Glidepath

by Andrew Watts

  The deputy director said, “So the lawyer shows up to an FBI safe house. An unlisted FBI safe house. Then what happened?”

  “The lawyer says that the only way he’ll allow further questioning is if we conduct it at his office the next day. He says he needs to confer with his client. As we’re all getting into our vehicles, I get the call from the judge that the updated evidence is in and we have his approval for an arrest.”

  “You didn’t follow proper procedure there. DNI’s going to be pissed that you went around them because you didn’t like their answer the first time. This is a mess.”

  “Sir, respectfully, what the hell was the DNI’s office thinking?”

  “They get input from other intelligence communities, Flynn. You figure it out. Keep going. Tell me what happened next.”

  “So I tried to get Fend out of the car. I was about to place him under arrest, when the lawyer peels out and speeds away. At first I thought it was some type of joke. Him showing us up. That kind of thing.”

  The deputy director just shook his head in disapproval.

  “So then the sedan drove off and my men began to pursue.”

  “Back up. Tell me about the original evidence that made you decide to arrest him.”

  “We have a team from the Cyber Division that’s been down in Jacksonville. They’ve been working with CIRFU.”

  CIRFU was the FBI’s Cyber Initiative Resource Fusion Unit. The group was a combination of FBI and private sector cyberexperts, as well as Carnegie Mellon’s Computer Emergency Response Team, and the FBI’s Internet Crime Complaint Center.

  “What did they find?”

  “They were able to piece together electronic data that links Fend to the hackers. It’s highly probable that this Max Fend kid granted access to a foreign entity. And he had a business associate—a Russian. Sergei Sokolov. We think the Russian had been working with a criminal hacker group. We believe that the hackers broke into the Fend network and tried to download a bunch of their data. Fend also does defense contracting. Usually these hacker groups try to sell the technology or hold it for ransom.”

  The deputy director said, “So you’re telling me that the owner of Fend Aerospace—Charles Fend—his own son is the bad guy here? Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. We’re looking into it. He’s been working as a consultant in Europe for the past few years. The reports we got on him say that he’s been associated with some questionable people over there. It’s possible he’s been compromised.”

  “Compromised by whom?”

  “The data that we got from the Cyber Division says that the hackers were located in Syria—but that they were probably working with Russian or Eastern European cyberexperts.”

  “Jake, listen to me. You need to be careful. Charles Fend has been around for a long time and has a lot of friends in this town. His lawyers have been calling us nonstop. You can’t just go arresting his son without stone-cold evidence.”

  “I understand, sir. I’m sorry this happened this way. I was afraid we were going to lose our chance.”

  Flynn expected to be removed from the case. But it didn’t appear to be going that way…yet. Maybe they wanted to save that card for when they really needed a scapegoat for the press.

  The deputy director said, “Okay. Here’s how it’s going to go. You’ll stay on the case for now. I’ll brief the director on what you told me. In the meantime, keep this quiet. The press still hasn’t said his name. Let’s keep it that way. Don’t let anything out about Max Fend beyond our own agency. Is that understood?”

  That was odd. Charles Fend’s son would be a high-profile fugitive. Flynn was surprised that Max Fend’s name wasn’t already in the news. He figured it was only a matter of time until one of the networks picked it up. That would help massively with the search. Tips to local law enforcement could locate him within twenty-four hours. Why on earth would the FBI not want Max Fend’s face on a billboard everywhere they could get it?

  “Sir, it would really help our search if…”

  The deputy director shook his head. “No. Did you just hear me? Absolutely not. Let me be clear. Do not speak the name Max Fend to anyone in the press.”

  Flynn shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Sir, excuse me, but why is that?”

  “The director has had enough embarrassment. It was suggested to him from above that we should keep the Fend family name out of this until we are one hundred percent sure that the facts support our case against him.”

  “But he evaded us—”

  “Did he? A few moments ago, you told me that he was going to voluntarily answer questions.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you never officially placed him under arrest.”

  “I was about to.”

  “Flynn…maybe you aren’t getting this. Read between the lines. We’re being asked to keep the Fend name out of the press for now.”

  Flynn stared at him, visibly frustrated.

  Seeing this, the deputy director said, “And there may be other factors that you aren’t yet privy to.”

  Flynn didn’t know what to say. “Sir, you want me to find Max Fend, but not tell any member of the public that we’re looking for him? And you think that the press isn’t going to pick up that it was him escaping on one of those motorcycles?”

  “That’s what we’re being asked to do, yes. Listen, Flynn. Sometimes it’s better just to put your head down and follow orders. Okay? Now I’ve got to go brief the director.”

  The deputy director walked through the side door of his office that connected to the FBI director’s own office.

  Jake Flynn walked out of the room, glad at least to be done with the ass-chewing. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. Something doesn’t add up. Yeah, sure, Charles Fend was wealthy and had friends in high places. But why was the FBI willing to give him cover after running away like that? Max Fend’s occupation was listed as consultant. Last time Flynn checked, consultants didn’t run away on motorbikes like they were in some damned James Bond movie.

  Just who the hell was Max Fend?

  For now, Special Agent Jake Flynn was still the senior agent assigned to the Fend Aerospace case.

  In the past few weeks, he had learned more about the type of aircraft and how automated flight worked than he had ever wanted to.

  Agent Flynn looked over his notes again, at the profiles of the main team members.

  There was the senior engineer for the project, Bradley Karpinsky. Flynn had learned that Karpinsky had been passed over for the project lead position. One theory was that he harbored a grudge, and maybe he had offered to sell secrets to a foreign group. But nothing Flynn had seen led him to believe that Karpinsky would have purposefully tried to sabotage the aircraft.

  Another theory suggested that a competitor had hacked into the system. Their aim may have been to expose safety flaws, in order to reopen the government bidding for the lucrative automated flight network contract in the FAA’s NextGen program. But careful investigations by the FBI on all major competitors had turned up very little.

  Foreign governments and organizations conducted cyberhacking attacks on US companies and government websites every day. It was a low-risk, high-reward crime. Most hackers were petty criminals. Low-level scum that tried to use phishing techniques to try and gain access to email or network passwords. From there, they could try to discover more and more information, until they found something truly valuable and either sold it or put it to use.

  But this hacker group was very professional. Flynn knew that because of the facial expressions on the FBI Cyber Division’s chief investigator.

  “I’ve only seen this level of sophistication a few times,” the man had told Flynn. “And both times, it turned out to be Russian state-sponsored activity.”

  Flynn decided to take another look at Max Fend’s personnel file.

  Princeton University, class of ’02. A football player. Wide receiver. Graduated in the bottom half of his c
lass. Then he went to work for the Department of Defense in D.C. right after college—some entry-level job. He then quit that role and moved to Europe to become a consultant.

  Flynn figured that after realizing what real work was, Max Fend must have gone whining to his dad to get him some cushy job on the French Riviera.

  But now Agent Flynn had new facts to inform him. What had he seen? How had he behaved in the interview? Calm. Polite. Confident, but not overly cocky. He seemed to resent any suggestion that his father’s money got him a job. He was respectful and his answers seemed honest. None of this fit with the personality sketch of a spoiled rich kid turned international white-collar criminal. Max Fend had carried himself with the same swagger Flynn had seen in many of the FBI agents that he worked with.

  Something wasn’t right. Had Flynn made a mistake?

  Flynn looked at the TV screen. The news was playing the car chase over and over again. The screen cut to the motorcycles, crossing the bridge, one of them peeling off by itself down Ohio Street.

  He did a Google search on Max Fend. There was a smattering of articles. Mostly low-end “most eligible bachelor” type stuff from years ago, when he was at Princeton. Heir to one of the largest private companies in the United States. There wasn’t much on him after he graduated college.

  Flynn decided to double-check his FBI file. It took him a few moments, but he found what he was looking for.

  Max Fend had gone to work for the Department of Defense right out of college and worked there for nearly two years. That meant that he had a Single Scope Background Investigation on file. The investigation was required for anyone trying to get a government security clearance in the United States.

  After leaving the DoD, he had lived in Europe, working for a US-based consulting firm there.

  Flynn used his FBI computer to gain access to Max’s latest Standard Form 86. It had last been updated in 2003. Nothing interesting.

  He decided to contact the Department of Defense and see if anyone there who had worked with him could provide any extra information.

  Flynn found the reference on Max’s security clearance form. He dialed the number, wondering if the man still worked at DoD, or if he used a different phone number now.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, my name is Special Agent Jake Flynn, with the FBI. I was hoping to speak with you about one of your former employees. A man by the name of Max Fend. Are you familiar with him?”

  Silence. “Uh, yes, sir. I remember him. He’s the son of the airplane billionaire, right? How can I help?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Were you his supervisor from 2002 to 2004?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Listen, I’m going to be down near your office this afternoon. Would you have time to speak with me? Say around one p.m.?”

  “I have a meeting. Can we make it two?”

  “No problem.”

  At two p.m. sharp, Jake Flynn was sitting in a private meeting room at the DoD manager’s office.

  “What type of work was Max Fend involved in when he worked with you?”

  “Standard stuff. Accounting, mostly. Some procurement for defense programs. He was a new guy, so it was entry-level stuff.”

  “And are you familiar with where he went to work after that?”

  “I’ve got my suspicions, yes.”

  Flynn sat up straighter in his seat.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The DoD manager squirmed. “You are FBI, right? So I guess it’s fine to talk to you about this. We see a few Max Fend types every year. Not billionaires’ sons, mind you. I mean guys like him. I think someone in Langley’s human resources department must have my section flagged. I’ve been here nearly thirty years, and it seems like we’re always seeing them.”

  “Langley’s human resources?”

  “Yeah. You know, Langley. Like the CIA.”

  “I’m familiar. What’s Max Fend got to do with the CIA?”

  The man cleared his throat. “Well, every couple of years, we get a few of their new guys. We’re asked to find something for them to do for a year or two. They tend to stash them here before they ship off.”

  “What do you mean, ship off? You mean like go to a new DoD job?”

  “I don’t think it’s with the DoD. But who knows? I could be wrong. Look, man, I just hear things, okay? I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Well…one of my employees, she has family down near Williamsburg. So she goes there a lot. She says that she’s seen a couple of these guys down there over the years. Almost always right after they leave their job with me.”

  “In Williamsburg?” He scribbled on his notepad: Max Fend—CIA???

  “Yeah. There’s a bar there that they all hang out at, I think. But this girl who works for me, she goes there, and she’s run into a few of them. I probably shouldn’t be saying this.”

  Flynn fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Sir, you are helping an investigation. Please speak freely.”

  “I heard that they go to Williamsburg and start their training. The Langley guys probably use the time working for me to do their in-depth background checks or wait for new classes to start.”

  Flynn frowned. “And this is in Williamsburg?”

  “Yeah, you know. The Farm.”

  Flynn found that in times of uncertainty, it was best to speak with trusted friends. He decided to give his buddy Steve Brava a call. Steve had started off in the FBI with him but had transferred to the DNI’s office when that organization had been created. The man would shoot straight with him. He could get access to information that others couldn’t. And most importantly, he could be trusted.

  “Jake, good to hear from you.”

  “Steve, you too.”

  They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments.

  Steve said, “You see all this car chase stuff on the news?”

  “Yeah…actually, that’s part of the reason I’m calling,” Flynn said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Listen, this has got to stay quiet.”

  “Say no more. What can I do for you?”

  “Hey, I’m looking…unofficially…at a man by the name of Max Fend.”

  “As in Fend Aerospace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “I got a tip from someone recently that the CIA sometimes stashes guys within the Department of Defense before they go off to start their training at the Farm in Williamsburg. Does that sound right to you?”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s possible. Probably gives them time to do a full background check. And places like the Farm have to schedule classes just like any other big government school. So it might take guys a few months before they’re ready to class up. So what?”

  “Is there any way you could check out Max Fend, and see if he was one of those guys?”

  “Sure, I could do that. But, Jake, why don’t you just go ask the CIA?”

  “I will. I just like to check multiple sources.”

  “Alright, I’ll see what I can dig up for you.”

  6

  Max Fend’s first stop was at a storage center in Leesburg, Virginia. He drove in at night, wearing baggy clothes and a golf visor pulled down low over his forehead. He typed in the code and heard the beep, the chain fence sliding over to one side. He drove along the rows of storage units and parked in front of his rental.

  He fidgeted with the lock until the right combination was entered. It snapped open, and Max lifted up the sliding garage door. It stopped with a bang. Max then flipped the light switch, illuminating two trunks in the center of the otherwise empty storage space. A stale smell hung in the air.

  The rented-out garage had been his own personal decision. After operating as a field agent for over ten years, he didn’t trust anyone. He had his own plan to disappear, if need be. A “break glass in case of emergency” plan that no one else knew about but him.

  Max closed the garage door behind hi
m and found himself alone with his stash. He moved quick, his hands and eyes racing from item to item. He knelt on the floor as he worked.

  Max emptied the contents of the first trunk and then closed it to serve as a surface to work from. He placed a laptop on the closed trunk, plugged it in to a large portable battery, and powered it up.

  He took the phones, IDs, and prepaid debit cards that the MI6 agents had given him and threw them all into the empty trunk. Max would use his own items.

  He took out his own prepurchased phone and entered the number he was supposed to dial tomorrow night at exactly six p.m. He named the contact SECRET AGENT. No reason he couldn’t have a sense of humor about it.

  Max connected the computer to his phone and used it to access the Internet. He accessed a secure cloud drive and opened a spreadsheet file. The file was his little black book. People whom he had known and worked with over the years. Max paid a virtual assistant—a very capable and trustworthy one—quite a good sum of money to keep this list up to date. Should he ever find himself in a certain place, in need of someone who had a particular skill, he could rely upon this list.

  There were several hundred names on the spreadsheet. He could sort by column: name, country, state (if in the US), and skill set.

  He needed someone close. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to travel far right now. He set the filter for the eastern half of the United States. All within range. And all had rural areas that he could fly into easily.

  Next he sorted for skill sets. He had decided on just five skill categories. Procurement. Tactical. Tradecraft. Transportation. And cyber. Each person had multiple columns. Some people on his list had multiple skill sets.

  He filtered for cyber. A half dozen names came up. While they were each listed as living in the stated locations, he knew from looking at several of the names that most would be out of the country. On assignment.

  One name stuck out. Renee LeFrancois.

  Max hadn’t seen her in years. He clicked on her name and looked more closely at her updated file. His virtual assistant was expected to keep each personnel file current. It was costly, but Max had the means.