The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “But . . .”

  Here it comes.

  “...you better have the facts to back up the accusations you’re making. Are your sources in order? Your CIA files are full of black lines. There’s not much information here.”

  “Those are redactions. The document is classified. The source is the same guy who told me about Conrad and Bowman.”

  “The guy from New York yesterday?”

  Yesterday? He glanced at his watch for the first time. Two-thirty a.m. “Yeah, that guy.”

  “Who does he work for? CIA? FBI? NSA? When he visited you in San Antonio, you said you weren’t sure. If you broadcast this segment, you’d better be sure.”

  Dane hung his head. She was right; he should have brought her in from the beginning. She had great instincts and thought a little clearer than he did. She was too good a reporter to be a small-town meteorologist. If he landed a gig in New York, he had to find something better for her.

  “You’re right. I don’t think I’ll broadcast it. Way too thin. Maybe my source can give me more.” He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle massage. “Let’s go home.”

  THE SHRILL RING of the cell phone woke Dmitri from a deep sleep. His eyes flinched as he turned on the lamp next to the bed. The mobile phone was still plugged into the encryption device. Dmitri recognized the number and leaving the phone plugged in, pressed the green button and the speaker.

  “It’s me,” Nikolai said. “I show you encrypted on my end.”

  “I know it’s you. I’ve got you encrypted here.” He was still groggy. What in the hell could Nikolai want at this hour?

  “The meeting next week is back on. I need you to go to Enid, Oklahoma tomorrow, and finish this.”

  Dmitri bolted upright. Now, he was wide awake. He’d get to kill Jason Conrad after all.

  16

  April 27, 1996

  DANE ROBINSON SAT in his office, the afternoon sun shining through the window. He had just finished moving old files on his computer, consolidating the mess that sprawled across the desktop monitor of his Gateway 2000 computer. He was still getting used to the concept of the personal computer. Dane had started his journalism career on a typewriter, then transitioned to a word processor. These PC’s changed the game forever.

  It was a slow Saturday at the station. The local noon broadcast ended almost two hours ago, and the five-thirty crew had yet to percolate. The news of the day was rather dull, with Dane having made the decision not to go with his story. Ed was disappointed, more so that Dane couldn’t confirm the story was one-hundred-percent legit. It was fantastic TV, but if Dane didn’t have the confidence in his source, the risk of liability remained too high.

  Dane caught himself staring at the tapes on the corner of his desk when the door to his office flew open.

  “Wha—”

  Draken Black strutted into his office, followed closely behind by a broad-shouldered man with blond hair, wearing a dark suit, sunglasses, and one of those wire things sticking to his right ear.

  “Mister Black . . . what are you doing here?”

  The silver-haired man glanced around the tiny office and nodded to his escort, who promptly exited and shut the door behind him. Dane rose from the desk and searched out the window. His office had a view of the front entrance. Outside stood a dark sedan, with two more men dressed like the one who now stood guard outside the door. He looked through the glass across the newsroom at his producer. Ed appeared confused and concerned at the unusual activity. Dane waved at him and nodded.

  What the hell is going on? Ed mouthed silently. Dane shrugged his shoulders.

  “Mister Robinson, we have much to talk about.”

  “I-I guess we do. How did you get here? In Tulsa? At my television station?”

  “I flew in the company jet, Mister Robinson. We all did. The company supports us that way.”

  The “company” was the informal name of the CIA, but perhaps it was just semantics. Was he trying to build a reason to believe the refined gentleman?

  Mister Black pulled the chair from the corner of the office and slid it in front of Dane’s desk. He motioned for Dane to sit down as he glided into the chair.

  “Why are you here?” Dane said as he slid into the seat behind his desk.

  “I’m a busy man, Mister Robinson, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’m curious as to why you chose not to broadcast the story I gave you?”

  Dane’s eyes grew wide, and his breathing caught short in his throat. How could he know that?

  “I, uh . . .”

  “Mister Robinson, surely you wouldn’t sit on a story such as this. First, the American people have the right to know. Second, the information I gave you in San Antonio made you a star. Third, the information I gave you yesterday, and what I still need to give you, will solidify your position with the network. You’ll become the next media sensation.”

  Dane picked up the tape on his desk and shook it in his hand. “This segment is the best broadcast I’ve ever made in my life, but I can’t run it. Do you know why? Because I step over a line. A line I can’t cross unless I’m one-hundred percent sure about my facts.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No. The information is circumstantial at best. The files are redacted beyond belief.” He hesitated, unsure if he should continue. “This would be okay if I knew who my source was.”

  “Mister Robinson,” Mister Black said with a chuckle, “I’m your source.”

  Dane nodded. “Yes. But I don’t know who you are.”

  A smile spread across Mister Black’s face. “Ahhh, I see.” Mister Black gave Dane a hard, penetrating stare that forced him to glance away within seconds.

  “Mister Black, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I do. But without at least confirming who you are, my story is simply good TV, not good news.”

  “I thought we established this months ago . . . I cannot disclose who I work for.”

  “We did, but—”

  “But if you were to figure it out, say, on your own . . . would that perhaps help convince you this is legitimate?”

  His head swiveled around the room as if searching for something before he turned back to Mister Black. When their eyes locked, the silver-haired man still had the same hard look. Damn, he’s got to be a spook.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, it would.”

  Mister Black shifted in his seat, relaxing somewhat.

  “Have you ever heard of Operation Mockingbird?”

  “Well, yeah. I think every journalism student has.” Dane was very aware of Operation Mockingbird. He wrote a paper on it in his sophomore year. His instructor had scolded him for having broached the topic.

  “What is it? At least, as you understand it.”

  “It was a propaganda operation run back in the fifties,” Dane began. “The CIA paid certain journalists to broadcast stories they wanted the public to see. It manipulated the news media—and therefore public opinion—by giving stories to reporters, some who cooperated, some who had no idea. The CIA used the media to push forward their agenda.”

  “Was everything Operation Mockingbird involved with bad?”

  “Bad? I, uh, don’t think so,” Dane said. “In the seventies, after Watergate, Congress ran an investigation. The project had started because of a rumored Communist front organization. But it was more than a rumor. The International Organization of Journalists was a Communist front organization. They employed reporters throughout Europe who wrote stories favorable to the Communist cause. Operation Mockingbird was developed to counter that. The company only used a select number of individuals over the years.”

  There it was. That word again. The company. Now Dane found himself using it.

  “It was necessary,” Dane continued, “for the CIA to defeat the Communists, especially overseas. The cover the media provided the company saved lives. Sometimes only one, sometimes thousands. Of course, the organizations these individuals worked for were in the dark, for obvious reasons.”


  When Dane finished, Mister Black smiled. Dane had painted the picture for himself; he had the answer the entire time. It was only now that he realized it. And Mister Black knew it.

  “Now, Mister Robinson—I have given you information previously. Was it true?”

  “Yes.”

  The silver-haired man relaxed in his seat. “Here’s more information. Enough for a second broadcast, and this should validate my credibility. If not, you can walk away, and we’ll never speak again.”

  “Okay, that’s fair.”

  “Get out your pencil and notepad,” he said. Dane scrambled to do so. “Eight months ago, a classmate of Jason Conrad’s came under investigation for stealing tests. His name was Lenny Banks. The scuttlebutt is Conrad used his family’s wealth to pay Lenny Banks to steal the tests so he could pass the program. Here’s where it gets interesting. Lenny Banks was in debt to a local mobster named Joseph McCain. When Lenny Banks died in a plane crash, this mobster was out several thousand dollars. As for Mister McCain, it wasn’t about the money. His reputation was on the line. He couldn’t have a customer not pay his debt, so McCain sent two of his associates to investigate. These two associates were killed by Jason Conrad days before the San Antonio incident.” He paused. “I’m sorry. We believe Jason Conrad killed these two men.”

  Dane was dancing on the inside. He took quick notes, asked Mister Black for the spelling of names, and confirmed the sequence of events. It should only be a matter of days to confirm this latest information and its relation to Jason Conrad. Once he did, the broadcast was back on. He would call Ed as soon as the CIA man left.

  “So, now it’s up to you,” Mister Black said, removing an envelope from his inside breast coat pocket. He slid the thick white envelope across the table. Dane suspected it was full of cash. The question was, how much? “You have all the information. You must decide if you want to be part of the team. And if this story can go forward. Opportunity only presents itself once. Only great men seize it.”

  17

  April 27, 1996

  ALICIA CONRAD and Jason sat in a high-backed booth in the bar in the Marriott and ordered drinks. The recessed lighting overhead cast shadows down their faces, creating a somber illusion. She had arrived at Will Rogers World Airport a couple of hours ago, where Jason picked her up and brought her to the hotel. The bar was plain, without a theme. Usually, she opted for a more pleasant atmosphere, but after the day she had, she needed a drink. The quality time with her son was more important than the location.

  Jason shifted in the booth and winced.

  “Does your back still hurt?”

  “Yeah.” She had noticed he moved with some difficulty when he met her at the airport. Jason told her he fell into a barbwire fence at a friend’s farm yesterday, resulting in numerous cuts and scratches on his back. He said it was nothing, but she wasn’t buying it. When they got to her hotel room, she made him show her the injuries. It shocked her when she saw his back. The first thing they did after she unpacked, was to drive to a nursery and pick up a small aloe plant. She used the aloe’s natural healing qualities on his wounds. Then they went to a pharmacy for antiseptic and bandages. After she treated and bandaged the wounds, they came down here for a drink.

  “Yeah.”

  “The pain should be gone by the morning,” she said. “So, how do you like being a free man?”

  “It’s nice. I didn’t realize how much I missed the world. I guess the isolation helped me. It allowed me to dive into the books and catch up on training after well, you know.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry you had to deal with all that. You shouldn’t have been involved at all. Jonathan and his damn politics, it’s always been nothing but trouble. Ever since he started hanging around that—” she caught herself just before saying Sterling MacIntosh’s name. A name she couldn’t stand to say out loud anymore. “That silver-haired bastard.”

  Jason looked up, inquisitive. “What silver-haired bastard?”

  She dismissed the notion of Sterling with a wave of her hand. “Just another one of your father’s friends. Jonathan has a habit of finding the wrong people to associate with and getting himself—and others—into trouble.”

  The bartender brought their drinks to the booth. Except for an elderly couple in the corner, they were the only customers. The soft elevator music playing in the background hummed along at a tolerable level.

  “It’s not his fault, Mom. If I didn’t get involved, he’d be dead. No, I was meant to be involved. Maybe this is a sign for all of us. Maybe we’re supposed to be a family again.”

  She tilted her head and sighed softly at her caring, yet naïve, son. “Jason, Jason, Jason. We never were a family. He left me before you were born.”

  “True. But you stayed in touch.”

  She pushed away from the table, her back against the booth. “From a distance.”

  “Well, he’s trying now.”

  Alicia’s eyes darted around the bar. “I don’t see him anywhere. He should be here for your birthday, Jason, but he’s not. Again. He’s not trying Jason—he’s doing what he’s always done.”

  “He is trying,” Jason said. “I talk to him often.”

  “How often?”

  Jason thought a moment. “I don’t know. Once a week, I guess. Maybe once every ten days or so.”

  Alicia frowned. “What do you talk about?” She hesitated as she analyzed her question. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to pry. He is your father.”

  “There’s no conspiracy, Mom. We talk about stuff. Pilot training, the military, politics, LSU, Mardi Gras, gumbo . . . stuff.”

  “That’s a weak excuse for his no-show, deadbeat-dad state of being. Did he say why he wasn’t going to be here this weekend?”

  Jason hung his head.

  “I’m sorry, son. But if he were ever to make it somewhere, this was the weekend to do it. You’ve been essentially imprisoned on that base for months. He should have been here for you. My goodness, you risked everything for him. That was such a good and noble gesture. There’re not many people in the world who would do something like that. You are a unique young man.”

  When he raised his head, she saw a slight grin. The pep talk worked.

  “You raised me, Mom. You did a good job.”

  “Thank you, Jason. I’m glad you finally figured it out.” She laughed and sipped her martini. “So, what’s the plan for the weekend?”

  Jason set his beer back on the table. “The guys planned a party for me at the lake. Are you still up for it? We can leave here about eleven in the morning and make it there in time.”

  “Sounds like fun. I may sit and watch. It would be a good chance for you to get out and do something different. You need some social interaction before going to Washington. Besides, it’ll be too cold for me to get in the water.”

  “Yeah. I was surprised the wing commander released me. Who knew the Correspondents’ Dinner was such an important event?”

  She nodded. “The president is quite happy Jonathan is out of the race. No doubt he thought it was a clever PR move to recognize you and your father at the dinner. Your commander didn’t have any other option but to let you go.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t have to release me so soon.”

  “I beg to differ. Jonathan was quite furious when he found out you were still restricted to base. That is one thing he is good at—bringing the political machine down on those who cross him. Trust me, although nothing has been said, your commander’s career is over. He doesn’t know it yet.”

  Jason squinted. “Really? I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “Don’t feel anything. There’s nothing you can do. Just let it go. I did a long time ago.”

  Jason took another sip of his beer and thought about what she said.

  “You never said—are you going next week?”

  “To the dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grimaced. “I’m not sure. I considered it until your father pulled this st
unt.”

  “Maybe he wants to reconcile. Maybe we can be a family.”

  She smiled and placed a hand on his cheek. “You’re so sweet. But no, I think I’m a little too old now for your father’s taste.”

  “I don’t know. Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve talked to him about you. It seems like there still may be a spark in there.”

  Alicia clenched her teeth. “We’ll see. You don’t know your father.”

  DMITRI DROVE north from Oklahoma City toward Enid. Night fell like a dark blanket across the sky, though it remained peppered with stars from one horizon to the next. Nikolai had given him the phone number and address of Maxim and Galina. He was to link up with them and gather any information on the status of Jason Conrad.

  The flight from DC had been grueling. Not because of weather, or seating, or any of the other problems with airline travel. No, it was because he had so much time to think. The image of Irena being tortured and murdered by this bastard ripped at his soul.

  Dmitri, while incredibly efficient at his job, was not what women thought of as a “handsome” man. His experience with women had been rare enough to count on one hand. Perhaps, he thought, that was why he clung so hard to the idea of Irena. She had always been kind to him, growing up. As adolescents, they held hands at school and sat next to each other whenever they could. He loved her then, and when the selection team at Section Nine separated them as teenagers, he loved her even more. The image of her clung to his imagination and in his heart, and he refused to let it go.

  He preferred to stay busy. It kept his mind free of these emotions. The driving helped, and he checked his roadmap for the third time as he headed toward Enid. He took I-44 north until he hit State Road 3, which soon turned in to State Road 74. Passing through Cimarron City, Crescent, and Covington, he turned west on Highway 412 and drove into Enid.

  Dmitri considered driving by Vance Air Force Base. That was where Conrad lived. He started to turn and head that way, but his training overcame his desires, and he continued to the safe-house.