The Black Bullet

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

O’Brien was pouring fresh water into Max’s bowl when the man approached. O’Brien set the bowl in a corner of the cockpit. The man was late forties, hawk nose, veiled eyes, two-day growth of salt and pepper stubble, blue jeans, black T-shirt, and deck shoes right out of the box. He stopped walking on the dock behind Jupiter and said, “Nice boat. I always liked a Bayliner. It’ll take a wave. Cute dog. What’s his name?”

“Her name’s Max.”

“At the bar, they told me I could charter your boat.”

“Looking to catch some fish?”

“What do you offer, trolling or bottom fishing?”

“Depends on what the customer wants to catch.”

“Bottom fishing, grouper, maybe. I hear they’re biting.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

The man motioned toward the Tiki Bar. “Guy at the bar … said his name’s Eric Hunter. He told me he knew you, and a kid he knows works for you. Thought you guys could probably use the business.”

“Maybe, if you’re really here to fish. Nice shoes.”

“What if I wanted to catch a U-boat?”

“They’re extinct.” O’Brien glanced at the man’s lower pant legs. No indication of a strap-on pistol.

“I’m not carrying. Rarely do anymore.”

“Who are you?”

“Paul Thompson. I was sent by an acquaintance of Dave Collins. I suppose that’s Dave’s boat over there?” Thompson gestured toward Gibraltar. “I was going to stop there first, but I saw you and decided to come over. Sean O’Brien, correct?”

“If you’re with the CIA, I’m sure you know all you think you know about me.”

“No need for the defense screen,” Thompson said. “We’re trying to quickly neutralize this. Get you and your friends out of the spotlight. I’m going to let Dave know I’m here.”

Mohammad Sharif checked into a Best Western motel. There he knew he could blend easily among the millions of tourists who make the pilgrimage to Orlando to pay homage to a mouse. A rodent, he thought. The Mecca of America, a castle made from fiberglass and a theme taken from European fairytales. He walked the steps up to his second-floor room overlooking International Drive and its long line of rental cars. It was a sea of lost drivers changing lanes at the last second, cutting each other off, heading for restaurants tucked between T-shirt shops, timeshare condos, and theme parks.

As he put the card in the slot to open the motel room door, he hesitated for a moment, waiting for a family walking toward him to pass. The man wore his shirttail tucked inside baggy shorts, legs milky white, sandals, and dark socks pulled up to his mid-calves. The wife wore a tank top and a swimsuit bottom. “Nathan, stop running!” she yelled to her son in a British accent. As they herded past, Sharif could smell the swimming pool chlorine and hamburgers on their skin and clothes.

He entered the room, and his cell rang. It was Rashid Aamed. He said, “Faysal Hazim, Kareem, and Ishmael have arrived from Washington, Jacksonville and Atlanta, doing what you requested-coming by separate routes.”

“Good, “Sharif said. “I checked in where I said I would stay. Room 2191. The boat Ata and Mansur where trailing has returned to the marina. Unfortunately, the boat they were in did not make the return. We believe the two Americans recovered the product and have hidden it somewhere off the boat. It may be easier to track the Russians. If they find it for us, we surprise them, avenge the deaths of Ata and Mansur, take the product, and begin preparing for the event. Imam Majd al Din wants to talk with us about the kidnapping. He has it planned to the minute. Once the man’s daughter is in our hands, the bomb is good as built.”

Dave Collins made a pot of coffee in Gibraltar’s galley and said to Paul Thompson and O’Brien, “The two canisters we placed in the storage unit are essentially the proverbial tip of the iceberg. U-boat 236 was carrying ten. So they’re either hidden under a lot of bottom sand, beach sand, or somebody recovered them sometime before or after World War II ended.”

Thompson said, “We’ll dive the wreck in the morning. Our guys will use the most sophisticated magnetometers and super sonar to comb the bottom.”

“Don’t think you’ll find anymore,” O’Brien said.

“Why?”

“Because the canisters Nick and I found were locked away in a secure spot on the sub. There was plenty of room for more, at least enough room to accommodate eight more like them. But they weren’t there.”

Dave poured three cups of coffee. “Paul, you still take yours black?”

“Good memory, Dave.”

“I do a lot of crossword puzzles in my spare time.”

O’Brien felt Gibraltar move. “Troops are here.”

“FBI and they’re a half hour late,” Dave said.

Thompson chuckled. “Maybe the GPS in their car took them the scenic route.”

Dave opened the sliding glass doors of Gibraltar’s cockpit and let a man and a woman enter. O’Brien knew the woman, Lauren Miles, Special Agent, Miami office, and a one-time special person in his life. He’d met her about a year after the death of his wife. He always thought Lauren resembled Sandra Bullock, chestnut brown hair, curvaceous body, and a smile that turned heads. She entered the boat with a man in his late thirties, straw-colored hair swept back, eyes red, irritated from something.

Lauren Miles said, “Hello, Sean. Why am I not too surprised to see you here?”

“I don’t know, Lauren. Luck of the Irish, I suppose.”

Max trotted up from the galley when she heard Lauren. “Hi, Max. I’ve missed you.” She introduced herself and Special Agent Ron Bridges to Paul and Dave who reciprocated.

“We’ve already seen other members of the FBI,” O’Brien said. “Special Agents Mike Gates and Steve Butler. I guess you guys are sharing notes?”

“Why?” asked Agent Ron Bridges.

“Because we’ve gone over this with them. Hate to be redundant.”

Lauren smiled. “Agents Gates and Butler are back at the Federal building where we’re setting up a command center with Homeland. They’ve briefed us. But humor us, Sean. Perhaps you guys can take it from the top.”

Dave briefed everyone, and O’Brien filled in the details from the discovery of the U-boat, his conversation with Abby Lawson and her grandmother, Glenda, and the recovery of the canisters and where they were stored.

After Paul Thompson said he worked for the National Security Agency, he added, “We’ll have an armored car and an armed escort meet us at the storage locker. A jet is on stand-by at Daytona International. We’ll load it within the hour, after we debrief Jason Canfield and Nick Cronus. Then this thing will die down.”

Agent Bridges said, “How about the part, Mr. O’Brien, where you said what the old woman told you? Could that be true? And if it is, how’s it tied to that sunken sub?”

“We found U-235 canisters in the sub. Why would her story be doubtful?”

Agent Bridges said, “Makes no sense for her husband’s story to be covered up.”

Dave Collins sipped his coffee. “Sure it does,” he said. “You guys had cross-dressing J. Edgar in charge of the bureau. He was instrumental in the prosecution and execution of the eight Germans, the ones who turned themselves into the FBI three years earlier in ‘42. Found guilty of espionage by a military tribunal, the same precedent used in 2002 to try detainees held at Guantanamo. May 1945 was an intense time. Roosevelt dies in the eleventh hour. Truman takes the reins. And now we know what Truman probably heard from our spies, the OSS, in 1945, that Nazi Germany had the potential to make an atomic bomb. It looks as if Hitler was handing the baton to the Japanese as Germany was out of the race.”

Lauren said, “All the media are calling Sean’s find ‘Hilter’s last U-boat.’”

“I didn’t really find it. I hooked it on my anchor. Nick Cronus found it.”

“Where is Nick?” asked Dave. “He might be able to add something.”

“I’ll try his cell again.”

Thompson said, “Where’s Canfield? Still at Chapman’s fish place?”

“Nick’s MIA,” O’Brien said. “How’d you know Jason was at Chapman’s?”

Dave said, “I mentioned it to Paul when he called earlier. Told him that everyone, including Nick, should be back about this time.”

O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Nick. “Sean!”

“Where are you?”

“The Tiki Bar. Kim’s got the news on the TV. Some homeless dudes found Jason’s girlfriend, Nicole. She’s dead! Found her body in a fuckin’ garbage can.”

“Jesus,” O’Brien whispered. “I’ll call Jason.”

“Sean … maybe he heard everything I said on your boat about divin’ back on the U-boat and then storing that nuclear shit in Dave’s locker.”

“We’re on Gibraltar. Get over here now.” O’Brien called Jason’s cell. No answer. Two rings, a popping noise and silence.

O’Brien set his cell down on Dave’s bar. “Nicole Bradley was found murdered. Jason’s cell has been disabled. If he’s still alive, he won’t be for long.”