The tall man turned about and looked over at Jen; his cognac-brown eyes seemed to be studying her. Suddenly very uncomfortable at the man’s unwanted attention, Jen tried to look away.
A waiter dressed in an all-white uniform walked over and handed Jen and the man each a cool bottle of Perrier. With a nod, the waiter departed, leaving Jen and the man alone on the deck.
“Good afternoon Miss March,” said the man with a smile. “I hope that you are finding your accommodations satisfactory.”
Jen looked at the man and saw that he had short black hair along with his neatly trimmed circle goatee. He looked to be in superb physical shape. Jen figured that he was in his fifties and judging by what she had seen of his yacht, he was unbelievably rich. Lifting the bottle, Jen took a swig of her Perrier, felt the cool liquid soothe her parched throat, and then spoke, “Yes, my room is quite satisfactory.” If you like being held hostage, thought Jen.
“That’s good to hear,” said the man as he took a seat across from Jen. “Miss March, you must be very puzzled by what is going on. First off, let me introduce myself. My name is Dmitry Romanov, and as you have no doubt already figured out, you are no longer in Alaska.”
“By the smell of sand mixed with spices coming from the mainland, I would say we are somewhere off West Africa. I did some charity work here a few years back. The aroma is quite distinctive,” said Jen.
“Well done, Miss March. To be precise, we are currently anchored off the coast of Mauritania,” said Romanov as he leaned forward in his seat. “Now, you must be full of questions as to why I have brought you here. You can ask me anything you like.”
“Ok then, Mister Romanov, why am I here?” said Jen, getting to the point.
“Miss March, I am here looking for my past as well as my future. You see, there are some items belonging to my family that were lost in the desert decades ago, and I have been told by someone very special that you, and you alone, are the key to finding them for me,” said Romanov, a bright gleam in his eyes as he spoke.
Jen shook her head. Placing together the Romanov name and the story of the missing jewels she’d heard in Alaska, Jen instantly knew what the man was looking for.
“Mister Romanov, I’m a history professor, not an archaeologist,” explained Jen. “If you’re looking for the Romanov crown jewels reputed to have been on the Goliath when it disappeared, I’m sorry, but I may not be the best person for the job. I hope this isn’t all a big misunderstanding, and that you have the wrong Jennifer March.”
“Oh no, Miss March, I am quite certain that you are precisely the person I am looking for, and shortly you will help me retrieve what rightly belongs to my family. What I want is still buried somewhere out there, waiting for me to come and find it,” said Romanov, waving his arm towards the distant shore.
Jen looked towards the windswept shoreline, wondering if Romanov could possibly be right. She was genuinely intrigued, but still failed to see where she fit into his scheme to find the Goliath.
“The information found with you in Alaska has proven to be most useful,” said Romanov. “But it does not provide the missing piece of information that I need.”
“Sir, those weren’t my notes,” said Jen, slowly becoming exasperated with the man. “Your people murdered the man who wrote them. As I already said, I’m not an archaeologist.”
Romanov stood and looked down at Jen. “Miss March, I know this, and if there had been another path to follow I would have taken it, but you have been chosen.”
Jen looked into Romanov’s cold eyes and asked, “Chosen by whom?”
A smile emerged on Romanov’s face. “Miss March, like my forefathers, I am a true believer in mysticism. Ever since I was a young man, I have strongly believed in my ability to shape and control my own destiny. With the guiding hand of Madame Yusuf, an old Romanov family confidant, I have never once failed to achieve whatever I set my mind to. It was Madame Yusuf who told me about my future and the part you would play in it. Her mother was the spiritual advisor to Czar Nicholas II’s wife Alexandra. She is a psychic and true believer, like myself.”
Jen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She shook her head, unable to decide if the man was mad.
“I see the doubt in your eyes, Miss March,” said Romanov. “Please, let me explain. It was Madame Yusuf who told me that in order to secure my future, I must first sow chaos in my homeland, which I have done by financing revolution throughout Russia. Secondly, she told me to find my past here in Africa, and that by finding my family’s jewels, I would gain credibility with my future subjects in my homeland. Lastly, she told me that you, and you alone, Miss March, would lead me to the jewels. Surely, it’s clear even to you that you have a part to play in this grand endeavor.”
Jen sat back and looked over at Romanov. “Sir, honestly, I don’t believe in mysticism or psychic abilities. It’s nothing more than carefully posed questions designed to draw the right responses out of the people seeking guidance,” said Jen.
“Well, Miss March, we will have to agree to disagree on this matter, and I hope for your sake that you allow yourself to embrace your hidden abilities, or things might not go so well for you and your mother,” said Romanov coldly.
“You have me, you don’t have my mother,” Jen said defiantly. “She’s in protective custody with the police.”
Romanov smiled wickedly at Jen. “I am sorry, but that is not quite accurate. She was in police protective custody, but now she is on her way here. My people found her safe house and took her from it earlier this morning.”
“You bastard,” snarled Jen as she jumped up from her seat.
A guard instantly appeared with a pistol in his hands aimed straight at Jen’s head.
“I think we have finished our little discussion for today, Miss March. I need to place a call to a friend in Moscow,” said Romanov as he stood. “I will see that your mother is brought to you the instant she arrives.” With that, Romanov walked away, leaving Jen sitting there trying to control the growing hatred in her heart for the man.
16
An anonymous tip called into a local radio station had diverted the authorities. The usual daily traffic passing by the Kremlin was quickly rerouted to a side street, where it was searched by the police and armed forces for weapons and explosives being smuggled into the capital for the rebel forces. Before long, a column of traffic snaked back more than two kilometers from the police checkpoint.
The checkpoints, once confined to the roads around government buildings, had spread throughout the city, making life difficult, if not unbearable, for many Muscovites. Knowing there was nothing he could do about it, Anatoly Grekov sat back in his tanker truck, turned on his radio, and patiently waited his turn to drive through the checkpoint. He was looking forward to delivering his supply of gasoline to a nearby gas station and then getting home to his wife and newborn child before it got too late in the day. Like many young Russians, all he wanted was the opportunity to look after his family and make a decent and honest wage doing so. Growing restless, Grekov took out a picture of his child from his wallet and smiled. Their son would be three months old tomorrow and he could not wait to take him in his arms as soon as he got home. Unlike his father, he hoped for a large family with many sons.