by Tom Lowe
“C’mon in the living room,” Ford said.
O’Brien followed as the old man led him to a small living room. He walked by a bar in the kitchen where an old, black lab slept on a cushion below. The bar had opened cans of sardines, beans and crackers. A tomato was sliced on a paper plate, a fly crawling across it. Oil paintings hung on every wall. O’Brien could see most of the paintings were signed by the same person. “Who did the paintings?” O’Brien asked.
“My wife, Nancy. She began painting when she turned sixty. She always took exception to any birthday with a zero in the second digit. She said when that happened, it was time for self-reflection, see where you were and where you wanted to be.”
“I heard that an artist mixes a little of his or her soul on the palette with the paint.”
Ford stared at a painting of an old windmill under the moonlight. “Yeah, she did … lot of her is in them.” He turned to O’Brien. “How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating a murder. It was a murder you investigated in 1945.”
Ford’s bushy left eyebrow cocked. His mouth turned down. “What murder?”
“Billy Lawson.” O’Brien watched every detail of the old man’s reaction.
Ford looked at the floor, memories firing and misfiring in his aged brain. He crossed his arms and grunted. He looked over O’Brien’s shoulder, his eyes clinging to one of his wife’s paintings, his thoughts like a stiff deck of cards that hadn’t been shuffled in sixty-seven years. He said slowly, “What about the killing?”
“You remember it?”
Ford nodded.
“What can you tell me about the night you found Billy Lawson?”
He sighed, the sound a release of tension more than air. “We got the call from his wife … can’t remember the lady’s name ….”
“Glenda.”
“Yes, that was it, Glenda. She called dispatch, said her husband had been shot. It was in a phone booth off A1A by a bait and tackle shop that’s been long gone. He was dead when I got there. I found his truck parked about three-quarters a mile north. Keys still in the ignition. Motor was off, but the engine was warm. Weren’t any signs of anybody either. We had no witnesses. No weapon was recovered, and as far as we could tell, that boy, Billy Lawson, didn’t have any enemies.”
“Glenda said she told you that Billy said he saw men, German sailors, burying something on the beach. Near or on Rattlesnake Island.”
“Yes, I remember. There was a nor’easter that blew through that night. We combed the place in the morning. Couldn’t find one print in the sand. Dug up lots of turtle nests looking for whatever Billy saw, but we found nothing.”
“How about the Navy base in Jacksonville, weren’t they alerted that there was a German sub off the coast?”
“It was called in. They sent out a couple of planes and scoured the coast from near the St. Augustine lighthouse to Ponce Inlet in the south. We heard that one of them thought he spotted a U-boat, dropped some depth charges. Next day the Navy said they couldn’t find a thing.”
“Was an autopsy done on Billy Lawson?”
“You’re talking 1945. They didn’t do autopsies unless they had no damn idea how somebody died. In this case, it was obvious. He died from a gunshot wound.”
“Why did your report indicate he was shot once when a post-mortem done after the body was exhumed today revealed Billy had been shot three times?”
Ford was silent; his nostrils flared slightly, the carotid artery jumping beneath the sagging turkey neck skin. “I didn’t have much of a choice in those days.”
“What do you mean?”
“The investigation wasn’t compromised … at least I don’t believe it was.”
“How could that be true when you lied on the report?”
“War was still going on. The FBI came in and took over the investigation. They found evidence that Billy was shot with a bullet, or bullets, from a nine millimeter. Probably a German Luger.” Ford paused, his mind drifting off somewhere. Then he came back. “Because the country was at war, and because Billy had told his wife he saw the Germans and Japs diggin’ on U.S. soil, and the Japs escaping, the FBI thought it would be smart to hold their cards close to their chest. They were investigating all kinds of espionage at that time. Japs, communist groups, Russians stealing secrets … you name it.”
O’Brien said nothing, only nodding.
“I remember them telling me and the sheriff that if we let the public know that the Germans pulled a U-boat up to our shores, dropped off Japs, possible saboteurs, it could cause widespread panic. They were especially concerned because this country was in the eleventh hour of a top-secret mission to end the war. Today, I know that was the Manhattan Project, the dropping of the atomic bomb over Japan.”
“What happened to the Japanese that Billy Lawson saw that night?”
“I heard they were eventually caught and put to death in the electric chair, just like the Germans caught landing a U-boat in East Hampton, summer of forty-two.”
“So, Billy Lawson’s widow, a woman who delivered his baby six months after his death, never had closure. Never knew that her husband was killed by Germans.”
“Many a day went by that I thought about that. And I don’t feel too damn good about it. But, we were told things had to be that way because of national security. When everything had played out, we could have gone back and said we believe he was killed by Germans, but we really couldn’t prove that either. So the investigation remained open. You’ve come along to close it. I’m glad.” His voice trailed off.
“Mr. Ford, who in the FBI worked the case?”
“Can’t remember all their names. I do know it went as far up as J. Edgar Hoover. I think, by and large, he might have been calling the shots. The man who was the field agent … he was a real smart feller. Talked fast. He had his own way of doing things. I know he didn’t spend a whole hellava lot of time on the German connection.”
“Does the name Miller ring a bell?”
The old man’s eyes ignited. Even through the cloud of cataracts, a spark burned. “Yep, Robert Miller. Never particularly cared for his style. He was the one who said it was a federal case. Told us to back off and for our report to say Billy Lawson was killed from a.38 caliber bullet. Shot by a mugger.”
“Did you ever see Miller again after the war ended?”
“No, but I followed his career, best I could. Miller was on a fast track with the FBI and what was then the OSS, before they were called CIA. He was one of the agents that busted communist sympathizers. He brought down a Russian spy exchanging money for atomic secrets. They executed the Russian in a federal electric chair. I remember it because my oldest daughter was born in ‘51. And I remember the Russian’s name … on account it rhymed with Sputnik … you know, the first Russian satellite. Man’s name was Borshnik … Ivan Borshnik.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
O’Brien backed his Jeep out of Brad Ford’s driveway, stopping at the mailbox. He opened his laptop and logged online. In less than five minutes, he traced much of the public history surrounding Ivan Borshnik. He called Lauren Miles. “The name you gave me, the real name for Volkow, you said it was Borshnik, right?”
“Yes.”
“What was his father’s name?”
“I have to check the dossier.”
“In 1945, FBI agent Robert Miller was the courier between Ethan Lyons, he’s the former physicist, the one who did twenty years on espionage convictions-”
“Okay-”
“He handed off his dirty little secrets to Agent Miller who, in turn, sold some or set up a Russian spy. A guy named Ivan Borshnik.”
“What?”
“If Volkow is the son of Ivan Borshnik, he’d be in his late fifties.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the elder Borshnik was a Russian spy. Sentenced to death in 1951. If he was married or had a girlfriend, the last time they could have been together was in 1950. Factor in nine months for a pregnanc
y and you could have the birth of a baby. In this case, Borshnik would be the son of the only Russian to have been put to death in an American electric chair.”
“Oh my God,” Lauren said.
“Which means, our rouge weapons broker, Yuri Volkow, may be Boris Borshnik. And he’s here to avenge the death of his father. I want to know how he got here so fast to steal the HEU. If Robert Miller’s alive, could he answer that question?”
“Miller’s alive. Lives in the Olde Club Condos in New Smyrna. Although he’d retired twenty-five years ago, the official notice of his departure from the bureau was death caused by a massive heart attack. He’s one of the old timers that entered what is essentially a witness protection plan. But rather than change the ID and relocate a witness, in the case of deep cover people like Miller, a death was plausible. What crazy irony-”
“Nothing ironic about it. It’s planned, Lauren. I’m going to New Smyrna.”
“You’ll never get in to see him.”
“I’ll figure it out … maybe it’ll close more than six decades of mystery.”
“But we’ve got less than twenty-three hours before the auction, and we’d like to find Volkow, or whatever his name is, before his buyers do.”
“Call me when you get a specific address. Lauren …?”
“Yes?”
“How long has Mike Gates been with the bureau?”
“I think he’s coming up on this thirtieth year. Why?”
“See if he knew or trained under Robert Miller.”
“Sean, for Christ sakes! What are you suggesting?”
“Tell him you reached me and I had asked you if he, Gates, had worked with Miller. Try to gauge his reaction, however microscopic it might be.”
“Sean-”
“See if you can find Miller’s report of Billy Lawson’s death.” O’Brien disconnected and called Dave Collins. After he’d finished telling Dave about Yuri Volkow’s history, he said, “Maybe it’s not Hunter … maybe its Mike Gates. I’m convinced someone inside has an ear to the wall and he or she is passing the information to Yuri Volkow, Mohammed Sharif, or maybe playing them both.”
“Gates? He’s a living legend within the bureau.”
“He could be living a lie. What if Volkow, whose real name is Boris Borshnik, is Ivan Borshnik’s son? There’s your motive, Dave. And if junior recruited Mike Gates, maybe we can tie it back to Robert Miller who may have trained Gates. Take it back to what he knew and what he did from the time Billy Lawson saw the Germans and the mystery man on the beach that night. Let’s take it through the conviction of the physicist Ethan Lyons, to the execution of Ivan Borshnik in an American electric chair.”
“Sean, how in God’s name, in the middle of this terrorist manhunt … how can we investigate Mike Gates?”
“By finding and tricking Robert Miller into admitting what happened.”
“I don’t know-”
“Listen! It’s our best shot because if it’s Gates, he’s responsible for the deaths of Jason’s girlfriend, the storage manager, the four FBI agents, the two state troopers … and Jason if we don’t find him. We stop what’s happening by trapping Gates.”
“What can I do?”
“I need you to find Ethan Lyon’s address?”
“If he’s alive-”
“He should be. His death would probably warrant an obit. Text the address to me when you get it. If you can find a phone number, call him.”
“And tell him what?”
“Tell him you’re an editor with any news organization you want to use, and you have a reporter in the area who’d like to stop by for a brief comment.”
“Why would this reporter want to stop by?”
“I’m sure he’ll want to know, and he might even have something to say when you tell him why I’m seeking a comment.”
“Why?”
“Because FBI agent Robert Miller never died. He’s alive and we’re working on a story about the Manhattan Project, we thought Lyons might share his remembrances.”
“He might not have anything to say.”
“Possible. But he’s in his mid-to-late eighties. If he thinks Miller is alive and well, there could be some smoldering animosity inside Lyon’s gut. He may want to talk.”
“Hold on, Sean. I’m pulling his address up now … just a sec … it’s 574 °Cardinal Circle in St. Cloud, Florida.”
“Thanks.” O’Brien disconnected.
Dave Collins almost didn’t answer his cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number. On the fourth ring he answered. It was Eric Hunter. “Dave, we need to talk.”
“Okay. What’s this about?”
“Sean O’Brien.”
“What about Sean?”
“Not on the phone.”
“Is he on his boat or back at his river house?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know. Look, Eric-”
“We’ll be on your boat in a half hour.”
“Who’s we-“
Hunter was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
O’Brien parked near a large banyan tree adjacent to a city park and a lake. He could see the old man standing next to the water’s edge on a peninsula-strip of land that jutted into the lake like a large thumb.
O’Brien kept his eyes on the man who was feeding ducks pieces of bread. As O’Brien got closer, he could hear the quacking that the ducks made each time the man tossed a sliver of bread onto the water’s surface.
Ethan Lyons looked up when O’Brien approached. He wore thick glasses, his face withered from age and sun. He wore a baseball cap with the NASA logo on it, and beneath it protruded pieces of thin white hair that resembled broken cobwebs floating in the breeze.
“Do you have enough bread for all of them?” O’Brien asked.
“Hope so. I try to scatter it pretty well so the little ones get some, too.”
“I’m Sean O’Brien. I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”
“Your editor said you wanted to talk about Robert Miller.”
“Yes, we’re trying to get a little more background information. After all these years, his life will make a good story. I understand he played a principal role in your conviction. Can you paint a picture of those times? How’d Agent Miller catch you?”
“Let’s sit on the bench behind me. My legs aren’t so good anymore.” Lyons threw the remaining pieces of bread to the ducks and sat down. O’Brien sat a few feet away from him. The old man’s eyes looked toward the lake, following a small sailboat on the horizon. “All these years, I thought he was dead. Not that I feel angry he’s alive, if that makes sense.”
“I understand.”
Lyons sighed then inhaled though his nose like the breeze across the lake would clear his sinuses. He began slowly, voice throaty, a strained whisper. “During the war, Russia was our partner … part of the Allies fighting an enemy of diabolical cleverness and resourcefulness. I was young, saw the world through rose-colored glasses. At first I had no intention of selling or sharing our Los Alamos diary, if you will, to Russia.”
“What happened?”
“Bob Miller, happened, that’s what. He said he remembered me from Harvard. Met me a few times for a beer. I didn’t make much money working for the government. He always had money, and he was a G-man. We had lots of evenings, not only me, but other physicists … we gathered with Miller talking about philosophy, drinking, and trying to make sense of the times. We worked hard to try to beat Germany or Japan to the punch with atomic weapons. But I never liked the fact that America would have all of these world-annihilation eggs in its basket alone. Neither did Miller. When Robert Oppenheimer, he was in charge of the Manhattan Project, saw the first test in the desert, I remember him saying “Now, we become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” He said it was a quote from a Hindu scripture. Anyway, Bob Miller said we didn’t have to provide the Russians with every detail, only such things as our capacity for U-235 production on a
monthly basis, plutonium levels and so on. We could give them just enough to let their scientists figure it out, thought it was a fair way to usher in this very dangerous new weaponry. We didn’t want to see something happen in America like what we’d just witnessed in Germany … power-hungry politician turned dictator, tyrant and killer. So it made sense to bridge the gap with the Russians, our allies, so they could develop their own atomic bombs ensuring that we, or no one else, would use them.”
Lyons raised his disheveled eyebrows and turned his body toward O’Brien, his fingers splayed on his knees. “Bob Miller always laughed and called it mutually-assured destruction, and that’s what it was.”
“How did he work as a courier to take the information from you to the Russians?”
“We’ll, he’d meet me in a bar or its parking lot. I’d give him an envelope, whatever information they were asking for-”
“Such as?”
“Let me think. They wanted to know about such things as fission burn rates, compression, and production methods of centrifuge.”
“How much did you make?”
“Not as much as I was promised. I had a new wife. We needed the money desperately. Bob said the Russians would pay five-thousand dollars for information I delivered twice a month.”
“What’d you get?”
“Varied. Sometimes I got around a thousand for each delivery, sometimes less.”
“Where was the rest of the money?”
“Good question. Bob told me the Russians were starved for cash, they had a hard time converting to the dollar and I was lucky to get what I received.”
“Do you know who he was working with in Russia?”
“Wasn’t somebody in the Kremlin, at least not directly. Was a Russian spy named Ivan Borshnik. I didn’t know it at the time, the Soviet counterpart was always Mr. X. But, during his trial, he said he’d paid Bob more than a half-million dollars for the information. Our government said that was a lie. Hoover called it a joke, but I don’t know. Why would Borshnik have lied about the amount? America’s security was compromised.”
