The Black Bullet

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The following morning the FBI arrived at 8:00 a.m. Two men. One wore blue jeans, knit golf shirt, sneakers, and a nine millimeter on his hip. The other man dressed in a blue sports coat, kakis, and a button-down, white shirt. They walked toward Jupiter.

Jason was hosing down Jupiter as O’Brien and Dave shared a pot of coffee on Gibraltar’s cockpit. O’Brien saw them approaching and said to Dave, “We have some company. Are they your guys?”

“Not my guys, although I am retired, remember? However, one of our guys would be somebody who looked like a marine diesel mechanic. Those two have to be Homeland or FBI.”

“I have a close friend, an agent in the Miami Bureau.”

“Lauren Miles?”

“Yeah, Lauren. Wonder why they didn’t send her. Because of what Abby Lawson and her grandmother, Glenda, told me … I’m not eager to volunteer a lot of information to the FBI at this point. I see no use in showing every card in a deck that might have been marked a long time ago.”

“The days of J. Edgar Hoover, eh? Let’s hope that’s not the case.”

As the men got closer to Jupiter, O’Brien stood. “Good morning.”

The one in the sports coat said, “Sean O’Brien.”

“That’s me.”

The one in the blue jeans said, “Recognized your face from TV. You mind coming over here so we can talk?”

“You mind telling me who you are?”

The man in the sports coat took off his sunglasses and stared as if he needed to see O’Brien with his naked eyes. He stepped close to Gibraltar. The morning light wedged in his black eyes. Square jaw shaved so close his skin was still red from his razor. “I’m Special Agent Steve Butler. And this is Special Agent Mike Gates.” Gates was in his mid-sixties, thinning grey hair combed straight back, eyes cool and detached. O’Brien thought he resembled the actor Anthony Hopkins.

O’Brien said, “Sure, I can come up there on the dock, but it might be more comfortable if you fellows joined us down here for coffee. This is Dave Collins. The kid hosing off my boat, right over there, is Jason Canfield. The lady sitting in her deck chair on that nice trawler right behind you is Mrs. Pittman. Sweet lady. Has ears like an elephant and the personality of Henny-Penny, you know, the sky’s falling.”

The men looked around them to the marina community awaking, people moving, watching. They walked down the side dock and stepped onto Gibraltar’s cockpit.

“Coffee?” Dave asked.

“No thanks,” they said in unison.

O’Brien said, “I imagine you might want to chat with Jason. He’s my deckhand. I’ll call Nick. He’s in the boat on the other side of Dave’s boat. He was with us when we found it. That way you can ask whatever you want, get it all out of the way at once.”

“We’ll decide who we question and when we question them,” said Special Agent Gates, his voice chilly, just above a whisper.

“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot,” Dave said. “Please, sit down. The deck chairs are pretty comfortable. Or if you want, we can go inside.”

“This is fine,” said agent Butler. He and Gates sat. Agent Butler began the questioning, “Tell us how you found the German submarine.”

“Okay,” O’Brien said. “It started when I decided I’d get into the charter fishing business.” O’Brien told them the story as they scribbled notes, nodded and broke in with a question from time to time. When he finished, O’Brien asked, “Anything else?”

“What did you bring up from the sub?” asked Gates.

“Nothing.”

“Did your dive partner, Nick Cronus, bring up anything?”

“No.”

“Would you submit to a polygraph?” asked Butler.

“Yes.”

“Could you find the sub again?” Gates asked.

“Maybe.”

Agent Butler raised his left eyebrow. “What do you mean by maybe? Aren’t the coordinates in your GPS?”

“No, they’re not. We were at anchor, fishing. Catching nothing. I didn’t see a need to mark numbers. When we caught the sub, there was so much excitement, we forgot.”

“And your men will concur with that?” Gates asked.

“Yes.”

Gates stared over the marina water, the reflection off the bay bouncing in his olive green eyes. For a moment, O’Brien saw a detached glimpse of absolute power. He knew he was looking at a man used to getting his way. Gates moved only his eyes to O’Brien. He didn’t blink.

“Mr. O’Brien, we know of your background with Miami-Dade homicide. Some of our Miami agents speak highly of you and your investigative talents. But let me get one thing very straight, and put you on notice, too. If enriched uranium is, in fact, on that sub, then this is a very serious investigation. We won’t need, nor ask for your help in conducting any portion of it. The FBI has the manpower to nip this quickly, and we’re not looking for any soldiers to help or hinder us. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as a bell,” O’Brien said with a smile.

Dave said, “There is nothing territorial here. I’m retired CIA. I’m sure the agency will be in the thick of things, too. Because Sean and I understand your challenges, if there is anything that we can do or add to your investigation, please let us know.”

“Do you know if anyone from the agency is here yet?” asked Butler.

“No, not in an official capacity.”

Agent Gates looked over at Jason washing down Jupiter and said, “It would have been more appropriate if you and your crew had come to us before all this hit the media.”

“If you’re implying that Jason screwed up by having too much to drink and letting his girlfriend get it out of him, you’re right. But that’s happened, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I assure you, he feels awful.”

“The unfortunate part is, with the Internet, this kind of stuff gets around the world in a matter of a few clicks,” Gates said. “What we know, the bad guys know. I’d hate to see one of them question that kid. If you did find weapons-grade uranium out there, the salvagers you’ll see can make sharks look like guppies.”

Dave said, “We’re aware of the gravity.”

“Are you?” asked Gates, standing. “O’Brien, you need to figure out where you were when you hooked that U-boat, and then take us out there.”

“Could take a long time. Atlantic’s a big ocean,” O’Brien said.

“Mike, you want to question the kid?” asked Agent Butler. “I’ll walk over and get to know Mr. Cronus.”

O’Brien said, “Knock loudly on Nick’s door. He’s a sound sleeper.”

The first reporter arrived at 10:00 a.m. It was an online newspaper reporter, bearded, plaid shirt, sleeves pushed up above his elbows, in tow with a pudgy photographer. The reporter stepped aboard Jupiter’s deck and knocked on the salon door. The photographer stayed dockside, both hands on his camera, ready.

A TV news crew, reporter, and camera operator were coming down the dock, followed by a freelancer from the Associated Press.