Goliath

by Richard Turner

Safe House - Reykjavik

  Iceland

  “His transponder just went active!” exclaimed Fahimah, as she brought up a map of Iceland on her laptop screen. Quickly scrolling over to Mitchell’s signal, Fahimah pointed to a satellite image of Romanov’s yacht, anchored off a small island’s western shore. Mitchell’s signal was coming from the ship.

  The remainder of Mitchell’s team, along with Mrs. March, had flown to Iceland and set up a temporary office in an apartment suite near the airport. Yuri had left almost right away, to see about renting a helicopter or plane from a local company.

  Jackson leaned over Fahimah’s shoulder, and stared intently at the image on the screen. “I had hoped they would be somewhere ashore. It’s far easier to get to them there than off some damn boat, especially this time of the year.”

  “He hasn’t sent a distress code yet, so perhaps things aren’t going too badly,” replied Sam.

  “Sam, please; do you honestly believe that family of psychopaths is going to allow Mitchell to simply waltz out the front door with Miss March?” said Jackson, trying not to sound too blunt.

  “No, but I can always hope, can’t I?” responded Sam, with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “So, I take it we’ll need to look at two options for extraction,” said Cardinal. “One by land and one by sea.”

  “Yeah, looks that way,” said Jackson, wishing things were not so difficult. On the flight to Iceland, they had discussed the various options open to them to get Mitchell and Jen back. Now, faced with the prospect of mounting a waterborne rescue in the cold waters of the North Atlantic, Jackson’s skin began to crawl.

  “Shall I open a secure link to General O’Reilly?” asked Fahimah.

  “Yeah, I’d better pass on the good news,” replied Jackson.

  General O’Reilly’s image came up on the screen a minute later. He looked haggard and tired. It seemed no one was getting any rest these days. Jackson filled him in on what had occurred since they had all left Algiers, and the two options facing them to get Mitchell and Jen back.

  “Sounds tricky, to say the least,” replied O’Reilly, his face drawn with concern.

  “The ship looks like it’s anchored a few hundred meters from shore,” said Cardinal, looking down at a satellite image on the computer screen.

  “So you could possibly use the island as a staging area,” suggested O’Reilly.

  Jackson nodded. “Right now, we’re looking at taking a flight over there later today, after Yuri finishes getting the gear we need. If they remain at sea, Cardinal will cover us from the island, while Sam and I make our way over to the ship and try to find Ryan and Miss March.”

  “Not the soundest plan I’ve ever heard,” said O’Reilly.

  “Sorry, sir, but it’s all we’ve got to go on right now,” Jackson said.

  Donaldson joined the conversation. “Okay folks, here’s what I’ve been able to determine so far. A couple of years ago, the Romanov Corporation leased the island from the Government of Iceland for exploratory mining, which they are conducting at the base of an extinct volcano. This arrangement, along with the Romanovs’ ongoing quest to develop Iceland’s nascent oil industry on the surrounding sea floor, should generate billions over the next ten to twenty years for Iceland’s hard-pressed economy. So I doubt that his activities have been properly scrutinized, if at all, by the local authorities.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” said O’Reilly.

  “General, I hate to say it, but you look exhausted,” said Jackson, looking into the bloodshot eyes of his boss.

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” O’Reilly replied. “I haven’t slept a wink since we last spoke. I’ve been working the phones with my former associates in the administration, trying to get a better handle on what the president is planning to do about Russia. My sources tell me that the vice president is planning to talk with Romanov about assuming the presidency of Russia, should he be called upon to do so,” O’Reilly paused, took a sip of water, and then continued. “From what I’m being told, the VP will be contacting Dmitry Romanov sometime before midnight tonight, to offer him the administration’s unconditional support should the situation continue to deteriorate in Russia. In addition, poor old Mike Donaldson has been cashing in favors left and right with his friends in the intelligence community. He's been trying to find out the real, no-bull truth behind Dmitry Romanov, and what he’s uncovered is quite disturbing if it turns out to be even half true.”

  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.”

  “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 from the Treasury Department, I took a closer 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 multi-billionaire out there?”

  Donaldson smiled. “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,” blurted out Sam. “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 flak 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.”

  “Sir, the administration must be told,” Sam said.

  “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. “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 struggle. It was a fight he knew they could not afford to lose.

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