Sphere Of Influence (35 page)

He didn't know how long he sat like that. Time seemed a more fluid concept in this part of the world. He guessed four hours, based solely on the fact that it was how long he predicted it would take Yung to run the gas-guzzling Lamborghini out of fuel.

The man who finally entered the room motioned for him to come but obviously didn't speak any English. Beamon flipped his legs off the bed and followed.

Yung came out from behind his desk when Beamon entered and they shook hands again. The general's mood seemed as sunny as could be expected from a murderous sociopath. He waved around the sparsely furnished room.

"You'll have to excuse the condition of my office--we have been quite busy. I don't have time for the excesses of my predecessor."

Beamon saw the afternoon degenerating before his eyes.

"I am going to give the country back to the people. I intend to create a progressive government that will focus on education, health care, and economic growth. A government committed to human rights. A new Utopia."

Beamon couldn't help wondering if all those people whose heads were decorating the tops of bamboo pikes knew what happened to the old Utopia.

"I admire your vision," Beamon said, mostly because he couldn't think of anything more clever.

Yung seemed happy enough with the response and retrieved a half-full bottle from behind his desk.

Beamon wasn't sure what to make of it. If he had to guess, he would say the greenish-brown liquid was the bodily fluids of a very old, very sick man. As for the chunks floating around in it, he didn't even want to speculate.

"Would you have a drink with me, Mark?"

Was he serious? He was going to drink that?

"Excuse me?" Beamon said, trying to stall. He'd once said that he'd never met an alcohol delivery system he didn't like. That statement was starting to look a little rash. "Would you like a drink?" Yung repeated, rephrasing slightly and trying to speak more clearly.

There was no good answer. In the end, though, it seemed more prudent to take a risk on the booze than to insult the man.

"I'd love one."

Yung poured them both a shot and handed one to Beamon, who smiled and raised the glass. Yung proved that he was indeed serious by swallowing the liquid in one mighty gulp, and Beamon followed suit.

The intense burn helped cover up the fact that it tasted just like it looked. Beamon clenched his teeth together and smiled, trying to keep the shot from coming right back up on the general's floor. Fortunately, the bottle disappeared back behind the desk and Yung sat, indicating that Beamon should do the same. He swallowed a couple more times, concentrating on defusing his gag reflex as he took a chair.

"I was very disappointed that your predecessor saw fit to leave so quickly. And without telling anyone . . ." Yung said. "Have you been able to locate him?"

That brought the shot about halfway back up Beamon's throat. He kept what he hoped was a serene smile on his face as he swallowed again and tried to recalculate his position in light of Yung's statement. Volkov had forgotten to mention that he'd tried this before. Had he told his first man to turn around and come back, deciding that it was too dangerous and that they'd find a more expendable negotiator? Or had Yung killed the guy and dumped his body where no one would ever find it? Either way, Beamon's first foray into diplomacy was taking a turn for the worse. "We were disappointed too," Beamon finally managed to get out. "That's why I'm here. We're very committed to building a strong relationship with you."

Noncommittal yet meaningless. Bill Clinton couldn't have done better under the circumstances.

"A strong relationship like the one you had with my predecessor?"

According to the information Beamon had, Yung's coup had been something of a surprise to both Christian Volkov and the American intelligence community. The CIA had maintained limited contact with Yung over the years but hadn't given the man enough credit. Volkov seemed to have had a similar opinion, underestimating the general's strength even more profoundly. He'd maintained no relationship at all with Yung, dealing exclusively with Laos's late president.

Beamon cleared his throat. His mouth tasted like old kitty litter. "Wasn't it Sun Tzu who said 'Be so subtle that you are invisible, be so mysterious that you are intangible, then you will control your rival's fate'? You followed these principles too well, General. Christian was not aware of your strength. He was taken by surprise." If he got much better at kissing psychoass, somebody was going to make him an ambassador.

"Our business relationship with your predecessor was satisfactory," Beamon continued. "Though obviously his Communist leanings concerned us. An environment where capitalism and freedom are encouraged should be beneficial to us both. And to the Lao people."

"You provided him money and weapons to use against me," Yung said, obviously not willing to let this go easily. Beamon felt himself start to sweat more than the heat and humidity could account for.

"As you know, General, business relationships go two ways. He provided us with what we wanted and we provided him with what he wanted. There was no political agenda whatsoever. Christian would never presume to interfere in the politics of your country. It is not his place."

Yung nodded thoughtfully, though Beamon had no idea whether he was buying any of this crap.

"But you are wondering if I am in control," Yung said finally. "If perhaps you should back someone else?"

"There is no one else," Beamon said truthfully. "But we watch the news. We hear the reports of rebel--Communist--strongholds in the north and we're concerned. It's in both our best interests to see Laos stabilized. . . . Stabilized under your authority."

By the time Beamon was led out of Yung's office, he was feeling fairly ill. The sweat was running freely down his face, and his stomach was quivering pathetically. He managed to make it to his room, but when he got there it was all he could do to step through the door, slam it shut, and sag against it.

"Shit," he mumbled, putting his hand to his head and mopping away the heavy film of perspiration. When he looked up again, he saw a shadow move across the dark room. Well beyond being able to think or move quickly, he just stood there helplessly as the shadow approached. His imagined assassin turned out to be a little girl. She looked to be twelve or thirteen, with long, shiny black hair and big, dark eyes. Something like a kimono was drape
d
over her thin body and it glimmered in the dim light coming through the open window.

"You look bad."

At least that's what he thought she said. His stomach suddenly decided it was done cowering and rolled over violently, forcing him into a weak sprint for the bathroom, where he threw up with impressive force and then flopped down on the floor.

"You look very bad."

The nausea and fever that had started only a few hours ago seemed to be doubling every minute or so.

"I'll be all right in a minute," he managed to get out. The girl ran a washcloth under the water and put it on his forehead. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

After about five minutes of lying on the floor with the girl hovering over him, he decided he could stand and try for the bed. She grabbed his arm with surprising strength and supported a considerable amount of his weight as he staggered along. Without her help he doubted he would have made it.

The bed was more comfortable than the floor, but he immediately began to wonder if the relocation had been a good idea. The bathroom was now a very long twenty feet away. Another wet cloth was pressed against his forehead and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He didn't have time for this.

"You better now?" the girl said, quickly running through her inventory of English words.

"Yes, thank you."

As long as he concentrated on ignoring the nausea and didn't provoke it by moving, he'd be okay.

The cloth was pulled from his forehead, and a few moments later he felt something much softer and heavier pressing against his body. When he opened his eyes, he found the now naked girl lying on top of him, rubbing herself gracefully against him.

He pushed her off and scooted away, in the process falling off the bed. The motion was too much for him and he had to make another dash for the bathroom.

When he was finished purging what little was left in his stomach, he propped himself against the doorframe. The willowy little girl, still naked, was standing only a few feet away, looking worried.

"You no like me?"

Beamon couldn't help letting out a weak laugh. He stumbled forward and pulled a blanket and pillow off the bed, handing them to her. Trying to explain his reluctance to have sex with a girl who should have been shooting spit wads at her classmates in the sixth grade would probably be a little too much for her limited vocabulary. "I like you very much, but I'm real sick. Do you understand?"

Another worried nod.

"You sleep on the floor, okay?" he said.

The knock on the door was insistent enough not to be a first attempt. Beamon lifted his head off the pillow and squinted against the daylight streaming through the window. The girl, who had apparently completely lost her kimono, was standing at the base of the bed, staring at him with those big dark eyes, now full of panic. When the banging on the door started again, she swung around and faced it, her back pressed against the bed's footboard.

Beamon was still groggy, but his head had cleared enough to understand the problem. If Yung thought the girl hadn't done her job entertaining his guest, there would be a punishment involved.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and grabbed her under her arms, pulling her up onto the bed and throwing half the covers over her. She immediately snuggled up to him.

"Come in," Beamon tried to shout, but it came out at more of a conversational volume.

An unusually stocky Asian man stomped through the door a moment later. "Ten o'clock," he said. "I come back ten o'clock."

"What time is it now?"

He didn't seem to understand. Beamon pointed at his wrist.

"Nine o'clock," he said forcefully and then disappeared into the hall.

The girl rubbed up against his leg and he shoved her out of the bed and onto the floor.

With more than a little help from his grateful young assistant, Beamon had showered, shaved, and dressed by ten. He had a headache that felt like a concussion and could barely walk in a straight line, but he didn't look that bad. It was hard not to wonder if James Bond ever had to contend with explosive diarrhea during his travels.

"Mark!" General Yung called as Beamon stepped unsteadily from the car. "Did you have a pleasant evening?" "I did," he lied, then added, "The girl was lovely." Amazing how much time he spent keeping the women in his life out of trouble.

Yung smiled. "I know that you are concerned with my ability to control rebel activity . . ."

The sound of a helicopter suddenly became audible and Beamon looked up at the sky, wondering if it was coming to shoot at them. Yung didn't seem worried.

"I thought I would show you."

"Show me what?" Beamon had to raise his voice over the sound of the approaching chopper.

"Show you that I am in control."

The helicopter finally came overhead and made a less than graceful landing about fifty yards away. Beamon just stared at it. He was barely keeping his stomach and bowels in check on solid land.

"I'll tell you, General. After our conversation last night, I'm convinced. I have no doubts whatsoever that you are going to succeed in stabilizing your country. In fact--" "No, no, Mark. You should see for yourself Mr. Volkov would expect it, I think, and I want you to be able to report back to him with absolute confidence."

Great.

The helicopter ride, more than an hour of back-and-forth over the jungle and open fields south of Luang Prabang, proved little more than that Beamon's illness was far from over. While it was true that the countryside directly below looked peaceful enough, thick smoke and the unmistakable glow of a fire were easily visible to the north. Yung was purposefully oblivious to this, though, and seemed to have no intention of taking him in that direction.

". . . educate the villagers, teach them what it means to be free and economically secure . . ."

The general had been talking nonstop through the archaic headphones squeezing Beamon's ears. For the most part he'd tuned his host out, instead concentrating on not vomiting in his lap.

The sound of the engine deepened slightly and they began losing altitude. Beamon leaned over and saw the emerald-green rows of what he assumed was rice as they descended. The helicopter landed hard, despite the soft earth, and Yung pointed to a small village a few hundred yards away. Beamon didn't catch what he said but gratefully followed him out of the whirring death trap and onto semisolid ground.

"This is a rebel village," Yung shouted, putting a hand against Beamon's back and propelling him toward the small grouping of huts. "Loyal to the Communists. I sent men here last night to secure it."

Beamon could see that the show had been carefully staged. The occupants of the entire village--probably twenty people--were lined up in front of their huts, guarded by no less than five men in grubby fatigues. They were obviously terrified, and Yung's appearance with an unidentified white man didn't seem to be helping any. Beamon moved his eyes along their frightened faces, trying not to focus too long on the women and the children clinging to them.