To Free a Spy Read online

  The phone conversation with Joplan yesterday afternoon satisfied Warfield and he’d called Cross with the news. Cross wasted no time arranging this morning’s meeting. Warfield thought the president was making too big a deal of it, however, and suggested instead that he get FBI chief Fullwood on the phone and tell him Joplan had had a conversion. Cross blew that idea off without even thinking about it. He wanted Otto Stern and Austin Quinn to attend the meeting along with Fullwood.

  Warfield went to a reception area near the Oval Office where Paula Newnan was talking with Earl Fullwood. He didn’t know the FBI Director well but had met him on a couple of occasions, the most recent being a National Security Council meeting months earlier. The FBI Director was not an official member of the NSC, but, like Warfield and others, was invited when his input at a meeting was needed. Warfield’s first thought on seeing Fullwood now was of the scent of the black cigars he chewed on. Warfield remembered that the last time he saw Fullwood on a TV newscast he would have sworn he smelled cigar smoke.

  Paula saw Warfield and walked over to greet him. She had the rare ability to maintain a sense of who she was before the White House, even in the midst of all the egos and pressures there. Warfield had seen too many others get caught up in the thin air of apartness that too often infected those who existed in the shadows of power. Warfield was having a laugh with Paula when he noticed Fullwood standing across the room eyeing the two of them as if he had just spotted two of his Most Wanted. A minute later Warfield walked over to Fullwood. Brown-stained teeth greeted him.

  “ ’lo Warfield. What’s goin’ on at that little camp of yours—Lone Elm is it?” Fullwood had headed up his home state’s crime investigation agency before his present appointment. To Warfield, Fullwood neither looked the part of FBI Director nor acted it. Polyester suits. Thin, grayed shirts. Scuffed wing-tips. Forty pounds overweight. A seemingly-fixed scowl on his face. Warfield noticed once at a meeting that Fullwood’s socks incredibly didn’t match. Fullwood must have had some terribly damning information on the former President, John McNabb, who’d appointed him, Warfield mused. He thought Cross would ease him out and knew that could not come soon enough for the troops a few blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue at the FBI headquarters.

  “It’s Mr. FBI himself,” Warfield responded. “How’s crime, Earl?” Warfield knew the Bureau’s reported stats showed a turn for the better in the last year, but an investigative reporter at The Washington Post was looking into allegations the Bureau had played with the numbers. It was a sensitive subject for the FBI.

  Fullwood’s bushy eyebrows moved closer together but he hardly made eye contact with Warfield. “You’ve seen the numbers, Warfield. It’s down.” He crammed the cigar back between his teeth and went to the coffee pot.

  Otto Stern joined Warfield. As broker and filter for information that reached the president, the national security advisor had the greatest degree of access to the president of all his inner circle.

  “Otto. How goes it?”

  “Warfield.” Stern said flatly. He was a solemn man with a calm, strong, monotonic voice. Warfield thought it all fit, including his name. Stern had been CIA deputy director for operations at the time the CIA mole Aldrich Ames was spying for Russia. In the Ames aftermath, Stern resigned. It had happened on his shift. The investigation cleared him but there were leaks that some members of the investigative panel were not one-hundred percent satisfied Stern should be absolved of responsibility. Stern went on to join a Washington think tank and Cross later brought him into the White House. Warfield had wondered whether that was a wise move by the president, because even a hint of impropriety by such a high-profile figure as the former director of the Central Intelligence Agency was never really forgotten, but gave Cross credit for having the courage of his convictions.

  The conversations stopped. Cross had walked in and as usual started working the room with greetings and personal comments. He smiled when he got to Warfield. “Fleming DeGrande still happy?”

  Warfield deadpanned, “Still has me.” Cross always bantered with Fleming at the times they’d been together. One night as Warfield and Fleming drove home from a function at the White House she’d laughed and called Cross a hunk. Warfield feigned jealousy and cried that Cross was too old for her and, by the way, he’s married.

  Austin Quinn arrived and migrated to Cross after shaking hands all around. When he had gotten to Warfield he smiled and said, “Colonel, good to see you. You know, every time I hear your name mentioned at Langley it’s on a good note.” It occurred to Warfield that Quinn was always Gentlemen’s Quarterly perfect. Warfield was particular enough about his own appearance, whether in camo’s or a sport jacket, but Quinn was a male fashion plate with the addition of an infectious smile that exhibited perfect teeth. Warfield had never seen him even remove the jacket to his suit. Always wore cufflinks that peeked out beyond his coat sleeve. Never without a pocket square. Every hair in place. He must not ever sit down because there’s never a single wrinkle in his clothes. Appeared on Best Dressed lists every year. Shoes that looked spit-shined. None of this, however, diminished his image as a man’s man who was well-liked by his colleagues inside the beltway as well as the folks in his home state of New Jersey.

  Warfield had first met Quinn at a roast in his honor in Atlantic City more than six years ago and his power and influence had ratcheted upward since then. As a U.S. senator he sat on the intelligence committee and became a frequent guest on Sunday morning TV news shows. He campaigned for Cross, and when Cross was elected president he named Quinn to be Director of Central Intelligence. Cross’s critics yelled cronyism but Quinn had since received good marks at CIA.

  Quinn was informal with Cross. “Can we get started, Garrison,” he said, looking at his watch. They were old friends—football teammates at Yale—but Warfield was unimpressed with Quinn’s lack of decorum. Warfield felt that unless you were alone with the president, you addressed him as Mr. President even if he was your own brother. There are invisible lines you don’t cross. And you don’t tell the president when to start a meeting. All in all, nevertheless, Warfield had a favorable opinion of CIA Director Austin Quinn.

  Cross smiled over at Stern, on whom Warfield figured it was wasted, and dealt with it perfectly. “My pal Austin here, he comes down out of the Langley mystery tower and wants to take over the White House.” The president tapped Quinn on the shoulder and laughed, but that was a reminder to Quinn that the president was the president. A man like Quinn had to be shown the boundaries now and then. And Warfield knew there was more truth than banter in Cross’s remark about Quinn’s desire to take over the White House. Quinn’s yearning for the presidency had long been a point of speculation by Washington observers and Warfield figured he’d run when Cross’s tenure ended, along with many others.

  Paula and Warfield trailed behind the others en route to the Oval Office. “You didn’t tell me this was a summit conference,” he mumbled.

  She looked up at him with mock irritation. “Had to rearrange his appointments with two senators because of this meeting. They don’t like that, Cameo, and they get mad at me, not him. It’s your fault, so you owe me one.”

  “If it’s any consolation to you, I don’t expect to win the popularity contest here this morning.”

  * * *

  Warfield followed the others into the president’s office. He’d been there quite a few times over the years but it never failed to inspire him. The history of the room, the men who had sat behind that desk and made decisions that to one degree or another changed the world—for better or worse. He walked around the presidential seal in the heavy carpet and joined the other four and Paula, whom Cross had invited to stay, at a round-top, polished maple table. Cross kicked it off. “You’re all aware I asked Cam Warfield to take over the Joplan investigation. All I want to do this morning is bring you up to date on—”

  The FBI Director Earl Fullwood interrupted. “Mr. Pres’dent,” he drawled, waving his cigar in the air. It had n
ever been lit but the end was gnarled. “Now look here. No disrespect to Kunnel Warfield here, but I just do not understand your motivation in bringin’ him into this. We arrested Joplan without any help. Used every trick in the Bureau’s book for two weeks to open him up. You think somebody else is gonna do a better job than the Bureau? Now, we only got a couple days left before Joplan’s lawyer gets him out. Judge already warned us. Lack of evidence. You have an obligation, Mr. Pres’dent, to give Joplan back to the Bureau. It’s in the best interest of national security, and it’s the law,” Fullwood gambled, and shot a scowl at Warfield as he finished.

  Warfield anticipated this. If Cross had handled it differently it would have deprived Fullwood of his pulpit.

  Cross fired back. “We’re here Earl to get a current update on Joplan, not to debate what my responsibilities are, but since you brought it up I will say this: Warfield knows terrorists. Immune to bureaucracy, hidden from reporters. No headlines in the papers every time he doesn’t dot some i. You didn’t have enough on Joplan to hold him. Our objective is what is best for the country—not to massage the FBI. Now let’s move on.”

  It went downhill from there. Fullwood spouted obscenities, chewed on his cigar and stalked around the Oval Office—a level of behavior Warfield thought inappropriate by anyone in the Oval Office. “You want to stick it in the Bureau’s face, Warfield, that it? You’ll get nothing out of Joplan but you’ll make up somethin’ won’t you? Put on a little show for the pres’dent.”

  “I didn’t call this meeting, Earl, but the fact is that Joplan’s agreed to cooperate,” Warfield said.

  Agreed to cooperate! Fullwood was caught off guard. He reeled for a moment but quickly turned offensive.

  “Well then, I commend you, Kunnel,” his eyes all but shut. “Now if you’ll tell us how you accomplished this, maybe we can all learn from it,” he said sardonically. “Could it be that you stepped over the line? The law sets limits, you know, on physical force, threats. Or maybe you offered a plea bargain you can’t deliver. And I’m sure you Miranda’d him. This is not like what you’re used to, where they’s no courts and defense lawyers, no rights groups looking. I’ll believe Joplan is cooperatin’ when I see it, but if I’m gonna sit here and get my ass chewed out by the pres’dent while you take credit, I want him to know exactly how you did it.”

  Fullwood’s face reflected anger as he drummed the table and stared out the window. Warfield was amused. He waited. So did Cross. Everyone in the room was silent.

  After an awkward pause, Fullwood more calmly said, “Pres’dent Cross, you bringin’ Warfield here into this matter sends a clear message to me—and to the nation if it gets out—that you’ve lost confidence in the FBI. It’ll put the Bureau at a terrible disadvantage ’round the world.”

  Cross turned to Warfield, dismissive of Fullwood. “What was Joplan up to?”

  “Joplan’s contact wanted the CIA’s list of Russian scientists who are considered security risks. Joplan retrieved the names from a CIA database but destroyed them when he realized the FBI was onto him. The bad news is that his contact is still there, and money seems to be no object.”

  “Anything else?” Cross asked.

  “That’s the essence of it. I only spoke with Joplan long enough to be satisfied he’s ready to cooperate.”

  Cross turned to Fullwood. “Earl, he’s in your court. Can I count on you to deal with it?”

  “We’ll begin the debriefing tomorrow morning,” he replied curtly.

  * * *

  Warfield was in his office the next morning when the prison warden in Atlanta called. “Bad news Mr. Warfield. Your boy Joplan got it last night.”

  “Got it?”

  “He’s dead.”

  The news didn’t particularly stagger Warfield. Anything could happen in a prison like Atlanta. It was outdated and wide open, and as dangerous as any in the system, but Warfield knew Joplan’s death was no ordinary prison killing. There were several possibilities related to his case: If it had leaked that Joplan was arrested, his contact would want him dead to prevent Joplan from exposing him; also, any other mole operating in the U.S. intel community could worry that Joplan knew of him through Joplan’s own foreign contacts and might give him up in a bargain with the FBI; still a third possibility was that Joplan was working in tandem with another agent like himself, who’d be worried that Joplan would take him down with him and might’ve had Joplan killed. Warfield discounted that possibility. Joplan was too much of a loner for that.

  “Any details?” Warfield asked the warden.

  “Last time anyone saw him alive was around eight last night in a workout room. Guards found his body behind a weight machine about nine. Somebody pulled a piano wire from his Adam’s apple all the way through to his spine. Pretty much decapitated him. Not a pretty image.”

  “Who visited him in the last few days?”

  “Checked that of course. You’re the only visitor he had here.”

  The only registered visitor, Warfield mumbled. He kicked himself for not going to Atlanta to meet with Joplan in person after he agreed to cooperate. At least he would have learned who his contact was.

  * * *

  When Warfield told Cross about Joplan’s demise, the president was furious that the opportunity was lost. He said he would order Fullwood to investigate the murder, but Warfield knew the killer would never be found. Prison murders were as easy to come by as snow at the North Pole and if anyone knew too much, he’d end up like Joplan.

  Warfield spent the next two hours driving without purpose through the Virginia countryside. At one point he pulled off the road and sat on a creek bank, picking up small stones around him and tossing them into the stream. Joplan was a scumbag, a traitor. And except for the obvious reason, Warfield didn’t care that he was dead. Saved taxpayers’ time and money. But the practical effect, the real problem now, was that Fullwood’s people would never know what Joplan could have told them that might stop an ongoing operation, or learn what damage he had done in the past.

  * * *

  That afternoon Warfield called Fleming DeGrande at her office. “How many more basket cases you got wringing their hands in the waiting room?”

  “If all I did was basket cases, as you call them, you’d occupy most of my time.”

  “You could close the office then. Treat me at my place.”

  “You can’t afford me. What’s on your mind now? Got people waiting. You know, people who actually pay to see me.”

  “I feel like riding. I need some country air.”

  “Meet you at Hardscrabble at four.”

  * * *

  Warfield had the horses saddled when Fleming got to Hardscrabble Ranch. She left her car in the driveway next to Warfield’s and ran in to change. Minutes later she strode across the manicured lawn toward Warfield, who was leaning against his horse, Spotlight. It was sunny and seventy degrees, perfect for riding: Fleming on Freud, Warfield riding Spotlight. Fleming walked up and put her arms around Warfield’s neck. She wore jeans and a white cotton blouse in which she looked excellent. He mockingly checked her out as if he were deciding whether to accept her, and nodded.

  Fleming pushed back to arm’s length. “You act like some prince contemplating an addition to his harem.”

  “Worry not! I’ve decided to accept you.”

  They followed the path around the perimeter of the stables and corral. Half of the ranch was covered with hardwoods, and they pointed the horses along a trail leading into the trees and let them find their own pace as they rode side by side. Unlike many in northern Virginia, Warfield and Fleming rode Western style, which to Warfield, who grew up on a horse in Texas, was the only way to ride.

  Warfield was quiet after a few minutes and Fleming noticed.

  “You okay, War Man?” He’d told her about his meeting at the White House, including Fullwood’s fit.

  Before Warfield answered, Fleming went on about Fullwood. “I can tell when I see the old boy on TV that he’s got a
problem. Worried about losing his job?”

  “Cross can’t fire him, that’s the problem.”

  “Who else was there? Anyone interesting?”

  “Guess I should tell you the president asked about you.”

  Fleming laughed. “That’s very flattering. Thank you. The President of the United States!”

  “Stern, Quinn…”

  “Your alter ego.”

  “Quinn? Hardly. But the position he holds ain’t bad.”

  “Head of CIA! Like to have it, wouldn’t you?”

  Warfield thought about that for a moment. “Have to admit I wouldn’t mind having my finger in all those pies, but I’d be too involved in the nuts and bolts. Quinn, he’s not a technician but he’s smart and he’s a leader, and that’s what it takes to run an outfit like that. It’s mammoth, Fleming.”

  “CIA?”

  “The intel community’s made up of numerous organizations but CIA is the flagship. If I was going for one, it would be CIA.”

  The woods thickened as they rode along. The trail became so narrow that Fleming dropped behind and the crackle of the brush and leaves beneath the horses’ hoofs became the only sounds. Sun rays sneaked through the dense trees and Joplan moved further from Warfield’s consciousness by the minute. Squirrels in the branches froze in their tracks as the horses went by. A hawk circled lazily far above.

  Fleming rode as if she grew up on a horse, although she didn’t. She was raised in the city, the daughter of a surgeon, and became a doctor herself, a psychiatrist. She met her husband, Tom, at a horse auction and they lived on his Hardscrabble Ranch, an hour or so west of Washington.

  Twenty minutes later they came upon a cluster of boulders in a clearing, and just beyond that a rushing stream. As they came closer the furious sound of the water spilling over the rocks drowned out all other. The creek banks were solid rock, exposed over the centuries as the water chiseled through. Fern and other plants grew wild and some of the roots of the towering trees were exposed above ground. Giant moss-covered boulders rested near the edge of the creek. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Warfield had never seen this part of the ranch.