The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  Five minutes later, he pulled into the neighborhood. He drove slowly along the street, reading the addresses as he went. The house appeared dark, and no cars were in the driveway. After he parked away from the nearest streetlight, Dmitri stepped out of his car and walked up to the driveway. When he reached the front door, he gave it a solid rap, then rang the doorbell. After waiting for about thirty seconds, he repeated his actions. No one answered.

  Damn.

  Didn’t they know to expect him? How in the hell was he supposed to act if the handlers aren’t in place? The players in this region rapidly fell out of his favor. These two idiots were supposed to have blown up Conrad in the barn, but he escaped without their knowledge. Pathetic. Their incompetence showed Dmitri how Irena could have been compromised while working here.

  He detected no motion through the window. He didn’t want to be too obvious by walking around the house. It was late, and the last thing he needed was a nosy neighbor calling the cops. Returning to his car, he cranked the engine and left the neighborhood. He would scout out the small town in northwest Oklahoma before his handlers came back.

  They better not be too long.

  THE ARKANSAS RIVER meandered from north to south, framing the western section of downtown Tulsa. The hotel David found was perfect, overlooking the burbling flow that pulsed near the heart of the city.

  Sterling relaxed in the penthouse suite, sipping a French Bordeaux after an early dinner. David, his executive assistant and bodyguard, moved across the room, connecting his laptop to the Internet. They had dined with room service, but Sterling had premium steaks delivered to the hotel, and the chef prepared those for them. It had been a busy day, and he didn’t want to miss Dane Robinson broadcasting the good news.

  David finished setting up the computer and walked back into the living room. “It’s ready to go, sir.”

  “Excellent work.”

  David stood next to the couch and picked up the remote to the 52- inch Samsung television. Cycling the channels, he stopped when he reached WTSR.

  “Ten more minutes until the news, sir.”

  Sterling smiled. He found himself excited for Dane Robinson’s broadcast. “Have a seat, David. You’ve been working too hard.”

  The tall blonde stepped in front of the couch and sat on the end, uneasy. Sterling could tell he had something on his mind.

  “Go ahead, David. You’ve been around long enough to ask questions.”

  “Well, why target Jason Conrad? He’s just a kid. Not part of anything important. Not in any position of power. It doesn’t seem quite your style.”

  Sterling glared at him; his eyes cold. “Style, David, is an ever-evolving process. Jason Conrad emerged as the most likely target of opportunity. My goal is to get his father to drop out of politics. When his father was rumored to be Dole’s running mate, I had to squeeze on him somehow. His long-lost son seemed to be the best method.

  “The surprising thing out of this entire affair is the revelation of the media’s vulnerability. Society has changed; the moral fabric of this once great land has deteriorated. And the so-called fourth branch of government has exposed itself to possess the same moral failings as the rest of society.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, there are three sides to every story. There’s your opinion, there’s my opinion, and then there’s the truth. When events happen quickly, the first casualty is the truth.”

  David nodded. “So, creating the scandals around the son implicates the father by association?”

  “Something like that. The next few days will prove rather interesting.”

  They sat in silence for the next few minutes. Surprisingly, when the news started, they led with Dane’s broadcast. Sterling smiled as Dane unfolded his tale of espionage and scandal, beginning with the San Antonio attack. His statement that the assassin was Russian and not Bosnian, as the official FBI report claimed, was convincing. Particularly after laying out Conrad’s relationship with the assassin.

  Sterling was impressed with how Dane fleshed out and embellished Conrad’s ex-wife’s role in the affair. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought her a spy, as well. The segment ended, and a broad smile came across his face.

  “It appears the broadcast was a success?”

  The old man laughed. “Yes. Yes, it was. This is a fantastic start. When I’m done, I think I’ll build my own media empire.”

  18

  April 27, 1996

  BIG JOE MCCAIN’S eyes bulged as he watched the WTSR news broadcast in front of the crackling fireplace in his small Tulsa home. Once one of the biggest bookies in Oklahoma, he no longer held that informal title, or income stream. His business had all but dried up following the murders of two of his men. It was only a week ago when the mysterious stranger showed up and gave him the name of the man responsible for his embarrassing fall from grace.

  Switching off the television, he shifted his girth back in the tattered recliner and continued chewing the blue cap of a Bic pen. He began chewing that cap at the beginning of the broadcast, and by now it was crushed. He let it fall to the floor.

  Sterling MacIntosh had said Jason Conrad was the one who killed Bob Allen and Monroe last year. Now, the news confirmed it. And he knew the cops wouldn’t do anything about it. Not with that kid’s connections in Washington. That didn’t mean he couldn’t.

  “Tuggar,” Big Joe yelled, setting the pen on the end table next to his recliner.

  Big Joe’s righthand man hurried into the room. “Yes, Boss?”

  “Go to Enid and find this fella they got on the news.”

  “Who’s that?” Tuggar said, tipping the brim of his faded felt cowboy hat backward.

  “This kid that silver-haired fella talked about last week. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Jimmy somethin’ or other.”

  “Jason Conrad,” Big Joe said with a sneer.

  “Jason Conrad. Okay. Whatcha want me to do?”

  Big Joe leaned back in his chair and lifted the glass of Jim Beam to his lips. The warm liquid made him shiver with delight as it raced over his tongue and down his throat. He cursed himself for getting in this situation. His whole operation shot to hell for eight-thousand dollars. Damn! Big Joe had mulled it over in his mind time and again. Should he have let it go, or should he have killed Lenny Banks? He knew the answer. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  “Take Sheila with you. Y’all go to Enid. Find Jason Conrad and kill the sumbitch.”

  GALINA SAT ALONE at a table in Chicaros, her focus on the tall blond pilot at the bar ordering drinks. Lieutenant Pete Peterson—Jason Conrad’s best friend. She never cared for the place—too many airplane pictures on the wall, and the room was too dark. But she understood why the pilots liked hanging out here. The food was great, and the drinks were cheap.

  Conrad was nowhere to be found, so he was their next option. They tried things Maxim’s way earlier. Now it was time to try things her way. She would use her feminine charms to get the information they needed.

  She was aware Maxim wasn’t a fan of this plan. He knew how this would most likely end. Her partner thought that was his role. At least he wanted it to be. Maxim had been furious at the timing of the news broadcast about the barn yesterday. She chuckled to herself when she thought about how she had almost given in to him again. He would beg her for sex. To her, their situation was humorous. When it was a big deal politically, she gave in to him. She wasn’t sure why— perhaps it was a celebratory event. But tonight—tonight she would kill two birds with one stone. She would get information on Jason Conrad and then gain some personal satisfaction.

  Her blouse was tucked into her tight slacks. Her outfit was considered conservative, as opposed to what Maxim recommended. He wanted her to wear one of her spandex mini-dresses and high heels. Galina suspected that was for his benefit, not the mission. Such a dress would have been out of place in the rustic pilot bar. Hers was the perfect ensemble for the objective. Still, Galin
a saw his point and undid two more buttons on her blouse, exposing the base of her cleavage. She stood and sashayed to the bar, next to the tall pilot.

  “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she said, turning her body toward Pete.

  He looked at her, and his eyes immediately fell into her billowing bust, his mouth open slightly. Galina smiled. Her strategy worked. After several seconds, his eyes shifted back to hers.

  “Well, hello there, ma’am,” he said, extending his hand. “Second Lieutenant Pete Peterson at your service. What can I do to help?”

  “Oooh,” she cooed. “My knight in shining armor. Are you willing to rescue this damsel in distress?” She ran her hand along his arm, feeling the taut muscles under his shirt. His eyes darted back to her cleavage for a moment before returning to study her face.

  “Consider yourself rescued. I’m ready for the happily ever after part.”

  Galina had to laugh. “That’s a good one. You are direct. How about you buy me a drink, and we’ll see about making you happy, at least for tonight.”

  Pete waved the bartender over and ordered something she couldn’t hear. A few minutes later, the bartender returned with two shot glasses filled to the rim. Pete handed her one.

  “What’s this?” she said, staring at the layered mixture in the shot glass. A dark red liquid sat in the bottom of the glass, with the cream nestling on the top half.

  “It’s a Slippery Nipple.” He stared at her breasts again, his eyes not moving away. “Seemed like an appropriate drink.”

  Galina laughed again; she liked this guy. He was direct and confident. Lifting the tiny glass to her lips, she downed the shot. The Bailey’s Irish Cream smoothed the licorice kick of the Sambuca. She scooted closer to her target, then ran her hand down his back to his butt and squeezed. He downed his shot and pulled her to his chest.

  She liked his aggressiveness. “How about we skip the part where you buy me a few more drinks, and we go to your place to work on the ‘happily ever after’ part?”

  The young pilot’s face broke into a wide grin as he took her by the hand and headed out the door. She bit the inside of her lower lip, fighting back a smile of her own. This was when work became fun. It was going to be a hell of a night extracting information out of him about Jason Conrad.

  NIKOLAI’S SECRETARY had just entered his office, locked the door behind her, and unbuttoned her blouse. She worked quickly, but when the phone rang, he was not happy that she answered it. She froze and listened attentively, then hung up the phone.

  “What is wrong?”

  “That was Comrade Yeltsin’s office,” she said. “You’re wanted there immediately.”

  “Again?”

  She nodded as she began to button up her blouse.

  Nikolai grit his teeth. Rising from his desk, he zipped up his pants and straightened his tie. Grabbing his briefcase, he headed for the door. Yeltsin’s office was on the third floor, and Nikolai hurried to the elevator.

  Ever since the failed coup last fall by Viktor Kryuchkov and his compatriots, Nikolai had moved running Section Nine from the Dacha Complex to the Directorate of Illegals in the Kremlin. Nikolai promptly threw all the generals under the bus as the situation unfolded. His goal was to gain more personal power. When Kryuchkov committed suicide after his failure, Nikolai was able to mask his involvement in the coup and persuade the independent president that he could fill the job as the Directorate of Illegals. Yeltsin, believing he could trust Nikolai and eager to keep an ally close, quickly agreed.

  When he reached the president’s office, he was immediately ushered in ahead of six other people who waited for time with their leader. Nikolai ignored them. To acknowledge their presence might indicate he felt them worthy of his time. They were not.

  Inside the large office, Yeltsin stood by the credenza, pouring a vodka. Nikolai stopped halfway in the room and stood at attention.

  “Comrade Nikolai Gregarin reporting as requested, sir.”

  Yeltsin turned and smiled. “Nikolai, no need to be so formal.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit, please.”

  Nikolai followed the suggestion, sitting in the antique chair. It was uncomfortable and had a slight wobble, indicating its age. He wasn’t sure if Yeltsin kept the chair because it had some historical significance, or because he wanted his guests to feel uneasy in the unstable seat.

  “I’m concerned about the election,” Yeltsin began.

  “The Americans?”

  “No, mine. When Zyuganov attended the World Economic Forum in Davos two months ago, the Western powers fawned over him as if he’d already won.” Gennady Zyuganov was the Communist Party leader running against him. Although Zyuganov knew nothing of the attempted coup, he would surely have been put back in power had Viktor’s plan worked.

  “The election is still two months away,” Nikolai said.

  “Yes, but our country remains in shambles. We cannot pay many of our workers and soldiers. Following the actions of the Duma last month, I considered canceling the elections.”

  “Would that be wise, sir? Considering the instability of our military?” Nikolai didn’t hesitate to slip in the opportunity for wise counsel. Plus, he knew the answer.

  “No, you’re right. And it was only a consideration.”

  “What, then, can you do, comrade?”

  “Comrade Putin has proposed a sound plan.”

  “Putin? The Saint Petersburg Putin of the Our Home—Russia political party?” Nikolai scoffed. Putin was a KGB man who was attempting to wiggle his way into the hierarchy through the liberal organization.

  “Yes, that’s him. He’s recommended paying our workers. That would win votes.”

  “Comrade, with all due respect—pay them with what? The government is broke.”

  “There are forces at work greater than you can understand. I have been contacted by numerous oligarchs and businessmen who are working as we speak to make this happen.”

  “You control the media, comrade. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No. But with money and the ability to manipulate the message, the people will know what we tell them, and that is all. It’s the remaining leadership I need to worry about.”

  Nikolai squirmed in his seat, feigning discomfort. He supposed now was as good a time as any. “The American media has broadcast a story that Vince Andrews was a Russian operative.”

  Yeltsin’s initial reaction was shock. He had not heard this yet. “We’ve been concerned they had this information. Now this damage is done. I must save face on the home front.”

  Nikolai understood politics, but not when it became this twisted. Yeltsin insisted on avenging the failed assassination plot. Something that, ironically, if successful, would have had him yanked out of office and most likely hung. Perhaps that was the Russian president’s sense of compromise.

  “Which is why I brought you here,” Yeltsin said. “I know the kill order has been out for months, but with my election so close, I need the man who prevented one of Russia’s greatest moments eliminated immediately.”

  Nikolai was aware of this. It was the main reason he put out the contract on Jason Conrad. The attempted coup, while unknown to the public, was a blemish on the Russian president’s resumé. Killing the American who foiled the mighty Russian spy network would swing support back in Yeltsin’s favor. Regardless, it worked for Nikolai. Killing an enemy of Russia would earn him accolades from Russian powers no matter who won the election.

  “Yes, comrade. I’ll take care of it.”

  19

  April 28, 1996

  GALINA BLINKED her eyes in the darkness, the surroundings unfamiliar. Gently pulling back the covers, she rolled off the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping pilot. A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand showed 3:45 a.m. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she gathered her clothes and went into the bathroom. The student pilot’s dorm room was small, but to her surprise, it didn’t have much clutter either. She wanted to d
ress quickly and sneak out to meet Maxim. She enjoyed her tryst with the lieutenant, but it was hardly the best part of the night.

  Her plan worked well. Too well. Pathetic how easy it had been to acquire the information she needed. Insane how these people end up in positions of power and so easily let information slip out. Alcohol and sex were powerful weapons. During the Cold War, espionage was much more complicated, risky, and deadly. Today, most foolish Americans had their guard down.

  Pete Peterson told her everything. Why Conrad was released, when it went into effect, where he was now, and where he would be this afternoon. He would be at Canton Lake for his birthday party. There would be a lot of people there, so they had to be careful. The party would start at noon. Pete owned a boat, and several other classmates had Jet Skis and Sea-Doos. It would be a rowdy affair with plenty of alcohol, which meant many distractions. Galina started to formulate her thoughts on how best to kill Conrad. She and Maxim were not assassins. But tomorrow, they would be. They would finally kill the American.

  Galina turned on the water in the sink and called Maxim from the bathroom. She relayed the information quickly. It surprised her that Maxim didn’t deluge her with questions, but she knew they would come. He grew more jealous every day. Hanging up the phone, she finished getting dressed and brushed her hair.

  As she looked in the mirror to touch up her lipstick, she saw Pete standing behind her. The rhythmic pounding of her heart resonated in her ears. She tried to speak, but her words caught in her throat. Had he heard her phone call? Did she look guilty? The expression he gave her was unsettling. His face an empty slate. Did he know who she was? What she was? No. How could he?

  Her knees quivered as he crept toward her. He had snuck up behind her with the skill of a spy. Was he trained in tradecraft? What did he want? Was he going to call the police? He said nothing as he stroked her hair with the back of his hand. Gentle, as if she were a fragile angel. His arms wrapped around her waist as he pressed his body into hers and kissed her neck.