Red Cell Seven

PROLOGUE

“Hello, Captain.”

The door clicked shut behind Roger Carlson. Shut by the same Secret Service agent who’d been shadowing him ever since he’d stepped onto White House grounds two hours ago.

Now that the agent was finally gone, a palpable wave of relief surged through Carlson. He had an intense aversion to being stalked. It was like claustrophobia in that it pushed him inexorably toward a state of extreme stress and a potentially violent reaction. He’d always been able to control the condition, though barely at times. And no military psychologist had ever diagnosed it despite the battery of skull-tests he was required to undergo once a year due to his highly classified missions.

Carlson was a Marine, but his orders weren’t the normal “take the beach” type. He was an assassin, and he’d murdered four senior Soviet officials at close range in the last two years. He had all four of their cheap neckties hidden in a desk drawer at his small house in Alexandria. Trophies were important to him.

“We’ve been expecting you.”

Before moving toward the three men who sat on the far side of the Oval Office as if in judgment, Carlson nodded subtly and respectfully to the presidential seal, which was woven into the dark blue carpet. Specifically at the thirteen arrows the eagle clutched in its left talon, while he deliberately avoided acknowledging the olive branch the magnificent bird gripped in its right.

“Come in, please.”

After eleven years of military uniforms, the badly fitting three-button pinstripe suit, white button-down shirt, and plain blue tie Carlson wore today made him feel out of place, even a little vulnerable. But what made him most uncomfortable was that he had no idea why he’d been summoned here.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a large, gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall to his right. He was of average height and weight, but his jutting chin cut an impressive profile. Otherwise, he considered himself quite ordinary looking — though Nancy, his wife of seven years, disagreed. She always told him how handsome he was.

Nancy was a wonderful woman. She never asked what he did, even when he’d leave for weeks at a time with no account of where he was going or where he’d been. She was the perfect wife for him. She knew something unusual was going on, but she never pushed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President.” Carlson stopped a few inches shy of the wide desk and clasped his hands behind his back, standing ramrod straight with eyes ahead, just as he would if he’d been wearing his Marine uniform reporting to his superior officer. “How can I assist you, sir?”

“We’ll get to all that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At ease, Captain Carlson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, how are you today?”

“I’m fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Any problem finding us?”

Carlson flashed a grin as the men sitting on either side of President Nixon eyed each other uneasily. Carlson figured Nixon was kidding. But he quickly masked his amusement when tiny beads of perspiration broke out on the president’s upper lip.

“Um, no.” Apparently Nixon’s question had been sincere, and the president suddenly seemed mortified. Carlson had read about Nixon’s intensity, but no newspaper article or book could have prepared him for this. “No problem finding you at all, sir.”

“This is Mr. Haldeman.” Nixon motioned stiffly to the right with his eyes down, apparently still recovering from Carlson’s amused reaction. “He is the president’s chief of staff.”

Carlson had read how awkward Nixon could be in social situations. His superior had warned him about it, too. “Yes, sir.”

“And to the left is Mr. Ehrlichman. He is counsel to the president.”

Nixon had just referred to himself twice in the third person. It was a sign of delusion, Carlson figured. But with the Watergate noose tightening around his neck, perhaps the president needed delusion to stay in control.

The president nodded at a chair positioned in front of the desk. “Sit down, Captain.”

As Carlson obeyed, he was struck by how dark Nixon’s stubble was, the formality of his manner, and how stiff and clumsy the president’s motions were. Nixon was no athlete.

“You are a Marine,” Nixon stated.

“Yes, sir.”

“You joined the Marines after graduating from Yale University.”

“Yes, sir.” Pride coursed through Carlson. The president of the United States knew the details of his life. “With loans.”

“I was a naval officer, a lieutenant commander.”

The physical rigors of boot camp must have been hell for Nixon. He could almost hear the RDC screaming. “Yes, sir, I know you—”

“Mr. Haldeman has done a great deal of research on you,” Nixon interrupted, gesturing to the right again. “He’s impressed with your record. We all are.” The president’s eyes flashed, regaining their intensity after the embarrassment of asking the awkward question about locating the White House. “Captain Carlson, we considered thousands of individuals for this mission, and we selected you.”

“Thank you, sir.” It seemed strange but somehow appropriate that Carlson should show appreciation for what remained an unknown. He’d heard people call Nixon a walking enigma. Now he understood why.

Nixon forced a smile to his lips. “I’m sure you’re wondering why you were ordered to wear civilian clothes today, Captain Carlson.”

Why would Nixon focus on that? There was a much-bigger-picture issue lurking in the shadows of this room like an eight-hundred-pound gorilla.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“The answer is because you’re no longer a Marine.”

“Sir?”

“You were honorably discharged from the Marine Corps this afternoon.” Haldeman spoke up for the first time. “You will not return to the Pentagon today.”

“All right,” Carlson answered hesitantly, uncertain if the news was good or bad.

Nixon motioned to Carlson, then at Haldeman. “Mr. Haldeman has something for you, Captain Carlson. Take it, and protect it with every fiber of your being.”

Carlson’s heart began to thud as he stood up, moved to where Haldeman sat, took the large manila envelope the man was holding out for him, and returned to his chair. He could hear himself breathing deeply as he opened the envelope and pulled out two pieces of heavy paper. He was painfully aware of how the papers were shaking in his fingers even though he held them with both hands.

“I like it that you’re affected,” Nixon commented, acknowledging Carlson’s visible anxiety. “Give him the details, Bob.”

“Captain Carlson,” Haldeman began in a somber tone, “you will found, organize, and run the most clandestine intelligence unit this country has ever operated. From now on you will officially be part of the Central Intelligence Agency, but you will report only to the president of the United States, and you will do that only when you decide a report to the Executive Branch is necessary. After today, you will have one meeting with the director of the CIA to obtain budget details for your cell, and that will be it. When that meeting is over, you are on your own to recruit agents, gather information on our enemies, defend this country, and even wage clandestine wars if you deem that course of action necessary. Your only mission will be to protect the United States in any way you see fit. Do you understand what your president is asking of you?”

Carlson gazed at Haldeman for a few moments then shifted his attention to Nixon. The perspiration on the president’s upper lip had evaporated, and he looked like a black Lab on scent, completely focused and compelled by the subject at hand.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Nixon murmured breathlessly as he grinned at Carlson from behind the desk. “In fact, it’s perfect.”

Nixon’s grin and his shifty little eyes seemed laced with a trace of evil. And somehow that seemed appropriate. “Yes, sir, it is.”

How could it be that simple? How could Nixon create something as significant as this out of thin air? It was Carlson’s dream job — executing global intelligence and waging a shadow war with no constraints. It was as if God had suddenly appeared before him and confirmed heaven’s existence.

No, no, it was better than that. It was here, it was now. It was real. Heaven was off in the distance, waiting — maybe.

“How?” Carlson asked. “How does this happen?”

Haldeman motioned at the documents in Carlson’s lap. “That is Executive Order 1973 One-E. It is signed by Richard Milhous Nixon, the thirty-seventh president of the United States of America. Under Article Two, Section Three, Clause Five of the Constitution, the president is empowered to take care that the laws of the United States are fully executed. That is what President Nixon has just ordered you to do in his capacity as chief executive of this country and as the commander in chief of its military.” Haldeman pointed at the documents again. “You have two originals of the Order. Those are the only two originals in existence, and you will keep both of them in your possession in case you ever need them.”

“To demonstrate to agents I’m recruiting that my charge has complete credibility,” Carlson surmised.

“The ultimate credibility,” Nixon said firmly.

“I suggest,” Haldeman continued, “that you conceal those two pieces of paper in separate locations; in addition, that you make one other person who you trust with your life aware of their existence as well as aware of at least one of the hidden locations. The Orders are genuine, they are legitimate, and they are completely enforceable as a matter of law. In fact, your name is written into the Order to completely protect you from any illegal prosecution and to assist you with that credibility you just mentioned. However, without them, you are vulnerable.” Haldeman nodded to Carlson. “President Nixon empowers you to move forward with the Order, Captain Carlson.”

The room went deathly still for several moments.

Finally, Carlson spoke up. “Thank you, sir.”

“I expect your primary target will be the Soviet Union,” Nixon said. Carlson had heard about Nixon’s fear of the Soviet Union and its legendary Red Army. It wasn’t a well-kept secret in the Pentagon. According to some he’d spoken to, Nixon’s fear of the Soviets bordered on pathological paranoia.

“Of course, sir.”

“But China and Castro will be of interest to you as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll call your new unit Red Cell Seven,” Nixon directed, “and you’ll subtly let the name filter out into the international intelligence community. It will drive Brezhnev crazy,” he added, referring to the leader of the Soviet Union. “He’ll have the KGB and others of his intelligence network search frantically everywhere for cells One through Six. And he’ll spend billions of rubles doing so. But he’ll never find the first six cells, because they have never existed and they never will.”

“Maybe we should call it Red Cell Fifty,” Ehrlichman muttered.

They were the only words Ehrlichman would utter during the entire meeting, but they elicited the lone universal laugh.

When everyone’s loud chuckles faded, the president took a deep breath, as if a weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. “Do you have any other questions, Captain Carlson?”

“Does this Order give me license to kill?”

Nixon leaned forward, placed both elbows on the desk, and interlocked his fingers in front of his face as if he were praying. “After you leave this room, Captain Carlson, I want you to find a secure location to thoroughly read that Executive Order. When you’ve finished reading it twice, and I do mean twice, you will understand that you have the authority to do whatever you feel is necessary to keep this country safe. By that I mean absolutely anything. Kill, torture, steal, destroy — it’s up to you. I don’t care what it is as long as you in good faith and conscience can convince yourself that the action will be executed in the name of protecting the United States of America. Are we clear on that?”

Carlson nodded. He could barely control his euphoria. “Yes, sir,” he managed to answer calmly for what he figured must have been at least the tenth time since he’d entered this room. “Crystal clear.”

“This is the ultimate trust,” Nixon said. “I can bestow no greater privilege on a United States citizen.”

Carlson nodded again as the weight of the words cascaded down onto him like a powerful but incredibly pleasing waterfall. He cleared his throat softly to make certain his words came out firmly and without hesitance. “And I cannot possibly receive any greater privilege. Thank you, sir.”

“Hello, Captain.”

The door clicked shut behind Bill Jensen. Shut by the same Secret Service agent who’d been shadowing him ever since he’d stepped onto White House grounds an hour ago.

The agent had been intense about his duties for the last sixty minutes, obnoxiously so. But that intensity hadn’t bothered Jensen. The man was simply doing his job, and besides, Jensen made a point of getting angry only when exhibiting the emotion achieved a specific goal. Otherwise he considered anger nothing but negative energy that distracted the mind from rational and effective thought.

“Come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Jensen nodded respectfully at the presidential seal, which was woven into the dark blue carpet of the Oval Office. Like Roger Carlson ten years before, he acknowledged only the thirteen arrows in the left talon.

As he moved across the room in his measured stride, Jensen felt great pride when he glanced at the president, who was sitting serenely behind the wide desk, and then at the chief of staff, who was relaxing in a chair to the left. In the last three years Ronald Reagan and James Baker had restored the country’s respect on the international stage, after the Jimmy Carter debacle, by retooling the military and beating the hell out of interest rates. The country’s economy was booming, and America’s armed forces were once again feared throughout the world. Reagan and Baker were totally focused on maintaining the United States’ role as a global superpower, and it was a pleasure to serve them as a Marine.

But Jensen still hadn’t been told what he was doing here today.

He hadn’t been told why he’d been specifically instructed to wear civilian clothes, either. Of course, it wasn’t like he minded. Once in a while he enjoyed stepping out in his worsted wool charcoal suit, stylish blue Oxford shirt with white collar and French cuffs, and his favorite red silk tie, which was also imported from Paris. Today Jensen was wearing the uniform his father had worn every day. His father had been a prominent Wall Street rainmaker before an untimely death last summer had cut short his glittering career in Lower Manhattan.

Jensen caught a glimpse of himself in the gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall to his right. He was tall and slim with light blond hair, which was trimmed high and tight, and he cut a naturally aristocratic profile in the glass as he passed by. People had often described his look as presidential, too, and for a quick moment he wondered if someday this office would be his. It was entirely possible.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Jensen stopped a few inches shy of the desk and clasped his hands behind his back, standing ramrod straight, just as he would if he’d been wearing his Marine uniform reporting to his superior officer. “How can I assist you, sir?”

“You’re a credit to our country, son,” President Ronald Reagan said in his gravelly, naturally melodic voice. “A shining example of everything good our nation stands for. America is proud of you, son.”

The president had been a B-list Hollywood actor in his younger days, so Jensen was fully aware that the short speech was technique driven. Still, it was difficult not to buy into everything the man was saying. The charisma emanating from the other side of the desk was undeniable and irresistible. The man with the rosy cheeks, perfect dark hair despite his advanced age, and electric smile had convinced an entire nation to follow him like puppies following their mother just by speaking to them through a television lens. So it was only natural that he could influence people even more readily in person at close range, even people who were ready for it and recognized it.

Now that was talent.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You went to Yale before the Marines,” James Baker spoke up in his soothing Texas drawl.

“That’s correct.”

“Sit down, Captain Jensen.” Reagan motioned to a chair in front of the desk. “Please.”

“And you graduated from Princeton before you went into the Marines,” Jensen volleyed back in a friendly way as he eased into the chair and nodded respectfully to Baker. “After that you went to law school at UT.”

“That’s right, son.” Baker glanced at Reagan and smiled. “He’s exactly what we want, isn’t he, Mr. President?”

“Um, yes…of course.” Reagan had been looking out the window behind the desk, and Baker’s comment had clearly caught him off guard. “Let’s get to why you’re here, Captain.”

Reagan seemed distracted to Jensen, or maybe the president was just tired. After all, he was a relatively old man trying to execute the most challenging job on earth. “I’m obviously looking forward to that, Mr. President.”

“You ever heard of Red Cell Seven?” Baker asked.

Jensen’s eyes narrowed. On a dime this meeting had taken a compelling turn. “Just whispers on the wind,” he responded, “but nothing definitive. Vague rumors about a hush-hush cell created by President Nixon to mess with the Soviets.” He shrugged. “But I never buy stock in rumors. I short them.”

“Well, you should have gone long this time. And though his main focus for the last decade has definitely been the Soviet Union, the man running RCS is about to significantly expand the cell’s scope of operation.”

Once more, Baker was doing the talking. Reagan was looking outside again, watching a robin that was sitting on a bush just outside the window. The bird was on late departure for its southern swing, as it had gotten quite chilly in Washington. As Jensen watched, a slight smile crept across the president’s face when the bird began to preen itself.

“And you were right,” Baker continued, “it is the most covert intelligence cell this country has ever operated. But now it’s going even deeper into the shadows.”

“How so, sir?”

“Up until now Red Cell Seven has been funded through the CIA. At this point RCS is only about thirty agents, and the man who runs it has been operating on a budget of less than ten million a year. So the ‘miscellaneous’ line item on the CIA books has been a rounding error. The opportunity for the unit’s enemies to detect that line has been slight, and therefore the chance of being able to follow money trails and transfers has been negligible. Still, it has been and continues to be a risk.” Baker held up a hand. “We don’t like that. We want to make this cell completely transparent as it moves forward and takes on even more responsibility.”

“Completely transparent,” President Reagan echoed, again engaged in the conversation.

“Red Cell Seven has been a tremendous success,” Baker said, “and success tends to attract attention.”

Jensen nodded. “Of course.”

“So we intend to switch funding for the cell from the government to the private sector.”

Jensen gazed steadily at Baker for a few moments. “The private sector?” It was a fascinating idea. So simple but potentially so effective.

“That way there are no money trails that can lead to anyone inside the government.” Baker hesitated. “We’ve all seen what can happen when money trails lead to the government. I’m sure former President Nixon still wishes he’d been more careful about that.”

Jensen nodded again. “Yes, sir.” A thrill surged through him. Now he was fairly certain of why he’d been invited to the Oval Office.

“We want you to lead the privatization effort, Captain Jensen.”

The world blurred before Bill Jensen when the confirmation came. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime. He might be forever losing his chance to claim this office someday. But so what? This opportunity could prove infinitely more exciting — and more profitable.

“Your family is well connected financially,” Baker went on. “And that puts you in a unique position to help us.” A sad look worked its way into the COS’s expression. “I’m sorry about your father, Captain Jensen. I met him several times. He was a good man who was taken before his time.”

“Thank you.”

“We know that you’ve kept in touch with his friends since he died last summer, and those connections could be very helpful to us.”

Baker’s condolence hadn’t lasted long. Once more, the chief of staff’s expression was flooded with anticipation.

“Further,” Baker continued, “we intend to place you into a specific position on Wall Street that will enable you to quickly enhance your network of high-net-worth individuals. High-net-worth individuals friendly to our cause who can fund Red Cell Seven secretly out of their own pockets under your direction.” Baker paused. “A friend of mine from Texas runs a firm in New York City called First Manhattan. Ever heard of it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not a bulge-bracket investment bank like Goldman or Morgan Stanley, but it—”

“But it’s growing fast,” Jensen broke in. Baker seemed miffed by the interruption, as though it had been a long time since anyone had been so brazen. But so what? They’d already selected him for the job, and they weren’t going back on the offer now that they’d let the cat out of the bag. “First Manhattan has a white-hot technology group, and their M&A shop’s a comer as well.”

“That’s right,” Baker agreed. “In fact, you’ll join that technology investment banking group as a vice president. Tomorrow morning you’ll meet with the man who runs the group in Midtown Manhattan. If things go well with funding Red Cell Seven privately, one day I can see you running First Manhattan.”

Everything was moving at light speed in exactly the direction Jensen wanted. “I assume I’m not going back to the Pentagon.” The robin had flown from the bush, but Reagan was looking out the window again. This time the president’s focus seemed to be on something in the distance. His fading smile seemed nostalgic, almost sad.

“You’ve already been honorably discharged from the Marines,” Baker confirmed.

“What’s next?”

Baker smiled thinly but appreciatively at the younger man’s instant commitment and natural impatience. “As I said, you’ll go to New York City this afternoon for a meeting with that First Manhattan executive tomorrow. At nine o’clock tonight you’ll receive a call from the man who runs RCS. Make certain you’re in your Manhattan hotel room at that time.”

“What is the man’s name?”

“Roger Carlson.”

A powerful chill sprinted up Jensen’s spine, and for several seconds he fought it for control of his body. He didn’t want to exhibit any reaction the chill might induce. Jensen wasn’t worried about Reagan noticing. The president was still staring off into the distance. But he didn’t want Baker seeing it.

“I believe you know Mr. Carlson.”

“I did,” Jensen confirmed, fascinated by the fact that they knew of his connection to Carlson. Carlson must have had a hidden hand in today’s meeting. “Roger was my mentor early on in the Corps. But he disappeared ten years ago.” No one knew what had happened to Carlson. Now it all made sense. The same thing was about to happen to him. “I never heard from Roger again.”

“Well, you’ll be hearing from him again soon, after your New York trip.”

“Are you prepared to do this job?” President Reagan asked solemnly as he reengaged. “It’s one of the most important things I could ask of you, son. It will make Red Cell Seven untouchable, and that’s crucial for the continued national security of this great nation. Do I have your commitment?”

Jensen nodded. It was interesting how Reagan went in and out of conversations so often. Interesting and a bit frightening, so thank the Lord for James Baker.

“Yes, sir, I’m absolutely committed to Red Cell Seven. Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll make you proud.”

“I know you will, Captain Jensen. I know you will.”