The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  From K Street, Debbie headed south toward the Mall. She swung by the U.S. Capitol, then drove south along the Mall by the Air and Space Smithsonian, the Washington Monument, then around the Lincoln Memorial. They drove west of the White House before heading north to the Hotel. They saw them all from a distance, of course. Perhaps he could visit them tomorrow, she said. Most likely not. He needed to return to Vance. Flight training resumed on Monday.

  Debbie, he noticed, was much more animated and livelier once they were alone. Her monotone faded, and she showed a little more personality. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and her smile produced two little dimples as if she had removed a constricting mask.

  “Are we going anywhere particular, or are we just going to drive around for two hours?” Jason cringed as he realized the question came out more sarcastic than he intended.

  Debbie smiled. “We could go straight to the hotel if you want.”

  “Are they serving early?”

  “No, silly. We could go to my room.”

  “And do what? Order room service?”

  She gave him a quick glance. “Maybe after we have sex.”

  Jason jerked his head at her, his mouth open.

  Debbie laughed, a deep, pleasant laugh. “I got you! You should see the look on your face. I was wondering if you would ever lighten up. You sure are uptight for a college graduate. Aren’t you a pilot? You guys are supposed to be cocky and super over-confident, but you just sit there and say nothing. I was beginning to wonder if there was a living, breathing person in that glorified waiter’s outfit you’re wearing.”

  Jason smiled. She did have a personality. “I was wondering if there were any substance to the robot lady that picked me up.”

  “It’s instinctive around other women. I started doing it a couple years ago. Anytime I meet other women in this town, they seem to be threatened by me. Especially because I work for the congressman. So, I kind of adopted this boring personality I slip in to. It puts them at ease.”

  Jason nodded. “I can see them being intimidated. You are kind of attractive.”

  “Kind of?” Her pursed lips and raised eyebrows displayed her playful disdain for his comment.

  “Okay, you know what I mean. You’re hot. Very hot. I can see women being threatened by that.”

  She laughed again, and Jason liked the pleasant tone. “Keep it up, Jason Conrad. You might end up getting laid after all.”

  ALICIA SAT in the antique chair in the study, sipping her second drink. Her thoughts focused on her ex-husband. Had he changed? Why had he changed? Was it meeting Jason? The assassination attempt? Whatever it was, something about him was different, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  Bowman strutted back in the room, tucking the mobile phone in the breast coat pocket of his tuxedo. “Alicia, I’m sorry. That was an important call from one of my donors. I had to take the call.”

  Alicia nodded. “I understand. Those Texas constituents can be demanding, sometimes.”

  “Oh, he’s not from Te—never mind. It’s taken care of.”

  Alicia let it go. It was probably that bastard Sterling MacIntosh. “Who was the hooker you set our son up with?”

  Bowman’s eyebrows furrowed. “She’s not a hooker. She’s a staffer from Congressman Baxter’s office. She’s young and single. I thought she’d be good for him at the event.”

  “Looks like she plans to be good for him after the event, too.”

  “Alicia.” Bowman stopped himself.

  Alicia began to wonder if he had bedded her himself. Did he know the girl would be throwing herself at Jason? She decided to let it go. Her son was a grown man. He had good judgment and could handle himself. She hoped.

  “I’m glad you came this week,” Bowman said.

  She sensed he wanted to talk about something. “Let’s cut to the chase, Jonathan. What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

  Bowman paced back and forth in the study. His body tensed as he struggled with what to say.

  “Things . . . things have changed lately. There’s been a shift in my personal dynamic that has implications beyond my ability to foresee.”

  Alicia laughed aloud. “Personal dynamic? What the hell is that, Jonathan?”

  He smiled and chuckled. “Yeah, real people talk. I’m not used to it.” Bowman sat in the chair next to her and leaned into her, more relaxed now. “I guess after the events in San Antonio, meeting Jason, and seeing you again as much as I have—it’s made me realize some things.” He hesitated, shifting his gaze from the floor to her eyes. “It made me realize I want a family.”

  The smile swept off her face. “Oh.”

  “And there’s more. I’m considering leaving politics.”

  45

  May 4, 1996

  JASON’S FACE flushed and his body tingled. He had feelings he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Debbie certainly knew her way around D.C., and she had no problem using her credentials when the situation required it. After seeing some of the prominent sights of the city, she pulled into the parking garage at the Hilton. Security was tight; the garage had been closed at 2:00 p.m. Luckily for them, Jason’s father had arranged for them to get access despite the lockdown.

  She caught the eye of every man they passed as they walked through the hotel to the elevator. Jason grinned. He enjoyed being with a beautiful woman again. The closest he had come the last few months was Captain Watson, who hit on him whenever possible. Who knows? A few more months of isolation and he might have given in.

  Debbie pulled out her key, and the two of them entered. It was a standard, two double-bed room with a small desk and chair, and a dresser with a television on top.

  “It’s not fancy,” she said, “but it will do for tonight.” She tossed her purse on the bed and moved to the dresser to mix a drink. “I hope you like Crown Royal. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Crown is fine. I’m normally a Jack Daniel’s guy, but... it will do for tonight.”

  Debbie smiled. “Do you want Coke with it?”

  “And ruin Crown? I’ll have it straight up, thanks.”

  “I knew you were a good man, Jason Conrad.” She poured two drinks into the hotel glasses, and they toasted before indulging in their cocktails. Debbie glanced at the clock by the bed stand. “We’ve got another thirty minutes before they open the ballroom downstairs. I thought it might be interesting to watch everyone walk in. It’s kind of fun to observe how people act when the spotlight is on them.”

  “Okay. What do you want to do until then?”

  The corners of her mouth crept upward, and she set her drink on the dresser. She sauntered toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him in for a deep, sensuous kiss. The kiss lingered for a minute or two, and they broke off. The sparkle in her eyes said everything.

  “What do you think we’re going to do?” She turned and faced away from him. “Unzip me.”

  Jason couldn’t believe his luck. Or perhaps it wasn’t luck; his father did set this up. He was sure this wasn’t the first time she had seduced a man with political connections in a hotel room.

  He reached out and pulled the zipper down to the small of her back when her cell phone rang.

  “Hang on a sec,” she said.

  “I’m hanging.”

  Debbie looked at the number without changing her expression.

  She silenced the phone, set it on the nightstand, and let the dress fall to the floor. Jason’s eyes traced the outline of her textbook figure. All that remained was her thigh-high stockings, heels, and panties.

  Her eyes scrunched, and her brow furrowed. “Are you going to take your clothes off or stand there gawking all night?”

  “Oh.”

  Jason peeled off the mess-dress uniform and hung it in the closet. He wanted to ask what the phone call was about but decided not to. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, and he wasn’t about to mishandle this one.

  THE THRONG of reporters stood on the sidew
alk outside Jonathan Bowman’s K Street residence. Security had arrived well beforehand to maintain a sense of order. Alicia counted over fourteen different stations in all. It was the first time the senator would speak out following Dane Robinson’s accusations. Accusations of dire consequences.

  One minute before six p.m., Bowman stepped onto the front steps of his flat. Alicia followed and moved off to the side, aware and bothered her picture would be broadcast on television across the globe. A small, portable podium had been set up with several microphones mounted to the front. Bowman took his position behind the podium, studying the crowd.

  “I’d like to thank you all for being here this evening. I understand you have bigger fish to fry on the other side of the mall.” A small smile eked out for a moment as the reporters chuckled. “A few days ago, an accusation was made about me by a member of the press. An accusation so obscene and so absurd it doesn’t bear repeating here. Most of you have probably been talking about it since then anyway.” More chuckles from the crowd.

  “But to defend myself, I must address the statement made by Mister Dane Robinson of WTSR in Tulsa, particularly since it is my understanding he will soon be attached to the NBC Network in New York.

  “It is no secret Mister Robinson has relentlessly pursued my son, Lieutenant Jason Conrad, United States Air Force, for some type of complicity in the assassination attempt on my life last September.

  “And in his zeal, he chose to single out a sitting senator and former presidential candidate. Somehow, Mister Robinson concluded that a United States Air Force officer and a sitting United States Senator and former presidential candidate are both Russian spies.” There were a few chuckles among the reporters.

  “So, let’s look at the facts. Mister Robinson, when he made his accusation on live television, held up what he claimed to be a CIA file containing redacted papers explaining my son’s involvement with Russian operatives. To begin with, the folder containing these papers is not an official CIA folder. Anyone with any experience in government would know that. It resembles a prop from a Hollywood movie. Also, the redacted papers inside, are not pages from any official CIA report anywhere. Those, too, appear to be a cheap knockoff.

  “When this issue broke, I contacted the director of the CIA personally. His opinion of the reporter matched mine. Another hack attempting to gain credibility by destroying me through my son before attacking me directly. Director Hastings assured me the man Mister Robinson purports as his source, does not exist at the CIA. And more particularly, he doesn’t exist at all.

  “My attorney is already taking action on this. I demand a full retraction by WTSR and NBC News immediately. A lawsuit was filed in district court yesterday afternoon against Mister Robinson, for libel. I expect, when this is all over, I’ll own a major network and at least one network affiliate.” He had to fight off a grin with that comment. He most likely would settle with the network, but the comment made for great TV. “I won’t take any questions right now. I’ve got an important date tonight. I’ll see you all at the Correspondents’ Dinner.”

  Numerous reporters shouted questions as Bowman moved away from the podium. He grabbed Alicia’s hand and ushered her down the thin path between bodies the security personnel made leading toward the armored limousine with bulletproof glass. The two climbed in, and Bowman noticed something different right away.

  “Where’s Eddie? He normally drives me to formal events.”

  “Out sick,” the driver said. “Had a sore throat.” The driver placed the car in DRIVE and stared in the rearview mirror at them. “I thought I was picking up four?”

  “The other two are already at the hotel. And we’d like to join them as quickly as possible.”

  The driver raised the opaque barrier of the privacy screen behind him and pulled away from the curb.

  46

  May 4, 1996

  DANE ROBINSON STOOD IN LINE, waiting to pass through security. His head constantly moved, nodding if he made eye contact, searching for familiar—or actually—important faces. The crowd at the Washington Hilton grew rapidly, and the guests in the hotel attending the event began to flood the elevators.

  He reached the front of the security station outside the ballroom, and the X-ray machine beeped wildly. A security guard pulled him to the side and used the handheld wand to find the source of the infraction. The wand beeped when it passed over his front pockets and the breast pocket of his tuxedo.

  “Sir,” the guard said, “Did you remove all the metal objects from your pockets?”

  Dane’s eyebrows furrowed, and his lips tightened. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. But I will soon if this becomes a problem. Empty your pockets, please.”

  Begrudgingly, Dane emptied his pockets onto the table behind the officer. “I’m Dane Robinson. If you haven’t heard of me, you will.”

  The guard ignored him as he waved the wand over him again. Dane thought he took too long but decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. The guard waved him through. Dane picked up his things and headed straight to the bar. The room was about thirty percent full at this point and Dane, for some reason, expected to see the two women from last night. His eyes darted around the bar until they eventually fell upon a gift from God.

  The young woman was stunning—fiery red hair and olive skin without a blemish. Perfect in stature and proportion. She looked like a young Raquel Welch, only prettier. And she was alone. A hooker, no doubt. Or perhaps a political groupie. Dane strutted to her while she pretended not to notice him.

  “Well, hello,” he said.

  The woman gave him a quick glance and continued to scan the room. “Hello.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m Dane Robinson.”

  She shook her head. “No, can’t say that I have.”

  Dane slumped, the smile falling from his face. Beeping sounds from numerous phones began to echo throughout the ballroom as individuals pulled out their mobile phones. He determined he wasn’t going to give up so easily.

  “Don’t you ever watch the news?” The smile returned. “I’m Dane Robinson, the Taaaser from Tulsa. I broke the biggest story in history about Russia infiltrating our election process.”

  She nodded. “Oh, that’s you? I’m sorry, I have heard of that.” She stuck out her hand. “Sherri. Sherri Davis. I’m a field reporter for The New York Times. I’ve been covering the conflict in the Balkans and haven’t had much opportunity to keep up with television back home.”

  Dane glowed and stood a little taller. “The New York Times? I-I tell you—I didn’t peg you for a reporter. You are way too beautiful for that. Especially a newspaper reporter. Have you ever thought of doing television?”

  The redhead blushed and took a sip from her drink. Dane chatted her up for a couple minutes, namedropping when he could, talking about his own trip to New York last week, his appearances on the TODAY show, and his upcoming position with NBC News. She seemed impressed with him. His phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out—the station was calling. Tucking the phone away, he turned back to the redhead who engaged in a quiet discussion with another woman. She was familiar . . . oh, my god! Is that . . .?

  “C-C . . . I-I’m a huge fan,” he said to the woman, unable to get her name out.

  “Excuse us,” the woman said as she walked off with the redhead. Dane rationalized that Sherri Davis would be back. Two single reporters meeting at an event like this . . . it was destiny.

  JONATHAN BOWMAN and Alicia Conrad rode in the back of the limousine, casually looking outside. Bowman would give Alicia a glance but tried not to force any kind of conversation. He was aware of her distaste for politics, and he had a bad habit of talking too much. That’s what politicians do.

  What was he going to do? The feelings he experienced he hadn’t felt for a long time, if ever. He was content. Ever since San Antonio, when Alicia and Jason were thrust back into his life, he had changed. Alicia was still beautiful, no doubt. She’d taken care of h
erself over the years and looked ten to fifteen years younger than her age. But it was her strength, her wit, and her intellect that he found attractive. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was growing up.

  He reached over and patted her hand. She lifted her head and smiled, opening her hand for him to hold it. Bowman returned the smile, held her hand, then focused outside. This didn’t look familiar —well, it was familiar, they just weren’t going the right direction. They drove away from downtown, about to cross the Potomac River, the Pentagon in the distance.

  Bowman leaned forward and beat on the glass partition.

  “Driver, where are we going?”

  There was no response.

  He beat harder.

  “Jonathan, what’s happening?”

  Bowman glanced at her. Alicia didn’t sound worried; she was a strong woman. A smart woman. But she knew when something wasn’t right.

  “We’re not going to the hotel. He’s driving us across the river.”

  “What’s over here?”

  “The Pentagon. Arlington. I don’t know what in the hell this guy thinks he’s doing, but I’m contacting the limo service.” Bowman reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his mobile phone when the driver lowered the partition.

  “Driver, where the hell are we going? We are going to be late for the dinner.” Bowman saw the driver glance back at him as the limo approached the George Mason Memorial Bridge. Then the driver tossed a small canister with smoke spewing out of it on the floorboard. Alicia screamed as the smoke filled the back of the limo. Bowman grabbed the canister and tried to throw it back up front, but the driver quickly raised the partition.