To Free a Spy (36 page)

“I’m saying no one except the few of us who were in the Oval Office that day knew Joplan was ready to give up the name of his contact and that his contact had deep pockets. My Buyer X learned this from one of us who was at that meeting.”

“Who was present at that meeting?” Quinn asked.

“The three of us, Stern and the president. And Paula was there. But it wasn’t X himself who debriefed Joplan and killed him. X put someone inside the prison to do it.”

“And after that, X knew how to contact Seth. That your conspiracy theory, Kunnel?”

“Call it that if you want to. Seth’s representative, some Frenchman, Suri thinks, met with Joplan’s replacement in Paris on 22 April last year. Now jump ahead six weeks to 9 June. That’s the date Boris Petrevich crossed the border from Turkey into Iraq. Whether he had the uranium at that time is irrelevant to this discussion. I think Petrevich was the name supplied to Seth by X. Petrevich and the uranium ended up in Japan and we know the rest of that story.”

“What is the point here, Kunnel, in spinning this tale of yours?”

“The point is we still have an internal security problem and we’re going to have more losses until we find it. Unless you can discredit what I laid out here, you can start looking for another mole. It wasn’t Ana Koronis.”

Earl Fullwood looked self-assured. With elbows on the table, cigar in hand, he said, “Kunnel, I believe even you would say this story of yours is based on a lot of speculation—the girlfriend of a terrorist, some dark spy-meetin’ in Paris, a conveniently mysterious murder in a prison. We can’t run around witch-huntin’ because of your phlegmy hallucinations. Might as well be readin’ tabloid newspapers and tarot cards. Pretty soon it’ll be the man in the moon spyin’ on us.”

Warfield was at a loss as to why the director would refuse to consider the possibility of a mole.

Quinn asked, “Learn anything else on your Paris trip?”

“Few things I’m check—”

Fullwood cut Warfield off. “Quinn, you’re askin’ for more fairy tales. Save your breath. I don’t know what’s goin’ on here. Warfield is guessin’. Like he did about that uranium, for example. There’s not an ounce of proof that the Russian at Habur is the one in Japan. Warfield’s tryin’ to make hisself look good after his big fiasco there.”

Fullwood crammed his cigar between his teeth and stood up to leave. “I got Bureau business to take care of.”

There was a tap on the door and Cross walked in. “This just came in. Might be of interest to all of you.” Cross placed a thick folder on the table. “It’s a translation of Yoshida’s diary.”

That Jotaro file!
Warfield wanted to jump up onto the table and dance. The authorities in Tokyo had kept it but Warfield requested a copy be sent to Cross. Incredible timing, and it might contain some information for Fullwood.

Warfield sat back as Fullwood and Quinn began going through it. As Cross was leaving, he caught Warfield’s eye with a look that said everything Warfield had told him about Petrevich and Seth was there in the diary. That meant Fullwood’s rhetoric would crash before his eyes.

Twenty minutes later Quinn looked over at Warfield. “In skimming this, Warfield, I see some support for your position, but I’m not convinced of another mole. And how much can you believe this girlfriend, Suri?”

Warfield fired back. “Are you two going to stick your head in the sand? Look at Rick Ames, CIA. Operated right under Stern’s nose for ten years before he was caught. FBI’s Robert Hanssen spied twenty years. Mohammed Atta and the other 9/11 World Trade Center terrorists hid in open view for two years right here in our country while they planned their destruction. Think of the terrorist attack on our consulate in Benghazi, Libya and the murder of our Ambassador Chris Stephens and three other Americans. Look at how many Americans died because of these people. And there’s Habur crossing. There were warnings and signals in each one of those cases but nothing was done. No one wanted to believe it. Haven’t we learned anything about being proactive?”

“If you knew so much about the Russian, why didn’t you act before he moved the stuff?” Quinn asked.

Warfield wondered how many times he’d explained this and wasn’t ready to talk about his conversations with Rachel Gilbert again. Now he was angry. “Look, it boils down to this. Either the CIA’s source lied to the CIA, or somebody at CIA lied to the FBI, or somebody at FBI revised the intelligence that came from the CIA. Two out of three of those scenarios point to a mole. If you buy my theory that only a mole could have known how to contact Seth, it becomes pretty damn convincing that we’ve still got a mole. If you don’t, then you convince me.”

“You were saying you had other information?” Quinn asked.

Warfield decided to play that hollow carrot for what it was worth. “Yeah, from Ana, but nothing I’m going to talk about until I check into it.”

Quinn seemed surprised. “Ana?”

“Saw her yesterday.”

Quinn measured Warfield for a moment, then said, “She’s all right I hope.”

“She’s fine,” Warfield said dismissively.

* * *

Warfield was in his office later on when Paula called. “Cameo, Director Quinn called here, wants you to meet him at Langley.”

“Yeah?” Warfield expected it. Had his theory caused some concern?

“Five this afternoon.”

Warfield drove past a
six-foot-square sign on the side of the road that warned the unauthorized to keep going, fell into the turn lane and shot into the divided street that led inside the CIA campus. Another sign loomed there and a large and ominous armored personnel carrier with blackout windows stood at the corner poised to eradicate any problem. A guard shack manned by armed security personnel sat two-hundred yards inside the compound. The gate officer required I.D.

Always the same, Warfield thought. No credit for good behavior on earlier visits. He cleared the checkpoint and drove deeper into the woods to where the headquarters building hid far from the view of outsiders. For years the location of CIA was a guarded secret, and even now it was far more shielded from the public than was the White House, a more sensitive and symbolic target. In the midst of Washington city streets and public parks the White House compound was a sieve in comparison to the CIA base. The White House, icon of democracy and freedom, must not be seen as a fortress. The CIA had no such image to protect. Darkness and shadows were its stock in trade.

An armed officer inside the CIA headquarters building seemed to be expecting Warfield and led him to a parking garage where Quinn was already seated and waiting in his SUV. Quinn and Warfield sat alone in the rear of the vehicle, which was configured with a small round table and leather seats. A glass partition separated them from the driver. Quinn offered something to drink but Warfield declined. The driver maneuvered around barricades and tire-shredders along the road leading back to the public highway as Quinn initiated the conversation. “Just curious about Ana,” he said. “Haven’t seen her for a while.”

Quinn was taking a swipe at the carrot Warfield had thrown out a few hours earlier at the White House. Warfield wanted to slap the table but reminded himself that Quinn’s hyper curiosity proved nothing—yet.

“Frankly, Cam, I miss her. Thought you could clue me in. How is she?”

Warfield yielded no clue that he was beginning to suspect Quinn now. “Seems okay. I hadn’t seen her since the trial. Actually looks healthier now.”

“I got the impression you know more than you shared with Fullwood and me. I know how it is with Fullwood, so I thought you and I could talk.”

Warfield shrugged. “Couple of things. Maybe insignificant, so I don’t want to clutter the table with it at this point.”

Quinn turned to look at him. “You’re safe talking with me about it.”

Warfield looked straight at Quinn. “I’m not discussing it with anyone. Not yet.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “You know, Warfield, you’re not only chasing shadows, you live in the shadows. You’ll have everybody in Washington on a list of suspects. Could cause trouble for a lot of innocent people around here!”

Quinn hit the intercom button and told the driver to return to Langley. When he stopped to let Warfield out near his car, Quinn laid a finger on Warfield’s shirt sleeve and looked at him for a second before speaking. “The president likes you, Warfield, but I’ve known Garrison a lot longer than you have. We played college ball together. Drank whiskey. Chased girls. Drove fast cars. Best man at each other’s wedding. We were buddies then, and we’ve become more than that through the years. He appointed me to run the CIA, for example. Like brothers, Garrison and me.”

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.