Sphere Of Influence (18 page)

"As you can see," Wakil said proudly, "we have complete control over this refinery. With Allah's help we were less than an hour taking it."

Volkov nodded respectfully as they passed through what was left of the facility's walls, wondering if Allah really got personally involved in the butchering of children to secure a heroin production factory. When the day came, who would God be more angry with: men like him who acted with no regard to His will, or men like these who used Him to justify their own brutality and ambition?

Volkov stopped near the center of the compound and looked around him at the shattered buildings and the silent, blackened corpses inhabiting them. Only half of what Wakil had said was true. While certainly they did control this particular piece of ground, it could no longer be called a refinery. Yasin, in his zeal, had managed to turn one of the region's most productive heroin processing plants into a useless shell. For Volkov, this was an extremely positive development. For al-Qaeda, it would likely prove to be a disaster.

The men surrounding him turned in unison and shuttled him out of the compound again, leaving the dead to lie in the powerful sun and the choking stench to float slowly to heaven.

The large tent had been hastily constructed just upwind of what was left of the refinery. Volkov stepped inside, followed closely by Wakil, who closed the flap behind them. "Christian. It brings me great joy to see you."

The man sitting ramrod straight in the middle of the tent slowly became visible as Volkov's eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. He had always considered Mustafa Yasin to be one of the most impressive and regal-looking men he had ever met: his thin, dark face, the long, straight nose that flared like an ancient arrowhead at its base, the eyes brimming with intelligence and religious fervor. He exuded single-minded determination even more powerfully than Osama bin Laden had.

Yasin motioned to one of the pillows strewn across th
e
ground and Volkov sat, aware that Wakil had taken up a position behind him.

"What you have accomplished here is most impressive," Volkov said in Arabic. Yasin spoke a number of Western languages but considered them vulgar. "But I understand that it is only the last in a long string of great victories." "Allah has been kind."

"And your recent activity in America . . ."

Yasin just nodded a serene acknowledgment.

Volkov chose his next words carefully. The man sitting across from him was by no means stupid and would expect some protest.

"While I admire your courage and see that you've made the Americans' blood run cold, your threat of an attack on them makes our business . . . more difficult. It was my understanding that you were going to complete your business here before continuing your war on the United States." "The Americans are weak--even weaker than the Soviets. And, Allah willing, they'll be even easier to destroy." Volkov sometimes wondered if Yasin really knew where he ended and God started. While it was this quality that was responsible for his inexhaustible charisma, it made him something of a precarious and unpredictable business partner. To Yasin, Volkov was just a convenience--a disposable device of little value beyond the ability to serve alQaeda's perverse version of Islam.

"I acknowledge America's considerable crimes against your people and against Islam," Volkov said. "But until we are able to solidify your position, I would ask you to pull back and consider the future."

"I will consider it."

Of course, he wouldn't. The people in this part of the world never considered anything but the present. Ironically, if Volkov set aside the likelihood of an irrational reaction from Jonathan Drake and the CIA for a moment, this was a perfect scenario for him. Terrorists made the Mexican narcotics distribution machine even more nervous than it already was.

"The Americans hated you before," Volkov said. "Now they fear you."

Another nodded acknowledgment from the cleric. This time accompanied by a thin smile. Of course, what Yasin had taken as a compliment was really an acknowledgment of his irrationality. Volkov hadn't completed his thought aloud. And what the Americans fear, they destroy.

The heavy thud of a helicopter became audible in the distance and Volkov stood, motioning to Yasin. "Please. If you would join me."

The Arab considered the invitation for a moment and then rose gracefully. Wakil held the tent flap open and Volkov stood aside to let Yasin precede him.

The approaching helicopter was easily visible against the uniform blue of the sky. It was much larger than the one Volkov had arrived in--a massive cargo carrier. By the time it landed, Yasin's men were already running toward it, shouting excitedly and waving their rifles like the warrior tribesmen they were at heart.

When Volkov and Yasin arrived, the helicopter's massive side doors were wide open and crates were being passed quickly to the ground, where they were immediately pried open.

"The disruption in the flow of heroin caused by your operations here is beginning to make the Mexicans uncomfortable," Volkov said as Yasin examined the weapons lining the interior of the crates. "And their discomfort will become worse if the Americans discover that you smuggled the rocket launcher through Mexico."

The Arab was running a hand along the stock of a Russian machine gun, only half listening.

"We need to move faster," Volkov continued. "We need to consolidate your position here and stabilize the distribution system."

This, of course, was all true. But it was also a strategy that would, for a brief time, exacerbate the problems and fears of the narco-trafficking community. Any increased intensity in the fighting locally would help to further disrupt the flow of product through Mexico.

Two men excitedly worked the lid off another crate, and Yasin peered inside at the land mines it contained. "Are there rockets?"

Volkov stared at him, now absolutely certain that the man hadn't heard a word he'd said. His self-appointed role as God's sword hand was all-encompassing.

"There will be no more rockets. The dealer who sold the system to you is concerned that the Americans will use their resources to trace them back to him," Volkov said. That was actually an understatement. When Volkov had talked to the man who had supplied the weapon now plastered across every television screen in the world, he was already dismantling his entire operation and planning a permanent move to South America.

Yasin's disappointment was visible but understandably mild. His men still had a launcher in America, and according to Volkov's information, three rockets as well.

Chapter
21

MARK Beamon managed to twist his body at the last second and he hit the dirt shoulder first, face second, instead of the other way around. He struggled to his knees, a thick film of dust caked to his sweat-soaked body. Despite the late hour, it was still over ninety degrees.

A kick from behind surprised him and he went down again, but this time he was unable to rise. A hard boot pressed down on the rope binding his hands behind his back, keeping him facedown in the dirt. He craned his neck and watched as a similarly bound Chet Michaels was dragged from the car and thrown to the desert floor a few feet in front of him.

The man hovering over Chet reared a leg back to kick him in the head but then seemed to change his mind. His face was illuminated in a combination of starlight and the distant glow of L
. A
., but it wasn't enough to read his expression.

"What the hell are you doing?" Beamon finally managed to get out after spitting the dirt from his mouth. "Are you crazy?"

The boot planted against his bonds twisted skillfully and for a moment he thought his wrists were going to break. "Shut the fuck up!"

"Mikey," Chet said, "he's right. This is nuts. I can help you. I'm inside the FBI. All I want is a little taste of the action. You can't blame me for that, can you?"

"Jesus, Chet, just shut your mouth," the man hovering over him whined. "Why the hell did you have to be a Fed?"

"It doesn't matter," Chet said. "We can work together. I can do a lot for you guys. Shit, ask Nicolai all the stuff I did for him. And I've moved up in the Bureau since then." Mikey didn't answer, instead turning around and walking about twenty feet into the desert. He stood there, staring out into the darkness for almost a minute. Then he took a deep breath audible even to Beamon, yanked out his gun, and stalked back toward Chet.

Beamon looked into the young agent's face, searching for the accusation and suspicion that he knew would be there, but didn't find it. Having not heard the call from Laura, Chet would have no idea why Beamon had blown his cover and landed him out in the desert with an armed killer standing over him. Beamon searched harder and found something that cut him even deeper: a hint of trust. Chet believed in him. Believed that he had a plan. Believed that he would get them out of this.

"Mikey--stop!" Beamon said. The man already had his gun aimed at the back of Chet's head. "Killing an FBI agent is never profitable. Never! Right now, they let that dumb-ass you work for parade around like a rock star, but you kill one of theirs and the gloves are gonna come off. And when they show up at your door, Gasta isn't going to be there telling them he's the one who gave the order--he's just going to point his finger at you. There's no reason to do this."

When Mikey turned the gun on him, Beamon felt an inexplicable sense of relief.

"I thought Tony told you to shut the fuck up!"

"Mikey, calm down," Beamon said. "Get Carlo on the phone--I want to talk to him before this gets out of control."

The man stared at him for what seemed like a long time, and Beamon thought he might have gotten through. But then he aimed his pistol at the back of Chet's head again. The young agent couldn't see the gun but obviously sensed what was happening and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Fuck!" Mikey screamed suddenly, stepping back a few feet. "I can't do it. This prick's been like a little brother t
o
me." He looked up at Tony, who was busy keeping Beamon pinned to the ground. "You do it."

"Fuck that. I like him as much as you do."

Chet had opened his eyes and was staring directly at Beamon while the men argued. He didn't seem to hear when Mikey moved forward again. Beamon squirmed violently enough that Tony had to drop a knee into the small of his back to keep him on the ground.

This time Mikey found the resolve he needed. There was the crack of the gun, Chet's face being jerked down into the dirt, the warm spatter of blood and bone that Beamon felt shower his face. And then the silence after. Beamon started coughing uncontrollably, struggling to keep from vomiting. A small stream of Chet's blood was cutting its way through the dust toward him, and he tried to pull away from it, but Tony's weight kept him immobile. Finally he just closed his eyes, blocking out the piece of dead flesh that had, a moment before, been a thirty-four-year-old kid.

"This is your fault, you fuck!" Mikey screamed. Beamon opened his eyes and looked straight into the barrel of the man's gun, willing him to pull the trigger, wanting to see that last flash and then nothing. Mikey was right. It was his fault.

"You fuck!" Mikey shouted again as he walked to the car and pulled a shovel from the truck. He came back alongside Beamon and raised it in the air. "Look what you made me do!"

The blow from the flat edge of the shovel wasn't as bad as he imagined it would be--less painful than the boot to the ribs that immediately followed. Strangely, he could hear the two men battering him, but after a few seconds he couldn't really feel it. He remembered Chet's wedding: Carrie had gotten pretty drunk that night, shirking her responsibility as designated driver and forcing them to take a cab home. He remembered meeting Chet's parents. They were a lot older than he'd expected and they worried about their son getting himself involved in such a dangerous profession. Beamon had assured them that being an FBI agent was far les
s
dangerous than working in a liquor store, and they'd left feeling better.

The sound of the blows became less frequent as the two men began breathing harder and harder. Beamon hoped he wouldn't lose consciousness. For some reason he wanted to see death coming.

It was still dark when Beamon opened his eyes, and it took him a few moments to come to the obvious conclusion that he was still alive--that they hadn't killed him. Tony, Mikey, and their car were gone. There was no sound other than the ringing in his ears.

"No," he said quietly, and then slipped back into unconsciousness.

When his eyes opened again, he found himself staring up at the stars shimmering through the heat and smog. Still not dead.

Except for his head and face, there didn't seem to be a square inch of his body that wasn't injured. It occurred to him that his hands had been freed, and he managed to push himself to his knees but couldn't muster the balance or strength to stand. He crawled twenty feet to a small tree and used it as a crutch, managing to pull himself to his feet with a badly bruised arm. He couldn't put much weight on his left foot, but he forced himself to hobble forward anyway. A coughing fit doubled him over, and his contracting muscles amplified the pain that seemed to come from almost everywhere. Oddly, though, the spit running from his mouth looked clear, suggesting no internal injuries and no cuts in or around his mouth.