When he looked up, his flight commander, Captain Phil Shattuck, stood next to him, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes sunken. Behind him, the squadron commander— whose eyebrows couldn’t scrunch any closer together—glared at him. Behind them, a couple of security police and Enid cops. Damn.
“Jason,” Captain Shattuck said, “can you step outside for a moment?”
Jason’s eyes darted back and forth amongst the crowd at the door. “Do I have a choice?”
“Afraid not, dude. Let’s go down to the squadron commander’s office. These guys want to talk to you.”
“Any idea about what?”
“Let’s just go.”
Damn. If he’s not willing to say anything, this must be bad. Maybe they’re here about Rusty. Did the wing commander find out I was at Chicaros before Rusty was shot? Hell, he could nail me for anything that’s happened since Friday afternoon.
He stood and followed the small group out of the flight room, his classmates’ murmurs echoing in his ears as he walked out of the room. The small group marched down the hallway lined with dull, gray lockers and into the squadron commander’s office. The first sergeant shut the commander’s door once everyone entered the room, and they all turned to Jason.
“Lieutenant Conrad,” the squadron commander said, “I’m sure you saw the broadcast out of Tulsa last night.”
Jason nodded. “Yes, sir. That crackpot has been making up stories for days now. I’m not sure why I’m in his crosshairs.” No one said a thing. “Hey, I know he accused me of some bad things last night, but I’m not involved with any of that. It’s crazy.”
One of the city cops stepped forward. “Lieutenant Conrad, we received an anonymous tip last night following the broadcast. It was a female who said she had recently been in an intimate relationship with you.”
“What? Who would that be? When was I supposed to be in this relationship?”
“The woman went on to explain how you admitted you were responsible for the disappearance of Kathy Delgato.”
“That’s ridiculous. She’s some crackpot who watched the broadcast on TV.”
“She went on to say you kept her panties from the night she disappeared under the seat in your Jeep as a trophy.”
Jason let out a nervous chuckle. “That’s dumb. Why would I— why would anyone do that?”
The cop continued. “We acquired a warrant and searched your jeep this morning. A pair of women’s underwear were found under the driver’s side seat.”
“What?” Jason checked his squadron commander and flight commander. Both men’s heads hung down, unable to make eye contact. What in the hell was going on?
“Jason Conrad,” the cop said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Kathy Delgato. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you . . .” The officer’s voice trailed off as Jason’s thoughts whirled in his head.
DMITRI SWITCHED the channel to the news at noon on the Oklahoma City station. The top story—the arrest of Jason Conrad for murdering a local woman, Kathy Delgato. There weren’t many details, and from what he could tell, not much evidence. There was no body. The woman had been missing for eight months. Suddenly, a reporter in Tulsa links the two together in a broadcast last night, and the cops get an anonymous tip that leads them to some incriminating evidence.
He gripped the cushion of the couch with both hands, squeezing unconsciously. Why do these imbeciles keep getting in his way? Was this man a serial killer? Easily. After seeing the brutality he exhibited in the video when he killed Irena, Dmitri believed the man could do anything. The frustration was overwhelming. His mission was rapidly being overcome by events. When he came here, he figured it would be a simple task to eliminate his target, but between the incompetence of the Section Nine handlers and an overzealous reporter, reaching his target became more difficult by the moment.
The news said Conrad was in jail downtown. Dmitri stood and walked to the front door. He’d take a ride downtown and see how well Jason Conrad was guarded.
STERLING SAT in his penthouse office suite. Twenty-six floors below and behind him, Central Park bristled with life on a bright spring afternoon. He skimmed The Wall Street Journal while waiting for Bowman to arrive. Bowman had contacted him and wanted to meet in person. Nothing over the phone. He’d charge the trip to the taxpayers—not a big deal—but the urgency of the meeting was highly unusual. The topic? Most likely, his son.
The noon broadcast from Tulsa had taken a life of its own over the last two hours, moving across the media of television and radio as quickly as possible. Faster than he had expected. Things were falling into place, and Sterling MacIntosh was pleased with the evolution of events. He was sure the next broadcast would be epic.
David buzzed him in the office and said Bowman was on the way up. Sterling left the office and walked across the expansive living room to the bar.
“I can get that for you, sir,” David said, meeting him at the bar.
“No, I’ve got it. One of my simple pleasures—mixing a stiff drink.” He retrieved two high-ball glasses and scooped a few ice cubes into each. A generous pour in each glass brought a smile to his face as the “ting” of the elevator told him his guest had arrived.
David moved toward the foyer to greet Bowman and escort him into the living room as soon as he stepped off the elevator.
“Jonathan, this is an unexpected surprise.” He handed the senator his drink.
“Sorry to barge in on you, Sterling. We need to talk.”
Sterling nodded. “I’m always here for you, you know that. What can I do for you?”
Jonathan took a swig of his drink. “Are you familiar with this reporter from Tulsa? Dane Robinson?”
Direct. Does he know something? “Oh, yes. I saw his broadcasts over the weekend.” He wasn’t about to bring up the broadcast from two hours ago.
“I need you to find out why he’s harassing my son.”
Sterling nodded. He doesn’t know a thing. “I can do that. But I’m sure it’s much simpler than you suspect.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s you, Jonathan. The media is going after him because they’re going after you. They’re worried you’re going to be Dole’s running mate. And that scares them.”
“Dole’s not going to pick me. It’ll be Jack Kemp. Dole hates me.”
Sterling had been aware of that for some time now. He was surprised Jonathan knew about it already, but he was an accomplished senator with his ear to the ground. “Kemp is a good man. You know, Jonathan . . . it’s quite a compliment to be feared by the opposition. That’s why they’re going after you.”
“I didn’t realize the media was the opposition.” He paused. “What can we do to make them stop? Jason didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
“On the contrary, he did everything to deserve this.”
Jonathan’s head jerked back toward him, a scowl on his face. “How so?”
“Jonathan, the boy was associating with young men of questionable morals. Gamblers, thieves, Russian assassins. He went AWOL to see you in San Antonio, for Christ’s sake.”
“He didn’t come to see me. He came to save me.”
“Semantics. That’s all it is. The Air Force still frowns upon his actions. He’s just fortunate his father is in the Senate, or he would have been in jail some time ago.”
Jonathan nodded. Sterling studied him. Perhaps it was time to make his move. He took a sip of the smooth, musky whiskey, then set the drink on the end table.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do when you leave politics?” Sterling said.
Jonathan’s gaze remained on the window overlooking Central Park. Sterling could tell the wheels were turning, and so he let the question percolate without interruption. After about thirty seconds, Jonathan turned to him.
“No, not really. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do—be a servant of the people.”
“Oh, hogwash, J
onathan. It’s me you’re talking to, not some reporter on the campaign trail. Your career hasn’t been about service, it’s been about power. Men like you and me... we crave power. But there comes a time when our attention turns to other things.”
Jonathan shifted on the couch until he faced him. “Like?”
“Money. Money acquired legally, of course. You and your cohorts in the Beltway need to start being more careful. It won’t be long before the people of this great country start to question how a congressman can come into office with virtually no savings or portfolio, a pile of student debt, and yet, in several years, become a millionaire. All on a government salary of a little over a hundred thousand dollars a year.”
“I—” Jonathan stopped himself. Sterling had to fight back the grin from crawling across his face as he watched his protégé́ struggle with the realization that what he and his colleagues had been doing was unethical and illegal.
“Don’t worry, you’re fine for now. We’re grooming some of our brightest young assets to fill positions in the FBI and Justice Department to take care of such things. You all are fine . . . for now. I have a long-range goal of acquiring a media outlet or two to assist in steering the winds in the direction they need to go. Regardless, we’re getting off topic. My question was, have you thought about what you’ll do after politics?”
“No, I haven’t. Did you have something in mind?”
Sterling leaned back on the couch and took another swig of whiskey. “Yes, indeed.”
32
April 30, 1996
ALICIA CONRAD once again sat in Jonathan’s office waiting room for hours. The visit may have been unexpected, but it was an emergency. His secretary, Betty, apologized all afternoon. Senator Bowman was in New York and wouldn’t return until this afternoon. Alicia parked herself in the comfortable wing-backed chair again, facing the door. Betty went out of her way to accommodate her while she waited— offered her reading material, had lunch delivered, and began to consider supper. She even opened the double doors to his office in the event Jonathan returned through the back entrance.
Scrolling through her Franklin Covey planner, Alicia tried to occupy her time. She wasn’t mad. She was worried. Terrified. Jason had been arrested earlier this morning, and she wasn’t sure what to do. Despite the fact her ex-husband was a philandering ladies’ man, he was a damn good lawyer. Because he was a sitting senator, he wouldn’t be able to take care of this personally, but he would know someone who could. And no doubt they would be the best in the business.
The notion that Jonathan attempted to re-establish a relationship with her was confusing, if not disturbing. He broke her heart decades ago, and she struggled in the early years to keep a brave front, but eventually, she grew confident in herself. Maybe that’s what he saw. Regardless, she had to determine if his sudden interest was because of Jason, or if the man had finally grown up.
Reaching in her purse, she replaced the planner with the book she’d read on and off for the last few hours, John Grisham’s The Pelican Brief. She read every one of his books in hardback but always picked up the paperbacks to carry in her purse for times like these. Reading thriller novels was something she enjoyed. They spurred her creative and critical thought process.
Well in to the twenty-first chapter, a shrill ring broke the silence. Betty, the secretary, answered the phone. Alicia glimpsed up from her novel. Betty nodded as she talked, then hung up.
“Ms. Conrad, he’s in the building. It should only be a minute.”
“Thank you,” Alicia said. Slipping the bookmark between the pages, she closed the book and slid it back into her purse. She stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her dress. A trip to the restroom would have been nice, but she decided against it. One, there was no guarantee Jonathan would stick around for her to finish, and two, a more disheveled look might make her point come across better.
The back door on the interior of the office shut with a loud clunk, and she hurried inside. Jonathan was at his desk, flipping open his briefcase.
“Alicia, I’m sorry you waited so long. Didn’t Betty tell you I was in New York?”
“She did,” Alicia said, stopping short of his desk, “but I had no way of getting in touch with you. It’s an emergency.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Jason was arrested this morning.”
He stopped pulling papers out of his briefcase. “Arrested? What for? A DUI? It’s a weeknight for Christ’s sake.”
“Where the hell have you been? Don’t you watch the news? Jason has been accused of murdering that girl he dated. The one who disappeared after they saved you.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Murder? Do you have any details?”
“It’s that damn reporter I talked about yesterday. He made some broadcast last night about how Jason was supposed to have killed this girl. And he’s a suspect in three other murders. After the broadcast, the police received an anonymous tip that Jason told another girl about the murder and kept the girl’s underwear as a souvenir. Under the seat of his jeep.”
“That seems kind of convenient.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “That’s what I thought. It’s a set-up. He’s been framed. I want you to get on the damn phone and send someone out there and get our son out of jail.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Jonathan picked up the phone and called his lawyer. They spoke for less than a minute. Although Alicia thought that was too brief, the lawyer already knew the details from the news and had a legal strategy in mind.
“Okay, it’s too late to fly out there tonight. My attorney will fly to Enid first thing in the morning. We’ll have him out of jail in no time. This is a trumped-up charge. Purely harassment.”
“I know that, Jonathan. The question is, why is Jason being targeted?”
DANE NESTLED into the seat behind the anchor desk at WTSR. His stories had taken the nation by storm. He’d already gained national exposure, so they pushed him to primetime. All three big networks had contacted him about his story. He was determined to hold out until after tonight’s broadcast. Then, he’d be able to broker a deal with work at the network of his choice. A loyal team player, he would give NBC first shot, but they’d better deliver the big bucks.
Straightening his tie, he pulled his shoulders back, his focus on the camera, his story poised on the teleprompter in front of the lens. The director stood to the side and held up five fingers, they began a countdown that ended up pointing at the primary camera, a red light glowing on top.
“Good evening, Tulsa, and the rest of the United States. I’m Dane Robinson of WTSR, the Taaaser in Tulsa. For the past few days, I’ve been bringing you the story of a young man living just two hours west from where I’m sitting: Jason Conrad, a lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force, stationed at Vance Air Force Base in Enid, Oklahoma.
“You might remember hearing about Lieutenant Conrad after he rescued his father, Senator Jonathan Bowman, during an assassination attempt last September in San Antonio. You might remember him from the revelation that Senator Bowman, previously thought of as a confirmed bachelor, had a son. You might remember him from my broadcasts earlier this week, where I identified several abnormal relationships that this Air Force officer allegedly had with foreign spies who covertly infiltrated our military.
“But let me say this—I guarantee you will remember him tonight with the information provided to me from the highest sources within an unnamed government agency. Sources have confirmed Jason Conrad has received payment of four hundred thousand dollars. Payment for what? Information and action. Ladies and gentlemen, I say with a saddened, yet patriotic heart.” Dane paused as he gazed into the camera. “Jason Conrad is a Russian agent.”
He heard several gasps in the studio, which made for great television. If he got that kind reaction from people this close to the story, imagine the impact across the nation.
“This is not an accusation made lightly. The evidence is clear. Conrad and Vince Andrews, a confirmed Ru
ssia assassin, were best friends. They were classmates. They even dated the same young lady, Kathy Delgato, who has been missing for the past eight months. This morning, Conrad was arrested by local police for her murder. For unknown reasons, the charges against Conrad for murdering a CIA agent last September have been dropped. The charges against him regarding another CIA agent killed at the Holiday Inn near Vance have also been dropped.
“So, who is Jason Conrad? And how is he able to skirt legal trouble so fast? And how is he tied into all these things?” Dane held up the redacted CIA file MacIntosh gave him. “With this. I have the complete classified file on Jason Conrad, and it’s worth reading. Stay tuned. We’ll be unwrapping this story further as it develops.”
“And we’re at commercial,” the director said over his earpiece. “Nice job, Dane.”
Dane smiled and nodded. From where he sat, the control room was in a flurry. His story was blowing up the phone lines.
33
April 30, 1996
BOWMAN PICKED up the phone as soon as Alicia left his office. “Betty, connect me with Director Hollings, please.”
Skip Hollings was the director of the CIA. They had been friends for the better part of two decades now and more so since the San Antonio incident. Bowman had been brought in for a classified briefing at a level he never knew existed, but it was for his own protection. And redemption.
He wanted the bastards who tried to kill him. They had come close. Closer than anyone had ever come to a presidential candidate. Director Hollings was instrumental in tracking down those behind the assassination attempt. Jason, of course, knew precisely who the assassin was . . . and his friend, Aaron Caldwell, had exposed the Russians were behind the hit. It was a parlay of international hardball, but the Russians were kept out of the media as being the ones responsible. Vince Andrews, the assassin, was written off as being a Bosnian war criminal who had infiltrated the U.S. and the Air Force. The CIA threw in plenty of background to convolute the story, and the connection was never made. But somehow, this small-time reporter with no D.C. connections discovered the truth, and media outlets across the nation scurried for answers.
The Right to Know Page 17
