“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.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Lauren Miles had agreed to meet O’Brien at a place called Hell’s Kitchen, a hole-in-the-wall diner on Daytona Beach that served breakfast only. They sat on a tiny balcony overlooking the Sunglow Pier, the smell of sea salt and wet sand blowing up from below them. “Thanks for meeting me,” O’Brien said.
Lauren looked across the ocean. “You don’t know how good it feels to get away from the command center if for only an hour. The whole place seems like a funeral parlor. Ron Bridges’ wife had to be sedated when she heard. The other agents that died were from our profile division in Quantico. It’s hard to plan four funerals, concentrate on finding the terrorists, try to secure the HEU, and get Jason Canfield out safe.”
“Maybe they’ll use him as a bargaining chip.”
“Their website has a simple graphic that says the auction begins Sunday at four Eastern Time. We don’t know what they have planned. We have some new intel, and now we believe a Russian, Yuri Volkow, ambushed our team and stole the uranium. We think Mohammed Sharif and his group will either try to out bid for the uranium, or simply take it by force if they can find the Russians. We’re trying to come up with a plan to catch both groups at the same time, maybe under the same roof, if we can pull it off.”
“Do you know where Volkow may be hiding?”
“No. We believe it could be somewhere in the Jacksonville area. The firewall he’s using on the site won’t allow geographic penetration or tracing. But if we could lead Sharif to the water, so to speak, we may close the gate on the bastards, Russian and jihad terrorists.”
“We’ve only got 32 hours left to try to save Jason, if they haven’t killed him already. O’Brien was silent, eyes scanning the ocean to a smudge of a mauve rain cloud perched on the horizon.
Lauren said, “We’re doing all we can to make sure Jason doesn’t become another causality in this never-ending war on our own soil.”
“Maybe some of what Billy Lawson was up against when he first saw the Germans and Japanese get off that sub and bury the canisters on the beach.”
“Now it’s not the Germans and Japanese. It’s the Russians and a consortium of radical Muslims, tied to al Qaeda and ostensibly Hezbollah, that are here.”
“The Russians were here in 1945, too.”
“Well, I guess, after the big war ended the cold war began to get colder.”
“Check into the FBI’s declassified files. See what you can find on an agent by the name of Robert Miller. See if you can find a report he filed, probably May of ’45 on the Billy Lawson case.”
“Robert Miller. I’ve heard the name. One of those old legends, he did it all, tackled everything from the mob to spies. He’s been retired for twenty-five years, at least. Maybe he’s dead. Still run across his name tied to some ancient case from time to time.”
“He could be tied to a current case.”
“What?”
“Don’t know for sure.”
“Sean, I’ve seen that look on your face before. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”
“How’d Yuri Volkow know Nick and I found the remaining U-235 canisters? How’d he know the FBI was transporting it somewhere?”
“We assumed they’d had a tail on you. One that you couldn’t spot.”
“There were some fishermen on the beach that night … but ….”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ve got a mole. Someone smart enough to work the Russians and al Qaeda.”
“Don’t even say that-”
“Listen, Lauren. This mess we’re in now, I think it began the moment Billy Lawson saw that sub on the horizon and the Germans rowing to shore. His widow told me she distinctly heard three shots coming through the phone that night. Yet she insists that the FBI, and for that matter, the local sheriff, reported one shot from a.38.”
“Why would the bureau cover up the killing of a young man still on active duty with the Army as the war was winding down?”
“Good question.” O’Brien took out a pen and began writing on a napkin. He handed the napkin to Lauren. “Guy’s name is Ethan Lyons. He did a couple of decades in a federal house for selling nuclear secrets, straight out of Los Alamos, to the Russians. He attended Harvard same time Robert Miller was there. Years later, Miller is the go-between, buying atomic secrets from Lyons and supposedly setting up the Russians.”