The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “You want to head over to the club?” Pete said.

  “Nah, I’m staying home tonight. Too much excitement for one day.”

  Pete gathered his supplies and walked to the door. “Okay. Chicaros for dinner tomorrow, then the lake on Sunday?”

  Jason shook his head. “Meeting my folks tomorrow. We’ll see you on Sunday. Not sure how long we’ll stay.”

  “Sounds good. You may not be able to keep Captain Watson off you. She got wind you’re on the market and hasn’t stopped asking about you since.”

  “Really? For an IP, she sure doesn’t understand the boundaries of the student-instructor relationship.”

  “But she’s got a killer bod.”

  “Don’t care,” Jason said. “I’d rather graduate.”

  “Yeah, but she might be able to—”

  Jason shoved his friend out the door. “Get out. I’ll see you at the lake.”

  Pete laughed as Jason shut the door. No sooner had the latch clicked then his phone rang. Jason raced across the room and answered by the second ring.

  “Jason, hello.”

  The feminine, yet confident voice made him smile. “Hi, Mom. You still coming tomorrow? I’ve got good news.”

  “Yes, I’ll be there by noon. What’s the good news?”

  “They’ve lifted my restriction to the base.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah, so here’s what I was thinking. I could meet you and Dad in Oklahoma City. We could spend the weekend there instead of here.”

  His mother paused on the phone. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your father isn’t coming.”

  14

  April 26, 1996

  THE MD-88 TOUCHED down in Tulsa, and Dane left the airport in a cab, straight for the studio. The information Draken Black provided him was overwhelming. Dane worked on his story repeatedly until he was almost finished.

  The evidence was clear. Jason Conrad was friends with the man known as Vince Andrews, the Russian assassin. They were both in San Antonio at the same time with the same purpose—disrupt the presidential election. The game had taken place for decades. America has always been vulnerable to outside influences. It was why the Founders wrote the Constitution as they did: to protect Americans from themselves, as well as others.

  To put a cherry on top of the information, Black had a file on Conrad’s ex-wife. There were many pictures—some in quite compromising positions—of the former Bethany Eubanks Conrad. She was currently under investigation for being a spy. She had arrived in Enid before the assassination attempt on Bowman. The file had a narrative four pages long, most of it redacted, but the file focused on her “career” as an actress and model, with no real acting credits out there. Where was the money coming from? A lieutenant in the Air Force? Not likely.

  The file also mentioned the fact that many of her “jobs” took place in New Orleans. In painstaking detail, the file covered Bethany Conrad’s excessive activity in New Orleans. It made the correlation that more than three decades earlier, Lee Harvey Oswald had stayed in New Orleans and was linked to similar Russian spy activity.

  Dane paid the cab driver when he reached the television station. He had called his producer and his assistant from the airport and told them to meet him at the studio. He couldn’t tell them the details over the phone, but he assured them this was big. This was worth coming back to work for. After he fleshed out the story in his mind and tweaked his notes, he was mentally ready to go.

  He raced to his desk to type his story. Before anyone showed up, he finished the first draft. Dane glanced at the clock. It was already past ten p.m. There was no way he’d get this done for tonight’s broadcast, but it would be ready for tomorrow. He questioned himself about rushing tonight, as he walked to the lobby of the studio. They could wait until tomorrow. No, he decided. They needed to start now. If they wanted to vet his story, they’d need the time to do so. In his mind, that was unnecessary. His “Deep Throat” was the most reliable source they could find. He’d already proven himself such.

  Dane paced back and forth in the lobby until his producer, Ed Jacobson, arrived at the front door of the studio.

  “Dane, what the hell is going on?”

  “This is crazy. You’re not going to believe the trip I just had.”

  “I saw you on the network. You did great. Joanie, too. Where is she?” Ed said, looking around the lobby.

  Dane turned and walked toward the production room. Ed followed. “She came home on a flight ahead of me. My informant said it was the only way he’d talk to me.”

  “Oh.” Ed rubbed his chin. “Who is this guy?”

  Dane shook his head as they walked. “Can’t say.”

  “Well, Dane, just what the hell can you tell me since we’ve all come back to work to record . . . something?”

  Dane led him back to his office and laid out everything Draken Black had given him: the files on Jason and his ex-wife Bethany— both heavily redacted. Dane proceeded to tell him everything he could. Photos of the ex-wife were spread out on his desk, some in rather explicit positions with one who clearly was not her husband. Details on Russian activity attempting to influence American political elections. A timeline of Lee Harvey Oswald’s activities in New Orleans and his Russian connections in the Big Easy. Bethany Conrad had a pattern of activity that virtually paralleled Oswald’s activities thirty-eight years prior.

  When he finished, his producer stared at him blankly. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Dane hesitated; his mouth fell open. “What do you mean, kidding?”

  “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  The producer shook his head. “No, no. This isn’t enough. It’s circumstantial at best. What the hell are you trying to do to me? To the station?”

  “Circumstantial, my ass,” Dane shouted. “Look at this evidence. Look at these files.”

  “Redacted files. That thing’s got more black stripes than a zebra. You can’t tell what information these files originally had in them. And how the hell can we even authenticate them? Are they really CIA files?”

  “It says so right here,” Dane said, pointing at the cover. “My source is legit. I’ve used him before. He’s the guy who gave me the info on the Bowman/Conrad connection.”

  “Ahhh, I see.” Dane knew this bit of information struck a chord. The producer crossed his arms on his chest, deep in thought as he gazed at the floor. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You make the tape. If it turns out good, we’ll broadcast it while we work on getting the verification.”

  Dane grinned. He knew that was what his producer would say. With the script basically written, Dane slid behind his desk and grabbed the four-page document, handing it to his producer.

  “Review this,” he said. “Let me know what you think.”

  The producer skimmed through the papers, his face stone. Finally, he put the papers down.

  “Well?”

  Hands on his hips, the producer stared at the floor for a moment before looking at Dane.

  “The story is made for TV,” he said. “It had better be legit.”

  “It’s legit.”

  “This has everything. Sex, politics, spies, tags to previous conspiracies. This is gonna be huge. The network will no doubt pick this up and run with it. This will go national fast. International almost as fast.” He paused. “But I’m telling you it had better be legit.”

  Dane beamed. “Trust me. You won’t be disappointed. I’ll work on getting all the information I can on my source—strictly to make you feel better.” He started to walk away, then turned back to the producer. “Here’s the best part. He says there’s more to come.”

  IN THE SAFE-HOUSE on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. proper, Dmitri sat at the kitchen table, finalizing his plan. Numerous city maps open, pens, rulers, and sheets of notebook paper stretched across the table, and the timeline was still not complete. Now it was time to troubleshoot. Pick apart every aspect of
the plan, so when something went wrong, he would have an idea what to do next.

  Nikolai had given him a plan, but Dmitri had ideas of his own. It was not enough to simply kill Conrad. He, as well as the CIA, needed to be publicly humiliated. And Conrad must be made to suffer before he died. After studying Jason’s file at length, he felt his plan would do both. Nikolai would not approve, of course—until he was successful.

  He stood to retrieve his pistol from the small safe in his closet when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the number, he recognized it immediately.

  He pressed the green answer button. “Hello.”

  “Brent,” Nikolai said, using his American name on the open line. “I’m glad I caught you. I’m afraid your meeting next week has been canceled.”

  “Cancelled? Why?”

  “Too much info to tell now. Call me back at the office in a minute.”

  Dmitri grimaced. “Fine.” He rose from the end of the bed and walked to the corner and retrieved one of the bags he’d brought in. Rotating the numbers on the combination lock that clasped the zippers closed on the bag, he popped the lock free and pulled out a small device he plugged into the wall. He then mounted his phone on a stand that looked like it might have recharged the phone.

  The device allowed any cell phone of this brand to make and receive encrypted calls. Bulky and cumbersome, the machine had what resembled a charge port protruding from its base, and it worked very well. The user mounted the phone on the device and switched on the speaker. He hoped a smaller option would be available soon. Section Nine had access to some of the best toys on the market, but in this era of electronics evolving exponentially, it was hard for the technology team to keep pace with what the market produced.

  Dmitri called a number in Virginia, which forwarded the call overseas to Nikolai.

  “What happened? Why is the mission canceled?”

  “Hello, Dmitri. It appears your mission is over. Apparently, when Conrad was released from the base, he left to go kill the operatives of the safe-house Irena used. They contacted me, and I gave them the kill order. They eliminated him by exploding their communications center while he was in the area.”

  Dmitri’s body shook. He struggled to gain control of himself, hoping Nikolai couldn’t sense his condition over the encrypted line. His throat tightened. The sense of satisfaction of Conrad’s death was overwhelmed by the fact he had been cheated out of his revenge. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes,” Nikolai said. “You can return to South Florida tomorrow.”

  The internal struggle with his emotions lasted mere seconds before the professional in him reemerged.

  “Did they see the body?”

  Nikolai paused. “No.”

  Instinct took over, and his hands shook. How could they be so foolish? And Nikolai, too? He gripped the table the cell phone encryption device sat on. Dmitri wanted to scream at the incompetence, but again, his professional emerged.

  “He’s not dead until they see the body.”

  15

  April 26, 1996

  MAXIM SAT UP in the queen-sized bed, his eyes glued to Galina as she slid her skirt off. Unbuttoning her blouse, she smiled at him. They weren’t married—it was merely the cover for their assignment. Galina had been very cold toward him when they first began this charade, but over time, he wore her down. During special occasions, she would sleep with him. Occasions like today.

  Fooling Americans didn’t take much, even in the Midwest, where people were a little more focused. Over the years, when the veterinarian would come to the ranch for the horses, they passed themselves off as the Joneses’ employees. When neighbors came to the ranch house, they said they were their children from out of town. When Irena arrived and got the job as a waitress at Chicaros, the deception became even easier.

  Killing Jason Conrad was Maxim and Galina’s crowning achievement. They would no doubt be up for promotion. Would they return to Russia? Most likely, and soon. When the investigation on the explosion started, it would be easy to determine a bomb had set it off. And even though the steel-enclosed comm center had been destroyed thanks to the propane tank, it would create more questions for the Americans once they realized what it was. Earlier in the day, Maxim had received a message from the fire department about the explosion. They gave no details other than the massive fire had been put out, but the incident was under investigation.

  Galina reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. Sliding the straps from her shoulders, her breasts fell free. She wasn’t beautiful, but with makeup and the right clothes, she was quite attractive. Nikolai no doubt had plans for her of some sort, but for tonight, she belonged to him.

  “Oh, it’s time for the news,” she said. Galina walked to the television wearing nothing but panties and turned it on. She switched to the local news, and the first story coming up after the break was the explosion north of Enid.

  “Turn it up.”

  She turned the volume higher just as the commercial ended. The news story started with a graphic of Northwest Oklahoma, then cut to a reporter in the field, standing in front of their old house. The reporter talked about the property and how it had been purchased recently, but no one was living there now. The authorities contacted the new owners, Maxim and Galina, now living under a new alias.

  Maxim leaned against the headboard on the bed, watching the light from the television reflect off Galina’s body. He needed this badly. He needed her badly. Galina shifted on the edge of the bed, leaning closer to the screen.

  “Did you hear that?” she shrieked.

  She got his attention. He focused back on the television to hear the reporter repeat before she signed off, “Thankfully, there were no injuries.”

  Galina bolted off the bed and to the phone. She called a contact at the sheriff’s office to confirm. Maxim watched her as she stood with her back to him, the handset nestled against her ear.

  “Are you sure?” she said after a few minutes. “No one was killed or injured in such a horrific explosion?” Another pause. “Thank you.”

  Trembling, she set the receiver back on the cradle and turned slowly toward him. Her arms covered her chest, her hands rubbing her upper arms. Maxim noticed she shook visibly, her eyes flitting back and forth before they focused on him.

  “We have to call Nikolai,” she said.

  DANE SAT SLUMPED at the editing station. The room—dark and still—a single recessed light above him illuminating his workspace. He had spent hours recording and editing the piece on Jason Conrad. One thing was for sure—his enthusiasm had waned. Perhaps his producer was right. The evidence was circumstantial at best. It was thin. Very thin.

  The taping of the piece proved to be the easy part. Saying the words he had written—or that he quoted from the file—was easy. They flowed without much thought. It was when he sat down to edit that reason had returned, and he saw the frailty of his project.

  Dane worked diligently for the last hour, finishing the edits to finalize the segment, but his doubts overwhelmed him. Flipping the switch on the screen, he turned the machine off and spun his chair around to leave.

  Joanie stood in the doorway, backlit from the light in the hallway. Shit. Wonder how long she’s been here. He forgot to call her when he returned to Tulsa. No doubt she waited at home for hours. The silvery reflection of her tears rolling down her face shook the grogginess from him.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. I should have called.”

  The tears poured faster as she wailed. Must have been the wrong thing to say. He leaped out of his chair to go to her as something fell from her hand to the floor. His eyes followed the object. Paper. No, not just paper. A photograph. Shit. She found the pictures of Conrad’s ex-wife on his desk.

  “What the hell is going on, Dane?” Joanie held up her other hand, still holding photographs. “Is this why you were here all night? You don’t even give me a damn phone call to let me know you’re back in town so you can sit up here with your porn?”

  Da
ne reached out to hold her, but she pushed him back as she scooted away. “It’s not what you think, baby. I-I’m working on a story. I just finished it, and I’m dead tired.” She said nothing. “It’s complete . . . I just don’t know if I want it aired.”

  “Dane—you have almost fifty photographs of some beautiful blond model on your desk. In at least half of them, she’s having sex with someone. What in the hell is this all about?”

  Oh. She’s not interested in the work part. It’s the blonde.

  “She’s part of the story. She’s Jason Conrad’s ex-wife. And she’s relevant.” Dane ejected the tape from the editing machine and walked her back to his office. He sat behind his desk and gathered the remaining pictures as he spoke to her about the story, placing the photos in the file, which he then handed to her to enhance his credibility, ensuring she saw the CIA letters and seal on the outside of the file. Joanie listened intently, appearing to calm down the more he explained.

  How in the hell can I turn this around? he thought. “Joanie, I’m not sure I should air this.”

  “Why?”

  “Ed thinks it’s too thin. I’m starting to think so, too.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Okay, she’s interested in the story now. Perhaps she’ll forget the photographs. Dane rose from behind the desk and popped the tape into the player on the other side of the room. They sat in silence for the three-minute segment. A slight smile formed on her face toward the end of the piece. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “Well?” he said when it ended. She appeared much calmer now. The fact that Conrad’s wife was under investigation must have convinced her.

  “I’ve got to admit, Dane, that’s fantastic television.”

  He beamed. Exhausted after all the work he had put in, it was news he needed to hear.