by Tom Lowe
“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 the 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
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.”
“I rendezvoused with those FBI agents before they were killed last night. Nick Cronus and I had found the remaining HEU buried on Rattlesnake Island.” O’Brien watched the casket being lifted from the grave. “We found it where the man buried in that hole saw it.”
Dan looked at the casket. It was gently lowered to the ground next to the open grave. “So the guy in that box was the last person alive to see German troops bury those canisters on Rattlesnake Island. Now we’re digging him up, and, in turn, we’ll be burying men who just saw the stuff after it was pulled out of the ground all these years later. Some evil irony, Sean.”
“Feds think the Russian mafia is behind the killings and HEU theft, a guy named Yuri Volkow. If it’s him and the same thugs who took the first two from the storage building, they now have ten. So, in addition to a nuclear arsenal, they have Jason Canfield as their hostage.”
“Why weren’t you with the feds during transport?”
“Same reason they pulled rank on your guys: national security, Homeland rules, whatever excuse they manufacture at the moment. I was told my services were no longer needed.”
Dan looked down and shook his head. “What do you do now?”
“I don’t know … I’m not sure who I can trust.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure one of the feds is who he’s supposed to be. There isn’t anybody I can raise a red flag with because it’s hard to tell who’s working for whom.”
“How about Lauren Miles? Man, you two worked well together when you found the asshole that killed the supermodel. You and Lauren went out, right?”
“For a while. She’s doing some digging, and she’s very good at it.”
“Oh, almost forgot.” Dan reached into the left, inside pocket of his sports coat and retrieved an envelope. “Here are the homicide reports Brad Ford did. He was a deputy investigator who worked the case of the man inside that coffin. Pulled them off microfiche, which we had stored in our digital files, and printed them for you.”
“Thanks. What’s it say?”
“The Reader’s Digest version is that Billy Lawson was shot by an ‘unknown assailant or assailants.’ Ford questioned dozens of people. Ran down possible leads. But the murder weapon was never recovered. No real suspects. No witnesses.”
O’Brien opened the report and scanned it. “There was a witness.”
“Who?”
“Glenda Lawson. You saw her leave with her granddaughter.”
“But she wasn’t there, Sean, at the time of the murder.”
“No, but she was on the phone and heard something that differs from this report. Brad Ford writes, ‘one shot fired from a.38 caliber handgun; victim died from a single gunshot wound to the stomach.’ Do you have a current address for Brad Ford?”
“Wrote it on the other side of the envelope. He lives near Orange City in an old house that’s been part of his family for a lot of years. Lives alone. That’s all I know.”
“Soon you’ll know a lot more.”
“Maybe.”
“When they pry the lid off the box back at the ME’s office, you’ll soon know if what deputy Ford wrote was the truth.”
“I just hope to God we’re not opening some Pandora’s Box.” Dan shook his head. “But, I guess you already found that one in the sub.”
O’Brien was silent, watching the men load the casket into the back of full-sized cargo van. “You know anybody who’s good at restoring old guns?”
“What do you mean?”
“One that’s seen salt water.”
“There’s a guy who runs a little gun shop off Ninth and Lilac. He’s damn good. Getting up there in years but knows guns and how to bring them back to life. Still has a slight accent, although he’s been here for years. Grunts more than he talks.”
“The accent, what is it?”
“German.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Jason Canfield watched as the men lined the ten canisters along the warehouse wall and
took pictures. Two of the five Russians were still dressed like state troopers. One had a dark stain on the back of his shirt. The man with the stained shirt, Zakhar Sorokin, walked over to a laptop computer and began uploading the images.
Yuri Volkow entered the room, glanced at Jason, said nothing and then stood over Sorokin’s shoulder. One Russian stepped to a window, peered out, and walked to Volkow. Another man stood at the door, all men carried pistols, and six assault rifles were on a table in the center of the room.
Andrei Keltzin sat at another table and typed in information, fingers rapidly moving over the keys. In Russian he said, “We have a total of six bidders. Five have been certified. The sixth, a new Islamic group. Most of its members are fifteen years younger than their top leader. They ask for time to be extended to raise the necessary funds.”
“No!” shouted Volkow. “Sunday at four. No exceptions. Either they can or cannot bid. It is that simple.”
“Understood. The representatives come from Syria, Iran, Saudi Arabia, one in Pakistan, one in Lebanon, and one here in the U.S. Do you want to begin the bids at a minimum of five million U.S. dollars for each cylinder with the condition that all must be sold together?”
“Yes,” Volkow said.
“We have transportation, a Liberian liner, waiting for us at Port Canaveral. It will be in port for five days or until we arrive.”
Jason sneezed. Volkow turned and looked at him. “Do you want water?”
Jason shook his head quickly. “I’m okay.”
Volkow laughed. “No water? Why? Is that so you don’t have to piss, or is it because you think we will poison you?”
“Neither. I’m just not thirsty, that’s all.”
Sorokin asked, “What do we do with him after the transaction?”
Volkow looked at Sorokin and studied him for a few seconds, caught by the image of the light from the computer screen reflecting off the surface of his black eyes, which looked ominous, like small, burning white coals. “You eliminate him.”
O’Brien loaded Max into his Zodiac, started the electric motor, and eased away from Jupiter, heading toward the center of the marina, and then into the Halifax River and the Intracoastal. Max stood at the bow, wind blowing her hound dog ears like socks on a clothesline, her wet nose testing the air. O’Brien could smell the scent of garlic and blackened grouper coming from the Tiki Bar as they were gearing up for the lunch crowd. As he cut toward the canal leading to the river, the smell shifted to the odor of oyster bars drying at low tide. It was late morning, almost cloudless, sky like a cerulean bowl over the world.
