The Black Bullet

CHAPTER FIFTY

They lay hidden under a green army blanket on a wooden table in a small warehouse. Yuri Volkow entered the room, nodded at Andrei Keltzin and Zakhar Sorokin. He looked at Jason tied in the chair and said, “You have proved most valuable. Let us see what we have recovered from that storage room.” Volkow slowly removed the blanket from the canisters as if he was trying not to awake what slept inside.

In the middle of the table, two long metal cylinders lay side-by-side. The late afternoon sun splintered through the window giving the cylinders an antique bronze look. Still visible were the labels on the right side of both containers: U-235.

“This,” began Volkow, his voice a mix of arrogance and authority, “is going to do three things. It will settle a long-standing score between the motherland and the Americans from 1945 to 1950, the Venona Project, they called it. Second, these cylinders give us supreme reign because we decide who acquires the power inside them. And, third, we will be compensated well.”

Sorokin said, “We have the computer equipment assembled in the next room. Everything is secure, non-traceable. You can begin the auction whenever you wish.”

“Perhaps the first bid should come from those who almost acquired it before we did, that asshole Mohammed Sharif and his comrades. Will they use the power to strike the Americans, especially since it is already in this country, or will they export it to Syria or Iran?”

“Does it make a difference?”

Volkow smiled and stroked the barnacled-surface of one cylinder like a man caressing a sacred object. He looked up at Sorokin and Keltzin. “These are two of more … correct, Jason Canfield? More buried on a beach?”

“Maybe,” Jason said, the ropes dulling the blood circulation to his hands. “The old woman told Sean that the Germans buried something.”

“Where is this old woman?”

“I don’t know.”

Volkow sneered. “If we locate the other cylinders, we will begin the bidding at fifty-million dollars. Put images of these on the site.”

“Should we not find the remaining U-235 first?” asked Keltzin.

“This will arouse the appetite of our buyers.”

“Perhaps the other cylinders do not exist.” Sorokin said. “What if the Americans found them in 1945? Or they may not have been found and never will be.”

“The target area has been narrowed. Also, based on what Canfield told us, this O’Brien either knows or might be able to find the rest of the U-235. We’ll offer him a motivation, if you know what I mean, and a deadline. Set up the video camera.”

Lauren Miles pointed toward the image on the monitor and said, “Freeze that.” The Chapman’s Fish House manager clicked the mouse in his hand and the image on the screen stopped playing. O’Brien, Cronus, Collins, Bridges, Thompson and Hunter stood by the monitor and watched. Lauren continued, “There they are, coming out of the dark van under the mimosa tree.” It was a wide shot. The images on a computer monitor showed the entire parking lot. Two men walked quickly over to Jason’s truck, less than fifty feet from the van.

“The kid doesn’t even see them coming,” Thompson said.

“Play it,” Lauren said to the manager. The video continued, the men moving casually toward Jason as he placed the boxes in his truck bed and opened the driver’s side door.

Dave grimaced. “This is hard to watch.” The images showed no struggle. Jason was surprised, his head whipping right and left to look at both men. In ten seconds, he was inside the blue van, one man climbing in the back seat with him.

Eric Hunter looked away. “They’ve had him long enough to get what they want.”

“Yeah, they got the location of the storage unit out of him,” Dave said.

O’Brien’s cell rang. He looked at the number. “It’s Jason!”

“Put it on speaker.” Hunter said.

O’Brien hit the speaker button. “Jason ….”

“Sean! They’re holding me!”

“Where are you?”

“At an undisclosed location,” Yuri Volkow said.

“Who is this?” O’Brien demanded.

“I’m the man who can slit Jason’s throat. Are you near a computer, O’Brien?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Go to Anonev.com. I will spell it for you. A…n…o…n…e…v.”

O’Brien typed in the address and an image of Jason sitting in a chair appeared. A man, only visible from the chest down, held a knife to Jason’s throat.

“Jas-” began Nick as O’Brien raised his hand for silence.

The others crowded around the screen. O’Brien held up one hand to make sure no one spoke. He said to Volkow, “Don’t hurt him. He’s a kid-not even twenty.”

“My father was only twenty-five when your people killed him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that … what were the circumstances?”

“Similar to what we have in the world today. The cold war never ended. It will never thaw as long as your country continues its world meddling.”

“Who is this?” O’Brien asked.

“How much do you want to see Jason live?” Volkow pulled Jason’s head back with one hand, placed a knife against his neck. “His carotid artery is less than one inch from the blade.” Then he began cutting.

“Oh dear God …,” Lauren whispered.

“Wait!” shouted O’Brien.

Jason screamed, his body visibly trembling. Volkow held the knife, and blood trickled down Jason’s neck, looking into the camera, tears spilling from his eyes.

“What do you want?” O’Brien asked.

“I want the rest of the cargo. It is rightfully ours. There are other canisters. We know this. You have forty-eight hours from now to deliver them to a destination I choose. If you do not, the next time you see Jason, you will watch him die. You cannot find him, but we can find you. All GPS and tracking devices on his mobile have been deactivated. But you can leave a text message to communicate. The clock starts right now.”

The screen faded to black.