The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  He floored the accelerator, and the limo picked up speed. The 5.56mm rounds bounced off the side of the vehicle. The preferred round of the US military, lighter than the 7.62 Russia used. The Americans chose volume over effect. Not always a good choice. As he sped down the street, another figure emerged from the tree line to his right, shooting at him as he headed to the front gate.

  JASON DOVE to the ground when the lights shut off. He identified the outline of his parents and crawled to them. Gunfire surrounded him, but he kept moving. Thank God Caldwell’s team made it.

  When he reached his parents, he grabbed both chair backs and toppled them onto their sides. He pulled out the Swiss Army knife, and feeling through the darkness, cut his mother’s bindings. Once she was free, he moved to his dad. The shooter stopped, but Jason continued to work feverishly at the bindings. As soon as he severed the last rope, the three of them crawled to the front of the stage and slid off. Jason helped his mother remove her gag, his father removing his own.

  “Jason,” she said, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t talk. We’ve got to get out of here.” Under the cover of darkness, Jason guided his parents out the side of the colonnade and around to the back. They hurried through the cemetery to the tree where Debbie waited for them.

  “Senator. Alicia,” Debbie said as she rushed to meet them, “I’m glad you’re both okay.”

  “We’re fine,” Bowman said. “Thanks to Jason.”

  “Thanks to the CIA,” Jason said. “Caldwell put together a strike team somehow. I couldn’t have done it without them.”

  “You were lucky you weren’t killed,” Alicia said. “Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

  Jason started to answer when his mobile phone rang.

  “Hey, Caldwell, thanks for the assist.”

  “My pleasure. The perp got away, but we think we hit him. We found a blood trail on the stage. He’s in a black limo heading to the front gate.”

  “Can you guys follow him?”

  “I can track him in the chopper, but we’ve only got a few minutes of gas before we have to put this thing on the ground. I’ve alerted local authorities, but they may take a while. There was an explosion and a huge fire up north, near Maryland. I think it’s related. All the extra resources have been moved that way.”

  Jason considered what Caldwell said. There was no way he could find Caldwell’s men in time to follow the Russian. This chaos had followed him from Oklahoma to Washington, D.C., and might well follow him back to Enid if this man escaped. It had affected his friends and now endangered his parents. Jason wasn’t sure why this was happening, but it was. He glanced at his parents. They were tired, scared, and anxious. If this guy got away, this wouldn’t stop. That much he was sure of.

  “I’m on my way. I’ve got a car on Southgate Road. Give me a minute. I’ll call you back.”

  “You sure, buddy? You’ve been through enough. Let my guys get him.”

  “I have no idea where your guys are. If I wait any longer, he’ll be gone.” Jason hung up the phone and turned to Debbie. “Keys.”

  “I’ll drive,” she said.

  “No. I need to reach the car fast, and I want you to stay with my parents. I’ll send someone for you.”

  Debbie nodded and handed Jason the keys. He sprinted down the hill toward the spot where they breached the fence.

  54

  May 4, 1996

  JASON CLIMBED in Debbie’s Firebird and spun the car on to Southgate Road. His phone rang. It was Caldwell.

  “Is that you in a blue Camaro driving north like a maniac?”

  “It’s a Firebird, but yeah, that’s me.”

  “Okay, the limo is slowing down and turning onto the Arlington

  Bridge, heading back into the city. Didn’t expect that. He had to stop and open the gate at the cemetery. That helped you a lot. Seems to be driving slow. Must not want to attract attention. Doesn’t realize we’re overhead. The guy must have an evacuation plan using the Metro. Hell, if he gets down there, we’ll never find him.”

  Jason saw the sign for the Arlington Bridge and took the exit on the right. He exited the huge roundabout on the west side of the river, before entering the bridge.

  “My guys just contacted me on the radio,” Caldwell said. “They’re still at the amphitheater. The guy had bombs wired to the chairs. If we hadn’t cut the power, your folks would be dead.”

  Jason’s mind reeled with the vision of what could have been, grateful his friend was able to assemble a team on such short notice. He had an idea Caldwell’s mission may not have been sanctioned by the CIA. In other words, the guys were freelancing on a Saturday night. Yet another reason he needed to catch this son of a bitch.

  “He should be right in front of you about two hundred yards.” “Got him.” “Keep an eye on him—help is on the way. We’re out of gas and must put this thing on the ground. I’ll call you for an update on your location.”

  “Roger.” Jason pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the Firebird surged forward. The speedometer crept up to 110 mph as Jason closed the gap, dodging cars as he did so. No sooner than he topped out his speed, he slowed down to make the turn and follow the limo around the Lincoln Memorial to the north. Still, he took the corner too fast, and the Firebird fishtailed to the left. Jason brought the car back under control and continued to close the gap. For a moment. The limo rapidly decelerated, the brake lights flashing on as the limo made a quick turn. He’d been spotted.

  DAMN, Dmitri thought. Someone is following me. He made evasive turns, but the car gained on him rapidly. The pain in his right arm was excruciating. The bullet had hit the upper portion of his forearm, halfway between his wrist and elbow. He couldn’t tell the extent of the injury, but it bled like crazy. His motion was limited. Most of the steering he did with his left hand. He needed to reach the Foggy Bottom Metro station fast. He would catch the train to Tysons Corner, get his escape vehicle, treat his wound, change his clothes, and drive to another town for his flight to Canada, then Germany. Once there, he’d make his way back to Moscow. He deserved to face the consequences of his failure.

  But perhaps he didn’t fail. Maybe one of his bullets found Conrad. If it weren’t for the SEAL team or whoever it was, they would all be dead by now. How did Conrad arrange that so fast? Certainly, his career as an Air Force pilot was a cover. He must be an assassin for the CIA as Nikolai said. Or was he? His mind blurred, stunned from the attack, loss of blood, and general confusion on his location.

  As best he could tell, he paralleled H Street. Time to quit screwing around. Dmitri wheeled the limousine back to the right, drove two blocks, then made a left on 23rd. Traffic increased, and Dmitri sped through a red light, narrowly missing an oncoming car. Now, he was sure of Conrad’s location. Checking his rearview mirror, the headlights skidded in to view. Damn. He couldn’t shake this guy.

  His eyes returned forward just as a car door flew open into his path. The limo roared by, ripping the parked car’s door off its hinges.

  When he turned left on I Street, ahead, he found what he was looking for: the Foggy Bottom/GWU Metro station.

  Screeching to a halt at the front entrance, he climbed out, wrap- ping a towel around the wound. He grimaced as he rushed inside the station, Conrad close behind.

  JASON GASPED when the limo ripped the door off the parked car. The driver appeared to be okay. Distracted by the wreck, he didn’t see the couple wander into the street to track the limo. They saw each other at the same time, the fear on their faces clear as the Firebird barreled toward them. The man tried to move, but the woman froze, her eyes wide, her feet not budging, despite the man tugging on her.

  Swerving left, Jason slammed on the brakes, impacting a parked car almost instantly. The seatbelt held him firmly in place, his chest lunging forward against the restraining harness until it locked. A split second later, the airbag blew him back into the seat.

  Dazed, he retrieved the Swiss Army knife from
his pocket and deflated the airbag. Jason stumbled out of the wrecked car and located the taillights of the limo in the distance. He started to walk that direction when a guy on a motorcycle stopped next to him.

  “Hey, man,” the guy said, “are you okay?”

  Jason looked at the guy; then at the bike. It was a 1991 Kawasaki Ninja ZXR 750; a crotch rocket with lime green, white, and blue paint, just like the one he rode in college. He pulled the guy off the bike, grabbing the handlebars so it didn’t hit the ground.

  “Sorry, buddy—national security.” Jason hopped on the bike, leaned forward, and gunned the throttle. Smoke spewed from underneath the rear tire as he raced down the street. In the distance, the door to the limo opened, followed by the Russian staggering out of the vehicle.

  There he is.

  Twisting the throttle, he sped down the street and screeched to a halt behind the limo. When Jason climbed off the bike, his phone rang. Must be Caldwell looking for an update. No time to talk—can’t lose this guy.

  Jason ran down the stairs, his Florsheim shoes slipping every few steps. He reached the level where the ticket kiosks were located, the Russian nowhere in sight. Scanning the area, he found what he was looking for—one of the ticket machines had blood on it where you insert your ticket. It was fresh. Very fresh.

  Jason leaped the turnstile and hurried to the lower level. He scanned one side, then the other, his head on a swivel, taking in every detail, searching for possible hiding places. After a few moments, he heard the next train coming. When he glanced down the track to see the lights of the oncoming train, he saw him. A lone figure at the end of the platform about a hundred yards away.

  Weaving through the people, Jason tried to mask his approach. He grasped the lone metal button above his waist, unbuttoned his mess-dress jacket, and peeled it off. Pulling out his wallet and sticking it in his pants pocket, he tossed the coat to the side. The Russian would recognize a guy in a formal Air Force uniform. A guy in a white shirt might buy him a few extra seconds.

  The train came to a halt, and Jason watched the kidnapper climb aboard the last car. The man poked his head back out after climbing in, catching Jason in the open. An announcement over the speakers as the train prepared to depart forced Jason to sprint toward the nearest open train door. Still two-hundred feet away, his eyes locked on the far end. If he climbed aboard and the Russian stepped off, it was over. Jason reached the opening just as the doors started to slide shut. At the last possible second, he jumped in, confident the Russian was still on board as the train surged forward.

  Three cars separated them. Jason would have to cover the distance before the next stop. The nearly empty cars made it easy for Jason to race through them. Jason paused before opening the final door, staring through the window. An elderly black man slept on the bench closest to Jason; at the far end, the bleeding Russian leaned against a pole. Jason slid open the door and entered the car, ready for a fight.

  55

  May 4, 2996

  THE RUSSIAN LOOKED up as the door opened. When he saw Jason, he pushed himself up from the pole. What had looked like a wounded and weakened man now stood like a warrior ready for battle.

  Jason was not about to back down. He charged the man, attempting to grab him high. The Russian turned his body, and using Jason’s momentum, flipped him on his back. Jason hit the floor of the train with a resounding smack.

  The Russian moved in, lifted his right foot, and started to bring it down on Jason’s head. Jason grabbed the foot mid-strike and twisted it almost ninety degrees. The violent action caused his opponent to twirl and crash on the floor next to Jason, yelling as he landed on his wounded arm. Jason climbed to his feet and took a fighting stance.

  “Who the hell are you, and why do you want to kill my family?”

  The Russian clamored to his feet, facing his opponent. The man clearly favored his right arm, and rightly so. The blood-soaked appendage had obviously been hit by one of Caldwell’s men. His breathing came in big gasps.

  “You killed my beloved. It was only fitting I kill what you love.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone. Sorry, dude, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “Liar! I saw video of you torturing and murdering my beloved.”

  Jason relaxed his stance and tried to reason with the man.

  “Does your beloved have a name? That might help sort this out.”

  “Irena Vodianova.”

  More Russians. Great.

  “Oh, you’re all Russian agents. That explains things.” His breathing stabilized. “Hey, do you know a guy named Vince Andrews?”

  The Russian tilted his head. “Who?”

  Patience was no virtue in this situation. The Russian ignored his question and thrust a high kick at Jason’s head. His wound certainly didn’t slow him down much. The strike was lightning quick, and Jason barely deflected it with his left arm. Don’t take this guy for granted, Jason thought, as he stepped forward with a left-right jab combination, easily deflected by the Russian.

  “Why don’t we quit dickin’ around, and you just surrender?” Jason said.

  The train came to a halt at the Rosslyn Station, and the doors opened. A couple entered the car, but when they recognized the tension of the standoff, they moved quickly to the car in front of them. The voice came over the speakers, warning passengers the train would pull away soon. As the doors slid shut, the Russian dashed between them, Jason followed, the doors bouncing against his body. He pushed through, letting them close behind him. Rapidly approaching the man, Jason launched into a diving tackle, grabbing him below the knees.

  Both men tumbled to the red-tiled floor, the Russian rolling and striking the recessed, segmented curved wall with a thump. As they struggled to their feet, the Russian grabbed Jason by the shoulders and head-butted him. The move left both dazed, leaving them staggering on the platform. A few onlookers lingered from a distance, watching the action but not willing to interfere. Could they tell this was more than a ballroom brawl? Did the military uniform scare them off? Perhaps it was the Russian’s blood-drenched arm or Jason’s white shirt now streaked with blood that made them realize their involvement might have disastrous consequences.

  The Russian threw a left punch, connecting with Jason’s jaw and sending him spiraling downward. As the Russian set up his next strike, he exposed his bloody arm. Jason, having barely maintained his footing, seized the opportunity and threw two quick jabs into the bullet wound.

  The Russian yelped in pain and backed away. Jason moved in again, thrusting blow after blow on the kidnapper’s head. He raised his left arm to protect himself, but Jason continued relentlessly, most of his blows striking the Russian’s forearm.

  Jason paused, but as he reared back his fist for a final blow, someone stopped him. Two someones. Two young guys in civilian clothes with crewcuts—G.I.’s most likely—knocked him on his back. One guy wrestled him on the ground and grabbed him from behind, wrapping his arms and legs around him. The other pummeled him, chastising him for assaulting a veteran.

  Jason used his hands to block the blows, but several contacted his head. The pain shot through him, and his vision became blurry. He couldn’t focus. The legs around his waist released, and Jason tried to move, but the legs soon wrapped around his head.

  The legs felt like iron as they squeezed the life out of him. His face grew hot, and his head shook in place. He had trouble breathing, and his blurry vision turned gray before settling into a calm sea of blackness.

  56

  May 4, 1996

  THE LIGHT BECKONED JASON—SLOWLY at first, then like a raging river. At once, all his senses battled for superiority, each trying to tell their master what was happening. It didn’t take long for him to remember he was in a fight. A fight for his life with the man who tried to kill his parents.

  Jason propped himself up on his elbow and glanced around. In moments, he spotted the Russian in the U.S. Army uniform crawling off the platform onto the train track.

  B
etween them, the two G.I.’s stood valiantly—unwitting sentinels to the Russian killer.

  Jason pushed himself off the ground and stood on wobbly legs. A few onlookers stood at a distance, none offering any assistance. He shook the cobwebs from his head and approached the two soldiers. They both had smirks on their faces, confident they defeated their opponent. Jason shuffled toward the bigger one who had hit him relentlessly. The soldier put his fists up, ready for Jason, and motioned with his fingers for Jason to come on.

  Damn. He didn’t need this. Time to work smarter, not harder.

  “Guys . . . I know you think you’re helping a vet.” Jason put his hand up out, signaling stop. “You don’t understand what’s going on. I’m Lieutenant Jason Conrad. I’m an officer in the US Air Force.”

  The two grunts looked at each other. One’s eyes drooped, his lips quivering as the consequences for striking an officer became immediately apparent. The other one’s eyes squinted, doubtful of what he heard.

  “Let me see some I.D.,” the soldier said.

  Jason kept his hand up and reached in his pocket with his free hand, retrieving his wallet.

  “That man is a Russian assassin. This evening, he kidnapped a United States Senator and his wife. Your interference may have helped him escape.” His body still hurt like hell and fought for oxygen. He slid the identification card out of his wallet and tried to hand it to the guy. The skeptical one looked at the ID card in his hand, then turned and ran. His buddy, eyes bulging as his friend fled, turned, and did the same. Two young guys who got in over their heads just realized they made a huge mistake and didn’t want to be involved with this.