The cab pulled up to the front door of the Hyatt Regency Washington on Capitol Hill, where Alicia paid the cabbie and went inside. Her room was ready despite the early check-in, and she took the elevator upstairs to freshen up before heading back to Jonathan’s office. She wanted her head straight when she returned to his office. If he weren’t going to be the father he was supposed to be, she would have to tell Jason what kind of man he really was.
JASON HAD STOPPED DRINKING last night exactly twelve hours before showtime, but he was still under the influence during the morning brief. He was grateful he wasn’t called on for anything during standup—he felt like crap most of the day. During his instrument simulator, he descended twice below the minimum descent altitude, turned the wrong direction in holding, and screwed up his outbound intercepts. “It looked like you were having trouble concentrating,” his instructor had said. His IP noticed something was up, mentioning his performance slip. He graded him a GOOD but debriefed him more like a FAIR.
Jason opened the door to his dorm room and plodded inside. When the long workday was over, he realized why he didn’t like Mondays. Awake most of the night, he had tried to compartmentalize the things going on in his life. His friend was killed last night while saving him. The guilt of the incident overwhelmed him. It was his fault. The fact he couldn’t tell anyone ate away at his soul. Rusty would have sacrificed himself for anyone—that’s the kind of guy he was. But the killer wasn’t shooting at just anyone. He was shooting at him. Jason couldn’t say anything about either incident for fear of the wing commander kicking him out of training. He never got a good look at the guy who shot him, but Jason understood he was the intended target.
If tonight ended up like last night, he might have to go DNIF in the morning. Duties Not Including Flying. What the hell was going on? Life had been so serene until a few days ago. He was finally allowed off base and was instantly a target. But by who? The bomb in the barn. The chick on the boat. The thug outside Chicaros. These couldn’t be coincidences. But why him? He was a nobody.
It had been a long day, and Jason sank into the couch with a cold bottle of Coke. The TV dinner in the microwave spun slowly as Jason waited eagerly for it to nuke. Flipping through the channels, he stopped on WTSR, the station that asshole reporter worked for. Pete had given him the data dump at Chicaros on what was on the Sunday broadcast, and they talked more about it throughout the day. It wasn’t until just now he realized what might happen. Jason winced at the familiar face and the graphic on the screen.
MORE QUESTIONS IN ENID?
Jason turned up the volume. Dane Robinson recapped his position from Saturday’s broadcast accusing Vince Andrews of being a Russian agent instead of Bosnian, thereby linking both Jason and his ex-wife Bethany to the Russians. Then, without explicitly saying so, Dane accused him of murdering Kathy. How in the hell did that son of a bitch find out about her? Jason never hurt her, let alone kill her. Hell, he wanted her back in his life more than anything. She was the one good thing that had happened to him since he got to Vance. After the San Antonio incident, she disappeared, and now this prick was accusing him of killing her. Great.
Dane pointed out two bodies were found at Canton Lake yesterday evening. One male, one female. One in a truck and one in a boat. The same lake where Jason spent the day yesterday. Again, the implication? Jason was responsible for the murder of these two people.
“How about mentioning the chick who shot at me?” Jason said to the television, frustrated by what he heard. That was probably why Rusty went to Chicaros that night—to discuss it with him. He wondered how long until the wing commander got wind of this and called him into his office. His mouth fell open when a picture of the boat the dead people were found on came up.
“Holy shit.” The boat looked like the same one that tried to run him over. The one with the topless blonde shooting from the back. Did someone kill them? Maybe she pulled her gun on the wrong people. Next, they displayed a picture of the dead couple. Nope, not them. The woman was a brunette, and the guy was a scrawny little fella.
Then came the kicker—a picture of Rusty filled the screen. Dane gave a sketchy account of what happened at Chicaros last night. Jason’s teeth clenched as the pudgy reporter smeared his name as a possible suspect in the murder of his friend.
Who the hell is this guy, and why is he out to get me?
The microwave finished with a TING that went unnoticed. Jason leaned back into the soft couch, dejected. Angry. Even a hint of impropriety wouldn’t go over well with the wing commander, but an accusation of murdering four people would likely end his pilot career forever.
Across the room, Jason spied the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Time to start killing it.
30
April 29, 1996
DMITRI WATCHED THE EVENING NEWS, furious with what he saw. Who was this imbecile Dane Robinson? Why here? Why now? Dmitri was on the verge of cornering Jason Conrad to carve him into pieces, and this moron shows up and starts broadcasting that Conrad is most likely serial killer murdering people all over northwest Oklahoma. It was plausible, but not true. He didn’t know who this Kathy girl was either. Perhaps he killed her. But the couple at the lake —the so-called handlers created that mess. And somehow this reporter linked all these murders to Jason Conrad.
Maxim and Galina had spent the morning dismantling their ad- hoc communication system, destroying documents, and wiping hard drives. They left Enid a couple hours ago. Their route was south into Mexico, then globe-hop their way to Moscow by the end of next week.
With them out of his way, his thoughts turned to the reporter— and Jason Conrad. He would have to back off for a while, perhaps a couple of days while reassessing the situation. The addition of the reporter and broadcasting the murders changed the dynamics of everything.
ALICIA CONRAD SAT in one of Senator Bowman’s wing-backed chairs for almost two hours. Her eyes flitted left and right, revealing her frustration. She expected to be ignored for a while, but this was ridiculous. The secretary had been pleasant, but that wasn’t enough to abate her anger. Alicia guessed they were about the same age, although the secretary looked at least ten years older. Jonathan had received advice early in his political career to ditch the young hotties in the office. Sage council that served him well, it seems.
Alicia was sipping on her second cup of coffee when the secretary’s phone rang. Her eyes shifted toward Alicia as she spoke softly into the receiver. She hung up and gave her a look of reserved authority. “Senator Bowman will see you now.”
Hmmm. He must have snuck in through a back door. For the last two hours, she’d been told he was out of the office. This conversation is going to start off great. She stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her dress. The secretary met her at the double doors and opened them for her. Alicia nodded. She struggled to maintain some class despite her anger, but her effort was necessary. Getting on the woman’s bad side would do her no good. Jason either. No doubt Jonathan’s revelation about his secret family made things a little awkward for everyone.
Inside, Jonathan stood alone behind his desk. “Thank you, Betty,” he said as she shut the doors behind Alicia.
Alicia scanned the interior of the office. It looked like his first congressional office, only a lot bigger. And more fluff on the walls: grip-and-grin photos with presidents, fellow congressmen, big donors, and a few celebrities. A framed Troy Aikman Cowboys jersey hung on one wall, and an Emmitt Smith jersey on the other. A Frederick Remington statue of a cowboy on his bucking horse perched on the corner of his oversized desk. Flanked on either side of the desk on the wall behind—the American flag and the flag of the great state of Texas.
Jonathan came from behind the desk, his eyes sparkling. He must be in a cheerful mood. Shame she had to spoil it.
“Alicia, I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I was on the Hill for a vote, and I just got back.”
She stopped halfway into the office. “I didn’t notice you walk in.”
He slowed ten feet awa
y. He could tell she was pissed; she saw it on his face. “There’s a back entrance,” he said, pointing behind him. “I always use it. You never know who might be lingering in the hallway or the office. I called Betty as soon as I finished, and she told me you’d been waiting. I’m sorry.” He closed the remaining ten feet and hugged her. Alicia kept her arms at her side, although she had to admit to herself; his story was believable. And she liked being in his arms.
Jonathan disengaged and motioned to the couch on the side of the office under the Emmitt Smith jersey. She sat at one end; him at the other, facing her. “Can I get you something?” he said.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Alicia, you look beautiful.” She felt her cheeks warm. “Does this mean you’re accepting my offer for the dinner Saturday night? Jason is coming.”
“I know. He’s what I’m here about.”
He sat straight, concerned. “Is he all right? Is he still struggling with the divorce? It’s never easy, you know. Even when a divorce is amicable and peaceful like ours, it’s a difficult thing for a young man or woman to experience. Did he contact the ex? I’m not surprised she showed up in Oklahoma. Jason is an excellent catch for a young lady. Of course, she wasn’t so bad herself. I wanted them to be a part of my campaign, you know, but my campaign staff decided against it.
“Is he doing okay in pilot training? The secretary of the Air Force assured me everything had been handled. I heard Jason had trouble with the commander of the base there. The man can be a little overzealous at times. He’s an F-16 combat pilot, and I think training command wears on him. I was shocked when I learned Jason had been restricted to base for the last eight months. Have you seen the size of that place? The base is no bigger than a postage stamp. The commander is hassling our son, trying to kick him out of the Air Force.
“I have spent a significant amount of time on the phone with the Pentagon. The secretary advised me he would be replaced soon. Of course, I’m not so sure the replacement will be much better. A guy named Jeremiah Wellington. A colonel in the Pentagon’s Checkmate division. He’s kind of an ass, but a political animal. I’ve dealt with him through the Senate Armed Services Committee. When it comes to Jason, he’ll know which way the wind blows and what’s in his own best interest if he wants to stay in command.”
Alicia’s face remained unmoved, her expression blank. What a sanctimonious ass. The man hadn’t stopped talking since she walked in. The consummate politician. He dominates the conversation, answers his own questions, speaking his own agenda. Not interested in why she came here. He acted like he was doing her a favor just letting her sit in his office.
The man was still blabbering when she finally interrupted. “Jonathan!”
He stopped, a stunned look on her face.
“I’m here to talk about Jason.”
“You said that. I thought that’s who we were talking about.”
“That’s who you were talking about. If you would shut up for a minute, I could start.”
“Oh.”
“Yesterday was his birthday.”
“I know.”
“You were supposed to be there.”
“I said I’d do the best I can. And I did. I called him Friday and told him I wouldn’t make it.”
“I know, but that’s not the point. You’ve been out of his life for twenty-three years. You can’t treat him like you’ve known him forever. Are you trying to build a relationship with your son or not? Because if you are, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You missed his birthday!”
“So? I called him and told him I couldn’t make it.”
She shook her head as her eyes watered. “You’re an idiot.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Jonathan, it was his birthday. You’ve missed every birthday the boy ever had, including the day he was born. The fact he saved your life, and you two have become close, should indicate you need to change some things. But you are not capable of figuring out how to balance work and a relationship. That’s why I’m here.”
“Really?” His arms folded across his chest; his disposition smug.
“Yes.” She paused, an effort to keep her emotions under control. “I think you need to reassess your role in Jason’s life. You’re his father. It’s time you act like one.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means stop running around with your bimbos and make your son a priority in your life. It means making and keeping your commitments. It means making someone else more important than your agenda—and definitely more than MacIntosh’s.”
Jonathan tensed, his eyes darting back and forth. His reaction shocked her. Obviously, the silver-haired bastard made him nervous, too. “I’d be careful around him, Alicia.”
She brushed her hand away. “Oh, poppycock. I’m not afraid of him.”
“You’d better be. He’s got a plan, and you don’t want to cross him. You know better than that.”
“I’m tired of that ass ruining my life. I’ve got a good mind to go to the press and tell them everything.”
Jonathan smiled at that. “Now I know you’re kidding. You’re not that stupid.”
“Don’t test me, Jonathan. A lot has happened this past year. The more you drag our son into this cesspool, the more I want to spill the beans.”
“How about we change the subject? Why don’t we discuss you coming to dinner with me on Saturday?”
She stood and walked to the window. Traffic on the streets thinned as the sun sank below the horizon. “I’m considering it . . . for my son’s sake.”
“Our son.”
“Yes, our son.” Saying that left a bad taste in his mouth. Although true, she felt he hadn’t yet earned the right to call Jason his son.
“Jason is flying in on Friday. Perhaps we could all get together Friday night?”
Her eyes fell to the floor, then back to his. He seemed sincere. Maybe the man had changed. “We’ll see.”
STERLING MACINTOSH RODE the elevator to his penthouse suite in New York City, located across from Central Park. He had been on the road more than usual the past few weeks, but his world had been overcome by events, and his job was to stay ahead of the wave. He preferred to dictate events rather than react to them, as he was doing now. The work he’d put into the last two weeks on the Jason Conrad story paid off in spades.
The elevator settled, and the doors opened into the spacious foyer of his penthouse suite. He turned to his faithful assistant. “That will be all, David. I think I’ll retire for the evening.”
“Very well, sir,” David said. He held the elevator door open, and Sterling glanced over his shoulder, then with a nod, entered his penthouse. The facility—an immaculate, forty-million dollar “home away from home.” He didn’t stay in New York often, but when he did, he enjoyed the amenities this location accommodated.
He tossed his briefcase and coat on the leather ottoman. The butler would move them in the morning. Being on the road wore on him, and he needed some rest. The butler had set out an ice bucket with his favorite bottle of Macallan whiskey next to a videotape of that day’s WTSR news, neatly labeled with the date and title. A simple touch by a devoted employee. He decided to do something for the man and made a note to take care of it first thing in the morning.
Once inside his penthouse office, he slid behind the computer and turned it on. It took a couple of minutes to boot up and log on to the Internet, so he walked back into the living room to retrieve the whiskey and tape. He poured himself a glass, grabbed the tape, and returned to his office.
The computer booted up and after a minute or two, established an Internet connection to AOL. MacIntosh logged in to a bank under a fictitious name. In a matter of minutes, he deposited $400,000 into Jason Conrad’s bank account. Once the transaction was verified complete, he signed out and closed the lid on his laptop. He then walked to the television in his office, po
pped the tape in the VCR, and hit play.
The segment exceeded his expectations. Dane Robinson proved to be a worthwhile investment; he created a buzz with every broadcast. Once the gullible reporter received the latest Federal Express envelope he sent, WTSR’s next broadcast would make Dane Robinson a household name across the country.
31
April 30, 1996
JASON SAT at his instructor’s desk in the flight room during first period Tuesday morning, going over the profile for his flight second period. It was his second-to-last ride before his checkride in the Contact phase. The stress of his situation was taking a toll on him. The Jack Daniels from the night before helped him eventually fall asleep, but a slight hangover loomed over him for the second day in a row. Pete said he didn’t smell like alcohol, and he had quit drinking around midnight. He was legal, barely. Angry with himself, he should have gone DNIF. There was still time to do that. If he didn’t improve within the next hour, he’d let the scheduler know he was sick.
Focusing on his flight profile was hard. The numerous pictures of airplanes and girls in bikinis underneath the plexiglass kept distracting him. After being confined to base for eight months he was cut loose three days ago, but after the weekend he just had, he was glad to be back at work.
The room was mostly empty. One instructor stood at the scheduling desk, shuffling student names around to fill sorties. Ten of his classmates sat at their instructor’s desks, some studying, some talking.
Pencil went to paper as he “chair-flew” the flight profile, blocking out the distractions around him, straining to focus through the hangover haze. He reviewed the entry parameters for each maneuver; studied the chart for recovery and considered his descent from each area—even how he would fly up initial, go into the break, and land. His concentration was intense. So much so, he didn’t notice the crowd outside the flight commander’s office until they moved into the flight room.
The Right to Know Page 16