Maxim considered her statement. Even if he did reach the door, there was no way he could have survived the explosion. What remained of the barn was now in flames.
Jason Conrad was dead.
He did a three-point turn in the street to head back home. A smirk crept across his face, and he shook his shoulders.
He was now an operator.
12
April 26, 1996
DANE NURSED a gin and tonic at the bar in the LaGuardia airport. Standing, wedged between an overweight businessman and a waif of a college student, like a piece of lettuce inside a BLT. Joanie boarded her plane to Tulsa twenty minutes ago, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. She was not happy about his decision to block her out of the story. A quick glance at his watch showed his contact would be here in ten minutes. His body trembled. He tried to convince himself it was his “spider-sense,” but he knew better. This guy made him uneasy, if not downright nervous.
Memories of Draken Black poured into his consciousness regardless of how much he tried to block them out. Dane had just awoken from his coma at the hospital in San Antonio. Joanie, the nurses told him, had been at his side his entire stay—until he finally woke up. Shortly after, she returned to Oklahoma for a week.
It was then the mysterious Draken Black entered his life. Dane thought he was one of the authorities, but he had to be something else based on how he carried himself. He was too well-dressed to be a local cop. And he had information no small-time detective would ever have. He was the guy who gave Dane the information that proved Jonathan Bowman was Jason Conrad’s father. This was the story that Dane broke—the one that caused Bowman to drop out of the presidential race. Normally, surviving an assassination attempt would vault a candidate up the polls, but the label “dead-beat dad” was thrust into the media instantly from the Democrat side, and there was no way Bowman could recover. Draken Black was also the guy who told him Vince Andrews was a Russian agent, not Bosnian, a fact Dane never mentioned until this morning.
“Mister Robinson,” a voice said from behind. The voice was slippery yet commanding. He’s here. Dane turned to see Draken Black standing behind him.
“Hello.”
“I have a table in the back. Shall we?” Draken Black motioned to the corner booth as the bartender handed him a highball without him asking. Dane followed him to the table, and the two planted themselves inconspicuously in the corner.
“What’s with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Dane said.
“You like to get to the point, don’t you Mister Robinson?”
“It saves time.”
Draken Black took a sip of his drink. “Very well. The agency I represent would like to hire you.”
Dane looked at him blankly. He wasn’t ready for that. “I already have a job.”
“Of course, you do. And we expect you to stay in that job. This would simply be a little work on the side.”
“Who, exactly, is it you work for, Mister Black?”
The corners of his mouth curved upwards; his hands clasped on the table in front of him. “Mister Robinson, you know I can’t disclose that information. But let’s examine this situation. Who gave you the information that made you a star? You revealed the truth about Jonathan Bowman to America. You’re the modern-day equivalent of Woodward and Bernstein. We are impressed with how you handled it. Now we have more information for you. But we’d like to have you on the payroll.”
Dane relished the compliment. Immensely. Inside he was as giddy as a schoolgirl. He struggled to maintain a rough exterior and thought about the offer. Dane shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Mister Robinson, it’s an impressive payroll. Very impressive.”
“I appreciate the offer, sir, but this is a First Amendment issue. The press is the fourth branch of government. We’re the watchdog. The honesty and integrity of the fair-minded press are vital to the security of the United States. The power of the press can’t be bought.” He bit the inside of his cheek, surprised with how he spit that out. He sounded like one of his professors and not the man who, until a year ago, was rarely near a big story.
“It can be bought with the amount of money I’m talking about.” Draken Black smiled. So did Dane. Briefly.
“No.” Dane leaned forward; his voice slightly higher than a whisper. “I won’t be bought out by your stories.” He impressed himself with his ability to maintain his composure.
“But you don’t know what my stories are. They pay extremely well, and you will not only find them interesting, but newsworthy. Critical, one might say, to the defense of this great nation.”
Draken Black piqued his interest. In the story, that is, and not so much the money—although the extra money would be nice. He was about to get married. Some extra cash would help during the transition. “How about a show of faith? You tell me what the story is about, and I’ll think about your offer. If it’s significant—on both counts—I’ll consider working for you.”
“That’s fair enough. Are you ready?”
Dane was shocked it didn’t take anything else to sway him.
“Go ahead.”
“Very well. Our sources indicate there is another Russian mole in your story. One whose role has been to destroy military assets and wreak havoc whenever and wherever possible.”
“Okay,” Dane said, unimpressed, “I’ll bite. Who?”
The silver-haired man’s eyes drilled holes through him.
“Jason Conrad’s ex-wife.”
DMITRI SHIFTED his weight to his other foot as he stood on the late- afternoon train. Riding the Metro was much different than the subway in New York City. It was smoother. And a little cleaner. Not that the people were more sophisticated, it just seemed more densely populated by a specific type of passenger: the Washington, D.C. crowd either heading home or out of town for the weekend. He couldn’t understand Americans sometimes. No, that wasn’t true. He fully understood Americans. That was why they frustrated him. Such a lazy, wasteful people. Dmitri longed for the day the Russian Army would span the oceans and breach America’s shores. They needed to be disciplined.
The train stopped at Rosslyn Station, where a group of teenagers climbed aboard his car. They surveyed each passenger, no doubt assessing the threat level of each. The kid looking at him—who could be no older than sixteen—made a pistol out of his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at him. His thumb came down, simulating a gunshot. Dmitri grinned, clearly not intimidated, and the kid moved on.
His thoughts turned to when he was sixteen at the firing range in Kiev, no longer the chubby bookworm. Years of fitness training and eating right had turned him into a chiseled young man. He was struggling with his shooting. Irena, who had since become his best friend, came to his rescue. His breathing was off, and he was jerking the trigger, she said. She taught him to control his breathing, holding his breath just before the shot. Pulling the trigger also caused the barrel of his rifle to push to the right. He was using the joint of his finger on the trigger. She showed him how to use the fat portion of the finger and squeeze the trigger instead of pulling it. His marksmanship improved dramatically, and he again shot to the head of the class. Once again, his dream girl had saved him.
The train rattled back and forth, bringing Dmitri back to the present. Nikolai had provided him with the concept of the operation, the players involved, and the general plan of attack. Dmitri had absorbed the details immediately, identifying holes, choke points, and escape routes. The plan was so simple it was brilliant. Its simplicity gave him latitude in its execution. And execution is what he had in mind. The murder of Irena Vodianova crushed him. It drew out emotions Section Nine should have purged from his being. Yet, they were there.
The train stopped at the Foggy Bottom Station, and he scurried off and raced up the stairs to the street. Within minutes, he arrived at the safe-house. Dmitri logged on to his America Online account to check his email. The safe-house Internet connection proved quite slow, and the wailing beeps and squeaks
of the system connecting were annoying. Eventually, the connection was made. Nothing new. He logged out and turned on the television.
Dmitri sat in the confines of his home away from home. It was spacious enough, but the isolation, while necessary, might be unsettling to some. To Dmitri, the seclusion was serene. He spent today across the Potomac River, surveying the Pentagon, Arlington Cemetery, and Fort Myer. Yesterday, he traveled across the city on foot, getting a feel for the area. Washington, D.C. was one of the most dynamic environments in the world—and one of the most boring.
The tourist attractions held little interest to him. He was there for one reason: kill Jason Conrad. Dmitri gathered his notes on the Washington Hilton, where the dinner would take place. He had gone there first and scouted out the hotel, careful not to make himself noticed. It was a good thing, too. He found out through one of the bellmen that the Secret Service was coming in tomorrow to survey the place before locking it down. The president would be there in just eight days. And Jason Conrad would be dead.
This wasn’t just an assignment, this was revenge. And it was personal.
13
April 26, 1996
THE EXPLOSION RUMBLED through Rusty’s feet. It pulsed like a minor tremor, but the sound was much worse. He dashed around the corner of the house, unsure what to expect. What he saw horrified him. The barn was in flames, the back half, missing. Black smoke stained the light-blue sky, like a stroke of watercolor paint, wet on wet, the density rapidly dissipating.
“Jason! Jaaasooon!” he hollered. His eyes scanned the horizon looking for his friend.
Damn.
Jason said he was going to the barn. What the hell did he find out there? Rusty started a slow shuffle toward the burning barn, which turned in to a brisk walk. When he detected what he thought might be his friend, he broke into a full-fledged sprint.
The body lay face down in front of the barn, arms sprawled forward. Rusty slid on the ground next to his friend and cringed at the back of Jason’s flight suit, peppered with wood splinters and assorted holes, like a body after a mob hit. The blood looked almost black against the olive-green flight suit. Some holes had wafts of smoke rising from them, the Nomex material doing its job. Rusty rolled him over on his back. Jason was still alive, his chest rising and lowering with every shallow breath.
“Hey, buddy,” Rusty said through a hint of a smile. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
No response.
“Jason,” he said louder. “Jason, can you hear me?” He gently squeezed Jason’s face gently between his forefinger and thumb, then gave it a subtle shake. No response. Rusty gave his cheek a light slap with his hand. Jason stirred slightly.
Rusty gave him a firmer slap.
“Jason!”
Jason’s eyes fluttered.
“Hey, buddy, you with me?”
After a few moments, Jason’s eyes gradually opened, squinting at the sunlight.
“Wh-what?” Jason mumbled. He grimaced as he struggled to sit up, propped up on his elbows
“There was an explosion. Do you remember anything?”
“Am I okay?”
“Well, you got all the pieces God gave you. Can you get up?”
Jason nodded.
“Here, let me help you up.” Rusty took Jason’s hands and pulled him forward until he sat up.
“How does that make you feel?”
Jason felt down his chest and abdomen; he moved his legs and twisted his head. “Everything feels like it still works. My back stings like hell.”
Rusty helped him stand, and Jason wobbled. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jason raised his head and blinked. “A little dizzy, but I’m getting better.” Rusty looked at the barn. The front wall was the only part that remained intact, although it had holes and some small burning sections. Smoke billowed from the back of the barn, fire consuming everything flammable, including the wooden walls, hay bales, and silo roof.
“Do you remember what happened?” Rusty said. He could tell things were still a little fuzzy for Jason.
“I-I think so—”
Jason was interrupted by a small secondary explosion within the barn. Maybe a small propane tank or something like that.
“Can you walk?”
Jason nodded. “Just watch out for rattlesnakes.”
“Rattlesnakes?” Rusty’s head swiveled. The two shuffled toward the house, Jason’s right arm around Rusty’s neck. It would be a matter of minutes before the firetrucks showed. He didn’t know if someone heard the explosion, but the smoke was visible for miles.
Halfway to the house, Jason found firmer footing, at last able to walk by himself and think a little clearer.
“What happened?” Rusty asked again.
“It was a bomb.”
“A bomb? Can you be sure?”
Jason explained what he saw, but everything after the light stopped blinking was a blur.
“We’ll go to the station so you can make an official statement. This is some serious shit.”
Jason turned to his friend. “No. Rusty, no. I-I can’t do that. Hell, I’ve got to get out of here. If the wing commander finds out I’m involved with this in any way, I’m out of pilot training. Out of the Air Force.”
Rusty studied Jason’s face. He was sincere, and he was worried. Rusty knew about Jason’s frosty relationship with the wing commander. Yes, Jason was right—it would be his ass.
When they reached the cars, Rusty checked the burning barn one last time, the flames now licking up the front of the dry wooden structure, black smoke curling overhead. He shifted his gaze south toward Enid, where the fire trucks would be arriving from soon. The struggle between the law and what was right usually wasn’t this easy. To him, at least, the choice was obvious.
“Can you drive?”
Jason nodded.
“Okay, jump in your jeep. Head west for a mile, then back south.
That will keep you out of sight from any first responders. That jeep is kind of easy to remember.”
“Thanks, buddy. I’m going to the base. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” “Okay. And I’ll see you on Sunday at the lake. I’ve got the night shift.”
“Deal.”
They shook hands, and Jason climbed into his jeep and drove west. Rusty watched his friend until he was out of sight, then returned to his cruiser and radioed in he was first on the scene for a fire north of Enid.
JASON’S TRIP back to Vance was uneventful, other than the pain he felt in his back. The small pin-prick wounds were overshadowed by the larger, painful ones. It was a mess, regardless. He pulled into the parking lot in front of his dorm and had to sit in his jeep for a couple of minutes until the students milling around outside, headed toward the officers’ club. When they were gone, he scanned the area again, then slid out of his jeep and hobbled into his dorm room.
Once inside, he kicked off his black leather flight boots and struggled to peel off his flight suit. He couldn’t bend over without the pain increasing substantially. Same thing when he tried to put his hands behind his back to pull down the flight suit. When he finally got it off and stood in front of the mirror, he could neither see nor reach the wounds in his back, but his T-shirt was soaked with blood. With some extra effort and a hell of a lot of pain, he managed to remove the shirt. Standing in his boxers, Jason picked up his phone and dialed.
“Pete, I need your help.”
“Sure thing. How’d it go in town?”
“Can’t . . . talk . . . now. Just... get over here. Quick.” Pete paused. “You okay?”
“No. I’ll be in the shower. Just stick around until I get out.”
Pete chuckled. “Don’t you think you need to buy me dinner first?”
“Not . . . funny. Need help.”
Jason hung up the phone and staggered into the shower. The water was deliberately lukewarm. He thought anything hotter would produce unbearable pain. He groaned as the water invaded all the cuts, scrapes, and holes in his back. His teeth clen
ched as the pain became too much, and he beat his fist against the shower stall wall. In time, either the pain subsided, or he simply got used to it. Blood dripped at his feet, diluted by the water as it swirled down the drain. Jason stayed in the shower until there was no more blood. He turned off the water, stepped out, and limped into his room.
Pete was there, holding up his flight suit, looking at the back. He could see Jason through the holes.
“Holy shit, dude. What the hell happened?”
“I’ll fill you in after. I need you to look at my back and pull out anything that doesn’t belong. I can’t see and can’t reach.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Jason laid down on his stomach on the bed.
“Wow. This is gonna be a hell of a story. You got any tweezers?”
“No.”
“Any hydrogen peroxide?”
“No.”
“Any cotton balls or gauze?”
“No.”
“Damn, Jason. Do you have any whiskey?”
“Yeah, that I got.”
“Good, because I’m gonna need a drink when I get done with this. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.”
Pete bolted for the door. Jason stayed there, teeth clenched, fighting off the pain. Pete returned with a bag of cotton balls, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, tweezers, and a small medical kit filled with a variety of bandages.
“Okay,” Pete said. “You’ve got several areas with some small splinters. One piece of wood.”
“Piece of wood?”
“Yeah. It’s bigger than a splinter. Anyway, I’m gonna pull these out, then clean it with a dose of peroxide. That’s gonna hurt. Then I’ll bandage what I need to. We good?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
Pete proceeded to remove the splinters and clean the wounds. The hydrogen peroxide stung like hell, but he knew it needed to be done. Jason talked him through the story as he worked, pausing when he yelped as Pete pulled out the big piece. Ten minutes later, with a couple of bandages on his back, he was good as new. Jason put on a clean T-shirt and gym shorts.
The Right to Know Page 7