When he reached the Avenue of the Americas, he turned north. Dane pulled out his cell phone and saw he had eleven missed calls. Four calls from NBC, six calls from Joanie, and one call from an unknown number.
The phone lit, up and a loud ring pierced the air. Dane glanced at the number and hit the green button.
“Hey babe,” he said, breathing heavy.
“Dane, where the hell are you? Everyone here is freaking out.” Joanie sounded pissed.
“I’m sorry, babe. I . . . I was attacked.”
“What?”
“I was attacked. Mugged, I guess. On the way over. Someone pulled a gun on me, then knocked me out in some alley.”
There was a brief pause. “Oh my god, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m about a block away. I’ll talk to you when I get to the studio. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Dane hung up and slipped the phone into to his pocket. The moisture of his pants clung to his butt and thighs. The guilt of his actions was dwarfed by his fear of losing this opportunity. Damn! He was supposed to be live in less than an hour.
When Dane reached the studio, Joanie and one of the NBC staffers met him out front and hurried him through the door. The staffer threw a lanyard with a badge around his neck as they walked. Joanie fawned over him, gasping at the gash on his forehead and noticing blood on the back of his skull. They rushed him to the makeup room, where the staffer dashed off to find a medical kit. While they waited, one of the producers showed up and talked to Dane about the incident.
The staffer returned with the kit and cleaned up Dane’s wounds. When she was done, the makeup girl slid right into place; the producer directed her how to work around the injury. They’d play it up live on the air.
Dane couldn’t help but stare at the makeup girl. He couldn’t tell her age. Her jet-black hair pulled into to a ponytail, extended halfway down her back. The small gold ring that pierced her left nostril glistened from time to time against her pasty-white skin as she moved around him. Her T-shirt ripped to reveal extra cleavage—a feature Dane took advantage of. Once again, he thought, there aren’t any girls like this in Tulsa.
Joanie cleared her throat and Dane realized he stared at the girl’s chest a little too long. A forced smile covered Joanie’s face, and he told himself he needed to exercise more discretion.
The makeup girl finished, and the producer shuffled Dane to a dressing room and gave him a new suit to wear. The staffer had found it somewhere—he didn’t know where—but he appreciated it. He changed clothes and was taken to the Green Room. There, things started to slow down. After drinking a cup of orange juice, he ate a few cubes of cantaloupe. Finally, he began to relax. Five minutes after entering the Green Room, they were moving him to the set.
As soon as they cut to the commercial break, they walked him out and sat him in the chair across from . . . Jill? Where were Katie and Bryant? Why was he being interviewed by the second string?
Joanie must have sensed his disappointment. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Just go with it. You’ll do great.” After a quick kiss on the cheek, the staffer took Joanie to her seat in the first row while everyone took their positions as the commercial break came to an end. The red light on top of Camera One illuminated.
Dane fidgeted in the chair. The lights seemed brighter and hotter here. Perhaps it was nerves. Relax, you’re a professional.
“Good morning and welcome back to the TODAY show. I’m Jill Tremont, and this morning we have the pleasure of speaking to Dane Robinson, the man who was thrust into to the national spotlight eight months ago and didn’t even know it. Dane is a reporter for our affiliate, WTSR in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Dane, thank you for being here with us this morning.”
“Thank you, Jill.”
“Dane, you’ve been heralded as a hero following the assassination attempt on Senator Jonathan Bowman last September in San Antonio. Tell us how that feels.”
Dane blushed. “Jill, I don’t feel like a hero. I was simply a reporter doing his job. I’m just thankful my cameraman wasn’t injured in the blast.”
“Dane, your modesty is inspiring, but there is more to it, I know. You were in a coma for weeks. Your story has been an inspiration to people all over the country. What were your thoughts when you came out of the coma and discovered everything that had happened?”
He shifted in his seat. “It was kind of shocking, actually. To realize I had been mere feet from the blast intended to assassinate Senator Bowman . . . I’m just glad both of us are okay.”
“But you did experience substantial injuries, Dane. Your recovery was followed and cheered by millions. How did you do it?”
Dane looked at Joanie in the audience. A warmth spread over his body, and for a moment, he hated himself for what he almost did this morning.
“I have to say, Jill, I never would have made it through all this without someone extraordinarily special. My fiancé. She was with me every step of the way. She was by my side during my coma. She was there when I woke up. She was there through my recovery and therapy.”
“She sounds like quite a lady.”
“She is. Her name is Joanie Carpenter, and she’s here with me now,” he said, looking into to the audience. Dane saw one of the cameras swing in her direction as the studio audience applauded. Jill’s surprise was quickly replaced by a huge smile.
“What do you say, audience? How about we get Joanie up here with us?”
Again, the crowd cheered. Assistants appeared from nowhere, one helping Joanie to the stage. Another brought a chair for her; still another handed her a microphone to clip to her collar.
Joanie took her seat. She didn’t appear the least bit nervous. A true professional. They were a good couple.
Dane’s smile radiated pride.
“Joanie,” Jill said. “Welcome. Tell us about this relationship.”
Joanie took a deep breath. “Well, Jill, first, thank you for having us here.” She paused. “I work as a meteorologist at WTSR in Tulsa, with Dane. We had been dating for about a year before the incident happened. Shortly after Dane recovered and started therapy, he proposed.” She thrust her ring finger forward, displaying the engagement ring. Applause erupted from the audience once again. “We haven’t set a date yet.”
Jill smiled and leaned toward her. “What was going through your mind as you watched the assassination attempt?”
“I was in Tulsa, watching at the station with everyone else. Dane did his normal introduction, and Carl—that’s Carl Johnson, Dane’s cameraman—panned in both directions, capturing the enthusiasm of the crowd. Everybody was shouting, ‘Bowman, Bowman.’ It was exciting. The senator had a lot of supporters there. Dane stepped to the side so Carl could film the senator moving from the entrance to the limo.
“Suddenly, three gunshots echoed in the background. The shots sounded like they came from Dane’s right and he stumbled as he turned in that direction. People scattered away from the police barrier. Carl’s camera returned to Dane as he stood in the street, alone and exposed, his microphone still in his hand.
“It felt like things moved in slow motion. At least on TV. After what seemed like minutes, but was only seconds, the senator’s limousine exploded in a mass of fire, steel, and shattered glass. Dane was thrown to the ground. My legs grew weak when that happened. I had to sit down in the studio I was so worried. Carl bent down to check on him initially. The camera caught some of Dane’s body in the shot. I could tell his back and legs were wounded from the explosion.”
“Yes, you could see all this on television, couldn’t you?” Jill said.
Joanie nodded. “Carl, like Dane said, was uninjured. He kept the camera rolling. He confirmed Dane was still alive, then broadcast the crowd. Well, what was left of it.”
“You must have been horrified.”
Her eyes closed momentarily. “It was terrifying. We didn’t find out Dane’s condition for several hours. Carl was instrumental in getting him on one of th
e first ambulances, but they wouldn’t let him ride along to the hospital.”
Dane felt a twinge of jealousy for the attention she received telling his story. Carl sounded more like a hero than he did. “They wouldn’t let him ride because he wanted to bring his camera,” Dane interjected. The crowd burst into to laughter, as did Jill.
When the laughter subsided, Joanie continued. “I was on a plane to San Antonio within the hour.”
“And she’s been at my side ever since,” Dane said, patting her hand. The crowd again applauded.
Jill turned to him, now. “So, Dane, before the blast, did you see anything . . . unusual?”
Instinctively, Dane’s hand reached up to the wound above his left eye.
7
April 26, 1996
DANE FIDGETED IN HIS SEAT, the question lingering in his mind. Did I see anything unusual before the explosion? Hell yes. He thought about it all morning. What would he say? Why did that lady stick a gun in his mouth and warn him not to talk about who he saw?
The studio felt hotter, the lights brighter, and Dane’s mind reeled with decisions he needed to make fast. And that was something he wasn’t ready for.
“Dane?” Jill waited for a response. America wanted to know what Dane saw before the bomb went off. There were still plenty of unanswered questions about the incident. Although the preliminary investigation could not link Vince Andrews with any known terrorist organization, the official report said the assassin was a Bosnian terrorist retaliating for our actions in the Balkans.
He let the thoughts roll through his head. The facts didn’t seem clear to him either, at least at first. When he was in the hospital in San Antonio, he had been visited by several government officials to go over things. One of them, an older, silver-haired gentleman, stuck out. The guy wore a seersucker suit and appeared to know precisely what went on in Dane’s mind. Or so it seemed.
Dane shook the thoughts from his head and realized the audience remained silent, waiting for his response. Joanie, he noticed, squeezed his hand, trying to get his attention. He swore he could hear the perspiration running down the sides of his face.
“I’m sorry, Jill. When I think about the explosion, so many thoughts come pouring through.”
“I understand,” she said, leaning toward him, her outstretched hand touching his left forearm. “Would it help if we showed the clip of the incident?”
Before he could respond, the monitor behind them replayed the explosion. Dane ignored the clip. He’d seen it a thousand times since then. He thought about the woman who shoved the pistol in his mouth earlier. What should he do? Dane took a deep breath and made his decision. He was a reporter, damn it. He wasn’t going to let anyone scare him in to not telling the truth.
Dane straightened his shoulders and heard the audience gasp. The explosion just occurred on the video, followed by Carl’s award-winning shot of the limo blowing into to two pieces.
The clip finished, and Jill turned to face him. “Dane, what can you tell us about that day?”
He took a deep breath.
“Jill, we were set up an hour before the incident. We did several cover shots and crowd shots. I practiced my intro, ensuring Carl got the best shot possible.”
“Yes, we love it. The Taaaser from Tulsa,” Jill said.
Dane smiled. It was nice to know people recognized his schtick. “Anyway, just before we started the live broadcast, I scanned the crowd. It wasn’t long before I saw him.”
“Him? Do you mean? The assassin?”
“Yes, Jill. His name is Vince Andrews. At least, that’s his alias. We don’t know who he really is. His background is non-existent beyond about four years ago. Nobody knows who he is, and nobody is sure where he came from.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been told by sources that it’s suspected Vince Andrews is actually a Russian assassin.” The crowd gasped. That was the first time someone made that accusation on TV, or anywhere for that matter. “I didn’t realize who the guy was until weeks later. He stood about a hundred or so feet from the limo, dialing something into to his cell phone.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“I didn’t know it was him at the time. I just remember the guy’s actions. Something about him didn’t seem right. He acted suspiciously . . . menacing. Weeks after, when I spoke to the authorities, they mentioned the bomb had been set off by a signal from a cell phone. Later, when they showed me Andrews’ picture, the event came back to me.”
The crowd again applauded as Jill nodded approvingly. “Is there anything else unusual that you remember?” Jill said.
Dane paused for a moment, looked at Joanie, then back at Jill.
“I remember Jason Conrad.”
DMITRI TURNED on the television in the safehouse Nikolai had arranged for fee. They were interviewing a reporter from the San Antonio incident. When the reporter mentioned Jason Conrad, Dmitri’s body ten. He was a, angry just hearing the name of the man who killed his beloved Irena.
Dmitri sipped his coffee and recalled Nikolai’s instructions. Other than the dignitaries attending and the event itself, when it came to killing Conrad, nothing was off limits.
He dressed and went for a walk around downtown Washington, D.C. He wandered for hours, mentally taking notes, then occasionally sitting on a park bench, getting a feel for the area, jotting down specific highlights in a notepad to jog his memory.
Memory training. He had excelled at it as a youth. It was how he had been brought into Section Nine.
When he was twelve, his excellent grasp of the English language garnered the attention of Section Nine, and his parents gleefully handed him over to the state. He was a chubby boy who spent most of his time in books. His class had twelve students—six boys and six girls. Their initial training consisted of basic history and loyalty training, then immediately moved into memory training. Children often had difficulty focusing on things. Section Nine trained them how. It began with simple number sequences, dice, and playing-card identification. They moved quickly into to the arrangement of matches, duplicating what they’d seen only briefly. This was good for map reading, he had been told. They were right.
The chubby boy excelled in this phase of train, ng and his male counterparts didn’t appreciate the praise he received from their instructors. It didn’t take long before Dmitri found himself cornered in the student dormitory by three of them. They pounced immediately, punching and kicking him. He screamed and cried until suddenly the boys stopped. When he opened his eyes, he saw Irena had punched the biggest one in the eye and they all ran off.
She sat on the floor next to him and held him in her arms until he stopped sobbing. He looked up at her and she smiled. Neither said anything as she helped him to his feet. She hugged him again, and they both left to go to their rooms. It was the beginning of their friendship.
Memories of the incident brought a tear to Dmitri’s eyes as he walked along the National Mall toward the Lincoln Memorial. The shallow pool to his right glistened in the sunlight and a light breeze rippled the surface like diamonds spilling across a black velvet cloth. Blue sky gave way an off-white, dark gray clouds approaching from the southwest. A storm was coming, and he hurried back to the Metro.
Dmitri entered the safehouse and locked the door behind him. Sliding into to the seat at the desk, he reached for his briefcase on the floor. After dialing in the combination, he removed the dossier and the VHS tape Nikolai had given him. He opened the folder and looked at the picture on the inside flap. A black and white headshot of Lieutenant Jason Conrad in uniform. Dmitri grimaced at the photograph. The subtle smile on Conrad’s face enraged him. He wondered if Conrad smiled like that as he murdered his beloved Irena. It was how Dmitri would smile as he killed him.
He read through the file again, memorizing in excruciating detail Conrad’s history, his family, his hobbies, and his friends. The file contained an article written on leadership by Air Force ROTC Cadet Jason Conrad titled Leadership
: Grant Versus Lee. After reading the article, it was clear why Conrad wore a T-shirt with the Rebel flag. He was a fan of the Confederate general.
The file also had articles from the news about Conrad and the failed assassination attempt on his father. Strange how no one knew the Senator was Conrad’s father. One of the articles mentioned a missing girl, Kathy Delgato. She was involved in the event, as well, but it didn’t say how. The rumor was she had been Conrad’s girlfriend. If only he could find her, Dmitri could execute his revenge the way he truly wanted.
Nikolai was right—it would be much easier to hit Conrad in the sleepy town of Enid, Oklahoma, even if it would take months. The dossier said Conrad had been restricted to base since the incident, which made that difficult. Dmitri didn’t want to wait months, nor did he want to kill him in the middle of nowhere. He wanted Conrad to die on the national stage in front of the press corps that celebrated him. He wouldn’t die a hero. That was the price to pay for killing a Russian agent. For killing his Irena.
Dmitri’s briefing from Nikolai had been thorough. Conrad would be attending the Washington Correspondents’ Dinner next week with his father. They were to be recognized by the president. The hit would take place before this event. This would be the only chance Dmitri would have to get him out in the open. Nikolai suspected he would again be restricted to base when he returned. The target of opportunity would be limited, but he would be ready. He wouldn’t miss when it came to killing Jason Conrad.
8
April 26, 1996
JASON AND PETE walked back to the dorm following a brutal day of flying. The two-story student residence sat displaced several hundred yards from the flight line, but a short walk to the Officers’ Club. Pete Peterson was Jason’s best friend. When Jason washed back a class, Pete was there, providing friendship and a sounding board.
The winds had picked up at Vance in the early afternoon, making the crosswind landing in the T-38 tough for a couple of the classmates. One of them failed the end of block ride because of the treacherous winds, delaying his initial solo. Jason tried to console his classmate, but it didn’t help much. He understood that. Sometimes, a pilot had to work these things out in his own head, first.
The Right to Know Page 4