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.