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

by Tom Lowe

  Hunter walked down the old wooden pier behind a lone fisherman with a four-day growth of salt and pepper whiskers. The man stopped and threaded a shrimp on a hook. A cigarette dangled from his lips. To concentrate on what he was doing, he cocked his head and closed one eyelid to keep out the smoke. He cast the line, propped a foot on the rail, and opened the lid on a steaming cup of black coffee. He sipped and nodded as Hunter passed.

  Two people sat in Crabby Joe’s Restaurant, a restaurant built on the pier, about one hundred feet from the entrance. Hunter could smell the eggs, grits, fried whiting and fresh coffee. He walked through the open-air restaurant and over* to the steps leading from the beginning of the pier to the beach directly below it. The sun broke over the ocean, bathing the beach in a hue of copper off the water. As Hunter walked across the dunes, he knew a Volusia County beach webcam would pick up his image. The camera, mounted atop a concrete utility pole, fed a live picture of Daytona Beach to the Internet. Beachgoers and surfers logged on to check weather and surf.

  Hunter knew one man watching was not a surfer. He was a killer, and he would be watching Hunter’s every move. When he got in the area that he thought was about the center of the image picked up by the camera, he took out his cell phone and sat on the sand. Then he waited for the phone to ring.

  ***

  MOHAMMED SHARIF WATCHED Hunter on the computer screen twenty miles away. He sat in the posh hotel room with Rashid Aamed and Abdul-Hakim, each man on the opposite side of the computer screen. Sharif said, “He appears to be alone, at least from this angle. No one else on that part of the beach except an old man walking.”

  “I still do not trust him.” Aamed said. “He has not proven himself enough.”

  “He’s an American. He can never prove himself,” said Sharif, “which means you can never trust him. You can only use the infidel for Allah’s wishes. We extract information once more, he comes to collect the money, and you cut his throat.”

  Aamed smiled. “Inshallad. It would be an honor.”

  Sharif dialed his cell phone. “It appears to be a nice morning on the beach.”

  Hunter said into his cell, “It’s a beautiful day on the world’s most famous beach.”

  Sharif’s lips curled into a smile, his marble-black eyes watching the live picture of Eric Hunter. He asked, “What can you tell me?”

  “The remaining material was found and then captured by someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I thought you might have that information.”

  “Why would I know this?”

  “Because you’re a buyer”

  “How do you know whoever stole the HEU is a seller?”

  “Because these people believe they own the uranium—think they bought it once and they can sell it.”

  “How did the thieves accomplish this?”

  “Somehow they knew we’d found the HEU, and their men were disguised as state police. They killed four of our agents and two state troopers.”

  “How did the men who stole the HEU know your men had found more of it?”

  “I thought you might have a suggestion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone, one of our people, must have tipped them off.”

  “Perhaps you have another mole … one besides yourself. Americans, there is no badge of honor among thieves.”

  Hunter glanced toward the camera mounted on the pole. “You need the HEU. I need information. If you are working with someone else, fuck off.”

  “If I was employing one of your agents, why would I tell you?”

  “Because you’d want me to kill him. He’d be a double agent. And that means he’s smarter than us and a hell of a lot smarter than you, because he’s managed to fool whoever stole the HEU and you.”

  Sharif was silent a long moment. Then he leaned closer to the computer screen. “How do I know what you tell me is true?”

  “It will be all over the news. When four FBI agents are killed, it’s big news.”

  “How many canisters total?”

  “Ten. Two from the sub and eight taken from a remote area on the beach.”

  “That is all of the cargo on the submarine when it left Kiel, Germany, correct?”

  “Yes. Look, Mohammed, these men are holding a kid.”

  “There is no guarantee that the sellers will contact us, and if they do, there is no assurance I will be the highest bidder.”

  “Maybe you can bid as an option, or you can simply take it. Regardless, I want a guarantee the kid isn’t harmed.”

  “What do you mean, simply take it?”

  “There was a transmitter in the FBI van they stole. It’s hidden so deep they’d have to be a mechanic to find it. We know where it is.”

  “Where?”

  “Who’s the mole?”

  “If you tell me where the van is, there is no guarantee the HEU is still in it.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “How?”

  “Because one of our agents took a canister from the hole we’d dug and glued a microchip tracker near the screw cap, looks like a big thermos bottle. We ran a quick analysis on HEU inside a canister. Ninety percent pure. God love the Germans, eh.”

  “Where is the HEU?”

  “Three conditions if I tell you: one is you don’t harm the kid, you give me the ID of the person who can compromise us both, and you confirm for me who’s the mastermind behind the theft of the HEU.”

  “How would I know who stole this material?”

  “Because we know the first two canisters are up for auction, with a possibility of the highest bidder getting the rest if the U-235 canisters are located. Now, they’re found, and you’re one of the bidders.”

  “Perhaps I am. Although we have done business together, I cannot trust you.”

  “No, and I can’t trust you either. You do know that if you divulged my association with you, I will be killed. Give me the name!”

  “What if there is no other contact … no other mole? What then, Hunter?”

  “Then our business is finished. Find the HEU yourself.”

  “And, if I told you I know the name of the man who found the HEU in the sand, what would that mean to you?”

  “It’d mean someone told you.”

  “The man who found it on the beach is the same man who found it in the sea, Sean O’Brien.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sean O’Brien.”

  Hunter was silent. He stood on the beach and watched a lifeguard open an umbrella on a stand closer to the breakers. Hunter said, “Don’t lie to me!”

  “Why would I lie? I got what I needed from your double agent O’Brien. Now you can get what you need. But you might have to go through the … shall I say, gates of hell to catch him. He’s clever … and expensive.”

  “What’d you get?”

  “The original location of the sunken U-boat. Unfortunately, someone, probably the Russian, killed my men before they could get to it. And now we must buy from him only because he got to it before we could.”

  “Russian? Who’s behind the auction?”

  “A man you’ve chased for years. A brilliant Russian. Ran the old KGB, you just didn’t know it … perhaps one of your people knew it. This Russian, a free agent, if you will, has supplied our needs with weaponry. I believe because we are, perhaps, his best customer, there is the factor of customer loyalty.”

  Hunter glanced back at the beach-cam. “You know you can’t trust the Russian! But if you know where he’s holding the HEU, you have a chance to compromise him and take it. What’s his name?

  “Yuri Volkow, perhaps you know of this man. Perhaps he knows of you.”

  Hunter said nothing, eyes focused on the horizon.

  “Where is he holding it?” Mohammed asked.

  “In Jacksonville. A warehouse. 1845 Anchor Drive. If it’s really Volkow, he said he’d kill the hostage if we didn’t deliver the rest of the HEU. Now that he’s got the uranium, the only reason he’d keep th
e kid alive is to use him as a shield or as a negotiation tool should we trap him. Make your bid higher than anyone else, and make a condition of the bid that he turns over the hostage to you.”

  “Why would Volkow believe I would want the hostage?”

  “He’d believe you will want to kill the hostage to have the video on the Internet.”

  “He is of no value, Hunter.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “How am I incorrect?”

  “Because you killed his father. He died in the attack on the USS Cole. His father was a high-ranking officer, a captain in the U.S. Navy, and he was Jewish. Now, you almost have his son.”

  “And the last of his seed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like the way your mind works, Eric Hunter.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Lauren Miles had agreed to meet O’Brien at a place called Hell’s Kitchen, a hole-in-the-wall diner on Daytona Beach that served breakfast only. They sat on a tiny balcony overlooking the Sunglow Pier, the smell of sea salt and wet sand blowing up from below them. “Thanks for meeting me,” O’Brien said.

  Lauren looked across the ocean. “You don’t know how good it feels to get away from the command center if for only an hour. The whole place seems like a funeral parlor. Ron Bridges’ wife had to be sedated when she heard. The other agents that died were from our profile division in Quantico. It’s hard to plan four funerals, concentrate on finding the terrorists, try to secure the HEU, and get Jason Canfield out safe.”

  “Maybe they’ll use him as a bargaining chip.”

  “Their website has a simple graphic that says the auction begins Sunday at four Eastern Time. We don’t know what they have planned. We have some new intel, and now we believe a Russian, Yuri Volkow, ambushed our team and stole the uranium. We think Mohammed Sharif and his group will either try to out bid for the uranium, or simply take it by force if they can find the Russians. We’re trying to come up with a plan to catch both groups at the same time, maybe under the same roof, if we can pull it off.”

  “Do you know where Volkow may be hiding?”

  “No. We believe it could be somewhere in the Jacksonville area. The firewall he’s using on the site won’t allow geographic penetration or tracing. But if we could lead Sharif to the water, so to speak, we may close the gate on the bastards, Russian and jihad terrorists.”

  “We’ve only got 32 hours left to try to save Jason, if they haven’t killed him already. O’Brien was silent, eyes scanning the ocean to a smudge of a mauve rain cloud perched on the horizon.

  Lauren said, “We’re doing all we can to make sure Jason doesn’t become another causality in this never-ending war on our own soil.”

  “Maybe some of what Billy Lawson was up against when he first saw the Germans and Japanese get off that sub and bury the canisters on the beach.”

  “Now it’s not the Germans and Japanese. It’s the Russians and a consortium of radical Muslims, tied to al Qaeda and ostensibly Hezbollah, that are here.”

  “The Russians were here in 1945, too.”

  “Well, I guess, after the big war ended the cold war began to get colder.”

  “Check into the FBI’s declassified files. See what you can find on an agent by the name of Robert Miller. See if you can find a report he filed, probably May of ’45 on the Billy Lawson case.”

  “Robert Miller. I’ve heard the name. One of those old legends, he did it all, tackled everything from the mob to spies. He’s been retired for twenty-five years, at least. Maybe he’s dead. Still run across his name tied to some ancient case from time to time.”

  “He could be tied to a current case.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know for sure.”

  “Sean, I’ve seen that look on your face before. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “How’d Yuri Volkow know Nick and I found the remaining U-235 canisters? How’d he know the FBI was transporting it somewhere?”

  “We assumed they’d had a tail on you. One that you couldn’t spot.”

  “There were some fishermen on the beach that night … but ... .”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got a mole. Someone smart enough to work the Russians and al Qaeda.”

  “Don’t even say that—”

  “Listen, Lauren. This mess we’re in now, I think it began the moment Billy Lawson saw that sub on the horizon and the Germans rowing to shore. His widow told me she distinctly heard three shots coming through the phone that night. Yet she insists that the FBI, and for that matter, the local sheriff, reported one shot from a .38.”

  “Why would the bureau cover up the killing of a young man still on active duty with the Army as the war was winding down?”

  “Good question.” O’Brien took out a pen and began writing on a napkin. He handed the napkin to Lauren. “Guy’s name is Ethan Lyons. He did a couple of decades in a federal house for selling nuclear secrets, straight out of Los Alamos, to the Russians. He attended Harvard same time Robert Miller was there. Years later, Miller is the go-between, buying atomic secrets from Lyons and supposedly setting up the Russians.”

  “Wouldn’t time be better served if we focused on Mohammed Sharif and today’s Russian counterpart, Yuri Volkow?”

  “This might focus on them, at least on Volkow.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “When Volkow’s goons first nabbed Jason, we heard Volkow say the U-235 was his, or they were the rightful owners. Does he mean Russia or him personally?”

  “It could be a metaphor for the motherland.”

  “Maybe.” O’Brien watched a sea gull land on the banister less than ten feet behind Lauren. “Could be something else. What do you know about Yuri Volkow other than what you’ve already told me?”

  “Not a lot. Mike Gates is the pro in that area on our end, Paul Thompson, too. Mike says Volkow was deep KGB before the KGB morphed. Volkow did the odd jobs, if you will, for the Kremlin. Now he’s a shadowy arms broker.”

  “How many aliases does Volkow have?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Check. Check with someone you can trust in the Agency or whoever might know. Far back as you can go.” O’Brien sipped his coffee.

  “You’re on to something, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Lauren watched the breakers, a breeze teasing her hair. “But you aren’t going to get specific until you have something. I know you.” She sighed. “Sean, why’d you stop calling me?”

  “Your work is down in Miami. I’m here. Most of my days are on the river. The rest of my time I’m at the marina learning a new profession. It’s not you, Lauren, it’s what you do … something I did for thirteen years with Miami-Dade PD.”

  She reached across the small table and touched his hand. “I can’t apologize for my career. I’ve worked too hard. It’s what I do, not who I am.”

  “I know that, and I’m happy you can separate them. I couldn’t after a while.”

  The gull behind Lauren flew from the banister. “We had a good time on your boat. You, Max and me. I miss that … and I miss you. Maybe after this thing ends … maybe we could take some time together. Promise, no shop talk.” She smiled.

  O’Brien nodded and smiled back.

  “I need to get back. Where will you be?” Lauren asked.

  “In a cemetery. They are pulling Billy Lawson out of the grave in an hour.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  The backhoe operator waited for the old woman to finish her prayer.

  “Amen.” Glenda Lawson whispered. She opened her eyes and stared at the headstone for a few seconds...

  Abby Lawson stood next to her grandmother. Sensing the mood of the investigators, keeping a respectable distance away, she said, “Grandma, we should be going. They need to do what they came to do.”

  Glenda Lawson lowered a long stem yellow rose to the headstone that read:

  Billy Lawson

&
nbsp; Beloved Husband

  1924 – 1945

  Glenda looked at the headstone through blue eyes damp from memories. “As much as I hate to let them lift you out of your resting place … it’s for the best, darling.”

  Abby Lawson put a gentle hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “It’ll be done soon. Everyone’s waiting ... there’s no need for us to stay here any longer. Grandma, let me take you home.”

  Glenda nodded and stepped slowly with her granddaughter back to the car.

  Detective Dan Grant, two uniformed officers, and two men from the medical examiner’s office, watched as the backhoe claw bit into the soft earth and scraped away six decades of sandy soil over Billy Lawson’s casket.

  O’Brien arrived in his Jeep as Abby helped her grandmother get into the passenger side of their car. Abby turned toward O’Brien when he approached. “Fine morning to exhume a body,” she said, lips tight, face heavy from a listless sleep.

  “I’m sorry we have to do this.”

  “No, it’s what makes sense.” She glanced down at her grandmother who stared straight ahead, her eyes following the dark puff of diesel smoke from the backhoe, the men now working to place wide leather straps beneath the coffin to lift it from the earth. Abby smiled and said, “Thank you, Sean. Thank you for coming.”

  O’Brien glanced toward the gravesite. “You’re welcome. Go ahead and take her home, Abby. I’ll call you when I know something.” As O’Brien turned to walk away, he looked back at Glenda through the reflection of blooming magnolias splattered across the car’s windshield. Her blue eyes, framed by the white flowers, looked like robin’s eggs tucked in a nest of leaves, making her face appear somehow younger and filled with promise—a bud of life from trees rooted in fields of death.

  Dan Grant motioned for O’Brien to follow him where there was less noise. “Sean, we’ll have the coffin loaded in less than a half hour. The ME and her assistants were called in early this morning to autopsy the poor agents that got slaughtered last night. Cause of death seems the same—gunshot, mostly to the head on all the bodies. They must have a hundred FBI agents and assorted federal folk working this nuclear trail, along with our people, and this still happens.”