To Free a Spy

by Nick Ganaway

  Quinn squinted at Warfield for a long moment and tapped the finger. “But Garrison’s a nice guy, sometimes too nice. He feels loyal to you because of what you’ve done for him, for the country. Doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. But he wants you to back off of this mole hunt. You’re making him look bad, putting him on the spot with Fullwood. Earl gets frustrated and chews that cigar but he’s capable of running the FBI. If there’s a mole, he’ll find it. Finding moles, Colonel, that’s an FBI function. The president knows Earl’s got a big job to do, doesn’t want him distracted by all this stuff coming from you. So find another undertaking for yourself. I urge it in the strongest terms.” Quinn stopped for a moment, jabbed the finger and forced a pasty smile. “And don’t be surprised if you get some sort of high-level appointment by the president one of these days.”

  Warfield jerked his arm away from Quinn and stepped out of the SUV. He knew better than to give himself any more time to react. Whether or not Quinn was passing on a message from Cross, the appointment-for-compliance insult was Quinn’s alone. And Warfield didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. And he damn sure didn’t like Quinn.

  Warfield stood at the SUV door and looked in at Quinn. “Cross is a man. If he wants me off he’ll tell me. Until then, Quinn, I go with his prior instructions.” He slammed the door and went to his car.

  * * *

  The news headlines were airing on the radio when Warfield started his car. The recent calm in Israel was in jeopardy as violence broke out between the Israelis and Palestinians. President Cross was in California campaigning for congressional candidates in the upcoming November elections. Sports wise, the Redskins were three-point underdogs to the Cowboys in Cowboys Stadium Sunday. In the weather, Hurricane Veronica, which had threatened the East Coast for several days, was now expected to spare Wilmington, North Carolina, the most recent of coastal areas to evacuate as the hundred and ten mile per hour hurricane continued to defy forecasters’ predictions of its path and strength.

  * * *

  Earl Fullwood stood with his hands stuffed inside his pockets looking out of his window in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building, his unlit cigar wagging up and down as he unconsciously chewed on it. He was waiting for Rachel Gilbert to bring in an up-to-the-minute surveillance report on Cameron Warfield. When she arrived, Fullwood sat in the leather chair behind his desk, which rested on a carpeted platform two steps above the main floor. It was not unlike a judge’s bench, in front of which Fullwood’s visitors were forced, by design, to look up at him.

  Fullwood learned from his father and his grandfather that women had their places, alright, and those places were the kitchen and the bedroom. They had no station in a man’s world. He couldn’t deny that Rachel Gilbert and women like her had made it through law school, some of them even excelling, but the last thing he wanted was one of them as his deputy director at the Bureau.

  When he bowed to the political pressure to put a woman somewhere at the highest levels of the Bureau, he brought Rachel up but saw to it that she had no power. Despite her title, she was relegated to little more than a paralegal to manage his paperwork and deliver his orders to his lieutenants—the men who ran things, got the real work done. He consoled himself with the fact that he could point the finger at Rachel Gilbert when things blew up. And she would bear the burden if she had any hope for her future.

  Rachel Gilbert took her seat in front of Fullwood’s big desk as he peered down at her from the platform.

  “So what’ve th’ boys got on Warfield today?” he asked.

  “Okay, first, he was at the White House with you and Quinn this morning.”

  “Well, thank you for that, Gilbert, you think I didn’t see Warfield sittin’ there across from me?”

  “I, I was just—”

  “Go on with the report. I don’t have all day.”

  “Well, Warfield was at the White House until four-fifteen. No visitors. Then he drove to Langley and met with Quinn for twenty-two min—”

  “Whoa, Gilbert! Did you say Quinn again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well what th’ hell was that about?”

  Gilbert swallowed hard. “I don’t know that, sir.”

  “Well, where’d they meet, Gilbert?” Fullwood half-stood out of his chair now as if he was about to lunge over the desk at her.

  “In the Director’s SUV. They just drove around. Twenty-two minutes to be exact.”

  “Well, tell me what was it about, Gilbert.”

  “We, uh, they were in Director Quinn’s vehicle.”

  “You said that. So what?”

  “We don’t have the CIA director’s vehicle bugged, sir.”

  Fullwood frowned and looked out the window. “Damn that Warfield,” he mumbled. “He doesn’t give up.”

  “What was that, sir?”

  “Get Warfield off the mole hunt, Gilbert.”

  “I’ve told him before to stay out of Bureau business.”

  “Apparently that hasn’t worked, Gilbert!”

  “What would you like me to do. He works for the president, you know.”

  “But we don’t, do we Gilbert? Your tellin’ Warfield didn’t get the job done, now did it? Hell, you’re in the FBI now, Gilbert. Th’ dep’ty director. If you can’t figure out how to get rid of a problem like Warfield—”

  Gilbert’s throat lumped up. “Yes sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  * * *

  Back in her office, Rachel closed the door and propped her feet on her desk. During her years at the Bureau, she’d seen Fullwood become more and more impossible. He’d always been tough, but now he was unbearable. It seemed to be related to Warfield now. Fullwood spent most of his time worrying about his whereabouts and activities instead of directing the fight against terrorism and corruption. It was almost as if Fullwood himself had something to hide, Rachel thought.

  She drew in a deep breath and swung around to her phone.

  * * *

  Warfield sat in his office at the White House staring into space. He had to find a way to look into the CIA director’s whereabouts on the date Seth’s man met the American in Paris. He didn’t want to attract attention to Quinn or to himself. That could embarrass or even alienate his closest ally, President Cross, even if there was no truth to what Quinn had said about Cross in the car. Warfield couldn’t care less about some high-level appointment, but he didn’t want to scrap his name in Washington and in the intel community. He picked up the phone and punched in Paula Newnan’s number.

  “Well, it’s Cameo again. What good fairy do I owe for all the attention I’m getting these days from my favorite eligible bachelor?”

  “You always make things look better, Newnan.”

  “What’s your problem now, Cameo?”

  “Ah, no problem. Need to know where to find a little information.”

  “Like what?”

  “How about a beer after work. I’ll tell you then.”

  “Well-l-l-l, I think I’m supposed to say I’m busy, but this time I’ll make an exception! May be the only way I’ll ever get you away from that gorgeous Fleming DeGrande.”

  * * *

  Paula walked the four blocks from the White House and had commandeered a table when Warfield arrived. Castrogiovanni’s was noisy because of all the hard surfaces. Walls, floors, doors and the bar itself were finished in polished cherry veneers that bounced the sounds all around the room.

  They both ordered a draft.

  “My staff thought I was sick when I walked out at six,” she said.

  “Oughta take more time off.”

  “I’d probably spend it in some place like this. I like it here.”

  Warfield looked around. He’d been to Castro’s a few times. Something about the place reminded him of Rawlings, Texas.

  “The drug store in my home town, Trane’s Pharmacy, we used to go there after ball practice, catch the girls hanging out at the soda fountain. Had a high tin ceiling like this place. We’d get a couple burgers,
double fries, big shake, put quarters in the jukebox, flirt with the girls while we pigged out. Old man Trane would come around and turn down the music. As soon as he was back filling another prescription, we’d sneak behind that Wurlitzer and crank it up again.”

  “That’s probably the least bad thing you did in those days.”

  Warfield chuckled.

  He signaled the waitress to bring another round.

  “Speaking of trouble, Cameo, wanna know about Seth? Your mythology question. I had a chance to look it up.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Okay, he’s got a long story, but the short version is Seth was a god in charge of storms, violence, disorder, unrest, usually drawn with slanting eyes, snout. A composite of various animals. If he wasn’t sufficiently appeased by his people, so it goes, they were hit with violent sandstorms, something like that. Not a popular god.”

  Warfield didn’t spend much time thinking about it. “Need some info, Paula. Who keeps track of the comings and goings of the wheels?”

  “I get the president’s itinerary, of course. Who are you talking about?”

  “Quinn. I’d like to keep it quiet. Cross doesn’t need to know.”

  “Quinn? You’re snooping on the head snoop?” Paula laughed. “That’s funny, Cameo.” Then she frowned and said, “but it’s also very dangerous.”

  “How about it? Can you help?”

  “I get Quinn’s itinerary if he’s traveling with the president, or if they’re going to be at the same place at the same time. That’s not often.”

  “So if I gave you a certain date…”

  “You haven’t changed since those drugstore days, Cameo. Still pressing the envelope, except the stakes are a little higher these days. About all Mr. Trane could do was run you out.”

  Warfield nodded.

  “Tell me the date and I’ll check.”

  “Last year, 22 April.”

  “Have some work to do at the office tonight. After everyone leaves I’ll see what I can find out. Call you first thing tomorrow.”

  “Tonight.”

  * * *

  It was midnight and Fleming had gone to bed when his phone rang. Warfield answered in the great room. Paula said, “I know it’s late, but I wanted to call you from home.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Your man was at the New York Four Seasons Hotel on the night you asked about. Nothing unusual. According to the itinerary in the file, the president was there to address the U.N. He returned to Washington that day but your man stayed overnight. Looks like he was speaking at some committee meetings.”

  “How long did he stay?” Neither of them used Quinn’s name.

  “Checked in on the twenty-first, a Tuesday. Made a speech at eight the next morning, the twenty-second. Then another speech Thursday the twenty-third at noon. Checked out of the hotel that day.”

  “Thanks, Paula.”

  “No thanks necessary, Cameo. By the way, I heard that Fleming DeGrande has a contagious fatal disease. Wouldn’t go near her.”

  “I’ll check it out.” Paula was a good-looking woman. Fortyish. Smart. Damn responsible. Worked all the time, which he figured was the reason she never remarried. After her husband died in a car accident years ago she seemed to turn all her energies to her work. She joked around with people she liked. She worked for Cross even before he entered the government sector and was the administrative standard of excellence by which others could evaluate themselves.

  Warfield eased into bed and contoured himself to Fleming’s nude body without waking her, and tuned in to her breathing pattern. It was slow and peaceful, strangely in sync with the old grandfather clock that stood at the end of the hallway outside the bedroom, ticking off the seconds with undisputed authority as if it were the Chief Clock over all others.

  He stared into the darkness and thought about Quinn, relieved and at the same time disappointed. Quinn was in New York at the time of the Paris meeting. It wasn’t that he hoped to find that the CIA chief led two lives, but it left Warfield back at the starting line. He had nothing. Quinn could be a bastard, but it was unimaginable that he was a traitor.

  Warfield woke up tired the next morning. He’d dreamt he was a corporate accountant and couldn’t make his books balance. The dream kept coming back around but the numbers never made sense: The computer-generated financial reports bore no resemblance to the input data and the reality of the financial status of the business.

  The dream stayed with him all morning. He called Paula back. “Those records show whether my man had anybody with him on that New York trip?”

  “You mean someone other than officials?”

  “Right.”

  “They don’t.”

  * * *

  Helen Swope dabbed at her eyes and then her forehead with a lace-bordered white handkerchief. The Reverend Ebenezer Fuller sat beside her and gently squeezed her bony shoulder in his large hand. “You’re doin’ the right thing, Sister Helen. Don’t you fret.” His tone comforted her. Helen was Austin Quinn’s once-a-week housekeeper during the time Ana was living there. She had testified at Ana’s trial that she saw Ana sitting in front of Quinn’s CIA computer terminal taking notes on several occasions.

  Not long after the trial Helen began having headaches that kept getting worse. Her fingers took on a tremor and she lost from one-hundred-eighty down to ninety-five pounds. A tic developed that caused one corner of her mouth to spasm every few seconds. She hadn’t worked in six months. Her doctors couldn’t explain any of it.

  A few weeks ago she confided in her minister, the Reverend Fuller, what she had done: She’d lied on the witness stand about Ana Koronis. And she knew her maladies were God’s punishment. She didn’t even know the name of the man who paid her the five thousand dollars to do it. Never saw him before the day he came to Quinn’s house when she was working alone on a Saturday, her usual day, and sat down and talked with her about Ana and what Helen must say at the trial. He said he couldn’t reveal to her all there was to know about the case, but justice could be served only if Ana was convicted and sent away. Helen would be doing a fine service to her country and even to her God, and the man didn’t want her to think of herself as being anything other than patriotic.

  Helen and Austin Quinn had never exchanged so much as a single glance about it, before or after the trial. She was certain he never knew it happened. She didn’t know now any more than she knew at the trial about Ana’s guilt or innocence, but she did know she had stood there in front of that judge and that jury and her God and she put her hand on that Bible and said she would tell the truth, and then she got on the witness stand and knowingly spoke lies.

  Her attorney Filmore Dunstan sat across the desk and leaned on his left elbow, chin in hand, making notes on a legal pad with the other. He told Helen he didn’t know how this was going to play out, but Helen made one thing very clear. She wanted to get it off her chest to the authorities. Come clean, whatever the consequences. Dunstan’s secretary brought in the phone number he had asked her to find, but he had some questions for Helen before he placed the call.

  “The man who talked to you that Saturday, Helen. He tell you how he knew you, or why he thought you’d be at Quinn’s place that day?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him?”

  “Doubt it. He wearin’ a hat and he had on some real dark glasses all the time he talkin’ to me.”

  “Anybody ever ask you those questions at the trial?”

  “No sir.”

  Filmore Dunstan dialed the number for Joe Morgan, identified himself and asked Morgan if he remembered Helen Swope from the Koronis trial.

  “How could I forget the key witness.”

  “She’s sitting in my office. Has some information for you.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yep.”

  “Something like a guilty conscience?”

  “Yep. Could involve others, as well.”

  �
��She was put up to it?”

  “Could be, but look, Helen wants to tell you all of this in person.”

  “I’m outta town next three days. How about my office Friday morning at ten.”

  * * *

  “So, we meet again, Colonel Warfield,” Ana said.

  “Need a little more input.”

  She nodded blankly as she smoothed a wrinkle in her prison garb.

  “You traveled with Quinn on official trips?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Warfield looked at Ana for a moment, sitting there in her orange ADC jumpsuit, plain Jane, used to such a different life, another world. “Guess that was an ordeal. All the security around him, I mean.”

  “I was not unaccustomed to security, you know, married to the ambassador. But it can get to you.”

  “Ever able to get away from it, even for a short time?”

  “Austin had many of the same security people for a long time. Sometimes he’d put on some sort of token disguise—hat, sunglasses, mustache even, when he was feeling a little frisky—and tell whoever was in charge of his security detail he didn’t want them tagging along. I think they were pretty used to it.”

  “It happened often, then?”

  “I think Austin left them guarding an empty room now and then. I don’t know, didn’t travel with him too much because of my work.”

  “How long would you stay out without security?”

  “Sometimes we’d get a cab, go shopping, out to dinner, the theatre. Several hours, I guess.”

  Warfield put away his notes. “Speaking of Quinn, seen him lately?”

  She smiled dismissively. “I’m…I’m sure he’s been busy.”

  “You still…oh, sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. I still think of Austin. Nothing romantic. That was over before the trial, but I know the whole thing was hard on him, too.”

  “Saw him yesterday. He asked about you.”

  She nodded. “Wouldn’t mind spending some time with him one day. You know, closure. Some old issues we never got to talk about.”