The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  Their romance had been brief, but sincere. When Jason got married in college, he didn’t understand the concept of a soulmate. He got married because he didn’t want to lose the hot girl. But when he met her, they had just seemed to click. He wasn’t sure if she was his soulmate, but she felt like it. Had he been in love? Maybe. Jason had beaten himself up time and time again for letting her slip back to San Antonio and out of his life before he could find out.

  When he went AWOL and raced down there to save his father, he reconnected with her, if only briefly. He must have done something right; she had appeared out of nowhere to help save his father’s life. She had also saved his life and killed the assassin, Vince Andrews. That fact was never revealed to the police or the DOD. Jason tried to protect her, taking the blame for the killing. It never occurred to him he’d be labeled a hero. It was the last time he saw her, standing in the rain in the courtyard of the Alamo, a smoking pistol in her hand. After that, she disappeared.

  4

  April 26, 1996

  NIKOLAI GREGARIN STROLLED across Red Square, fresh off the plane from Paris. His trip to activate Dmitri went as planned. The Russian president, Boris Yeltsin, was concerned. Jason Conrad was the only person who could link Russia to the assassination attempt on Senator Jonathan Bowman. Yeltsin’s concern was based upon the dire picture Nikolai painted around Conrad as a threat to Russia’s standing on the global stage. He couldn’t afford word leaking out that Russia attempted to kill an American presidential candidate.

  Nikolai’s main concern was that Irena Vodianova asked about Jason Conrad more than she should have.

  He looked to the north. Saint Basil’s Cathedral stood proudly, the intricate domes on the top of the cathedral rising majestically above the horizon. Most foreigners confused this as part of the Kremlin, but it was at one-time a church across from the Kremlin, separated by Red Square, that now served as a state-run museum. Nikolai smiled as he recalled his many visits inside to study Russia’s glorious past.

  The three-day journey from Miami Beach brought him to the doorstep of the Kremlin, with numerous planned stops in between, and he felt tired. He had his driver drop him here before his appointment with the president. Yeltsin had been anxious to get a win under his belt, and so far, the nineties had not been optimum for winning hearts and minds for Democratic Russia.

  But the meeting with Yeltsin was secondary. He made the journey here to meet with his prized agent—Irena Vodianova—the woman the Americans knew as Kathy Delgato. Jason Conrad’s girlfriend.

  His eyes darted from the beauty of Saint Basil’s to the Kremlin and back, searching the faces in between. It wasn’t long before he spied Irena striding toward him, back straight, shoulders square. Her grace exuded through her winter clothes, which highlighted the shape of her athletic figure. His eyes soaked in every curve of her body, and as she got closer, every line of her face. Nikolai adored her. He would have her, in time. This was a marathon, not a sprint. And she was a prize like no other.

  “Comrade Gregarin,” she said with a subtle nod. Her eyes sparkled, perfectly outlined by the fur hat on her head and the wool collar pulled up around her neck.

  “Comrade.” He did not mention her name. He didn’t know who might be monitoring his conversations in public. While he was known, she was not. The fur hat and long hair would disguise her well enough. “Walk with me.”

  The two crossed the square—not together, but at the same time. She followed him up the steps through the cathedral’s front door, then around the right, to a rustic bench, isolated on the side. The spot was away from the tourists where the two could talk privately.

  “I have an assignment for you.”

  “I suspected that,” Irena said. “Where am I going this time?”

  “Morocco. There’s a leader of a religious sect there that needs to be taken care of.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “You’ll get the details of the operation at the office.”

  The office was the Dacha Complex, where the headquarters of Section Nine resided. She looked perplexed.

  “Forgive my confusion, comrade. Then why am I here?”

  Nikolai placed his hand on her shoulder and stroked her hair. “I wanted to see you before you left. I am concerned about your well- being.”

  Irena slid away. “Comrade Gregarin, I’ve told you before I do not mix work and pleasure.”

  “Yes. Yes, you have.”

  “Have you been able to find out any information on the Grizzly?”

  “Irena, that was Viktor’s way of doing things. We don’t do that anymore.” The Grizzly had been her friend Dmitri Petrov’s code name. All the Section Nine operatives had code names under Viktor Kryuchkov’s reign. Irena’s had been the Jaguar. When Nikolai took over, one of the first things he did was eliminate the use of code names. It was too dated. More importantly, it established that Section Nine had new leadership in place. His leadership.

  “Very well. Do you have word on Dmitri? I was told he would be at my promotion ceremony. He never showed. You said you would give me an update.”

  Nikolai nodded; his face serious. He admired her assertiveness. It was one of the features that attracted him to her. “Dmitri is under deep cover. He has recently married an American and the two are expecting.” The lie came out effortlessly. Nikolai wasn’t sure why he did it —it wasn’t necessary. Irena’s expression didn’t change. He couldn’t tell if it was lost love or an academic inquiry. He knew it was imperative that she be off the grid for at least the next month. She couldn’t garner any attention—particularly from Dmitri. After speaking with him two days ago, he realized the man would go to any length to kill anyone who harmed Irena. Or for that matter, anyone who loved her too much.

  Perhaps that was the real reason he did it. To save his own skin until he could have her.

  “I’m happy for him then. It is good to know he is not in harm’s way.” Irena stood and stuck out her hand. “I will head to the office and get my orders.”

  Nikolai grasped her hand with both of his. Instead of shaking it, held it tenderly. “Good luck, Irena. I look forward to your after-action report.”

  The Russian assassin turned, walked down the hall, and exited the cathedral, Nikolai not too far behind her. A few weeks in North Africa would keep her away from all this, and then he could work on her some more. Nikolai stepped through the door of the cathedral and watched her cross Red Square, his eyes again drinking in every movement. He glanced back at the former church before returning his focus to Irena. Yes, in time, he would have her. He was her King David, and she was his Bathsheba.

  Dmitri? Dmitri was Uriah.

  Nikolai grinned at his apt analogy as he left Saint Basil’s and crossed Red Square to the Kremlin. He arrived at the president’s office ten minutes early. Surprisingly, the president was ready to see him. The secretary escorted him inside the president’s vast office. It wasn’t the first time Nikolai had been in here, but he was always impressed.

  When the president saw them enter, he rose from behind his large mahogany desk and moved to the front.

  “Comrade Gregarin, thank you for coming.”

  “I am at your leisure, Comrade Yeltsin.”

  The president walked to a pair of leather chairs on the side of the room and motioned for Nikolai to sit.

  “I am interested to hear your report of your trip to Miami.”

  “It was successful, comrade. I contacted Dmitri Petrov.

  He is our top assassin currently in America. Based on the information we received from the congressman’s aide, Jason Conrad is on the guest list.”

  “How did we acquire the list?”

  “A female staffer in a California congressman’s office. One of our Cossacks from the consulate seduced her months ago.” Cossacks were a new breed of Russian agents. Virile men used to seduce women of power, information, or influence. “When he said he wanted the list for the Russian media, she was more than willing to provide it.

&
nbsp; “Our operatives in Oklahoma cannot verify that he has been released from restriction to the base yet. He has not left the base since October of last year. We assume he will fly a jet to Virginia to attend the dinner. Regardless, I have given Dmitri the concept of operations. He should be in Washington, D.C. by now to formulate his plan and scout out the area.”

  Boris Yeltsin continued. “This is good. Jason Conrad is the only man who can link Russia to the assassination attempt.”

  Nikolai nodded. “Yes, comrade.” Conrad was his other Uriah. It took him months to convince Yeltsin that Jason Conrad needed to be eliminated.

  “It is no secret that I find myself in a tough election. With less than two months to go, I need an internal victory to sway some of the hardliners back into my camp. Your idea of cleaning up Viktor’s mess will help. Although the intent was to overthrow my presidency, the stain of dishonor cast on our clandestine operations is humiliating. By eliminating the one responsible for our failed attempt, our honor will be avenged. It’s a fine li, e but standing up for mother Russia will go a long way in the mind of many hardliners.”

  “I agree, Comrade Yeltsin, but you shouldn’t worry. In eight days, Jason Conrad will be dead.”

  5

  April 26, 1996

  THE SIGHTS and sounds of New York City at this time of the morning were much different than he experienced the day before. Dane Robinson left the Grand Hyatt slightly after 3:30 a.m., passed the entrance to Grand Central Station, and began his trek four blocks west and eight blocks north to the NBC studios. His route showed him a side of the city that wasn’t loud and bustling like the afternoon rush. Buildings stretched skyward into the darkness, like sculpted canyon walls; the street a quiet stream soon to be a raging river. He could have taken a cab, but he wanted to absorb every aspect of the city. His first time to the “Big Apple” was proving to be a memorable experience.

  He was scheduled to appear on the TODAY show right after the 6:30 break. His appointment for makeup was at 4:00am and he’d be relaxing in the Green Room by 5:30, waiting for his interview. His fame had blossomed since the explosion in downtown San Antonio. Dane had the fortune, good or bad depending on how one looked at it, of being positioned directly in front of Senator Jonathan Bowman’s limousine as it exploded during the assassination attempt eight months earlier.

  Dane had been knocked unconscious and was in a coma for weeks. By the time he regained consciousness, he had been branded a hero, although he wasn’t quite sure why. His celebrity grew, as word of his recovery spread. He quickly realized he was the good news story that came from the horrific incident. His employer, WTSR out of Tulsa, played it to the hilt, giving daily updates on Dane’s progress. Over time, the network got wind of his story and Dane’s massive regional following; it wasn’t long before the network started following his story too. By the time Dane went back on the air, he was a full-fledged phenomenon. A small publisher in New York offered him a book deal to tell his story. And now, he was going to be interviewed on national television.

  It was a sweet deal for a small-market reporter. They flew both him and his fiancé́, Joanie, to New York City and put them up in the Grand Hyatt for two days. Joanie was the meteorologist at WTSR. She hated to be referred to as the weather girl. They had been dating for about a year prior to the San Antonio incident. She was attractive. A little on the heavy side, but so was he. They were a nice match.

  He’d been told by a confidant that if the interview went smoothly, the network was considering hiring him as one of their field reporters. As he thought of the future, a smile etched on his face despite the chilly wind that whipped through the streets.

  Turning right on Sixth Avenue, he strolled toward the studio. Traffic increased up and down the street, also known as Avenue of the Americas. The gunning of engines reverberated through the quiet morning, as cars and cabs raced to beat the changing lights, not subject to the intense traffic or pedestrians that would soon fill the streets.

  Dane didn’t notice the dark sedan pull up in front of him. At least not until the striking woman stepped out and onto the sidewalk. She wore a tan overcoat, the only clothing visible other than her high- heeled boots and the scarf covering her hair. Her boots made a click-clack sound on the sidewalk, a rhythm Dane felt had a pleasant ring to it. Hell, who was he fooling. The sound simply reflected how she walked. And he liked it. The way she moved told him she had a killer body. His eyes locked on her figure while he did his best to keep looking straight ahead. As she got closer, he noticed the overcoat was opened at the top, his eyes straining to see her cleavage.

  She walked past him, and his head gave him away. He couldn’t help himself. Women like her were not in Tulsa. His head tracked her as she passed, and he shuffled backward to watch her walk away, his gawking hidden in the early morning darkness.

  She knows I’m watching her, he thought. Look at her shake that—

  Abruptly, she turned, and he gasped as she walked back in his direction. Awkward and busted. That’s how he felt. Could she have seen him stare at her? He turned and scurried toward the studio.

  Dane felt like an idiot. He’d never been able to attract women like that despite being a television reporter. Of course, he’d never really tried. Everyone always hears the stories about the pretty girl that intimidates everyone. No one ever asks her out. Well, he was that guy. Too intimidated.

  His pace was quicker than usual, and despite the passing cars, he swore he could hear the strong beat of her boots on the sidewalk. He approached 47th Street and slowed as a couple of cabs drove past.

  “How about we take a right turn here?”

  The female voice came from behind him. He turned and smiled when he saw it was her.

  “I’m, uh . . . I’m going this way,” he said, pointing north, but his eyes lingered on her cleavage.

  “You stared at me as I walked past. I thought you wanted to meet me.”

  “I, um, well, yes. Uh, no. I’m engaged.” For the first time, he realized she was wearing sunglasses. In the dark.

  “Aren’t we all? Let’s go this way.”

  “As much as I’d like to, I’m in a hurry.”

  The woman licked her lips and squeezed his butt cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.” She turned and walked east along 47th Street. He followed her, surprised at this... opportunity. He’d heard about life in the big city and realized this would be a story for the ages.

  She glimpsed over her shoulder and he hurried to catch up. The street darkened, and she slowed her pace. Did she live around here? It didn’t look like it. There were a couple of unopened shops on the street and an occasional car passed by; otherwise, it was deserted. She paused in front of an alley, looked up and down the empty street, then at him. A smile crept across her face as she sauntered into to the alley. Dane followed like a wet puppy.

  The woman stopped and cupped his face with her left hand. Dane closed his eyes and pursed his lips for the kiss. The sharp metallic taste on his lips made him wince. Her grip tightened, and he opened his eyes. She held a snub nose revolver in his mouth.

  “I know where you’re going and what you plan to say,” she said, no longer smiling. “You better rethink your plan.”

  Dane tried to speak, but it came out as a whimper.

  “Here’s the deal, TV man. You’re not going to mention what happened in San Antonio. You never saw the mysterious guy press a button on his cell phone just before the explosion. You will not reveal Vince Andrews is a Russian agent. And you never saw Jason Conrad.”

  Jason Conrad? Why would she say that? He didn’t see Jason Conrad. He’d seen the guy with the cell phone but didn’t think anything of it. And how did she know Vince Andrews was a Russian agent? Dane had been told that by—SMACK!—she slapped him across the face.

  His eyes darted back and forth, searching for help. There was none in sight.

  “Do you understand?” the woman said, pushing the pistol deep into to his mouth. “Do not mention anything about Russian a
gents.”

  Dane nodded. She was the one with the gun.

  “Remember,” she said as a car screeched to a stop at the alley entrance, “don’t say a damn thing.” She pulled the pistol out of his mouth and struck him hard across the forehead just above the left eye.

  He stumbled backward until his head impacted the solid concrete wall. His back slid along the wall as he crumpled to the ground. Everything started to get hazy and his head hurt like hell. At the alley entrance, the woman climbed into to a car and drove away as his blurred vision narrowed into to darkness.

  6

  April 26, 1996

  DANE BLINKED several times as his hands shot to his aching head. He scanned back and forth to determine his surroundings. It appeared vaguely familiar in the darkness. Not Tulsa. New York. An alley . . . the alley he followed the woman in to. How could he have been such a dumbass? What would he tell Joanie? He gasped as he considered the consequences of his actions, then remembered why in the hell he was in New York in the first place.

  He was scheduled to be on the TODAY show.

  Dane checked his watch. 5:37 a.m. He should be in the green room by now. When he rolled to the side, he set his hands on the damp, filthy ground to push himself up. It wasn’t damp. It was wet. He’d been sitting in a puddle for over an hour.

  His head spun as he stood to his feet, his eyes gradually returning to focus. Stumbling to the alley entrance, he cursed himself, the words garbled with every step. What the hell was he thinking? Hot girls never liked him before—why would they now? He was a celebrity, that’s why. His ego got the best of him. The trap of the stereotypical television news reporter sucked him in. Back on the street he gathered his bearings before staggering to the left.

  Traffic rolled by, the empty streets of two hours ago filled with cars and pedestrians heading to work.