by Kyle Mills
Carrie nodded thoughtfully. "Why do you think that is?" "Am I going to get a bill for this?"
Carrie was the director of psychiatry at a hospital in Flagstaff, a qualification that many people felt made her uniquely qualified to take on the task of being his significant other.
"Pick up dinner and we'll call it even."
"I don't know. Seems like it's about time the system worked for me instead of against me."
"I don't think anyone could say you haven't paid your dues, Mark. You finally got the promotion you'd deserved."
Beamon didn't respond. Maybe it was what he'd deserved--a punishment, though, not a reward. He'd had more than a few chances to ride into the sunset as the FBI's top investigator--some people might have even said the best they'd ever had. He was starting to think he should have just lived up to everyone's expectations and just self-destructed. But he'd convinced himself that it had been time to grow up.
"I guess so," he said, reaching for the pocket of his jacket before remembering that he couldn't smoke in the restaurant. Probably for the best: Maybe he'd manage to come in under two packs today. Instead he just drummed his fingers on the table and waited for his beer to arrive. Carrie wouldn't say anything about that. Giving up his beloved bourbon for light beer was actually one of his successes. What she didn't know, though, was that lately he'd caught himself slowing down when he drove by liquor stores. "You know, Mark, I have this friend. She was a salesperson. Made lots of money, really good at her job. So good, in fact, that they gave her a big promotion and moved her upstairs into management. She absolutely hated it. Three months later she'd gone back to sales."
"I can't go back, Carrie. And I'm a little young to retire." She examined his face carefully. "Mark, I've worked with some of the top surgeons in the country; I know college professors, researchers--you name it. And you're still the smartest guy I ever met. You can do this job if you buckle down. This is an issue of discipline, not ability." He pushed his plate away and dug a toothpick from his pocket. Not as satisfying as a cigarette, but it took the edge off. Carrie just stared at him.
"What?"
"I'm worried about you, Mark."
"You've been worried about me since the day we met." "No, I used to worry that you'd get yourself shot, or fired, or arrested. Now I'm worried about you." She motioned toward his still-full plate. "You don't eat anymore." "The doctor said I had to lose weight."
"Yeah, I know your doctor and I don't think he suggested substituting cigarettes and stress for two of the four food groups."
He shrugged. Whatever the reason, he'd lost the weight--almost fifty pounds. That, along with the beard that he'd grown to even out his thinning hair and the glasses he now wore, made it hard to recognize himself in the mirror every morning.
"I called you last Thursday at home at one P. M. and woke you up," she said.
"I guess I'm still adjusting to my new life as a successful FBI executive."
"Are you? I'm not sure. This new job--and the loss of your old job--is . . . I'm afraid it's beating you."
"I think you're being a little melodramatic, Carrie. I've been almost killed more times than I care to remember, and I just narrowly avoided being thrown in jail for God knows how long. I don't think sitting behind my desk and getting a bad report card from some kid is going to kill me."
"Isn't it?"
"Quit answering me with questions."
She nodded and fell silent for a few seconds. "You know one of the things I like best about you, Mark?"
"I didn't know there was anything anymore."
She kicked him under the table. "I've told you this before. What I like best about you is that, without fail, you always do what you think is right. A lot of times you're kind of misguided, but you're one of the only people I've ever met who really tries."
He actually remembered the first time she'd told him that. It had been about three minutes before he'd dumped her. Hopefully she'd forgotten.
"In fact, I think I told you that right before you dumped me."
Great.
"In the past it was always you against the establishment," she continued. "That's not the case here. What you're telling me is that you think they're right and you're wrong. That must be hard for you."
He didn't answer.
"Maybe you need some help--someone to talk to. Someone impartial."
"I'm not crazy, Carrie."
That elicited a little smile from her. "Don't fool yourself, Mark. You're as crazy as anyone I've ever met."
For once, he welcomed the sudden ringing of his cell phone. His dinner conversation with Carrie hadn't started out particularly flattering, and it looked like it was only going to get worse. He dug the phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "This is Beamon."
"Evening, Mark."
"Laura? What happened to 'I never want to hear from you again'?"
"Don't beat me up over that, Mark."
"Does your boss know you're talking to me?"
"He suggested it."
Beamon felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily. "Dave Iverson suggested you call me? I find that hard to believe." "Strange but true."
"I'm intrigued. What . . . ?" He let his voice trail off. Time to get his goddamn priorities straight for once in his life. "But I can't talk now."
"It's about the launcher," she said, baiting him with something that he would normally find absolutely irresistible.
"I don't care what it's about."
"What do you mean?" she said, obviously confused. "I don't understand."
"I'm having dinner with Carrie."
"Really? Good job, Mark. Give her the phone, I want to say hi."
He held it out. "It's Laura."
Carrie flashed a wide smile and snatched the phone. "Laura! How've you been?"
Beamon concentrated on his beer, trying to ignore the conversation that soon degenerated into smirks, ironic laughter, and brief phrases designed to be indecipherable to him. It went on like that for five minutes before Carrie finally handed the phone back.
"Go, Mark!" Laura said. "It sounds like you're softening her up. Call me when you get home, okay?"
"I don't know. Might not be able to get back to you till tomorrow."
Her laugh crackled through the earpiece. "I don't think you've softened her up that much."
Chapter 6
MARK Beamon stepped into the cold air of his apartment and slammed the door before the July heat could slip in behind him. He looked around at the immaculate living room and sighed quietly. He'd cleaned it up that morning--or at least hidden everything dirty--in case things went better than expected with Carrie. Of course they hadn't and she'd escaped back to Flagstaff and her daughter. Who could blame her? He'd been less than a sunny companion lately. That was something that needed to change.
He dropped onto the sofa and picked up the inspection report he'd left there the night before. After staring at the blank cover for a few seconds, he dropped it in his lap and flipped to a dog-eared page about a third of the way in. This page, he told himself, would be the turning point. Things were going to start looking up from here on. After a quick scan, it turned out to be yet another inaccurate criticism of one of his assistant SACS. Instead of crossing it out and writing a note as to why it was his fault, he just tossed the report on the floor and flipped on the television, surfing the channels at high speed, looking for something uplifting. There wasn't much to choose from--mostly doom, gloom, and wild speculation about pending biological and nuclear attacks. He finally settled on Charles Russell speaking passionately to a television camera. His message seemed uncharacteristically confused: half prediction of impending death and destruction, and half plea for people to climb out from under their beds and support the economy. As he always did when something bad happened, Russell eventually segued into a fire-and-brimstone speech on why the government needed more power to "root out these evildoers" Even as a senator he'd had the disturbing philosophy that if the U. S. would just incarcerate three
-quarters of its citizens and severely restrict the freedoms of the other quarter, America would be transformed into some kind of utopia. The guy was so goddamn law-and-order, even cops thought he was a pain in the ass Russell pointed right at him. "We have to give law enforcement the tools to--"
"Careful, America . . ." Beamon cautioned, starting to flip through the channels again. Yet another brutal civil war in Southeast Asia, casualty reports from a recent school shooting, rocket launchers, rocket launchers, and more rocket launchers. He finally settled on the Cartoon Channel. Carrie's daughter had turned him on to it. Some of the most intelligent programming on cable.
Settling a little deeper into the sofa, he tried to lose himself in the old episode of Scooby-Doo. It was the one with Mama Cass as a guest star. A classic.
After a few minutes he caught himself drumming his fingers relentlessly on the cushions. He laced his hands tightly across his stomach but couldn't keep the phone next to the sofa from looming larger and larger in his peripheral vision. He lit a cigarette, despite his ironclad rule of not smoking in his apartment, and focused on the elegant plot unfolding on the television.
The truth was, he was more than a little put out by Laura's smug prediction that he'd strike out with Carrie--not to mention her certainty that he'd call her back after she'd snubbed him last time they'd spoken.
What did she want? Why would Iverson suggest she call? It would have to be important. . . .
"Goddamn it," he said in disgust at his own lack of willpower. He glanced at his watch. It would be one-thirty in the morning in D. C. Hopefully he'd wake her up from a good dream.
She picked up on the first ring, sounding wide-awake. "It's Mark."
"Home so ear--"
"Don't say it," he warned. "Just don't even say it." "I guess I've caught you in one of your moods"
"My relationship with Carrie seems to be in a permanent stall and she thinks I'm crazy." He jabbed his cigarette out in an ashtray cleverly disguised as a candy dish. "I don't think she's seeing anyone else, but at this point I honestly don't know. Shit, if she isn't, she probably should be." "She isn't seeing anyone else, Mark."
"I wish I could be so sure."
"Look, she's put her hand on the Mark Beamon stove, what, three times now? She was bound to learn eventually. She loves you, Mark. But you make things so damn hard. . . ."
"I have professionals pointing out my failings, Laura. I don't need you to."
"You want me to talk to her?"
"No. . . . Thanks, though. I'll work it out."
"You can, you know."
"Yeah. Now, what do you want?"
"Have you been watching the news?"
"Not really. I assume that they don't know anything and are just trying to whip up a little panic. It took me a goddamn half an hour to find a restaurant that was open." He let his head loll to the right. Scooby and Shaggy were being chased by a monster. He wouldn't have predicted that plot twist.
"Mark? Are you still there?"
"Yes"
"Where's the commentary? Normally, I can't shut you up."
"It's not my case, Laura. I mean, I feel bad that there's a rocket launcher floating around out there somewhere, but the Director, Dave, and all the other powers that be aren't going to want me involved in this thing. They're more than happy to just let me hang myself here in Phoenix."
"I'm sorry about the 'Don't call me anymore' comment, Mark. I didn't mean--"
"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."
"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 unbuckled 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.
