Keflavik International Airport
Iceland
Snow whipped across the landing strip as the blue-and-white Icelandair 757 came in to land. Passengers heading out for the Christmas holidays departed the plane. Mitchell took his time, waiting until the plane was empty before heading into the terminal to retrieve his luggage. He’d barely had time between flights in Barcelona to purchase some warm clothes to wear in Iceland, and he’d changed into his new jeans and dark-blue sweat top just before they’d landed. He looked around; he had anticipated a reception committee of some sort, but so far, he had not been bothered inside the terminal. Grabbing his old army knapsack, along with a hard black plastic carrying case, Mitchell stood there, waiting, wondering what to do next. It wasn’t long before three severe-looking individuals entered the terminal and walked straight at him. One man carried a down-filled jacket, toque, and gloves. The two men and one woman all looked like ex-police or military to him, tough and gritty professionals. Quickly handing the extra outerwear to Mitchell, the thug smiled as he took possession of his meager luggage.
“Get dressed, it’s cold outside. Then come with us and don’t try anything,” said a white-haired man, with a strong Russian accent.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” replied Mitchell with a smile, as he pulled on the dark-gray winter jacket.
Following the white-haired man out of the terminal, the freezing-cold wind blasted in Mitchell’s face, a nasty reminder that he was not in Africa anymore. He quickly bundled up to keep warm. Mitchell stood and waited in the frigid air, when, out of nowhere, a dark-green minivan came to a screeching halt. He got inside the vehicle, closely followed by two of the mercenaries, while the white-haired leader jumped into a silvery-gray BMW X-5 that had pulled up behind the minivan.
“Where are we going?” Mitchell asked the woman with him in the van.
She looked over, her eyes cold and dangerous. “To the other end of the airport, where Mister Romanov has a helicopter waiting for you. No more questions,” she said.
Two minutes later, the vehicles pulled up in front of a small office building at the far end of the near-empty runway. Mitchell was quickly escorted inside at gunpoint.
The white-haired criminal stepped inside, reached inside his blue ski jacket, pulled out a Glock 9 mm pistol, and aimed it at Mitchell’s heart. “No funny business, okay?” warned the man.
“I already said that I would behave,” said Mitchell.
“We need to check you out before we leave,” said the mercenary, waving at the washroom with his pistol.
Ten minutes passed. Mitchell was dressed once more. His clothes and personal possessions had been thoroughly inspected for hidden weapons or transmitting devices. They found none.
One of the hired guns confiscated his cell phone. The leader of Romanov’s men made a quick call. Almost immediately, the sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades rhythmically beating away vibrated through the small wooden office. Outside, a gold-painted commercial Bell 430 helicopter swooped out of the gray sky and came in to land, its powerful rotors churning up the snow, creating a near whiteout just outside the office building.
“There’s your ride,” said the white-haired man, pointing at the waiting chopper.
Mitchell knew there was no going back. With a smile, he walked out to the waiting helicopter, and quickly buckled himself in. Mitchell watched as his luggage was fastened to the floor of the helicopter. With a loud thud, the side door slammed shut, sealing him in as surely as if he were trapped in a cold, dark crypt. A shiver ran down Mitchell’s back at the thought. The three criminals had remained outside, and crept back from the helicopter as it slowly edged its way skyward. With a powerful rev from its engine, the helicopter banked over, rapidly picking up speed as it flew away from the airport and headed south, over the dark-gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Mitchell sat in silence as they flew into the unknown. He knew he was taking a huge gamble, but there was no alternative if he wanted to get Jen back. Resigned to his fate, he looked out the window at the water racing beneath him, knowing that if they had to ditch the chopper that they would all die from hypothermia in minutes in the near-freezing water.
After about thirty minutes, Romanov’s luxury yacht, Imperator, came into view on the horizon. Mitchell looked out the side window at the opulent ship. He had never seen anything quite like it in his life. He had no doubt that this was their destination. The helicopter began to slow down, as the pilot brought them in for a landing on the yacht’s helipad. A well-dressed deckhand carrying bright-orange paddles appeared on the helipad and helped guide the helicopter in for a smooth landing. No sooner had the wheels touched down, when two well-armed men ran up onto the helipad, their high-tech-looking FN-2000s leveled at the side door of the chopper.
The instant it landed, Mitchell reached over and slid the door open. Bitingly cold wind rushed inside the cabin of the helicopter. When the men saw Mitchell sitting there, they tensed. Their hands gripped their weapons tighter, as if expecting a fight. Mitchell smiled, raised his hands to show that he meant no hostile intent, and then slowly climbed out of the helicopter.
He turned to reach for his luggage.
“Leave it,” snapped one of the guards. “You have no need for it right now. We’ll bring it to you later.”
Mitchell did not believe a word the man said, but stepped back slowly, keeping his hands where the nervous guards could see them.
“Follow us,” said the guard, waving his assault rifle at a set of metal stairs at the side of the helipad.
“Okay, just do what the polite gentlemen with the big guns want,” said Mitchell to himself, as he followed his guards down off the icy platform and inside the warm interior of the yacht. They descended several decks, until they came to a long hallway. At the end was a polished oak door, inlaid with gilt Cyrillic writing. The guards led him to the door and then abruptly halted.
Mitchell glanced over at the guards. He saw that they were looking toward the door and not at him. Mitchell nonchalantly reached over and quickly pressed the indigo light on his watch three times, activating a tiny, but strong, transponder built inside.
One of the guards stepped forward and opened the door. Mitchell stepped inside. In the center of the room, he could see Jen, Dmitry Romanov, and his daughters, sitting behind a long mahogany desk. Alexandra was dressed in a black jumpsuit, while Nika wore a matching teal-blue one.
Mitchell looked over at Jen. The worried expression in her eyes sent a warning through his body.
“Hey, asshole,” a threatening voice said from behind Mitchell.
Mitchell tensed, as he spun about on his heel. He was a fraction of a second too slow, as the butt of an AK smashed against the side of his head, sending him tumbling onto the floor.
Jen screamed as Teplov stepped out from behind the door, an AK clasped in his hands and a twisted look of hate on his face. Mitchell’s vision blurred. Slowly, he got up on his hands and knees, fighting through the pain and waves of nausea rippling through his body. He tried to rise, but was hit hard again, this time on the back of his neck, with a vicious blow from a snarling Teplov. His world rapidly shrank into a narrow, dark tunnel and then into merciful blackness.
“I owed you that, you son of a bitch,” spat Teplov, as he hovered over Mitchell’s body. With hate in his eyes, he hauled off with all his might and kicked Mitchell in the midsection, sending his body across the carpeted floor.
“Stop it!” yelled Jen. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her heart filled with rage at Teplov’s cowardly attack on Mitchell. A guard lunged from behind, grabbing Jen by the shoulders, pinning her to her seat.
“Enough!” bellowed Romanov. “Leave him be.”
Teplov glared at Romanov. With his AK tight in his hands, he stepped back from Mitchell.
Jen was not going to be scared into submission. She pushed the guard’s hands from her shoulder and ran to Mitchell’s side.
Romanov stood. With a snap of his fingers at the nearest guard, he sai
d, “Take Mister Mitchell to the doctor, and see that he gets treated for his injuries before being locked up in a room that is easily guarded.”
The guard nodded, bent down, and dragged Mitchell’s unconscious body out of the room.
Romanov looked over at his henchman. Teplov was starting to become a liability. He knew that he would have to re-examine his relationship with him once the mission was over. “You can go as well, Teplov,” announced Romanov, dismissing the man from his sight.
Teplov opened his mouth to say something, but saw the look of displeasure growing on Romanov’s face. He knew that he had no option but to obey. He turned and left the room.
The door slammed shut. An awkward silence filled the room.
“Miss March, I honestly mean you and Mister Mitchell no harm,” said Romanov, as convincing to Jen as a used-car salesman.
“Like back at the oil refinery, when you sent your bitch of a daughter to take me away and kill my mother?” retorted Jen, as she stared into the cold, dark eyes of Nika Romanov.
“Miss March, please believe me when I tell you that it was all a big misunderstanding,” explained Romanov.
Jen shot Romanov a look of disbelief. He was lying, and she knew it. She just wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince of his innocence.
“Mister Romanov, you have what you wanted, and yet you allowed your ruffian to almost kill Ryan,” said Jen. “If you are an honorable man, you’ll keep your end of the bargain. Please let us go in peace. You’ve won; none of this matters to us.”
“That may be so, Miss March, but Mister Mitchell is in no state to travel, not after Teplov’s unfortunate temper tantrum. Besides, I want you both around tomorrow, when the real impact of what I am planning to accomplish comes to fruition. Since your friend has delivered to me what I want, I can’t see the harm in you both spending another day with me before I let you go free.”
Jen knew that Romanov was toying with her. Why, she could not fathom; nor did she care anymore.
A moment later, the door opened, and a female employee, dressed like the other guards in a deep-blue, police-style uniform, stepped inside. Romanov gave her orders to escort Jen to her room, and to stay with her until called.
Once Jen was gone and the door closed, Romanov looked over at his two daughters. They were so close to achieving their goal. Now, barely twenty-four hours separated them from destiny.
“Nika, be a dear and take possession of the consort’s crown from the guards,” said Romanov.
“Of course, Father,” replied Nika.
He looked over at Alexandra. “Now would be the opportune time for you to contact our rebel friends and tell them I want them to mass their forces and redouble their efforts. The government needs to be on its knees, begging for Western assistance by the end of the day tomorrow, or I will cut off their funding. Make sure they understand that I mean what I say.”
Alexandra smiled.
“Now, I need to know if the preparations for the placement of the bombs are going according to schedule,” said Romanov.
“I spoke with Chang less than an hour ago. Everything is going to plan. We can fly the bombs ashore just before dawn tomorrow, and within a few hours they will be ready for detonation.”
“Superb news, my dear,” said Romanov, relishing the thought of crippling the West’s supply of North Sea oil, while leaving just enough clues to lead the West’s intelligence agencies back to the nationalist rebels in Russia. In one move, he would assume power in Russia, while making a new and very profitable sale of Russian oil to Western Europe, to make up for the loss of their rigs up and down the Norwegian coast.
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