Tom Lowe - The Black Bullet

O’Brien backed his Jeep out of Brad Ford’s driveway, stopping at the mailbox. He opened his laptop and logged online. In less than five minutes, he traced much of the public history surrounding Ivan Borshnik. He called Lauren Miles. “The name you gave me, the real name for Volkow, you said it was Borshnik, right?”

“Yes.”

“What was his father’s name?”

“I have to check the dossier.”

“In 1945, FBI agent Robert Miller was the courier between Ethan Lyons, he’s the former physicist, the one who did twenty years on espionage convictions-”

“Okay-”

“He handed off his dirty little secrets to Agent Miller who, in turn, sold some or set up a Russian spy. A guy named Ivan Borshnik.”

“What?”

“If Volkow is the son of Ivan Borshnik, he’d be in his late fifties.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the elder Borshnik was a Russian spy. Sentenced to death in 1951. If he was married or had a girlfriend, the last time they could have been together was in 1950. Factor in nine months for a pregnancy and you could have the birth of a baby. In this case, Borshnik would be the son of the only Russian to have been put to death in an American electric chair.”

“Oh my God,” Lauren said.

“Which means, our rouge weapons broker, Yuri Volkow, may be Boris Borshnik. And he’s here to avenge the death of his father. I want to know how he got here so fast to steal the HEU. If Robert Miller’s alive, could he answer that question?”

“Miller’s alive. Lives in the Olde Club Condos in New Smyrna. Although he’d retired twenty-five years ago, the official notice of his departure from the bureau was death caused by a massive heart attack. He’s one of the old timers that entered what is essentially a witness protection plan. But rather than change the ID and relocate a witness, in the case of deep cover people like Miller, a death was plausible. What crazy irony-”

“Nothing ironic about it. It’s planned, Lauren. I’m going to New Smyrna.”

“You’ll never get in to see him.”

“I’ll figure it out … maybe it’ll close more than six decades of mystery.”

“But we’ve got less than twenty-three hours before the auction, and we’d like to find Volkow, or whatever his name is, before his buyers do.”

“Call me when you get a specific address. Lauren …?”

“Yes?”

“How long has Mike Gates been with the bureau?”

“I think he’s coming up on this thirtieth year. Why?”

“See if he knew or trained under Robert Miller.”

“Sean, for Christ sakes! What are you suggesting?”

“Tell him you reached me and I had asked you if he, Gates, had worked with Miller. Try to gauge his reaction, however microscopic it might be.”

“Sean-”

“See if you can find Miller’s report of Billy Lawson’s death.” O’Brien disconnected and called Dave Collins. After he’d finished telling Dave about Yuri Volkow’s history, he said, “Maybe it’s not Hunter … maybe its Mike Gates. I’m convinced someone inside has an ear to the wall and he or she is passing the information to Yuri Volkow, Mohammed Sharif, or maybe playing them both.”

“Gates? He’s a living legend within the bureau.”

“He could be living a lie. What if Volkow, whose real name is Boris Borshnik, is Ivan Borshnik’s son? There’s your motive, Dave. And if junior recruited Mike Gates, maybe we can tie it back to Robert Miller who may have trained Gates. Take it back to what he knew and what he did from the time Billy Lawson saw the Germans and the mystery man on the beach that night. Let’s take it through the conviction of the physicist Ethan Lyons, to the execution of Ivan Borshnik in an American electric chair.”

“Sean, how in God’s name, in the middle of this terrorist manhunt … how can we investigate Mike Gates?”

“By finding and tricking Robert Miller into admitting what happened.”

“I don’t know-”

“Listen! It’s our best shot because if it’s Gates, he’s responsible for the deaths of Jason’s girlfriend, the storage manager, the four FBI agents, the two state troopers … and Jason if we don’t find him. We stop what’s happening by trapping Gates.”

“What can I do?”

“I need you to find Ethan Lyon’s address?”

“If he’s alive-”

“He should be. His death would probably warrant an obit. Text the address to me when you get it. If you can find a phone number, call him.”

“And tell him what?”

“Tell him you’re an editor with any news organization you want to use, and you have a reporter in the area who’d like to stop by for a brief comment.”

“Why would this reporter want to stop by?”

“I’m sure he’ll want to know, and he might even have something to say when you tell him why I’m seeking a comment.”

“Why?”

“Because FBI agent Robert Miller never died. He’s alive and we’re working on a story about the Manhattan Project, we thought Lyons might share his remembrances.”

“He might not have anything to say.”

“Possible. But he’s in his mid-to-late eighties. If he thinks Miller is alive and well, there could be some smoldering animosity inside Lyon’s gut. He may want to talk.”

“Hold on, Sean. I’m pulling his address up now … just a sec … it’s 574 °Cardinal Circle in St. Cloud, Florida.”

“Thanks.” O’Brien disconnected.

Dave Collins almost didn’t answer his cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number. On the fourth ring he answered. It was Eric Hunter. “Dave, we need to talk.”

“Okay. What’s this about?”

“Sean O’Brien.”

“What about Sean?”

“Not on the phone.”

“Is he on his boat or back at his river house?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know. Look, Eric-”

“We’ll be on your boat in a half hour.”

“Who’s we-“

Hunter was gone.

O’Brien parked near a large banyan tree adjacent to a city park and a lake. He could see the old man standing next to the water’s edge on a peninsula-strip of land that jutted into the lake like a large thumb.

O’Brien kept his eyes on the man who was feeding ducks pieces of bread. As O’Brien got closer, he could hear the quacking that the ducks made each time the man tossed a sliver of bread onto the water’s surface.

Ethan Lyons looked up when O’Brien approached. He wore thick glasses, his face withered from age and sun. He wore a baseball cap with the NASA logo on it, and beneath it protruded pieces of thin white hair that resembled broken cobwebs floating in the breeze.

“Do you have enough bread for all of them?” O’Brien asked.

“Hope so. I try to scatter it pretty well so the little ones get some, too.”

“I’m Sean O’Brien. I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”

“Your editor said you wanted to talk about Robert Miller.”

“Yes, we’re trying to get a little more background information. After all these years, his life will make a good story. I understand he played a principal role in your conviction. Can you paint a picture of those times? How’d Agent Miller catch you?”

“Let’s sit on the bench behind me. My legs aren’t so good anymore.” Lyons threw the remaining pieces of bread to the ducks and sat down. O’Brien sat a few feet away from him. The old man’s eyes looked toward the lake, following a small sailboat on the horizon. “All these years, I thought he was dead. Not that I feel angry he’s alive, if that makes sense.”

“I understand.”

Lyons sighed then inhaled though his nose like the breeze across the lake would clear his sinuses. He began slowly, voice throaty, a strained whisper. “During the war, Russia was our partner … part of the Allies fighting an enemy of diabolical cleverness and resourcefulness. I was young, saw the world through rose-colored glasses. At first I had no intention of selling or sharing our Los Alamos diary, if you will, to Russia.”