Stephen Frey
Red Cell Seven
FOR LILY. I LOVE YOU VERY, VERY MUCH. NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED WITHOUT YOU.
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.