Red Cell Seven

by Stephen Frey

  “I want to thank both of you for coming all the way down here today from Connecticut.” The president pulled the jacket he was wearing tighter around his thick sweater as he glanced out the window behind the desk into the cold, gray afternoon. “I know this is a sad day for you two. For me, too,” he added. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Bill nodded solemnly as he and Troy eased into the two chairs positioned in front of the big desk. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “It was Jack who called Rex Stein on the platform in Los Angeles. That’s why Rex ran to me at the podium. Jack called him just in the nick of time.” The president glanced from the window to Troy. “Right?”

  Troy nodded. “And if it weren’t for Jack, that LNG tanker would have made it all the way to Virginia. And I mean all the way to the beach.”

  “So many people would have died,” Dorn murmured, looking past Troy.

  “Including a lot of military personnel at our naval base there,” Bill said.

  “Rex and Jack are heroes.” Dorn pointed at Troy. “You are, too, son.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I—”

  “I should have been better to Rex,” Dorn said. “He was right all along about me needing to be more careful, but I ignored him. I should have given him more credit. If I had, he might still be alive. I’ll have to deal with that for a long time.”

  Troy glanced at Baxter, who didn’t seem swayed at all by the emotion in Dorn’s voice. He was picking at his fingernails and didn’t seem at all interested in his boss’s sentiment.

  The president grimaced. “I learned a great lesson.” He held up a hand. “I’m not trying to say I’m turning into Ronald Reagan, George W. Bush, or Attila the Hun. But maybe there’s more of a place for Red Cell Seven in our intelligence structure than I thought. In fact, maybe it should be one of the cornerstones from now on.” Dorn took a deep breath. “Jack was an inspiration for me in terms of changing my thinking on that.”

  “And with all due respect, sir,” Troy spoke up, “the ironic part about what you just said is that Jack might have been even more liberal than you.”

  “You’re the hawk,” the president spoke up, nodding at Troy. “Don’t think I didn’t spot that salute to the arrows.”

  “Of course I am.” Troy had thought the president was looking at Baxter when he’d saluted the arrows. “You know that.” He glanced at Baxter. Dorn had mentioned Red Cell Seven by name a few moments ago. He wasn’t supposed to have told Baxter anything about the files Bill had given him. But he must have broken that promise. “And you know why, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Jack wasn’t actually your son, was he, Bill?”

  Troy’s eyes raced back to Baxter. It was the first time Baxter had spoken, other than to greet them. In his peripheral vision, Troy saw his father’s posture go defensive.

  “What are you talking about?” Bill asked. “He was absolutely my son. He is my son.”

  “He wasn’t your natural son,” Baxter went on. “He wasn’t your blood. See, that’s what I’m getting at.” The chief of staff gestured at Troy. “Not like Troy is. Jack was your wife’s natural son, but not yours.”

  “No. He wasn’t,” Bill agreed tersely.

  “And what ever happened to Rita Hayes?” Baxter continued. “She was your executive assistant at First Manhattan for so many years. Why’d she quit so suddenly, and where did she go? No one can seem to find—”

  “What’s your point, Stewart?” Troy interrupted. When they’d shaken hands, Baxter hadn’t reacted well to a man thirty years his junior addressing him by his first name. So Troy did it again, this time loudly.

  “Yes, Stewart,” President Dorn echoed. “What is your point?”

  “We did background checks on you two before you came down here today,” Baxter answered, as though none of this should be a big deal and he didn’t see why everyone was getting so irritated. “Thoroughly, I might add.” He shrugged. “I’m just making certain we’re all on the same page, okay?”

  “Okay,” Bill snapped. “Let’s do that. Let’s make certain we’re all on exactly the same page.” He gestured at the president. “Sir, Mr. Baxter should not be in here while we discuss Red Cell Seven. And this is nothing personal. This is not because of what he just said.”

  “I’m the president’s chief of staff,” Baxter countered, glaring at Bill. “I’ll stay in here if I choose to. And in this case, I do. In fact, it’s critical that I stay, given the subject matter.”

  “Then Troy and I are leaving, Mr. President,” Bill stated, starting to rise from his chair. “I will not discuss this topic in front of anyone but you, sir. It’s that simple.”

  “No, no,” Dorn spoke up quickly. “Sit down. Please, Bill.” He glanced at Baxter. “I’m sorry, Stewart, but you’ll have to leave.”

  “What?”

  “I have to trust Bill on this.”

  Baxter clenched his jaw as he stared back at the president. Finally he stood up and stalked across the carpet.

  When he reached the door, he turned back and pointed at Troy. “Don’t let these cowboys put on their Red Cell Seven Stetsons any time they want to, Mr. President. Rope them in, like you were going to before you were shot. We can’t allow RCS to keep operating without putting some significant constraints on it. If we don’t, these guys will get this country in a lot of trouble.”

  “THOSE PEOPLE are idiots,” Kaashif said. “They couldn’t interrogate their way out of a paper bag.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” the man driving the pickup truck warned.

  “One of them was so stupid he used a real name during my interrogation.”

  “How do you know?”

  Kaashif rubbed his stomach. It was bothering him a little. “The other one became very angry when the name was spoken.”

  “What was the name? Do you remember?”

  “Uh, I think it was Major Trav.”

  “That sounds like a partial.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Could it have been Travers?”

  Kaashif shrugged. “It could have been.”

  “Think back. It’s important that you—”

  “They have too many rules,” Kaashif interrupted, “too many regulations. They have chains of command and due process. They think their Constitution is so grand and so much better than the founding principles of all other societies. They think it makes them invincible.” He laughed confidently. “But what they think makes them so strong is precisely what makes them weak. They cannot react quickly because of their rules and regulations. They cannot be agile like we can, because their Constitution weighs them down. In time it will pull them all the way down. It will be their undoing.”

  “Careful. Don’t be arrogant. That’s when we find trouble.”

  Kaashif scoffed as the pickup truck moved through the cold, gray dusk settling down onto Philadelphia. “They thought I was actually scared.” He sneered. “I am never scared.”

  “Did you tell them anything?” the driver asked. At thirty-four, he was ten years older than Kaashif. “Anything at all?”

  Kaashif smirked. “I told them only that I will need to make up my high school calculus test. Which, I guess, I will have to do.” He rolled his eyes. “What a joke. I could take that test in my sleep and get one hundred percent.”

  “You will definitely make up the calculus test.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you think he believed you were in high school?”

  Kaashif chuckled caustically. “I am in high school.”

  “Do you think he believed you were seventeen?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The driver pursed his lips as he checked his mirrors. He wasn’t as confident that things had gone smoothly in the interrogation. He had extensive experience with U.S. intel, and he knew how good they were. An
d he’d heard of a man named Wilson Travers who could supposedly see into the future. But if Travers was the interrogator and he could see into the future, why would he have allowed Kaashif to go free? It didn’t make sense. The driver checked his mirrors again worriedly. Still, he saw nothing.

  “Everything must seem real. The illusion can never be discovered.”

  “You worry too much,” Kaashif chided. “Enjoy life a little.”

  “I don’t have time for that. Neither do you. That is not why we were put on this earth. We will enjoy ourselves in the next life.”

  “Ah, you don’t know what you are talking about. So, how are my ‘mother and father’ doing?” Kaashif asked sarcastically.

  “They went to the police this morning and filed a missing persons report. Just as concerned parents would do. As I said, the illusion must seem real. We will arrange for a reunion scene tonight. The story will be that you ran away from home for a few days because they are so strict. Everyone will believe it, most important the agents who interrogated you. They will believe you are too afraid of them to tell anyone the truth about what happened. It will be good.”

  “They said they would be watching me. Well, they will see me go into the high school in the morning and come back out in the afternoon. But they will have no idea what I do at night. And then one morning soon I will go into the school, but I will not come back out. Not the way I went in, and they will never know how I slipped away. It will be exactly the way I did last week to see Imelda. That went off without a hitch, and no one ever knew I was gone from school for most of the day.” Kaashif laughed again, this time very loudly. “And they will never find me after that. I will be gone forever.” He nodded. “I will have beaten them, and hell will be raining down by that time. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to trample them. I only wish I could see their faces when the hour is upon them.”

  “Just do your job. Don’t look at this as a competition.”

  “Everything in life is a competition.”

  “Keep your focus, Kaashif. Don’t make me—”

  “Do you think the U.S. authorities will arrest the two who are playing my parents?”

  The driver’s eyes narrowed. “I would, if I were they.”

  Now it was Kaashif who checked his mirror. “And the attacks?” he asked. “What of the attacks?”

  The driver smiled for the first time since he could remember. “As we speak, Kaashif, as we speak.”

  Kaashif glanced over at the driver as his eyes widened. “The hour is upon them?”

  “Yes. The decision was made this morning. Hell is already raining down.”

  “I’M SORRY for all that, Bill.” The president nodded at the door Baxter had just slammed shut. “Stewart can be downright unfriendly sometimes. I know it. But he’s what I need right now.”

  “I understand,” Bill answered solemnly.

  Troy had never seen his father like that. For a few seconds it had looked like Bill was going to come out of his chair at Baxter when the COS hit him broadside with that thing about Jack—and then piled on with the Rita Hayes reference. If Bill had, Baxter would have been sorry. Even though his father was more than three decades out of the Marine Corps, he was still in excellent shape. His father didn’t get angry often. But when he did and his temper was unleashed, things didn’t go well for the object of Bill’s fury.

  “I did not ask him to run G-2 lines on you guys,” Dorn said. “In fact, I didn’t even know he had. You are obviously both above that kind of thing,” the president said, gesturing at them. “It won’t happen again. I promise you.”

  “It doesn’t make me comfortable that your chief of staff is so against Red Cell Seven,” Bill said stoically. “But what makes me even more uncomfortable is that he knows about it at all. You promised me—”

  “Don’t worry about Stewart. He doesn’t get this. And that’s putting it politely.”

  “What have you told him?” Troy asked.

  “Nothing. And I will tell him nothing. I made a promise to your father,” Dorn said, gesturing at Troy, “and I intend to keep it.”

  Troy glanced at Bill. He didn’t want to be disrespectful, but there were people risking their lives out there every minute. They had to come first no matter what.

  “I’m serious,” Dorn continued when he saw doubt in Troy’s expression. “Basically, all Stewart Baxter knows about RCS is its name. That’s all I told him.” The president hesitated. “But remember, he’s been around Washington a long time. Knowing Stewart as well as I do now, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had another source. He seems to have sources on everything.”

  That didn’t sound good. In fact, it sounded like an easy way for Dorn to absolve himself of any guilt for giving Baxter information he wasn’t supposed to. There wasn’t any way Troy or his father could confirm or deny it, either. Baxter certainly wasn’t going to admit it if they asked him.

  “Any chance Baxter could have set up listening devices in here?” Troy asked, looking around.

  The president smiled wanly. “You guys really are para—”

  “Any chance?” Bill interrupted. “I’m going out on a very long, very thin limb just by being here. I am violating procedure, and believe me, there are people watching this meeting from the cheap seats who question my view on this. But I’m confident it’s the right thing to do.”

  The president shook his head. “No chance of any bugs. The Secret Service swept the office thirty minutes before you got here as part of their new routine since the assassination attempt. They found nothing, and I’ve been in here ever since.” Dorn began coughing hard, and Bill started to get up to help. But Dorn waved him off. “I’m okay,” he said as Bill eased back into the chair. “I need to know everything about Red Cell Seven. If you guys are more comfortable getting out of the West Wing and going into the private residence to talk about it, I understand.”

  Troy and Bill glanced at each other and nodded.

  “Let’s do that,” Bill said. “I’m sorry if that seems like overkill, but we have to be very careful.”

  “No, no, that’s fine. I understand.” Dorn grinned. “Can one of you guys give me a push?”

  “LET’S GO, HARRY,” Travers urged as he climbed back into the passenger seat. He and Boyd had stopped to fill up the van at a gas station outside Wilmington, Delaware, on their way back from Philly. “If we hustle we can make DC by seven.”

  “Relax,” Boyd retorted as he opened a three-pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and gulped the first one down whole. “Man, that’s good,” he muttered, licking his lips as he reached forward to turn the key.

  “You better cut down on that stuff, Harry. You’re starting to get a little heavy in the—”

  Travers cut his jab at Boyd short. Something didn’t seem right. It was nothing he could put his finger on, but his sixth sense was suddenly going crazy. Trust your instincts. Then, through the windshield, he saw two young men sprinting for the van.

  CHAPTER 6

  “ISN’T THIS one of the places President Clinton brought that intern?” Bill asked. The large room was piled high with cardboard boxes identified by country name with black marker.

  The three of them had ridden an elevator up to the third floor of the White House—from the kitchen on the ground floor—and then headed to this storage space, which was in a corner of the building. Troy had pushed Dorn’s wheelchair from the West Wing to the residence with three Secret Service agents hovering around them the whole way, including the ride up in the elevator.

  The Secret Service agents were gone now. They were waiting in another room well away from this one. Bill had insisted on their leaving as a condition of talking to Dorn further about Red Cell Seven. The president had agreed, much to the intense aggravation of Richard Radcliff, the agent in charge.

  In this room were stored many different china patterns, silverware sets, and crystal used f
or formal state dinners. The elevator the three men had just used ran directly between the ground floor and the little-used third floor. It didn’t stop on the state floor or second floor and was used mostly as a means of transporting the formal dining room ware. However, the still-lingering rumor was that, during the Clinton administration, it had also transported a covert human cargo named Monica, so she could come in through the kitchen mostly unnoticed and meet the president on the third floor, bypassing the other residence floors where she might run into someone she shouldn’t.

  President Dorn shook his head. “I’m not commenting on that, Bill. Mr. Clinton was a tremendous president and a great man. It’s not for me to speculate on innuendo.”

  “So, how much have you told your chief of staff about Red Cell Seven?” Bill asked.

  “For the last time,” the president responded in a steely tone, “Stewart Baxter knows nothing important about RCS.”

  “What exactly does ‘nothing important’—”

  “Look,” Dorn interrupted sharply, “I can’t keep the FBI blindly looking for my assassin for much longer. I’ll have to let them know Shane Maddux was responsible. I won’t say that directly, of course. That could bring Red Cell Seven into it, and none of us want that. So I’ll whisper it to them anonymously somehow. The thing is, I’m going to have to do it soon. I can’t keep them tied up this way.”

  Bill had told the president that Maddux was responsible for the assassination attempt, Troy knew. And he’d told Dorn that Maddux was involved with the LNG tankers that had been heading for Boston and Norfolk. He’d explained that Maddux had done all that to push Congress to give the U.S. intelligence infrastructure broader surveillance and investigative powers at home and abroad, and to incite the American public against terrorism at a time when Maddux believed the population was losing touch with 9/11. With people forgetting the devastation, Maddux believed the country was becoming vulnerable to another attack.