“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Nixon murmured breathlessly as he grinned at Carlson from behind the desk. “In fact, it’s perfect.”
Nixon’s grin and his shifty little eyes seemed laced with a trace of evil. And somehow that seemed appropriate. “Yes, sir, it is.”
How could it be that simple? How could Nixon create something as significant as this out of thin air? It was Carlson’s dream job — executing global intelligence and waging a shadow war with no constraints. It was as if God had suddenly appeared before him and confirmed heaven’s existence.
No, no, it was better than that. It was here, it was now. It was real. Heaven was off in the distance, waiting — maybe.
“How?” Carlson asked. “How does this happen?”
Haldeman motioned at the documents in Carlson’s lap. “That is Executive Order 1973 One-E. It is signed by Richard Milhous Nixon, the thirty-seventh president of the United States of America. Under Article Two, Section Three, Clause Five of the Constitution, the president is empowered to take care that the laws of the United States are fully executed. That is what President Nixon has just ordered you to do in his capacity as chief executive of this country and as the commander in chief of its military.” Haldeman pointed at the documents again. “You have two originals of the Order. Those are the only two originals in existence, and you will keep both of them in your possession in case you ever need them.”
“To demonstrate to agents I’m recruiting that my charge has complete credibility,” Carlson surmised.
“The ultimate credibility,” Nixon said firmly.
“I suggest,” Haldeman continued, “that you conceal those two pieces of paper in separate locations; in addition, that you make one other person who you trust with your life aware of their existence as well as aware of at least one of the hidden locations. The Orders are genuine, they are legitimate, and they are completely enforceable as a matter of law. In fact, your name is written into the Order to completely protect you from any illegal prosecution and to assist you with that credibility you just mentioned. However, without them, you are vulnerable.” Haldeman nodded to Carlson. “President Nixon empowers you to move forward with the Order, Captain Carlson.”
The room went deathly still for several moments.
Finally, Carlson spoke up. “Thank you, sir.”
“I expect your primary target will be the Soviet Union,” Nixon said. Carlson had heard about Nixon’s fear of the Soviet Union and its legendary Red Army. It wasn’t a well-kept secret in the Pentagon. According to some he’d spoken to, Nixon’s fear of the Soviets bordered on pathological paranoia.
“Of course, sir.”
“But China and Castro will be of interest to you as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll call your new unit Red Cell Seven,” Nixon directed, “and you’ll subtly let the name filter out into the international intelligence community. It will drive Brezhnev crazy,” he added, referring to the leader of the Soviet Union. “He’ll have the KGB and others of his intelligence network search frantically everywhere for cells One through Six. And he’ll spend billions of rubles doing so. But he’ll never find the first six cells, because they have never existed and they never will.”
“Maybe we should call it Red Cell Fifty,” Ehrlichman muttered.
They were the only words Ehrlichman would utter during the entire meeting, but they elicited the lone universal laugh.
When everyone’s loud chuckles faded, the president took a deep breath, as if a weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. “Do you have any other questions, Captain Carlson?”
“Does this Order give me license to kill?”
Nixon leaned forward, placed both elbows on the desk, and interlocked his fingers in front of his face as if he were praying. “After you leave this room, Captain Carlson, I want you to find a secure location to thoroughly read that Executive Order. When you’ve finished reading it twice, and I do mean twice, you will understand that you have the authority to do whatever you feel is necessary to keep this country safe. By that I mean absolutely anything. Kill, torture, steal, destroy — it’s up to you. I don’t care what it is as long as you in good faith and conscience can convince yourself that the action will be executed in the name of protecting the United States of America. Are we clear on that?”
Carlson nodded. He could barely control his euphoria. “Yes, sir,” he managed to answer calmly for what he figured must have been at least the tenth time since he’d entered this room. “Crystal clear.”
“This is the ultimate trust,” Nixon said. “I can bestow no greater privilege on a United States citizen.”
Carlson nodded again as the weight of the words cascaded down onto him like a powerful but incredibly pleasing waterfall. He cleared his throat softly to make certain his words came out firmly and without hesitance. “And I cannot possibly receive any greater privilege. Thank you, sir.”
“Hello, Captain.”
The door clicked shut behind Bill Jensen. Shut by the same Secret Service agent who’d been shadowing him ever since he’d stepped onto White House grounds an hour ago.
The agent had been intense about his duties for the last sixty minutes, obnoxiously so. But that intensity hadn’t bothered Jensen. The man was simply doing his job, and besides, Jensen made a point of getting angry only when exhibiting the emotion achieved a specific goal. Otherwise he considered anger nothing but negative energy that distracted the mind from rational and effective thought.
“Come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Jensen nodded respectfully at the presidential seal, which was woven into the dark blue carpet of the Oval Office. Like Roger Carlson ten years before, he acknowledged only the thirteen arrows in the left talon.
As he moved across the room in his measured stride, Jensen felt great pride when he glanced at the president, who was sitting serenely behind the wide desk, and then at the chief of staff, who was relaxing in a chair to the left. In the last three years Ronald Reagan and James Baker had restored the country’s respect on the international stage, after the Jimmy Carter debacle, by retooling the military and beating the hell out of interest rates. The country’s economy was booming, and America’s armed forces were once again feared throughout the world. Reagan and Baker were totally focused on maintaining the United States’ role as a global superpower, and it was a pleasure to serve them as a Marine.
But Jensen still hadn’t been told what he was doing here today.
He hadn’t been told why he’d been specifically instructed to wear civilian clothes, either. Of course, it wasn’t like he minded. Once in a while he enjoyed stepping out in his worsted wool charcoal suit, stylish blue Oxford shirt with white collar and French cuffs, and his favorite red silk tie, which was also imported from Paris. Today Jensen was wearing the uniform his father had worn every day. His father had been a prominent Wall Street rainmaker before an untimely death last summer had cut short his glittering career in Lower Manhattan.
Jensen caught a glimpse of himself in the gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall to his right. He was tall and slim with light blond hair, which was trimmed high and tight, and he cut a naturally aristocratic profile in the glass as he passed by. People had often described his look as presidential, too, and for a quick moment he wondered if someday this office would be his. It was entirely possible.
“Good morning, Mr. President.” Jensen stopped a few inches shy of the desk and clasped his hands behind his back, standing ramrod straight, just as he would if he’d been wearing his Marine uniform reporting to his superior officer. “How can I assist you, sir?”