Glidepath

by Andrew Watts

  He read over her file. One thing surprised him. She had been married. He hadn’t known. Then again, it wasn’t like she would have invited him to the wedding. Her file said she’d gotten divorced two years earlier. She now lived alone and did contract IT security work. No obvious red flags.

  Max still didn’t like the idea of going to her. She didn’t have experience in this type of thing. Her computer skills were off the charts, but who knew how she would react when she found out that he was a wanted man?

  Not to mention their personal history. Things hadn’t ended badly for them, but they hadn’t exactly ended well, either. He tried to think of the last time he’d seen her. It must have been at least eight years ago. Princeton reunions, he thought. Drinking together on the dance floor under a massive tent. Screaming into each other’s ears, trying to have a meaningful conversation over deafening music. That meeting had been bittersweet.

  Max pushed out any personal feelings he might still harbor. He needed to be clinical about this decision.

  He once again looked over the list of personnel who were located on the East Coast of the US. Most were “Tactical” experts. Those were the types of men who specialized in weaponry and warfare. They weren’t on the list for their knowledge, but for their skill. They were the black bag job boys.

  Max didn’t need people like that. He had already prepared for something like this. For running and hiding. He had supplies, transportation, and money all lined up. Some people prepped for a future Armageddon; Max prepped for the day when someone might come after him.

  What Max really needed was someone who could help him investigate who had done this to him, and what he was up against. Someone who could understand the world of cyberespionage. That field was a mystery to Max.

  That left two names.

  One was actively employed by the National Security Agency. Max didn’t want to go to him. There was too much risk. Max was being pursued by the US government. Most of the people on his list got their paychecks, in some way or other, from Uncle Sam.

  He sighed, frustrated by the painful realization. That might cross off ninety percent of his contacts.

  He would have to try Renee. She was trustworthy, and in relatively close proximity. She wasn’t, nor had she ever been, employed by the US government. And when she was able to access a computer, she was magic.

  Max closed up his laptop and slid it into the backpack that contained his prepared items. His own false IDs, weapons, and cash.

  There was a good chance that everything the MI6 team had passed on to him was perfectly usable. But he hadn’t procured it himself. What if the IDs were flagged? What if the phones were being tracked? Even friendly operatives made a habit of doing that. No, the best way to stay alive was to assume that everyone and everything else might be compromised.

  Five minutes after he’d entered, Max walked out of the garage and locked it behind him, got into his car, and drove to the Leesburg Executive Airport.

  Max left the Audi in the parking lot across the street from the airport. He pulled the backpack tight on his back and then hopped the fence, landing in the grass.

  Leesburg Executive Airport was small by most standards. It was mostly used by general aviation and private aircraft. One of those planes was his.

  Washington, D.C. airspace restrictions were notoriously onerous—there were precise rules that general aviation aircraft had to follow in order to get in and out of the area. But Leesburg Executive had a special triangular cutout in the Air Defense Identification Zone around D.C. That would help make things a bit easier.

  Max doubted the FBI knew about his plane. Max’s virtual assistant had used a shell company to make the purchase and pay for the maintenance and hangar fees.

  It was a single-engine piston. A Cirrus SR-22T. He had hired a local operator to take care of it and lease it out every so often to one of the local flight instruction companies, just to make sure that it was working. Until today, he had never flown it personally. He would always rent the same type of aircraft from other locations.

  He climbed in and threw his bag in the passenger seat, sliding the seat belt through one of the straps and clicking it in place. He loved this aircraft. The Cirrus interior was similar to that of the finest luxury automobile. And it flew like a dream. The plane would travel at over 200 knots without breaking a sweat.

  Max filed his flight plan under an alias and flew west out of the D.C. airspace, using visual flight rules. He then canceled his flight plan while he was airborne over Front Royal, and turned off his transponder. If and when investigators looked up his flight path, they would expect him to have landed there.

  It wasn’t much of a diversion, but it might throw them off the scent for a bit. More likely, they wouldn’t expect him to be traveling this way at all.

  He then turned south and flew to Charlottesville. The Blue Ridge mountain air made the flight a little bumpy, but it wasn’t too bad.

  An hour later he made a night landing on the cool blacktop of the Charlottesville Albemarle Regional Airport. The tower was already shut down for the night.

  Max tied down the aircraft and placed the chocks in front of the wheels. No one else was out this time of night. The only sound was of summer crickets. Lightning bugs glimmered in the sky.

  He walked toward the Signature Flight Support building and checked his watch. It was getting late. Almost eleven p.m. The automatic doors opened up, and a rush of cool air came over him. The air conditioning felt good. A girl stood behind the front desk. She looked as if she was about to close up shop for the night.

  “You need fuel, honey?”

  “Yes, please. Top it off if you would.”

  “Will do. May I have your card?”

  “Actually, I’ll use cash if you don’t mind.”

  “Um…okay, sure.”

  Probably didn’t hear that too much. Fuel cost for planes could be in the thousands of dollars. Much higher, even, for the jets. But Max wanted to leave the smallest trail possible.

  “You need a cab?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Local area.”

  She smiled at him. “You know, I’m about to get off. If you don’t mind, I’d be happy to give you a lift.” She was cute. And interested, by the look in her eye.

  “Sure. That would be great.” She called the fuel truck. Max could hear its engine grumbling outside and its breaks squeaking as it came to a stop next to his plane.

  She took him to her car, apologizing as she cleared off trash from the cramped passenger seat. He had her take him to the Double Tree Inn. She parked in the parking lot.

  “So…you want to have a drink or something?” She twirled her hair, chewing her gum.

  Max had two voices in his head. The voice of reason told him that he had been stupid to have her drop him off. That he needed to keep a low profile, and even right now his face might be on the news. The other voice sized up her measurables and provided him a firm thumbs-up.

  “As much as I would love that, my girlfriend is supposed to come by later…”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She giggled.

  “Appreciate the ride.” He ducked under the door and swung it shut. Max waited for her car to leave before whipping out his phone and dialing the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Renee,” Max said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Renee, it’s Max…Fend. I need your help.”

  Silence on the other end. Shock, perhaps. He had expected that. This would be a lot to ask of her. To drop everything, and risk her career—not to mention legal troubles—to assist him. But he needed someone he could trust.

  Princeton, 2000

  They had met at Princeton. Max was a minor celebrity there. The sons and daughters of some of the most famous people in the world walked the campuses of elite Ivy League institutions such as Harvard, Yale and Princeton. Indeed, some of the students at those schools were already celebrities themsel
ves. Actors and actresses. Olympians. Budding stars in the tech industry.

  Max was well known because of who his father was, and barely a day went by that he wasn’t asked about being the son of Charles Fend.

  Cap and Gown was one of Princeton’s eating clubs—sort of a cross between dining halls and coed fraternities. Prospect Avenue was lined with large mansions, each one home to one of the eating clubs. On nights like this, warm Saturday nights during football season, they erupted into massive parties. Celebrations of life.

  Max loved the parties. But it also meant that he had to answer the same question over and over again. Are you really Charles Fend’s son? Yes. Oh my God, that’s so amazing. Yup. Sigh.

  The deck had a nice wide view of the backyard. He had walked out onto that second-floor wooden deck, hoping to take a break from it all. A Dave Matthews cover band played on the stone patio below. At least three hundred people were at the house. The girls on the field hockey team were already dancing in front of the band.

  He stopped when he saw her sitting alone on the unlit wooden balcony. Crutches at her side. A cast on her leg. Leaning back and looking up at the clear night sky. Stars twinkling. She looked peaceful, but lonely.

  She heard his footsteps on the wooden planks and glanced up at him. A guarded look.

  “Good evening,” said Max.

  “Hi.”

  “How’d you hurt yourself?”

  “A field hockey accident.”

  “Ouch. Sorry. Anything I can get you?” He was just being polite. He had expected her to say no.

  “God, yes. A beer would be great. Be a dear and bring two, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Max laughed. “Sure.”

  She was his kind of girl. The right priorities. And a proper planner. He hobbled down the creaky wooden stairs of the mansion and made his way through the crowded basement. The sophomores were manning the beer kegs. He waited about five minutes and was then handed several full plastic cups of cold beer. It sloshed and spilled a bit on his way back up the stairs. But she was grateful when he arrived with them.

  A big smile, which he suspected was a rare thing for her. Dark hair. Strong cheekbones.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” And an accent.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Montreal, originally.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Renee.”

  “I’m Max, Renee,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  “I know.” She shook it.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Those your teammates out there dancing?”

  “They are. Normally they would try to get me out there. I despise dance floors, so the crutches are a nice excuse. But I’d give anything to be playing still. I’m afraid I’m done for the season.”

  “Sorry to hear that. But happy for my luck.”

  She flashed a wry smile and raised her plastic cup in a toast.

  They spent the rest of the evening talking on the balcony. It would be the first of many evenings that they spent together. While Max had dated many women, Renee would be the only one he really would characterize as a serious girlfriend. Their on-again, off-again relationship was all at once passionate, comfortable, and painful. They made a “clean break” upon graduation. In all, they dated for nine months. She was a year younger, and—given the field he was entering—it didn’t make sense to continue on. He had never explained to her why he had broken it off. That only made it harder.

  Present Day

  Renee and Max agreed to meet the next morning. He used one of his prepaid cards to pay for the room at the hotel and then spent an hour scanning the news.

  The lead story was about the G-7 conference that was being held at Camp David in a few days. It would include Russian attendance for the first time in a few years. The Russian president was attempting to mend relations in the West. The bloc of nations would become the G-8 again in a special ceremony.

  The rest of the coverage was about the motorcycle chase.

  The talking heads were going crazy about the car chase in D.C. But surprisingly, Max wasn’t mentioned. Now why was that?

  He could think of only one reason. Someone in the government didn’t want Max Fend’s name put out there.

  That was a good thing for Max. If he just had to avoid law enforcement, he could do it. But if he had to avoid going out in public…that was another thing entirely.

  Max wondered how long this gift of anonymity would last. With the right spin on it, this could really be a big news story. Rich playboy son escapes from FBI in high-speed motorcycle chase through the streets of D.C. That was the way he would write it up, if he were trying to make headlines. The news would plaster his face on every TV and electronic device in America.

  Max was already known to a lot of people who read the gossip columns, thanks to his father—and maybe his own extravagant lifestyle. That had been a necessary evil. But being involved in this motorcycle chase would skyrocket his reputation into the stratosphere.

  He sighed as he thought about his father. What must he be thinking? What was the FBI telling him? Max doubted his father would believe that he would sabotage Fend Aerospace. But the fact that he had run away from law enforcement—that would likely plant a seed of doubt in his mind. And the nature of the escape would raise even more questions.

  There was nothing Max could do about it now. He did a quick calisthenic workout, took a shower, and went to sleep.

  The night had been a disaster for Renee. She had gone out to dinner with a client. He was older. Late forties, but not bad looking.

  They were barely halfway through dinner when he had crossed the line. Suggesting that he could come back to her place for drinks. Maybe Renee was smiling too much? Maybe she had dressed too provocatively? She hated herself for thinking like that. And the worst part was that Renee had actually considered it. He wasn’t anything special, but it wouldn’t have been that bad to have male companionship once in a while. It had been too long.

  But there was something about him that didn’t sit well with her. He was too pushy. She excused herself and went into the bathroom, taking out her phone. One thing a married cheater should never do is try to date a hacker.

  Renee found out everything about the man within a few minutes. The disgusting pig had been lying to her about his personal life. He must have taken the ring off before they had dinner.

  Renee should have known. Clients didn’t normally come to see her. But he’d said he was going to be in the area for business. And her contract was up for renewal soon.

  When Renee had gone back to the table, she said, “May I see your hand?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your hand. Please let me see it.”

  The man frowned. He started to, and then thought better of it.

  “What’s wrong, Renee? Did I say something? Look, if you don’t want to have drinks, that’s fine—”

  “You’ve been married for fourteen years. And you have four kids.”

  His face went white…and then red. Eyes narrowing. “You checked up on me while you were in the bathroom? Who the hell do you think you are? Look, I don’t think we can do business. I can’t work with someone I don’t trust.”

  “Neither can I.”

  She stood, glaring at him. Then she walked away, not bothering to let him say any more.

  For a moment, she had thought of threatening him. She could demand that he switch her account to a different buyer, or she would…what? Ruin his marriage? Hurt his children? Better to walk away. Hopefully, he wouldn’t spread nasty rumors about her to other potential clients. She sighed. She didn’t need the money that bad.

  What was it about that type of man? It was like they were drawn to her.

  She kept telling herself she didn’t need anyone else in her life. But it was hard doing everything alone. And she worried about growing old and not finding anyone. And she wanted to have kids, before it was too late.

  A
fter college she’d had one serious relationship that lasted for six years. He had been in pharmaceutical sales. She had moved to follow him to Charlottesville for his work. They’d married after a year of dating.

  When she thought about it now, she didn’t know why she had said yes. She didn’t really love him. It had just seemed like the thing everyone was doing at the time. All of her girlfriends were getting married. It was like musical chairs, and no one wanted to get left out.

  She had wanted to travel. To compete in road races. To meet new and interesting people. To get drunk at concerts. To hike the Appalachian Trail. She wanted to live life. To have the adventure.

  All her ex wanted to do when he was home was sleep and watch TV. He had wanted her to be his housewife. To stay at home and make meals, and to take care of the kids they were going to have.

  Thank God she hadn’t gotten pregnant with him. If she had, she probably would have stuck with him, even after she’d found out he was cheating on her. Bored out of her mind and faking it for the sake of the kids.

  Kids. The word made her want to cry. She was almost forty. And while she would admit it to no one, she desperately wanted to have children.

  But he had taken her for granted. It wasn’t just the cheating. She could forgive that, if it were an honest mistake. It was the lack of passion in him. She was a romantic, and he was...a mistake. She’d felt guilty for feeling that, until he’d cheated on her. Then, truth be told, she’d felt relief. She had an excuse. It had been time to fish or cut bait, as the expression went.

  He wanted to keep fishing. She cut bait.

  The sad part now was that her life hadn’t gotten much more adventurous. She ran road races, and had done a few mini-triathlons. She tried to schedule one big vacation to somewhere fun every year. But her love life had been pretty nonexistent. She usually worked from home. The only places she really went were the gym, church, and the grocery store. None presented her with great opportunities for meeting people.

  Work was at once an escape and a worry. It took her mind off the worry that her life wasn’t progressing as planned. But the work itself wasn’t exactly curing cancer. Still, the job paid well, and it gave her freedom and control. Renee’s clients didn’t care when the work got done. Most of the time, they didn’t even understand what it was that she was doing. Corporate IT security. She was an anti-hacker. She liked to joke with her niece, who adored Harry Potter books, that she was like a witch who specialized in the Defense Against the Dark Arts.