Sphere Of Influence (38 page)

"You know, I think I'm just going to take a shower and crawl in bed."

"You're sure there's nothing I can do?"

"Hit me over the head with a monkey wrench."

She looked down at her nearly naked body. "Now, where would I keep a monkey wrench?"

"Then, I guess that's it."

"My number is on the phone directory next to the bed,"
s
he said, turning and walking back out into the hall, or whatever you called them on boats. "Ring me if you need anything."

Beamon decided to skip the shower and just flopped on the bed fully clothed. The events of the past weeks had become an unfathomable tangle at this point. And worse, doubts were beginning to creep into his mind, amplifying his headache.

He closed his eyes, considered setting the alarm, but decided against it. With a little luck he'd wake to the sound of machine-gun fire and the sight of Christian Volkov with some CIA guy's gun in his mouth. Then he wouldn't have to think about any of this anymore. It was just getting too complicated.

Chapter
46

A BURST of sharp, loud noises brought Mark Beamon back to consciousness and he rolled over in the luxurious bed. Gunfire? He smiled and moved his arm to shade his eyes from the powerful sunlight beaming through the portals behind him. Had the CIA finally decided to get off their asses and make an appearance?

The sound came again and Beamon's smile faded. "Come in," he yelled, propping some pillows behind him.

He didn't recognize the man Elizabeth ushered through the door, but based on the black leather bag in his hand, he could guess.

"Mark, this is Samuel Magnussen--Christian's doctor." "Nice to meet you," Beamon said, shaking the man's hand from his position on the bed.

"And you," the doctor said, with one of those Scandinavian lilts that sounded more like a mild speech impediment than an accent. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"A lot better," Beamon said honestly. "I told Christian not to bother you."

"It's no bother," he said, digging though his bag.

The exam was quick and standard: eyes, ears, nose, throat, blood pressure, temperature. Based on the doctor's expression, it looked as if he were going to live.

"I honestly don't recognize these pills," Magnussen said, examining the unlabeled bottle given to Beamon by Yung's doctor. "But you're feeling better and I wouldn't presume to second-guess a Lao physicia
n
about what is almost undoubtedly an illness relating to something you ate or drank there. . . ."

"Drank," Beamon said.

"Just so. I suggest following his recommendations. You'll be fine."

He left, but Elizabeth remained. Like Volkov, she had an expression of concern that seemed genuine, but hers was so much more attractive. "Mark, if you feel up to it, Christian would like to speak with you."

"Tell him I'm going to take a shower and get dressed. Say half an hour?"

"Fine."

"Mark!" Volkov stood and ducked under the umbrella shading him from what looked like the noon sun. Beamon would have reset his watch, but that would have meant he'd need to know roughly where on the planet he was. Somehow he guessed that information wouldn't be forthcoming.

"How are you feeling? Samuel tells me you're going to make it."

"It was touch and go there for a while, but I think I'm on the mend."

Volkov pointed to a chair across from him and Beamon took it, shooting one last glance at the sky before going under the umbrella. Still no CIA. Had they lost him? Were they organizing an attack? Was he somewhere beyond the Agency's long reach?

"So, how did you really find the general, Mark?" Beamon looked around him. They were alone on the stern of the boat. Volkov's Asian guests either had gone or were still sleeping off their evening with the blondes. "He's a nutcase."

Volkov smiled. "And that surprised you? They're all insane, Mark. Those in power are those willing to do what it takes to gain power. While the context varies, depending on the region, the rule itself is inviolable."

"Well, I'll tell you, Christian, he sees himself as some kind of revolutionary messiah. Kind of a combination o
f
Papa Doc, Gandhi, and Keynes, depending on the particular moment."

Volkov nodded, prompting him to go on. Beamon just sat there, silent.

"That's all?"

"I think I've answered all the questions you wanted answered. I've earned my paycheck."

Volkov laughed. "I was hoping for something more than a ten-second description of General Yung's delusions." "No. you weren't."

"I wasn't?"

Beamon popped a cigarette into his mouth and began patting his pockets for a lighter. To his surprise, Volkov pulled out his own and flicked the flame to life. Beamon leaned into it and nodded his thanks.

"So tell me, Mark. What was my motivation for sending you there, if not to get a detailed description of the atmosphere?"

"What happened to the last guy you sent, Christian?" "The last guy?"

Beamon dragged in a lungful of smoke and let it roll from his mouth as he spoke. "He disappeared. Either you pulled him back because you thought he was in danger or he's buried in the jungle somewhere. Either way you needed to send someone else to talk to Yung. Not because you wanted to know about stability or competition--things a two-day trip couldn't determine--but because you wanted to know if your emissary would survive the trip. Maybe you even have some people on the ground there. If I'd been killed, you might have been able to figure out who did it and why."

Volkov turned away and looked out over the water. "I think you're being a little cynical, Mark. It's true that your safe return suggests certain things, but I thought it very unlikely that anyone would move against you there. And I am interested in your impressions."

"My impressions . . ." Beamon repeated. "You sent me out there as bait, Christian. My impressions are going to be expensive."

"How expensive?"

Beamon thought about that for a moment. When he'd been a first-office agent, he'd stuck his neck out for less than twenty grand a year. So that translated into . . .

"'No million."

"Fine. Joseph will wire it this afternoon."

"And this afternoon I'll give you my report."

"I have to wait?"

"I don't think Yung's going to lose his grip on Laos or make any deals with your competitors today. He's afraid of you, Christian."

Volkov's expression became thoughtful.

"Isn't that what you want?" Beamon said. "A wise man once said it's better to be feared than loved." "Machiavelli's statement was overly simplistic, Mark. Fear's a difficult balancing act. If someone's too afraid, they become panicked and dangerous. Not afraid enough, and they get bold. Generally it's a combination of fear and love that works."

Beamon nodded and took another drag on his cigarette. "Who was in your room that night in Laos, Mark?" Beamon had considered the possibility that Volko
v
would know something about Drake's visit. But his question and the fact that Beamon was still alive suggested that he didn't know Drake's identity or what was said. Beamon tried to stay relaxed and talked in smooth, even tones.

"An old associate."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to know what I was doing there."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him the truth--that I had a client who had a business relationship with the prior regime and was interested in a relationship with the new regime."

"Is this man my competition for General Yung's business?"

"The heroin business?" Beamon said. The word had yet to be uttered and he watched Volkov's reaction carefully. There was none. "No. He's more a broker in information than tangibles."

Volkov nodded silently and Beamon braced himself for cross-examination.

"Thank you, Mark."

"That's it?" Beamon said, surprised.

"Not entirely. If you're interested, I might have something for you in the U
. S
. A much more difficult job, but the pay would be better."

"Another setup?" Beamon said, not yet ready to be dismissed. Where the hell were Drake and his storm troopers?

"I didn't set you up in Laos, Mark. The job had risks, but you knew that going in. Besides, every time we meet, I see more of your value. I'm starting to wonder if I can afford to let anything happen to you."

Chapter
47

MARK Beamon turned his rental car into a narrow alley without slowing, barely keeping the back end from slamming into a fire hydrant as the tires lost traction. After he'd managed to wrestle the vehicle back under control, he looked in the rearview mirror at the quiet L
. A
. street behind him. Nothing--just like after his last five extremely illegal maneuvers.

The town seemed dead. Not surprising, he supposed. The media had just broken the story about the rocket found outside of town, and a man with an Arabic accent had immediately called in to no less than five of the major local radio stations, assuring the good people of L
. A
. that it was only one of many. Any day now Allah would rain fire down on this most immoral of cities.

Volkov had provided the jet with the bed in the back for Beamon's return flight, and he was mending rapidly. In fact, he figured the hint of headache and nausea remaining was more the result of the mysterious pills prescribed by General Yung's doctor than the bug that had gotten hold of him. He pulled the red, white, and blue phone from his pocket and speed dialed Laura's number.

"Hello?"

"Laura. Where are you?"

"Still in L
. A
."

"Why?"

"Waiting for you to get back."

"I figured I was persona non grata now. Don't you have anything better to do?"

"You are, and no, thanks, for pointing it out. My side of the investigation is mostly in the hands of the street agents and the science guys. Coordination and oversight on that end isn't taking much effort. I'm still working our best lead--the Afghans and the rocket we found here."

"The Director's still miffed?"

"You have no idea."

"What's he doing?"

"About you? Nothing that I know of. The doors are closed to me now, Mark. They figure I've taken your side but they can't prove it."

"Okay, what do you think he's doing?"

"Not much would be my guess. Gasta's still not talking, so my story that you didn't have anything to do with the drug heist is holding. He can't say much about your trip to Laos without making himself look like he's not in control. And since the press has ahold of the L
. A
. rocket story, I leaked that you're the one who found it. He's got to tread carefully." She paused briefly. "Did you ever play that game when you were a kid where you pull little sticks out of a tube until everything inside comes crashing down? I feel like that's what we're doing."

"A little after my time, but I take your point," Beamon said, wondering why it hadn't all come crashing down already. The FBI was getting lazy. "You and I are still okay, though. Right, Laura?"

"Yeah," she said. "We're okay."

"I'll be at the Starlite Cottage Motel on Sepulveda in about half an hour, registered under the name Bolten. Meet me there." He hung up and dialed another number from memory.

"Yeah, go ahead."

"Drake! Where the fuck were you?"

"The problem wasn't where I was, Mark, it was where you were. We don't make a habit out of flying into Russian airspace without an invitation."

"Goddamn it," Beamon muttered. "What about those spy satellite things you guys are always bragging about?" "They don't work that way--you know that. Did you get anything on where he might be headed? If we can get a little more notice, we might have time to make a deal with the local government and get in. . . ."

"Or maybe he'll go to one we're not so afraid of," Beamon said.

"Yeah. I mean, if we find out he's in Cuba, we might just be able to go in there and grab him. But Russia . . ." "Shit!" Beamon shouted in the empty car.

"So, did you meet with him, Mark? Face-to-face?" "Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Nothing." Beamon floored the car, running a very yellow light as he watched the rearview mirror. "I met a couple of Asian guys but didn't catch any names Heroin dealers from Thailand and Burma if I had to guess And I told him about Laos"

"That's it?"

"Well, he knew someone talked to me in my room." There was a stunned silence over the phone for a moment.

"What did he say, Mark? Tell me exactly!"

"Relax, Jonathan. He didn't know who you were or what we said. If he did, I'd be at the bottom of a Russian lake right now."

"What did you tell him?" Drake was trying to hide it, but he sounded scared.

"I pretty much told him the truth--that you were a former associate who traded on information."