The Black Bullet

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Mike Gates drove the speed limit, stopping for the convoy of police and emergency vehicles streaming toward the federal building. The only visible anxiety was the size of the sweat stain, which had grown into large, dark patches on his blue dress shirt. The odor of garlic from last night’s meal mixed with adrenaline and rose in an acrid blend from his pores. The taste in his mouth was like metal, hard water and rust. He used his cell phone.

“Yes,” Boris Borshnik said.

“I’ve been exposed!”

“How?”

“O’Brien! The fucking ex-cop! I don’t know how. I have to leave the country within the hour. I need asylum in Russia, with a guarantee I’ll be left alone.”

“No problem. You can be on an Aeroflot jet and routed from Miami to Moscow.”

“I’ll need papers, passport and money.”

“I understand. Meet me at the warehouse. You can obtain the money there. I’ll have the papers ready for you at Miami International.”

“Outside only.”

“Pardon.”

“Outside, meet me outside with the money, money still owed to me.”

“Certainly.” Borshnik disconnected. He turned to Zakhar Sorokin and said, “Gates will be arriving momentarily. Ambush him.”

“Shall I kill him?”

“No, bring him to me.”

Robert Miller sat in an opulent bar in the Ritz Carlton overlooking the ocean. He nursed a glass of Jameson and watched a news bulletin that appeared on the wide screen above the bar.

A female reporter stood in front of the federal building and began talking. Her brow wrinkled, face animated. Behind her were dozens of fire and rescue vehicles, smoke filtering ghostlike from three blown-out windows on the top floor.

“Turn it up, please,” Miller said to the bartender.

The news reporter pulled a strand of hair behind one ear and said, “The questions investigators now are asking is how did a suicide bomber get access into the federal building and who was he? It’s believed that the bomber is connected to a radical Islamic Jihad sect that may have the highly enriched uranium missing from the German submarine and the cache found on Rattlesnake Island. The body count is reported at nine now with at least a dozen people injured, many critically ….”

Miller sipped his drink and stared at the screen. His cell rang. Mike Gates was furious. “What’d you tell Sean O’Brien?”

“Nothing he didn’t already know.” Miller’s voice was filtered through Irish whiskey.

“You old fool! You didn’t have to say anything. There is no proof.”

“Don’t blame me for your mistakes. The only reason O’Brien found out was due to your carelessness-”

“I leave no trail!”

“Borshnik found you.”

“And O’Brien found you! You’ve cost me everything. I can’t even tell my wife goodbye. I no longer exist.”

“I’m sitting here watching your fuck ups. Half a dozen agents blown to hell and back. Your mistakes are massive, resulting in loss of life and property.”

“That was no mistake.”

“Then you’re sub-human. You belong in-”

“You fucking old hypocrite! You sold this country’s ass to Russia as Hitler was going down. You may be personally responsible for the deaths of thousands, from Korea to Vietnam, and you have the sanctimonious balls to lecture me. Go to hell!”

“I’d say we’re both almost there. It was your choice long ago. It’s a lonely life playing the game. But when you step out of the boundaries, you step into a house of mirrors. What you see reflecting back is whatever illusion you’ve created. Forever begins now, Gates. Hold that point up to the light from hell and leave me alone-”

“They’ll come for you, too. You just got away with it longer. You’ll go down as this country’s worst traitor! They’ll write the name Benedict Arnold over your damn grave. Do you hear me Miller? You fucking hear me!”

The phone went dead in Gate’s hand.