Romanov said, “I thought about watching Chicago before flying back home to Russia. But then something came up. You know I’m a fan of musicals, right?”
“Right,” Justin said in a dubious tone.
“It’s true. I’m a big donor to the theater,” Romanov said with a nod. “It helps when I take business partners and their wives out for an exquisite evening, dinner and a show, like the Americans say.”
The Mercedes-Benz glided forward.
“Yes, and we’ll miss the show. Where are we going?” Justin asked.
Romanov held up his BlackBerry, which was sat on the console separating the large seats. “I’ve asked them to postpone the show for half an hour. I have another meeting after we’ve finished talking, so this will be just a short ride around the block.”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “They’ve postponed the show because you asked them?”
“What did I say? I’m a big donor,” Romanov said with a shrug.
“So, it was a coincidence you ran into me.”
Romanov grinned. “Not exactly. One of my sources checked the theater’s list of guests, and the name of Anna Worthley came up. She and one guest.”
Justin tightened his jaw and dug his fingers deep in the leather console by his seat. The surface was impeccably smooth, with a rich texture and a host of buttons on the top.
“How is she doing?” Romanov asked.
“Fine,” Justin replied in a cold, flat tone.
“And your dad?”
“He’s fine too. Smoking for fifty years gave him lung cancer as a retirement present. It will finally catch up to you as well.”
Romanov smiled, his tiny gray eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. “Ha. My Russian blood kills all nicotine. I don’t have to worry.” He took a puff from his cigarette, then blew the smoke out slowly in small circles.
“You’ve been spying on me, Romanov, and I don’t like it.” A dark frown had appeared on Justin’s face, but he was not sure Romanov could see it. He decided to word his feelings, so the Russian oligarch would hear and understand him.
Romanov leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. “Keeping tabs on old friends and caring about their lives is not spying in my books. But you know, like I know, there are some people who are looking very hard to find you, dead or alive, but preferably dead.”
Justin did not blink. Romanov had eyes and ears in many places, and by now the fatwa and bounty on his head was old news. “It’s true, but unrelated to our conversation. Now that you found me, what do you want?”
Romanov put out his cigarette by stubbing it out in an ashtray, then slid the ashtray back into the console. He took a deep breath and leaned forward. “I want you to take care of something for me. I had something stolen, and I want it back.”
Justin locked eyes with Romanov. “I already have a job and I don’t freelance.”
Romanov waved his right hand in front of him. “It’s a favor.”
He did not say it, but he did not have to. Justin understood what Romanov meant: it was time for Justin to repay an old favor. He knew borrowing Romanov’s Bugatti Veyron for his unauthorized covert operation in Nice earlier that year was going to come back to haunt him. He just did not know where and how. Now he would find out.
Justin nodded. It was sufficient to express his agreement to at least listen to Romanov’s proposal. “Who dares to steal from you?”
Romanov grinned. “Their families have already paid dearly for their sins. They betrayed me. It was a few men whose loyalty to me had a price.”
Higher than the one you were paying them, was Justin’s first thought. He nodded.
“A crew of eight men was aboard a cargo plane headed for Jizan, Saudi Arabia. En route, they changed their flight course, diverting into Sa’dah, in northern Yemen.”
Justin frowned. “The plane wasn’t carrying equipment for the oil refineries of Jizan, was it?”
Romanov shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Do you care to tell me what the cargo was?”
“I think you already know the answer.”
Justin let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. The cargo contained weapons. I didn’t know you’ve branched out into the arms trade.”
He smiled. “A small investment to test the market.”
“What kind of weapons are we talking about?”
It was Romanov’s turn to sigh. “SA-24s.”
“What?” Justin fell back in his seat. “A planeload full of surface-to-air heat-seeking missiles is gone now, probably in the hands of Yemeni terrorists?”
Romanov’s eyes narrowed. “I would have not called you if it was a batch of Makarov pistols.” He scratched his drooping chin, before continuing, “And the cargo is not gone. The crates have trackers, so I can follow the delivery to its destination. My sources tell me they haven’t fallen into terrorists’ hands. Yet.”
Justin weighed on Romanov’s words. SA-24s had the same capacities as the American-made Stinger missiles. One of them — in able hands, and Yemen had plenty of able terrorist hands — was sufficient to bring down a heavy combat helicopter or a low-flying small airplane. These shoulder-launched missiles could destroy targets as high as 11,000 feet, over a distance of three and a half miles. “Where is the cargo now?”
Romanov took a second before replying, “Somewhere north of Sa’dah. I have the exact coordinates.” He tapped his BlackBerry.
“That’s a terrorist stronghold. Houthis insurgents control all the roads in and out of the area. They also have a large number of men and weapons stationed there.”
“Yes, but they haven’t gotten hold of my cargo. The thieves were planning to sell the cargo, but the original deal went bad, so they are looking for a new deal.”
Justin put his hands together, locking his fingers. “And that’s your plan, to send me in as a potential buyer?”
He nodded. “It’s an idea, unless you want to charge into the warehouse and kill them all.”
Justin grinned. “Yeah, that was my first impulse. You don’t have someone else you can trust to take care of this?”
Romanov looked out the dark windows. The glow of outside lights came in filtered and distorted, as if through a thick haze. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m having some trust issues with people around me.” He spoke the words in a hushed tone, as if he did not want to hear his own confession. “But you’ve never given me a reason to doubt your motives or your abilities.”
Justin blinked. He had never heard Romanov use flattery as a currency.
Romanov paused for a moment, then turned his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his left palm. “And I’ve got to get these bastards. I’m not going to let eight bastards put me to shame.”
Justin glanced at Romanov’s face. His eyes had turned black with anger. “There’s more at stake here than this cargo. It’s my reputation. I always deliver on my promises,” Romanov said. “Saudi Arabia is a big arms market. They spent over thirty billion dollars in weapons last year, and the Americans, of course, took the lion’s share. We’ve seen our exports cut in half, and we’re losing ground to the French.”
“So the Saudis don’t know their shipment is missing?”
“It’s not missing, it’s delayed until you,” he pointed his thick finger at Justin’s chest, “you retrieve it.”
Justin began to shake his head, but Romanov raised a dismissive hand. “Your interest and the interest of the Western world are for Yemeni insurgents not to get hold of these missiles. I don’t have to explain you the consequences if al-Shabaab or al-Qaeda add these weapons to their arsenal. It may even tip the scales of their ongoing war against the Yemeni government.”