by Tom Lowe
“Let’s not mention to the FBI, yet, what we’ve discovered so far. After what Glenda Lawson told me, we may need access to FBI records, information we might want to corroborate all this. Let’s see what Billy Lawson’s autopsy reveals.”
“Could prove nothing, Sean. FBI files from 1945 should be declassified by now.”
“What does that really mean? Regardless, let’s see what we can find on Ethan Lyons.” O’Brien keyed in Ethan Lyons’ name with dates and data. His eyes scanned the information. “Lyons was released from federal prison in Danbury, Connecticut … 1964 after serving eighteen years on four counts of espionage. After his release, he moved to England, taught physics at Cambridge. It says he never publicly apologized for compromising America’s nuclear weapons program. When asked why he provided the Russians with details of our Manhattan Project, Lyons was quoted as saying he didn’t believe America, or any nation, should ever be in a position to dominate the rest of the world by imposing the monopolistic threat of nuclear annihilation. He believed the prospect of mutual destruction would be the safety mechanism the world needed to contain atomic weapons. It says he and his wife, Sarah, moved back to the U.S. in 1996, due to her failing health and the couple’s desire to be with grandchildren. Last known address, Jacksonville, Florida.”
O’Brien stood and looked out Gibraltar’s port window. He watched a shrimp boat leave the marina, the boat’s running lights bleeding white and red over the dark surface.
Dave asked, “What are you thinking, Sean?”
“I’m thinking that if one of J. Edgar Hoover’s agents, Robert Miller, was undercover acting as a courier transferring information to the Soviets … how could he be undercover when he went to the same university, same time, as Ethan Lyons?”
“Doesn’t mean that Miller knew Lyons.”
“No, but there is irony there. Why would Miller say that Billy Lawson was shot in a mugging … shot once, and shot with a .38 caliber bullet?”
“Maybe he was,” Nick said.
“The autopsy will speak for the dead,” O’Brien said.
“If he was shot more than once, and it wasn’t a .38 that killed him, how will you approach that?” Dave asked.
“We find three old men: Ethan Lyons, Robert Miller, and Brad Ford.”
Dave heard the bong of an in-coming e-mail. He said, “Anna’s sent us something.” Dave put on his glasses and read aloud the e-mail. “Gentlemen, this is the best I could get … don’t know if it helps much. I’m seeing the fort and a small embankment. I’ve attached my drawing. It’s rather simple, but the image is, too. I’m not sure if the embankment might be where the stuff is buried, or the spot where Billy Lawson stood to view the things being buried someplace else. Or it could be near the big tree near my stick people.”
“What tree?” O’Brien asked.
Dave continued, “She says … ‘good luck, please let me know what happens, Anna.’ Well, let’s see what she sent us.” Dave opened the attachment. “I wish it was as easy as X marks the spot.”
“Looks like a little kid’s drawing,” Nick said.
Dave chuckled. “They never look polished. Images without a lot of form. With remote viewing there is no coloring between the lines. It’s creating the lines as quickly as you can before the part of the human conscious that’s seeing them is blocked.”
“Gives etch-and-sketch a new meaning,” O’Brien said. “Anna’s drawing looks like stick figures, maybe a big tree … and a shape that could be Fort Matanzas at the top of the island. The tree is gone. I will ask Glenda Lawson if she remembers one on the island.”
Dave said, “Anna’s sketch comes from what the place looked like at the time Billy Lawson viewed it. The island could have changed some in six decades.”
Nick said, “Might be the magic dust is sittin’ under somebody’s house near there. They coulda built right on top of it. And people with mold think they got problems.”
O’Brien said, “Looks like the Germans buried it on the island. Anna’s sketch indicates seven stick figures. Six, I assume, are German and Japanese sailors, the seventh—a mystery man … this is something that could have been a life raft. If we dig in the general area where the figures are on the drawing, we might find something”
Dave hit the print button. O’Brien said, “Here’s our treasure map. Nick, that tool you use to spear flounder may do the trick in the soft sand.”
Dave said, “We should call the federal task force, let them know what we found.”
“We haven’t found anything yet.” O’Brien punched numbers quickly on his cell. Abby Lawson answered. “Abby, sorry to call so late, but can you wake your grandmother?”
“She’s been asleep for several hours, Sean. You okay? Are you still at Matanzas?”
“No. But, it’s important—I need to ask her something.”
“Hold a sec … I’ll get the phone to her.”
O’Brien looked at his watch: 2:07 a.m. Thirty-eight hours remaining.
“Hello,” Glenda’s voice was like words coming through water.
“Glenda, I know it’s late. But, can you think back to the time you and Billy spent on the beaches of Matanzas Inlet and Rattlesnake Island. Do you remember a large tree on the island?”
“I do, and I remember it because it was the only live oak on that island. Rattlesnake Island had palms, but the live oak, it was big and really old back then, probably saw the massacre of the French. As it was the only oak tree there, I always wondered if it was lonely. The tree was about five blocks from the south end of the island, about half-way to the fort. I believe it was knocked out by a fierce storm”
“Thank you, Glenda.” O’Brien disconnected. “Let’s go.”
“Whoa, where we goin’?” Nick asked.
“Rattlesnake Island.”
Dave said, “Sean, we have to let the task force know. They need to be there.”
“Okay, tell whoever is coming, someone you really trust, to bring a van or truck in case we find this stuff. Nick, let’s tie a zodiac to the Jeep. If we find the canisters, we’ll need to float them to the road. I know this is a stupid question, but anyone got a shovel on his boat?”
Dave shook his head. Nick said, “There’s at least one in that tool shed the dock master has behind the Tiki Bar. He keeps one of those metal detectors locked in there, too. I’ll get the prod and meet you at the tool shed.” Nick left.
“You coming, Dave?” O’Brien asked.
“My service might be more helpful with the task force. I’ll start briefing them on the phone en route to the federal building. Between the old woman’s memory and the images Anna sketched … let’s hope there is something under that sand.”
“We’re about to find out. Max, I’ll see you later.” Max jumped from the couch and stood behind the sliding glass door, watching until she could no longer see O’Brien as he ran down the dock.
CHAPTER SIXTY
O’Brien pulled the Jeep off the road right before the Matanzas Inlet Bridge, drove down an embankment and across fifty yards of sand to the inlet. The moon was now higher, a pastel mist lying low over the pass like flat smoke from a smoldering campfire.
“How close can you get?” Nick asked.
“Close as I can. Let’s unload the Zodiac, grab the flashlights and shovels. We’ll put the boat in the water next to the bridge piling. Looks like an in-coming tide. That’s good. Less fight to get the inflatable to the island.”
They pulled up on the island’s sandy beach and got out. Nick said, “Rattlesnake Island. You never said how this place got its name?”
“I always heard that when they were dredging the Intracoastal on the other side of the island, the men would take a break and bring their bagged lunches to the island to eat. Place was so full of rattlesnakes it was difficult to find a safe spot.”
“Damn,” Nick said, shining the flashlight around him. “Any snakes still left in here? Sure are plenty of sand fleas. Little shits are crawlin’ in my hair.”
O�
��Brien looked at the crude sketch Anna Sterling drew. “I hope she’s accurate … for Jason’s sake. Maybe what Billy Lawson saw is still here.”
“How much time do we have?”
O’Brien looked at his watch. “A little over thirty-six hours. Let’s find this stuff. Glenda Lawson said the old tree was on the island.” O’Brien slowly panned the flashlight from the beach to the interior. He looked at the drawing and back up at the terrain. A fat raccoon waddled between the mangrove bushes. O’Brien stared at the south end of the island.
“If Billy Lawson stood somewhere in here out of sight, watching the Germans unload their stuff not far from where our raft is … they walked inland a little piece … and Billy saw the rotation of the lighthouse … the beam illuminating the window in the old watchtower … .” O’Brien kept moving, Nick following silently. “He said it was in the path of light coming through the opening in the tower. Then, right here, we’re in the same path, the same trajectory that Billy apparently saw. Now, if we take the drawing that Anna sketched and walk about to where Glenda says the live oak was, maybe two hundred feet south of the fort … what will we find?”
O’Brien stepped through the sand and palmetto bushes, looking back and ahead, keeping in the path of the light from the tower. “Then,” he said, gesturing west, “the big oak would have been here to our left … and just maybe ...”
O’Brien aimed the light toward a slight bowl-shaped indentation in the undergrowth. He said, “If a large oak was ripped out during a hurricane, there would be a big root ball. Through the years, the plants that grew from a hole deeper than the surrounding ground would be shorter than those around them.”
Nick said, “This is like tracking Mother Nature.”
“Let’s use the metal prod and see if we can get lucky.”
“I’ll start in one part and work around ‘till I’ve covered the area.” He stuck the prod in the sand, using his weight to work the point deep into the soil. Nothing. He tried again in an area about five feet to the east. Nothing. He slapped at biting sand fleas and mosquitoes and said, “I’m gonna use the treasure finder.”
O’Brien picked up the prod and began working it into the sandy soil. He looked toward the watchtower, the light now like a firefly in the misty air. After several prods and in keeping an eye on the rotation of the light coming through the tower, he worked his way closer to the beach, “Bring that thing over here, Nick. Think I found something.”
Nick moved the metal detector just above the surface where O’Brien pointed. “Not a peep,” Nick said.
O’Brien picked up a shovel and removed a few large scoops of sand. “Try again.”
As Nick moved the detector over the hole, there was a faint beep … beep. “Pay dirt! Lemme help you.” He took the shovel and started digging. Within a minute, Nick hit something. It was metal clashing against metal, the dull sound of iron against an anvil. Nick dropped to his knees. “Hit me with the light!” O’Brien pointed the flashlight beam into the hole as Nick scooped out the sand with his hands. “We found it! We fuckin’ found the rest of the magic dust!” Nick used both hands to brush the sand from one canister, reaching in, struggling to lift it from the hole.
Within twenty minutes of intense digging and prying, they had removed eight canisters from the hole. “Hand me the prod,” Nick said. After a few more stabs through the sand, Nick hit something. He dropped back to his knees and, again, began moving the loose sand with his hands. “This one doesn’t feel like a canister. Hit me with some light.” O’Brien aimed the light where Nick dug. “Mother Mary!” Nick shouted, dropping the object and making the sign of the cross.
The vacant eye sockets of a human skull stared up from the bottom of the pit.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
O’Brien called Dave Collins. “We found them. We’re pulling them out of a hole on Rattlesnake Island about eighty yards north of the Matanzas Bridge.”
“Excellent. We’ll send agents. Mike Gates doesn’t want to alert the locals. He doesn’t want a lot of blue lights flashing or media getting wind of the pick up. It’s too dangerous. Couple guys he’s sending are bomb experts.”
“Dave, these aren’t bombs. They’re the fuel for bombs.”
“FBI folks have their way of doing things.”
“Maybe they have their own medical examiner.”
“You found a body?”
“Buried under the canisters.”
“State of decomposition?”
“Sixty-seven years. Picked clean.”
“We’ll send some people.”
“The vic’s probably what’s left of the German sailor Billy Lawson saw shot. They must have tossed him in the hole and buried him with the HEU.”
***
ANDREI KELTZIN AND ZAKHAR SOROKIN received the call as they were entering the parking lot of a Waffle House. Keltzin answered. In Russian, the voice said, “They are leaving now. Coming south from Washington Oaks. Destination … Bank of America at the corner of Beach and Oakridge in Daytona.”
“How many?”
“Four. One vehicle. Dark blue, Ford van. Tag … J79K1S5.”
“Very good.” Keltzin disconnected and drove slowly around the parking lot. At 5:00 a.m. there were only three cars in the lot, and one was a Florida Highway Patrol car. Keltzin said, “I see two officers at the counter paying their check. Do you think they know it was their last meal?”
Sorokin smiled. “I hope to keep blood off the uniforms.”
***
THREE FBI AGENTS HANDLED the canisters like they were touching fully rigged nuclear bombs. They carefully loaded them in the back of a dark non-descript van they’d parked beside O’Brien’s Jeep. When the final canister was braced in the reinforced crate, Special Agent Bridges said, “We’ll get these into a secure area. Task force wants them stored in a bank vault. They’ve made arrangements to have the Bank of America opened tonight by the manager.”
“What are the plans for the dummy transfer?” O’Brien asked. “We have less than thirty-five hours.”
“Gates wants to extend the window as long as possible to give us more time to find where these unsubs are.”
A second van pulled near the first FBI vehicle. Two men got out, their dark windbreakers marked in bold white letters: FBI. They removed a gurney and body bag from the van. One asked, “Where’s the body?”
“Nothing left but bones,” Nick said, glancing toward the island.
O’Brien said, “Take our Zodiac. You can’t miss the hole. It’s about half way up the island. I left a shovel stuck in the sand, vertical. You’ll see it.”
“Appreciate that,” said the agent. They boarded the Zodiac with their gear and headed through the pass toward Rattlesnake Island.
The other four agents got into their van. The driver, Agent Bridges, lowered his window and followed the men in the Zodiac with his eyes before locking them on O’Brien. He said, “You guys made a hellava find over there. Nice bit of police work; we’ll take it from here.”
“How about if we follow you to the bank? You might need more back-up.”
The agent glanced at Nick, looked at O’Brien, and shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks. Orders from the top.”
“I need to be there for the transfer,” O’Brien said. “Their hostage is my employee. More than that, he’s the son of my close friend.”
“I understand. Take it up with Gates. We’re the messengers and right now, the delivery wagon. Why don’t you guys get some sleep?” He put the van in reverse, turned around, and headed south down highway A1A.
***
THE BLUE VAN PASSED by Marineland, which was closed and dark except for a few security lights catching the acrobatics of bats. The FBI agents continued south through Washington Oaks and drove the highway hugging the beach, the moon reflecting off the breakers. Agent Bridges pushed the van to seventy-five miles-per-hour. He glanced up in his rearview mirror. Blue lights. “Shit!” he said.
“What’s wrong?” an agent in the back
seat asked.
“We’ve got the locals pulling us over for speeding.”
“Probably one of the Barney Fifes looking to make his quota.”
“It’s the end of the month,” said the agent sitting on the front passenger side. “These guys have to make the town’s budget.”
“Yeah, but not on our time,” said Agent Bridges. He pulled over, lowered his window and waited. In the side mirror, he watched as the state trooper got out of the car, the strobe of blue lights crossing A1A and fading against the dark sea, the sound of the waves breaking over sand illuminated by the moon.
The trooper stepped to the window. “Sir, is there a reason you’re speeding?”
Agent Bridges said, “We’re FBI heading into Daytona in an emergency status.” He handed his ID to the trooper. The agent in the passenger side noticed something in his side-view mirror. He sat up, lowering his window. The trooper holding Agent Bridges’ ID, handed it back and said, “We’d be happy, sir, to offer an escort under blue light.”
“No thanks,” Agent Bridges said, placing his ID back in his pocket. He never made it. A nine millimeter bullet entered his right temple and exploded blood and brain matter on the agent in the passenger side. The side panel doors jerked open. The two agents in the back seat hit with 12-gauge buckshot to their chests. The agent in the front passenger seat had just cleared his gun when a bullet entered his neck, shattering the spinal column. He was still alive as his door was opened, strong hands pulling him out, dragging him to a canal. He was thrown down an embankment, the water covering his face, the flash of blue lights fading to black as he sank in the dark water.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Eric Hunter stood at the end of the Sunglow Pier on Daytona Beach and watched the pink glow of a newborn sun yawning over the Atlantic. It was 5:45.a.m. He thought about the phone call he was going to make. They wanted him to wait until the sun was up: 6:15 a.m. Make the call from the beach. Wear a red shirt, they’d instructed. No hat. No sunglasses. Come alone. Hunter watched an auburn sky in the east slip into a burgundy scarf wrapped above an indigo sea. A pelican sailed low across the water, flapping its wings only when it had reached the breakers.