“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.