To Free a Spy (13 page)

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 never 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.

He loosened the horses’ saddles as they drank from the stream. The late afternoon sun poised over the water upstream found its way through the trees and splotched the landscape. Warfield climbed onto a rock the size of a car to absorb it all.

He’d become preoccupied with Fullwood. There was more to his little tantrum than Warfield understood in the meeting. He thought how the whole episode had been rendered a waste of time by Joplan’s death, and began to think of Joplan again.

Fleming retrieved the blankets from their saddles and climbed onto the rock with him as he told her about Joplan’s fate. They discussed it for awhile and then sat without talking. Fleming ran her fingers through his hair and rubbed his shoulders. Even the worst of worries lost some of their edge in such a place as this, and he stopped dwelling on Fullwood and Joplan and yielded to drowsiness. It seemed like no more than ten minutes later when he awoke. Fleming was under the blanket with him and had removed her clothes

“There’s this particular therapy I recommend for you,” she said, nuzzling his neck.

He pulled back and admired her. No woman was more beautiful to him than Fleming DeGrande. He was captured when he looked at her, but it wasn’t only her fine bones, her sharp jaw line. She was honest. Loving. Caring. Sexy. Easy to be with. And her eyes, the brim-full windows to the curiosity and excitement and intelligence that lay within. They had enough things in common. She put up with him, filled in where he fell short. She could out-think him half the time. He was at peace with her. That is, when he could put work aside.

Fleming was the soft part of his life. He never thought of himself as unhappy before her, but he wasn’t in any hurry to try life again without her. She massaged something in his soul he didn’t know existed before.

Now her full length of bare skin fused with his own. They lay still except for the little finger of Fleming’s right hand that traced out something on his face. With her lips almost touching his, she whispered something and smiled.

“You’re asking for trouble, you know!” he said, as she rolled over on top of him. As he pulled her close she threw her head back to clear the hair from her face. They fell asleep on the rock after making love.