[Max Fend 01.0] Glidepath

by Andrew Watts

  He had just been dropped off at his car in the Reagan International Airport parking lot when his phone rang.

  “Special Agent Flynn.”

  “Jake, it’s Steve Brava. Can you meet for coffee again today?”

  “Definitely. Same place?”

  “Yeah. Seven p.m. work?”

  “See you there, thanks.”

  Flynn drove his G-car with the blue light on the dash. The light wasn’t flashing, but most people driving in the left lane of the highway got out of the way once they saw it. They figured him for an undercover cop. The worst was when people didn’t get out of the way. They just slowed down to the speed limit, while everyone else zoomed by. But he didn’t get any of those on this trip, thank God.

  He arrived at the coffee shop in Springfield a few minutes before seven and ordered a cup of decaf. Damn caffeine would keep him up all night if he had one now. He sighed, realizing he would probably be up all night anyway, working on the Fend case.

  After the killings on Jekyll Island, the FBI had thrown a lot more agents his way. But he still hadn’t turned up many new leads. The CIA was “helping them out” now that they thought the Russians might be involved.

  That was a joke.

  The CIA expected to get all the information that Flynn’s investigation turned up, but offered little in return. It was just more of the same bullshit that he had dealt with when he had driven out to the Farm.

  Steve walked in a few minutes late, apologizing. “Traffic was a mess on 66.”

  “No sweat, man, have a seat. You want anything?”

  “Nah. Thanks, though. I can only stay for a moment.”

  They sat in the far corner of the coffee shop. It was dark and there were no customers at the adjacent tables.

  Flynn said, “What have you got?”

  Steve had that same concerned look on his face. Disclaimer time, Flynn figured. Steve said, “Now let me just reiterate how much trouble I could get in if they found out I was sharing this. I’m doing this as a personal favor. Capiche?”

  “Of course. I swear to God, Steve. This stays between us. I just need a little help on this. You heard about Jekyll Island, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Well, the CIA’s involved now. And they’re still stonewalling me.”

  “Who from the CIA? Is it that guy Wilkes you talked to?”

  “No. Someone else. Why?”

  “I got more on Max Fend,” Steve said. “I told you the classification level on his personnel file was unusually high. Codeword level. But his personnel file was flagged in a particular way.”

  “Yeah, you said that.”

  “I asked my friend at DNI what it meant when a personnel file is flagged like that. He knows about these sorts of things. My friend told me it was something he’s only seen a few times.”

  “When?”

  “Once was for a guy who was a member of the Army’s Delta Force, and then went into some even more spooky black ops unit. Some task force they use to track down terrorist leaders.”

  “And the other time?”

  “The other time he saw that classification level on a personnel file was for an active CIA field agent. But not just any agent. A very high-profile agent. Someone a lot of people know.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Steve looked around the coffee shop. “Okay. We never had this conversation.”

  “I get it. What do you have?”

  “There is a certain subset of NOC agents.”

  “NOC—you mean nonofficial cover.”

  “Yes. But not just any NOCs. Sometimes…well, this is going to sound silly. But—celebrities or famous businessmen get recruited by the CIA. They get special access and trust that would be very useful to the US intelligence services.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  “So what are you saying, the CIA has Oprah working for them?”

  “I doubt it. But, yes, that’s what I’m saying, essentially.”

  “Come on. Give me a break.”

  “Jake, there are plenty of famous celebrity spies in history. Julia Child, Frank Sinatra, Cary Grant…”

  “Those people are all dead,” Flynn said. “It was a different time back then. Hollywood was more patriotic then.”

  Steve sighed. “Ever hear the expression that there are no new ideas? Well—supposedly the CIA is still using high-profile public figures as spies.”

  “Come on.”

  “Don’t believe me? Well, maybe this will interest you. My friend gave me one name—the CIA guy in charge of the current program. Do you know what name he gave me?”

  “Who?” Flynn asked, and then he answered for himself. “Wilkes?”

  Steve nodded.

  “That lying bastard.”

  “You asked me to help you. I’m just trying to tell you what I know.”

  Flynn said, “Okay. So Max Fend is pretty well known. Well, at least his father is. Let’s say it’s true. What are you thinking?”

  “So, hypothetically—if Max Fend was involved in the Clandestine Operations side of the house, they might have realized that he had the potential to someday inherit his father’s company. He would qualify for that program—he’s rich and famous. I mean, who doesn’t know Charles Fend? He’s like Howard Hughes and Richard Branson rolled into one. So if Max Fend is going to inherit the throne someday, maybe they have enrolled him. I can tell you one thing, his DNI personnel file certainly fits the bill.”

  “Can you tell me what’s inside it?”

  “Not without going to jail. And I like you, but not that much.”

  “Got it. Okay. Sounds like I need to pay Wilkes another visit.”

  When Jake Flynn called the contact number the CIA had given him and asked to be connected with Caleb Wilkes, he was told that Wilkes was unavailable.

  Two minutes later, Flynn’s phone rang.

  “Special Agent Flynn, I hear that you are trying to reach me.”

  “Mr. Wilkes, I was hoping that we could sit down and have another chat.”

  “Concerning?”

  “Our mutual friend.”

  The phone went silent for a moment, and then Wilkes said, “I’m heading to Jacksonville, Florida, right now. Would you be able to meet me there?”

  Who did this guy think he was? “I’m in the middle of an investigation. No, I can’t go to—” Besides, he had just come from there.

  “Mr. Flynn, I know all about your investigation. And I know that you’ve been getting information from someone at the DNI’s office. Looking into our mutual friend.”

  How the hell did he know that?

  “Relax,” Wilkes said. “I have no reason to inform your superiors. But I think the best thing you and I can do now is lay all our cards on the table. And my table is located in Jax. So do what you need to do, and catch a flight down here. This isn’t a conversation you’ll want to miss. Besides, if you’re doing your investigation well, it’ll lead you there anyway.”

  By evening, Morozov’s yacht had tied up to the pier just off Mallory Square. Normally reserved for commercial cruise liners, Renee had found out that it cost him an extra $150,000 to dock there.

  The party that night was for some of Morozov’s wealthiest investors and business associates. Renee had been able to access the guest list and add her name. The security guard didn’t know any better. All he knew was that her name was on the list.

  As she walked up the gangway, Renee was on edge. Max was going to be furious when she didn’t come home from the grocery store.

  Renee was struck by the beauty of the vessel’s design. Everywhere she looked, the ship was a work of art. Dual circular staircases on both sides of the ship. Titanium tables of modern construction. Light-colored hardwood flooring.

  Beautiful women in skimpy outfits served refreshing cocktails and delectable hors d’oeuvres. The guests wore a mix of attire. Some were in suits. Others wore expensive-looking marine-themed clothing. A
few Arab men wore traditional white robes.

  Renee was worried that she would be overdressed, but she wasn’t. She had purchased a long, flowing satin gown, like something you’d see at the Oscars, at one of the high-end Key West shops.

  She tried to act natural. Standing out on the deck in the midst of the crowd. Looking around and wondering where she should start. Perhaps she had made a mistake in coming here.

  Her pulse began racing as an older man in a suit walked toward her. His skin was flecked with the discolorations of age, his oddly colored hair thrown in a pitiful combover. He looked at her like she was his prey—he must know that she was an impostor. What had she been thinking, coming here like this? She should leave.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t be standing without a date or a drink. Allow me to provide either that you choose.” Russian accent.

  She forced a smile. “I’ll take a drink. Thank you.” Anything was better than raising suspicion.

  “Of course.” The older man caught the eye of one of the waitresses. He took two flutes of champagne from her, handing one to Renee.

  “My name is Vasily. And you are?”

  “Renee.”

  “It is very nice to meet you, Renee. Come—this area is getting crowded. Let’s go up here, away from the noise.”

  He took her arm and led her up three steps to the elevated aft section of the open-air deck. It was only fifteen feet from where they had been standing, but there were considerably fewer guests up there. And the view of the ocean was better.

  A waitress headed toward them with coconut shrimp. Vasily grabbed a few, fitting an impossible quantity all onto his tiny white napkin. The waitress left, and the two of them were alone and out of earshot.

  “My God, these are delicious.” He examined one of the coconut shrimp before stuffing it in his mouth. He used the back of his hand to wipe off some of the sauce that was dribbling down his chin. “Have you tried these?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Here. Would you like one of mine?”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  “What do you do, Renee? Why are you here?”

  Renee had gone over this in her mind a dozen times on the ride over. It felt so inadequate now. “I’m an IT security consultant. I hope to work with Mr. Morozov in the future.”

  “Really?” He stopped eating the shrimp and looked at her with new interest.

  She spoke before he could get off another question. “What do you do, Vasily?” All men liked to speak about themselves, if given the opportunity. Keep it about him.

  “I work at the Russian Embassy.”

  “Really? That’s very interesting.” She managed an impressed look.

  A gong went off. A sharp staccato sound, silencing the party.

  Each of the heads turned to the entrance on the top deck. Two glass doors slid apart and Pavel Morozov walked out, a nameless blonde bombshell at each arm. The guests clapped. Several raised glasses in admiration. Pavel smiled, scanning the crowd.

  His eyes settled on Renee and Vasily, and his smile faded.

  Max chopped three cloves of garlic on his wooden cutting board, sliding them onto the knife and then into the pan of sizzling olive oil. The garlic crackled, its pleasant scent wafting through the room.

  Max had decided on Italian instead of French food. He threw a sprinkle of crushed red pepper and minced onion onto the now-browned garlic. Once the onions were soft, he added two cans of crushed tomatoes, some salt and pepper. He dipped in his wooden spoon and gave it a taste. Not bad.

  Turning the heat to low, he was almost ready to place the eggplant into the oven. Eggplant parmesan was one of his specialties. The key was to use salt to dry out the eggplant before breading it. This gave it a nice crunch.

  But one couldn’t enjoy an Italian dinner without red wine. And Renee had forgotten the wine—so she had run back out to get a few bottles.

  He checked his watch. She had been gone for over an hour. How long did it take to get wine?

  Max breathed through his nose, slowly stirring the sauce. A feeling of dread grew in his chest.

  He placed the spoon down on the counter and stormed into her empty room, looking among her things.

  Max and she had agreed that she should do the shopping alone that afternoon. Max needed to keep his face out of public view. It was a gift that he wasn’t already in the news, and they shouldn’t push their luck.

  So Renee had gone out on her own after lunch. She’d said she wanted to check out a few of the shops. Then she’d finished up at one of the few grocery stores on Key West—an overpriced market a few blocks from their rental.

  Max had seen the clothing store bags when she came in. She had held them up with a look of defiance in her eyes. It had been his money she was spending. Max had figured that the purchases were a playful way of getting back at him for what she considered a sexist remark about women and shopping.

  He was wrong.

  That wasn’t why she had made the purchases. He was looking through the bags. Empty but for a receipt. What did you buy, Renee?

  A dress. A pair of shoes. Platinum-and-diamond drop earrings and a necklace. Holy shit, those were expensive. But that wasn’t what upset him. He looked around the room. In the closet and in the drawers. Then he checked the bathroom, just to be sure.

  None of the clothing or jewelry she had purchased was there. And she sure as hell hadn’t been wearing it when she’d left.

  He closed his eyes, shaking his head. Renee, Renee, Renee. Why would you do this?

  He knew exactly where she was. He just couldn’t believe it. He ran into the kitchen and turned off the stove, then checked that the oven was off as well.

  Back in his room, he opened his travel bag, grabbing a pair of binoculars, his pistol, and a silencer and placing them all in a fanny pack. He threw on his sunglasses and ball cap and hurried out the door.

  It would take him a good fifteen minutes to reach the yacht, and he had no idea what he would do once there. It was getting dark. He needed to come up with a plan.

  Morozov walked directly over to them. A strongman’s walk, confident and showy, with just a touch of what Renee’s brothers liked to call ILS—Imaginary Lat Syndrome. The way some guys held out their arms like their lat muscles were bigger than they really were.

  Pavel Morozov had walked past his guests and stood uncomfortably close to Vasily. His hand was extended.

  “Good evening, Vasily. I hear we have business to discuss.”

  Vasily shook Morozov’s hand, replying in Russian.

  “And who is your guest?” Morozov looked at Renee, an eyebrow arched.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Renee said, “We only just met. Please excuse me, I’ll let you two talk.”

  Morozov turned back to Vasily and spoke to him in Russian. Renee walked away, trying not to rush. She didn’t want to draw any more attention than she already had. Renee could see two of Morozov’s security team holding their earpieces across the room. One of them began heading her way. Renee again began to wonder if she had made a mistake in coming here. But then the security man walked past her and she exhaled.

  She traveled along the outer walkway of the yacht. It was time to get to work.

  Renee stepped out onto a forward observation deck. She was alone. The first twinkle of stars began to overcome the fading sunlight. She could hear the noise of the boozy party coming from the opposite end of the yacht.

  There were seats and couches in various places. It took her a moment to find what she was looking for. A docking station near the armrest of one of the built-in seats. Luxury yacht owners wanted to be able to charge their phones while they lay out in the sun, right?

  She looked around to make sure no security guards were near. Seeing no one, she sat down and removed her laptop from her shoulder bag. She didn’t know how long she would have. She checked the docking station. It was
equipped with a USB Type C port. That would get her speeds of at least 5 Gbps as long as there were no bottlenecks in the network.

  Her fingers danced over the keyboard. Each keystroke was a moment closer toward solving the riddle—or being discovered.

  There.

  She had accessed a part of the ship’s network that showed an enormous number of data transfers over the past week. It was a treasure trove of information. More than she could analyze right now. But she didn’t need to. She just needed to send it off the ship so that she could look at it later.

  While the data was transferring, she decided to dig into any communications between anyone at Fend Aerospace and the ship.

  There were two account IDs listed at Fend. She couldn’t trace them to a name right now. But if she could get into the Fend database later, she would be able to match them up. She added those files to the transfer.

  Her eyes darted up at the sound of two security men walking out onto the observation deck. One of them held a silenced pistol, pointed at Renee.

  “If you’ll come with us, please.”

  It occurred to Renee that perhaps her tour of the ship should have stuck to places visible to potential witnesses. She hit a series of keystrokes that locked her computer and wiped her hard drive, then closed the laptop.

  Renee said, “I’m a guest of Mr. Morozov—”

  “We just received instructions from Mr. Morozov. He wants you below deck—now.”

  They threw Renee in a small bedroom deep in the bowels of the ship. They had taken her computer, but it was useless now anyway.

  The room looked like it was meant for the crew. Bunk beds pressed up against the curved wall. Very little storage. There was a guard outside. At least one, by the sound of it.

  She waited in the small room, cursing herself for not listening to Max. She’d just wanted to help. To make up for almost getting them killed in Georgia. And to prove that she was worthy. It was a colossally stupid motivation.

  During hour one, Renee convinced herself that Morozov wouldn’t kill her. She was an American. And people had seen her.