by Tom Lowe
“Do you think Miller took a cut of the money?”
“I do. People like Klaus Fuchs and David Greenglass went to jail. But Bob Miller, who was the one who arranged the meetings on both sides, he was dealing in cash. His hand could have been in the till.”
“Why couldn’t you just quit?”
“Because Miller said he’d turn me in, report everything, and I’d be looking at the electric chair. He was the one who kept extracting information, coming back for more water after the well was dry. I’d given out and given up.”
“No one could help you?”
“The FBI. Hoover, G-men everywhere. I tried telling my side of the story, but no one in any position believed me. Miller said he’d ask for prison time rather than the electric chair if I shut my mouth. I did. Julius and Ethel Rosenberg didn’t, and they were electrocuted. The Russian, Borshnik, followed them.”
O’Brien watched a mother duck lead three ducklings across the lake. “Did Miller ever contact you in prison?”
“No.”
O’Brien was silent.
“Put this in your story: tell the people we might have won the war, but in the long run, we lost the battle. Not just America, but mankind. I’m not bitter with Bob Miller, not anymore. I’m angry with myself. You know the worst part Mr. O’Brien?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m one of the apocalyptic bastards that delivered Armageddon to Earth, and one day we’ll open the package on a global scale.”
As O’Brien drove east on State Road 46, his cell rang. “Mr. O’Brien,” said the man in a slight German accent, “I have restored the Luger. It is a beautiful gun. You can pick it up anytime you like.”
“How late are you open?”
“Until seven.”
“I’ll have the police pick it up.”
“The police? Why?”
“It may be a murder weapon.”
O’Brien called Detective Dan Grant. “Can we do a ballistics test?”
“What are we testing?”
“That German Luger. Last time it would have been fired was 1945.”
“I can’t wait to test it.”
“It’s at the gun shop you recommended, restored. Ready to be fired. Please pick it up, Dan, and test it with one of the black bullets the gun shop owner has.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
It was about 5:45 p.m. when Eric Hunter arrived at Gibraltar with Lauren Miles and Senior Special Agent Mike Gates. They got to the point quickly with Hunter leading the questions. “How much of Sean O’Brien’s history do you know?”
“What I’ve told you,” Dave Collins said, speaking in a measured tone, holding back any animation in voice or body. “He was an extraordinary homicide detective with Miami-Dade. Married for a few years until cancer took his wife. Did a couple of tours of duty in the Middle East. Delta Force. Guy can swim like a dolphin.”
Mike Gates said, “You know anything about his background in Pakistan?”
“Pakistan? No.”
“He was so covert, even we had a hard time getting our hands on everything he did, primarily because after the service he stayed over there.”
“So, what the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Come on Dave,” Hunter said, “you were in the Agency too long not to be curious as to why a guy, top of his class, trained to be the best-of-the-best, doesn’t come home after a long tour of duty and re-connect with friends … family.”
“His parents are dead. Raised by an uncle who is dead. No siblings. He hadn’t met his wife yet. Not a lot to re-connect to.” Dave turned to Lauren. “You know Sean well. What’s this all about?”
“I don’t know, Dave, some things have come up.”
“What things?”
“Bad things,” Gates said. “We believe O’Brien worked as a mercenary, a hired gun, if you will, ostensibly for the Trident Company. They’re a multi-national corporation primarily hired by companies like Halliburton, Shell and others to keep the peace, to make sure their workers aren’t hurt in those global hotspots they do business.”
Hunter added, “O’Brien was in and around the Afghanistan-Pakistan border for three months, unaccounted for.”
“Says who?” Dave fired back.
“Says the top people he reported to at Trident.”
“You can’t rely on that, and you know it. If a contract employee goes MIA, they either don’t acknowledge he was on the payroll or certainly don’t broadcast his last whereabouts. I’m going to need more than that.”
“Okay,” Gates said, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “We believe O’Brien was recruited or sold his expertise to supply terrorists groups along the Afghan border with U.S. troop information, movements, insurgent levels, whatever- we don’t believe he ever fully left their payroll when his services were up.”
“So,” said Dave, weariness and anger in his voice, “O’Brien hung up his Soldier-of-Fortune card and decided to become a Miami cop to gain a little respectability all the while hanging out as a plant or a homegrown G.I. Joe sleeper cell just waiting to spring a big ol’ nine-eleven again.”
“Something like that, my friend,” Gates mocked, “but this time he was springing weapons-grade uranium from a German U-boat and finding the stuff buried on the fucking island. Come on, pal. Nobody’s that good! We think he’s in a position to make it look like an innocent find while he was working with Mohammed Sharif, probably getting a huge ‘finder’s fee,’ and then along comes a badass Russian weapons broker who’s screwed up the big plans and is as mercenary as O’Brien. So now O’Brien has a big dilemma … he’s got to find a way to retrieve the HEU, and do it while acting like his goal is to keep alive a kid who he could care less about saving. Like I say, nobody’s that good. O’Brien has stepped in shit no al Qaeda camp could have prepared him to handle.”
“That good?” Dave raised his voice. “He’s that unfortunate! Training camp? For crying out loud, Sean’s not a terrorist anymore than he’s a treasure hunter. That stuff has been hidden out there for decades. To find the remaining canisters on the island, he used the directions a dying man gave his wife in 1945, and I tapped in an old friend, someone with Remote Viewing talents, to help. Between the two, we came close enough for Sean and Nick to use a magnetometer to get a hit. O’Brien gave you guys the goods to use as a bargaining chip for a kid’s life. You lost it. Now you’re blaming him for being too good at what he does!”
No one spoke. The only sound came from the breeze causing the spinnaker rigging to clink against the mast of a sailboat across the dock.
“What is it he does?” Gates asked.
“He finds things … he finds people … dead or alive. And that’s what you and your fucking task force should be doing up there in that great big command center right now rather than pointing fingers at O’Brien.”
Hunter stepped to Gibraltar’s open sliding glass doors. He turned back to Dave and said, “Mohammed Sharif admitted he had O’Brien on the payroll.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because we cut a deal with him.”
“What deal?”
“Offered him the location of the HEU in exchange for the name of the person we suspected might be an agent or even a double agent.”
“Do you know the location of the HEU?”
“No, but Sharif doesn’t know that yet. He named O’Brien.”
“Bullshit! Told who?”
“Me.”
“That’s interesting, Eric, because O’Brien is suspect of you and your motives.”
“Of course he is. Deflect suspicions to anyone he thinks could get in his way.”
Dave said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Lauren said.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Dave.
Gates said, “Bring O’Brien to the command center.”
“Why?”
“We need to capture or kill as many as we can-Islamic extremists or Russians that are part of this po
wer play. They’re all terrorists on American soil. The deal we cut is to have Mohammed and his fanatics go to where Yuri Volkow and his group are hunkered down with the HEU. If we can lead him to the location, we’ll have the perimeter surrounded with the best snipers we have. We know that Mohammed will try to take out Volkow. All we have to do is make sure, when the smoke clears, we take no prisoners. Then we’ll secure the HEU for disposal. We get two for one.”
“You think this is some kind of a fucking video game!” Dave yelled. “You can’t predict what’s going to happen, if anything. In the meantime, the Russians are going to hold an international auction.”
“Bring O’Brien to us,” Gates said.
“Why should I?”
“To alleviate suspicion on his part. We can arrest him-charge him as an enemy combatant. Try him in a military tribunal. I think you know the outcome of that. Or we can send him to fight for Jason Canfield’s life, and let the chips fall where they may.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means O’Brien, the traitor who finds things, can find his own way out.”
“Or it means he gets caught in friendly fire and your team takes him out.”
“Either way,” said Gates, “he has a better chance than facing a tribunal.”
Lauren said, “That’s murder!”
“And this is war! Nobody likes it,” Gates barked. “But O’Brien made these choices. He can take his chances. He could come out alive.”
“Maybe,” Dave said, “or Sean and Jason will both be hit with so many rounds you won’t even recognize their bodies.”
“Don’t get an overactive imagination,” Gates said. “Bring him in at eight tomorrow morning or we go find him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Detective Dan Grant loaded eight black bullets into the clip and slid it in the Luger. He was in the Volusia County Sheriff’s forensics lab in a room where a steel-lined, three-hundred gallon water filled tank sat in front of him. Grant called O’Brien and said, “I’m about to fire one of the black bullets through the Luger. If this thing blows in my face, tell my wife I didn’t commit suicide.”
“It’ll fire,” O’Brien said. “I have faith in the old German gun shop owner.”
“Only one way to find out.” Grant pointed the barrel toward the center of the tank and squeezed the trigger.
The water exploded. “Bull’s-eye!” Grant said. “Hold on, Sean.” He set the Luger and phone on a table and then used a net on a long handle to retrieve the bullet. He picked up the phone and said, “The bullet’s a heavy sucker. We’ll compare it to the one removed from Billy Lawson. Just eyeballing it, I can tell it’s a match. I’ve never seen bullets like these.”
“The Germans were resourceful. How quickly can you compare the bullets?”
“Joe ought to nail this one without much trouble. Where are you going to be?”
“South of you.”
“Okay, so that would be where?”
“Hopefully, with the guy who knew about these black bullets sixty-seven years ago.”
Dave Collins waited at least ten minutes after they left his boat before he called O’Brien. He climbed up to the fly bridge and used his cell. “Sean, where are you?”
“Heading to the location south of you.”
“You managed to do what few people, at least people in this country, do … you’re wanted by every government intelligence agency at the same time.”
“Should I feel honored or paranoid?”
“They want me to bring you into their command post where, for all practical purposes, you’d be a sacrificial lamb.” Dave told O’Brien everything that was said on his boat and he added, “We need to come up with a plan.”
“I may have one.”
“I’m listening.”
“I believe that one of the reason’s Mike Gates wants my head on a platter is because he knows I’m about to deliver his. I will call you back shortly. My phone will be on speaker, so don’t say a word. Feed the audio into your laptop, record an MP3 file. Make copies and hide them.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“Just do it, Dave. If we’re lucky, it’ll be a confession that is long overdue.”
O’Brien drove around the perimeter of the Olde Club Condominiums in New Smyrna. The covered parking lot was filled with Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs, and SUVs larger than some kitchens. He watched an older man and woman, both dressed in beach clothes, use a side entrance to enter the six-story building. The man had used a key, holding the door open for his wife.
O’Brien drove off the lot and headed to a grocery store across the street. His cell rang. It was Agent Lauren Miles. “Sean, I dug up a buried and still classified FBI report on the death of William Lawson, age twenty-one. Died May 19, 1945. Report reads that, I’m quoting here, ‘Lawson was shot and killed as he made an alcohol-induced telephone call to us wife. In an incoherent manner, he is reported to have told her he saw something strange on the beach. Subject, in a delirious state-of-mind, said German soldiers were invading the beach. Subject may have been suffering from a warfront related psychosis or paranoia. He died as a result of an armed robbery. Subject expired from a single.38 caliber gunshot wound to the chest. No suspects could be produced, and there is no indication his story of invading German soldiers was real. Until further notice, the case is closed and remains a homicide.’ The report was filed by Agent Robert Miller.”
“Excellent! Nice work. Tell Dave everything you told me.”
“Sean, Mike Gates has you in his cross-hairs. I believe his attack dog is Eric Hunter. They’re moving fast.”
“I’ll have to move faster.”
“Where will you be?”
“If you don’t know, they can’t force it out of you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
There was one outdoor guest parking spot left when O’Brien returned to the Olde Club Condos. He parked and waited. His cell rang. It was Dan Grant. “Bingo,” Dan said. “Joe says the two bullets found in Billy Lawson’s body and the one I shot in the tank were fired from the same pistol: the Luger.”
“Thanks, Dan. Gotta go.”
“Sean, wait a second-”
O’Brien disconnected. He could see the pool behind an ornate fence, the beach at the base of the seawall, the breakers less than fifty yards away. An older woman opened the pool gate and sauntered with a slight limp to her car. She opened the trunk and removed a straw handbag. O’Brien got out of his Jeep, lifted two paper bags of groceries, and headed toward the side-entrance door. He watched the woman out of the corner of his eye, adjusting the speed of his walk with her pace as she approached the same door. O’Brien fumbled with his keys, holding the bags.
“Let me help you,” the woman said, using her key to open the deadbolt.
“Thank you,” O’Brien said smiling.
“I haven’t seen you here before, new owner?”
“Just a weekend guest. But I could be in the market. Is your unit for sale?”
“Oh, no. Harry and I love it over here.” She entered the posh lobby with O’Brien following. “We keep our Orlando home, but it’s just a matter of time before we stay here permanently. I believe the salt air is healthy for you. At least it makes you feel better, and that’s half the battle.” They stopped at the twin elevators. She pressed the button, the doors opening. Then she touched the button to the third floor. “Which floor?”
“Sixth,” O’Brien said. “If I did purchase, I’d like to get on the very top floor, maybe I could see Spain from my balcony. Are any units for sale on the sixth floor?”
“Marge and Gene Jawarski have been talking of selling.” The woman lowered her voice. “Marge, poor thing, since her cancer returned, Gene’s been taking her to Jacksonville’s Mayo Clinic for chemo. They have a corner unit, 6024. It’s beautiful.”
On the third floor, the woman smiled and got out of the elevator. As the doors were closing, she said, “Some friends are meeting for cocktails by the pool in an hour. Come join
us.”
“Thank you.” On the top floor, he got out of the elevator and called Dave. “Can you hear me?” O’Brien asked in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Good. From here it’s all listening and recording on your part.”
“Be careful. Miller probably can still shoot your lights out.”
O’Brien was silent, clipping the phone back to his belt as he walked down the marbled hall to condo unit 6016. He tapped on the door, heard shuffling and sensed someone was looking out the security glass eye.
The voice said, “What do you want?”
“Grocery delivery for the Jawarski’s.”
“Not in this condo. Down the hall, 6024, I think.”
“I tried there. No answer. Their daughter in Orlando called, placed the order, and asked us to deliver these. Said her parents should be here by now. They were returning from the hospital in Jacksonville, and she wanted the groceries to be there for them. I believe Mrs. Jawarski is ill, chemo treatments, according to her daughter. I’d hate to leave the food outside their door. The steaks might spoil. Do you mind taking them? I’ll put a note on their door.”
“Just a minute.”
O’Brien could hear the locks turning then the door opened. Robert Miller didn’t look like a man in his mid-eighties. He was younger in appearance. Thick white hair, neatly combed. Few wrinkles on his tanned face. Trimmed alabaster moustache. Gray-blue eyes that looked like they were carved from ice. He wore a Tommy Bahama silk shirt, khaki shorts, and in his dock shoes he stood at least six-one.
O’Brien smiled. “May I set these in the kitchen?”
“Be quick.” Miller gestured with his head to the left. O’Brien stepped inside as Miller stood by the open door. “It’s to your left, toward the balcony.”
The condo smelled of money. Old World imported furniture. Crystal. French oil paintings that gave the place the intimacy of a private gallery. There were framed photographs of Robert Miller standing next to presidents from Truman to George Bush Senior. Fox News was on a fifty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall.
