by Tom Lowe
“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 ….”
“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 take 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.”
Agent Bridges said, “How about the part, Mr. O’Brien, where you said what the old woman told you? Could that be true? And if it is, how’s it tied to that sunken sub?”
“We found U-235 canisters in the sub. Why would her story be doubtful?”
Agent Bridges said, “Makes no sense for her husband’s story to be covered up.”
Dave Collins sipped his coffee. “Sure it does,” he said. “You guys had cross-dressing J. Edgar in charge of the bureau. He was instrumental in the prosecution and execution of the eight Germans, the ones who turned themselves into the FBI three years earlier in ‘42. Found guilty of espionage by a military tribunal, the same precedent used in 2002 to try detainees held at Guantanamo. May 1945 was an intense time. Roosevelt dies in the eleventh hour. Truman takes the reins. And now we know what Truman probably heard from our spies, the OSS, in 1945, that Nazi Germany had the potential to make an atomic bomb. It looks as if Hitler was handing the baton to the Japanese as Germany was out of the race.”
Lauren said, “All the media are calling Sean’s find ‘Hilter’s last U-boat.’”
“I didn’t really find it. I hooked it on my anchor. Nick Cronus found it.”
“Where is Nick?” asked Dave. “He might be able to add something.”
“I’ll try his cell again.”
Thompson said, “Where’s Canfield? Still at Chapman’s fish place?”
“Nick’s MIA,” O’Brien said. “How’d you know Jason was at Chapman’s?”
Dave said, “I mentioned it to Paul when he called earlier. Told him that everyone, including Nick, should be back about this time.”
O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Nick. “Sean!”
“Where are you?”
“The Tiki Bar. Kim’s got the news on the TV. Some homeless dudes found Jason’s girlfriend, Nicole. She’s dead! Found her body in a fuckin’ garbage can.”
“Jesus,” O’Brien whispered. “I’ll call Jason.”
“Sean … maybe he heard everything I said on your boat about divin’ back on the U-boat and then storing that nuclear shit in Dave’s locker.”
“We’re on Gibraltar. Get over here now.” O’Brien called Jason’s cell. No answer. Two rings, a popping noise and silence.
O’Brien set his cell down on Dave’s bar. “Nicole Bradley was found murdered. Jason’s cell has been disabled. If he’s still alive, he won’t be for long.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Yuri Volkow watched as Andrei Keltzin finished tying Jason to the metal chair. They had popped the locks on a boarded up, abandoned warehouse in another area of town. It was an old brick building of grays and browns. The for-sale sign in front was long faded. Late afternoon light, diffused by dirt on the window, illuminated the desolate room. It had been a citrus packing warehouse in the eighties. The room was scarred with broken wooden crates that read: Indian River Fruit.
Sweat ran down Jason’s face. He licked his dry lips. “I don’t know anything.”
“On the TV you said you could find the U-boat. What are the GPS numbers?”
“I don’t know. Sean hid them from Nick and me.”
“This Sean sounds like a noble captain, or a very greedy one. That cargo is worth millions to people with the money and a cause to use the uranium. How can we find it?”
“I don’t know! I swear!”
“Andrei, do you have your hammer?”
Keltzin reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a small hammer. “Here, do you want me to administer it?”
Nick paid his drink bill at the Tiki Bar and thanked bartender Kim Davis for giving him black coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He turned to walk down the dock to Dave’s boat when Susan Schulman’s face came on the TV screen above the bar.
Schulman stood in front of the local police station. “As Channel Nine reported minutes ago, twenty-year-old Nicole Bradley, a Channel Nine intern, was found dead in a dumpster behind an abandoned warehouse off Ninth Street. Police say Bradley’s boyfriend, nineteen-year-old Jason Canfield, is believed to have been abducted. His tru
ck was found at Chapman’s Fish House. Police aren’t saying whether Bradley’s death and Canfield’s disappearance could be related to the finding of Hitler’s lost submarine and its alleged cargo of enriched uranium. More on this story as it breaks … I’m Susan Schulman.”
Kim looked away from the television. “Oh my God! Nick, it’s because of that German sub you guys found. Dear God ….”
Nick tried to hold the Styrofoam cup in his trembling hand. He sat the cup on the bar, looked at his shaking hands. “To hell with Nazi ghosts. They hurt Jason, they die twice.”
Nick told O’Brien and the others on Dave’s boat what he’d heard from the television newscast. “We gotta find Jason. Anything happen to him … I hold myself responsible. Dave’s locker is Davy Jones locker.”
“Nick,” said Dave, “they probably picked Jason up because of the soundbites taken out of context. Why they killed Nicole, I don’t know. Must have thought she knew more than she did, or could identify them if she was used as a pawn to get Jason. But you should have kept your voice down when you and Sean were talking about the canisters and where we stored them. Unfortunately, both Jason and the canisters are in jeopardy.”
Paul Thompson stepped back inside from the cockpit where he’d gone to use his cell. Dave asked, “Paul, who does your team think is behind this?”
“Most likely a sleeper cell right here in Florida. The imam ostensibly working for Syria or Iran, connected to al-Qaeda. But one of our profilers told me it also might be any of the international mafia affiliations. Russians, maybe even the Germans since we’re talking German U-boat and material they may believe they own. If it’s Russian mob, they’re here to steal and sell it. It’s worth millions.”
Lauren said, “Or they might use it. I assume NSA is all ears on possible bid wars coming in from out of the country.”
“Out of the country and in the country,” Paul said. “All known channels are being monitored by the minute. Nothing yet.”
O’Brien looked out a curtain on Gibraltar’s port side, sun shining, a light rain now running off the palm frond roof on a fish cleaning station. He half expected to see Jason’s grinning face as he hustled down the dock. “Nick, you said they found Jason’s truck, engine running, at Chapman’s. A witness saw a blue van speed out of the lot.”
