[Max Fend 01.0] Glidepath

by Andrew Watts

  “Thank you, Special Agent Flynn.”

  They hung up.

  The gears in his head were turning.

  14

  They landed in Key West just after dawn. Both of them were exhausted. He kept his sunglasses and a hat on and tried to keep his face pointed away from anyone who might be watching.

  The fuel truck pulled up to their plane. “You guys want fuel?”

  Max had Renee do the talking. “Yes, please,” she said, “fill it up.”

  “Okay.” The man looked the plane over. “Say, it looks like you guys got a broken window. How’d that happen?”

  “Bird strike,” Max said.

  “Must have been a big bird.”

  “It was.”

  Max walked through the FBO lobby and hailed a cab. Renee paid for the aircraft parking fees and asked to see if they had someone who might be able to fix the window while they were in Key West. More funny looks when everything was paid for in cash. But no hassle.

  Renee then walked outside and got into the waiting cab. Max stood next to her, his baseball cap pulled down low over his head.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

  “Know anywhere we can find a rental on short notice?”

  “I know a guy, sure.”

  The “guy” was mopping up the inside of a bar on Duval Street. It was early morning, and the only people outside were the walkers and joggers. Renee negotiated a price, and they were able to rent out a two-bedroom cottage a few blocks away from the center of town.

  Max collapsed on the couch shortly after they got in the door. Renee went into one of the bedrooms and did the same. They hadn’t slept all night, and the adrenaline had long since worn off. They both slept for several hours.

  Max awoke in the late afternoon. He walked through the home and out onto the tiny back deck. The small area was surrounded by green tropical plants. A quaint blue swimming pool. Three wicker deck chairs.

  He changed into a pair of running shorts—the most appropriate thing he could find in his bag—and walked out to the private pool area. He placed his phone on the outdoor table and slid into the cool water. He dunked himself, got out, and lay down on one of the deck chairs. He grabbed one of the colorful folded towels that had been laid out by the property manager and used it as a pillow. Max took his phone and started catching up on the day’s news.

  The incident in Georgia wasn’t being reported accurately. The local papers were calling it a burglary. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution mentioned something about a possible meth gang. While the news stories didn’t give him much information, the pictures did.

  Special Agent Flynn, the man who had questioned him in D.C. two days before, was photographed on the scene, wearing a navy-blue FBI raid jacket.

  Renee walked out onto the pool deck. “Enjoying the vacation?”

  “I hate to waste a chance to relax.” He gripped her shoulder. “Are you alright? After last night, I mean?”

  She stood close to him. Nodding ever so slightly, she whispered. “Yes. I think so. I’ve never seen or done anything like that before.” He could see how upset she was.

  “Like I said, you did well. Thank you. Look, if any of this gets to be too much…I’ll understand if you need to stop.”

  Her expression changed, determination flashing in her eyes. “You need my help.”

  He nodded.

  She sat on the chair next to him and opened up her laptop. Max watched her type for a few moments. He admired her bravery. It couldn’t have been easy for her.

  After some typing, Renee said, “I just started looking at the tracking data I was able to collect last night. The hackers who located us—when they did that, it allowed me to collect some of their electronic identification info. I know more about them now.”

  “And who are they?”

  “I think they’re connected to an outfit called Maljab Tactical.”

  “I know that name.” He searched his memory. “How do I know that name?”

  “Tell me about the Russians that ended up dead at your home in France,” Renee said.

  Max looked up at her. “They were part of an arms deal.”

  “Were they connected to the Russian mobster that got killed in Gibraltar? Sergei?”

  “Sergei set up the introduction, but they weren’t Russian mafia.”

  “How were you involved with Sergei?”

  “I ran him. He was an informant and an asset. Because of his mafia affiliation, he was well plugged in.”

  “Did you trust him?”

  “I never trust any informant as far as I can throw them. Informants get to where they are by being either too dumb or too morally corrupt to know better.”

  “So Sergei introduced you to the two Russian arms dealers, and then you killed them? He must have been pissed off at that,” said Renee.

  “He didn’t give a shit. Sergei was paid off. Cash cures all kinds of heartache in that line of work.”

  “You paid him as a way to say sorry?”

  “That’s the way things are done. The Russian arms dealers I killed weren’t part of his organization, so he didn’t care as long as it didn’t get him in any trouble. We made sure it didn’t point to either of us. Officially, I was out of town.”

  “When did you kill those two men?”

  “The incident happened about a year ago.”

  “And you were pulled out of France when?”

  “Shortly after.”

  “A year ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “So that was the last time you were in touch with Sergei?”

  “Yes.”

  “So then he gets in touch with a hacker group and what…remembers his old rich friend Max?”

  “Maybe he saw an article about the Fend 100 and thought of me?”

  “Okay, so let’s play that out. So they come up with a plan to hack into the Fend Aerospace Company and steal all their data. They might sell it to the competition. They might hold it for ransom and have the company pay them off. That’s the way those things normally work. But when you go after big fish like that, a company like Fend Aerospace…they usually can afford to bankroll their own white hat or black hat hackers. People like me. People who can track down and upend the ransomware.”

  Max rubbed his temples. “So what are you saying?”

  “None of this makes sense yet. It doesn’t make sense that Sergei would find a hacker group all by himself and come up with this plan. And it also doesn’t make sense that they would frame you.”

  Max said, “Well, we know it isn’t Sergei’s family mafia business that’s after me anyway. They wouldn’t have killed him.”

  “What about the two arms dealers?”

  “You think that’s what this is about?” Max asked.

  “The men who attacked us in Georgia and the arms dealers are both Russian, for starters.”

  “Yeah, but those two were low-level nothings. The people who just attacked us in Georgia were professionals, Renee.”

  “Tell me more about how it happened in France,” she said again.

  Max sat up, eyeing her. “The DIA had me facilitate a meeting between the Russian suppliers and one of our assets in northern Africa. Libya, I believe. I was essentially just a matchmaker. A middleman. I would help connect people who were looking for certain hard-to-get items with the type of people who could procure them.”

  “And?”

  “As you’re aware, the rule of law is not quite as strict in different parts of the world. So while most of the matchmaking I did was legit, much of it was not.”

  “How did you not get in trouble with French authorities?”

  “The DIA took care of that. The French government knew enough not to get in my way.”

  “And these small-time Russian arms suppliers—these were men that the DIA instructed you to set up a deal with?”

  Max nodded. “The agent was embedded with a terrorist group in Libya. He needed to prove to his group that he could get them access to arms.
We were trying to help him set up that deal.”

  “Why didn’t you go through another channel? Why use this Russian group?”

  “Part of my job was to continuously make new contacts. In this case, I was trying to establish a connection with the Russian group. It was two birds with one stone. I figured they’d supply the arms, and the DIA agent in Libya would get what he needed.”

  “But it didn’t work out that way.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “I think I’m starting to see a connection. The hackers that found us in Georgia were part of Maljab Tactical. Maljab Tactical worked all over the Middle East, including Syria. And they specialized in cyber operations, among other things.”

  Max raised his head. “Very good, Renee.”

  “Maljab Tactical is the subsidiary of a larger Russian mercenary organization—Bear Security Group. I’m curious if those ‘small-time’ arms dealers you were with might have been connected to Bear Security Group as well.”

  “I know Bear Security Group. They’re huge. They’re the primary Russian mercenary group in Syria and Crimea.”

  “Right,” said Renee.

  “So what is Maljab Tactical? Remind me.”

  “Maljab Tactical is a small subsidiary of Bear Security Group. Do you know who they sell to?”

  “Who?”

  “To Muslim extremist militias. One of their biggest clients is the Islamic State. Maljab is basically a Russian-owned mercenary group that trains jihadist fighters. It’s made up of mostly Uzbek fighters—along with other mercenaries from Muslim-majority Russian Caucasus republics.”

  “So they’re Russian private security consultants who work specifically for jihadists?”

  “Pretty much. There’s a lot of money flowing into these groups from wealthy radicals in the Middle East. Hiring companies like Maljab Tactical is seen as a great return on investment, rather than just giving the money to the groups directly.”

  Max said, “Because a professional defense contractor like Maljab makes these groups much more effective.”

  “Exactly.”

  Max nodded. “Yes. Now I remember them. Maljab Tactical was in Syria and Iraq. They improved Islamic State’s recruiting numbers by managing their social network outreach—they made ads similar to what you would see from a Fortune 500 company. And they improved their combat effectiveness by giving them top-notch weapons training.”

  Renee said, “And Maljab Tactical is part of Bear Security Group. Bear Security Group is owned by a wealthy Russian named Pavel Morozov. You said you know of him. What do you know?”

  Max said, “My work over the past few years has primarily been in Europe and the Middle East. As CEO of Bear Security Group, Morozov is head of one of the largest private armies in the world, and the largest mercenary group in Russia. They do all the Russians’ dirty work in places like Syria and Ukraine. I encountered Morozov only once, but it was enough. It was in Syria.”

  “What happened in Syria?”

  “I did some work with a US military task force there. Special Forces types. Whenever we did work in Syria, we had to be careful. We didn’t want to get into a shootout with the Russians who were operating there. They were well trained and well armed. And starting a gunfight with them could have led to bigger and worse fighting between Russian and US forces. Oftentimes Bear Security Group was working alongside the Russian military. We had to treat them the same.”

  “What were you doing there?” Renee said.

  “A meeting. Making an introduction between a rebel group and an arms dealer. The US wasn’t willing to officially sell arms to this group, but we still wanted them armed. My man was seen as the workaround. But this Syrian rebel group was unstable. A junior varsity team.” Max sighed. “When it happened, we could see a lot of it from the windows.”

  “When what happened?”

  Max nodded. “So one day when I was there, a few local fighters who were in this rebel group—they were nothing more than teenagers—made the mistake of going head to head with the Russians.”

  Renee raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine that ended well.”

  “It didn’t. Bear Security Group was there—embedded with the local Russian military unit. They took turns going out with the Syrian military when they did security patrols. Morozov himself was in the country, visiting his operational commanders.

  “The teenage fighters from the rebel group took one of the Syrian security patrols hostage. Only three hostages, but they were soldiers. Shortly after, a few more of the rebels came in to reinforce the two idiots who started it all. I don’t think they really wanted to be there, but it was too late at that point. Two of the hostages were Syrian Army. But one of the hostages was one of the Russian mercenaries. Big mistake.”

  “What did the Russians do?”

  “Morozov moved dozens of his men into the area, clearing out all the civilians for blocks around. The Syrian Army showed up and tried to take control, but Morozov told them to piss off. He didn’t want anyone to see or interfere with what he was about to do.”

  “Even the Syrian Army?”

  Max took a sip of his water. “Even them. When the rebels saw they were surrounded by well-armed men, they sent out a list of demands. They thought they could negotiate. I don’t think they thought they would be dealing with the Russians. They expected Syrian Army or government representatives to come.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Morozov had his men sweep the local area. He got the names of the rebels—the men who’d taken the hostages. Then he had his men find their families.”

  Renee shook her head.

  “Morozov instructed his men to begin cutting off limbs of family members and sending them inside to the Syrians.”

  Renee gasped and placed her hand over her mouth.

  “The Syrian rebels started pleading to negotiate. Never a good sign. They sent one of the hostages out for nothing in return, hoping it would be a sign of good faith. They told the Russians they would lay down their weapons and release everyone else. They were begging the Russians to let them surrender.”

  “What did Morozov do?”

  “He accepted. Then he waited until they came outside and laid down their arms. I remember seeing the Syrian rebels standing there, unarmed and dumbfounded. Waiting. Morozov stood twenty feet away, flanked by his commandos. Then he walked up to the group of hostages—the two Syrians and the one Russian—and executed them. The Syrian rebels just stared at him in disbelief. Morozov shot the hostages. Including his own man.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He said it was a message to anyone else who worked for him, never to put themselves in that position of weakness. He then killed all but one remaining family member of each of the Syrian rebels. The rebels were forced to watch. When Morozov was finished, he let the rebels leave, unharmed. He told them that if they ever did anything like this again, he would finish the job and kill the remaining relative. I heard from someone else once that leaving a single family member alive was a sort of calling card. He believed it was the great deterrent. Anyone thinking of seeking revenge on him would just have to look at their one living family member, and they would stand down.”

  “He is…evil.”

  “Yes, Renee. He is.”

  Max got up and sat at the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in. “Okay. Thinking out loud here. Walk me through this. So far, you’ve linked the cyber group that located us in Georgia to Maljab Tactical.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “And Maljab Tactical is a subdivision of Bear Security Group.”

  “Right.”

  “Bear Security Group is the big one. Pavel Morozov’s outfit. The largest Russian mercenary organization, filled with Russian ex-military special forces types.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And we just got attacked by guys who fit that description. Russian ex-military.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think these people are related to that s
mall-time outfit that tried to kill me in France? The two men.”

  “All I have to go on is that they’re Russian, they’re dirty, and they tried to kill you—but I’m picking up a definite theme here. Are you?”

  “Bear with me,” Max said. “Sometimes I need to be hit on the head by a hammer to see it. This is all helpful, Renee, but it doesn’t answer a key question—why?”

  “Why are there Russians trying to kill you, or why did they try to set you up for sabotaging your father’s company?” Renee asked. “Because assuming that we are talking about the same entity, they seem to have changed strategies. They don’t seem to want you alive anymore.”

  “I guess I need both questions answered, really.”

  “Let’s start with you telling me why two Russian men tried to kill you in France.”

  Max looked up, remembering. “There were a group of people over that night. Lots of booze. Several dozen of my clients. The Russians were invited. It was my second meeting with them, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. And…well, let’s just say we had a disagreement about how to treat a lady.”

  “What do you mean?” Renee said.

  “There was a young French woman there at my place that night. Early twenties. Blond hair. Beautiful figure.”

  Renee raised an eyebrow. “Was that description necessary?”

  “What? She was beautiful. Great birthing hips. You know how I love those. There’s nothing wrong with me pointing that out.”

  “I see your sense of humor still has poor timing.”

  “Don’t ruin the story, Renee. Anyway, the two Russians were there and the girl brought a few friends. But the Russians were just getting way too drunk and obnoxious. Major buzzkill. So the girl’s friends decided to leave. She stayed because she was interested in me, I believe.”

  “Of course.”

  “What? I can’t help it. My good looks are both a gift and a curse.”

  “Please just continue.”

  “So I was hoping to get what I needed from the Russians and send them on their way. I went into another room to make a phone call—working on another deal. The girl was pretty drunk. She was alone with the Russians only for a moment. They were trying to get her into one of the bedrooms. She said no. I heard the commotion and got off my call. I told them to leave. They didn’t. One of them grabbed the girl and started dragging her into the bedroom screaming, and the other Russian just stood there smiling, typing on his phone.”