The Right to Know
Praise for Michael Byars Lewis
“This story would make an excellent movie that should appeal to a wide audience.”
-Judge, 24th Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards, from a review of Veil of Deception.
“If you like thrillers, you will love Surly Bonds!”
-John Mese, Award-Winning Writer/Actor/Director/Producer
“An entertainingly dense plot that links flawlessly to its forerunner, with room for more adventures.”
-Kirkus Reviews on Veil of Deception
“Michael Byars Lewis brings depth and authenticity to the world of the high-tech thriller.”
- James R. Hannibal, Author of
the Nick Baron covert ops series
“. . . it’s time that genre fans stand up and pay attention to one of the most talented living writers in the genre today.”
- Bella Wright, Bestthrillers.com
“. . . a plot that rockets along on full afterburner.”
- Tom Young, author of The Mullah’s Storm,
Silent Enemy, and Sand and Fire
on Veil of Deception
“. . . Lewis simultaneously writes fiction and predicts the future. Don’t miss this talented author’s work.”
- Joseph Badal, Best-Selling Author of Death Ship
“. . . a fast-paced military thriller with twists and turns that will hook a variety of readers.”
- Manhattan Book Review on Veil of Deception
“An unforgettable debut . . . non-stop action from start to finish!”
- Gary Westfall, Amazon #1 Best Selling Author of Dream Operative
“Lewis practically makes the U.S. government a collaborator in its own destruction here. That was a surprising and very intriguing touch that added a lot to what, in a lesser author’s hands, could have been a humdrum conspiracy plot.”
-San Francisco Book Review on Veil of Deception
“. . . Lewis clearly demonstrates that he has the skills to compete with some of the top thriller and intrigue writers of today.”
- Anne-Marie Reynolds, Readers’ Favorite
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
Retribution
Surly Bonds
The Right to Know
Veil of Deception
The Right to Know
Michael Byars Lewis
DISCLAIMER: The views presented in this fictional work are those of the author and in no way reflect the views of the Department of Defense nor its Components.
This is a work of historical fiction. Characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously while locations and names of historical figures may be used as reference to ground the reader. Any resemblance of characters and incidents to actual events and persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2019 by Michael Byars Lewis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Printing: February 2019
SATCOM Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9914764-6-6
ISBN eBook: 978-0-9914764-7-3
Cover Design by Damonza
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
The Right to Know
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Right to Know: The After the Epilogue and Credits Scene…
Get Jason’s next adventure:
About the Author
Find out what happens to Jason!
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
For those who serve . . .
The Right to Know
1
April 23, 1996
THE BEACH STRETCHED on for miles, with scantily clad bodies peppered across the glowing white sand. Dmitri Petrov drove the stolen 1990 Honda Civic along A1A in Fort Lauderdale, blending in amongst the cars packed bumper to bumper in the popular vacation spot. The fresh, salty air gave way to the exhaust of hundreds of vehicles, plodding in each direction as the sun beat down from a cloudless sky on this stretch of asphalt running north-south along the beach, raising the temperature another fifteen degrees. Spring Break was almost over, but guys still hung out car windows flirting with each group of passing girls. Stereos blared from all the vehicles, the most prominent song, The Black Crowes’ Remedy. The local cops did a satisfactory job managing the traffic—it was the pedestrians who tended to get out of control, cutting between vehicles, brawling, and littering. Open containers were not allowed, but the cops couldn’t check thousands of red Solo cups. That was a good thing. The mass of drunken partiers would help Dmitri blend in.
He steered the Honda into the parking lot for the Yankee Clipper Sheraton Hotel. The job—a simple one. Find the accountant assisting the federal government in clamping down on underground Russian holdings within the US. Once found, kill him, and make it look like a robbery.
His target came here every week. The dossier said the accountant had a penchant for the place—a lifelong fan of the mermaid shows in The Wreck Bar. He discovered the watering hole in the 1950’s film Where the Boys Are, and came here as a freshman in college, attempting to relive his motion picture experience. It enthralled him so much, he came every year until he graduated law school, then moved here to find a job. Twenty years later, the accountant was now a fixture himself in The Wreck Bar, showing up every Tuesday for the mermaid show.
Dmitri snorted. Agents from Section Nine were the best in the world. Undercover moles—assassins who would change the course of history. So, they had been told. Sadly, the job proved less than glorious. The Cold War waned, and he and others from Section Nine were used for small actions to steer governments in one direction or another. A waste of resources. The time and money spent preparing them for their role were not justified. Not for what they had been tasked to do.
The only time in recent history that one of their agents had been involved in something significant occurred last year when one assassin was activated to kill a presidential candidate in San Antonio. Unfortunately, the assassin—his friend Irena Vodianova—failed.
She had been compromised somehow.
Thoughts of Irena tugged at his heart, a sign of weakness for a trained assassin. Everyone had their Achilles heel, and she was his. Dmitri always wanted them to be more than friends. He had been in love with her since they started Section Nine training in Kiev at twelve years old. Her long dark locks and deep brown eyes entranced him as a boy, and those feelings lingered with him as a man.
When he first arrived in Miami, he convinced an associate back in Moscow to send him a few photographs of her. She had grown into a beautiful young woman; one he would give up everything for. When news of the San Antonio incident reached him, he was distraught for weeks, not eating or sleeping.
Dmitri was aware Moscow knew his situation, and he didn’t care. He was a man with only one love, and his heart had been broken. Soon, his handlers in South Florida had Dmitri engaged in a bogus manhunt to occupy his mind and time. The exercise served no purpose other than to distract him. In that regard, it was successful.
Dmitri cruised down each row of the crowded parking lot. The accountant’s car sat on the far side. The Honda shuddered with a bang when he shut off the engine in a spot near the back. He grabbed the crescent wrench from the passenger seat, and slipped out of the old car, stretching as he did so. Adjusting his wig and baggy clothes, he put on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Dmitri confirmed the “kill- zone” he had determined earlier. The one-hundred-foot section of the sidewalk between the parking lot and the hotel bar had the benefit of isolation. No windows faced the area; no doors someone might walk out of. Huge bushes bordered one side between the sidewalk and the wall of the parking lot. The opposite side was the back wall of the hotel, with a pair of unkempt palm trees planted in the grass. The area was too small for a street and too big to be an alley. It remained clear. He found his way to the Yankee Clipper and The Wreck Bar.
The establishment appeared as he expected—a shroud—the rigging used by sailors of old to climb the masts of their ships—acted as a barrier near the entrance, allowing potential customers a glimpse of the adventure within. Wooden posts attached by heavy rope steered customers down the steps. Once inside, the wooden interior was reminiscent of old pirate movies; the style and texture gave the feeling of stepping back in time. Beams across the planked ceiling resembled the mainframes of a ship’s hull that attached at the keel. A thick column wound with rope spaced throughout the bar held up the ceiling, from which ship lanterns hung, dimly lit. The air had a saltiness to it; Dmitri wasn’t sure if that was by design or a result of the location.
The bar was divided into three sections: one side contained small booths, in the center was a series of tables, and captain’s chairs nestled against the bar. Along the walls were the four-foot square glass windows, where the “mermaids” performed their show. The illusion was one of a sunken ship, surrounded by curious, yet playful mermaids.
There was a moderate crowd, most likely here for the drink special as opposed to the mermaids. The historic tourist attraction lost its appeal with the MTV generation. The accountant sat in his usual seat at the far end of the bar, amid a sea of middle-aged men, giving him a perfect view of the show. He was a tiny, bookish-looking man. His gray, wrinkled suit hung loose on his body, and he constantly pushed the black-framed glasses back up to the crook of his nose. If there were a derogatory stereotype of an accountant, he was it. The scantily clad mermaids did their thing for the hour-long show, and, with a subtle wave, disappeared. Dmitri watched the accountant finish his drink, pay his tab, and slide off the barstool. After a quick stop in the restroom, the accountant headed for the door.
As his target approached the kill-zone, Dmitri slipped on a pair of gloves and scanned the area to ensure they were unseen. Moving quickly, he pulled the crescent wrench from his pocket and swung fiercely against the back of the accountant’s head. The impact made a sound like a Louisville Slugger connecting for a line-drive, and the frail man crumpled to the pavement. Dmitri bent over and dragged the accountant into the bushes. The accountant’s chest rose and sank gently, and his eyes blinked at him. Dmitri reared back and struck him with the wrench, again and again, blood spewing from the gash until he thought he heard his skull crack.
The Russian assassin found the man’s wallet and removed his cash and credit cards. The cash he would keep, but the cards he would toss in the nearest garbage can. Slipping the sweatshirt over his head, he ripped off the wig and blue trousers, revealing a faded maroon tank top, with neon yellow board shorts. Using the sweatshirt, he wiped the blood splatter off his face and hands.
He retrieved the skateboard from the small duffel he had hidden behind one of the bushes earlier that morning. Mindful of his surroundings, he crept behind the bushes around the corner and exited through a tree-lined courtyard on the other side of the parking lot. He paused by a car parked along the street. The reflection of his face in the glass didn’t show any blood-splatter. Satisfied, he dropped the skateboard to the street, stepped aboard, and pushed himself away from the scene.
With the clothes he wore in the bar now stuffed in the duffel and slung over his head and shoulder, he zipped down the main sidewalk between the beach and A1A, dodging partying spring-breakers along the way. He took a right on Poinsettia Street, and a left onto Seabreeze. Once he reached the parking lot behind the Quartermasters Restaurant, he skated to the white Audi he parked there hours ago, tossed the skateboard and duffel in the back seat and slid behind the wheel. In minutes, he pulled onto I-95, heading south.
The traffic thinned out as he moved further from the beach. It took him an hour to reach his apartment, a discreet, one-bedroom four blocks from Coconut Grove. Once there, he slid the key in the lock and opened the door.
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice I was here before you entered,” a voice said.
Dmitri wheeled to face the voice, his legs balanced, his hands near his face, ready to strike.
A short, round-spectacled man in a custom-tailored suit sat in his living room, his hands clasped across his chest.
“C-Comrade Gregarin,” he mumbled, as he relaxed his stance.
“Good afternoon, Dmitri,” the man replied. “Please, join me. Sit.” He motioned toward the couch. Nikolai Gregarin, the former leader of Section Nine, was the new Director of Illegals. In his previous position, he would personally activate every operative. He had a new job now, yet he was here.
Dmitri sat on the end of the couch away from Nikolai. “What— why are you here?”
“I understand you were close to Agent Vodianova?
Dmitri contemplated the question. How did Nikolai know about his relationship with Irena? What else did he know? Through unofficial channels, Dmitri had heard Irena was missing. Perhaps he would find out.
“Yes, comrade. We were . . . friends.”
“Very close friends, I’m told. Are you aware of what happened to her?”
“No, comrade. I-I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
Nikolai gazed solemnly at the floor, then back at Dmitri. “She is gone. Killed by the Americans.”
Dmitri’s lower lip trembled. His body shook; his fists squeezed into tight balls. The sadness and anger dissipated as quickly as it formed. He glanced back at Nikolai and saw the corners of his mouth tilt downward.
“What happened?”
Nikolai reached into his briefcase and produced a VHS tape. “One of our agents recovered this from an informant at Langley. See for yourself.”
Dmitri took the tape and popped it into the VCR. He switched on the television and pressed ‘Play.’
The tape—grainy and dark. Dmitri stood in front of the television, studying the scene. A woman stood chained with her hands over her head, her chin toward her chest, Dmitri couldn’t see her face.
“Irena?” he said.
Nikolai nodded.
Dmitri turned his attention back to the television. The man questioned her.
“Is your name Irena Vodianova?” She nodded.
Dmitri struggled to see her face.
He wanted to look into her eyes one last time. He tried to understand the pain she was in right now so that he might inflict it on her captors, but the picture was too grainy to make out any details.
“How long have you been working in the United States?” She said nothing.
“Who else was involved in the assassination attempt on Senator Bowman?” Again, nothing.
The interrogator struck her when she didn’t answer. Despite the poor audio, Dmitri clearly heard the slap. He thought she had been through some sort of torture already—sleep deprivation for sure. Starvation and thirst, most likely. Now, he hit her after each question. The beating was severe. Dmitri’s body tensed with each punch. The interrogator wore a t-shirt with a Rebel flag emblazoned on the back, crossed muskets below it. While he tortured her, he made comments about the American Civil War, how the South would rise again, and the greatness of Confederate General Robert E. Lee.
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