“Colonel Chang told me about the escape, but he forgot to tell me that you had lost the consort’s crown,” said Romanov mournfully.
“Must have slipped his mind,” said Nika. “Don’t worry father, we can get it back,” said Nika, looking over at Jen.
“What are you thinking?” asked Romanov.
“Mitchell seems driven to protect this woman. Perhaps we can use her as a bargaining chip. A simple one for one trade,” explained Nika.
“Perhaps?” pondered Romanov.
“Where is Alexandra?” asked Nika, not seeing her sister in the plane.
“I sent her ahead with a small detail of men to prepare for our arrival. With things changing hourly, I wanted to ensure that we did not have any further needless delays or interference. Forty-eight hours from now, the world will watch as I become the next President of Russia, all thanks to a group of misguided nationalist thugs and a couple of well-placed nuclear bombs.”
Nika felt fatigue taking hold of her tired frame. Closing her eyes, she reclined her seat all the way back. In seconds, she was fast asleep, oblivious to the world around her, while Chang and his men finished their preparations. On schedule, they took off, leaving the sand-strewn shores of Africa, flying towards their rendezvous with destiny.
31
The ringing at first seemed so distant, but it 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. Fumbling, he picked it up. “Mitchell here,” he said, his mouth cottony-dry.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” said Jackson, far too cheerily on the other end of the line. “Haul your ass into the shower and meet me in the restaurant for breakfast.”
Mitchell tried to focus his weary eyes on his Casio Pathfinder watch and saw that it was already past seven in the morning. Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stretched out his aching back. He had not planned to sleep that long, but his exhausted body must have needed it.
Quickly showering and changing, Mitchell made his way 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, and fried potatoes on their plates. Taking a table in the corner of the restaurant, they sat down and ate 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 onto 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 in O’Reilly 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 before deciding what to do next.
Mitchell sat at the breakfast table, checked his watch, 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.
On schedule, 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 folks back in the States.
“Ok, 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. “Why the hell would the State Department object to us trying to rescue US citizens being held against their will?” asked Mitchell.
“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 the president 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.”
“General, 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 descendent 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, but Romanov claims that some newly-found family records will prove his claim to the throne,” said 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,” said Mrs. March, her voice strained. “She’s all I have. These people are 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.