The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  The chemical reaction inside the cylinder made it hot, and it grew hotter by the second. Bowman felt groggy as he attempted to roll down the window. Nothing. The switch didn’t work. The heat became too much for him, and he dropped the canister. He reached for the door handle, but it was locked. His vision blurred, and the automatic door lock didn’t work either. Must . . . be . . .

  Alicia stopped screaming and appeared unconscious as the gray in his vision faded to black.

  47

  May 4, 1996

  DMITRI CALCULATED the impact of Conrad not being in the limo with his parents. The plan had changed dramatically. How could he coax him here without alerting the authorities? What began as a foolproof plan had rapidly deteriorated. It could be salvaged, but Dmitri would have to be smart about it. He’d need a distraction, a head fake of some sort. As he crossed the Potomac, a germ of an idea began to form, which he molded it into a plan. One he might not survive, but it was a plan.

  The limousine pulled up to the gate at Arlington Cemetery. The last of the tourists were escorted out the other side of the gate, and the security guard locked it behind them.

  Dmitri rolled down the window of the limo and leaned toward the guard.

  “Cemetery’s closed,” the guard said, his jowls shaking as he talked. The buttons on his uniform screamed in agony, stretched to their maximum. These Americans have the worst standards.

  “I have Senator Bowman and his guest. They wish to see the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. The park is closed. The senator will have to come back tomorrow.”

  Dmitri spotted the guard’s partner, locking the exit gate on the other side of the street. He tilted his head toward the chubby guard. “You’ll have to tell the senator yourself. I’ve been yelled at enough today.”

  The guard heaved himself off his stool, hesitated, then stepped out to the limo. He shuffled to the rear window and knocked on the glass. Dmitri observed him in the side mirror. The guard tapped again, then returned to his window.

  “He won’t open—”

  Dmitri pointed his 9mm with a silencer at the guard’s chest and squeezed the trigger for three quick bursts. The portly guard crumpled to the ground with a dull plop. His partner rounded the corner, set to close the gate. When he saw his partner on the ground, he rushed forward. Dmitri lined him up in his sights and fired another three rounds. The second guard took the first two in the forehead, the third in his throat. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  He drove the limo through the gate and put the car in park. After moving the bodies into the guard shack, he locked and shut the door. Walking through the heavy iron gate, he locked it from the inside, climbed back into the limo, and drove to the amphitheater. It was a bold, and perhaps foolish, decision to use this location. A detachment of soldiers was stationed here, guarding the Tomb of the Unknowns, day and night. This evening, however, most of them were augmenting security and traffic downtown. They certainly wouldn’t be looking for him, and by the time he finished killing Jason Conrad, he would be long gone.

  The cherry blossoms had lost their blooms a month ago, nature took its toll on the famous trees in the cemetery. Thousands upon thousands of headstones covered the vast space within the cemetery. His sense of the place was different than the Americans, who viewed this as a memorial. Dmitri considered it a scoreboard. Every tombstone was a win for Mother Russia, and tonight, she’d have three more.

  Dmitri drove the limo on the sidewalk and across the grass, parking right behind the stage of the amphitheater. From the trunk, he pulled out three folding chairs and a large duffle bag and carried them onto the stage. Then he pulled the senator out of the limo. Lifting the unconscious figure in a fireman’s carry, he brought him on stage and set him in one of the chairs. After tying his hands and feet with duct tape to the chair, he returned to the limo and retrieved Conrad’s mother, securing her the same way.

  Next, he removed an electric control panel from the duffle and connected it to an extension cord. An optical fiber ran from the control panel to the bottom of the chairs, attached to a detonator underneath each seat. A variant of the slapper detonator method, it delivered a laser pulse to thin foil plates on the detonator. This fired the initiator and ignited the output explosive.

  From the edge of the stage, he controlled the fate of Conrad’s parents. The detonation of the charge was small and upward. Each explosion would sever their femoral arteries so Conrad would have to watch his parents bleed out, a slow and gruesome death—just like Irena’s. The set-up was something Nikolai would never have approved, but Dmitri was determined. This one was personal, and he wanted Jason Conrad to suffer as much as possible before he put a bullet in his head and gutted him like a pig amongst the shredded bodies of his parents.

  48

  May 4, 1996

  JASON BUTTONED the silver studs on his shirt, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, and wrapped his cummerbund around his waist.

  “Zip me up, will you?” Debbie said.

  Jason grasped the zipper resting below her back, gently pulled it up, and secured the clasp at the top. He moved across the room and poured himself a drink, while Debbie retreated to the bathroom to touch-up her makeup, finishing with a quick swipe of her lipstick.

  “Ready?” she said.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. You look fantastic, by the way.”

  She flashed a smile, a genuine one, not one that merely acknowledged a compliment. “Sooo, any regrets?” she said, biting her bottom lip.

  He grinned at the sparkle in her eyes. “Only wasting time driving around Washington.”

  “I was sizing you up.”

  “Right.”

  “Lieutenant Conrad, I don’t throw myself at every military officer I run across.”

  Jason started to respond, then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. As they walked to the door, she grabbed the key from the dresser. “Might need this later,” she said.

  “Count on it.”

  Her infectious laugh relaxed him. Jason was glad she wasn’t the stoic robot she portrayed when they first met. He was sure his mother would be surprised. His father, no doubt, knew all about her. Particularly her friendliness. History had shown the senator had impeccable taste.

  The two of them proceeded down the hall, hand in hand. The act didn’t escape Jason, but she seemed not to notice. Well, he decided, if he were going to make a comeback in the romance department, this was a great start.

  When they stepped off the elevator, the hotel was in chaos. Lines stretched everywhere as dignitaries of all shapes and sizes waited to be screened to enter the dinner. The screening was far enough away that it didn’t interfere with the entrance to the banquet hall. Jason and Debbie strolled to the nearest security station.

  The White House Correspondents’ Dinner had a long and unique history. The first dinner was held by the White House Correspondents’ Association in 1921, and it was tradition that the President and Vice-President attend. In the early years, singers performed between courses, and after dinner, a homemade movie—sometimes humorous, sometimes not—played, and other prominent entertainers would perform. During World War II, a more serious tone took place. In the early ‘80s, during the Reagan administration, the format evolved into something of a “roast” of the president, much like the Dean Martin Celebrity Roast of the ‘70s. Jason doubted the format was effective, despite the entertainment value.

  “Do you see my parents anywhere?”

  Debbie squeezed his hand and casually scanned the crowd. “No, don’t see them.”

  “I just thought they would have called by now,” he said. “We did miss his press conference on TV.” The press conference was supposed to last five minutes, and the ride to the hotel would have taken twenty-five minutes tops. Yes, they should be here by now.

  She pulled him closer, and her eyes fluttered. “Keep it up, and you might miss Al Franken, too.” The Saturday Night Live comedian was the celebrity g
uest host for this year’s dinner. Jason, aware of the man’s left-leaning politics, was concerned about what he might say about his father.

  Jason kissed Debbie on the forehead and pulled out his mobile telephone. No missed calls, and it was almost seven p.m. He used his thumb and dialed his mother’s number. The phone rang until voice- mail picked up.

  Hmmm. That’s unusual. She usually answers right away.

  He called his father’s number. Same thing. No answer. “This is odd. Neither one is answering.”

  “Maybe they’re going through security and can’t get to it.”

  “Yeah, that must be it.”

  In a few minutes, Jason and Debbie found themselves at the front of the security line, where she placed her small purse in the tray for the X-ray machine. Jason only had his wallet and mobile phone. They both set off the metal detector when they walked through and were ceremoniously wanded down with the handheld device, like most of the other guests.

  Debbie produced their tickets at the door, and the checker waved them to their table. Their name tags were all in place, but nothing indicated his parents had arrived yet.

  “Let’s get a drink,” he said. Grabbing Debbie’s hand, he led her to the bar. “Keep an eye out for them.”

  Jason ordered them both a Crown Royal on the rocks, his eyes darting across the ballroom. His frustration turned to worry when the phone in his pocket rang.

  DANE COULDN’T FINGER EXACTLY what it was that told him something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps word got out he spoke to the producers from ABC last night. No one appeared to want to talk with him. At first, he chalked it up to professional jealousy, but then it seemed more than that. He shuffled away from the bar—by himself. After wandering aimlessly for a few minutes, he meandered to his table and fidgeted behind his chair. Alone.

  Within a few minutes, Bill Jenkins, a reporter friend of his, walked by. Dane waved, but Bill didn’t notice. Or, at least he pretended not to.

  “Bill,” Dane bellowed. “How are you?”

  His friend stopped, his free hand tapping his wife’s hand that nestled in the crook of his elbow. “Dane—I-I can’t believe you’re here.”

  His forehead wrinkled; his confusion was evident. “Can’t believe I’m here? I’m practically the guest of honor. Well, I mean, of course, tonight is about the president, but my story this week is the most talked about story in the country.”

  The corner of Bill’s mouth fell slightly, and his eyebrows raised. “You haven’t seen the news in the last hour, have you?”

  “News? What news? No, I’ve been here.”

  Bill released his wife and whispered something in her ear, and she disappeared toward the bar. The fellow reporter turned to face him.

  “Dane, Senator Bowman held a press conference an hour ago. He’s refuting everything you’ve said for the past week. And he’s got proof! The CIA dossiers and folders are fake, and the CIA says no one named Draken Black works there. In fact, the GAO says there’s no such person on the U.S. government payroll. Anywhere. Word is there’s a massive libel suit brewing.”

  Dane’s body slumped, and his heart rate increased. The perspiration pushed through his pores and beaded on his forehead. His breath came in heaving gasps.

  “Are you okay?” Bill said. “You-you didn’t know?”

  Dane’s jowls loosened, and his eyes drooped. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He simply shook his head.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, old buddy.” Bill patted him on the back and marched off to find his wife.

  What in the hell just happened? Dane glanced around, his movements swift and desperate. When the producer who offered him the job with NBC walked toward him, Dane attempted to relax and force a smile on his face.

  “Everett, thank God. I was beginning to wonder if I knew anyone here.”

  The producer approached him, his eyes narrow and his jaw set. “Dane, I’m not sure how else to say this. The network is rescinding its offer. We’re sorry, but the shit storm you’ve created with this attack on Bowman is not something we’re willing to be a part of. I’m not sure who you think your source is, but you’d better go back to the drawing board on how you evaluate these situations. And take my advice—get a damn good lawyer.”

  Everett wandered off as if embarrassed to be seen with Dane. Now, he had no doubt, the walls were closing in. He stood alone, in his tuxedo, at the front of the ballroom, mere feet from where the president of the United States would be sitting in just a few minutes. Yet every time he made eye contact with someone in the room, they either looked away, or whispered something to their date and pointed in his direction. The frowning faces told him this story had shifted significantly.

  He pulled the mobile phone out of his pocket and checked the missed calls. Seven of them from his station in Tulsa. Squeezing the phone, he headed for the door. The reception in the lobby was much better, and he decided he needed to talk to the home base, particularly since his network job offer no longer existed.

  Once outside, a reporter extended a handheld recorder at him right away. And it wasn’t a reporter in a tuxedo. It was a beat reporter, covering the event from the lobby.

  “Mister Robinson,” the man said, “now that the CIA has confirmed the evidence you used to claim Senator Bowman is a Russian spy is fake, do you wish to post a retraction?”

  Dane was humiliated. CIA? Fake evidence? Retraction? This story had legs and was moving fast. He needed to find out what the hell happened. He needed to find the man who called himself Draken Black. That would solve this.

  “N-No comment.” Dane moved to find an isolated location to call the station when another reporter rushed toward him.

  “Dane,” she said, “now that NBC has pulled their job offer, what’s next for you? Will you stay in Tulsa?”

  How in the hell do they know about that? Hell, he just found out three minutes ago.

  “No comment.” Before he escaped, two more reporters pounced on him, followed quickly by another three. The questions came in a non-stop barrage. One after the other, sometimes on top of each other. He found the situation confusing, and he could not focus. His breathing very labored, his heart pounding. Was this what a heart attack felt like? No, this . . . this must be a panic attack.

  Dane blurted “No comment, no comment,” and shoved his way through the throng of reporters around him. For the first time in his career, he was on the receiving end of the First Amendment. And he didn’t like it.

  He found a secluded area away from the pomp and circumstance of the ballroom and dialed the station. The owner of the station answered on the first ring.

  “Oh, Mister Baker, I-I didn’t realize I called your number.”

  “Cut the crap, Robinson. I can’t believe the shit you’ve gotten us in to.”

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  “Haven’t you seen the news this evening?”

  “N-no, sir. I’m at the dinner.” It was a lie, sort of, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  There was a brief pause on the other end.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do. Leave the dinner now, catch the first flight back to Tulsa, and get your ass back to the studio right away. We’ll watch the news together, and you can illuminate me on just what in the hell is going on. You can explain why the hell a sitting U.S. senator is suing my station for libel. And we can discuss whether or not you are going to have a job here when this is all over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dane melted into the chair next to the wall. It was official. His life now sucked.

  49

  May 4, 1996

  JASON STARED at the buzzing phone held loosely in his hand. He recognized the inbound number. It was his mother. He gave Debbie a passive smile, then turned away.

  “Mom? Where are you guys?”

  On the other end of the phone, a man laughed. A deep, hearty laugh that wasn’t very friendly.

  “Who is this?”

  Silence.

  �
��Who is this? Where is Alicia Conrad?”

  An exacerbated sigh oozed over the phone. “You Americans are so easily excited.” It was a man’s voice. Russian. Eastern European anyway.

  “Who is this, and what the hell are you talking about?” Jason tensed, his eyes darting around the room.

  “Jason?” Debbie moved closer and touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  His hand went up to keep her from saying anything else. He needed to keep the guy on the phone. Either his mother lost her phone, or someone stole it. Regardless, he knew this was no practical joke.

  “Look, fella, this phone belongs to my mother. I’d appreciate it if you would return it.”

  Damn. This is not good.

  The man laughed again. “Jason Conrad, I thought you were so much smarter than this.” He paused. “I’m watching you.”

  Jason’s head swiveled in all directions. He felt the stress on his face. This phone call wasn’t funny, and his mind reeled as he considered the worst.

  “Are you there, Jason Conrad? I would hate for you to hang up and have something dreadful happen to your lovely mother.”

  “You son of a bitch!” The comment came out louder than he wanted, causing a few heads to turn. Debbie placed her hand around his arm and nodded toward the door, a solemn expression on her face. Jason followed her, the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes searching the room. He didn’t see anyone who might be observing him.

  Jason didn’t speak as they walked out of the ballroom.

  “Mister Conrad . . . are you still there?”

  Jason hesitated for a moment. “Sorry, I was sipping my drink.”

  Debbie nodded her understanding as she looked at his empty hand. “Ah, yes, I see. Tasty, I hope.”