Maybe this was a mistake.
The door shut behind him and the bar remained quiet, except for a few rumbling whispers. Someone across the bar shouted, “The Taaaaaaaaaazzzzer from Tulsa,” mocking his schtick. Then someone yelled, “Asshole,” and a female said, “Limp dick.” Well, at least they knew who he was. What was the saying? “Bad publicity is better than no publicity.”
Dane stepped to the bar as all the eyes inside followed him. The bartender stood with his arms across his chest.
“What do you want?” the bartender said.
“How about a cold beer,” Dane said.
“No, I don’t think you understand. What do you want?”
Dane felt the perspiration push out of his pores. His body didn’t react well to confrontation. “I-I’m looking for Jason Conrad. I-I’d like to talk to him.”
“Never heard of the guy,” the bartender said. “But having a reporter snooping around here makes my customers uncomfortable. You need to leave. Now.”
Several of the customers at the bar stood. Dane got the message. He turned and shuffled to the door, glancing over his shoulder as he moved. Was that him? Dane stopped and focused on the group in the far corner of the bar. He started to move toward the table in the corner, as the two men following him stepped in his way. These two lugs would have to do more than that to stop a determined reporter. One put his hand up, which Dane ignored. The other tried to close the gap and stuck out his elbow. No sooner had Dane pushed his way between the two, he confirmed it. Jason Conrad sat right next to a tall blond man.
“Jason Conrad! I want to talk to you!”
JASON HAD FOUND Pete and five of their classmates at a table in the back when he walked in thirty minutes ago. He apologized profusely for the incident on the lake, to which Pete brushed it off. That’s what friends are for, he said. After Clint retrieved his Sea-Doo, he cruised by the boat, which had been abandoned, and searched the shore of the lake. The man and woman were nowhere in sight. Pete went on to tell Jason about the broadcast on tonight’s news. Jason was shocked at the things Dane Robinson claimed. It made him wonder what else the reporter said that wasn’t true.
When the dubious reporter walked into Chicaros, Jason, Pete, and their classmates recognized the prick right away.
“Is that who I think it is?” Pete said.
“Yeah,” Jason replied. “I can’t believe that asshole showed his face around here.” Caldwell had told Jason about him months ago. He described him as “a slimy little bitch desperate for attention.” Jason studied the guy from a distance and understood Caldwell’s assessment.
“Jason Conrad! I want to talk to you!” The reporter spotted him and tried to push his way back to their table. There was no way in hell he was talking to this guy.
“Bro, you can slip out the back while we keep this guy here,” Pete said. The classmates at the table nodded.
“Thanks.”
As the reporter approached, the other six at the table stood and surrounded him. Jason rose from the table and slid out the back door.
28
April 28, 1996
TUGGAR BOLTED rigid in his seat, the brim of his cowboy hat clipping the headrest behind him. Is that him? The man ran from the back of Chicaros, along the fence, and straight for the jeep. Something must have happened inside. He wasn’t ready for this yet. In a panic, he slung open the console and dug out the Springfield 1911 Big Joe gave him. The serial number had been ground out, so the weapon wasn’t traceable. It was stolen. Tuggar lifted the pistol from a car in Norman he ripped off a year ago. The guy defaulted on a debt he owed Big Joe, and Tuggar made the claim.
The magazine ejected when he pressed the small button on the side of the grip. A quick check confirmed the magazine was full. He reinserted the magazine and racked the slide, a round flying out of the ejector port onto the floor of the truck.
“Damn, I didn’t know the thing had a round in the chamber.”
“Tuggar, you better do something,” Sheila said. “He’s getting away.”
Sliding out of his truck as Conrad reached his jeep, he moved to the edge of the street. He raised the pistol with two hands, squinting along the barrel. With no moon out and no lights on his side of the street, he had trouble lining up the sights. Conrad was about one hundred feet away, and he had a full magazine, so he figured he’d hit him eventually.
Tuggar squeezed off a round. The 1911 boomed, shattering the silence of the night. He didn’t see the bullet hit, and he fired twice more. Conrad spotted him after the first shot and climbed low into his jeep. The vehicle shuddered and started to reverse. Tuggar shot two more rounds when the area turned in to a kaleidoscope of red and blue. To his right, a police car raced down the street and screeched to a halt in front of him, isolating Conrad.
The police cruiser stopped no more than twenty feet from where he stood. The cop had his gun drawn inside the car. When the door swung open, Tuggar unloaded the magazine at the cop. Fire spit from the barrel, round after round, as the cop crumpled to the street. Both windows on the driver’s side shattered, and numerous holes peppered the door of the cruiser. The receiver locked back in place, confirming he was out of bullets. His eyes bulged as he stared at the cop on the ground, blood pooling on the asphalt under him. Tuggar ran back to the Bronco on wobbly knees. Sheila’s complexion was pale, her mouth slightly open but saying nothing as he climbed back in the truck. His hands shook, and his heart pounded as panic overwhelmed him. He cranked the engine and sped off to the north.
Oh, shit, he thought as he sped away. What have I done?
JASON SPED through the back streets of Enid, his heart pounding as he zigzagged his jeep through the various neighborhoods. He operated on instinct alone, navigating and shifting gears without thought. Who the hell was that? Was it the same two from the lake? Somebody wanted him dead and fast. That left him only one option: he high tailed it back to Vance to restrict himself to base. He would be safe there. At least, he hoped he would be. Safer than anywhere else.
A female shot at him on the lake; a guy was driving the boat. Now, a guy shot at him. Could it be the same guy? No way to tell. It didn’t matter now—he needed to get back to the base. He headed west until he reached Cleveland Street and drove south, running a couple of red lights along the way. Maybe it was time for a police escort.
Pulling out his cell phone, he called Rusty but never got an answer. Rusty had shown up briefly at the lake after the excitement. Jason and Pete filled him in on what had happened. Rusty recommended Pete file a report just so there was a record of something happening on the lake. But Pete refused, concerned it would come back to bite Jason in the ass if the wing commander found out.
He continued to race down Cleveland Street, then slowed as he approached Fox Boulevard. He made a quick right into the entrance of Vance AFB. His phone rang as soon as he made the turn. Jason hit the green button.
“Jason! Are you okay?”
“Pete, yeah. Look, I’m almost at the gate. Let me call you back.”
“Yeah, but—”
Jason hung up when he reached the gate. The guard checked the sticker on the window and waved him through. Once on the other side, he headed to the dorm parking lot. He parked in front of his building, hopped out of his jeep, and ran to his room. Inside the refrigerator was a six-pack of Coors Light, but Jason opted for the Jack Daniels in the cabinet. Getting shot at was never pleasant. Twice in one day was unheard of. He put some ice cubes in a glass and filled it half full.
As he walked to his couch, his phone rang again. He glanced at the number and answered.
“Hey, Pete. Sorry, I just got back to the dorm. You’re not gonna believe what happened.”
“Yeah, I would,” Pete said. “We heard the shots right after you left.”
“Some guy across the street started shooting at me as I climbed into the jeep. A cop drove down the street and got between the shooter and me. I split out of there and made it back here. Are you guys all right?”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, we’re fine. But the cop . . . he didn’t make it. He was killed.”
“Damn.” Jason’s heart sank. An innocent man died because of some lunatic trying to kill him.
“Jason. It was Rusty.”
His body shivered as the reality of what Pete said sank in. His friend sacrificed himself to protect him. Rusty had a clear view of what was happening. He had to know it was him getting shot at.
“I-I gotta go.” Jason collapsed on his couch. He pressed the phone off, and it slipped from his grip and fell to the floor. Picking up the glass of Jack Daniels, he downed it in one gulp. He gasped and leaned forward, his face in his hands as he fought back the tears.
DMITRI PULLED in to the empty, dark driveway of the house where the two handlers lived. Their car was here, and the lights were on inside. He should have been here hours ago, but after scanning the groups around the lake, he stopped to make an encrypted call to Moscow. The performance of these two handlers was beyond ridiculous, and Dmitri wanted to find out precisely what Nikolai had cleared them to do. They stepped far outside their lane of expertise, and to this point, had failed miserably.
The phone call told him all he needed. They’d been given a target of opportunity clearance: if he showed up and they could kill him— do it. But the two had taken it to another level beyond their skillset. Their lack of tradecraft put all Section Nine in jeopardy. Dmitri made his case to Nikolai, who agreed wholeheartedly. This needed to stop. They needed to execute their fallout plan.
He entered the house without knocking; Maxim sat on the couch watching television while Galina stood in the kitchen pouring a vodka. Her sheer negligee barely covered her assets. Maxim rose from the couch, his face scowling. The fool.
“Who are you? Don’t you know how to knock?” he said.
“Don’t you know how to lock a door?” Dmitri replied. “Idiot,” he said in Russian. The scowl on Maxim’ face fell away, replaced with embarrassment, and he motioned to a chair next to the couch.
“Y-you’re the new asset? Nikolai implied you might show.”
Dmitri moved to the chair but remained standing, his eyes shifting to Galina. She lingered in the kitchen, her finger running along the glass, then stuck it in her mouth and slowly pulled it out. The tramp. He knew what she was up to. At least she had a sense of what was taking place. Her partner was oblivious.
“Tell me about Jason Conrad.”
Maxim explained the events over the past three days, leaving out the part of how they got the information about the lake party. Perhaps something should have been said because Dmitri picked up on it right away. How did they know to go to the lake this morning? It took a while, but he dragged it out of him. Dmitri studied Galina as Maxim relayed the sequence of events, as he knew them, about Galina’s night out. Her eyes told Dmitri she loved every second of it.
“Who came up with this idiotic plan?” Dmitri said.
“I did,” Galina said.
Maxim intervened. “No, she didn’t. It was my idea. I’m the senior handler, and I approve every activity. We couldn’t shoot him with the rifle. The boat ‘accident’ was the next best thing.”
“The boat accident that had who knows how many witnesses? Conrad is still alive. That means he could identify you, yes? You,” he said, pointing at Galina. “You boated around half naked, you said. You don’t think a man will remember something like that?”
Her head lowered as his words sunk in.
“It never occurred to you to tail him on the way home? Or set up a hit somewhere in the miles of nothingness between the lake and the town? Or how about this—wait for the expert who you had been told was inbound for your safehouse. Wait for him and do the job you were trained to do instead of attempting to be something you’re not.”
“Comrade, Nikolai said—”
“Don’t tell me what Nikolai said. He’s the one who sent me here. I’ve been in contact with him every step of the way. You have new orders.”
“Orders?” Maxim said. “What are they?”
“Your operation is shut down immediately. You are to execute your fallout plan and return to Moscow.”
29
April 29, 1996
ALICIA CONRAD WALKED through the jetway at Washington National Airport, the metal tunnel echoing through the carpet with each step, thoughts of her weekend racing through her head. Jason acted odd ever since the picnic at the lake. Something bothered him, he just wouldn’t say what. He was like any other man—silent in his misery. The poor boy had been through so much the past year—meeting his father for the first time, divorce, pilot training, the attempted assassination of his father, the media deluge, then almost being kicked out of pilot training . . . the chaos seemed as if it would never end. He certainly managed it well and maintained a stable disposition, but she worried it wouldn’t last.
At the top of the jetway, the gate agent’s desk had a line twenty people deep. The terminal was packed with Monday-morning commuters—most of them fresh out of college, mere interns to a variety of departments and lobbyists—traveling to and from the nation’s capital. She retrieved her bag at baggage claim and strolled outside to hail a cab.
“Russell Senate Office Building please,” she said to the cabbie of Middle Eastern descent.
“Yes, madam.”
The cab pulled away and leaped into the dense rush-hour traffic. By ten a.m., the traffic thinned but still made for sluggish travel. The Metro was always a better mode of travel here, but this was a one- time occasion.
Of course, the length of the visit would depend on her meeting. Well, it wasn’t exactly a meeting. This was a confrontation. Her ex-husband, Senator Jonathan Bowman, had no idea she was coming. She wanted to chew his butt out for treating their son the way he did this past weekend. He promised he would be there for Jason’s birthday, but as usual, he failed to show. If Jonathan wanted the credit and spotlight of fatherhood, he needed to learn what it takes to be a father and have a family.
The cab crossed the Potomac on the George Mason Memorial Bridge, veered to the right of the Jefferson Memorial, took US 1 across the National Mall past the Washington Monument, and weaved through side streets to the Russell Senate Office Building. The oldest of the Senate office buildings, it represented the finest of the Beaux- Arts architectural design: a mishmash of French Neoclassicism, Renaissance, and Gothic elements.
Alicia paid the driver and stepped out of the cab. When she entered the front door, her eyes danced around the interior. The building had been completed in 1908 with a base and terrace of gray granite, its façade marble and limestone. The first significant event that took place here was the Senate inquiry into the Titanic disaster. Inside, the rotunda featured a dome with sunken panels or coffers, leading skyward. Supported by eighteen Corinthian columns—a design from the Renaissance—the dome topped out with a translucent top that showered the inside of the rotunda with sunlight.
In recent years, the twelve-foot-high ceiling had been painted, highlighting the intricate designs embedded in the office area. Large round bulbs ran along the center of the hallway ceiling. Dark wooden trim bordered the doorways to the various offices. Alicia went to
Jonathan’s office on the second floor, right where the directory said it would be. The dark blue carpet providing a sharp contrast with the gray marble hallway. She was surprised to see a fireplace with a marble mantle and trim at the front of his reception area, flanked by two high wing-backed chairs covered with maroon and gold fabric.
She had never been to this location before. In fact, she hadn’t been to D.C. for more than twenty years. Jonathan was a second-term congressman then, planning his third term, and decided to stop his child support payments. So, Alicia showed up at his office with Jason in a stroller, scaring the hell out of Jonathan. At the time, no one knew he had been married, let alone had a child. Sterling MacIntosh happened to be there at the time and shuffled her into a side office. Jonathan had a crucial vote on the Hill, and Sterling swooped in to solve her problem
.
After several hours of back and forth, an account was set up with a significant amount of cash. The account would continue to grow each month. She didn’t speak to Jonathan, but she got the results she wanted.
She always wondered who the hell was Sterling MacIntosh? She’d known him for decades now but knew little about the man. A master manipulator for sure, a Svengali pulling the strings behind the scenes. No doubt he was the one who wiped out any documentation of their marriage. On paper, the marriage never happened. When she discovered that, she contacted the State of Louisiana for a copy of Jason’s birth certificate. Jonathan’s name had been removed, and in its place, “Father, unknown.” Swell. Just like that son of a bitch.
All that changed after San Antonio. Jonathan went out of his way to establish a relationship with Jason. At least as best he knew how. He was never good at relationships.
His secretary said he’d be in late that afternoon. Fair enough— she’d come back. The secretary was kind enough to call a taxi to meet her out front. Alicia thanked her and left the office. The taxi was waiting for her, and she climbed inside.
She bit her lower lip as she thought about the situation. Jonathan surprised her when he asked her to attend the Correspondents’ Dinner. She surprised herself by considering doing so. Jason could see what was going on. Jonathan was trying to work his way back into their lives. The question was—why? He wasn’t running for office now; he didn’t need the ready-made family. Her heart softened, then she caught herself.
She abandoned the schoolgirl-crush mentality and focused on why she came here. The no-show dad still maintained his ways, and she was here to let him have it. He was the one who opened this door. Well, not directly. But he was the one who initiated establishing the relationship. And to his credit, he kept it out of the news.
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