Hilton Hotel - Algiers
Algeria
At first, the ringing was so distant, that it didn’t seem real. But as time passed, the sound would not go away; in fact, it seemed to grow closer and louder by the second. Struggling through the sleepy haze in his mind, Mitchell rolled over, and searched for the phone on the bedside table. He picked it up. “Mitchell here,” he mumbled, his mouth as dry as cotton.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said Jackson, far too cheerily on the other end of the line. “Haul your ass into the shower and meet us in the restaurant for breakfast.”
Mitchell blinked and tried to focus his weary eyes on his watch, and saw that it was already past seven in the morning. He sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and stretched out his aching back. He had not planned to sleep that long, but it was apparent his exhausted body needed the rest.
After quickly showering and changing, Mitchell strolled down to the lobby and joined his friends in the hotel restaurant for a breakfast buffet. The women grabbed a healthy mix of yogurts and fruit, while the men, led by Jackson, heaped eggs, sausages, bacon, and fried potatoes on their plates. They took a table in the corner of the restaurant to eat their meal in relative peace.
They had arrived in Algiers late the night before. Their journey out of Mauritania was fast and uneventful. They had flown to an airstrip on the border with the Western Sahara, where a plane belonging to one of Yuri’s contacts was waiting for them. From there, they carried on to El Aaiun, the most populated city in the Western Sahara, where they caught a commercial flight to Algiers. Mitchell spent most of the flight filling O’Reilly in on what had happened in Mauritania, and asked for help in tracking down where the Romanovs could be heading. Tammy Spencer arranged for them to stay the night in a hotel, while they decided what to do next.
Mitchell sat at the breakfast table, checked his watch again, and took into account the time change. General O’Reilly wanted them to check in as soon as they could. Only Jackson, who acted like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, had to be coerced into leaving the buffet. Together, they all headed upstairs to Fahimah and Mrs. March’s room. Mitchell ordered up some more coffee from room service while Fahimah established a secure line over her laptop with the Polaris Complex.
The screen came to life. Sitting in the main briefing room in Albany were General O’Reilly, and Fahimah’s immediate supervisor, Mike Donaldson. O’Reilly looked relieved to see Mitchell’s entire team sitting around looking relatively healthy and mostly unscathed after the recent events in Mauritania. Mitchell quickly made the introductions between Mrs. March and the people back in the States.
“Okay, Ryan, two things,” said O’Reilly. “First, I’m happy to see all of you sitting there in one piece. The second thing is that the State Department has gone absolutely ballistic over your antics in the Romanov oil refinery.”
Mitchell sat up, puzzled by the news. “Sir, why the hell would the State Department object to us trying to rescue American citizens being held against their will?”
“It’s not that. It’s Dmitry Romanov that has them all up in arms,” replied O’Reilly.
“Sorry, General, but I’m not following you on this one.”
“Folks, while you’ve been away, the situation has really deteriorated throughout Russia,” explained Donaldson. “President Ivankov has let the army loose, but with many generals now openly siding with the nationalists, it could go either way. The country has almost reached a tipping point; one good solid nudge and it could conceivably fall to the rebels.”
“Still not following,” said Mitchell.
O’Reilly spoke. “Ryan, my sources tell me that President Kempt is prepared to ask Ivankov to step down so a new president can take charge of the country. It would appear that the administration’s ace in the hole, so to speak, is Romanov.”
“What? They can’t be serious. He’s responsible for everything that happened to Miss March and her mother. Only one of whom we have been able to free so far, I might add,” said Mitchell, trying to keep his cool.
“I know, Ryan. I was fully briefed by Mike and his people when I came in this morning. I called some of my friends in the administration with this information and, to be blunt, they don’t care. The stability of a nuclear-armed state is more important to them right now,” said O’Reilly.
Mitchell sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. It all seemed to fly in the face of logic. Handing that SOB the keys to a country with nuclear weapons made absolutely no sense to Mitchell.
“Mike, did you read the report Fahimah and I put together yesterday for you?” asked Mitchell. “Unbelievably, Miss March helped Romanov find the Russian royal family’s missing crown jewels. Aside from the name, is he a descendant of Czar Nicholas II? The way he was operating in the desert has me baffled. It was as if he didn’t care if anyone found out what he was up to.”
“I have looked into Romanov’s family history, but I have to admit that I’m not a genealogist. The case he’s put forward seems a little too clean. However, Romanov believes that some newly found family records will prove his claim to the throne,” explained Donaldson.
“Sounds dodgy, if you ask me,” said Mitchell.
“For now, I think it might be better for all of us if you avoided any more contact with Romanov,” said O’Reilly. “At least until the situation in Russia settles down. Once it’s quiet over there, we can try prodding the State Department to ask for Miss March’s safe return.”
“Sir, please. These people have my Jen,” pleaded Mrs. March. “She’s all I have. They’re monsters. Once they no longer need Jen, they’ll kill her.”
O’Reilly took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mrs. March, but I’m getting a lot of pressure from Washington to bring you folks home right now. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot we can do to help her, other than ask the State Department for assistance once this all dies down. Right now, we don’t even know where she is.”
Mrs. March fought the urge to lash out at the bureaucratic mentality of the government. “This isn’t right, General,” she said, trying to stay calm. “She may be one person when compared to what’s going on in Russia, but she’s my girl, and she needs your help.”
Mitchell reached over and tenderly squeezed Corrine’s hand.
“Sir, are you really going to let the State Department tell you what you can and can’t do?” asked Mitchell.
O’Reilly’s expression remained serious for a moment, and then he smiled at the screen. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” said O’Reilly, knowing that he needed to find a way to get the administration to listen. “But I’ve got to be forthright here. Washington isn’t really interested in my badgering them again, but you have my word that I’ll try. Until then, just relax where you are, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
Mrs. March bit her lip and nodded.
A cellphone went off, breaking the tension in the room. Yuri rose from his seat and dug through the collection of jackets and bags piled on the other bed. Finally finding the buzzing phone, Yuri saw that it belonged to Mitchell. “Ryan, you have a call coming in,” said Yuri, looking over at Mitchell.
“You take it,” said Mitchell, too focused on the discussion with General O’Reilly to care who could possibly be calling him.
“Da, Ryan Mitchell’s phone, Yuri speaking,” said Yuri, trying to sound professional but failing miserably.
A voice answered in Russian; the color instantly drained from Yuri’s face.
“Ryan, it’s for you,” stammered Yuri, looking down at the phone in his hand.
“Take a message,” replied Mitchell without looking over at Yuri.
“No, Ryan, I think you really need to answer the call,” said Yuri, holding out the phone.
Mitchell turned and saw the pale look on Yuri’s face. The room went silent. Standing, Mitchell walked over and took the phone from Yuri.
“Hello, who is this?” asked Mitchell.
“Good morning, Mister Mitchell. My name is Nika Romanov. You shoul
d remember me. The last time we met you gave me a large bump on the side of my head and broke my nose. I hope you and your friends slept well.”
Mitchell’s blood ran cold. “I’d hoped the knock on your noggin had killed you,” replied Mitchell.
“That’s not very civil of you, Mister Mitchell,” scolded Nika. “Now, just to put your mind at ease, your girlfriend is all right. In fact, I got your number from her.”
“Thanks for the update,” replied Mitchell. “Now, why did you call me?”
“Ah, I knew you would be the direct type. Mister Mitchell, I want to make you a proposal.”
The hair on the back of his neck shot straight up, telling him to tread lightly. “What kind of proposal?”
“Don’t play games with me, Mister Mitchell, we both know what you have, and my father is willing to trade Miss March for the crown that you stole from me.”
“What if I don’t have your precious crown anymore?” said Mitchell, trying to see what she did or didn’t know.
Nika laughed aloud. “Please, Mister Mitchell, don’t be foolish. We have Miss March, and you have the crown.”
“Okay, so we have the crown. What do expect me to do? I’m not just going to mail it to you and hope that by the grace of God you’ll release Jen.”
“No, of course not, Mister Mitchell. I expect you to board the next available flight from Algiers and make your way to Keflavik, Iceland, where some of my father’s employees will meet you and escort you to a location where the exchange can take place. Once we have the crown, we will return you and Miss March to wherever you want to go unharmed.”
“What if I were to call BS on that one?”
“I figured you would say that,” said Nika, her voice growing cold. “So listen closely: This offer is good for twenty-four hours only. If you are not here by then, I will personally put a bullet in Miss March’s head and drop her corpse into the Atlantic Ocean.”
Mitchell fought to control his boiling anger and hatred for this woman and her evil family. “Now you listen closely. If you harm just one hair on her head, I will personally gut you and leave you to bleed out,” said Mitchell, leaving no doubt in Nika’s mind that he meant what he said.
“I look forward to seeing you again,” said Nika, before hanging up.
Mitchell stood there, staring at his phone, his eyes burning with anger.
“What is it, Ryan?” asked Jackson, seeing the look on Mitchell’s face. “What’s going on?”
Mitchell stood there lost in thought. Tossing his phone on the empty bed, Mitchell strode over and looked down at the image of General O’Reilly on the laptop.
“Ryan, I’ve seen that look before,” said O’Reilly, seeing the rage in Mitchell’s eyes. “What the hell just happened?”
“General, I am going to do something that the blessed suits in the State Department aren’t going to like,” said Mitchell. “If you like, we can terminate this discussion now, and you will have total deniability should things go badly.”
“Ryan, I have never let my people do something I wasn’t willing to take responsibility for, and I don’t intend to do so now,” replied O’Reilly. “What’s going on?”
Mitchell quickly relayed the phone call conversation to O’Reilly, and told him that he intended to go and get Jen back before they followed through on their threat and killed her.
“Ryan, these people are starting to piss me off, too. You do what you have to,” said O’Reilly.
“Thanks, sir,” replied Mitchell.
“Now, is there anything you need us to do, other than keep State off your back?”
Mitchell sat there for a moment, rubbing his stubble-covered chin. “Mike, I need you to identify any and all of Romanov Corporation holdings in and around Iceland,” said Mitchell to Donaldson.
“I’m already on it,” answered Donaldson, as he turned away from the camera, and focused on his laptop.
O’Reilly leaned forward and spoke. “Ryan, I’d like a back brief within the hour on what you’re planning.”
“Will do, sir, and thanks for the support,” said Mitchell, waving to O’Reilly through the laptop.
“Ryan, I’ve got the info you’re looking for,” said Donaldson. “The Romanov Corporation has very limited holdings in Iceland, but they recently negotiated the right to drill for oil offshore and currently have an oil-exploration vessel located off the island of Dragon er eldur, Dragon’s fire,” explained Donaldson. “I’ve emailed Fahimah all the relevant info.”
“Okay, at least that’s something to go with for now,” said Mitchell. “Take a close look at their activities around that island, and feed that info to Fahimah as well. Thanks again, Mike.”
“Ryan, I know you’ll do what you think is right and that’s good enough for me,” said O’Reilly with a quick nod, as the feed was terminated.
“Okay, Ryan, now that you and the boss seem to be making nice,” said Jackson, “if you think you’re just going to run out on us and leave us here, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Mitchell smiled at his friend. For the next half hour, Mitchell and his team discussed the call from Nika and their options to help Jen. No matter how limited they were, no one suggested abandoning her to the Romanovs. By the time they called General O’Reilly back, Mitchell had the genesis of a plan and briefed it to O’Reilly, who, seeing no realistic alternatives to the foolhardy plan, gave it his blessing.
Minutes later, Mitchell was on his way to the airport, knowing that this was probably nothing more than a ruse to get him to Iceland, where the crown would be taken from him. After that, they could kill him at their leisure. Not for the first time in his life, Mitchell was counting on his friends to help when all else looked grim. It was a trust that Mitchell knew he could count on.
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