To Free a Spy Read online

  She gave him a light kiss. “That’s all you get,” she said, patting him on the cheek. “I’m all dressed.”

  Warfield showered and put on a pair of tan slacks and a Tommy Bahama knit shirt. He was ready in ten minutes.

  He put the top down on Fleming’s convertible when they got to the end of the gravel driveway. The orange ball hovering above the western horizon cast long shadows on the winding rural roads as they drove toward Middleburg. Warfield often contrasted the Virginia countryside with the plains of his West Texas heritage—where there were no stone fences and you could drive for hours and never even see a stream. They called them runs here in Virginia and you couldn’t go a mile without crossing one. Weathered stone fences still defined what once were thousand-acre estates, but high-paid Washington officials and business types willing and able to pay the asking price for this respite from the Beltway swarmed to Hunt Country with dreams of looking out from their verandas at pastures full of grazing horses. Laser-straight four-board wood fences bordered the new fifteen- or twenty-acre mini-farms.

  Some of the newcomers were horse people who knew what they were getting into, but most of them were not. Traditionalists whose families had lived there forever didn’t like the newcomers destroying their once-tranquil countryside but no one could deny the positive economic impact on the area. Blacksmiths got hundreds of dollars to shoe horses, and plumbers, electricians and stonemasons had more work than they could keep up with. It took a trainer a year to get a rider and horse ready for the steeplechases and foxhunts, and this brought on new stables and more jobs for trainers. It was a thriving free-market economy.

  Loudoun County had taken on most of the growth in the area and the little town of Middleburg was bursting at the seams. Art galleries, boutiques, quaint restaurants and historic inns lined the town’s few streets, and on weekends when city-dwellers drove out Highway 50 from Washington to see what it was all about, the merchants couldn’t keep the smiles off their faces.

  “So what world are you in, Warfield?” Fleming asked after a mile of silence.

  “Horses. Land. All the things you natives do around here.”

  “I’m not exactly considered a blue-blood since I was raised in Charlottesville. I blend in okay, though, don’t you think?”

  “You sit a saddle the right way.”

  “Western. I just never got into the hunts.”

  “All they do is chase the fox. They don’t even want to catch it. Back home we’d consider that a waste of a bunch of good dogs and horses.”

  Fleming shook her head and laughed. “No couth, War Man.”

  Fleming had called ahead and reserved their favorite table at Ticcio’s, a small Italian place at the edge of town that got most of its business from locals. Fleming and Warfield went there a couple of times a month for a few laid-back minutes and some pretty good food. Fleming once told Warfield that if she ever left him it would be for Ticcio, the restaurant’s owner. His resonant voice and European accent put her in the mood to remove her clothes. Ticcio led them past the bar to a corner table overlooking a courtyard outside the window and took their drink order. A family of ducks played Follow Me in a fountain pool in the garden.

  Warfield settled into his drink. Fleming’s charm and beauty, the open-air ride through the country and the serenity outside the window had mellowed him. It was rare. Every second of his life was crammed full and he wouldn’t change it if he could, but he knew he needed to stop for a breather once in a while. Fleming had not been too far off with the couth bit. He’d grown up in Texas on a dairy farm. In time, he came to the realization his family was poor, but poor was a relative thing and no one he knew then was any different. Besides, his family had had what they needed: Clean clothes, a warm house and plenty to eat. Dairy farming wasn’t easy but he never thought much about that either. Milk cows knew no holiday and every day started at four-thirty in the morning. Put feed in the stalls, hook up the milking machines to the cows, save the milk, clean the floor, and do it over and over again until every cow was cycled through. Then he’d prepare the milk for pickup and get ready for school. Repeat the whole thing that evening. Summers meant working in the fields, putting up the hay that would be needed for winter.

  Warfield’s father Raymond was a hard driver with no patience for extracurricular diversions that took Warfield away from the farm, but young Cam bargained with him so he could play football and baseball: He would take over the entire milking responsibilities all to himself in return for the time he wanted for sports and the library, which meant he had to get up even earlier for the morning milking, and do the afternoon chores after practice or games.

  Warfield’s love for the military began in the ninth grade. After learning in a World War II history class about the Enigma cipher machine used by the German U-boats to communicate with Berlin, and the allies’ successes that came from breaking the code, he was hooked. For the next three years he spent any time not required by the farm or sports at the library. By the end of his senior year he’d read everything there was in the school and county libraries about cryptography and the role of codes and code-breaking from the first world war to the present. His interest expanded to war in general. He memorized the conditions for the use of spies written by a Chinese philosopher named Sun Tzu in a book titled The Art of War two centuries earlier. Every life decision Warfield made after that was in pursuit of a career in military intelligence.

  Warfield went to the army recruiting center the day he graduated from high school and told the recruitment officer what he wanted to do: Sign up for as long as the army would allow on the condition that he could go to OCS and be assigned to military intelligence. “Forget it, son,” the officer said, when he stopped laughing. Only a few qualified for officer candidate school, and the folks in military intelligence do the inviting—not the other way around. “Besides, why would you want to, boy? Those people out there in Fort Huachuca are a little creepy.”

  Armed with the name Fort Huachuca, Warfield went to the library in Wichita Falls and found out what else he needed to know. He went home and typed up a letter to Major General Thomas K. Feranzo, Chief, Military Intelligence, Fort Huachuca, Arizona, specifying what he wished to do. He also typed and enclosed his own nineteen-page analysis of Sun Tzu’s principles of spying, a copy of his high school transcript that showed he graduated with honors, and letters from his principal and his football coach that said he worked hard and was a boy of good character.

  Eleven days after he mailed the package off to General Feranzo he received a large tan envelope from Feranzo’s office. All the documents he’d sent, including his original letter to the general, were inside. A list of army recruiting stations was enclosed. That was it.

  Later that day, Warfield told his father he was leaving home. He had prepared his parents for this day so it was no surprise. He loaded everything he owned into his nine-year-old Ford pickup, and Raymond and Cam talked for a few minutes and hugged each other. As Cam was about to drive off, Raymond pulled a Ka Bar pocket knife out of his jeans and handed it to him. He wanted Cam to have it.

  Two days later Cam pulled up to the gate at Fort Huachuca. When the MP at the gate required documentation before he could enter the base, an apprehensive Cameron Warfield fumbled through his papers and found the envelope that had General Feranzo’s name and return address on it.

  “It’s all in here,” he told the military police officer and flashed the envelope in front of him. Bluffing wasn’t much different than faking, and he had learned how to fake in football. Sun Tzu would approve of it too. The MP glanced at the return address and instead of examining the contents as he should have, nodded and gave Warfield directions to the military intelligence command center. Warfield finally breathed again as he drove away from the guard station.

  The MI headquarters building was a one-story cream-colored building that was built out of wood—a long time ago, Warfield decided. “Here to see General Feranzo,” he said when he got inside.

 
The corporal sitting at the wood desk looked up at him. Warfield thought he seemed not more than two or three years older than he. “You want to see the general?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You in the army?”

  “No sir.”

  “Didn’t think so. You don’t say sir to a corporal, buddy.”

  Warfield knew that. “Can I see him now?”

  The corporal suppressed a smile. “No way. You can’t just walk in and see a general! Gotta go through people and you need an appointment to do that around here. Where you from anyway?”

  “Rawlings, Texas.”

  “What do you want to see Feranzo about?”

  “Nothing that concerns you. How do I get to see him?”

  The corporal looked Warfield over, chewed on his lip for a moment, glanced around the room and got up from behind the desk. “Come with me.”

  He led Warfield out the door he had entered and they stood on the porch. The corporal pulled out a pack of Camels, tapped the top against his finger until a tight-wrapped cylinder popped out, and offered it to Warfield.

  Warfield shook his head.

  The corporal lit up, took a deep drag and exhaled parallel streams of smoke through his nostrils as he studied the Texan. “Look, I don’t know why but I like you. You got some balls walking in there like that. But you don’t know what the hell you’re doing! Either that or you’re stupid. Now tell me what it is you want. Maybe I can help you out.”

  Warfield looked at the name plate on the soldier’s uniform. Macclenny, it said. “So, Corporal Macclenny?”

  “That’s right. Actually you can just call me Macc. I’m pretty much a peon around here.”

  “Didn’t mean to be rude, but I’m gonna see that general.” He told Macc of his two contacts that got him nowhere and showed him the package that had been returned to him. “I want to make a deal with the army and it looks like only some big shot can do it.”

  Macclenny laughed. “You are determined,” he said. “Tell you what. I sort the Old Man’s mail when it comes in. Some of it goes in the trash and the rest goes to the other brass on the general’s staff in there. They decide what he sees, and I can tell you it ain’t much. The major back there, he’s the one who collects the winning pieces and puts ’em in a neat little stack on General Feranzo’s desk every morning.”

  Warfield’s hopes stirred. “So what can you do?”

  “Okay, you give me what it is you want Feranzo to see. I’m in and out of his office all the time. Phone messages and stuff. I’ll put yours on top of his stack.”

  Warfield cracked a smile. This was good. “What do I owe you for this?”

  “Nothing. But the way I figure it you’re gonna be a general someday yourself. Remember me then.”

  The rest was history. Officer candidate school graduation at the top of the class, a degree in international studies from the University of Arizona compliments of the army, graduation from the military’s famous National War College, years of intelligence training and hundreds of undercover operations. These were now part of Warfield’s military innards. As was Macc Macclenny.

  Warfield looked at Fleming. Smiling now, she said, “Wherever you were the last couple of minutes, you were having a good time. Better not be because of the redhead dancing out there.”

  He chuckled. “The redhead would’ve been more exciting.”

  The one-man band across the room included a keyboard, accordion and synthesizer. The voice behind it was doing his best to sound like Dean Martin and had filled the small dance floor. Fleming pulled Warfield onto the dance floor.

  “Good as the It’ll Do, War Man?”

  Fleming often teased him about his life before her. He’d given her piecemeal glimpses of those days and when she brought them up he accused her of using his own bullets against him. Now and then he still went to the It’ll Do with Macc for a beer and they’d laugh about the women they’d known and dragons they’d slain, but that lifestyle was behind him now.

  Being with Fleming like this made him think about the important things he always put aside. Like kids, for one. Not that he was too old for them, but he hadn’t even decided to marry yet. And was marriage for him? Never would he find a better lover and more loyal companion than Fleming, and maybe she came along at a time when he needed something to latch onto besides chasing spies and barflies. But get married? He’d always packed light. A wife and kid or two would slow him down. Kids ought to be raised on a farm or in a small town with a drug store and soda fountain where you could still get a strawberry shake after football practice and talk to your high school sweetheart and go home to a mom who always had dinner for you and a dad who couldn’t wait for your game Friday night and was not preoccupied with catching some terrorist who might be planning to blow up the world. There were men like that. They should be the fathers.

  Cameron Warfield had followed his passions. He cared about Fleming, maybe loved her even, if he understood what loving a woman meant, and he hoped she felt okay about him pretty much as-is, because he couldn’t change course right now. Maybe someday, but he couldn’t expect her to wait around for that.

  Dean Martin shifted into Everybody Loves Somebody, and Fleming DeGrande snuggled her head under Warfield’s chin. “You’re pensive tonight, Warfield.”

  After dinner they meandered out to the car and drifted back to Hardscrabble Ranch. The road was deserted and the CD played loud enough to overcome the sounds of the road. It was still warm out and Fleming stood up in the seat of the convertible and folded her arms on top of the windshield. Her hair was blowing straight back when Warfield looked up at her, and she had removed the straps from her dress and let it fall away, exposing her breasts to the moonlight and balmy evening air. He thought how beautiful she was, how much confidence she had in herself. Twenty minutes later he pulled the Beamer into the garage at Hardscrabble and hit the button that rolled the door down. Fleming smiled. He’d be staying over.

  * * *

  Next morning, Warfield woke up before the alarm and mapped out his day as he went through his morning routine in Fleming’s weight room. After a shower he said goodbye to her and grabbed a yesterday’s bagel on the way to his car. The sun peeking above the horizon glistened in the dew that covered the Lone Elm Mercedes. At the instant he put the key into the ignition switch, he noticed that the grass next to the driveway was matted down by recent foot traffic. In the millisecond it took his brain to register that he should not turn the ignition key, it was too late.

  * * *

  The windows in Fleming’s bathroom crashed in from the shock wave. She looked out at the smoke and dust and ran down the stairs with her half-on robe flying behind her. She figured the explosives were taped to the frame beneath the driver’s seat, because the Mercedes came to rest on its right side. Warfield dangled from the seat belt harness, his lower body and legs hanging down to the right-side door, which now lay against the ground.

  Fleming desperately looked for some sign of life. She cupped her hands around her face as she looked through the crazed windshield and saw blood trickling from Warfield’s nose, mouth and ears. She scrambled up to the driver side of the car and tried the doors without success. Even if they weren’t locked or wracked by the explosion, the weight of their steel armor plate made opening them impossible. She banged and screamed but Warfield didn’t respond. Two drivers who heard the blast had driven halfway from the main road to the house. One changed his mind and left and Fleming shouted at the other to call 911.

  Fleming felt the helplessness she’d experienced a few times with a patient whose condition was beyond help, but this time it was personal. This was the man she loved. A small crowd of curious and concerned gathered as Fleming sat on top of the car like a guardian angel. Debris covered the driveway. The pungent smell of explosives lingered in the air. The armor plating had protected the fuel tank and at least there was no fire. Some tried frantically to get inside the Mercedes but failed. Finally, emergency crews and a life flight helicopt
er arrived, and Macc got there at about the same time. Warfield was alive but unconscious when the life flight crew hooked him up to support systems and lifted away.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cross invited Quinn and Fullwood to the Oval Office on the morning the Ana Koronis trial started. He didn’t want to be blindsided by any embarrassing testimony, and wanted a fresh read on his friend Austin Quinn who as the head of the CIA had been under pressure since the Koronis story broke. It was bad enough that a federal grand jury indicted Ana on charges of spying at the same time she was sleeping with Quinn but ever since the day Otto Stern told Cross she was a suspect, Cross knew the mess would infect not only himself personally, but the CIA and even Cross’s presidency. Over the months, cable news programs made household names of Austin Quinn and Ana Koronis and never missed an opportunity to remind that her parents were Iranian. In the process, it evolved from gossip to speculation to sacred truth that Ana despised the United States for killing her husband and son.

  The contrast that morning between Quinn and Fullwood was striking. Fullwood’s straining shirt collar cut into his neck and the cigars had left a permanent mark on his teeth. By contrast Austin Quinn could have stepped out of a TV ad for men’s clothing. Cross wondered if Quinn still ordered eight new suits every year. His shirts and ties alone cost more than most men spent on entire wardrobes. There were new wrinkles in his face but the strain hadn’t changed his style.

  “Anything I need to know about the trial?” Cross asked. Neither man had much to offer that Cross didn’t already know, and, as Cross expected, Quinn was subdued. His ex-lover was on trial, along with his credibility. Cross needed assurance the testimony wouldn’t contain any surprises. Enough damage had been done. Each man said it wouldn’t.

  * * *

  Through the U.S. attorney Joe Morgan, Warfield had kept up with the pre-trial proceedings during his recovery from the explosion. The Justice Department spent most of a year collecting and analyzing information about Ana Koronis before deciding to go with it. They wanted to proceed because she was a high-profile Washington insider, a potential feather in the Justice’s cap if she were convicted, but that sword had two edges: There would be a lot of negative press if they blew this one.