The Black Bullet

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Eric Hunter stood at the end of the Sunglow Pier on Daytona Beach and watched the pink glow of a newborn sun yawning over the Atlantic. It was 5:45.a.m. He thought about the phone call he was going to make. They wanted him to wait until the sun was up: 6:15 a.m. Make the call from the beach. Wear a red shirt, they’d instructed. No hat. No sunglasses. Come alone. Hunter watched an auburn sky in the east slip into a burgundy scarf wrapped above an indigo sea. A pelican sailed low across the water, flapping its wings only when it had reached the breakers.

Hunter walked down the old wooden pier behind a lone fisherman with a four-day growth of salt and pepper whiskers. The man stopped and threaded a shrimp on a hook. A cigarette dangled from his lips. To concentrate on what he was doing, he cocked his head and closed one eyelid to keep out the smoke. He cast the line, propped a foot on the rail, and opened the lid on a steaming cup of black coffee. He sipped and nodded as Hunter passed.

Two people sat in Crabby Joe’s Restaurant, a restaurant built on the pier, about one hundred feet from the entrance. Hunter could smell the eggs, grits, fried whiting and fresh coffee. He walked through the open-air restaurant and over* to the steps leading from the beginning of the pier to the beach directly below it. The sun broke over the ocean, bathing the beach in a hue of copper off the water. As Hunter walked across the dunes, he knew a Volusia County beach webcam would pick up his image. The camera, mounted atop a concrete utility pole, fed a live picture of Daytona Beach to the Internet. Beachgoers and surfers logged on to check weather and surf.

Hunter knew one man watching was not a surfer. He was a killer, and he would be watching Hunter’s every move. When he got in the area that he thought was about the center of the image picked up by the camera, he took out his cell phone and sat on the sand. Then he waited for the phone to ring.

Mohammed Sharif watched Hunter on the computer screen twenty miles away. He sat in the posh hotel room with Rashid Aamed and Abdul-Hakim, each man on the opposite side of the computer screen. Sharif said, “He appears to be alone, at least from this angle. No one else on that part of the beach except an old man walking.”

“I still do not trust him.” Aamed said. “He has not proven himself enough.”

“He’s an American. He can never prove himself,” said Sharif, “which means you can never trust him. You can only use the infidel for Allah’s wishes. We extract information once more, he comes to collect the money, and you cut his throat.”

Aamed smiled. “Inshallad. It would be an honor.”

Sharif dialed his cell phone. “It appears to be a nice morning on the beach.”

Hunter said into his cell, “It’s a beautiful day on the world’s most famous beach.”

Sharif’s lips curled into a smile, his marble-black eyes watching the live picture of Eric Hunter. He asked, “What can you tell me?”

“The remaining material was found and then captured by someone.”

“Who?”

“I thought you might have that information.”

“Why would I know this?”

“Because you’re a buyer”

“How do you know whoever stole the HEU is a seller?”

“Because these people believe they own the uranium-think they bought it once and they can sell it.”

“How did the thieves accomplish this?”

“Somehow they knew we’d found the HEU, and their men were disguised as state police. They killed four of our agents and two state troopers.”

“How did the men who stole the HEU know your men had found more of it?”

“I thought you might have a suggestion.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone, one of our people, must have tipped them off.”

“Perhaps you have another mole … one besides yourself. Americans, there is no badge of honor among thieves.”

Hunter glanced toward the camera mounted on the pole. “You need the HEU. I need information. If you are working with someone else, fuck off.”

“If I was employing one of your agents, why would I tell you?”

“Because you’d want me to kill him. He’d be a double agent. And that means he’s smarter than us and a hell of a lot smarter than you, because he’s managed to fool whoever stole the HEU and you.”

Sharif was silent a long moment. Then he leaned closer to the computer screen. “How do I know what you tell me is true?”

“It will be all over the news. When four FBI agents are killed, it’s big news.”

“How many canisters total?”

“Ten. Two from the sub and eight taken from a remote area on the beach.”

“That is all of the cargo on the submarine when it left Kiel, Germany, correct?”

“Yes. Look, Mohammed, these men are holding a kid.”

“There is no guarantee that the sellers will contact us, and if they do, there is no assurance I will be the highest bidder.”

“Maybe you can bid as an option, or you can simply take it. Regardless, I want a guarantee the kid isn’t harmed.”

“What do you mean, simply take it?”

“There was a transmitter in the FBI van they stole. It’s hidden so deep they’d have to be a mechanic to find it. We know where it is.”

“Where?”

“Who’s the mole?”

“If you tell me where the van is, there is no guarantee the HEU is still in it.”

“Yes it is.”

“How?”

“Because one of our agents took a canister from the hole we’d dug and glued a microchip tracker near the screw cap, looks like a big thermos bottle. We ran a quick analysis on HEU inside a canister. Ninety percent pure. God love the Germans, eh.”

“Where is the HEU?”

“Three conditions if I tell you: one is you don’t harm the kid, you give me the ID of the person who can compromise us both, and you confirm for me who’s the mastermind behind the theft of the HEU.”

“How would I know who stole this material?”

“Because we know the first two canisters are up for auction, with a possibility of the highest bidder getting the rest if the U-235 canisters are located. Now, they’re found, and you’re one of the bidders.”

“Perhaps I am. Although we have done business together, I cannot trust you.”

“No, and I can’t trust you either. You do know that if you divulged my association with you, I will be killed. Give me the name!”

“What if there is no other contact … no other mole? What then, Hunter?”

“Then our business is finished. Find the HEU yourself.”

“And, if I told you I know the name of the man who found the HEU in the sand, what would that mean to you?”

“It’d mean someone told you.”

“The man who found it on the beach is the same man who found it in the sea, Sean O’Brien.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sean O’Brien.”

Hunter was silent. He stood on the beach and watched a lifeguard open an umbrella on a stand closer to the breakers. Hunter said, “Don’t lie to me!”

“Why would I lie? I got what I needed from your double agent O’Brien. Now you can get what you need. But you might have to go through the … shall I say, gates of hell to catch him. He’s clever … and expensive.”

“What’d you get?”

“The original location of the sunken U-boat. Unfortunately, someone, probably the Russian, killed my men before they could get to it. And now we must buy from him only because he got to it before we could.”

“Russian? Who’s behind the auction?”

“A man you’ve chased for years. A brilliant Russian. Ran the old KGB, you just didn’t know it … perhaps one of your people knew it. This Russian, a free agent, if you will, has supplied our needs with weaponry. I believe because we are, perhaps, his best customer, there is the factor of customer loyalty.”

Hunter glanced back at the beach-cam. “You know you can’t trust the Russian! But if you know where he’s holding the HEU, you have a chance to compromise him and take it. What’s his name?

“Yuri Volkow, perhaps you know of this man. Perhaps he knows of you.”

Hunter said nothing, eyes focused on the horizon.

“Where is he holding it?” Mohammed asked.

“In Jacksonville. A warehouse. 1845 Anchor Drive. If it’s really Volkow, he said he’d kill the hostage if we didn’t deliver the rest of the HEU. Now that he’s got the uranium, the only reason he’d keep the kid alive is to use him as a shield or as a negotiation tool should we trap him. Make your bid higher than anyone else, and make a condition of the bid that he turns over the hostage to you.”

“Why would Volkow believe I would want the hostage?”

“He’d believe you will want to kill the hostage to have the video on the Internet.”

“He is of no value, Hunter.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How am I incorrect?”

“Because you killed his father. He died in the attack on the USS Cole. His father was a high-ranking officer, a captain in the U.S. Navy, and he was Jewish. Now, you almost have his son.”

“And the last of his seed?”

“Yes.”

“I like the way your mind works, Eric Hunter.”