Sphere Of Influence (31 page)

Beamon looked around him again. "Is the FBI watching the house? You just told the Director you couldn't find me." "A friend of mine is in charge of surveillance. He agreed to take a coffee break for an hour."

Beamon shook his head. "Stupid, Laura. But since we're here, did you find anything? Is there a connection to your terrorists?"

She shrugged enigmatically.

"Did you check phone records?"

"Yeah, but we didn't find anything interesting. There was somebody here holding down the fort, though." Beamon spun around to face her. "There was somebody here? You've got somebody alive?"

She nodded, a real smile spreading across her face for the first time that day. "He's not talking yet, but we've got him." "Have you been able to figure out who he is?"

"We haven't been able to identify any of them yet. We're running their prints and photos through every law enforcement agency we can think of. Somebody will claim them. Eventually."

"But you don't have anything concrete to link them to the terrorists. I mean, they're probably just drug dealers, right? Just because you come from Afghanistan doesn't mean you're a terrorist."

"I've got one more thing to show you."

He followed her into the kitchen and then down a rickety staircase to the dirt floor of the basement. The light wasn't very good--provided by a single bare bulb--but he could see that there wasn't much down there: A plywood table with a long, wooden box on it was about all. Laura strode over and pulled the top off the crate.

"Jesus . . ." was all Beamon could get out. It was just like in the picture: about ten feet long and pitch black, with small fins at the base and a conical nose cone. What hadn't been visible in the photo, though, was the elegant Arabic script etched on it in gold.

"What does it say?"

"'Death to the great Satan,' jihad this, jihad that. Typical Muslim terrorist stuff"

He ran his hand along its cold surface, feeling the individual letters. "Jesus," he said again.

"What do you think?" Laura said. "Not bad, huh?" "Your long shot seems to have come in. My hat's off to you."

"Remember what I said about your sins being forgiven if we turned up something," she said. "I think this qualifies as something."

"Where did it come from?" Beamon said, strangely mesmerized by the deep black of its surface.

"Like I said, probably the former Soviet Union. Built mostly out of spare parts from old multiple launch ammunition, with a few parts specifically, if crudely, manufactured for it. Our people say it's not particularly sophisticated, but it'll get the job done."

Beamon nodded.

"Apparently--and you're not going to believe this--there's at least one organized-crime outfit throwing these things together and selling them. The beautiful paint job wasn't done by the terrorists: They're sold this way. It's all about marketing. This unit's called ... I think it translates into something like Fire of God. They package them to appeal to their buyers. If they sold one to the IRA it would probably have a picture of the pope on it."

"We live in a very strange world," Beamon said. "Does this mean you've tracked it back to the group that sold it?" "It's not that simple. These outfits are like smoke, Mark. More than likely a bunch of former KGB agents feathering a retirement nest. You wouldn't believe the maze. You can't tell where crime ends and politics starts over there." "So you don't know how many more of these are out there?"

She shook her head.

"Then you're assuming that the launcher is on the road," Beamon began, "that this is just one of a number of cells holding a rocket."

"Right. Somewhere we've got a truck with the launcher in it and he's waiting for word to go to a cell with a rocket. Maybe this is the only one, but I doubt we're that lucky." "Well, you can be sure he won't come here. The thing with Gasta's been all over the TV. Whoever's running this operation knows that this cell is blown."

"Hopefully, the rocket and the launcher aren't together yet. We've been leaking information to the press to keep the panic fairly high. It's killing the economy, but I'm guessing that's al-Qaeda's plan. They won't crawl out of their holes until things start going back to normal." Laura looked down at the rocket. "If we're right and Yasin is trying to set himself up in the heroin business, we've got real problems. He's going to have a whole lot of money and connections to the Russian crime machine. There's no telling how many of these toys he'll be able to buy."

Beamon nodded. "I wouldn't even worry about that. What I'd worry about is that his relationship with the Mexican smugglers is going to mean he can get anything he wants into this country anytime he wants."

The sound of a cell phone ringing startled them both and set them to patting their pockets.

"Mine," Laura said, putting it to her ear. She hung up after a moment and began towing Beamon toward the stairs. "Your friend works fast, Mark."

Chapter
39

LAURA steered the car through the small industrial park, finally gliding to a stop in front of a utility truck parked sideways across the narrow road. A man in coveralls immediately climbed out of it and began walking in their direction. Laura rolled down the window.

"Ma'am," he said, touching his hard hat politely, "we've got a busted gas main in here and we've had to close down the entire area. It shouldn't take long. Hopefully we'll be done with the repairs in a few hours."

Laura flipped open her FBI credentials and held them up so that the man could see them. He crouched down and leaned into the window a bit. "Our guys are almost in position and we've got the area locked down. We'll be breaching in probably five minutes." He pointed to the warehouse behind him. "Go around there and I'll have someone meet you."

"Thank you," Laura said, rolling up the window and pulling away. In the side mirror Beamon watched the "workman" talking into a walkie-talkie.

"I admit it's not ideal, but it could be worse," Laura said, picking up the conversation they'd been having before they were stopped.

Beamon laughed. "Your optimism is actually starting to cheer me up. Keep it coming. Seriously."

The situation she was talking about was the anonymous tip that had been received regarding Carlo Gasta's location. While the enigmatic Christian Volkov had been right on time, he'd called the cops and not the FBI. Based o
n
what Laura had told the Director, he would assume that the tip had originated with Beamon and see it as Beamon giving him the finger.

"We can just play it off as a mistake," Laura said. "Tell him that--"

"Give it up, Laura," Beamon said as she parked the car and they got out. "The cops are about to catch Gasta and he's going to tell them all about Nicolai."

"Are you sure? Gasta's afraid of you, right? And he's an insecure ass. Are you sure he wouldn't just forget about Nicolai and take credit for the heist himself? He's screwed either way."

"Laura . . ."

"And even if he does implicate you, he's not going to do it right away--he's going to wheel and deal. We still have some time."

"Not as much as you think."

A shadowy figure standing in the door of the warehouse in front of them motioned them over. "Agent Vilechi?" he said when they got within whispering distance.

She nodded. "And this is my associate." She didn't give a name.

"Could you follow me please?"

The LAPD had taken over the second floor of a vacant warehouse, which was now filled with ten or so men moving urgently back and forth, talking quietly into phones and radios, gazing into video monitors, making notes on clipboards. The windows at the far end of the expansive space had been covered in a similar way to the ones in the old house he and Laura had just left. Beamon was about to peek out of one when a rather unhappy-looking man started hurrying across the floor toward them.

"Agent Vilechi. I'm Lieutenant Troy Marsten. I'm in charge of this operation."

"Call me Laura," she said smoothly. "We appreciate you letting us watch. We won't get in your way."

He glanced up at Beamon but that was the extent of his acknowledgment.

"We've got real-time video of all sides of the target building and we just got fiber optics in through the skylights." He pointed to a line of monitors on the floor, and Beamon crouched down to examine the different views of the warehouse across the street.

The exterior wasn't all that interesting, but there seemed to be a fair amount of activity inside. The building was one huge room with ceilings that were high enough to make the entire space visible to the overhead cameras. He could make out five men inside, but the angle and quality of the image made them impossible to recognize. The van parked in the middle of the concrete floor wasn't quite so hard to identify, though. He remembered that vividly.

A voice came over Marsten's walkie-talkie and he held it up to his ear. "They're ready to go. Is everyone up here ready?"

There was an affirmative murmur from the group as they crowded around the monitors. Marsten put the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Go! I repeat: Go!"

Black-clad men carrying battering rams suddenly materialized on-screen and made quick work of the warehouse's doors. A moment later they were inside and Beamon redirected his attention to the interior video. The five out-of-focus figures inside froze for a moment and then began to scatter, but it was too late. A cascade of glass fell past the camera as the skylight was smashed and a sniper shoved his gun through.

It didn't take long for the chaos to turn to order. Within two minutes the five men were lying on their stomachs, handcuffed, and the members of the SWAT team were sweeping the building. A few more minutes passed before Marsten's walkie-talkie came to life.

"We're clear in here, Troy. We've got five Caucasian males and one of 'em is Carlo Gasta. . . ."

A loud cheer went up in the room.

"We've also got a whole lot of something I'd bet is heroin."

Another cheer, augmented with a little backslapping. "All right," Marsten said. "Good job. Is it safe to let the vultures in?"

"Go ahead. We've got it under control."

"You heard him," Marsten said to the men surrounding him. "Let 'em out."

One of his men pulled the blankets off the windows and waved. Beamon and Laura watched as three television vans careened down the narrow road and skidded to a halt.

"Where were you keeping them?" Beamon asked as the cameramen set up their equipment and reporters messed with their hair.

"We had them penned up on the south perimeter." The activity level notched up again as the door to the warehouse opened and a stream of well-guarded wiseguys came pouring out. Gasta was last, straining against his handcuffs and the men holding him. The gold chains around his neck flashed in the sunlight when he tried to kick a reporter who got a microphone too close to him. It seemed that he'd temporarily forgotten his love affair with the media.

Beamon could see that he was shouting, but couldn't hear what. It didn't matter. All in all, it was the easiest three million dollars he'd ever earn.

Chapter
40

MARK Beamon had been impressing himself for the last ten minutes by managing to lie completely still in the middle of the large hotel bed without the aid of alcohol. Despite a bottle of champagne within easy reach, he was nearly completely sober. But it was starting to give him a headache.

The large television at the foot of the bed was replaying Carlo Gasta's capture for the fiftieth time. Leaked information on the van and heroin had led the media to begin speculating on a connection between Gasta and the excitement two nights before, allowing for some more gratuitous stripper footage. Beamon could almost feel the advertising rates going up. He figured he should be getting a piece of that action, but then remembered he'd already been more than fairly compensated.

The full-screen image of Gasta's enraged face faded and was replaced by a lively interview with a big-haired blonde in a rather small halter top, then, less interestingly, to the head of the LAPD. Finally it settled on the ever-present Charles Russell.

"I think we're sending a message that we aren't going to put up with this garbage." He was standing about halfway up a set of marble steps, framed dramatically by the Capitol. His suit, hair, and shirt were impeccable but his tie was slightly loose, hinting at the hard work he was doing for the American people.

"We have zero tolerance for organized crime and drugs, and you're starting to see the results of the initiatives o
f
this administration. We are one hundred percent behind our law enforcement people and are doing everything possible to support them. It's that kind of partnership between Washington and the local agencies that produces results...."

Beamon grimaced and looked longingly at the bottle of champagne. He'd met Charles Russell no less than three times and could say with some certainty that he didn't know the meaning of the word partnership. He was the kind of politician who asked a question and then instantly glazed over if you gave him an answer he didn't want to hear. Russell's answer to everything was more jails, more cops, fewer rights, more things illegal. Punish, punish, punish.