The Black Bullet

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When Nick stepped into Gibraltar’s salon, Max trotted over and greeted him, tail wagging. “Little Max, even in that tiny head of yours, you have more brains than the people on this boat.” Nick looked at Dave and added, “The only reason I’d go back out there, back to that ocean graveyard, middle of the freakin’ night, is ‘cause I don’t want to see Sean try to do it alone. Too dangerous. Currents. Sharks.”

O’Brien said, “Can’t say I’m overjoyed to be working for the CIA.”

Dave said, “They’ve done more good than bad.”

“I’d rather give this stuff to the CIA than the FBI, considering the FBI might possibly have a sixty-plus-year connection with the incident on the beach with Billy Lawson.”

Dave grinned, “Who knows what Hoover did or didn’t do. Regardless, you found the sub in international waters anyway. It’s in the jurisdiction of the Agency.”

“Wait a minute,” Nick said, folding his arms across his chest. “When Sean and I start pulling that H-E-U stuff outta there … what if it blows up in our faces?”

Dave said, “It can’t be ignited unless it’s detonated in a way that delivers a very fast charge to the material.”

O’Brien said, “I don’t know how much each canister weighs, but I do know this: it’s probably not a good idea to take Jupiter back to the spot. Somebody could be watching it. Nick, let’s take your boat. It’s got a winch, which we’ll need to lift the canisters on board. You’ve got dive gear. Do you have guns aboard?”

Nick’s eyes popped. “I don’t even own a BB gun.”

O’Brien nodded. “I’ll bring mine. Dave, did your CIA contact say what the chatter was about? Who’s talking and what they’re saying?”

“I’d answer that if I knew. Internet chatter. Arabic. One person is a guy named Abdul-Hakim whom, I was told, helped supply Hezbollah with bombs it used against Israel in a skirmish.”

“A weapons’ broker? I imagine they’ve heard about all of this, of course.”

“A good guess is they’re on their way. Between the Internet and satellite TV, it’s a world without borders. Many young Islamic extremists are recruited via the Internet, including the ones who strap bombs to themselves. They’re recruited by the top echelon. The so-called martyrs do live forever on these websites where a new generation can see and hear why they do what they do. It’s all about perception. You can bet Abdul-Hakim and his group probably aren’t alone in their desire to possess weapons-grade uranium.”

Nick mumbled, “That TV chick don’t know the shit she’s got us into.”

“Probably doesn’t care,” said O’Brien. “I’ve got three good underwater flashlights. Plenty of batteries. Nick, are your dive tanks filled?”

“Yeah, man. Always.”

“Okay, we’ll have about an hour to comb through what we can.”

“Good,” said Dave. “I checked the weather. No storms. Seas are about two feet in the stream. Can you find it again, Sean?”

“Yes.”

“No doubt. You’re about ninety minutes away from it, an hour on the bottom and ninety minutes returning. Should put you back at the marina before sun-up. We can off-load it and store the stuff in a secure area.”

O’Brien smiled. “Outside of Fort Knox, what do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll hear soon. Let me fix you two a big thermos of coffee.”

“Don’t need any caffeine down there,” Nick said. “When you’re in the devil’s den, your heart’s goin’ a mile a minute. I imagine one of those skeletons tapping on my shoulder as I swim by. If I had too much caffeine, I might shoot up outta the ocean like a rocket. Maybe I come down on the lovely island of Mykonos.”

Andrei Keltzin walked out of the Kiev, a Ukrainian restaurant and bar in Midtown Manhattan, at a little past midnight. When in New York, it was where he always went on Tuesday nights. This night of the week they provided two-for-one Stolichnaya and his favorite, Zapechona, a dish of braised lamb and garlic-roasted potatoes. Although the restaurant was Russian-owned, they adopted some of the American marketing. Two-for-one called a “happy hour.” Then why are the Americans such unhappy people? His small ears were pink, and they protruded from a round, bald head that seem to sit on a neck too long to be attached to such wide shoulders. His hard eyes looked liked black beads surrounded by too much white.

Rain fell over the city as he stood to hail a cab. A Ford Excursion gunned through a changing traffic light, splashing water across Keltzin’s shined black wingtips. “Fuck you,” he grumbled in Russian. The Americans and their giant fucking cars, SUVs-a stupid name. Automobiles a poor Russian couple could live in and call home.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He slipped back into the shadows beneath an awning, the rain popping against the canvas, the odor of diesel exhaust in the air. “There is a plane leaving for Miami in two hours,” said the deep monotone voice in Russian. “From LaGuardia. Be on it.”

“Will you meet me in Miami for further instructions?”

“Yes. Same place as last time.”

“Are you alone?”

“Dimitri will be there as well, and others very soon.”

The caller disconnected and Keltzin stopped the next cab. “LaGuardia. You get a tip of one hundred dollars if you can get me there in twenty minutes.”

“No problem,” said the man in a Moroccan accent. “This time of night, not much traffic. You might get lucky.”