“Dane.”
“So, Dane—here on business?”
“Sort of. I’m here for the Correspondents’ Dinner.”
Her eyes lit up, and she smiled. “Oh, that sounds so exciting. Will you meet the president?”
Dane leaned against the bar, his cocky swagger emerging. “I’ve been told I’ll meet him. He’s a fan of my work.” That was true. The president loved the fact Dane was destroying his potential opposition in the news. They were scheduled to meet and take a picture after the event on Saturday.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a television news journalist.”
“Really? That’s so sexy. Where do you work?”
“WTSR, the Taaaser of Tulsa. Perhaps you’ve seen me on the TODAY show this week?”
“No, I’m usually working that time of day.”
They chatted for the next few minutes. She was a businesswoman in town for the event. Dane’s face tingled. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought this beautiful creature was flirting with him. Her eyes sparkled, and when she spoke, her lips glistened. She focused on him, hanging on his every word. In his mind, she edged closer the longer they talked to each other. Maybe it was the alcohol. Then he realized she was closer, rubbing his forearm with her hand.
“W-what brings a nice lady like you into a place like this?” That was stupid.
“I’m meeting a friend,” she said, looking around the bar. “Jerry.” “Oh.” Damn. I knew it —too good to be true.
After talking a few more minutes, Dane swore she cozied up next to him. She glanced over his shoulder, a pleasant smile coming over her face.
“Oh, my friend is here!” Dane’s shoulders sank. If she was that excited about her friend showing up, he didn’t have a chance.
A chance? What the hell am I thinking? I’m engaged. To Joanie. She had been there for him for years. But this woman, Rachel, well, women like this didn’t hit on him every day. Now that Jerry was here, he could at least quit pretending she was interested in him.
She slipped off the stool to greet her friend. Dane’s eyes drifted to the floor at the bar.
“Jerry, hi.”
“Hey, baby.” Dane’s head jerked up. It was a woman’s voice. As the two women hugged, his eyes drank her in.
She was tall, blond, and slender. Her straight, slick hair contrasted with Rachel’s brown wavy tresses. Jerry wore a black leather miniskirt and a tight gray T-shirt. While Rachel was a woman of the ‘80s, Jerry was clearly a woman of the ‘90s. Not as curvy as Rachel, but still very hot. His mind began to engage in a twisted fantasy when the two women kissed. French kissed.
Dane gulped. His eyes bulged.
“Jerry, come meet my friend Dane.” Rachel snuggled up to him and set her hand on his chest. “You probably guessed my friend spells her name J-E-R-I.” Rachel leaned into him and kissed him. A deep, passionate kiss that lasted a long, long time.
When she stopped, Dane’s eyes rolled up to the back of his head. An awkward smile formed on his face when he regained his composure.
“Hi, Dane.” Jeri’s tongue wet her bottom lip as she moved closer.
“H-Hi . . . J-Jeri.” He wasn’t nervous. He was just swooning over this kiss from his Lynda Carter fantasy. But his eyes grew wide as Jeri grasped his face with both hands and kissed him, as well. Dane responded in kind, baffled by his luck, but who was he to argue. Jeri’s hands softly roamed his body before stopping on his buttocks, which she gave several firm squeezes.
Jeri broke off the kiss, and Dane felt as if he walked on clouds. “Dane,” Rachel said, “I think Jeri likes you.” Dane broke his eyes from Jeri back to Rachel. They both were so beautiful, yet so different. His head spun, though whether from the alcohol or this encounter, he couldn’t be sure. Probably both.
“I like Jeri, too,” he muttered.
Rachel’s eyes shifted to Dane’s crotch. “I can see that.”
Aware of what she referenced; Dane blushed. “I like you too, Rachel.”
A smile broached her face. “I can tell.” She slid back up and kissed Dane again. “Jeri . . . how about we take Dane up to his room and give him something to talk about for tomorrow night’s dinner?”
Jeri cozied up to the other side of Dane, sliding her arm around his waist. “Let’s go.”
The two women took him by each arm and walked out of the bar. Dane Robinson, the Taaaser from Tulsa.
40
May 3, 1996
STERLING CHANGED into his nightclothes and a satin robe after taking a shower. The flight from Tulsa earlier in the day had exhausted him, and he was ready to relax. This plan—feeding Dane Robinson the information needed—was a complicated process. It took enormous brainpower to pull off: the sequence, timing, and execution. Fortunately, the reporter possessed some talent, although lacking the story he’d been given, he was too dumpy and gullible for primetime.
Grateful to be rid of his Draken Black persona, Sterling focused on the next portion of his plan: convincing Jonathan Bowman it was time to leave politics. The pressure placed on Bowman’s son should give him his motivation. The boy was released from jail yesterday, and with the reporter’s story broadcast last night, it was all but a done deal. Jonathan hadn’t returned his call yet, but he was sure the announcement was forthcoming.
The unusual development was the attempts on the boy’s life. While it was always a possibility, he didn’t expect Big Joe to go that far.
“How is the plan coming together, sir?” David handed him a glass of his favorite whiskey and a Dominican cigar.
Sterling took both and reached for his snips and torch. The whiskey soothed his throat as he walked to the full-length window in the living room of his New York penthouse.
“I was thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed this game of chess.”
“Chess?”
“A metaphor. I arrange the world in a manner I see fit and make it work for me. Gaining position isn’t the primary objective. I don’t have to place Jonathan Bowman in the White House to use him. It doesn’t matter who is in the White House. I just need influence. And access.”
“Do you think this reporter’s story will stop Bowman from getting the nod for vice president?”
“No, no. Jonathan was never going to get the nod. Especially now, after the accusation of espionage. He’s gone from a political liability to a political pariah. Dole will go with Jack Kemp. He’s a good man, but it won’t help. Our original idea to defeat Clinton was the best plan, but that fell apart. The best thing for me is to get Jonathan out of politics.”
“Why would you want to do that? He’s a sitting senator.”
Bowman put the unlit cigar between his teeth. “Like I said, it’s all about access. The man knows everyone inside the Beltway, and he’s liked by most of them. If he’s a senator, that limits the boundaries he can cross as I gain more power. As a businessman, he can do anything. He can have dinner with anyone—go to any party or event. Meet with both sides and pit them against each other—or themselves. The opportunities are endless.”
“Sir, it sounds like politicians do a little too much partying.”
“There’s a saying in Texas, ‘Politics is show business for ugly people.’ And it’s true throughout the country. But what America doesn’t realize is these people are as ugly on the inside as they are on the outside.”
“Are these people going to be a problem for you?”
He shook his head and raised his torch to light his cigar. Gently rolling the tip in the flame for an even light, he drew on his cigar, giving the tip and orange-red glow. After considering the question and a few puffs of the cigar, he responded. “No. I’m convinced the personal flaws Jonathan revealed after the San Antonio attack show the Republicans are just as flawed as the Democrats. The problem for them is they don’t point out the opposition’s problems as loud and consistent as their opponents do. It doesn’t matter if they’re right or if the story is true—it only matters who is first.”
“First?”
“Yes,” he said, taking a sip of whiskey. “The Dane Robinson phenomenon is fascinating. The man has made outrageous claims against Jonathan and his son. He went on national T.V. and declared a sitting senator is a Russian agent. The audacity of the claim is mind-blowing. He must have an excellent source.” Sterling winked at David before taking another sip of whiskey. “But the most amazing aspect of this scenario is not one network, not one reporter, has bothered to question the validity of his claims. Dane Robinson never presented one shred of evidence, and the media reported everything he said as the verified truth.”
“So?”
“So, Dane Robinson exposes a huge chink in the armor known as the First Amendment. If the press doesn’t verify claims made in the interest of the public’s right to know, then the foundation of the so-called government watchdog is a house of cards. Their weakness is exposed. The owners, network executives, station managers, producers, editors—hell, everybody—can be bought. They may not even need to be bought—they might just report in favor of their own ideology. We are witnessing the beginning of the death of journalism.”
“You think the future Walter Cronkites can be manipulated like that?”
“There are no more Walter Cronkites. These on-air clowns do and say whatever makes them popular. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in twenty years, they’ll ignore the truth altogether and report whatever they want. The possibilities are endless.”
41
May 4, 1996
JOANIE MEANDERED down the hall of the lush Washington Hilton, her high heels sinking in the firm, plush carpet. Dane will be so surprised. She was excited when the silver-haired man from the Associated Press contacted her yesterday. It was to be a surprise, he said. On Saturday, they would both meet the president, he said. But she couldn’t tell anyone beforehand. The silver-haired man—she couldn’t quite remember his name—was more than generous to offer her a ticket for the Correspondents’ Dinner. Maybe the AP was courting him, too. Who knew? All she knew was that he flew her to DC this morning and had the concierge provide her with her own key to Dane’s room.
Obviously, this man was somebody within the Associated Press. Everything had been pre-arranged and gathered in the embossed envelope he handed her in the studio. She had been so thrilled, and everyone in the studio so happy for her, she forgot to thank the man. He slipped out of the studio by the time the celebration faded. But he said he would be there tomorrow night. She would thank him then.
It was exciting, and Dane would be so happy. He had been sad she couldn’t go, and he tried everything to find her a ticket, but apparently, the guest of honor had little pull. This guy, however, did. And he thought it would be an excellent start for their new life as a couple for the two of them to attend the dinner together on this historic occasion. It was important for their relationship, he said.
Dane’s suite sat at the end of the hall. Although there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, it was quarter after ten in the morning. He must be up now. He’s probably on his third cup of coffee and skimmed The New York Times twice.
Joanie bit her bottom lip as a smile crept across her face. She undid the top button on her blouse and fluffed her hair. Slipping the key card into the lock, she opened the door slowly. Inside, she found herself in a small foyer, looking at the living room. A couch and two large chairs with ottomans sat facing a big screen television against the opposite wall. It was a lavish set-up. She hoped Dane didn’t get used to it. This wasn’t something they could afford on their salaries, though if he landed at a network, that could certainly change. The sunlight poured through the open window, and she detected the scent of cigarette smoke, which was odd—Dane didn’t smoke.
In the living room, she could hear the television in the next room. An empty wine bottle lay on its side, and several glasses revealed remnants of the bottle. Maybe the executives were here last night. She walked to the bedroom door and wrapped her hand around the doorknob.
Boy, will he be surprised to see me.
She opened the door, and her heart fell out of her chest. The television wasn’t on—three naked people were on the bed doing things to each other . . . it was indescribable. She turned to leave. She would demand the front desk give her the right room number. Then, she hesitated.
The man’s voice, she recognized.
“Dane?”
The three stopped when she spoke, realizing for the first time she was in the room. The pretty blonde climbed off the man and looked at her.
“Awesome,” the blonde said. “A foursome.”
Dane stared at her, unmoved. Most likely because the brunette was . . . down there. Doing that.
“Dane?”
Her fiancé said nothing, a blank stare his only response.
“Dane?” The pitch in her voice increased as her body tensed, then shook, until she screamed. The brunette turned toward her. Damn. She was pretty, too. “You son of a bitch!”
Joanie burst into tears and ran out of the room. She couldn’t reach the elevator fast enough. Was this a dream? No, it was a nightmare. The damned pervert. Her mother was right—Dane was no good. She could do better. Millions of thoughts raced through her head, each overcome by tears. The elevator doors opened, and she leaped in. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she prayed she was wrong. That what she thought she saw she really didn’t see. And she hoped for reasons that defied logic that Dane would race down the hall to find her, comfort her, and never let her go.
She poked her head out of the elevator before the doors shut. The hallway was empty. He wasn’t coming after her. She cried harder, all the way to the lobby. She cried as she retrieved her bags from the bellman’s station. And she cried in the cab all the way to the airport.
DANE ROBINSON LAY in bed, as the two women put their clothes back on. It was all kind of surreal. He was still drunk from the night before. His hangover hadn’t even set in yet, but it would hurt like hell when it did.
Joanie.
Damn.
What the hell was she doing here? How did she have a key? Did they leave the door open when they came in last night? He called her mobile number, but she didn’t respond. How would he talk his way out of this? Who was he fooling? There was no way in hell he could. She caught him having sex with two women. Two very hot women.
Perhaps being married wasn’t the best thing for him, after all. He was on the road to bigger and better things. He just had a threesome with two of the hottest women he’d ever met. Things were looking up for Dane Robinson, the Taaaser from Tulsa.
42
May 4, 1996
FOR THE FIRST time in almost a week, Jason had a restful night’s sleep. He rode in the back of a bulletproof sedan counting the number of times someone had tried to kill him since he was allowed off base. Five. Five times in one week. Twice in one day. For reasons unclear to him, someone wanted him dead. This was no accident; no coincidence. Perhaps his confinement the last eight months made him lazy; unfocused. Gave him tunnel vision. But now his disposition was different. His awareness increased. His mind worked faster, analyzing everything—from the threat that might be posed to a way out. Of everywhere.
It was hard for Jason to believe he had been in jail only forty-eight hours ago. The flight to Andrews AFB had been fun, and he enjoyed talking with the pilots of the military Gulfstream that flew him to Virginia. He sat up front with them most of the way, talking about UPT and other pilot-related topics. During his brief time in the back, Caldwell filled him in on his father’s situation.
After Thursday’s landing, Caldwell dropped him off at Billeting and Jason called his father. Bowman had to return to Texas for a fundraising event before coming back to D.C. on Saturday morning, and his mother had returned to New Orleans. At this point, it was unknown if she was going to the dinner or not.
Billeting wasn’t so bad. Pretty damn impressive. Jason was placed in the VIP quarters. It was a lot nicer than any billeting quarters he had stayed in during his short career. He had
a living room, an office, a kitchenette, and a huge bedroom with a king-sized bed. Caldwell had told him to relax—he would have a busy day tomorrow. Jason spent the evening in his billeting quarters, partly wondering if he was a prisoner again. He was relieved when Caldwell showed up at his room Friday morning. They made the short trip to CIA headquarters at Langley. Caldwell didn’t want to say anything the night before, because he was still working out the details.
After signing a few non-disclosure agreements, Caldwell gave Jason a tour of the facility, which didn’t amount to much. The tour was at the SECRET level because Jason didn’t have TOP-SECRET clearance yet. Regardless, he was given an opportunity most people would never get.
Caldwell hinted at getting Jason some defensive training after he completed UPT. Jason said he was up for it and didn’t query what Caldwell meant.
After the tour at the CIA, they headed to the Pentagon. Caldwell told him the Air Force chief of staff wanted to meet him. This worried Jason, but when they met, everything worked out great. The chief wanted to put a face to the name that he kept standing up for. Each time the wing commander at Vance tried to kick Jason out of pilot training, it was run up to him, and each time, he refused it and put Jason back in training. The four-star general had the advantage of knowing all the details and didn’t think he needed to explain himself to this colonel, who apparently did not want to follow his orders. This week, the general said, was the last straw. When the colonel let the local police search Jason’s car on base and allowed Jason to be arrested and sent downtown without any investigation whatsoever, the general was furious. Add to that, the attempt on Jason’s life in jail, not once, but twice; if the general’s tone was any indication, the colonel’s career was over.
The general asked Jason a lot of questions about his past and his goals for the future, but the area he focused on most was flying the T- 37. The four-star had been a T-37 FAIP (first assignment instructor pilot) thirty years ago and missed flying the Tweet. The old officer became animated as the two talked about flying the jet, the Vietnam War, and getting shot down in the F-100.
The Right to Know Page 21