by Tom Lowe
Max uttered a low growl. “Shhh,” whispered O’Brien. He sat up, reaching for the Glock on his nightstand. He stood, the glow from the moon falling softly through the Plexiglas skylight. Max growled again. “Don’t bark,” O’Brien whispered.
O’Brien held the Glock up and stepped into the short passageway from the stateroom to the salon. He could see a silhouette on the other side of the blinds in front of the salon door. He walked back in the stateroom, closed the door, stood on his bed, and slowly opened the skylight. Max whined. “Shhh … I’ll be right back.”
He quietly pulled himself straight up and through the open skylight. He could hear the breakers across the road and the rumble of a storm somewhere over the Atlantic. O’Brien held the Glock and stepped in his bare feet down the center of the bow, and inched his way around the catwalk beam until he was almost to the cockpit. He heard the man picking the lock. Just as O’Brien cleared the exterior of the salon, the man opened the lock and entered.
Max.
It would be a matter of a few seconds before she barked. O’Brien slipped down from the beam and silently followed the intruder. The man slowed. He stepped without a sound through the salon. A moving shadow. O’Brien saw the pistol in the man’s hand.
Max scratched the closed stateroom door.
The man extended his pistol arm and stood ready to kick open the door.
“Another step and you’re dead,” O’Brien said, touching the Glock’s barrel to the back of the man’s neck. “Drop the gun! Slowly raise your arms.” The man released the gun and started to raise his hands.
“Can I turn around?”
O’Brien recognized the voice.
Eric Hunter turned around and half smiled. “Nice job, O’Brien. Surprised you heard me. Must have been the dog.”
O’Brien was silent. He suppressed the urge to slam the pistol grip in Hunter’s teeth. “I should put one between your eyes.”
“I have no doubt you could, considering your background. Was it Afghanistan, that where they got to you? Selling your conscience, your soul.”
“Conscience? You break into my boat. Gun in hand, and you want to analyze me? Fuck you, Hunter, or do I call you Wes Rendel?” O’Brien shoved the Glock under Hunter’s chin. “You enjoy lying to Maggie Canfield and Jason?”
“I’ve never lied to them. Frank didn’t die immediately in the bombing. He died in my arms. I promised him I’d keep an eye on his family.”
O’Brien pressed the gun barrel deeper into Hunter’s skin. “Who’re you working for? Tell me!”
“The U.S. government. Who’re you working for?”
“An eighty-eight-year-old lady and her granddaughter. On top of that, I’m trying to keep Jason Canfield alive, and I never met his dad, but I care about his mother.”
“How much did Mohammed Sharif pay you?”
“What?”
“Money, O’Brien. Sharif says you’re the mole.”
“And you’re incompetent!”
“I spent two years infiltrating them. He says you sold out to him, gave him the location of the U-boat before you had to retrieve the goods. He said I’d have to go through the gates of hell to make you admit it. And that’s what will happen. You’ve been classified as an extreme enemy combatant. They’ll use a blowtorch on your back to convince you to talk. When did they recruit you, O’Brien? Was it when you were in Pakistan?”
O’Brien shoved Hunter across the salon and into the couch. “Sit down! I’m not your double agent. It’s Mike Gates!”
“What?”
“Mike Gates. Sharif played one on you. Gates of hell. He was talking about Mike Gates.”
“You’re out of your mind!”
“Am I? Here’s a quick history lesson for you, Hunter. Mike Gates trained under an agent named Robert Miller. Miller was directly responsible for the death of Ivan Borshnik during the cold war. Ivan was Yuri Volkow’s father. Volkow’s real name is Boris Borshnik, and he’s here to avenge his country and his father’s death by execution in America. Mike Gates was recruited by Boris Borshnik because Borshnik knew of Gate’s tie to Miller.”
“Miller probably trained a lot of agents through the years.”
“But not any as money hungry as Gates. He looked for the chink in Miller’s armor and found it-the cover up of Billy Lawson’s murder, the covert corruption during the Manhattan Project, culminating in the selling of secrets to the Russians and sending Ivan Borshnik to the electric chair. Miller’s the oldest living double agent in America. It was Miller who met the Germans that night when they were burying the HEU. He had already sold the Russians the “how to” and now he had cut a deal to sell the stuff to Ivan Borshnik. But he kept the money instead while he pushed to have charges brought against Borshnik in front of a military tribunal.”
“If this is true, why’d Volkow or Borshnik, if that’s his name, wait until now to avenge his father’s death or retaliate for his country being ripped off?”
“Maybe he thought Miller was dead. Miller had been deep, so deep that the bureau faked his death rather than retire him. Obit column in the Washington Post said he died as a result of a coronary, two months before his retirement. And Miller was the only one who had a clue where the HEU was until Nick and I stumbled upon it.”
Hunter said nothing, looking down at the salon floor.
O’Brien heard Max whining. He picked up Hunter’s pistol off the floor, pocketed it and turned to open the door. Max scampered out as Hunter reached inside his pant leg and pulled a.25 caliber Beretta out of a holster.
“My orders are to take you dead or alive,” Hunter said. “I have a pistol pointed at your spine. Drop the Glock and turn around slowly.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
“That little gun won’t do much against this shotgun. Drop it!” Dave Collins stood in the open door of the cockpit, a 12 gauge shotgun aimed at Hunter.
Hunter looked hard at Collins. He slowly lowered the pistol. “Kick it to the center of the floor,” Dave ordered.
“You’re making a big mistake, Dave,” said Hunter.
“Do it!”
Hunter did as ordered, and O’Brien turned around. He said, “Your timing couldn’t be better.”
Dave nodded. “Light sleeper. I heard a cat in the trash by the cleaning station and woke to see someone approaching your boat.” He stepped into the salon. “Eric, I overheard some of the conservation from the open window. Everything Sean told you is the truth. Gates has breached. He did it a long time ago. We recorded Robert Miller admitting it.”
O’Brien said, “Gates is good. Very smart. Maybe smarter than anyone in the bureau for years, because he’s been doing this for years. Miller admitted Gate’s connection to Borshnik.”
Dave said, “We didn’t know Gate’s tie to Sharif until he tried to frame Sean. A plan, no doubt, laid by Gates to get Sean out of the picture. Only a fool would underestimate Mike Gates. He’s brilliant.”
Hunter shook his head, eyes focused beyond Jupiter’s porthole, gazing at the lights of the marina. He said, “We had our suspicions. Gates leaves no trails. I can’t imagine the damage that’s been done.”
“That’s nothing compared to the damage that will be done if they can turn the HEU into a real bomb,” Dave said.
“What do we do?”
O’Brien set his Glock on the bar. “We use Mike Gates just like he’s used and abused the trust of the people he swore to protect, the American people. Tomorrow the breach is broken. But, right now, we can set the trap for Gates.”
“How?” Dave asked.
“Borshnik may have removed the tracking devices from Jason’s mobile, but the phone can still receive text messages, which Borshnik will no doubt read. Let’s send him something that will hit him right between the eyes.” O’Brien punched the keys on his cell phone and read aloud as he wrote: “Borshnik, yes, I know your real name because I got it from the man who set up your father, Ivan. His name is Robert Miller, alive and well. Can you guess who also knows this? Mik
e Gates. Have a nice day!”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
O’Brien and Dave got to the federal building at 8:00 a.m., cleared security at the front door and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. O’Brien said, “I’ll use this opportunity to get closer to freeing Jason, but I won’t let Gates take me out.”
“Remember, Gates thinks they’ve convinced me you’re a mercenary.”
“We don’t know what Gates thinks or why. But I’m exposing him.”
A Volusia County Sheriff’s deputy stood guard outside the door leading into the task force command center. FBI, Homeland Security, ATF, U.S. Marshals and people O’Brien assumed were CIA, NSA or a combination of each, entered and left the room constantly. O’Brien and Dave Collins approached the guarded door.
“ID please,” requested the deputy.
Dave handed a picture ID to the guard. The deputy studied it a moment, his eyes glancing from Dave to the photograph. “Says this expired in ’03.”
“We’re consultants,” Dave said.
“You’ll need somebody with a current valid ID to-”
“This is current and valid,” said Lauren Miles, coming up behind O’Brien and Dave, holding her ID between the two men. “They’re with me.”
“No problem, Ms. Miles.”
“Gentlemen, please follow me.”
Inside the cavernous room was a huge bank of phones, computers, long white boards, flat-screen monitors, and makeshift desks. Four boxes of doughnuts, a few eaten, were on the first table. Agents worked the phones, typed keyboards, and drank coffee.
Mike Gates, cell phone in his ear, sleeves rolled up, tie down, sweat stain growing like a blooming flower in the center of his blue shirt, looked up as O’Brien entered.
“Have a seat over there in the corner,” Lauren said.
They walked by a wall that displayed photographs of the four slain FBI agents and the two state troopers. The photographs were of the agents in suits, smiling like they’d graduated from the academy, the troopers in their dress blues. Above the pictures was a large digital clock, the time, down to the second, flashing in bright red.
“Coffee or anything?” Lauren said before she sat at the table.
Dave grunted and shook his head no. O’Brien said, “Sounds good.”
Lauren smiled and went across the room to pour two cups. Dave said, “Gates looks like he smelled a fart.”
“So does Paul Thompson,” O’Brien said as he watched Thompson at the white board glance his way, cap the black marker and approach Lauren. While he spoke to her, he looked at O’Brien, again, then turned back to face Lauren. She sipped coffee from one of the Styrofoam cups, eyes darting toward O’Brien.
“I wonder where Eric Hunter is,” Dave said, eyes scanning the room.
O’Brien was silent. He watched as Gates ended his call, glance at the clock on the wall, and approach Lauren and Thompson. They huddled; Gates had his arms folded across his chest.
A minute later, Lauren returned to the table and sat down. “Careful, coffee is a bit hot.” She lowered her voice. “We’ve got to stop Gates before this thing goes to hell.”
“Then do it,” O’Brien said.
“The audio recording from your meeting with Robert Miller, it’s more than enough for me, but I’m not a grand jury. Defense might say it’s the ramblings of a sick old man without all his faculties. If we could get something else to corroborate it-”
“Not easy,” Dave said. “Considering the situation.”
O’Brien looked across the room at Gates who checked his watch against the clock on the wall. “Is the HEU auction still supposed to happen at 4:00 p.m.?”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“If we can nail Borshnik, have him implicate Gates, we’d have something else.”
“Or even Sharif,” Lauren said. “If Gates is that good, playing both of them-”
“He’s apparently that good,” Dave said.
“Officially, we don’t plea bargain with terrorists.”
“I don’t plan to,” O’Brien said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Abdul-Waahid backed the catering van up to loading docks at the rear entrance to the federal building. Drivers in two other vans did the same thing. They began unloading the large stainless steel containers filled with hot food. The caterers put the containers on rolling tables and waited for a deputy to electronically unlock the door. There was a loud click and a long buzz sound. The door opened and the catering team made its way slowly through the building labyrinth.
One man wore a white chef’s uniform and carried a clipboard in a meaty hand. He waddled with the gait of a weightlifter on steroids. No neck and a head like a fire plug on massive shoulders. He moved his Buddha body in a stiff, all shoulders march, barking orders at his cooking staff. Two women from prep joined them, pushing bowls of salad to go with the shiny, food-filled containers.
As they waited for a service elevator, the man in the chef’s outfit looked over at Waahid and asked, “You cold, guy?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wearing that windbreaker. At least it’s white. But when we start serving, lose it.”
“I understand,” Waahid said.
The two large service elevators opened, and the crew loaded the food inside. The chef said, “I appreciate you filling in so fast to cover for Bobby. It’d be like him to find help to take his place if he got sick. He knows this is a big account for us. As long as the hunt for these dudes continues, we’re serving three squares a day in here.”
The elevators opened, and they made their way down the long hallway.
Mike Gates, Eric Hunter, and Paul Thompson approached the table and sat near Lauren, opposite from O’Brien and Dave. Gates said, “Here’s the situation: our agents and the troopers were killed by men who follow a Russian who’s been going by the name of Yuri Volkow.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dave said.
Hunter said, “Volkow, no doubt, has more than one alias.”
“Who is he?” O’Brien asked.
Gates smiled. “He’s the kind of guy who can as easily slip radioactive thallium in your tea as he could drop the stuff on a major city. He was mid-level KGB before the name change. We strongly suspect he did contract killings for the Kremlin, could knock off an outspoken journalist, whatever was needed.”
“What’s the plan for getting Jason back alive?” O’Brien asked.
“You’re the plan, O’Brien,” said Gates. “They know you and Nick Cronus from all the insane media coverage. They know of your association with Jason Canfield. Probably know you’re ex-police. It would be a natural instinct for you, a man not connected officially with the government, to take off and look for your young friend.”
O’Brien said nothing.
Dave said, “Well, now, there’s an obvious change of plans. We had a deadline to find the remaining HEU and exchange it for Jason’s life. So, besides what we already know-Sean and Nick found the stuff, the Russians stole it and put it up on the web for auction-by now Jason’s lost value to them. And, if he’s seen their faces ….”
“What can I do?” O’Brien asked.
Gates raised his eyebrows. “We’re going to be the highest bidders, under an assumed name that’s part of their member’s only club.”
“What name?”
“Zuhair-Rafi,” he was hand-picked by bin Laden before we took him out.”
Lauren said, “Could be a problem. How do we know that Mohammed Sharif isn’t next in line? What’s to keep him from protesting if he feels he’s being outspent by a fellow al Qaeda member?”
Hunter said, “Because the way the auction is set, in non-traceable IP addresses, each player is guaranteed anonymity. So none of the bidders will specifically know who has the highest bid. But they’ll be able to see the numbers-each successive high bid. If Mr. X is at two-mil, for example, the player who wants to push the envelope a few hundred-thou higher can type it in with his code, and it’s officially registered. Volkow
will collect the twenty million or so for passing go. The other three or four in the auction, we don’t think it will be more than that, will either stay at the poker table or they’ll fold and get out of the game. They won’t leave a trace of their presence to us or anyone who can take a seat at their Tehran fold ‘em game.”
Gates said, “For a guy like Mohammed Sharif, this would be a supreme test. Score enriched uranium on American soil, package it for delivery and let her fall over someplace like Times Square or Independence Avenue. O’Brien, we need you to be one of the team members who infiltrates Volkow’s hideout right after Mohammed Sharif’s people enter the premises.”
“How do we know they’ll enter?” O’Brien asked.
“We don’t,” Hunter said. “We’ve learned that Mohammed has received information that can lead him to Volkow’s location. We think Mohammed is planning to hit Volkow before the auction, kill everyone, including Jason, and take the HEU.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” O’Brien asked. “We can’t sit in some car like detectives staking out a crack house. We need an idea of what, when, how, and where.”
“We can answer most of those,” Gates said. “We believe Volkow is hiding somewhere in Jacksonville. Their online site is routed to half dozen different IP’s. Some in Egypt. Our tech guys can say they’re somewhere in the Jacksonville area, we’re just not sure exactly. We think he’s holed up in there with at least half dozen men, maybe more, the HEU, and the kid.”
Lauren said, “And because we have no clue where Mohammed Sharif and his group are hiding, this is an opportunity to get two birds with one strike force.”
“Why do you want me part of it?” O’Brien asked.
Gates smiled and said, “Because we’ve read your profile. You’re an expert at finding people. We know you just might be the one to find Jason alive amongst all of this. And, with your background in hostage negotiations, should it get to that, you might be quite effective at getting the kid released.” Gates looked at the digital clock. “O’Brien, finder of lost souls … see if you can find Jason Canfield.”
