Andrew Watts
Glidepath
The Cold War may be 'over' for the West. For the Soviets it has entered a new, active and promising phase.
1
“Have you met Mr. Morozov before?”
“No. But I know the type,” Sergei said, sweat on his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight shining off the Mediterranean.
Sergei was a midlevel manager in one of the most powerful Russian mafia organizations on the planet. Born in Moscow, he had come to France a decade earlier to run his family’s business dealings there.
Mikhail and Sergei sat on a small porch overlooking the marina, ten floors up. Below, tourists lined up for ferry rides and deep-sea fishing trips. Seagulls glided in the air, searching for discarded food.
“When you speak with him, make sure you are respectful and to the point. Mr. Morozov does not normally meet with men like you.”
Sergei waved his hand dismissively. “Maybe I don’t normally meet with men like him.”
Mikhail took a final drag from his cigarette and then pressed it into the glass ashtray on the porch table. If that’s how this arrogant little prick wants to play it, fine.
He’ll soon learn.
Mikhail had seen enough of this new generation. The ex-Spetsnaz soldier was getting older, but he still was a foreboding presence. He had cut his teeth in Afghanistan as a member of the Red Army. Mikhail didn’t care for men like Sergei. He would just as soon have snapped his skinny little neck for disregarding his advice like that — but working for Morozov required total discipline.
And Morozov wanted to talk to Sergei.
“Can you shut that thing up?”
Sergei’s terrier was yapping at Mikhail’s feet. The dog hadn’t stopped barking in the five minutes since he’d entered. An earsplitting, high-pitched yelp. Over and over and over.
“He likes you. He’s a friendly dog.”
Mikhail glared at the animal, then looked down at his buzzing phone.
“He’s coming up.”
Sergei shrugged. He glanced down at the gun holstered on Mikhail’s right side.
“You like that piece? I can get you something better.”
Mikhail ignored him.
Minutes later, Pavel Morozov entered with two security guards in tow. Mikhail’s men. They were younger, but well trained. They closed and locked the door behind them and remained near the entrance of the small vacation condo.
Morozov stepped out onto the patio and took a seat. He was fit for a man of his age — nearing sixty-five. And his tanned skin hinted at a comfortable life in the sun. His expression was stoic. But behind his eyes was the distinct look of a man who had experienced decades of power. The look of an oligarch who expected nothing less than pure obedience. Behind those confident eyes was a master spy — one who had seized power through treachery and violence after the collapse of the Soviet Union.
Sergei hadn’t stood as he’d entered. And the tiny dog only intensified its bark — now aimed at Morozov.
Sergei made a clicking sound and the dog hopped up on his lap, now emitting a low growl at the guests.
Morozov looked at Mikhail with one eyebrow raised and then gave a thin smile. Mikhail pulled out a chair for his boss and positioned himself behind Morozov without saying a word.
“Glad you could make it,” offered Sergei.
“Tell me what I came to hear.”
Sergei said, “I have information that you will be most interested in. My associates and I would like to provide you with the first bid.”
“What are you offering?”
“Access. Access to the Fend Aerospace data center. Every document they have. Their designs for aircraft. Their software. Their classified military programs. I can get you into their system.”
“How?”
Sergei leaned back and smiled, looking satisfied.
Morozov glanced back at Mikhail and then said to Sergei, “Fend Aerospace is a multibillion-dollar American corporation. They will have very good IT security systems in place. I find it unlikely that a man in your position would come into something like this without outside assistance. So… who is getting you into their system?”
“Max Fend.” Sergei petted his dog and stared into the eyes of Pavel Morozov.
“Max Fend? Charles Fend’s son?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know him?”
“We have done business together.”
“What kind of business?”
Sergei ignored the question. “Mr. Morozov, as I understand it, you have been interested in Fend Aerospace for some time. Word is that you have been fishing for a way into their network. I can give it to you. For a price.”
The tiny dog was showing its teeth at Pavel Morozov. Sergei made a shushing sound to quiet it down.
Morozov rubbed his chin. “Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why would you offer this to me?”
“I was told that you would be interested. And with your work… you would be the best person to help monetize this. My family doesn’t normally deal in this area, as you know.”
“Yes. Your family deals with prostitutes and drugs.” Morozov looked as if he was contemplating something.
“Only the best prostitutes, and the highest-margin drugs.” Sergei chuckled.
“Tell me, Sergei, why am I hearing about this from you?”
Sergei shifted in his seat. “What the hell does that mean?” The dog began growling again.
Morozov took the tone of a school principal speaking to an unruly student. “Why not one of your cousins in Moscow? I’ve dealt with them personally in the past. I have a relationship with them. Do they know about this?”
Sergei swallowed.
“Look, if you are not interested, I can go—”
“Oh, no. I am interested.”
“Then what is the problem?”
Morozov said, “Tell me, who would the buyer be? In your most experienced and professional opinion.”
Sergei shrugged. “If you are worried about the liquidity, don’t. You wouldn’t have to sell this stuff to a big aerospace company. I would think that you could sell the different pieces separately. Any technology company would be interested in the technology. Fend Aerospace is a treasure trove. You are familiar with their new automated flight program?”
“I am.”
“My sources tell me that the right person could make billions with this.”
Morozov crossed his legs, looking out over the Mediterranean Sea.
“Sergei, are you familiar with the significance of my namesake?”
Sergei rolled his eyes. “I am not here to talk about your name.”
Morozov shot the young Russian a look.
Sergei winced. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morozov. I just… what does this have to do with what we are here to discuss? I want to talk about a business proposition. You—”
“I don’t care what you want. When I tell you something, you listen.” Morozov snapped his fingers.
Mikhail walked over and gripped Sergei’s neck in one hand, twisting his left wrist behind his back until Sergei let out a squeal of pain and pressed his head down firmly against the overhang. Sergei was now bent over, his smushed face looking towards Morozov, partially protruding over the edge. The street was ten floors down.
The little dog barked furiously and then grabbed onto Mikhail’s pant leg, pulling.
Morozov uncrossed his legs and stood. He grabbed the tiny animal by its neck.
“What are you doing? Let me go. You know who my family is. This is not the way we do business—”
Mikhail punched Sergei in the kidney. With the size of Mikhail’s arms, it was quite painful. “Be quiet and listen — or you get more.”