“Being the only non-historian here, what exactly constitutes the Russian crown jewels?” asked Mitchell.
“There are the sovereign’s crown, which would have been worn by the Czar, along with the consort’s crown, and a scepter and orb,” explained Reid. “You can easily find information on all of them on the web.”
Jen leaned forward in her chair. “Sir, that’s quite the claim. Can you prove any of this?”
“My uncle obtained the sworn testimony of a fellow called Father Patrick Murphy, before he died of throat cancer in 1974. He claims to have helped transport the jewels to a rendezvous outside of Dublin during the fighting, where the jewels were switched and his brother was murdered. He was lucky to survive, himself. When he finally arrived home and told his mother what had happened, he learned the truth behind his family’s participation in hiding the jewels.”
“But you said that they were placed onboard the Goliath in Paris,” said Mitchell.
“That I did,” he replied. “The jewels were smuggled out of Ireland by a pro-monarchist group who had decided to safeguard them until a Romanov heir could be returned to the throne of Russia. However, no secret ever stays a secret forever. Soon, Red agents began to close in on the hiding place of the jewels, so it was decided to move them far from Paris and to the home of Lord Roberts, a British sympathizer, who lived in Durbin, South Africa. Unfortunately, the jewels never arrived, as they were lost along with the Goliath.”
“Well, I can now see why someone would be very interested in finding the Goliath,” said Mitchell. “But why the fixation on Jen?”
“That, Mister Mitchell, I cannot answer.”
13
Outside, a heavy blowing snow had blanketed Mitchell’s rented car with a thick layer of fresh snow.
Silently, a shape moved out from the snow-covered pine trees lining the road to Reid’s cottage. Slowly, the form coalesced into that of a man dressed in military-style winter white coveralls. Clenched firmly in his hands was an AK-74 with a long suppressor on it. Stopping barely a meter away from the driver’s side of the rental car, the man raised his AK to his shoulder, took aim, and noiselessly fired off three rounds into the vehicle’s engine block, instantly disabling it.
Cautiously, the man looked about and then, with a slight wave of his hand, four more men, all dressed in white, emerged like ghosts out of the blowing snow and walked over to the assassin.
“All right, I want this done quickly and quietly. Listen up: I do not want the woman to be harmed in the slightest. As for the old man, keep him alive long enough for him to give us what information he has. After that, kill him. The other man inside is a former US soldier and is highly dangerous, so don’t hesitate, kill him on sight,” said Teplov to his men, his voice as cold as the blowing snow falling to the ground, covering their tracks.
The thugs nodded their acknowledgement. With precision learned from years of brutal fighting deep inside Chechnya, the men silently fanned out and took up fire-positions around the building.
Teplov was pleased with the operation thus far. It had taken a lot of money to get his weapons of choice delivered to Alaska on such short notice, but Teplov always knew how to find men who only needed money to look the other way. Like his men, all Teplov cared about was money, lots of money, and as long as it flowed he was willing to take the risks. A series of quick clicks sounded in his earpiece. A crooked smile crept across his scarred face. His men were all in position and ready to begin the assault.
Inside the cottage, Sandy raised her ears. Something troubled her. Sitting up, she began to growl at the front door.
“Be quiet, Sandy,” ordered Reid.
Mitchell looked over at the dog and instantly felt his pulse race. He had been with teams who had used dogs in Afghanistan, and knew that the dog was bothered by something unseen. Something dangerous.
The dog growled deeper. Sandy slowly crept towards the front door, baring her teeth to ward off the approaching threat.
“Sandy, come here,” said Reid, firmly snapping his fingers to get the dog’s attention.
Mitchell’s instincts kicked into high gear. “Mister Reid, do you have any guns here?” asked Mitchell as he looked around for an exit. He gritted his teeth. He had underestimated the persistence of his opponents. He would not do that again.
Reid nodded, walked over to a closed wooden closet in the kitchen, and then opened the doors, revealing an old double-barreled shotgun.
Mitchell practically sprinted over and snatched the shotgun out of the closet.
Sandy growled again and moved over beside her master, defiantly protecting him from the invisible danger.
“What’s going on, Ryan?” asked Jen nervously.
“Not sure, but I don’t think we’re alone,” answered Mitchell.
Pleased to see that Reid kept his shotgun in pristine condition, Mitchell grabbed a couple of slugs, swiftly loaded them in, and then slammed the shotgun closed. Hurriedly, he stuffed more shells into his pockets. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Mitchell pointed the shotgun at the front door.
“Sir, is there another way in or out of here?” Mitchell asked Reid over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the door, expecting to see an unwanted guest at any second.
“The only other door is the one we came in leading to the garage,” replied Reid, reaching for his thick red hunting jacket.
“Is your car in there?” said Mitchell, edging back from the front of the house.
“My car’s in town, getting repaired. It was giving me trouble, so my friend Julie gave me a lift in and out of town yesterday,” Reid replied apologetically.
Mitchell was about to say something, when suddenly, the world around them exploded in a hail of bullets, broken glass and wooden splinters as gunfire tore through the house. Reid never had a chance. Hit dozens of times in his chest, he staggered backwards, and then fell straight back onto the floor, dead.
Mitchell barely had time to pull Jen to the floor, instantly covering her with his body.
The deadly torrent of bullets tore through the cottage, sending bits of wood and furniture spinning through the air. Mitchell tried lifting his head to see where the gunfire was coming from, but with the volume of fire tearing through the house, he couldn’t see a thing. Their opponents were too well hidden. Unlike before, Mitchell knew he was facing professionals.
Jen screamed; the noise was deafening as bullets continued to tear the old wooden cottage apart. It was as if a giant was outside taking a buzz saw to the whole place. Wooden debris and pieces of chewed-up books rained down on Mitchell and Jen.
The shooting suddenly stopped. Silence filled the air.
Mitchell knew what was coming next. Moving away from Jen, he quickly brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and took aim at the front door.
Simultaneously, the front and back doors of the house exploded inwards. The doors shattered into thousands of pieces by the force of the shaped charges placed against them.
Mitchell felt the explosions deep inside his body. His ears rang from the blasts.
“Stay down,” yelled Mitchell at Jen just as a white shape suddenly appeared in the blown-out entrance to the house. It smoothly dropped to one knee and raised its AK, intent on spraying the inside of the house with a deadly fusillade of bullets before entering.
Mitchell did not hesitate, pulling back on the first trigger, the shotgun roared in his hands. Flames leapt from the barrel of the old weapon as the 12-gauge pellets hit the attacker square in the chest. The force of the impact threw the man backwards and out into the yard. His dead body lay there as falling snow slowly covered his bloody chest.
Spinning around on the floor, Mitchell aimed the shotgun over the top of Jen and towards the destroyed back door. Without waiting for a target to appear, he counted to two in his head and fired.