Kodiak Sky (Red Cell Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

CHAPTER 7

S
TEWART
B
AXTER
and Henry Espinosa sat in the study of Espinosa’s home in Potomac, Maryland. They were thirty-five miles northwest of the White House, near Congressional Country Club.

Baxter was President Dorn’s chief of staff, and his reputation inside the Capital Beltway was that of a supreme ballbuster. He was well into his seventh decade, but he didn’t act like it. With Dorn’s popularity bursting at the seams, he was stepping on the president’s agenda hard, as well as a lot of toes.

He loved his reputation. Every once in a while he fired a staffer just because, just to push the legend, not because the individual had done anything wrong. He enjoyed it that people walked on eggshells around him.

He loved it even more when people told him he should be president—not Dorn—mostly because he agreed with them. Even at his age, he hadn’t ruled out a run at the executive office when Dorn’s term was over.

Baxter had left the White House an hour ago in a heavily armored limousine to make the trip to this four-bedroom brick colonial. The home was in no way ostentatious, because it couldn’t be. Ostentatious could have elicited harsh criticism from tenacious bloggers who were always closely monitoring members of the high court.

But behind floor-to-ceiling drapes, the house was ornately furnished and decorated with the trappings of a man who earned a considerable living and held a highly respected position in society. The study, in particular, cast this impression because, Baxter assumed, this was where Espinosa spent most of his time. The furniture was made of fine leather and expensive wood; the beautiful rolltop desk had once been used by John D. Rockefeller; the silver-framed pictures were classic photographs of Espinosa with his family; and the art hanging on the walls and decorating the tables was exquisite in taste and price.

Espinosa had come from humble beginnings, Baxter knew. He was second-generation Puerto Rican–American with a dark complexion and a shock of thick, black hair tinted more and more by silver streaks as forty faded further and further into the rearview mirror. Espinosa had grown up poor in a tough, crime-ridden section of East New York, Brooklyn. But with help from affirmative action he’d made it to the Ivy League and hadn’t wasted the opportunity. After graduating summa cum laude from Harvard, he’d attended Yale Law School and then worked at a white-shoe firm in Midtown Manhattan before going on the bench.

Until six months ago Espinosa had been a judge on the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit. Then he’d made the big leap and was now an associate justice of the Supreme Court.

Espinosa was one of the youngest men ever appointed to the Supreme Court, and there were others who should have gotten the nod ahead of him. But President Dorn had disregarded protocol and turned Espinosa’s childhood dreams into reality when Congress had approved the nomination.

Now Espinosa had his sights squarely on becoming chief justice, Baxter knew. Well, if that was going to happen Espinosa would need David Dorn’s help again. And there would be a heavy price on top of the debt he already owed.

“How are you, Henry?” Baxter asked in a leading tone. “And how are things at One First Street?”

“Fine, Stewart,” Espinosa answered evenly. “The Supreme Court and I are both just fine.”

Baxter smiled thinly. Justice Espinosa had recognized the expectant tone. Well, that was good. He had to have known this day would come sooner or later. That was how Washington worked. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. And if you buck the system, you pay.

“President Dorn sends his regards, Henry.”

“Tell him I said ‘hello’ as well. He certainly seems to be riding a long, tall wave of popularity.”

“He has a seventy-eight percent approval rating,” Baxter said proudly. “It was over eighty back at the beginning of the year, but, as you know, high seventies is still almost unheard-of, especially for this long.”

“I assume,” Espinosa replied, “that it’s coming mostly from how well he handled the Holiday Mall Attacks.”

Last December, eleven death squads had attacked holiday shoppers with submachine gun fire inside eleven major malls around the country—simultaneously. The press had dubbed the horror the “Holiday Mall Attacks.”

“Stopping those attacks is certainly one reason President Dorn is so popular,” Baxter agreed. “But he’s done many other great things for this country. The public adores him.”

“Yes, Stewart, but we all know—”

“We all know,” Baxter interrupted loudly, “that President Dorn will go down in history as one of the greatest leaders this country has ever had.” He watched as Espinosa pursed his lips, obviously irritated at the intrusion. “I’ll make certain of that if it’s the last thing I do.”

“You are very dedicated.”

“I’m his chief of staff, Henry. Why wouldn’t I be dedicated?”

Espinosa shrugged. “I hear things.”

“Be specific.”

“How can I say this delicately, Stewart?” Espinosa hesitated. “Let’s just say you bear the brunt of the president’s frustrations when things don’t go as planned.”

“Meaning that I’m his whipping boy?” Baxter had heard that before, and he detested it. Espinosa was going to be sorry for saying this. “President Dorn and I have an excellent working relationship.”

“Has anyone figured out why Daniel Gadanz carried out the attacks?” Espinosa asked, turning the page.

“Why does anyone do something like that?”

“Well, if I’m remembering the reports correctly, the men in the death squads were Muslim extremists.”

“That’s right. They were mostly from Yemen, and they belonged to a small, splinter faction of nut jobs. But Gadanz organized and funded them. Without him, they couldn’t possibly have carried out what they did.”

“So that explains their motivation. They were carrying out their jihad. But it doesn’t explain why Daniel Gadanz organized them.”

“Very good, Henry.”

Espinosa shrugged as if it wasn’t good at all. As if it clearly didn’t take a Supreme Court justice to come up with the question.

“The FBI believes,” Baxter continued, “that Gadanz wanted the attacks to go on for a long time. That he intended for them to be diversionary, to distract law enforcement from normal operations. So he could ramp up his drug smuggling into the United States.”

“Of course,” Espinosa whispered. “Brilliant.”

The chief of staff’s expression went grim. Espinosa was right. It had been a brilliant plan. And thank God for Red Cell Seven and how fast they’d uncovered what was really going on and who was responsible, Baxter thought to himself, though he would
never
admit that to anyone.

“During the short time the attacks were going on,” Baxter continued, “there was a significant surge of heroin, cocaine, and marijuana smuggled into this country by Gadanz. Despite being understandably distracted from normal operations, state and local authorities intercepted a number of large shipments at several border and near-shore locations. But the street price of all three drugs still dropped slightly for a few months, indicating that there was a significant new supply available.”

“Meaning,” Espinosa spoke up, “that while local authorities intercepted a few shipments—”

“Most of the shipments from South America and Asia still made it in.”

This time Espinosa seemed intensely irritated at the interruption. But Baxter didn’t care. He’d always found Supreme Court justices to be the stodgiest lot in Washington, terribly impressed with themselves even as they took great pains to appear humble.

“As usual, Henry, you’ve got your finger on the pulse.”

“Don’t patronize me, Stewart. It’s embarrassing for both of us.”

Baxter stared at Espinosa hard. If the justice didn’t come around quickly, that arrogance would be wiped away hard and fast.

“How did the FBI link the Holiday Mall Attacks to Daniel Gadanz so quickly?” Espinosa wanted to know.

“That’s classified.” How Red Cell Seven had connected the Gadanz brothers to the horrible crime was highly classified, and it was a good thing, too. No one was supposed to know about RC7. Even more important to Dorn and Baxter, no one could know how good they were. “Let’s get to why I’m here tonight, Henry.”

Espinosa groaned. “I have to tell you, Stewart, I’m not comfortable with this. It wouldn’t look good if—”

“You should be more willing to help,” Baxter cut in. “You owe President Dorn a great deal.”

“I’m aware.”

It was time to play the card, Baxter decided, and exact a measure of revenge for that “whipping boy” comment.

“It’s a shame when people have such lurid skeletons hanging in their bedroom closets,” Baxter spoke up in a faux-friendly tone. “Isn’t it, Henry? A man enjoys a little pleasure, and then he risks a lifetime of manipulation when it goes wrong. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Espinosa stared back at Baxter for a few moments and then glanced adoringly—and fearfully—at the picture of his wife and three children sitting atop the Rockefeller desk in the far corner of the room. “Go on, Stewart,” he muttered hoarsely. “Get to why you’re here.”

“W
E ARE
Red Cell Seven, Jack Jensen, and this ceremony marks your initiation into our unit. Tonight you will take the secrecy oath. By taking this oath you swear never to reveal any information related to Red Cell Seven to anyone outside the unit. To the extent you do, you may be punished, and that punishment could involve death. It is that simple, and it is that serious. Do you understand?”

Jack nodded to the man on the other side of the altar who was holding the Bible.

“Once you are a member of Red Cell Seven you are always a member of Red Cell Seven. It is a lifetime commitment. There is no going back. Essentially, you die as a human and rise again as one of us. Do you understand, Mr. Jensen?”

Jack nodded again.

“Are you prepared to take this oath and become a member?”

Jack stared up at the eyes behind the mask for a long time, trying to recognize them. But he couldn’t.

“No,” he finally answered in a low, firm voice as he rose from his knees. “No, I am not.”

As he hurried out of the stall the startled whispers behind him increased in volume, and he wasn’t certain he was going to make it out of the barn.

Until he was almost back to the compound, he wasn’t certain he’d survive.

CHAPTER 8

S
TEWART
B
AXTER
rose from the couch, moved to the wingback chair Espinosa was sitting in, and handed the justice a manila envelope.

As Baxter sat back down, Espinosa donned his reading glasses and removed the single sheet of faded paper from inside.

“In your hands you hold Executive Order 1973 One-E,” Baxter explained. “That Order established the most clandestine intelligence unit this nation has ever known. It’s called Red Cell Seven. It was established by Richard Nixon in 1973, basically to hunt for Russian spies. But it survived the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

“I’m familiar with Red Cell Seven,” Espinosa replied in a soft voice as he gazed down at the document. “You should know that. Other than the president and his chief of staff, the Supreme Court is the only body inside the federal government that is aware of the cell’s existence.”

“Of course I know. I was simply being courteous and reminding you.”

“Well, then—”

“What you don’t know is that the cell has gone rogue.”

Espinosa’s eyes flickered to Baxter’s. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that.” Baxter gestured at the paper. “Just read.”

When Espinosa had finished, he glanced up again. “What do you want from me, Stewart?”

“I want your opinion of that document.”

Espinosa removed his reading glasses and slipped them back into his shirt pocket. “First, I have to know if this is actually Richard Nixon’s signature at the bottom of the page.”

“It is,” Baxter replied grimly. It was difficult to mask his disappointment. “I’ve had that signature studied and analyzed by experts, and it is definitely President Nixon’s. They didn’t see the document you are holding, of course, but they saw a copy of that signature and confirmed its authenticity.”

Espinosa stared steadily at Baxter for several moments. Then he lifted the document up until it was between him and the bright overhead light. Slowly, he brought the paper closer and closer to his eyes as he kept the bulb behind it, then held it steady for several moments. Finally, he lowered the paper back into his lap.

The justice’s fingers were shaking, Baxter noticed. “Well?”

“The document is authentic,” Espinosa confirmed. “And absolutely enforceable,” he added. “All genuine agents of Red Cell Seven are forever and completely immune from prosecution of any kind. The leaders of the cell are required to keep a list of initiated agents, not to exceed three hundred individuals at any one time, who can never be prosecuted. The protocol for their protection is all here,” Espinosa said, tapping the document lying in his lap. “I’m sure you’ve read through this.”

“And—”

“And it would be a crime of the highest treason for anyone to ever bring an action against any of those three hundred agents.” It was Espinosa’s turn to interrupt Baxter. “They can steal, kill, or attack anything or anyone, and nothing can be done to them. They cannot be prosecuted for anything from a speeding ticket to being a serial killer. Of course, the assumption is they won’t ever do anything like that for their own personal gain because of who they are and what they stand for. According to the Order, they are to protect and defend the United States ‘with every fiber of their being.’ ” Espinosa glanced down at the paper to make certain he got the words right. “They are to forfeit their lives for the greater glory of the nation and revel in the knowledge that the general population will never know of or appreciate their ultimate sacrifice.” The justice shook his head in awe. “They are free to operate”—he hesitated—“even if they have gone rogue. And who knows if they really have? It’s a relative term with those people. What may look rogue to you and me may be what, in their opinion, is best for the country. There’s nothing anyone can do about them, not without severe consequences, anyway.”

“Why were you looking so hard at the document?” Baxter asked. “Why did you hold it up to the light the way you did?”

“I wanted to see it better.”

“Don’t lie to me, Henry.”

“All I’ll say is that this document is airtight, legitimate, and enforceable.” Espinosa stood up, walked the document back to Baxter, and returned to his chair. “Now, tell me the real reason you asked me to look at it. And why you just threatened my marriage, my family, and my career.”

Baxter shook his head. “Not yet.”

He wanted Espinosa to swing for a while, especially if the justice wasn’t going to be completely forthright even with the obvious danger hanging over his head. The longer Espinosa had to think about the implications of the terrible secret going viral across the Internet, the more likely the justice would be to change his mind and give up any Supreme Court secrets that Baxter and Dorn were unaware of. It was like giving water time to turn a tiny crack in a dam into a torrent that destroyed the dam.

Espinosa pointed at the Order, which now lay in Baxter’s lap. “As far as I know, only two of those documents exist.”

“That’s right,” Baxter confirmed.

“Both documents are supposed to be in the hands of RC7 leadership.”

“That’s right,” Baxter repeated.

“How did you get that one?”

“I guess we’ll both keep secrets for now, Justice Espinosa.” Baxter could already see the stress of the secret getting out working its way into every fiber of Espinosa’s being. Time was clearly his and Dorn’s ally when it came to turning Espinosa into their puppet. “Now let’s talk about why I’m really here. Do you know what I have on you, Henry?”

Espinosa nodded despondently after a few moments. “I think so. Stewart, I can’t have that—”

“Don’t worry, Henry. I just want your cooperation. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“As long as I have that cooperation, your secret will remain forever safe with me. All right?”

“Yes,” Espinosa whispered.

The time for wielding the stick had passed. Now the carrot needed to be dangled. “Remember, Henry, Chief Justice Bolger isn’t getting any younger. And as far as President Dorn is concerned, you are next in line to replace him when he retires. As long as you ultimately cooperate with me at the crucial moment, of course,” Baxter added.

Espinosa shook his head. “Bolger isn’t going to retire anytime—”

“Or he dies,” Baxter cut in.

The two men stared at each other for a long time. Finally, the wall clock above the desk began to chime, breaking the silence.

“W
HAT THE
hell just happened?” Troy demanded as he stalked across the stone porch toward Jack. “Are you out of your mind?”

Jack was standing in the same spot he’d been standing before following Troy to the barn. He was leaning over the wall and gazing down, trying to find that pebble he’d flicked into the rose garden earlier. But it was too dark.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered as Troy moved beside him. He could feel Troy’s rage boiling over as he rose up off the wall and turned to face his younger brother. “I couldn’t do it. Joining Red Cell Seven would go against everything I stand for, Troy. I appreciate the offer, more than I can express. But I can’t join a group that tortures and murders people to get information.”

Troy groaned loudly as a shot of chain-blue lightning flashed across the sky. “I thought you’d finally grown up. But you’re the same old Jack, still the same bleeding-heart liberal, aren’t you?”

“Torturing innocent people is wrong,” Jack retorted as a loud thunderclap followed the lightning. “I don’t care what your politics are.”

“We only torture people who deserve it. Believe me, they’re not innocent.”

“Don’t feed me that crap, little brother,” Jack snapped. “Sometimes you guys miss. Don’t try to tell me you’re perfect.”

“Nobody bats a thousand, Jack.”

Now it was Jack’s turn to groan. “Listen to yourself, Troy. You’re rationalizing torture and murder.”

“How could you be so disloyal?”

“
Disloyal?
What are you talking about?”

“How could you turn down that offer?” Troy grabbed Jack by the shirt with both hands. “How could you turn your
back on your country?”

“I went up on Gannett Peak last December,” Jack hissed. Part of his shirt tore off in Troy’s hands as he pushed his brother away hard. “I did what Dad asked, and I risked my life to get that Order for you guys. Karen did, too.” Jack squared up as Troy came at him again and rain began to fall. “And she took a bullet to the head for it. So don’t ever call me or her disloyal. You got that?”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Shut up.”

Jack ducked Troy’s first punch just as the storm unloaded on the landscape, sending torrents of rain flooding down onto them amid the lightning flashes and thunderclaps.

They hadn’t physically fought in years, but Jack still remembered that his only chance to win was to get his brother on the ground fast and use his size advantage. Troy was too good a fighter on his feet, seemingly as fast as those lightning bolts splitting apart the night sky above them.

He charged at Troy with his shoulder down and wrapped his arms as they collided. They crashed against the stone wall and tumbled along it together. But after a quick scuffle Troy broke away, and they stared at each other from a few feet apart as the rain soaked them.

“I was the one who proposed you to Red Cell Seven!” Troy shouted above the storm. “I went out on a limb for you, and you showed me up.”

“You should have known I wouldn’t join!” Jack yelled back. “I can’t belong to a group that uses torture. There’s no justification for that in any situation.”

“You were okay with it in Alaska,” Troy reminded Jack, “when it came to finding Karen fast, when her life was in danger.”

Jack gritted his teeth. He started to yell back, but there was nothing he could say. He
had
been okay with it that night.

“Walking out of that ceremony had nothing to do with torture,” Troy muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“You just wanted to embarrass me in front of all those people.”

“Oh, bullshit!”

“You still aren’t over it!” Troy shouted as a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the area as brightly as if it were noon on a clear day. “You’re still bitter, Jack.”

“What am I still bitter about?”

“You know.”

“Say it, Troy. Come on,
say it
!”

They gazed hard at each other through the downpour.

“You’re still bitter that you aren’t Bill’s son,” Troy finally muttered. “You hate that I’m blood but you’re not. It’s that simple, and it’s that wrong. You’re as much his son as I am, and down deep you know it. You’re just too insecure to admit it. It’s so stupid.”

The last few words caused an explosion inside Jack. It wasn’t for Troy to decide what was stupid and what wasn’t. He had no idea how it felt to be an outsider all those years, because he’d been the ultimate insider the moment he was born. He was the classic example of a kid who’d been born on third base and thought he’d hit a triple.

Jack charged again, but this time Troy avoided the rush easily and tripped Jack on the way by, causing him to sprawl forward onto the drenched stones. In an instant Troy was on him like a big cat, pinning Jack’s chest to the stones. Before Jack could retaliate, Troy had Jack’s right wrist almost to the back of his neck, immobilizing him.

“You’re an idiot, Jack. Sometimes I still don’t get you.”

Jack moaned in relief as Troy let his wrist go and the knifing pain in his shoulder eased. “Sometimes I don’t get myself,” he muttered through the raindrops bouncing off the stones around his face.

Troy stood up, releasing Jack completely. He held his hand out to help his older brother up as Jack rolled onto his back.

But Jack refused.

Troy shook his head as he turned to go inside. “What a prick you are sometimes. But I guess I still love you.”