by Andrew Watts
At precisely six o’clock, Max dialed the number. Renee sat close enough that she heard everything.
The person on the other end answered, “Hello?” A woman’s voice. So far so good.
“I was given this number to call.” Said Max.
“Did that person give you a car?”
“Yes.”
“What type?”
“An Audi.” A minor identity check.
“I’m glad to see that you are out on your own.”
Max said, “Can you tell me why you assisted me with my problem?
“Our organization attempted to find a mutually agreeable solution with our counterparts in US government. But they weren’t interested. Due to the nature of the emergency, we took matters into our own hands.”
Max pressed the mute button and looked at Renee. “So what does that mean? Counterparts in US government? As in the CIA?”
“That’s what it sounds like, yes.”
“So she’s saying that MI-6 contacted the CIA regarding me, and the CIA wasn’t interested in helping me out?”
“I think that’s what she’s saying.”
Max unmuted the phone and said, “What do you mean by ‘the nature of the emergency’? What emergency?”
“I can’t go into it in too much detail in this format. I’ll need you to come meet me.”
“Where and when?”
“Key West. Tomorrow evening. Can you make it?”
Max looked at Renee, who shrugged. He said, “I can make it. What are you doing in Key West?”
“Look up Sailing Vessel Bravo. You’ll see.”
Renee typed a few keystrokes into her web browser. Max could see that Sailing Vessel Bravo was the name of a massive sailing yacht owned by a Russian billionaire, Pavel Morozov. Last spotted off Key West, Florida, a few days ago.
Max hit the mute button again as he looked at her screen.
“Morozov,” Max whispered.
“You know him?” said Renee.
“I know of him.”
“And?”
“Not a nice guy.”
He could hear the woman on the phone say, “I need to go.”
He unmuted the phone, “Where will I find you?”
“The Southernmost point. Sunset.”
Max heard a beep and saw that the call had ended. He looked at Renee.
“Were you able to get anything useful?”
“A little. The transmission definitely came from the Florida Keys—that’s where the cellular data was routed through. Other than that, not much.”
“Okay. At least we have a lead. Let’s find out everything we can about Morozov, and how he might be related to me or my father’s company.”
They were both on their computers for the next few hours, researching Pavel Morozov and his crew. While they had found out a lot about him, it had yet to reveal an obvious connection to Max or his father.
Max let out a sigh of frustration. “Anything?”
“Be patient. Your conversation with the MI-6 contact helped me identify potential computers and IP addresses to dig into. I have programs running right now that should give us more information, but it’ll take time. When shall we go to Key West?”
“I figured we’d fly there first thing in the morning.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late.”
“I’m going to take a walk on the beach. I need to clear my head.”
“Okay. I have my phone if you need anything,” said Renee.
Max took his phone and placed it in the pocket of his cargo shorts. He walked barefoot past the small grove of palm trees in his backyard and out along the hard-packed sand beach. He fought the urge to contact his father. Nothing would be stupider, he thought. But he hoped that the old man wasn’t taking this too hard.
He walked for a good twenty minutes, the cool saltwater lapping the fine white sand off his feet. A nice breeze blew against his face, a sliver of moon rising over the horizon. He loved coming here. A shame it had to be under these circumstances.
While Max was gone, several of Renee’s sources in the hacker community began to return her messages. They were contractors, mostly. While Renee worked almost solely for nongovernmental organizations these days, she knew people who were plugged in to the state-sponsored cybersecurity world. Unlike the way pop culture portrayed the intelligence agencies, the community was not a tight-lipped vault of top-secret information. Private contractors had permeated just about every crevice of the modern intelligence apparatus. One of the results of that trend was that, for a price, Renee’s contacts would be able to provide her information on just about anyone or anything.
Her first order of business was to confirm that it was actually MI-6 they were dealing with. Renee’s paranoia worried that it could be some elaborate trick, designed to look that way to Max.
So far so good.
Word on the street was that it was indeed an MI-6 team that had been responsible for Max’s motorcycle escape out of D.C. No one knew why they’d done it, but it was very likely members of that specific British intelligence agency. The team who had executed the operation had gone underground. No one had seen or heard from any of them in the past forty-eight hours. A dead end.
Renee’s second order of business was to reach out to someone she knew on the FBI’s Cyber Forensics and Training Alliance. She wanted to find out more about what had prompted them to investigate Max in the first place.
Her source was able to provide her with what the FBI knew about the Fend Aerospace network intrusion, and the evidence that linked it to Max.
The hackers had stolen some data on the new Fend 100 aircraft, but they were unable to access the most secure information on the Fend 100’s AI program.
The FAA had agreed with Fend Aerospace that there was no safety concern with the aircraft test scheduled for the next week.
Then why so much interest in Max Fend?
Renee’s source told her that the FBI had received information from Interpol about Max’s ties to Eastern European and Middle Eastern criminal enterprises. While Max’s shady dealings might have piqued the FBI’s interest, it was his association with a Russian mobster that put Max at the top of the suspect list.
The Russian mafioso was a man by the name of Sergei. Sergei had taken a leap off a building only a few weeks ago. The French government had provided the FBI with Sergei’s communications records. They showed that Sergei had been working with a cybercriminal group that was operating out of Syria.
Furthermore, Sergei’s communications implicated Max as being complicit in the Fend Aerospace cybertheft. The communications had been sent only hours before Sergei’s death in Gibraltar.
But this information had been delivered electronically. Easily faked, Renee thought. The FBI thought that Sergei’s death had been ordered by the Syrian hacking group he’d been working with—tying up loose ends and increasing their share of profits.
Renee’s work in the cybersecurity world had exposed her to many of these criminal hacker organizations. They were white-collar criminals. Murder usually wasn’t part of their skill set. Sergei’s death smelled of something different, Renee thought—a ploy.
The FBI’s working theory was that Max intended to sell access to Fend technology to the highest bidder. The technology could be worth billions.
Renee wanted to point out the flaws in this theory—namely that Max was the son of Charles Fend, and already filthy rich—but she decided to stop asking questions. While her contact wasn’t an agent, and she trusted that he would keep her inquiry confidential, one never knew. Dig too deep, and she might trigger the FBI to look into her.
Lastly, Renee wanted to check up on Max’s departure from the DIA. His story didn’t quite add up. He seemed happy with his work there. His explanation of how his cover had been blown didn’t seem like a fully adequate explanation for why he would have to leave. She would ask him more. But first, she wanted to try and find out what she could on her own.
After a
few moments, Renee was conducting an encrypted chat with one of her former counterparts in the Canadian cyberintelligence organization, the CSE. There was a small video window so that she could see her friend as he typed, and her friend could see her. It was a security measure, to make sure that the conversation was actually with the intended person. The CSE folks were just as paranoid as she was. That was where she had learned it. She was surprised at what she read.
Renee: What do you mean?
Anon: It says that Max’s cover was blown.
Renee: How?
Anon: Something involving a Russian arms deal. He was supposed to help facilitate the sale of weaponry from a Russian supplier to a buyer in northern Africa. But something went wrong.
Renee: What happened?
Friend: Max ended up killing the Russian arms dealers. The DIA and CIA decided that his cover was blown. There are phone records that indicate the Russians knew he was an American operative.
Renee: How would his cover be blown if both of the Russians were killed?
Anon: Don’t know.
Renee: And so the DIA just let him walk away? They don’t use him at all anymore?
Anon: Apparently.
Renee: Seems unusual.
Anon: Agreed.
Renee: So who does the intelligence world think is after him? Were you able to find that out?
Anon: There are two theories. One is that it is related to the people that he killed. The Russian group settling old debts.
Renee: And the other?
Anon: The other theory is that Max is dirty. That he might have been turned while in Europe. That would also explain why the DIA wanted him out of their organization, if they suspected that.
Renee: They wouldn’t just ask him to leave. They would investigate him, right?
Anon: Maybe they couldn’t prove anything, but didn’t want to take a chance keeping him.
Renee: So what, then? People think he really gave someone access to his father’s company? Why? Money? He’s as rich as a Saudi prince.
Anon: No idea. Don’t shoot the messenger.
Renee: Okay, thanks.
Anon: Renee, be careful. I don’t know what’s going on, but if this Max Fend guy is wanted by this Russian mercenary group, he probably isn’t a good person to be around.
Renee: Understood. Send me what you can on the Russians.
Anon: Will do. And I don’t have to tell you that if theory #2 is true—you better watch your back.
Renee: Thanks, goodnight.
Renee closed the chat window and made sure to delete the conversation history. She leaned back on the couch. The lights were off in the living room of the beach house. The dim computer screen illuminated her face. She looked out at the dark beach. She could hear the waves. Max was walking out there somewhere. Was it really just to clear his head? Or was he calling someone else?
She shook her head. She had known him for a long time. Before he had gotten involved in the espionage world. He was a good man. Right?
Max came back in, wiping the dry sand off his feet. The screen door shut with a snap behind him. “Anything new?”
“I just reached out to a few people. That MI-6 team has gone underground.”
“Okay. Well, we don’t need them anymore anyway. We know we have to go to Key West.”
“I also looked into the evidence the FBI has on you.”
“And?”
“A lot of it’s circumstantial. But there’s an Interpol report that ties you to several organized crime syndicates in Europe and the Middle East.” She filled him in on what she knew.
“Sergei? That little Russian bastard? He was nothing. Just a regional…and he’s dead?”
Renee nodded. “Any idea what information he might have had that led to you?”
Max’s eyes darted from side to side as he thought. “He was plugged in to the type of people who make money off ransomware. But it was petty stuff. They would lock up a thousand people’s computers and make them each pay like three hundred bucks to get back their files. It was a volume game. You must know more about that stuff than I do.”
Renee nodded. “That’s what most of the small-time groups do. High-volume, low-dollar ransoms. The bigger fish go for corporations and can ask for millions of dollars. But those targets are harder to hit. And the penalties are worse if you’re caught.”
“You think Sergei thought I might be a good target?”
“Either he or someone he was connected with. It makes sense.”
“Looks like my past is coming back to haunt me. Nothing I can do about that now, I guess.”
“Were those connections related to the work you did for the DIA?”
“Of course.” Max frowned. “Why else would I have associated with those types?” He walked into the kitchen. “I’m going to make something to eat. You hungry?”
“A little.”
Max dug around the freezer. A few minutes later, he walked back into the living room with paper plates of steaming microwaved pizza.
“Anything else?”
“Are you really going to keep asking me that every few minutes?”
He put a plate of pizza in front of her. “Sorry. Just anxious.”
She blew on it and took a small bite. “It’s okay. Here’s what I’m doing right now. Some of the software programs I’ve been running have returned information that I can use. They’ve identified computers that were in close geographic proximity to the device the MI-6 agent was using to communicate with you. So now I’m sending back pings to those computers, to see if any more information turns up. I have to be honest—I don’t think we’ll learn anything. But it’s worth a shot.”
“Yes, it is.”
“So how did you start off in the intelligence world? Like…how did they hire you?”
Max chewed his pizza and took a swig of sweet tea. “It started when we were at Princeton. My senior year. That’s when they first approached me. I was at a career fair. Looking at sales jobs. I wanted to make money on my own. I’ve always had an aggressive streak. Not sure if you’ve noticed.”
“Maybe a little.”
“So we had quick little interviews at this career fair. You probably went to some of them, at those big conference hotels near town. They conducted separate interviews in each of the hotel rooms, all going on at the same time. At least a hundred other students came. I thought I was interviewing for a financial sales job. I’d been through two of those interviews already that day. But my interviewer wasn’t part of a financial sales firm. He was a DIA recruiter. It took me a while to figure that out, though.”
She nodded.
“So he asks me a series of questions. Everything’s normal. They were all behavioral questions. Tell me about how you would respond in this situation. Tell me about a time you led a team. That sort of thing.”
“Then what?”
“Then he asks me about my mother’s death. She died in a car accident when I was just a child. But I hadn’t told him that.”
“He asked about that?”
“Yeah. I mean, you know I was very young when it happened. I didn’t really know her. But still, it was unexpected.”
“So because the interviewer brought up your mother—you knew that they knew more about you than normal.”
“Yes. At first, I assumed they must know about it because they knew about my father. I wasn’t famous at the time.” He winked. “That came later.”
Renee rolled her eyes. “I think you have a complex.”
“Yes, I’m quite complex.”
“You misunderstand.”
“You’re French Canadian,” Max said, “it’s probably getting lost in translation.”
“I speak better English than you.”
“That’s up for debate.”
She pouted.
He grew more serious. “Anyway, my father was famous then. Still, it wasn’t common knowledge—my mother’s death. So when the interviewer asked about her, it caught me off guard. But more than that, it
was the question itself that was strange.”
“What did he ask you?”
“He asked me—hypothetically, if I found out that a criminal had been responsible for my mother’s death, would I be comfortable killing that person, if I knew that I wouldn’t be caught?”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t hesitate,” Max said. “I said yes.”
“Interesting interview.”
“Then he said, what if there was a job where you could save people’s lives by fighting the worst types of people in the world—would I be interested?”
“And you said yes.”
“I did. Then he asked if I would be able to keep secrets, and lie, and commit acts of espionage, and things like that. Obviously, I kept giving him the answers he wanted.”
“The interviewer asked you if you would be able to commit acts of espionage?”
“What? Oh. Hmm. Yes, that is a little too obvious for a first interview, isn’t it? My memory fails me. Somewhere in the series of interviews they threw that one in. I had to go through several interviews. But really, once I figured out it was them, I was in. They had just released a Jason Bourne movie in the theaters. And I didn’t want to go into the real world.”
“Peter Pan syndrome?”
“Maybe.”
“That was around the time that we broke up.”
Max looked back at her, a flash of guilt on his face. “Renee…”
A beeping sound emanated from her computer. Renee sat up, looking at the screen. A frightened look crossed her face. “Shit.”
She began typing.
“What is it?” Max asked.
She hit a series of keys and then powered down her computer. “Dammit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” She punched a pillow on the couch.
“What?”
Renee looked at him. “Give me your phone.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “What is wrong?”
Renee was looking around the room. “I think we should leave.”
“What? Don’t be silly.”
“I mean it, Max. I think we should go. First give me your phone.”
Max sat up straight. He handed his phone to her. “Renee, how worried should I be right now?”
