Goliath

Romanov oil refinery

  Atar, Mauritania

  Stale cigarette smoke wafted out of the sea container like a noxious fog escaping from a polluted swamp.

  It was all starting to be too much. Alexandra Romanov bit her lip while she paced back and forth. She hated being there. The odious smell from the never-ending stream of cigarettes was overpowering, but Alexandra wanted to supervise the bomb preparations personally. This was her part of her father’s plan, and she did not intend to let him down. There could be no margin for error. Alexandra’s hair was pulled back in a tight bun on the top of her head. She was dressed in long, dark-green coveralls, with a pair of very expensive, handmade, Italian-leather boots on her feet. The light from the container gave her complexion an almost deathly pale look.

  Alexandra had spent most of the night on a secure line talking with her father’s contacts, who were guiding the nationalist’s activities in Russia. The government had finally taken off its gloves, and unleashed the army on the rebels. Government forces, recently supplied with Western intelligence, were hammering the rebels all across Russia. They were begging for more money and resources to continue the fight. She knew that it was better to keep them strung along with promises of support rather than actually giving them what they needed. The rebels were more useful to her family if they fought for a little while longer, rather than being allowed to topple the government before her father was ready to assume power. She knew the people of Russia were clamoring for an end to the violence, and if President Ivankov could not provide it, they were willing to let another take his place. Alexandra agreed to a new influx of money, but kept it to the bare minimum. The rebels would have to make do until her father was ready.

  The tension of waiting galled Alexandra. Not able to take it anymore, she spun about on her heel, walked inside the container, and almost stopped dead in her tracks at the wall of foul-smelling cigarette smoke. Through the haze, Alexandra could see a thin, anorexic-looking, blond-haired man hunched over one of the bombs. A lit cigarette hung limply from his lips. Alexandra thought the man looked to be in his mid-forties; a pair of silver-rimmed glasses sat perched on his slender, hawk-like nose. His face was narrow and covered in multiple scars, likely from several almost-fatal mishaps over the years. The man was wearing a set of loose-fitting worker’s coveralls, a dirty red baseball cap perched on his head. When he heard Alexandra approaching, he stopped what he was doing, laid his tools down on the bench beside him, and looked up at her.

  “Good morning, Miss Romanov,” said the man in the coveralls. “Please let me introduce myself. My name is Ivan Markov.” The man offered Alexandra a dirt-covered hand.

  Alexandra reluctantly took the hand and shook it. Markov instantly gripped her hand and locked his pale-blue eyes with hers. Alexandra bristled at the arrogance of the man. She had no time for the childish games inferior men seemed to enjoy playing with one another and pulled her hand free.

  “Mister Markov, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Alexandra, as she looked into the cold eyes of the man standing before her. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  She knew from her dossier on him that Markov was a former captain in the Russian Army. He had been a combat engineer by trade; however, he had grown bored with peacetime soldiering in Russia. Deciding to strike out on his own, Markov found that his talents were in high demand in the shadowy world of international terrorism. He happily sold his services to the Iraqi insurgents, teaching them how to make larger and more powerful IEDs. His deadly skills were soon in demand throughout the world. He did not come cheap, but Markov had never failed to deliver. Recruited through Colonel Chang’s underground contacts, Markov now had the ultimate challenge of preparing two nuclear bombs for detonation, with the prize of several million dollars to add to his already substantial Swiss bank account.

  “You are too kind, Miss Romanov,” said Markov, stepping closer to Alexandra. “Please, let’s not be so formal with one another. I would like it if you called me Ivan.” Markov flashed a smile filled with yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.

  Alexandra thought the disgusting man looked like some kind of unnatural ghoul. Her instincts told her that the man was as cold and deadly as a viper. He was someone whom she could never trust, and would have to be eliminated the second he was no longer of value to her father.

  “Mister Markov, do not flatter yourself, nor waste any of my precious time,” Alexandra responded. “Colonel Chang recommended you to us for a very specific job and don’t ever forget that. You are working for my family, not with us, and frankly, I could not care less what your first name is. Do your job well and you will be paid well.”

  “As you wish, Miss Romanov,” replied Markov, his voice guarded and angry. His face was blank, but his eyes showed that he was unimpressed at being spoken down to by a woman.

  “Now, Mister Markov, when will you be finished?”

  “I will be finished by mid-afternoon. All I need to do is check a few more things and then ensure the arming devices are ready. You can move the bombs any time after that.”

  “Very well then, I won’t keep you any longer,” said Alexandra, peering down at her rose-gold-and-platinum Rolex watch. “I will make the necessary arrangements to have the container moved at last light tomorrow, to avoid any prying eyes.”

  Markov said nothing. Showing his growing contempt and displeasure, he turned his back on Alexandra and went back to work.

  Stepping out of the container, Alexandra took a deep breath of fresh air. She detested men who thought themselves her equal. Hers was a life destined for grandeur. She knew that she would take great pleasure in ordering Markov’s death.

  Her cell phone rang. She saw that it was her sister. Alexandra thought it odd that Nika should be calling so early in the morning. She answered the call.

  “Alexandra, listen carefully,” said Nika. “There has been an attack at the dig site. Father has accelerated the project by an entire day. He wants you to take charge back there, and get things moving.” With that, Nika ended the call.

  Alexandra froze in her tracks. She could not believe what she had just heard. She knew that changing the plan now would be difficult, but not impossible. Alexandra knew that pushing back would be pointless, as her father always got what he wanted. She placed her cell phone away, and walked toward an office located by the entrance of the building. Inside, she found her secure satphone. Taking a deep breath to collect her thoughts, Alexandra dialed a number from memory. Thousands of kilometers away in Iceland, the call was answered. Quickly passing on her orders, Alexandra terminated the call, and then stared out across the hangar floor at the container, wondering if they were moving too fast. Her timetable had been worked out to the hour; altering the plan was fraught with danger. Still, it was all achievable if the West could be convinced to push Ivankov out of power in the next couple of days. With a smile on her face, Alexandra Romanov looked over at the bombs and knew that they had the means to bring the West to its knees. With or without their help, she knew her father was destined to rule Russia.

  27