He felt his toes scrape the slimy bottom of the bay. “We can stand.”
They swam a little further and soon enough both of them were wading, then walking along the beach, their clothes heavy and drenched with seawater.
“Where are we?”
“I’m not sure. I think we’re on the opposite side of Mayport.”
Max checked his watch. It was almost 6 a.m. The eastern horizon was starting to lighten up. The Fend 100 was scheduled to take off in less than an hour.
“We need to hurry.”
20
The morning had not yet risen over the Atlantic horizon, but the sky was already a fiery red over the shore. The day had arrived. Charles Fend had not slept much. Partly due to his age — sleep was getting harder to come by — and partly due to his anxiety over the day’s events.
His personal assistant and chef were waiting in the kitchen. The news played on a small TV in the corner.
“Sir, can we get you anything?”
“Earl Grey tea, please. And perhaps a grapefruit.”
“Right away, Mr. Fend,” the chef said.
His assistant had laid out the usual clippings and daily schedule on Charles’s outdoor table, where he liked to eat during the nicer weather. Small metal weights in the shape of Fend airplanes rested on top of the paper stacks so that an errant sea breeze wouldn’t blow them away.
His assistant had tried to convince Charles to switch to an iPad or some other electronic device to get his morning briefing, but Charles couldn’t do it. He liked the feel of paper. It was real. And it wasn’t trying to sell him something half the bloody time. Well… it wasn’t trying to sell him products, anyway. Just ideas.
He ate his grapefruit and sipped his tea, reading over the news clippings that mentioned him and his company. There were quite a lot of them today. The kinder headlines hailed him as a champion in technology and aviation progress. The less friendly news stories were all gossip about his son. One of them showed a picture of Max with women in lingerie, dancing at his French villa.
Charles wondered how much of that was real and how much of it had been for show. Now that he knew Max had been working undercover for the DIA in France, things made much more sense. These wild parties didn’t fit with the son he knew. Max was too driven to get caught up in that nonsense.
“Have I any messages?”
“Dozens, sir.”
“Any from a Caleb Wilkes? Or from Max?”
Charles knew that his assistant wouldn’t have simply taken a message if Max had called, but he asked anyway. The assistant was a loyal man, but Charles had yet to tell him everything about Max. And he had no doubt seen all the headlines. He would naturally be curious. It was even possible that reporters had called to try and fish out details. Charles laughed at the thought. They would have more success breaking into a bank vault.
“Just Mr. Wilkes, sir. He asked to speak with you when you woke.”
“Please dial him for me.”
A moment later, the assistant handed Charles the phone, already ringing. Charles looked at his watch. He needed to be on the road. The Fend 100 team had already been working for hours today, and Charles would be in high demand the moment he walked in to the building.
“Good morning, Mr. Fend.”
“Morning, Caleb. What’s the good word today?”
“I’m afraid we’ve had a few setbacks.”
“Oh? Is Max alright? Anything I need to do?”
There was no answer.
“Caleb?”
Charles checked the phone, but the call had gone dead. After trying to call him back for a minute, he gave up. He tried calling in to work, but his phone wasn’t connecting to the network.
Charles pointed it out to his assistant, who offered his own phone. But Charles suggested that they just go in to the office. Everyone he needed to see would be there.
His assistant briefed him as they drove.
“You’ll be speaking with the Today Show again — live at eight oh five a.m. — followed by two other morning shows later in the morning. Reporters for the Times and the Post both wanted to speak with you, if you could give them a few minutes. And 60 Minutes will be doing a profile on you.”
“Again?”
His assistant was diplomatic. “I think they feel that they have more material.”
Charles grunted. “They’re probably right.”
The drive from Ponte Vedra to Cecil Field took slightly under an hour. Their car entered the private drive to his headquarters and saw several large dark vehicles parked in a column along the curb. Government vehicles.
Wilkes and another man stood next to the lead SUV.
“We were disconnected.”
Wilkes said, “Good morning Mr. Fend. I’m sorry about that. Several of us have been having phone trouble this morning.” He gestured to Flynn, who was standing beside him. “You know Special Agent Flynn.”
Charles eyed the man. “Hello again. What are all these vehicles for?”
Flynn cleared his throat, looking between Wilkes and Charles. “Mr. Fend, we want to make sure we’re ready for anything. So we have a special team of FBI agents ready to step in if anything should go wrong today.”
“Well, they can’t be seen by the press. That would look suspicious. It’ll ruin the whole event. I know that we need security, but I have a business objective here as well.”
“I understand, sir. We’ll keep them out here, in your private parking area. Only some of your employees will see them.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, looking back and forth between the CIA and FBI men. He wondered how much the FBI knew. Did Flynn know everything about Morozov? About Charles’s own history with him? Unlikely. Wilkes played things too close to the vest. Just like all the other handlers Charles had worked with over the years. The CIA was filled with boys who had never learned to share.
Charles looked at his watch. “Takeoff is coming up. I need to head inside, but I’ve asked my team to set up an office space for you to work out of — have they shown it to you?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course. It will be right next to the Fend 100 mission control center, so you’ll be able to monitor the flight” — he shot them a knowing look — “and the personnel involved.”
“Thank you, Charles. We’ll try to stay out of your way. Have you heard from Max?”
“No. You were telling me something before we got disconnected — something about setbacks?”
Wilkes’s face darkened. “I’m concerned that Max might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Morozov. Max never came back from his meeting yesterday afternoon. Listen, we’ll do everything we can to find out where Max is. You just focus on the Fend 100 this morning. I promise you that we’ll let you know the moment we hear anything on Max. I’m sure it will turn out okay.” He didn’t sound convincing.
Charles stood on the steps of his building entrance, looking into Caleb Wilkes’s eyes. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Please do let me know when you have more.”
With that, the CEO of Fend Aerospace turned and walked up the steps and through the large revolving door of his building. Several employees were waiting for him inside.
“Congratulations, Mr. Fend. You’re about to make aviation history. Do you have a minute?”
Charles looked up at his chief marketing officer. “Yes. Thanks. I’ll be there momentarily.” The other employees took the hint and sauntered off.
He strode into the open atrium, surrounded by the excited crowd noise and flashes of professional cameras.