The screen split and Donaldson rejoined the conversation. For the next five minutes, he laid out the history of the Romanov Corporation, which as expected was a multinational corporation with holdings in the tens of billions of dollars.
Fahimah looked at Donaldson, slightly perplexed. “Mike, without being disrespectful, this is all open-source information. I'm not sure where you’re going with all of this,” she said.
“I knew you would say that,” Donaldson replied. “I did a little snooping around his corporation’s financial department and found several irregularities relating to his stated profit margin. It would appear that for the past year, he’s been moving large sums of cash ear-marked for his oil exploration operations in Iceland to an account in Switzerland.” Donaldson took a sip of coffee, and then continued. “Using less than legal software provided to me by an old friend within the Treasury Department, I took a close look at these transactions and found that almost five billion dollars have been forwarded to dummy accounts and shell-corporations throughout the world.”
“So, he’s a tax cheat,” said Jackson. “Name one honest multibillionaire out there?”
Donaldson smiled and then said, “It’s not that at all, Nate, some of these dummy accounts and shell-corporations are on the NSA and CIA’s watch lists for suspicion of financing international terror. In short, I suspect that Romanov is in bed with the rebels fighting to overthrow the Russian Government.”
“Good God,” said Fahimah, stunned by the news. “He’s playing both ends against the middle. Does the State Department know this?”
“That’s just it, I only have a really good hunch to go on right now,” said Donaldson. “I don’t have the proverbial smoking gun in my hands to tie him directly to the rebels, but trust me, I'm working on it.”
O’Reilly chimed in, “I’ve told Mike to chase this down, no matter what. I’ll personally take the flack should we run afoul of some archaic Swiss banking rules and regulations. This information needs to be brought to light if it is as bad as we think it is,” added O’Reilly soberly.
“Sir, the administration must be told,” said Sam over Nate’s shoulder.
“I have a meeting later tonight with the president’s National Security Advisor. I’ll lay out our case at that time. I have no doubt that I will not be in anyone’s good books for a while after this,” said O’Reilly. “Far too many people see Romanov as some kind of knight in shining armor, when he’s actually a two-faced SOB playing everyone for all he can.
“Folks, I’m still not sure what Romanov is up to, but it sure smells to high heaven,” continued O’Reilly. “Ryan is in far greater danger than I first suspected. I don’t know what Romanov is doing off the coast of Iceland, but my gut tells me it’s bad.”
Jackson nodded his head. “General, Fahimah will be checking in with you once we’re all established on the island,” said Jackson confidently. “Don’t you worry, we’ll have them all back on a flight to New York within the next twenty-four hours.”
O’Reilly thanked them all and then ended the transmission. His shoulders ached from the stress and fatigue of the past few days. He stood and stretched out his back as he walked back to his office, knowing that things were speeding along like an out-of-control train and were only going to get worse before too long. O’Reilly took a deep breath and then steeled himself for the coming fight. A fight he knew they could not afford to lose.
34
Tiny pinpricks of white light agonizingly shot into Mitchell’s mind like hot slivers of pain, reminding him that he was still alive. Slowly opening his eyes, Mitchell rolled over and felt the cold hard metal floor on his skin. A rolling wave of nausea suddenly and painfully gripped his innards. Unable to hold it back, Mitchell emptied the scant contents of his stomach on the floor of his cell. Writhing in agony, Mitchell realized that he must have received a more severe beating from Romanov’s goon than he had first thought. Sitting back on the cool floor, Mitchell took in several deep breaths to calm his turbulent stomach. One thing was for certain, he was looking forward to giving a bit of payback the next time his path crossed with Teplov.
Wiping the spittle from his face, Mitchell sat up and looked around the tiny room that was his cell. Aside from a light switch on the wall, the dull steel gray room was devoid of any furniture or fixtures. Looking down at his wrist, Mitchell realized that his watch along with his wallet was gone. Mitchell swore under his breath; he was cut off, he now had no way of sending any messages to his team.
Painfully struggling to rise, Mitchell staggered over to the door, tried the handle, and was not surprised to find that it was locked. Balling up his fist, Mitchell pounded on the door and started yelling, hoping that there was someone outside he could talk with. He had to know where Jen was, and if she was all right.
A voice laced with a strong Russian accent spoke. “You in there, stop that.”
“Make me,” replied Mitchell defiantly.
Mitchell could hear voices yelling back and forth in Russian and then an odd silence.
He waited a minute and then, with nothing to lose, decided to carry on smashing the door. Suddenly he heard a key in the door lock. Stepping back slightly, Mitchell prepared himself in case the opportunity to try an escape presented itself.
The door swung open.
Mitchell stepped forward warily. “Hey out there, what the hell is going on?”
“Place your hands on your head and then slowly step out,” ordered an unseen voice.
“What if I don’t?” said Mitchell.
“Then I will be forced to throw a tear gas grenade inside your room and make you do as I say.”
Mitchell knew there was nothing he could do. Stepping out into the hallway, Mitchell was not surprised to see half a dozen of Romanov’s men, all armed, their weapons trained on him. Falling into line with the guards, Mitchell walked upstairs until they came to the main deck of the Imperator. It was dark outside. A cold wind swept up over the deck of the ship, making Sheppard shiver. Cautiously, the men led Mitchell to the helipad and then stepped back, forming a ring around him. A moment later, a down-filled jacket was passed to him. Slowly dressing, Mitchell ran a hand through his hair, and then stood there wondering what was going on. Seeing a thin sliver of light creep up in the east made Mitchell realize that he had been out cold for at least twelve hours. Looking over at the nervous-looking guards, he doubted that he was going to be shot at dawn; there was something else on the go, but what? He did not have to wait long for his answer as Dmitry Romanov soon bounded up the stairs, full of energy, and walked over to where Mitchell stood.
“Good morning, Mister Mitchell,” said Romanov. “I am so happy to see that you don’t look the worse for wear.”
“I wish I could share your enthusiasm, but I have a splitting headache and I’m sorry to say that I left my last meal all over the floor of my cell,” Mitchell said. “Aside from that I suppose I can’t really complain.”