To Free a Spy Page 17

  He stood at the window and looked out. He had not often seen the afternoon sun from the condo. He thought about bringing in the newspaper, but instead got another beer and sat down in front of the TV. When he woke up that evening it was eight-thirty. He didn’t understand where the day had gone. Tomorrow he had to set up his office and plow into the hunt for Petrevich. The president had invited him to set up his office again in the White House. There were no deadlines, no reporting, but there was understood responsibility and accountability—first to himself and of course to Cross. The problem now was that he was starving. Finding nothing he wanted in the fridge, he opened another beer and stood in the door of the bedroom where the boxes waited. It was time to get the rest of them out of the car and start unpacking, but he had to eat. That meant a trip to the store to pick up some things. After that he would call Fleming and get to the boxes.

  The car radio almost blew him out of the car. Had it been blaring that loud when he drove home last night? An old Garth Brooks song took him back to the It’ll Do. He had an unidentifiable but uneasy feeling about last night. Maybe that was because there were no familiar faces there anymore. When he got to the stop sign two blocks from the condo, he hesitated for a moment. The store was to the left but he turned right and headed for the It’ll Do. He could grab a sandwich there and have a beer, and maybe get rid of the odd feeling he had.

  He finished an It’ll Do hoagie and ordered another beer. Someone behind him said, “What, no Jack Daniels on the rocks?” Even before he looked around he knew the sexy voice belonged to Toni, the bartender who’d served him so many drinks on those long, now dim nights back in another life.

  He gave her a big hug and she held him close. “You must own the place by now?” he said half-joking.

  “Matter of fact…”

  “You deserve it, kid.”

  Slow, impossible-to-ignore eyes were part of Toni’s charm. “Where you been, Honey? Long time. Oh, heard they closed Lone Elm. That stuff on televis—. Oops, sorry, Cam.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Life goes on.”

  “Anyone who knows you won’t—”

  Warfield shook his head. “Thanks, Toni, but it’s not worth discussing.”

  “Macc, he came by few days ago. Said you were like married to this girl.”

  For a moment he stared at her. He’d forgotten how the right side of her mouth kinked up at the corner enough to catch the eye. He didn’t remember she was so good looking. “Good to see you, Toni” he said, ignoring her comment.

  Warfield caught himself staring at her as they talked, and soon became aware of a sensation in his groin. They joked and chatted for half an hour and Warfield stood up. “Gotta be somewhere.”

  “Cam?” she said as he rose to leave.

  He turned around. Her head was cocked to one side. Her lips were pouty. The silk blouse she wore draped softly over well-defined breasts.

  “Don’t stay away so long.”

  * * *

  Next morning he was up at eight. He’d picked up more beer last night but there was still no food in the place. He went into the spare bedroom to set up his computer. Fleming called before he got started.

  “Hey stranger, how ’bout some lunch? Brought some extra soup and salad to the office this morning.”

  “I, well, maybe I better not, Fleming.”

  “Pretty busy getting settled, huh?”

  “All these boxes from Lone Elm.”

  “Coming to Hardscrabble tonight? Love to see ya, War Man.”

  “Let me, uh, wait ’til I see how things go here today. I’ll call.”

  He finished his beer and lay back on the sofa. When he awoke, his hands covered his ears. Somehow he had to stop the ringing. He opened a new beer, hoping for some relief. He went back to the boxes but felt tired. The kind of tired rest didn’t cure. He couldn’t remember when he had so little energy. After a trip to a neighborhood grocery around five, he ate a bowl of cereal and went back to bed and slept until noon the next day.

  His beard almost scared him when he looked in the bathroom mirror. It occurred to him it had been, what, two days, or was it three, since he’d showered and shaved. That was on the list but he grabbed a beer first. That seemed to help the ringing. Three beers later, he slept again.

  When he woke up he wasn’t sure how many days he’d lost. Fleming had called and left a couple of messages but he didn’t remember hearing the phone. He thought about a run. He’d skipped his daily five-milers and workouts for the first time in years except while he was recovering from the car blast. But there was no food. No beer. He had to take care of that, and clean the condo, do the laundry. The Lone Elm boxes still waited on him. He needed to call Fleming. He wondered how he would ever get everything done. The ringing was worse. Maybe that’s what caused the headache. He poured a slug of Jack Daniels over some ice cubes.

  * * *

  Warfield awoke startled. What’s going on with me? Was all this because of Fullwood? Lone Elm? He had to bounce back. He’d never had any patience with men who wallowed around in their problems—perceived or real. He poured himself a Jack Daniels and turned on the TV. Fox News was running a piece on terrorists. He flipped through the channels and found a tennis match. As he sat there trying to motivate himself into the shower, the phone rang and he let the answering machine get it. It was Fleming. She was leaving the hospital late and wanted to swing by his place. Maybe they could have dinner together.

  He couldn’t let her see the condition everything was in. Besides, he was tired. He called to explain.

  “Uhh, look, Fleming, I, I was gonna call you. Been a little under the weather. I better stay in tonight.”

  “What’s going on with you, Cam?”

  “Nothing, babe. I’m fine. Just busy right now.”

  Fleming hesitated. He’d missed her point, or ignored it. “It’s been weeks, and I don’t know what you’re doing to yourself. This is not the Cam Warfield I know.” She was angry.

  The weeks became months and Warfield lost all sense of time. Exercise was non-existent and he seldom felt like going to the trouble of getting into the shower. When he thought about it he’d flip through his mail and pull out the bills that had to be paid, but late notices began to arrive. He existed on corn flakes and milk—and booze to tame the noise in his ears. The employees at the 7-Eleven and the bottle shop knew him by name.

  He woke up one night thinking of Fleming. He’d dreamed about her and wanted to see her. He tried all the next day to call but had no luck reaching her at the office or Hardscrabble. That evening he decided to drive to Ticcio’s where they had dinner so many times. He could continue trying to call her from there and maybe she could meet him. He felt an urgent need to make amends but where would he start? For almost three months he’d ignored her calls and the emails she wrote and after a while told her to back off. He’d call when he felt like it. It wasn’t that he cared less for her. It was too painful to face her, even though she usually managed to be upbeat.

  He always ended the conversation when she suggested he needed to get help. He was responding to his own guilt, but couldn’t pull himself out of this inexplicable abyss he was in. The simplest decisions were monumental, and the weight of it all made him want to sleep. When his head was clear—as clear as it got these days—he tried to carry out his good intentions but he’d hit the bottle again while thinking about it and back into that pit he would go. Today had been a little different. He wondered if being out of booze had anything to do with it. He showered, pulled a starched, French blue button down shirt out of the closet, and squeezed into a pair of chinos that used to fit.

  He’d gotten into the habit of walking to the stores around the corner and couldn’t remember how long it had been since he drove a car. It had collected a layer of dust in his garage and he had to clean the windshield before taking it out. Ticcio’s was about half way between his place and Hardscrabble and as he pulled into the familiar parking lot it hit him how much he’d missed Fleming. How muc
h he’d missed life. How could he have let this happen to himself?

  “Nobody respects you if you don’t respect yourself,” he had said to men in his command many times, and now he had fallen far below his own bar. His condo was stacked up with dirty clothes, unwashed dishes and the unpacked Lone Elm boxes, and although he had eaten little more than beer and chips and now and then a bowl of cereal during all that lost time, he’d gained twenty pounds. His muscles turned to mush. His hair was shaggy and for the first time in his life he had a beard, not according to any plan but by neglect. As he sat in Ticcio’s parking lot, he felt the excess meat around his belly and stared at himself in the visor mirror. Warfield, you slob. Why the hell didn’t you at least shave?

  Ticcio was not there that night. Warfield sat at the bar and tried Fleming again. Still no answer but this time he left a message on her voicemail and at Hardscrabble that he was at Ticcio’s now and hoped she would join him. He watched the couples on the dance floor snuggle to the Dean Martin impersonator and kept an eye on the entrance for Fleming.

  After half an hour she walked in. He knew she would show, but seeing her was still a shock. His heart raced. Adrenaline rocked his nerves into high gear. He couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around her and tell her how much she meant to him and ask what it would take for them to get back to where they were a few months ago. He felt her skin against his once again. Heard her warm voice. Sensed her fingers running through his hair. How he had missed her. The sheer white cotton outfit she wore emphasized her tan, and her hair swept her shoulders now. He despised what he had done.

  As Warfield stood up to greet her, Fleming turned to the man entering the door behind her and laughed at something he said. She walked within inches of Warfield as the maitre d’ led the couple through the bar to their table but if she saw him she didn’t show it.

  * * *

  Aleksei Antonov walked up from the orchestra and as he lit a Cuban cigar a look of satisfaction graced his face. At least that was one thing the Russians had over the Americans. The smoke took on shades of maroon and gray as it curled upward to the lights. Captain Aleksandr Nosenko rounded the corner from the mezzanine where he was seated for the concert and lit a cigarette off the end of the general’s cigar. Antonov was pleased with Nosenko. Not every young officer he’d selected to personally groom rose to his expectations, not to the degree Nosenko had. And like Antonov, Nosenko worried about the easy availability of the sea of nuclear resources left over after the Soviet Union fell apart. The captain contacted General Antonov with any news worth disturbing his mentor for in order to arrange a clandestine meeting. Tonight he informed Antonov that Boris Petrevich was in Tokyo. That was certain now. Antonov decided against telling Nosenko that he’d already learned about Petrevich from an old comrade.

  There was no law or rule against Captain Nosenko’s collaboration with General Antonov but it seemed to both of the men that privacy of communication was nonetheless in order. After all, Antonov and to some degree Nosenko were products of the old ultra-secretive Soviet culture. But it wasn’t like the captain was hiding the information from his superiors: They had the same direct access to it he did. The difference was that Antonov in his retirement had not only the determination but also the time and financial resources to do something with it.

  “So what will you do now?” Captain Nosenko asked after giving Antonov the news.

  The house lights signaled the first call to return to the theater. The general studied the thick maroon carpet for a moment before answering.

  “Tokyo.”

  “I will accompany you.”

  “Nyet.”

  “You will go alone?”

  “Initially, yes, until I have specific information about Boris Petrevich. Then I will invite the American, Warfield, to meet me there.”

  Nosenko looked away. “Just as I thought.”

  “You do not agree with that course of action, Captain?”

  “You trusted Colonel Warfield to stop Petrevich once before.”

  “It was not Warfield’s failure. Your own intelligence sources determined it was his FBI.” Antonov said it in a tone intended to end the matter.

  Nosenko persisted. “And that will not happen again in Japan? This may be the last opportunity to neutralize Boris Petrevich and recover the uranium he controls.”

  Antonov squinted at his protégé’s tone. “Warfield is no less determined than you or me, Captain, to keep our nuclear arsenal out of irresponsible hands. And he is known to take personal risk when his objective requires it, so I suspect he will not involve his FBI in this matter again.”

  “May I remind my general that Colonel Warfield no longer enjoys the support of his own government? Perhaps determination is not the only important criterion in choosing an ally.”

  Antonov flared. He wasn’t accustomed to being questioned by a captain, even Nosenko. “Be reminded yourself, captain, that Warfield consistently succeeded against us when he was our enemy. I am aware that was before your time, but I fear that your studies of military and KGB operational history have failed you in this regard.”

  The young officer glanced around to see how many others witnessed the reprimand.

  Antonov looked directly into Nosenko’s eyes. “Will that be all, captain?”

  Nosenko nodded. “What would you have me do, sir?”

  Intermission was over. Antonov knew Nosenko’s motives were pure, and cooled off. Nosenko had been with the general so long and gone through so much with him that now he must feel shut out. And in favor of an American. Antonov put his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Without you here in Moscow, in the army,” he said, “we lose our primary source of intelligence, which is crucial to our cause. Otherwise, you would accompany me to Tokyo.”

  Antonov arrived back at his dacha after midnight and poured himself a brandy. It went well with Cubans. He leaned back in the leather chair he called his thinking chair and stared at the ceiling, processing what he knew.

  Before the cigar was gone, the six-foot-three general moved from the cracked and wrinkled leather of the old chair to his computer where he scheduled a flight to Tokyo the next day, then e-mailed a note to Warfield. It was almost three a.m. when he turned the lights out.

  * * *

  Warfield felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach. He couldn’t bear to stay at Ticcio’s any longer, that close to Fleming with another man. Before leaving, he went to the men’s room where he got a shot of himself in the mirror. Was it possible she didn’t recognize him? She hadn’t looked right at him but she did seem to be aware of her surroundings. She had glided past him so near that he smelled the perfume he had given her. No way she would have missed seeing him before he…before he became so different.

  The beard. That was it, that and the weight and his hair that had grown shaggy. What had he done to himself? To Fleming? Here she was with another man, no doubt having given up on him while he let himself and everything important to him disintegrate. He was enraged at his own doings. As he turned to leave the restroom he kicked the full-length mirror dead center, sending it to the floor in a million pieces.

  He sat in the parking lot for several minutes to get himself together. When he got back to the condo there was a red, tan and black envelope taped to his front door. It was from his mortgage lender, who said his condo was in the process of foreclosure for non-payment of his loan. They had sent all the required notices about missed payments and, having received no response from him, regretted to tell him his home was now in foreclosure proceedings. He could expect the local sheriff to serve him with the legal documents. He read the letter three times under the porch light before going inside. He stood in the living room and looked around at the place for a minute, tossed the notice on the table and went back to his car.

  The ringing was back. He opened all the windows in the car hoping to make it go away. When he reached ninety most of it did. He sat at the It’ll Do bar and ordered a double Jack on the rocks. He swiveled around to the softl
y-lighted dance floor, much larger and louder than the one at Ticcio’s, and watched over-heated lovers who might be having their first dance together melt into unity as Patsy Cline delivered I Fall to Pieces. He tilted his glass to the juke box. “Know what you mean,” he mumbled.

  Something surged through him when Toni walked up and rested her arm on his shoulder. “Out in the wilderness for awhile, huh Cam?”

  Her question would’ve been painful except for the Jack. “Hi, Toni.”

  “Hey, I like the beard on you,” she said, tugging at it. “Weight’s not bad either. I like a man with some meat on his bones.”

  Toni’s eyelids gently waved up and down like the wings of a July butterfly. The lovers on the dance floor caught Warfield’s eye. “Workin’ tonight?” he asked.

  “Depends on who wants to know?” She smiled.

  “Forgot. You own the place now.”

  “Thought it was about time you’d be back. Didn’t wanna miss you.”

  “Dance?” he asked, as Celine Dion began to sing My Heart Will Go On.

  She lowered her huge eyes for a moment as if she was thinking it over and then looked at him again. “Not here,” she whispered. “My place.”

  * * *

  A few hours after General Antonov and Captain Nosenko met in the Moscow theater, Fleming arrived at Hardscrabble to hear her phone ringing. It was Macc Macclenny returning her call. “How’s my favorite shrink?”

  “Macc, you bum! How’s life on the Colorado?”

  “Rough out here! Really rough! Thank that Senator what’s-his-name for closing Lone Elm. Hope you’re calling to tell me you and Warfield are headed my way.”

  She wished that, too. But she’d called Macc for another reason. Now she had to tell Warfield’s best and oldest friend he’d stumbled.

  Warfield had a constitution of steel, the stainless kind that came with a warranty. The internal fires, the passion, the grit that made him what he was couldn’t be bought or created or turned on inside someone who didn’t have them. You couldn’t simply will yourself to be that kind of man: You either were or you were not. Macc would find it hard to understand that these hallmarks of Warfield had failed him.