by Stephen Frey
“How exactly would that private session go?” President Dorn asked. “You’ve read all those confidential procedural manuscripts we keep at Camp David.”
“After the charge was presented, the procedure would start with a one-on-one meeting between only the chief justice and the Red Cell Seven representative, who I assume would have an original of the Order in his possession at the meeting as well as a list of all legitimately initiated RC7 agents. Then, as long as the chief justice was in agreement, the meeting would move to a full session of the court, though still private from the public. The agent would be found innocent immediately. It would take no more than thirty seconds.” Baxter nodded at the president, who suddenly seemed distracted. “And remember, sir, the chief justice presides over a president’s impeachment, so it wouldn’t take him long to have you found guilty. That’s why Nixon set it up as he did. Love or hate the man, it was an ingenious way to structure Red Cell Seven’s protection. Not only would the president be denied, but he or she would also be immediately vulnerable. It’s double jeopardy.”
“A one-on-one meeting with the chief justice,” the president repeated.
The glint in Dorn’s eyes was obvious. “Yes, sir,” Baxter confirmed. He hated saying “sir” to Dorn, but appearances had to be sustained.
“In other words,” Dorn spoke up, “the chief justice could theoretically stop the process on his own.”
“As we’ve discussed several times,” Baxter confirmed.
Dorn pointed at the paper in Baxter’s lap. “So having the other original of that Order is essential for us in terms of destroying RC7’s protection.”
“Yes, sir. Again, as we’ve discussed several times.”
“You must get it, Stewart. If I have both of them, I don’t have to worry about being impeached. I don’t have to worry about the Supreme Court or anything else, for that matter. I can do whatever I want to Red Cell Seven. I can destroy it and suffer no consequences, because Red Cell Seven would not be able to present it to the court.”
“Understood, sir.”
Baxter stared steadily at David Dorn from his chair, which was directly in front of the great desk. The press had begun calling Dorn the “presidential floor model” because of his dark good looks, intense natural charisma, and the way he’d calmly and efficiently handled the Holiday Mall Attacks.
It was ironic, Baxter thought to himself as he marveled at the description’s accuracy. Bill Jensen had come up with the flattering nickname, but now Bill was an enemy—if he was still alive. The special detail of men Baxter had assigned to pick up Bill’s trail had failed to find anything. Baxter’s men had even tailed Jack and Troy a few times to see if they were secretly helping their father. But those surveillances had turned up nothing.
“How did you get that original?” President Dorn asked, pointing again at the paper in Baxter’s lap.
“You don’t want to know, sir,” Baxter answered quietly, wondering if Dorn ever taped conversations in the Oval Office the way Nixon had.
“Yes, I do.”
“People help me, sir.”
The president leaned forward over the desk. “I’m not recording this, Stewart.”
Damn, he was good. “Of course you aren’t.”
“Did you get it from Roger Carlson’s townhouse in Georgetown?” Dorn asked directly.
Roger Carlson had founded Red Cell Seven in the early 1970s on direct orders from President Nixon. Carlson had died last autumn under suspicious circumstances.
“Yes, sir, we did.”
The president slowly raised one eyebrow. “Did getting that document have anything to do with Roger’s wife being found dead in the Potomac River a few miles south of here? Did Nancy get in the way of the townhouse search for that document? Did your people have to take extreme measures to deal with that situation?”
Baxter stared stoically across the great desk. “That would be a logical assumption,” he finally answered. “I don’t want to upset you, sir,” he added quickly. “I don’t want you to—”
“I’m not upset at all,” Dorn interrupted calmly, leaning back.
Dorn never failed to surprise. It was one of the most compelling aspects of working for the man. Baxter took a deep breath. Dorn might not take this next piece of news quite as well.
“I need to inform you,” Baxter spoke up reluctantly, “that it would appear Red Cell Seven still controls the other original, the second original of this Executive Order.” He tapped the piece of paper again.
Dorn leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together. “Where is Shane Maddux? What happened with him?”
Baxter glanced past the president at the large window that overlooked the Rose Garden, which was hidden by darkness. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve tried contacting him several times, most recently this morning. But I haven’t heard back.”
“Maddux is your friend.”
“My acquaintance.”
“You get my point.”
“He turned on me.”
“He stayed true to Red Cell Seven.”
“You may be right,” Baxter admitted grudgingly.
“I am right. I called that one from the start.”
Back in December, Shane Maddux had secretly approached Baxter to strike a deal. In exchange for immunity from being investigated in any way for his involvement in the Los Angeles assassination attempt on President Dorn, Maddux promised to bring back the second original Order from the cave on Gannett Peak in Wyoming. Maddux had also promised to round up others in Red Cell Seven who were involved in the assassination attempt.
Baxter and Maddux had known each other for years, and Baxter was convinced of Maddux’s sincerity at the time. So he’d directed him to Gannett Peak.
But it had all gone wrong. Maddux and the second original of the Order had disappeared. Baxter had sent the same men who’d searched for Bill Jensen out to the mountaintop cave in Wyoming when Maddux hadn’t responded to repeated attempts at contact. The men finally found the cave they believed had hidden the Order—but not the document itself.
It was difficult for Baxter to admit that Maddux had used him. It had been President Dorn’s opinion from the start that Maddux wouldn’t come through at the critical moment.
Now Baxter had those men who’d looked for Bill Jensen looking everywhere for Maddux, too. And they were to take him alive at all costs. Baxter wanted a few minutes with the bastard before they ended his life.
“Again,” Baxter muttered, “I apologize, sir.”
“Apologies at this level are like words written on running water. Worthless, Stewart, worthless.”
Baxter detested being on the wrong side of an ass-beating. But it seemed like it was happening more and more often with Dorn. The whipping-boy comment echoed again.
“I do have one more contact inside RC7,” Baxter spoke up, “and I’ve been in touch with him.” It was a lie, but he needed to say something right now. The president would have no way of knowing the assertion was false. “Apparently, no one inside the cell has heard from Maddux, either. Maybe he took a bullet up on Gannett Peak and died. Maybe his body’s buried beneath some snowdrift. Maybe no one really controls the last original of the Order. Maybe it’s gone forever.”
“You’re grasping at straws,” Dorn snapped, “and don’t do it again. I can’t destroy Red Cell Seven on a hope and a prayer. No, Maddux is out there plotting,” the president said, gesturing toward the darkness outside the Oval Office window. “He’s still trying to kill me. He wants to finish what he started last October in LA.”
“I’ve had your Secret Service coverage doubled, sir. You’re in no danger.”
“Don’t argue with me, Stewart,” Dorn retorted. “Maddux is a sly son of a bitch. You never know with that man.”
“Relax, sir.” Baxter knew he shouldn’t have said it, but he
couldn’t help himself. It had become a reflex response. It was what he always said when he thought Dorn was going over the top. “Everything’s fine.”
“That’s what you said about my reaction to you asking for Maddux’s help in acquiring the other original of the Order.”
Baxter gritted his teeth. He wanted to go back at Dorn for that one. But Dorn was the president. Worse, he was right.
“Do you find it curious that no one has heard anything from Daniel Gadanz since last December?”
Baxter’s eyes raced toward the president. But Dorn was still gazing into the darkness outside the White House. “Sir?”
“It’s been nine months since the Holiday Mall Attacks, but no one’s heard anything from Gadanz. The intelligence reports you gave me indicated that he was mentally unstable and getting worse. And his history is to violently take revenge on his enemies. RC7 murdered his brother, and—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s some question about that,” Baxter broke in. “Jacob’s death may have, in fact, been a real accident.”
“I can assure you, Stewart,” Dorn retorted icily, “a man like Daniel Gadanz will never believe that his brother’s death was an accident.”
It was a fair point, Baxter had to admit. “The Drug Enforcement Agency is working with many different countries, but it’s hard to track him down.”
“The DEA doesn’t have a chance against Daniel Gadanz.” Dorn swiveled around in the chair so he was facing his chief of staff again. “Tell me about the rest of your conversation with Justice Espinosa.”
“I made it clear that we might need his help again. I told him if I came to him again, it wouldn’t be just to review a document.”
“How specific were you?”
“Not at all, but he got the point.”
“Did you tell him what we know?”
“I made a reference to people having skeletons hanging in their bedroom closets, but I wasn’t specific.”
Dorn stared across the desk at Baxter with a fierce expression. “I like that. Wondering what we have is worse for him than knowing. All right then,” he said loudly as he stood up. “It’s possible we won’t need Espinosa, anyway. I may have another way of taking care of Red Cell Seven that doesn’t involve getting that second original of the Order.”
Baxter’s ears perked up. “What?”
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” the president answered, checking his watch impatiently. “I want to think on it more overnight.”
Baxter stood up, too. “Where are you going, sir?” he asked quickly as Dorn headed for the corridor door.
“I’m exhausted, Stewart. I need some sleep.”
The First Lady was on a goodwill tour of six European capitals. The president had invented the trip, though the First Lady didn’t know that. All of which had Baxter very suspicious of this sudden exit. Dorn rarely needed sleep. It was one of the things that made him so unbeatable on the campaign trail.
“Mr. President.”
Dorn stopped at the door. “Yes, Stewart?” he asked, obviously irritated.
Dorn couldn’t have a Monica Lewinsky scandal on his hands, especially with all the positive momentum going for him right now. Baxter was intensely loyal, even when he and the president weren’t seeing eye to eye. More to the point, Baxter didn’t want his name associated with a scandal, especially one like that.
“Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Do I think what’s a good idea?”
The Teflon syndrome was setting in. Baxter had seen its insidious effects before on other high-ranking officials. But this was the first time he’d seen Dorn yielding to it. “Sir, I mean, we just talked about how it wasn’t good for anyone to have skeletons in their bedroom closet.”
“I’m not going to my bedroom.” Dorn turned his head slightly as a warning when Baxter didn’t laugh or even grin a little at the insinuation. “Don’t give me attitude, Stewart. I deserve a few distractions.”
That was a fat, juicy rationalization by the leader of the free world. “Yes, sir.”
“Do I need to hire someone who understands me better?”
“No, sir, I—” Baxter was interrupted by a sharp knock on the Oval Office door.
Dorn reached for the knob and pulled the door open. “Yes?”
“May I come in, sir?”
Dorn gestured inside. “Of course.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With his eyes glued to the blue carpet, the aide slipped past the president and moved quickly to where Baxter was standing. When the young man had finished whispering to his boss, Baxter sent him back out again with a curt nod at the door. The kid sprinted from the Oval Office.
“What was that?” Dorn demanded.
Baxter pointed at Dorn and then at the chair behind the great desk. “Sit down, sir.” He was rather enjoying how quickly the president’s face had drained of its normal, healthy glow. Being the president’s chief of staff wasn’t easy—especially when that president was David Dorn.
“What is it, Stewart?” Dorn asked in a wavering tone. “Tell me.”
“We have a situation, sir. It’s not good.”
“Come on, Stewart, stop with the games.”
“Do you have a daughter, sir?” President Dorn and the First Lady had no children. Not being a family man had been the only constant thorn in his side during the campaign for the Oval Office, Baxter knew. “One you haven’t told me about. One you haven’t told anyone about.”
President David Dorn suddenly looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
And Baxter loved it.
“YOU’VE BEEN telling everyone you’re twenty-one. But you aren’t. You’re actually older than that. You’re twenty-five, aren’t you?”
Leigh-Ann glanced up as the man walked toward her across the room. Her hands and ankles were bound tightly to the uncomfortable wooden chair, so she could barely move. Only enough to turn her head slightly to the side to try and shield her eyes from the bright rays of a flashlight he was aiming straight at her face through the darkness from close range. She took a quick try at making out his features, in case there was a reason for that later. But she couldn’t. He was being very careful to make himself nothing but a dark silhouette. So she shut her eyes and turned away again.
“You’ve let people think you’re from Savannah.” He hesitated. “And that you’re from money.”
“Why am I here?” she murmured, ignoring his questions. “What are you going to do to me?”
“And you’ve been telling everyone that your name is Leigh-Ann Goodyear. But I know the truth, Shannon.”
That caught her attention, though she tried not to show it. They knew her real name. “Who are you?”
“You’re from Boston,” he continued as he moved behind her so she could no longer make out even his silhouette. “From Southie.”
“How do you know all that?” Shannon jerked away as fast and far as possible when he ran the backs of his fingers gently down the soft skin of her cheek. But it wasn’t very far, and she had no place left to go when he did it again. “Stop!” That had sounded far too demanding for the vulnerable position she was in. “Please stop,” she begged this time. “Please let me go.”
“You did a nice job turning that harsh Boston accent into a sweet Southern twang, didn’t you, Shannon?”
Shannon could feel the tears welling up as he continued to stroke her face gently. “Who are you?” she asked. He was breathing heavily. “Please tell me.”
He laughed softly in her ear as he leaned down close. “You’re asking the wrong question, Shannon. You should be far more concerned with your own identity.” He chuckled again. “I wonder, sweetheart. Do you have any idea who you really are?”
She gazed up at the man. She knew exactly what he was talking about. But how did he know?
CHAPTER 11
KODIAK ISLAND, Alaska, was Commander Skylar McCoy’s home. She’d been born on this island, grown up here, and learned how to be a warrior here. So it was good to be back after two years away, even if her stay would be short. She needed to recharge, especially after that mission to Daran, and Kodiak was the perfect place to do it. Those three boys were the youngest lives she’d ever taken, and it was the first mission she’d ever reflected upon. She didn’t regret it, but she couldn’t shake it, either.
What she liked most about coming home, particularly to this remote spot on the island, was that it never changed. She was just twenty-four, but many things had already died or deserted her. However, this spot in the middle of the forest was always waiting, and it was always the same.
She glanced down into the puddle at her boot tips—it had rained heavily last night. Staring back up was a pretty young woman, she had to admit, and she wasn’t being arrogant. Her beauty was simply a fact of nature. She’d been blessed that way. She was a product of good genes—a handsome, wonderful father and a gorgeous, hateful mother. Well, mostly good.
She was five-five with jet-black hair—a precious reminder of her distant local heritage. She would have preferred to keep it long, but, given the physical nature of her missions, that wasn’t practical. So she kept it trimmed above her shoulders, and usually pulled back in a brief ponytail, as it was today.
She had a slim face with high cheekbones, full lips, and big eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea as well as every drop of New Zealand water she’d ever seen. She was “cut,” in excellent physical shape, though she was not at all bulky and took great pains to avoid that thick build. She worked out constantly but maintained her slender, feminine shape despite the demanding regimen.
She was pretty, but she’d been only the second prettiest girl in her two-daughter family. Her younger sister, Bianca, had been headed for the fashion runways of Paris before being killed four years ago at seventeen in the pickup truck of a drunken boyfriend—who, regrettably, had survived the wreck.
