Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “This is not uncommon, Aleksandr,” Viktor said. “We see this behavior periodically. They overreact in some cases. Sometimes they like to test their systems and evacuation plans.”

  “But they are not testing it this time, are they, Viktor?” Aleksandr’s cheeks turned a slight pink color as he clenched his fists to suppress his anger. “We are in grave danger, comrade. The committee went to great lengths to develop a strategy that would ensure a smooth change of government. How could we have been so foolish as to listen to your plan? Don’t you see what you’ve done? We are doomed. The Americans know what we are doing. Our government knows what we are doing.”

  Aleksandr walked around the antique cypress desk and stuck his finger in Viktor’s chest. “The KGB has intercepted messages from the American consulate to Washington. Somehow, they’ve discovered our activities. They are arresting members of the committee at this moment.” His chest heaved, his eyes wide with panic. “You! It was your driver who did this. It was your man in Section Nine who devised such an insane plan to assassinate Senator Bowman. Viktor, you will be responsible for this.” Aleksandr shook. He had never talked to Viktor this way.

  The faint sounds of sirens wailed outside, growing louder by the second. They were coming. Normally, the KGB made their arrests quietly, but not for this. They wanted everyone to know who the traitors were. The public humiliation and a spectacle would be used to discourage others from betraying the power class.

  Viktor glared at the shaking man in front of him. They were finished before it began. The betrayals began to unfold, the committee had already identified their scapegoat . . . him. He was tired, old, and weak, but he was a fighter. Slowly, he rose to stand eye to eye with his accuser.

  “We are responsible for this, you spineless coward,” Viktor exclaimed. “You are all educated, intelligent men who knew the consequences of your actions. If you are looking for someone to toss to the KGB and the Americans when this is over, fine. Tell them it was me. It does not matter. But don’t try and convince yourself you were not involved. You are. All of you. You are all cowards!”

  The sirens were louder now, then, they stopped. They were here. The KGB would swarm the building in moments, arrest him, and make an example out of him. A lifetime of service . . . to end in shame.

  Viktor moved from behind his desk, walked to the door of his office, and opened it. “Now, leave little man. Is this how you repay decades of friendship? I only hope the KGB gives you what you deserve, as well.”

  Aleksandr lowered his head in shame and realized, perhaps for the first time, what he’d done. He backed away from the desk, then glanced toward the door. “Comrade, I—”

  “Out coward!” Viktor said. A fire burned in his eyes now. He had reason to be angry. Aleksandr shuffled out the door without looking at him. Viktor closed and locked the door behind him. The proud, angry man quickly became the sullen figure who occupied the room just minutes before. Outside the door, he heard the screams of his secretary, as the KGB agents secured the second floor and ordered Aleksandr to the ground.

  Viktor walked to the window and gazed at the dull gray sky. This was not the ending he had dreamed of for his distinguished career. Where did he go wrong? He missed his Helga deeply. She always kept him focused; pointed him in the right direction. A single tear rolled down his wrinkled face unnoticed.

  The KGB pounded on the door, ordering him to open it. Viktor turned and looked toward the heavy wooden door. No doubt, they will breach it any second now.

  Viktor was too proud to be made a fool. And too old to go to the Gulag. Shuffling back to his desk, Viktor sat in the wing-backed chair. He had always loved this chair. It was . . . dignified.

  He reached into the bottom drawer, pulled out a wooden box, and removed a shiny pistol. Viktor had taken the Lugar from a German officer during the Battle of Stalingrad. He checked the magazine, jammed it into the stock, and inserted a round into the chamber. Pressing the barrel firmly to his temple, the cold steel gave him a brief chill. Viktor pulled the trigger.

  47

  September 12, 1995

  * * *

  JASON SAT IN THE SORDID, musty smelling hotel room on the outskirts of San Antonio. After he drove all night, he slept most of the day. He lay on his back and studied the wallpaper that peeled away in large chunks, and the small spots on the wall that appeared to move. At this point, any more sleep was impossible.

  Once he took a quick shower, he felt refreshed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picked up a slip of paper. He stared at it for ten minutes before he dialed.

  “Kathy, it’s Jason. I need to see you.”

  “Conrad, what’s going on? I just saw on the news—”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said you might have shot two men and they’re looking for you.”

  “Kathy, I didn’t shoot anybody. I need your help. I’ll explain everything to you. Things are a little crazy right now.”

  “A little crazy is an understatement. Your picture is all over the networks.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Jason moaned. “Kathy, I need to know, will you help me?”

  “I’ll talk to you, Jason. Maybe you can explain all this to me. The news said you’re a killer, but I think I know better. Where are you?”

  “I’m at a hotel just outside of town.”

  “Here? In San Antonio?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I want you to go downtown to Market Square. There is a restaurant called La Margarita’s. Meet me there at six. Try to get a table outside.”

  “Market Square, La Margarita’s, six p.m., got it. Thanks, Kathy, you don’t know how much I—”

  CLICK.

  JASON WALKED ALONG THE SCENIC Riverwalk, which sat in the middle of San Antonio. A small river, thirty to forty feet wide, meandered through the downtown area. Numerous restaurants, shops, and hotels overlooked the popular tourist spot. The aroma of authentic Mexican cuisine hung in the air up and down the river, enhanced by the variety of flora that paralleled the sidewalk. At one end lay the multi-story Rivercenter Mall, which contained an area for live outdoor concerts. A series of escalators took people to all levels of the mall, while providing a view of the stage. Several small gondolas floated along the river, some of which were floating restaurants. Various outdoor restaurants had pairs of Mexican men, who strummed their guitars and serenaded the customers. A festive atmosphere permeated throughout the Riverwalk.

  After he talked to Kathy, he tried to call his mother again, but she was still out of the country. He somehow needed to get word to his father about Vince. He started to dial the police but realized they would track him to the hotel room. When he had arrived downtown, he called the police from a payphone on the street level. They chalked him up as another crackpot. The threats, in one form or another, had swelled to over sixty, the cop had said. When Jason tried to explain that he was Bowman’s son, the cop informed him that eight of his brothers, two sisters, and twelve of Bowman’s ex-wives had also called. This situation got more complicated by the moment. He hung up the phone and scurried away from the phone booth and down the stairs to the Riverwalk.

  The setting sun struggled to shine through the branches of the trees overhanging the river and a cool breeze weaved between the buildings. He reached the T-intersection in the river and turned back toward the Marriott Hotel.

  As he crossed over a stone bridge, Jason observed activity around the hotel property. Workmen were everywhere, hauling lights, lumber, chairs, tables, and everything else involved in building these political rallies. As he approached the patio, a police barrier surrounded the area and a small group of loud protesters stood over to the side held signs and yelled obscenities.

  A man dressed in a suit and dark sunglasses stood watch over the patio. The man was taller than Jason and was well-built. His crossed arms in the front of his body served a dual purpose: it gave him an ominous appearance, and it hid the bulge under his jacket. The wire running from his collar to his left ear id
entified him as a Secret Service advance team member.

  Suddenly, Jason was faced with a choice he didn’t have before: identify himself to the Secret Service and explain what he knew was going on or meet with Kathy and use her to help. He desperately wanted to see Kathy again, but he knew the right thing to do.

  It was time. Jason had to face the fact that he had to sacrifice himself to save his father. Kathy would understand. Hopefully.

  He moved toward the Secret Service man, who continued to scan the area behind his dark sunglasses.

  “Uh, hi. Excuse me,” Jason said. The man turned, and Jason could feel his eyes drilling holes through him from behind the sunglasses.

  “Can I help you?” the man said in a deep, scratchy voice.

  “My name is, uh . . . my name is Jason Conrad. I’m Senator Bowman’s son.”

  The agent looked him up and down. “The senator doesn’t have any immediate family members.”

  Jason nodded. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s hid that fact for decades.

  “Is there any way you can contact him? I know he’ll want to see me.”

  “Everybody thinks the senator wants to see them.”

  “But you don’t understand, I’ve got to speak to him.”

  “I’m sure you do, sir. Add you name to the list. Move along.”

  “Damn it,” Jason exclaimed. “What is it going to take to get through to you guys?”

  The man turned his body toward Jason. The tension began to show.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises,” the man said.

  “But isn’t there a way you can tell him I’m here?”

  “No. Leave now, sir.”

  “Senator Bowman is in danger. Can’t anybody understand that?” Uh-oh. Jason thought that may have been a little too much.

  His efforts to press the issue didn’t go unnoticed. The man’s right hand edged toward his jacket and the weapon hidden underneath. The left hand moved up to his mouth and he spoke softly into his sleeve.

  The Secret Service agent stared at him. A sense of uneasiness overcame Jason, and he began to backpedal.

  “Stay right here, sir,” the man said.

  Jason froze. The man began to move his coat back to retrieve his weapon, when across the patio, one of the protesters hopped over the police barrier and ran across the patio.

  The Secret Service agent turned and bolted after the protester. It’s time to go, Jason thought, and he turned and hurried away from the scene. Did he blow his chance? There was only one way to know and he wasn’t sure that was his best option. He walked up the first set of stairs he found to the street level and headed to Market Square to meet Kathy.

  The brief encounter with the Secret Service troubled him. It would be difficult to reach his father under these circumstances. He’d have to do it the hard way.

  48

  September 12, 1995

  * * *

  VINCE ENTERED THE FRONT DOOR with Greyhound plastered overhead; his eyes scanned the crowd. The starched button-down shirt and khaki pants he was accustomed to wearing didn’t blend in too well. Silently, he cursed himself for such a foolish mistake. It wouldn’t happen again. He was getting careless. Was he nervous, or was he losing his edge for this kind of work?

  The bus station downtown was crowded and the evening bus for Dallas began to board. A group of elderly tourists dominated the Greyhound. Vagrants tried to stay out of the cool night air and occupied several benches in the waiting area. The stench of exhaust fumes filled the vast room, and sounds from the mass of people, their movements and voices, echoed off the walls. The station itself was filthy, and once the occupants of the Dallas-bound bus boarded, the vagrants clearly stood out.

  He pulled the key out of his pocket and rechecked the number. A quick scan of the area, and he found a series of lockers along the far wall on the left. He meandered through the crowd until he reached the lockers. Vince approached number seventy-nine. The key slipped in the lock and cautiously, he cracked it open. He peered inside; no wires. When he opened the locker, he reached inside to retrieve the blue gym bag. He closed the door and headed outside to the truck he stole earlier that day.

  The ride back to the hotel didn’t take long. The evening traffic had thinned out. Vince kept the bag in the seat next to him, glancing at it periodically. Parking the truck, Vince grabbed the bag, walked up the stairs to his room, and placed the contents of the bag on the bed.

  Everything was there, as promised. Eight tubes of the odorless, powerful plastic explosive—Semtex, electronic blasting caps, and twelve feet of antenna wire. Perhaps the most brilliant item, the detonator, was a complex array of modern mobile technology with a trigger, built into a fully functional mobile telephone. The detonator itself, secured above the blasting caps, would be attached to the explosives. The antenna fuse ran from the blasting cap through the detonator and out for several feet as required for best reception. The detonator integrated into a mobile phone. When Vince dialed the number, the system armed on the fourth ring. To set off the bomb, all the user had to do was hit re-dial on the mobile phone. On the second ring, BOOM! The delayed rings were installed as a safety device. To either stop the arming or the detonation, the user hung up the phone before the designated ring.

  Vince pulled out the folder with the plan for the security posted around the hotel. He reviewed the plan as he sipped on a Coke. This, for now, was not his primary concern. The second folder he went through was the more important one. The limos for Senator Bowman were supplied by First Class Limousines of San Antonio. They put aside the two best vehicles for the occasion. Thoroughly inspected earlier in the day, they were locked up in a garage downtown. The schematics on the limousine covered the desk and Vince calculated how he would implement his weapon.

  He would mount the bomb next to the fuel tank. Placement of the antenna from the detonator would not pose a problem. Planting the bomb would be the difficult part.

  The plans stated two men guarded the limos constantly, rotating on twelve-hour shifts. Vince smiled when he read that. Twelve hours is far too long for someone to guard anything. Boredom and restlessness eventually lead to sleep and carelessness. He decided the guards would be easy to work around.

  LA MARGARITA’S SAT ON THE SIDE of Market Square. The small, colorful conglomeration of restaurants and small shops, sat on the edge of the downtown area, but was crowded at the peak dinner hours, despite it being a Tuesday night. Jason managed to get a table for two on the patio outside nestled in the far back corner under the overhang of some trees. He had another fifteen minutes before Kathy was to show, so he ordered a frozen margarita and munched on chips and salsa.

  Jason surveyed his surroundings for familiar faces; also, for faces that searched for him. By the time he finished his margarita, he glanced at his watch. Kathy was ten minutes late. She had never been late before. He realized how much he missed her. Kathy was a genuine, honest person who treated him well, and for the most part, he ignored her. No wonder she lost interest.

  He ordered a second margarita. As he sat there and felt sorry for himself, she approached him from behind, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  He glanced up. “Kathy,” Jason said as he stood to greet her. He held her in his arms and hugged her.

  Kathy smiled as she pushed him away. “I guess you’re happy to see me.”

  “You wouldn’t believe.”

  “I’m a little confused by what’s going on.” Kathy sat at the table, and the elderly Mexican waiter took her order for a Margarita. They made small talk for several minutes until both of their margaritas arrived.

  “Now, tell me what happened. Why is everyone looking for you?”

  “How long do you want to sit here?”

  “How about long enough for you to explain what the hell is going on.”

  “Okay, I didn’t kill or shoot anyone,” Jason said. “I do, however, know who shot at least one of those guys, if not both.”

  “Did you see him? The
T.V. said one was in your hotel room and the other was with you all day.”

  “Kathy, when have I ever had time to check into a hotel room in the middle of the day?”

  She nodded and sipped her drink. “Good point. Then who is this guy you were with all day?”

  “Well, er, he . . . uh . . . he’s a CIA agent. A case officer.”

  “CIA?” she said, an incredulous, yet worried expression on her face.

  “Ssshhh, keep your voice down.”

  “I’m sorry. Okay, if he’s CIA, who shot him? A Russian agent?”

  Jason stared at her blankly. “Yes.”

  She paused before responding, her eyes searching his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But I thought you said you knew who the shooter was. Did you mean you saw who it was, or you know him?”

  “Both. And you do, too.”

  Kathy set both hands on the table, the whites of her eyes clearly visible. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know . . . no, wait. Tell me.”

  He sat back in the metal chair and took a deep breath. “It was Vince.”

  Jason connected the dots for her. Kathy sat stoically and observed him closely, as he told his story. Jason spoke for twenty minutes, and covered every detail, occasionally he backtracked to fill in a missing point. He wanted her to believe him.

  She ran her finger around the edge of her glass, collecting the salt on the rim. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

  “No. My God, do you think I have the imagination to make up a story like that?”

  “No,” she said, as she put her drink on the table. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t have much time to figure it out.”