The Black Bullet (Sean O'Brien mystery/thriller)

by Tom Lowe

  Nicole couldn’t stop smiling. They agreed to meet at 4:00 p.m. at a place with lots of people, the Starbucks on the corner of International and Riverside. “How will I recognize you?” she’d asked.

  “Just check out the guy that looks like Patterson. I’ll be wearing a USC shirt.”

  Nicole glanced at her watch, shutting off the computer. She picked up her purse and headed for the channel nine parking lot.

  ***

  SHE PARKED NEXT TO A TREE in the shopping center lot, hoping the shade would keep her car cooler. Nicole tilted the rearview mirror in her direction. As she applied lip gloss, she saw his reflection. A fast walk. His head darting right to left.

  Lock the door. But he was at her door before she could lock it. He yanked it open with one hand and pressed the barrel of a gun to her ribs. “You scream you die.”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” Please—”

  “Silence! Bring your purse and your cell phone. Come with me to the van. Get in the side door. If you even think of running, we will kill you on the spot.” He pulled her up and put his one arm around her shoulder as he escorted her to the waiting van. He opened the door, and they both got inside. In Russian, he said to the driver, “Find a quiet place. A place where no one can hear if she screams.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Nick Cronus stood at the small bar in O’Brien’s boat, Jupiter, and sipped from his fifth bottle of Corona. He touched the center of the water ring his beer bottle left on the bar. Nick looked up as O’Brien entered the galley. “Sean, you ever think about the circle of life?”

  “Not in the last few minutes.”

  Nick gestured toward the condensation ring. He said, “Once you play in the circle of evil you can’t get out ‘cause it never ends. Unlucky sailors get sent to Davy Jones locker. Sean, we hooked it. We caught evil like we picked up a psycho hitchhiker. And now, about a mile from this barstool, the devil got his cocaine in those U-235 cans.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “Nick, you need to eat something, the beer’s talking.”

  Nick sipped his beer and raised his voice louder. “Listen to me. Maybe you and I are the ones tapped to be led down into hell for some reason. Some kinda punishment—or a test. That submarine is a cursed place, just like Davy Jones locker. Some old-time Greeks told me Davy Jones was really Davy Jonas, you know, the guy who was eaten by the whale. We were almost swallowed by a bull shark last night.”

  ***

  JASON CANFIELD STEPPED onto Jupiter’s cockpit. He walked toward the open door leading into the salon and stopped, overhearing Nick’s voice. It was loud, a little slurred, and Nick was arguing with Sean. Jason held back at the door, partially because he didn’t want to intrude, and also because what he was hearing stopped him in his tracks.

  ***

  NICK DRAINED HIS BEER. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked over at O’Brien and said, “I’ve been on the ocean all my life, and I have never seen a boat blown clean outta the damn water like we saw last night. Who bombed it? We never should have gone back out there and dove down to bring up those two canisters of magic dust.”

  “We were asked to do it because we knew where the U-boat was and could get to it before someone else could in international waters. It’s done, Nick. Let’s move on.”

  “Bullshit! It’s just starting. Now that stuff is stored less than a mile from here off Dunlawton Road in Dave’s storage unit. Kinda funny, the word unit. Stored in U-236, same damn number as on the side tower of the U-boat. Now I challenge you to tell me that is just coincidental. It might as well be stored in Davy fuckin’ Jones locker. The devil got his cocaine in those U-235 cans. You gotta be able to see that.”

  “That’s enough! Lower your voice, Nick.”

  Jason Canfield cleared his throat and walked in through the salon’s open door. Max trotted over to greet him as Nick spun around on his barstool. He said, “Jason, you’re quiet as mouse with laryngitis. Where’d you come from?”

  O’Brien cut his eyes to Nick and then looked over to Jason. He said, “Thought you were on your way to run the errands.”

  “I was, but I forget my truck keys.” Jason stepped to the coffee table next to the couch and bent down to pick up his keys. “Sorry, Sean. I’ll be back soon.”

  Jason was almost out the door when O’Brien said, “Hold it! Come back in here, Jason. What’d you hear? Trust me on this. I really need to know.”

  Jason turned around, his face flushing. He swallowed dryly, looked down at Max a second before looking up at Nick and O’Brien. “I didn’t hear anything, really. Just you and Nick arguing about something. I guess I should have knocked, sorry.”

  O’Brien walked around the bar, stopping next to the coffee table. A horsefly darted in through the open door. Max waited a second and snapped at the fly. O’Brien said, “Jason, if you overheard us, you need to tell me right now. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be prepared ... others can find out, and they’ll do things to make you talk, things you can’t imagine. Now, what did you hear?”

  “Nothing, Sean. I better get going.” Jason turned and stepped out the door. As he walked quickly down the dock, a flock of sea gulls flew over the boats, their calls like choppy laughter rolling over the smooth surface of the quiet marina water.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Nicole Bradley sat as far away from Andrei Keltzin as possible. On the passenger bench seat behind the driver, she sat with her back against the van’s panel wall. They used duct tape to bind her hands. She didn’t want to look at the man. Wanted to close her eyes, open them and hope he’d disappear, like a bad dream.

  The driver stopped the van behind an abandoned warehouse. He parked next to a dumpster. He left the motor running, the air conditioner blowing cold air, a slight smell of moldy newspaper, exhaust, and sour wine seeping through the system.

  “Zakhar,” said Keltzin, sitting next to Nicole. They spoke English.

  “Yes.”

  “Hand me the blade—the one you worked so hard to sharpen.”

  Zakhar Sorokin lifted a straight razor from a pocket inside his sports coat and handed it to Keltzin.

  “Please don’t,” pleaded Nicole.

  Keltzin opened the razor, the light from a panel window reflecting off the blade. He leaned closer to her and whispered in a throaty voice, “Your profile on Facebook said you had been told by friends you have a face for television.”

  “Please … .”

  “So what does a ‘face for television’ mean?”

  “I didn’t mean anything … please … what do you want?”

  “Your boyfriend, Jason, what did he tell you about the submarine?”

  “He said it’s like somewhere off Daytona Beach.”

  “How many cylinders of U-235 did they really find?”

  “He said two.”

  “Where is this submarine located? What are the GPS numbers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “On your television station, we heard him say he could find it again. There is no way he could find it again without the numbers. What are they?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  Keltzin slid next to her. She could smell sweat and vodka from his skin. He took the razor and touched the tip of it to her cheek. “If I cut you, I will cut you from this cheekbone, down to your mouth and up to the other cheekbone. I’ve had much practice to perfect the cut. I would not sever the nerves. I will slice through flesh and muscle. The result will be an enormous scar in the shape of a wide smile. You like to smile, no? I can tell from the pictures. But your smiles do not look real. You can always see a real smile. It’s in the eyes. What I see in your eyes right now are lies. Where are the numbers?”

  “I swear to God … I don’t have numbers. Jason didn’t get them. Please!”

  “Then how is it possible for Jason to find the U-boat? I believe your Jason shared with you the numbers? Do you wish to know why I believe this?”

  “No … .”

&
nbsp; “Because I can tell a lot about you from your Facebook and Twitter comments. I believe the reason your television station has the pictures from the German submarine is because you got them from your boyfriend. A woman that ambitious will not stop with a few enticing photographs. No, you would find out where the wreck is because you would have the power to reveal the location for your own personal gain—”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Jason admitted on television he could find the site.”

  “That’s not exactly what he said. The editors took a short sound-bite—”

  “Silence!”

  Keltzin opened the purse on the floorboard, lifted out the cell phone. He quickly found Jason’s number. “I am going to put this on speaker. You tell Jason you must meet him. Tell him you will come to him. You simply want to talk—alone. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you make one sound other than what I told you to say, anything to give him an indication you are in distress, I will slit your throat. Again, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He hit the number, pressed the speakerphone. Jason said, “Hi, you off work?”

  “Yes.” Nicole shivered once. “Want to hang out?”

  “I’ve got to get a bunch of stuff back to Sean. We have a charter tomorrow.”

  “Jason, it’s like real important. I’ll meet you. I only need a few minutes to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where will you be in thirty minutes?”

  “Chapman’s. It’s fish house on Riverside.”

  “I’ll meet you there in the parking lot. We need to meet alone. We need to talk.”

  “Nicole, you okay? Have you been crying or something?”

  She looked at Keltzin. He held the razor inches from her face. “I’m okay … just putting a lot of hours in at the station. See you in a half hour.”

  Keltzin grinned, teeth like a predator, a small crescent moon scar visible under a nostril. He closed the razor and set it on the bench beside them. “Does your phone have a tracking chip inside it?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Another lie!”

  “Please … .” begged Nicole. The instant she glanced down at the razor, Zelkin drove his fist into her left temple. The blow slammed her head against the metal panel, cracking her skull. She slumped down to the van floor, her blue eyes horror-struck, locked, disbelieving under the welling of tears.

  Keltzin smiled as he reached for Nicole’s head. She made wet murmurs in her throat. His massive hands held her skull as if he were feeling for the ripeness in a melon. He stared into her pleading eyes, grinned and twisted, the sound like a dog biting through a chicken wing. Three pops as muscle, ligaments, and bone ripped apart. He dropped her head to the cargo floor.

  Keltzin cut off the duct tape. He pulled her out of the van and lifted the body over the side of the dumpster. A large rat scurried beneath a cardboard box. He dropped the body on top of broken glass, used condoms, and discarded McDonald’s bags. The stench from human urine rose from the dumpster like sulfurous gas.

  ***

  ZAKHAR SOROKIN DROVE TO a strip shopping center. A Sam’s Club store was in the middle of the complex. “Stop here,” Keltzin said. He got out of the van and set the dead girl’s purse in a shopping cart someone had left next to a light pole. He got back in the van and said, “Find this Chapman’s fish place. He will be easy to recognize.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  O’Brien was pouring fresh water into Max’s bowl when the man approached. O’Brien set the bowl in a corner of the cockpit. The man was late forties, hawk nose, veiled eyes, two-day growth of salt and pepper stubble, blue jeans, black T-shirt, and deck shoes right out of the box. He stopped walking on the dock behind Jupiter and said, “Nice boat. I always liked a Bayliner. It’ll take a wave. Cute dog. What’s his name?”

  “Her name’s Max.”

  “At the bar, they told me I could charter your boat.”

  “Looking to catch some fish?”

  “What do you offer, trolling or bottom fishing?”

  “Depends on what the customer wants to catch.”

  “Bottom fishing, grouper, maybe. I hear they’re biting.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  The man motioned toward the Tiki Bar. “Guy at the bar … said his name’s Eric Hunter. He told me he knew you, and a kid he knows works for you. Thought you guys could probably use the business.”

  “Maybe, if you’re really here to fish. Nice shoes.”

  “What if I wanted to catch a U-boat?”

  “They’re extinct.” O’Brien glanced at the man’s lower pant legs. No indication of a strap-on pistol.

  “I’m not carrying. Rarely do anymore.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Paul Thompson. I was sent by an acquaintance of Dave Collins. I suppose that’s Dave’s boat over there?” Thompson gestured toward Gibraltar. “I was going to stop there first, but I saw you and decided to come over. Sean O’Brien, correct?”

  “If you’re with the CIA, I’m sure you know all you think you know about me.”

  “No need for the defense screen,” Thompson said. “We’re trying to quickly neutralize this. Get you and your friends out of the spotlight. I’m going to let Dave know I’m here.”

  ***

  MOHAMMAD SHARIF CHECKED into a Best Western motel. There he knew he could blend easily among the millions of tourists who make the pilgrimage to Orlando to pay homage to a mouse. A rodent, he thought. The Mecca of America, a castle made from fiberglass and a theme taken from European fairytales. He walked the steps up to his second-floor room overlooking International Drive and its long line of rental cars. It was a sea of lost drivers changing lanes at the last second, cutting each other off, heading for restaurants tucked between T-shirt shops, timeshare condos, and theme parks.

  As he put the card in the slot to open the motel room door, he hesitated for a moment, waiting for a family walking toward him to pass. The man wore his shirttail tucked inside baggy shorts, legs milky white, sandals, and dark socks pulled up to his mid-calves. The wife wore a tank top and a swimsuit bottom. “Nathan, stop running!” she yelled to her son in a British accent. As they herded past, Sharif could smell the swimming pool chlorine and hamburgers on their skin and clothes.

  He entered the room, and his cell rang. It was Rashid Aamed. He said, “Faysal Hazim, Kareem, and Ishmael have arrived from Washington, Jacksonville and Atlanta, doing what you requested—coming by separate routes.”

  “Good, “Sharif said. “I checked in where I said I would stay. Room 2191. The boat Ata and Mansur where trailing has returned to the marina. Unfortunately, the boat they were in did not make the return. We believe the two Americans recovered the product and have hidden it somewhere off the boat. It may be easier to track the Russians. If they find it for us, we surprise them, avenge the deaths of Ata and Mansur, take the product, and begin preparing for the event. Imam Majd al Din wants to talk with us about the kidnapping. He has it planned to the minute. Once the man’s daughter is in our hands, the bomb is good as built.”

  ***

  DAVE COLLINS MADE A POT of coffee in Gibraltar’s galley and said to Paul Thompson and O’Brien, “The two canisters we placed in the storage unit are essentially the proverbial tip of the iceberg. U-boat 236 was carrying ten. So they’re either hidden under a lot of bottom sand, beach sand, or somebody recovered them sometime before or after World War II ended.”

  Thompson said, “We’ll dive the wreck in the morning. Our guys will use the most sophisticated magnetometers and super sonar to comb the bottom.”

  “Don’t think you’ll find anymore,” O’Brien said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the canisters Nick and I found were locked away in a secure spot on the sub. There was plenty of room for more, at least enough room to accommodate eight more like them. But they weren’t there.”

  Dave poured three cups of coffee. “Paul, you still tak
e yours black?”

  “Good memory, Dave.”

  “I do a lot of crossword puzzles in my spare time.”

  O’Brien felt Gibraltar move. “Troops are here.”

  “FBI and they’re a half hour late,” Dave said.

  Thompson chuckled. “Maybe the GPS in their car took them the scenic route.”

  Dave opened the sliding glass doors of Gibraltar’s cockpit and let a man and a woman enter. O’Brien knew the woman, Lauren Miles, Special Agent, Miami office, and a one-time special person in his life. He’d met her about a year after the death of his wife. He always thought Lauren resembled Sandra Bullock, chestnut brown hair, curvaceous body, and a smile that turned heads. She entered the boat with a man in his late thirties, straw-colored hair swept back, eyes red, irritated from something.

  Lauren Miles said, “Hello, Sean. Why am I not too surprised to see you here?”

  “I don’t know, Lauren. Luck of the Irish, I suppose.”

  Max trotted up from the galley when she heard Lauren. “Hi, Max. I’ve missed you.” She introduced herself and Special Agent Ron Bridges to Paul and Dave who reciprocated.

  “We’ve already seen other members of the FBI,” O’Brien said. “Special Agents Mike Gates and Steve Butler. I guess you guys are sharing notes?”

  “Why?” asked Agent Ron Bridges.

  “Because we’ve gone over this with them. Hate to be redundant.”

  Lauren smiled. “Agents Gates and Butler are back at the Federal building where we’re setting up a command center with Homeland. They’ve briefed us. But humor us, Sean. Perhaps you guys can take it from the top.”

  Dave briefed everyone, and O’Brien filled in the details from the discovery of the U-boat, his conversation with Abby Lawson and her grandmother, Glenda, and the recovery of the canisters and where they were stored.

  After Paul Thompson said he worked for the National Security Agency, he added, “We’ll have an armored car and an armed escort meet us at the storage locker. A jet is on stand-by at Daytona International. We’ll load it within the hour, after we debrief Jason Canfield and Nick Cronus. Then this thing will die down.”