by Kyle Mills
"But we counted on him being a corpse at that point." "He will be."
"And Carlo Gasta?"
"I'm taking care of it. Don't worry, Alan. All the FBI has is the photograph and the audio that came with it. We know everything. Within a few weeks we'll have destroyed the weapon and the people involved. Then there will be nothing for the FBI to get ahold of--nothing at all left to link us to any of this."
Holsten turned and grabbed the doorknob but stopped before opening the door. He didn't look back when he spoke. "You've created a very dangerous situation here, Jonathan. There's no more room for errors."
Drake let out a long breath when he was alone again. "You've created . . ." he repeated quietly. You've created . . .
Drake had been the head of the highly secretive Organized Crime Division since its inception five years ago. It was his job to deal with the growing number of international criminal organizations that were beginning to influence world politics and economies. Despite the fact that some had annual incomes greater than the gross national products of many second-tier nations, the State Department did not solicit or recognize these organizations. And despite the fact that they controlled the markets in such things as narcotics and illegal arms, they were ignored by U. S. law enforcement because of the impenetrable jurisdictional mazes they operated in.
It had taken a great deal of time and effort, but Drake had finally been able to contact and form a relationship with Christian Volkov, the head of what he estimated was the most powerful criminal organization in the world. Initially the relationship had been somewhat guarded and tentative. Volkov had been suspicious and Drake hadn't been sure what his mission was exactly. Slowly, though, the potential of his small unit had become obvious. Instead of just intelligence gathering and relationship building, why not go operational? If these enormously powerful and efficient criminal organizations could be used--manipulated--there was almost no limit to what could be accomplished. Unaffected by law, politics, or morality, they could be an incredibly deadly weapon if wielded correctly.
After the destruction of the World Trade Center and the demise of Osama bin Laden, it had become obvious to the intelligence community that by winning individual battles, America was dooming itself to losing the war on terrorism. Bin Laden had been replaced with the infinitely more dangerous Mustafa Yasin, and the victory in Afghanistan had left no terrorist target on which to unleash America's impressive military--only a loosely connected, highly trained group of fanatics scattered across the globe. It was this situation that had created an opportunity for Drake to use Christian Volkov to America's advantage.
Mustafa Yasin saw the world through an odd filter of Allah and economics, making him the obvious choice to carry out Osama bin Laden's economic fatwa against the United States. What had been less obvious, though, was Yasin's obsession with funding. He'd cut al-Qaeda's ranks by at least ninety percent so that he could focus what was left of his resources on the elite ten percent remaining. But those resources turned out to be hopelessly inadequate. Just as Yasin understood that money was the key to America's power, he knew that he would have to repair alQaeda's shattered financial network in order to effectively wage his jihad.
It had been a little over a year ago that Drake's division had begun to hear whisperings of al-Qaeda operatives methodically reclaiming and expanding their presence in the Middle Eastern heroin trade. Yasin had apparently decided to defer an immediate attack against America in favor of rebuilding his infrastructure. And if he succeeded, al-Qaeda would have billions of dollars to fund its religious war.
Would it be possible to play on Yasin's obsession with funding? Volkov had a great deal of credibility in the narcotics trade. If he were to supply al-Qaeda with the necessary intelligence and weaponry to step up their campaign to take over the heroin production and distribution lines in the Middle East, Yasin would have to concentrate his forces in one area, and would create a brief but inevitable disruption in narcotics exports from that region during the worst of the fighting.
Of course, Drake wasn't naive enough to think that he could actually bring about a long-term reduction in the availability of narcotics in the U. S.; in fact, he was counting on not being able to. If a sufficient disruption in the flow of Middle Eastern heroin could be created, the market would react to fill the void: With the help of the CIA,Volkov's contacts in Thailand, Myanmar, and Laos--the Golden Triangle--could move in and replace the Middle East as America's heroin dealer of choice.
The potential of the plan had been almost limitless. The Asian crime lords would cut off al-Qaeda's primary source of funding, but more importantly they would cut off one of the Middle East's most important exports. It wouldn't take long for the region's smugglers, warlords, and governments to turn on the men Yasin had sent to the Middle East and, with the help of the CIA, destroy them.
Of course, as limitless as the benefits of the plan were, the risks were just as limitless. And now the worst had happened.
Drake looked up at the map still glowing from the screen on the wall. It was all over now. He had been so close, but this operation died the moment al-Qaeda had managed to smuggle a rocket launcher across the border. All that mattered now was that none of this be traced back to the CIA. All that was important was that he and Holsten were not implicated.
Chapter 10
THE house itself was almost identical to the one in Cuba: large windows overlooking a rugged tropical landscape that finally gave way to the endlessness of the sea. Except for the slightly different shade of the water and the smooth gray of granite replacing red limestone, it was as if he hadn't moved at all.
"Is it on?" Pascal said in French as he strode into the office. Volkov just pointed to a television bolted to the wall. "With everything that is happening, Charles Russell is making the announcements himself?" Pascal remarked. "Interesting."
Russell had just come on-screen and was shuffling papers across a broad lectern. The American news agencies' round-the-clock coverage of the rocket launcher issue had relegated this particular news conference to C-SPAN, and it probably wouldn't have rated even that had Russell not made a personal appearance. America's ridiculous narcotics certification program had become one of his pet programs and he obviously felt obligated to support it no matter how trivial it now seemed.
Russell cleared his throat and Volkov used a remote to increase the volume.
"Before I talk about this year's decision, I'd like to give everyone a bit of background on the process. Under U. S. law, the President certifies the antinarcotics efforts of the major drug-producing and drug-transporting countries. If a government is not certified, it is ineligible for most forms of U. S. assistance. The law also provides for waivers for those countries which, because of their strategic importance to the U. S., should be exempted from sanctions. While some governments resent this process and some members of Congress would like to see it repealed, I believe it is an extremely effective way to keep this important issue at the forefront and to create cooperation between the U. S. and countries with heavy narcotics-producing capability. In the past few months we've seen significant initiatives in the target countries and no less than five extraditions of major drug traffickers. The timing is obviously not a coincidence--these countries know that their action or inaction will play in the President's decision." A hand must have gone up somewhere in the crowd, because Russell waved his own dismissively. "I'll take a few questions at the end--relating to this topic only--but first let me go through this year's list. . . ."
Volkov pressed the mute and turned to Pascal. "Haiti and Cambodia will remain decertified but get national interest waivers. Myanmar will remain decertified with no waiver." He paused dramatically. "Mexico will be decertified with a national interest waiver."
Pascal shook his head. "This is going to be the year you're finally wrong, Christian. Myanmar has done almost nothing to curb heroin trafficking, but it's more than Nigeria is doing. The Americans certainly wouldn't be swayed by Nigeria extraditing tw
o insignificant drug traffickers last month. And they wouldn't dare decertify Mexico, no matter how corrupt the new government is."
Volkov put his finger to his lips and turned the television's sound back on.
"The President has certified twenty of the twenty-four countries," Russell continued. "Myanmar has been denied certification as it was last year. Haiti and Cambodia were not granted certification but have been granted national interest waivers." He paused just as Volkov had. "Also, this year, in light of the poor record of its new administration, Mexico has been denied certification but has been provided a national interest waiver." Russell held up a hand, again fending off questions. "Following President Fox's assassination--"
Volkov turned off the television and smiled. "My flawless record remains intact."
Every year since the certification program's inception, he and Pascal weighed in with their predictions. And every year he was right and Pascal was wrong.
"I'm told that Carlo Gasta's experience with Afghans isn't the only evidence of disruption in the heroin supply line this week," Pascal said, changing the subject. He obviously didn't want to dwell on the fact that he'd lost their little competition again.
"Really?" Volkov said, deciding to wait until dinner to gloat.
"We have reports of five separate instances that promised heroin shipments could not be delivered."
"And the Mexicans?"
"They're angry. Obviously they have their own production capability, but it certainly isn't sufficient to meet demand."
Volkov nodded silently. Most of the heroin that flowed into America every day originated in the Middle East, was transported into Mexico, and then was smuggled across the border by a confusing confederation of Mexican organized crime, police, and military. Problems, until now unheard of, could create dire consequences for the extensive but delicate Mexican distribution system.
"We aren't seeing any open fighting between the Mexican smuggling cartels," Pascal said. "But if the unreliability in supply should continue--and particularly if it should worsen--I don't think fighting is far away."
One of their informants had told them of the Afghans' failure to deliver product to Carlo Gasta in L. A., and Volkov found that failure telling. It had been a direct transaction, quietly circumventing the Mexicans. These deals would be prioritized, as the quick cash they provided was critical to al-Qaeda's operations.
"Exactly what you predicted is beginning to happen, Christian. Mustafa Yasin's ambitions are becoming known throughout the region. Refiners and transporters are expecting the attacks, making al-Qaeda's victories more costly. More importantly, though, they are resigning themselves to their eventual defeat. They are strategizing to inflict as many casualties on al-Qaeda as possible and then completely destroying their own infrastructure and warehoused product so that Yasin comes away with very little." Volkov took a sip of water from a heavy crystal glass on his desk and listened to the rain begin. In a few minutes they would have to raise their voices to be heard over what would undoubtedly be a magnificent storm. "Are the Mexicans aware that Yasin is going around them and sending people to the U. S. directly?"
"No. Those types of transactions are fairly limited at this point--just enough to keep his cash flow positive while he tries to solidify his position. Should I make the Mexicans aware of it?"
Volkov shook his head. "Not yet."
"When?"
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "This has always been a difficult situation, but now, with the CIA's involvement uncertain, it's almost impossible."
"At some point, though, al-Qaeda will complete its task and consolidate its power. Then they'll have the opportunity to create a relationship with the Mexicans. We have to act before that happens."
Volkov leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and trying unsuccessfully to put order to the events of the past week. What he did know, though, was that his own best interests and those of the CIA might well have irretrievably diverged. His survival depended on his guessing when al-Qaeda was at its weakest and being ready to move at that moment.
"Where does our relationship with Charles Russell stand?" "It's excellent. We've provided the Republican party with a great deal of money over the years and we were a strong supporter of his during his senatorial campaigns. Obviously this was all done through our legitimate U. S. corporations. He has no idea you even exist."
Volkov leaned back in his chair again. As he'd predicted, the wind was beginning to vibrate the windows behind him and the rain was creating a dull roar as it pounded the roof. "I think it may be time he learns of my existence."
Pascal didn't bother to hide his surprise. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I believe it's time that Mr. Russell and I meet." "Christian, are you sure that's wise? I could have a CEO from one of your stateside companies meet with him on your behalf. Or perhaps we could set up a teleconference. . . ."
Volkov shook his head. "No. What I have to say to him will have to be done personally."
Pascal was silent for a moment, knowing better than to ask for details not offered.
"Of course, Christian. When?"
"As soon as possible."
"I'll set it up before I leave for Laos."
"You've been able to get the general to agree to a meeting?"
"I spoke with him directly. I leave tomorrow."
Volkov spun his chair to face the windows. This situation was becoming unbearably dangerous. It seemed likely that both he and Pascal would be gone at the same time, with neither of their returns guaranteed. But what choice was there? Time was quickly running out.
"You understand as well as I do that our power base in Laos is almost nonexistent now," Volkov said. "If things look too unstable, turn around and come back immediately. I'd be very disappointed if you let yourself get killed."
The storm was already subsiding and he could hear Pascal start for the door. "I'll be fine, Christian."
The door closed and Volkov was alone again. He closed his eyes and laid his head against the back of the chair. He was only forty-three years old and it was already starting to become hazy how he had come to be where he was. The same thing had always driven him, he supposed: necessity. Not a particularly noble or powerful motivator, really, just a by-product of the hopeless poverty he'd been born to.
His first memories were of living on the streets in Bucharest, being cared for by a ragged and pale little girl that he now guessed had been no older than thirteen. She had told him that she was his sister but he had no reason to believe they had any real biological connection. But she had protected him and fed him and taught him to steal, so the title seemed legitimate.
By the time he was old enough to contribute, to repay her for what she had for some reason done, she'd fallen ill. Possibly an early victim of AIDS contracted from years on the streets as a prostitute. He would never know for sure. All he knew was that for all the power he now had, he'd been unable then to do anything to help her or to even ease her suffering. She'd finally died lying under a torn plastic bag he'd found to try to keep the rain from soaking her.
Volkov stood and walked out onto the stone terrace, splashing through the water pooled there and looking down on the dark ocean.
He'd taken the knowledge she'd given him and added to it, eking out an existence the only way available to him--as a small-time criminal. But even as he achieved a few minor victories and managed to rise from the constant fear of starvation to mere poverty, he began to understand the trap he'd walked into. Every deal seemed to lead to an-- other larger and more dangerous one. His childhood hadn't really allowed for anything so grandiose as ambition, and he'd had no real thirst for power or excessive wealth, but he knew that if he didn't involve himself in that next transaction, someone else would. And if they could use the money and goods they obtained to buy allies, or guns, or knives, then they would become a threat to him. In the dangerous and highly competitive business of crime under Ceausescu's reign in Romania, one moved forward or died.<
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And now, after years of unavoidable transactions, he found himself at the head of an empire. He honestly didn't know how large, though Pascal had once told him he was one of the world's wealthiest men. A meaningless distinction as far as he could tell. He had no hope of ever retiring and enjoying the things his wealth could buy. His future was the same as his past--one necessary transaction after another until the day he finally made a fatal mistake.
Chapter 11
THE FBI's Phoenix office was almost completely silent as Beamon weaved through the empty cubicles toward his office. At the threshold he reached for the light switch, but then thought better of it and just made his way to his desk in the semidarkness.
The FBI's jet had dropped him off at ten-thirty and he'd decided to come here to the office instead of going home. The truth was that his meeting with the CIA earlier that day had actually cheered him up a little. While the case still wasn't his, he'd actually accomplished something positive for a friend. Instead of wasting his rare good mood, he figured he'd expend some of it on Bill Laskin's inspection report. By his estimate, the warm fuzzies he'd garnered from helping Laura stick it to the CIA, combined with the six-pack he'd purchased on the way in, would be just enough to get him through the final pages without hanging himself. After half an hour of what felt like hard work, he'd managed to get through two beers but only three pages. He tried harder, blocking out everything but the report on his lap, to no effect. He just couldn't seem to absorb any of it tonight. Grabbing the television remote from a drawer, he pressed the POWER button and watched an old video of Osama bin Laden standing at the mouth of a cave, speaking into a microphone. The translator's voice was heavily accented.
