Red Cell Seven (2 page)

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.”

NOVEMBER 1983

“H
ELLO
, C
APTAIN
.”

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.”

CHAPTER 1

PRESENT DAY

“J
ACK
’
S
GONE
,”
Troy Jensen muttered to himself. “He’s really gone.”

Troy stared at the large photograph of his older brother, which was sitting on an easel in the middle of the church’s anteroom. Cheryl, their mother, was standing a few feet away with another woman. They were crying softly.

“You okay, son?” Bill Jensen asked as he moved to Troy’s side.

Troy cleared his throat. “Of course, Dad.”

Troy glanced at the two FBI agents who were standing in front of the anteroom door in dark suits. They were here on direct orders from David Dorn, the president of the United States. More agents were outside this room, in the main part of the church. In their dark suits, they blended easily into the large congregation that had gathered to pay last respects to Jack Jensen. Even more agents formed a perimeter outside the church in the picturesque countryside west of Greenwich, Connecticut.

But Shane Maddux wouldn’t have a problem getting through those defenses if he chose to, Troy knew. Maddux was eerily good at slipping through life undetected, like a specter, though he turned into a ferocious predator at the final, critical moment.

Troy had witnessed that fury firsthand, as well as Maddux’s ability to glide through the world invisibly. All of which had Troy carrying a 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket. The first bullet was already chambered—a dangerous but necessary precaution. You could never be too careful if Shane Maddux had you in his sights. The coffin on the other side of the door was a testament to that harsh reality.

“It’s hard,” Troy admitted.

“I know.” Bill shook his head sadly. “One second your brother is sitting with us on the porch. The next he’s on the floor, dying.” Bill gritted his teeth as he gazed at the picture of Jack resting on the easel. “So help me God, I’ll find out who shot him. And no one will be able to help that person when I do.”

The deadly shot had come from a tree line hundreds of yards away as the three of them were sitting on the porch together, from across the horse fields of the Jensens’ sprawling property outside Greenwich. As Bill frantically called 911, Troy sprinted across the fields to chase down the shooter. But Jack’s murderer was long gone by the time Troy made it to the trees.

“Come on, Dad. We both know who killed Jack. It was Shane Maddux.”

“You can’t assume that, son. We never saw the shooter. The bullet came from the woods. That tree line is a long way from the house.”

“It was Maddux,” Troy said confidently.

“If it was Maddux, wouldn’t he have been aiming at you or me? That would make more sense. And if it was Maddux, we both know he hits his target. He doesn’t miss.”

“He was furious at Jack for saving President Dorn’s life. It was a revenge kill for derailing the assassination in Los Angeles. For calling Rex Stein at the last minute so Stein could deflect the bullet. It was for saving me in Alaska, too. And for calling the Navy jets out on that LNG tanker Maddux had heading for Virginia. That bullet was for all those things.”

“You knew Shane Maddux personally, Troy. I’ve only met the man a few times, and none of those meetings ever went long. But everything I’ve heard about him paints the portrait of an individual who takes emotion out of everything. And those meetings I had with him only reinforce my belief in that. His mind is so strong. Everything he does is motivated by purpose and objective, never by anger or retribution.”

Troy nodded. “He’s a focused son of a bitch.”

“It’s worse than that. He’s obsessed. He’s clinically insane.”

“I don’t know about that, Dad. If Maddux was insane, I don’t think he’d be able to—”

Troy interrupted himself as Karen Morris, Jack’s girlfriend, approached. She was a pretty brunette with a vivacious smile that wouldn’t show itself today. She and Jack hadn’t been together long, but they’d fallen deeply in love after surviving everything that had happened to them in Alaska and on the way there. Now their relationship was over before it had really gotten started.

“Hi, Troy.”

“Hey.” He slipped his arms around her and guided her cheek to his shoulder. She was trying hard to keep her emotions in check, but that wouldn’t last. He could feel her shaking. “It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Me neither,” he agreed softly.

“I wish I could have seen him one more time. I wish I could have told him how much I loved him one more time.”

“I know.”

Karen gave Troy a gentle kiss on the cheek. Then she turned to hug Bill as a single tear rolled down her face.

Troy’s gaze flickered back to the photograph on the easel. Jack had dark hair, brown eyes, and olive-hued skin. Troy, who at twenty-eight was two years younger than Jack, had blue eyes and dirty-blond hair that fell to the bottom of his collar in the back. They looked nothing alike, and there was a good reason for that. Both brothers had been told all along that Jack had been adopted just after birth—which was why they looked so different. But it was a lie, and the truth had finally spilled out into the open only recently. Troy loved Bill as much as a son could love a father, but he still hadn’t forgiven him for the long-standing deception. He wasn’t sure he ever could.

“You’re sitting with us today, Karen,” Bill said as he stepped back from their embrace.

“But I—”

“You’re sitting with us,” he repeated firmly. “You’re family now.”

She reached out and touched his arm gently in appreciation. “Thank you.”

Bill patted Troy gently on the shoulder as Cheryl walked away. “We have to get down to Washington as soon as the funeral’s over.”

“I know,” Troy said curtly.

“The plane’s waiting for us at Westchester.”

“I know.”

Bill exhaled heavily. “Are you ever going to forgive me, son?”

“I’m not sure,” Troy answered honestly. “What you did was terrible. Telling everyone Jack was adopted for so long. It made him feel like an outsider for thirty years.”

“I was a coward.” Bill took another deep breath. “I’m sorry, very sorry. I wish I could say that to Jack, but I can’t.” His lower lip trembled slightly. “Will you help me bury him, son? I need to know you’re in my corner today. I don’t know if I can get through the eulogy if I look down at you from the pulpit and I see that same expression in your eyes I just did.” He hesitated. “Are you there for me?”

Troy gazed at his father for a long time. Finally, he nodded. “I am, Dad.”

“Thank you. I mean that.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Troy asked as Bill started toward Cheryl and Karen.

Bill shrugged as he turned back around. “Do what?”

“Go to Washington.”

Bill nodded somberly. “I’ll be okay. But thanks for saying something. Your old man’s not as tough as he used to be, but he’s still—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“Are you sure you want to tell President Dorn everything?”

“Well, I gave him those files before we met with him at Walter Reed. I feel like I have to tell him everything at this point.”

“Do you think he’s told Baxter about Red Cell Seven?”

“I asked the president not to say anything to anyone about it. But I specifically asked him not to tell Stewart Baxter. In fact, I warned him not to.” Bill paused. “Unfortunately, David Dorn is a stubborn man, and Baxter is his chief of staff.”

“That’s why it was such a risk to give Dorn all those files about what RCS has done in the last forty years.”

“Of course it was a risk,” Bill agreed. “But the fact is we knew Dorn was trying to shut down RCS before the attempt on his life. By the time we’d met with him at Walter Reed after the assassination attempt he’d had a change of heart. I think reading those files helped him with that change.”

“I hope he still feels that way this afternoon, Dad. I hope he hasn’t changed his heart or his mind back the other way.”

“Me too, son.” Bill put his hand on Troy’s shoulder again. “Now help me bury your brother.”