Sergei shut up, his eyes wide. The dog kept barking, suspended in air by Morozov’s left hand.
With his free hand, Morozov took out a knife from his pocket. He flicked it open and rammed it twice into the dog’s throat. A quick, sickening squeaking sound emanated from the dog’s mouth. Morozov released his grip and the animal fell to the ground with a thud.
Morozov’s hands were covered in blood. One of the guards came over with a damp towel, and Morozov began cleaning himself. He left the dog’s carcass on the ground.
Sergei’s mouth was open, releasing a slow, painful gasp. His eyes were moist with anger and fear. Spittle dribbled from his lips.
Morozov moved his deck chair closer to the edge, so that his face was mere inches from Sergei’s own.
“Let’s try again. The name Pavel Morozov — my name — are you familiar with its story in Russian history?”
Sergei’s voice was strained. “Yes. Of course.”
“The more commonly known name is Pavlik. Pavlik Morozov. A Soviet boy. What is he known for, Sergei?”
Sergei’s eyes were looking down over the ledge, ten stories below. He then looked back at Morozov. “He turned his parents in. To… to the Communists.”
“Yes. Pavlik Morozov was thirteen when he did that. A peasant. Born in a small village in the country. He was a good Communist. But his father was not. His father had broken the law, forging documents and selling them to criminals. So Pavlik did what any good Soviet boy should have done — he turned his father in to the political police. What happened next?”
Sergei had stopped fighting but was still being forced down at an awkward angle.
“The boy was killed — by his relatives.”
“Something like that. Pavlik Morozov turned his father in. His father was sentenced to ten years in a labor camp and then executed. But then Pavlik’s family took their revenge. They did not appreciate disloyalty. Little Pavlik’s uncle, grandfather, grandmother, and cousin murdered him in cold blood. And they killed his younger brother too, for good measure.”
Sergei winced in pain. Mikhail’s thick fingers still dug into his neck, Sergei’s forehead scraping against the plastered overhang.
Morozov whispered, “Then the Soviet political police — found out about the horrific murders. So they went into town, rounded up the perpetrators, lined them up, and executed all of them by firing squad.
“The people of the Soviet Union were aghast at what happened. Pavlik became a martyr. A symbol. Statues went up. Songs and poems were written. Poor young Pavlik’s school became a memorial where children all over the Soviet Union were sent to pay tribute to his great sacrifice.”
Morozov looked up at Mikhail and nodded. Mikhail placed Sergei back on his chair but remained standing behind him. Sergei was bleeding from his forehead, where it had ground into the rough stone wall.
Morozov said, “So my parents named me after this great example of Communist bravery. What do you think, Sergei? What do you think of my name?”
Sergei said, “I don’t know… I think it is good, I guess.”
“Do you know what I think?”
Sergei shook his head, looking down at the floor.
“I think it is all propaganda bullshit. The Communists fabricated that story. It was the most perfect Russian tragedy you could imagine. And my poor parents bought it. Now I have to walk around with this goddamned lie of a name.”
Sergei just stared back, eyes lowered.
“But you know what, Sergei? The story does have a good lesson. But it is not the lesson that the Soviets wanted us to take away. Do you know what I am talking about?”
Sergei shook his head rapidly.
Morozov got in his face, speaking through gritted teeth.
“Family members are often a great source of vulnerability. They are blind spots. Take Max Fend. Max Fend might be his father’s undoing. And what about you, Sergei? Are you the weak link in your family?”
Fear shone in Sergei’s eyes.
“Like I said, Sergei, I am used to dealing with your family. Not you. So when you called, guess what I did? I called your uncles. And I told them something that they did not know. Your uncles don’t want to have a rat in the family. That is a problem for them. A problem that they would very much like to go away.”
Mikhail came back into Sergei’s view again. He was twisting a silencer onto the barrel of his gun, his eyes on Sergei.
Morozov smiled. “I make problems go away, Sergei. I’m very good at it.”
“Mr. Morozov, please just—”
“I want you to tell me everything you know about Max Fend. And then I want you to tell me exactly how you propose to gain access to the Fend network.”
“You are going to shoot me.” Sergei’s voice sounded defeated.
A thin-lipped smile. “Tell me what I want to know, and I promise you that I won’t shoot you.”
Twenty minutes later, the sounds of the marina were interrupted by screams. The screams began ten stories up and changed pitch as the source hurtled downward, ending in an abrupt smack as Sergei’s body smashed onto the pavement.
2
Charles shook his head. “How did they get through our firewall?”
“I just spoke with our IT security team. They still don’t know.”
“And you’re sure that they weren’t able to access the Fend 100 software?”
“It appears that way, but they have the aircraft design, including the wing. If the investors find out…”
“They’re going to find out, Maria, there’s no way around that. The best thing we can hope for now is to manage the message. You’ve notified the authorities?”
“Yes, Charles. We did that when it happened. But we’re just now learning how serious this was.”
“I’ll have to fly to New York and speak to some of the investors. The NextGen contract isn’t complete yet. They’ll be nervous.”
Maria Blount nodded in agreement. She was one of Charles Fend’s top executives and head of the Fend 100 autonomous flight program. She had just broken the news that a cyberattack had penetrated many of their most precious company files. They had known about the breach for several weeks. But until today, the Fend Aerospace leadership had been under the impression that their cybersecurity had prevented any important data from being stolen. This was bad news at a critical juncture in the company’s schedule.
“The Today Show is ready for you, Mr. Fend.”
The camera crew was setting up right under the National Air and Space Museum’s exhibit on commercial aviation. A DC-3 was suspended in the air overhead, and the giant front end of a Boeing 747 protruded from the wall.
“Excuse me, we will have to discuss this more later,” Charles said and walked onto the set.
The production team hooked a microphone to his shirt and handed him an earpiece. Bright lights illuminated the area. The crowd of museum tourists that had gathered around him hushed, seeing that the Charles Fend was about to go on live TV.
Charles could hear “the talent” in his ear, carrying on with their morning news update. Then came the voice he assumed belonged to the producer, instructing them to cut to Washington for Charles Fend.
The large black camera rolled up in front of him, keeping the museum’s aircraft in the frame. A tiny TV screen next to the camera showed the host saying, “We’re now joined by the illustrious Charles Fend — aviation pioneer and owner of Fend Aerospace. He’s coming to us live from the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. Charles, would you care to tell everyone watching how the Fend 100 project is going so far?”