To Free a Spy Read online

  The paneled courtroom in the E. Barrett Prettyman Courthouse in Washington, the same from which a federal grand jury investigated former president Bill Clinton in his Monica Lewinsky scandal, was packed. Ana had no living relatives in the United States and her law firm associates and socialite friends kept their distance like cats from water. The only person in the courtroom who might have been in Ana’s corner was a woman who showed up for the trial daily and seemed to nod approval when testimony favored Ana. Warfield found out through Morgan that she was a State Department employee named Tot Templeton. She worked with Ana’s law firm before Ana married Spiro Koronis. Ana’s only other friends there, and in all of the country it seemed, were her attorneys, led by Manny Upson. But these were paid friends.

  Warfield knew Ana had two strikes against her before the trial started. Americans hadn’t forgotten the four-hundred-forty-four-day Iranian hostage crisis that began in 1979, and the anti-American demonstrations and rhetoric had rekindled if anything in recent years; Iran continued to be an international pariah to this day. Ana Koronis was a living, breathing, present target for Americans’ anger toward and mistrust of her native country even though her parents had moved from Iran to the U.S. a few months before she was even born. The second strike: She was the sister of the notorious terrorist, Seth, who was hated by the peoples of the earth who respected human life. Judge Millard Leaf and the defense team weeded out prospective jurors who couldn’t hide their prejudice, but an impartial jury of her peers in all probability didn’t exist.

  There was no TV in the courtroom but the media hype soared once the trial started: Countless daily updates on all the cable and broadcast networks; endless Ana-bashing on radio and TV talk shows; cover stories in all the national magazines; front page newspaper articles; even editorials. All anti-Ana. Terrorism incarnate on trial, right there in Washington. Conviction of Ana Koronis, it seemed, would mean everything despised in America would be locked away with her in some remote prison cell. A ceremony to mark the end of terrorism and the beginning of world peace and universal love. Just like that. Period.

  There was discussion among the prosecutors before the trial about calling Warfield to testify. Joe Morgan had told him they wouldn’t get a conviction—wouldn’t even go to trial—without Warfield testifying that Petrevich smuggled the uranium into Iraq, thus establishing the thread from Ana, whom they charged found the names of Russian security risks in Quinn’s computer; to her brother Seth, the terrorist; and, as the prosecutors hoped to convince the jury, on to the Russian Petrevich. Warfield’s testimony about the Habur crossing incident would go a long way. Neither Warfield nor the president wanted Warfield’s involvement aired, and he told Morgan he would claim amnesia if put on the stand. The government caved on its demand that he testify.

  The explosion of Warfield’s car a year earlier resulted in two burst eardrums, a brain concussion, damage to internal organs, and ceaseless ringing in his ears the doctors said might never go away. He was mostly recovered after months of rehabilitation but probably could have gotten away with claiming amnesia to Morgan.

  * * *

  The prosecution’s first witness was Austin Quinn. He spent an hour describing how he and Ana met, what their relationship was like and the absolute trust he’d had in her. Then federal prosecutor L.A. Harriman warmed up.

  “Director Quinn, if you weren’t a responsible man,” L.A. said, “you wouldn’t be in the high-level position you’re in. Now it puzzles me that a man like yourself, entrusted with so much responsibility for the security of this country, would be caught off guard. Anything like that ever happen before at the CIA? I mean any security breaches on your part?”

  Quinn smiled faintly. “No it did not.”

  “When you were in the United States Senate? State politics?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Would you say it’s your nature to be pretty careful with sensitive information?”

  “I would say very careful, yes.”

  “So while you are careful with sensitive matters, it’s still possible Ana Koronis used the CIA computer terminal in your home. Is that right?”

  Regret showed on Quinn’s face. “Well, I can’t say absolutely that it’s not possible.”

  “Even though Ms. Koronis had a laptop computer of her own that she used when she was in your home. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But aren’t there codes and passwords required to get into the CIA files?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then how could she have accessed any CIA files?”

  Quinn paused for a moment. “The passwords, I—”

  “You wrote them down on a piece of paper there by the Langley computer terminal you have at home, because you knew you wouldn’t remember those passwords. Is that right, Director Quinn?”

  Quinn nodded. “Yes.”

  “Now would you say the reason for your carelessness boils down to your trust in Ana Koronis?”

  Quinn wasn’t on trial in the matter—at least not yet, though he could be—but if the prosecutor was trying to give him cover for all the criticism he’d received, he couldn’t have done a better job. If Quinn had made a mistake, at least it was one that every American citizen and every newspaper reporter could identify with: Who among them hadn’t misplaced their trust in someone along the way? Or been careless with a password?

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” Quinn said.

  “Well, then, Director Quinn, would you say the defendant, Ms. Koronis, went out of her way, perhaps used her ample charm, to build your trust in her so she could steal CIA secrets and give them to her brother, the known terrorist Seth?”

  The defense attorney jumped to his feet. “Speculation!” Judge Leaf sustained his objection, had the question stricken from the record and instructed the jury to disregard it, for whatever value that had.

  L.A. continued. “Director Quinn, given your testimony that Ms. Koronis was an experienced computer user and that she had access to the CIA terminal in your home and all the passwords she needed, would it have been possible for her to access CIA records and databases?”

  Quinn could not say that was not possible.

  So, Harriman went on, once inside the CIA computer system, wasn’t it possible Ms. Koronis could determine the names of the Russian nuclear scientists the CIA considered security risks? Names a terrorist could use in search of nuclear material? The defense objected again, but not before the jury heard Quinn acknowledge it was possible.

  Then it was time for Harriman’s brief but by far most damaging witness against Ana. Helen Swope was Quinn’s housekeeper during the time Ana lived there. She testified she’d seen Ana sitting at Quinn’s computer making notes. “Just once, Mrs. Swope?” “No sir. Lotsa times.”

  * * *

  On the day of closing arguments, Cam Warfield took his usual seat on the first row behind the prosecutors’ table, which overflowed with charts, files and briefcases. Ana Koronis, several feet away, huddled with her lawyers.

  Earl Fullwood arrived in the same rumpled suit and bleach-starved shirt he seemed to always wear, cigar-in-hand, to hear the final arguments and sat in the same row as Warfield, but separated by two other men. Warfield thought of that Oval Office meeting when Fullwood accused him of interference at the Iraqi border and denied the Russian was carrying uranium. The irony was that in testimony for Ana’s trial, the FBI reversed itself and backed the government’s contention that the Russian was carrying uranium at Habur when he crossed into Iraq. Warfield wondered whether the Bureau had actually come around to that belief or adopted that position to bolster the government’s case against Koronis. Either way, it made Fullwood look like a fool to anyone who’d been in the Oval Office that day.

  L.A. Harriman stood before the jury box. It was now or never. Public sentiment was on his side but, taking nothing for granted, he rehashed all the evidence presented against Ana during her trial. He talked about the terrorist abduction of Spiro Koronis and the defendant’
s two-year-old son, Nikko, at Athens International Airport, where Spiro and Nicholas waited to board a flight to Washington. Spiro and Nikko were in the restroom when six men with assault guns came out of nowhere. Their plan was to take Spiro and his son to Syria and hold them until their political demands were met. They jerked Nikko out of Spiro’s grasp, pushed Spiro in front of them, and rushed through the gate and onto the plane as Ana and the other screaming passengers watched the horror helplessly from the gate area. Soon after the plane was airborne, two U.S. Air Force F-15’s flown by Lt. Colonel Jerry Schmidt and another pilot overtook it and flew alongside, but the airliner flew into Syrian air space without interference from the American planes. Ana put her head down on the table as L.A. laid out the scene. The United States refused to negotiate with the abductors, and a few months later photos appeared showing the beheaded remains of Spiro Koronis and son Nikko.

  Harriman conceded Ana Koronis was a loving mother and wife grieving over the tragic loss of her family. Who wouldn’t? Her husband and child were mercilessly slaughtered after their country failed to save them. L.A. described again Ana’s stay with her brother in Iran after the incident. He was all the poor woman had left.

  “Yes, Ana Koronis’s reactions seem normal and innocent to us at first, ladies and gentlemen, but then…,” L.A. said, holding up a cautionary finger as his voice rose, “…then, then, we find out her brother is one of the most notorious, malicious, hate-mongering terrorists in the world!” Seth and his reputation were already well-known objects of hatred in the United States, but L.A. pounded home his role in terrorism anyway and pointed out that he worked for hire to the highest bidder, his guiding principle being that any operation that could bring harm to the United States was worth any cost.

  L.A. placed his hands on the polished wood rail in front of the jury box and leaned in to the front row, spoke in a low, raspy voice and let his disgust be seen. He said he wanted the jurors to understand that Ana Koronis did not storm out of her brother’s place the moment she learned about his mission as the defense claimed, but instead bought into her brother’s propaganda that her husband and son were victims of America’s policies. That men like those who hijacked the plane in Athens that day were fighting for peace. Because America was evil!

  Warfield was watching juror sixty-seven, a special forces veteran of Afghanistan, who was showing signs of stress. L.A. Harriman must have noticed, as well. Looking straight at him, Harriman rammed his fist high into the air as his voice regained volume. “Terrorists? Fighting for peace?” he wailed, and shook his head, simply too angry to say more. L.A. pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead of perspiration. “Not my kind of peace. Not yours either, ladies and gentlemen. But the defendant’s terrorist brother convinced her he was fighting for peace in their homeland.”

  Sixty-seven’s veins bulged. Tears stained the cheeks of some of the women jurors. L.A. went on. He told the jury Seth indoctrinated his sister with his rhetoric for months and then told her to return to Washington, to keep her eyes and ears open, to position herself well, and one day he’d call on her. It wouldn’t destroy her career or ruin her friendships because no one would ever know what she had done. All he would ask from her was a little information. No big deal. After all, it was for their parents’ homeland, for their people, for Allah, for justice. For peace. So Ana Koronis did as she was told, and one day gave Seth better news than he could have dreamed of. She had worked her way into the bedroom—and computer terminal—of the top man at America’s central intelligence agency. The computer was linked to CIA headquarters. How could she help?

  How she could help was to find the names of the Russian scientists the CIA considered security risks. They had the knowledge and the materials Seth needed. “And the result of that, ladies and gentlemen? The result was that one of these Russian scientists smuggled uranium into the Middle East. God only knows what will become of it.”

  L.A. conceded that perhaps Ana was in a vulnerable state of mind that allowed her brother to brainwash her. “She is human, after all. But, for heaven’s sake, by the time she gave those CIA secrets to Seth, she’d had plenty of time to think it over, to return to her senses. So why didn’t she stand up to her brother and tell him she wouldn’t think of doing anything that would harm the United States? This was her homeland, and one single act by her government, flawed or not, could not destroy her loyalty. Why didn’t she say those words?”

  L.A. walked around for a moment, allowing the jury to again see what a state this whole thing had brought him to. When he returned to face them he spoke in hushed tones. “She could’ve told her brother she wanted no part of his cowardly ways. That’s what you would have done, my friends, and that’s what I would have done.” L.A. walked over to the defense table and stood in front of Ana. “But that is not what Ana Koronis did,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “She did just what her brother asked. She betrayed the United States! She betrayed you and me, my fellow countrymen. She sold us out to terrorists.”

  L.A. reminded the jurors Ana Koronis was a Washington insider and lawyer who knew her way around government. She found it easy to develop high-profile social connections where she would be visible to Mr. Quinn, a ripe divorcee who would be attracted by her charm, beauty and social position. She was well-suited for a man of his stature. And Director Quinn’s failure? He fell in love with her, put his trust in her.

  L.A. acknowledged there was no direct, iron-clad proof the Petrevich operation resulted from Ana Koronis’s treason, but showed that the timing was right. The circumstances were ideal. The principal characters were in place. Was Ana Koronis guilty? Could it be mere coincidence that the terrorist behind it all had a sister who had access to the innermost records of the CIA? A sister who was bitter against the United States for killing her son and her husband? A sister named Ana Koronis?

  Harriman thanked the jurors for their attention and returned to the prosecution table.

  Warfield looked over at Ana. Except when Harriman described the hostage scene, she had shown no emotion throughout the trial. Now she locked her black eyes on the jurors, one by one. Warfield thought she did herself no favor. She looked menacing enough to convince any fence-sitters on the jury that society needed to be protected from Ana Koronis.

  Warfield had been certain it was Harvey Joplan who’d provided the terrorists with the names of the questionable Russian nuclear scientists. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  * * *

  In the course of the thirty-three years United States Senator Ferguson Luke Abercrombie had been in the Senate, his office became an antiques showplace, thanks to Bernice Abercrombie’s insatiable habit of shopping for antiques with the taxpayers’ money. Bernice made regular stops at antique shops in northern Virginia and Maryland, and Ferguson Luke and Bernice sashayed across Europe or Asia or Africa every year to pick up a few more prime specimens. When Abercrombie’s office could hold no more of the government’s select purchases, Bernice began to keep the overflow in their Washington condominium or at home back in Taylorville.

  Angie, the Senator’s primary assistant, stuck her head inside his office as he was hanging up the phone. “FBI director’s here, Ferguson Luke.”

  “So, anything seem unusual? He appear to be upset?”

  “The director? Well, he never sat down the whole ten minutes he was waiting, going from one of your art pieces to another. Picked up a few things and scrutinized them. Took some pictures.”

  “Pictures!”

  “With his cell phone. Is he a little creepy, or is that just the FBI in him?”

  “Creepy, honey.”

  “Security video was on all the time. He didn’t seem to notice it.”

  “Show him in.”

  Abercrombie took in Angie’s tanned legs as she walked away. He knew his colleagues suspected Angie was more to him than an assistant and he enjoyed the oblique remarks they made after walking behind her down to his office. He would smile at them. When Bernice would complain about
the way Angie dressed he explained that he didn’t much like it either but couldn’t afford to lose her—depended on her too much. If his wife thought there was more to it than that, she let it go, but then they had little time for conversation anyway, he with his committees and other official obligations and Bernice with her bridge and antiquing.

  Earl Fullwood jumped as if he’d been caught stealing and almost dropped the ebony chimp he was holding when Angie greeted him with a touch on the sleeve. “The senator asked me to apologize to you in advance for not having as much time as he would like. Has to be on the Senate floor for a vote in a few minutes. If you’d like to follow me, Director Fullwood.”

  “It’s aw’right, little lady. That’ll be fine.”

  Abercrombie saw and heard it all via the ubiquitous security cameras piped into his computer monitor. The irony of snooping on the FBI chief amused him. He turned it off as Angie and Fullwood entered. Fullwood scanned the furnishings and accessories. Abercrombie knew he was envious. No FBI office was like this. Certainly not Fullwood’s.

  “Welcome, Earl, glad you came by! Coffee, Coke? Little cocktail, maybe? Angie can get whatever you’d like.”

  Fullwood was looking out the window at the Capitol, right across the street. “Nothing, thanks.”

  “How’re things in the crime business?”

  Fullwood didn’t seem to know how to make small talk. “You…you’ve seen the numbers, crime is down.”

  “Earl, Earl, Bureau’s doing a superb job!” Abercrombie said, waving the question away. “No doubt about that.” Abercrombie leaned back in his leather executive chair and propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “This a business call, or social, Earl?”