To Free a Spy (21 page)

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 swiveled 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.

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 much 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?