To Free a Spy Page 16

  Abercrombie almost laughed at his own question. Fullwood had never made a social call in his life. He was there looking for a pay-back of some kind. No doubt about that. Abercrombie had called on Fullwood to assist in a committee hearing a year ago. The senator himself was not a member of that committee but the future of one of his big contributors, a statewide banking company, rode on the outcome of the hearing. He suggested to the committee chairman, a crony of his, that he take testimony from the FBI in the matter. A large national banking firm was attempting to break into Abercrombie’s state and Abercrombie needed the Bureau to present the banking firm in a bad light in order to keep them out.

  “That Cloudland Banking outfit will run our established banks out of business if we let ’em in,” Abercrombie had told Fullwood. “I’m sure there’s something in all those files you got over there at the J. Edgar Hoover Building you can use to discredit Cloudland.”

  When Fullwood’s assigned agents came up with nothing, Abercrombie called Fullwood and made it clear he expected better cooperation. “Appropriations is looking into ways to reduce budgets, Earl. As it stands now, I’ll have to do battle to preserve even the Bureau’s current funding level. Don’t want you to have to cut back,” he’d said.

  A month later at the committee hearing, a young FBI Agent testified his investigation determined Cloudland Banking had on at least one previous occasion used “unethical and marginal legal practices” to overrun smaller banks in its path. The committee chairman then said a full investigation would be required before the committee could go further. Next day, Cloudland’s attorneys read the tea leaves and withdrew their application to move into Abercrombie’s state. That had been the end of it.

  Fullwood pulled the worn-out cigar out of his mouth. Abercrombie’s Persian rug caught his eye as he composed his opener. “It’s about that counterterrorism camp at Lone Elm, Fuggason. It’s a army operation and—”

  Abercrombie guessed where Fullwood was going. “Yeah. I’m familiar with Lone Elm. Cam Warfield runs Lone Elm more or less as a service to the army. Heard good things about it, too. Always liked Warfield.” He knew that was the last thing Fullwood wanted to hear.

  “Well, Fuggason, maybe you’re not familiar with some of the recent activities of Cameron Warfield. The Pres’dent brought Warfield in like some kind of private detective to work for him out of the White House and Warfield ended up interferin’ with one of the Bureau’s operations, pretty near blew it. Had to do with a Russian tryin’ to cross into I-raq. Think it was a real embarrassment to the Pres’dent.”

  “Yeah, something about that came out in that Koronis trial couple weeks ago. In the papers, too. I didn’t connect Warfield with that operation.”

  “Then you already know about it. The kunnel left the White House after that border screw-up, but who the hell knows what he’s doin’ out there at that army-subsidized Lone Elm of his. My guess is that he’s doin’ the same thing the CIA and the Bureau do at our trainin’ centers. Pure and simple duplication. Waste of the taxpayers’ money, Fuggason! The place is nothin’ but a retirement program for that would-be-hero Warfield, and he needs to be put outta binness before he does some real harm to our country here.” Fullwood punctuated his rhetoric by banging his fist on the lamp table next to his chair.

  Abercrombie thought for a minute. How bad did the director want Warfield out? He looked at Fullwood over the top of his glasses. “Well, Earl, I see what you mean, but there might be a small problem. It’ll be impossible for my committee or the whole Senate to take any direct action about Warfield since he’s more or less a contractor to the army. Pentagon would accuse us of micro-managing one of the military services, you see. The army has a history of a certain amount of autonomy. You know that, Earl. Besides, a lot of people in the Senate are right fond of Warfield.”

  Fullwood slumped in his chair.

  Senator Ferguson Luke Abercrombie hadn’t been in Washington for thirty-three years without learning a few bargaining skills. After Fullwood had a minute to dwell on his failed mission, the senator stoked the embers again, shaking his head this time. “I just don’t see how I could pull it off, Earl. I’d have to call in a few favors from some other senators to even have a chance, and that’s a mighty big price to pay. Been saving up those favors they owe me—you know how that goes. Pretty soon one of my big contributors will need a highway to his farm or a new airport close to his factory and the only way I’ll get it through Congress is by calling those favors due. Now if I use them all up to help you out with Warfield, you see where that leaves me.”

  Fullwood, still staring at his shoes, nodded slightly that he understood.

  After a minute of dead silence, Abercrombie appeared to have a new idea. “You know, Earl, I just thought of one possibility, but it’s slim. There’s this office building back home that, well, it belongs to one of my good constituents.”

  Fullwood perked up.

  “Don’t want to bore you with details. Let’s say my constituent relied on the income from the office building after his business got into some trouble. Now his tenant has moved out of the building and he’s looking at bankruptcy. I been wondering what I can do to help him out. His poor mother’s about to die and he has to stay home with her so much it’s affecting his ability to make a living. Now if the Bureau could use that space for a field office…”

  Fullwood nodded. “Well, yeah, I see where you’re going, but one problem I see, Fuggason, is the GSA. You know how they look at everything.”

  “Don’t worry about the General Services Administration. Fellow I know over there owes me a favor or two. Get your people to write up a requisition for office space in Taylorville and send it to me. Fifty-thousand square feet. Forty bucks a square foot a year.”

  Fullwood looked worried. “Sounds a little risky, Fugga—”

  “Treasury spills more than that on the way to the bank! Get me that requisition. Meantime, I’ll go to work on your problem.”

  * * *

  As soon as Fullwood left, Senator Abercrombie dialed his sister who handled his personal business back home in Taylorville. “Barb, it’s me.”

  “What is it Ferguson Luke? I’m busy!”

  “The Oak Street building? Got a tenant for it.”

  “No jokes today, Ferguson Luke. I can’t laugh. You don’t have enough to pay your mortgages again this month.”

  “No, Barb. This is real.”

  “Listen, Ferguson Luke, I’ve about had it with your problems. By the time you get a lease written and rent coming in, the banks will own those dilapidated buildings of yours. There’s going to be foreclosures! They don’t give a damn anymore that you’re a senator. That held them off for awhile, but now it wouldn’t matter if you were Abe Lincoln. They want their money.”

  The state had been in a recession for three years. Many businesses in Taylorville had layoffs and scaled down or closed their offices and plants, leaving a glut of vacant space and jobless workers. Senator Abercrombie, who had bought the four-story office building and various other real estate over the years, no longer had rent income from his properties to pay the taxes and mortgages and was sinking deeper in financial quicksand by the day. If it went on much longer, he’d have to sell his home in Taylorville and everyone in the state would hear he was broke. Then he would lose his Senate seat. His opponent in the next election would say to the voters that if Abercrombie couldn’t manage his own affairs, how could they trust him with the nation’s business?

  “Listen, Barb. It’s as good as rented. All 50,000 feet.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see the first rent check. How much?”

  “Forty a foot. To the FBI.”

  Barbara was silent for a moment. “You’re not serious. Best rent I’ve heard in this burg was ten a foot! The old Madison Building.”

  “Yep. Two million bucks a year!”

  There was silence again before Barbara chuckled, then laughed hard. That triggered the senator and he began laughing too, and for most of a
minute both of them laughed and giggled without ever saying a word, pouring out the tension built up in each of them for so long.

  “Congratulations,” Barbara said, regaining her composure. “God knows you need it, Ferg, and so do I. Too much pressure for me.”

  They chatted for another minute before Abercrombie excused himself. “Gotta go, Barb. Little committee business I gotta take care of.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Ana Koronis was found guilty. If she were, what about Harvey Joplan? Warfield knew that was a question to which he might never know the answer even though the government made a compelling case against Ana Koronis. Nevertheless, the mole hunt that President Cross had assigned to him was over, at least for now, but undisputed was the fact that Boris Petrevich had moved nuclear material into Iraq at the Habur border crossing, and undiminished was Warfield’s determination to find him and the nuclear material before—he hoped—it was put to use. It wasn’t enough to identify and bring to justice any American involved: The unlimited potentially disastrous consequences of nuclear material in the hands of the wrong people remained. President Cross yielded to Warfield’s request to be allowed to execute the case to the end without interference from Fullwood but cautioned him about covering his tracks. There was only so much Cross could do to help if he went too far over the line.

  Early the following Friday morning, the receptionist at Lone Elm told Warfield General Hendricks was there to see him. Bob Hendricks was the Pentagon advisor to Warfield regarding Lone Elm matters. They came up through the ranks together and both had come up for promotion to general at the same time. Warfield retired instead to take over Lone Elm and Hendricks was now a two-star and worked for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon. It was a position that provided a lot of visibility of goings-on.

  “Come on in Hendricks,” Warfield hollered to the outer room. “Must be raining on the golf course today.”

  “Trying to be more like you—work all the time.”

  “What’s up, Bobby?” They talked about nothing for a few minutes but Warfield could tell Hendricks had something on his mind.

  Hendricks took a deep breath. “Senate Armed Services Committee, they’re gonna hold hearings about Lone Elm, Cam.”

  “Lone Elm? You mean for Lone Elm only?” Lone Elm wasn’t up for funding this year, and even if it was, there wouldn’t be a separate hearing about it—unless there was a problem.

  “That Senator Abercrombie’s going to say it’s about something else, but it’ll be about Lone Elm. I wanted you to know.”

  Warfield looked into his friend’s eyes for the rest of the story. “Doesn’t sound good, Bobby.”

  “It’s not.”

  Warfield shook his head. “You sure about this? Abercrombie’s always been an ally. Last I heard, he praised Lone Elm from the Senate floor. Always fought to fund us, even in times when military budgets were going south.”

  Hendricks nodded. “There’s something behind it, Cam, but I don’t know yet what it is. May not know until the hearings start. But you’ll know then as well as I do.”

  * * *

  A month later, Senator Ferguson Luke Abercrombie opened hearings to investigate the Iraqi border incident at Habur. Was this what Hendricks was referring to? Warfield looked for reasons to be optimistic. If the committee got into it, maybe they’d find the truth, which wouldn’t hurt Warfield, but then he wondered why he wasn’t notified he’d be called to testify.

  Warfield got the picture when Senator Abercrombie called the first witness. Earl Fullwood! Through questioning, Abercrombie led the director to a point where he would almost seem negligent if he failed to discuss Warfield. In a two-day tirade broadcast live on C-Span and played later by the TV networks, Fullwood left no facet of Cameron Warfield unscathed, and ended by alleging Warfield interfered in an FBI operation. After other witnesses, hand-picked by Fullwood and Abercrombie, left Warfield looking even worse, the senator did a made-for-TV display of disappointment in the retired colonel, “who in the past has done some pretty good work.” In the end, the committee recommended the army close Lone Elm as soon as practical.

  General Hendricks called Warfield when it ended. The army would have gone to bat for him but Abercrombie made it clear that it would be wise for them to follow the committee’s recommendation without any fuss. “Army’s hands are tied, Cam. You know how it works.”

  Warfield did know. The army depended on Congress not only for its needs but for its wants as well. “Lone Elm is history,” he said. “Politics never loses out to practicality.”

  The two were silent as it soaked in. After a moment, Hendricks said, “Any idea why Abercrombie turned against you?”

  “Fullwood got to him somehow.” He told Hendricks about Fullwood’s assaults in the White House meetings and the story of the border crossing. “No surprise about Fullwood, but Senator Abercrombie, I never would’ve thought it of him.”

  * * *

  Lone Elm was in the middle of a training rotation when the announcement came, so it was almost two months before it closed and then another few weeks before everything was cleared out. Warfield, Fleming and Macc spent the following week in their favorite restaurants and hangouts before Macc packed up and went back to Arizona to look into running a boat on the Colorado. On the last night, they vowed to see each other soon. After all Warfield and Macc had been through together, goodbye wasn’t an option.

  The next day Warfield made a final check of the vacated buildings at Lone Elm and loaded up the last boxes containing his files and mementos. The army worked out a deal with the FBI, which was taking Lone Elm over for its own use and would begin occupying it tomorrow. He went into the locker room for what would be his last shower there. As the hot water poured over him, thoughts of getting back into the game began to take over. The Russian. The uranium. The car bomber. All were there to be found but time was the enemy. Eighteen months had passed since Habur, and over time clues disappeared like morning dew. As the shower stall filled with steam Warfield renewed his commitment. With Lone Elm closed, he could devote himself to it.

  He made a final trip around the cluster of Lone Elm buildings, drove down the six-thousand foot runway and made a swing around the perimeter of the thousand-acre facility. He’d been there since the day the army purchased the land. When he got back to the main entrance off the highway he stopped, got out and stood with his arms folded on top of the car. As he surveyed the vast complex that had defined his existence in recent years, he thought of the many other lives that had been affected as well.

  His drive to his condo took him past the It’ll Do Lounge a short distance from the stone pillars that marked the entrance to Lone Elm. He looked over at the familiar hangout and began to dwell on the times he’d had there. The many friends he’d drunk with, the trainees, the brass…the women. He wondered aimlessly how many hours he’d lingered there, how many thousands of dollars he’d burned, how many trips across the dance floor there’d been. How many late nights he was unaccounted for.

  Two miles later he wheeled around and drove back to the road house, almost hesitantly walked in, and picked a place at the bar where he’d sat so many times with Macc and some of the Lone Elm crew. Always a few willing beauties around, back then. They’d learned the It’ll Do was a place where booze and money and loud music and good times were plentiful. Where were all those people now, he wondered. Even if someone from the past recognized him, they’d probably steer clear of him if they’d seen any of the Fullwood/Abercrombie circus on television. He was a marked man.

  Everything there was the same. No new carpet or furniture, same old rubbed-smooth dance floor, even the dusty ceiling fan over the bar still squeaked. After a couple of beers and a trip to the men’s room, he sat thoughtfully at the bar as he fingered the hair on his temples. He’d glanced at himself in the mirror in the low light of the restroom and decided his hairline had pushed back a notch. “Another Sam, then I gotta go,” he told the attractive young girl tending bar. He swi
veled around on the barstool and looked over at the dance floor he’d shined a few times and wondered if a floor like that ever wore through. There were three couples dancing to George Jones, holding tight, eyes closed, as if they’d never see each other again.

  Three beers later he was back on the road. He opened all the windows in his car, hoping the wind noise would cover up the ringing in his ears. It was louder than usual.

  * * *

  Next morning Warfield was awake at five a.m. as always but remembered there was no Lone Elm or White House office to go to and went back to sleep. Most nights he would have stayed at Fleming’s but having the last load of his things from Lone Elm in his car last night he had decided to go to his condo after leaving the It’ll Do.

  Later that morning the phone awoke him. “Lo,” he said clearing the night out of his throat.

  “You still asleep?” Fleming sounded surprised.

  “Time ’sit?”

  “Ten. I’m between clients. Thought I’d better check on you. You okay?”

  “Ummh,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Sorry…last night…”

  “Don’t sound like yourself, War Man.”

  “I’m okay, Fleming.”

  “Call me when you’re awake.”

  It was another half-hour before he pulled himself out of bed. He ate half the corn flakes he poured and went to his SUV in a pair of cutoff jeans to bring in some of the boxes. The spare bedroom was already full and he’d planned to sort everything out today and make the room into an office, but got a beer from the fridge and sat down with it in front of the TV. He switched between CNN and Fox News for a few minutes and then flipped through the channels until he came upon an old Edward G. Robinson with Humphrey Bogart flick in black and white. He stayed tuned in for awhile but fell asleep before it was over.

  He was dreaming about Lone Elm when he awoke. It was a dream in which the closing of Lone Elm was itself a dream. He wanted to go back to sleep and continue it.