mark--"

"And it has to be really good. And it can't be out of
a
box. It has to be from scratch. And I want a pie for dessert. Apple. No. Rhubarb."

"Rhubarb? Do you even know what a rhubarb looks like?"

"You heard me."

"Fine."

"Honestly, Laura, I don't even know where Tom is. Didn't I hear that you guys have some evidence that the White House has been targeted and the President's been sent to Kansas to hide?"

"Nebraska, actually. But the White House being targeted was just something the press secretary made up so the President wouldn't look like he was cowering. Tom's still in D
. C
."

"Okay, I'll make some calls."

Silence.

"Is this where we say good-bye, Laura?"

"There's one more thing."

"What?"

"I think it would be best if you were at our meeting with the Agency. It's just one day. I know you're busy, but it's common knowledge that the White House chief of staff is your best friend and that you can just pick up the phone and call him anytime. It might keep them honest."

"Dave went for that?"

"I had to throw a tantrum, but yeah, he went for it." "Must have been some tantrum."

"You have no idea. So it's agreed? You'll come?" "There are no flights."

"I'll send the jet for you."

"All right. Fine. Let me know when."

"I owe you one. I'll talk to you soon: I've got to go and force myself to get some sleep."

"Doesn't sound like you've got anything better to do."

"Thanks a lot, Mark. I appreciate you reminding me."

Chapter
7

THE plane's sudden loss of altitude created yet another unpleasant sensation in Jonathan Drake's already nauseated stomach. He leaned over in the uncomfortable canvas seat and brought his face close to the window. Despite the fact that his watch, still set to Washington, D
. C
., time, told him that it was only late afternoon, he could see nothing but deep, unbroken darkness.

After thirteen hours on a luxurious private jet and two more in this small, unstable prop plane, he could only make semi educated guesses as to where he was. The plane's most likely destination was somewhere deep inside the former Soviet Union--well out of his sphere of influence and perhaps even outside the tracking capability of his people. Once again he found himself isolated, alone. He leaned into the window again as the small plane continued its descent, but still, the only light visible was the dim glow coming from the cockpit. The sudden lurch as the landing gear made contact with the runway sent a jolt of adrenaline through him and he strained to see something--anything--outside as they rolled to a stop. But there was nothing.

The pilot, a tall black woman, appeared from the cockpit and opened a small door in the side of the aircraft. Drake felt the cold air wash over him but didn't immediately move. While it was clear that she wanted him to get out, he wasn't anxious to be left standing alone in the pitch black.

In the end, though, there was little choice. He unbuckle
d
his seat belt and walked to the front of the plane, jumping down onto the dirt runway and hearing the hatch immediately close behind him. He took a few unsteady steps forward as the whine of the motor began to rise in pitch, then turned to watch his only source of light and transportation take to the air again.

The cloud cover must have been low and dense--no moon or stars were visible and he lost sight of the plane almost immediately. It was a weather pattern that he had expected; the heavy overcast would make it even more difficult for his people to track him.

He folded his thick arms around himself, already feeling the cold, thin air penetrating his shirt. It had been over ninety in D
. C
., making the idea of bringing a jacket seem absurd. He took a step forward and nearly lost his balance in the blinding darkness. What if no one came? What if they had just left him here? When the sun finally came up, would he find himself in the middle of an endless, empty wilderness--stranded in an uncharted part of Siberia or Uzbekistan? What time was it? Would it get colder? Was it possible that he had been left here to freeze?

It was almost half an hour before the sound of an engine began to emerge from the silence. Drake turned toward it and concentrated on the low hum. His eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, and it wasn't long before he was able to discern a weak glow in the distance. Soon there was enough light to see the outline of the densely packed trees that he had known surrounded the airstrip from the heavy scent of pine. When the gray Chevy Suburban glided to a stop in front of him, its headlights illuminated the faded Cyrillic writing on a dilapidated hangar, confirming Drake's suspicions as to his general location. He climbed into the backseat unbidden and found himself separated from the front by a panel of opaque glass, leaving the driver silent and invisible.

It was another hour of nothing but poorly maintained dirt roads lined by impenetrable forest before the car veered off onto what looked more like a wide trail than anything else. The vehicle continued forward at not much more than a walking pace for another fifteen minutes before it jerked to a stop in front of an old log cabin. Drake took a deep breath and stepped out, examining the isolated building in the vehicle's headlights. It looked abandoned. Part of the roof was missing and the walls appeared to be on the verge of collapse. The only sign of life was the smoke billowing from a crumbling chimney and the flickering light coming from inside.

He straightened, rising to his full six foot three, trying to look more confident than he felt as he marched forward and pushed through what was left of the cabin's door.

Fueled with fresh evergreen branches, the fire inside was raging. He averted his eyes slightly, making a quick sweep of the cabin's single room. There wasn't much to see: a broken table, the rusting frame of a bed, two chairs.

"You wanted to see me, Jonathan?"

Christian Volkov was sitting in one of the chairs, leaning back enough to bring the front legs off the floor, seemingly at ease. Drake approached slowly, examining the man carefully.

Although they'd met four times during their association, Drake was always surprised by Christian Volkov's unremarkable appearance. He was of medium height, maybe five foot nine, and thin in a vaguely athletic way. His eyes and hair were a deep enough brown to give him a slightly ethnic look, but his fair skin and the gray at his temples softened the impression. There was no aura of power or charisma, no piercing intelligence or ruthlessness visible in his moderately handsome face. Overall a rather forgettable man of around forty.

Despite the uncertainty of his situation, Drake's confidence began to return to him, as it always did when he saw the diminutive Volkov. He strode across the room and took a seat in the empty chair, his height and bulk creating a substantial presence.

"You asked for this meeting," Volkov said, motioning around him through the firelight with a dead expression on his face. "What is it you'd like to talk about?"

His accent was upper-class British, though Drake knew that English wasn't his native language.

"I thought it was important for us to meet, Christian. I
t
hought I should tell you face-to-face that everything's moving forward as planned."

"I see," was Volkov's only response.

Drake tried to read him--the real purpose for this inconvenient and dangerous meeting--but the combination of Volkov's slack expression and the erratic shadows from the fire made it impossible. "Obviously there are additional complications and we're going to have to take care of those--tie up some unanticipated loose ends. I want you to understand that and to be prepared for it. There's no need for you to be concerned."

"What kind of loose ends?"

Jonathan shrugged in an attempt to make the question seem trivial. "We're going to begin blocking any paths that could lead to us . . . or to you. That's going to mean removing some of the people who aren't necessary to the operation going forward. As I said, it's not something you need to concern yourself with. What you need to focus on is that we still expect you to deliver on your agreement." Volkov folded his hands in front of his face, gazing past them at the crackling fire. For a few moments he looked just like the literature professor that Drake's intelligence suggested he had once aspired to be.

"What happened, Jonathan?"

"That really isn't your concern, either. It's enough for you to know that everything is moving forward as before." Volkov slammed his hand down on the table and Jonathan scooted back involuntarily, despite his superior size and physical strength. He had never seen Volkov express anger--or any other emotion, for that matter--and it suddenly reminded him of where he was: thousands of miles from home, sitting in front of one of the most powerful organized-crime figures in the world.

"You've made it my concern, haven't you, Jonathan? Your stupidity and ambition have involved me in the potential deaths of hundreds of people--of women and children. American women and children. You used my contacts to arm al-Qaeda with a powerful portable weapon and you allowed them to outsmart you and smuggle it into the United States--despite my repeated warnings. Wh
y
should I trust you to fix a situation that only a fool would create?"