Red Cell Seven Read online

  OTHER NOVELS BY STEPHEN FREY

  The Takeover

  The Vulture Fund

  The Inner Sanctum

  The Legacy

  The Insider

  Trust Fund

  The Day Trader

  Silent Partner

  Shadow Account

  The Chairman

  The Protégé

  The Power Broker

  The Successor

  The Fourth Order

  Forced Out

  Hell’s Gate

  Heaven’s Fury

  Arctic Fire

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 Stephen Frey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477809457

  ISBN-10: 1477809457

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906874

  FOR LILY. I LOVE YOU VERY, VERY MUCH. NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED WITHOUT YOU.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  PART 4

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  MARCH 1973

  “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. “Captai
n 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.”

  NOVEMBER 1983

  “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?”