Kodiak Sky

by Stephen Frey

  “So, where were you?” Jack asked as he leaned over and put his forearms on the waist-high stone wall that bordered three sides of the porch. He was staring at a distant tree line through the long-shadowed September evening and across green pastures dotted with several barns. Their mother, Cheryl, loved Thoroughbred horses and rode almost every day. “I called you a few times, but I never heard back.”

  “I was climbing K2. We did it from the Chinese side.”

  “Bullshit. I would have read about it.”

  “I’ve done Everest, so why not?”

  “Look, I was worried about—”

  “I can’t say where I was, Jack. You know that.”

  Jack shook his head as thunder rumbled in the distance. “Isn’t all the secrecy with me kind of ridiculous at this point?”

  “No.”

  “After I got you out of Alaska, after Karen got shot in Wyoming getting the Order and protecting the peak?”

  Troy grimaced. “I’m sorry about Karen. You know that.”

  “If you were really sorry, you’d hate Shane Maddux.”

  “Don’t start with me about him.”

  “You still aren’t going to tell me where you were?”

  “I can’t.”

  “I know as much about Red Cell Seven as anyone.”

  “You think you do.”

  “I know you’ve been using that damn room in the basement again.”

  After a few moments Troy asked, “How are you and Karen doing?”

  “Dodging me again?”

  “I have to. You know that.”

  “See?”

  Troy chuckled. “Good one, brother.”

  Jack flicked a tiny pearl-white pebble from atop the stone wall, and it fell ten feet down into the dark mulch of a neatly manicured rose garden. “Karen and I are doing fine.”

  “Marriage is still pure bliss?”

  “Karen’s my soul mate. She was right away, as soon as I saw her. You know that.”

  Troy shook his head. “Even after—”

  “Even then.” Jack knew where Troy was headed with this. “It doesn’t matter what happened to her in Wyoming. I love her. She’s still the same person.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  Jack heard the sarcasm, which was unusual. Troy rarely used it. “She is, damn it.”

  “Okay.”

  “What about Jennie?” Jack didn’t want to dwell on Karen’s condition. “She’s a nice girl.”

  “Sure she is. But she isn’t my soul mate. I doubt I’ll ever find a woman who is. Marriage seems too permanent.”

  Troy was such a rolling stone. “That’s the whole point.”

  “Yeah, but most people I know who’ve been married for a while wonder if they did the right thing. They may not say it directly, but it’s in their eyes.” Troy chuckled like he’d dodged a bullet. “I guess that’s why it’s called wedlock.”

  There was something going on here, Jack figured. “Am I sensing trouble in paradise?”

  “I never said Jennie and I were in paradise.” Troy banged the top of the wall with his fist. “It’s hard to keep a relationship together when the two people in it are apart a lot. She hates it that I’m gone all the time, and that I can’t tell her where I go.” He shrugged. “Hey, look at Mom and Dad.”

  “Dad’s disappearance has nothing to do with Mom or their marriage.”

  “You don’t know that, Jack. No one does.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “What about Rita Hayes?”

  Jack winced. Rita had been Bill’s executive assistant at First Manhattan for many years. “What about her?”

  “Maddux has that video of them,” Troy reminded Jack. “The one Rita took secretly.”

  “Maddux is a bad guy,” Jack said disgustedly. “A very bad guy.”

  “He’s dedicated to the truth.”

  “For that bastard the truth is simply what he thinks you’ll believe.”

  “He’s a man who puts this country in front of everything, including himself.”

  It was like hearing fingernails screech slowly down a blackboard. “How the hell can you defend him?” Jack demanded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last October he tried to kill you in Alaska.”

  “And last December he saved my life in Florida.”

  “He murdered Lisa Martinez, the mother of your son.”

  “I’m aware,” Troy said quietly, looking away.

  “Shane Maddux is a murderer and a liar.”

  “He’s a patriot.”

  “He’s scum, and I—”

  “Enough,” Troy interrupted loudly. “Look, Rita’s off the grid, too, just like Dad. Personally, I think that’s more than just a coincidence. If he’s alive, he’s getting help from someone.”

  Jack nodded reluctantly. “I hear you.”

  They were silent for several minutes as dusk gave way to darkness.

  “Follow me,” Troy finally said, heading for the wide stairway leading down to the lawn.

  “Where are we going?” Jack asked when he reached the grass. Troy was walking away from the house, toward the high, four-slat fence bordering the pasture in front of them.

  “Just follow me,” Troy called over his shoulder as more thunder rumbled through the darkening sky.

  “What about the party?” Despite Bill’s disappearance, Cheryl was having a small family party tonight to celebrate his birthday. “It starts in ten minutes,” Jack said, checking his watch.

  “Then hurry up.”

  When they reached the first barn, Troy had Jack wait outside while he went in. When he reappeared, he was carrying a piece of cloth.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jack demanded as Troy moved behind him and used the cloth as a blindfold.

  “Shut up and do what I tell you,” Troy snapped, moving in front of Jack and placing Jack’s right hand on his left shoulder.

  As they moved inside the barn, the familiar scents of hay, seed, and manure seemed particularly pungent thanks to the blindfold.

  “Kneel,” Troy whispered.

  Jack obeyed, guided down to a cushion by hands firmly clenching his upper arms. When he was on his knees, the blindfold slipped away.

  As his vision cleared, he realized that he was in front of a makeshift altar. On the plain white wooden table were two lighted candles, which cast an eerie, flickering glow around the stall. Also on the altar, facing him, was a human skull with a small red metallic-looking “7” affixed to the forehead. Just in front of the skull’s chin, the sharp ends of two shiny sabers crossed. Each of the sabers also had a tiny “7” affixed to the tip of the blade.

  Jack glanced up cautiously into the dim light, past the altar. Behind it he counted a dozen individuals, all clad in black robes with hoods and masks. The person immediately in front of him on the other side of the altar held an open book with both hands. It looked like a Bible, but Jack couldn’t tell for sure.

  His gaze flickered from side to side. The two robed individuals at each end of the assembly brandished pistols, both aimed directly at him.

  CHAPTER 7

  STEWART BAXTER 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 t
o 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.”

  “WE 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

  STEWART BAXTER rose from the couch, moved to the wingback chair Espinosa was sitting in, and handed the justice a manila envelope.