To Free a Spy (46 page)

My Dearest Karly,

You no doubt know by now that Frank was murdered a few nights ago. Nothing is clear at this point but I confiscated his diary from his office before the police got there. I did so because Frank had asked me at lunch one day shortly before his death if I knew Patrick Biggers. Of course I said I do. Biggers is a rather mysterious character who once worked for Austin Quinn. Nothing more was said about him that day, but when I got the horrible news that Frank was killed my mind jumped back to that conversation. I figured there might be a clue in his private and personal daily writings as to why Frank asked me about Biggers. I’m sending you the diary in the belief that you will find that there is.

I’ve broken the law of course by taking Frank’s diary, thus destroying evidence, but I figure there is more potential harm to you if the police get it than there is benefit to them toward finding his killer. Frank is dead. I want you to stay alive. And my guess is that justice will be served in either case. As for me, I am old and don’t worry about consequences too much any more. You are my only family.

You have my love and best wishes.

Doc

Karly’s eyes glassed over. Doc had saved her life. He had been a father to her and she had been one of only a handful of people who attended Doc’s final services. She wished he could know what was going to become of his letter.

* * *

Austin Quinn remembered little of the time he spent with Cam Warfield in his Golden Touch suite four years earlier. He just knew he should have killed the bastard instead of succumbing to sudden remorse. The pressure he was under after Warfield had confronted him that day at the White House had driven him to hasty and unwise choices. Had Quinn not been drinking Warfield would be dead and Quinn would not have been so depressed and unnerved that he lost focus and shot himself. He had begun to regain his mind after awhile in rehab but had kept that fact to himself. On the advice of his lawyers Quinn had resisted any testing for the state of his recovery of mental faculties because of the well-founded fear that the government would take him to trial if it found him competent. Life in the rehab center was not bad. It had some of the comforts of home and he had a private room and essentially the liberty to move about the building and even the hundred-acre campus. There were tennis courts and other sports activities for those who had fared well, and he enjoyed long walks and casual association with some of the staff at times. He was certainly not free but voluntarily subjecting himself to testing that would lead to his being found competent and going to trial on the espionage charges was a huge gamble: It would not be a good trade to be found guilty at trial and sent to prison where life would be much worse than here, possibly for the rest of his life. However, his appeals attorney, Oscar Frye, was very forceful in encouraging him to take the chance. He explained the applicable statutes and case law, and acquittal was a slam dunk in his opinion. Frye even said he half-expected the judge to dismiss the charges before the trial began. And no one had ever brought charges of murder and he didn’t expect them to. Even though there was no time limit on a murder conviction, he was certain he’d eliminated any possible witnesses long ago.

When he allowed his lawyer to go ahead with a petition to release him from rehab and return his life to him, newspapers revived the Quinn story and began to speculate. Some editorialized that he was a traitor and should never be freed. Most conceded however that there was little likelihood that he would even be tried.

On the first day of the hearing the courtroom was packed. Law students had come from schools all over the country. The CIA, State Department, FBI, and White House were abundantly represented. The requisite number of seats was reserved for the press and the few remaining were occupied by the curious. Conspicuously absent were members of Quinn’s family. Patrick Biggers, possibly the only living connection to Quinn’s past, was seated in the third row behind the defense table.

Judge Melvin T. Willingham called the court to order and asked if the parties were prepared to proceed, which Quinn’s attorney Frye and the federal prosecutor Erwin Hollis affirmed. Judge Willingham then asked if either party had anything to add to the briefs they had submitted to the court. Oscar Frye said he stood by his argument. His client, Austin Quinn, former Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, should be set free.

“Yes, well, Mr. Frye, I’m inclined to agree with you. Does the prosecution have anything to add that might persuade me to let the trial proceed?”

Prosecutor Erwin Hollis had married this case, and it was of intense interest to him. He believed that Austin Quinn was responsible for a series of murders directly related to the case at hand, that of espionage. But Quinn was almost certain to avoid any charges for those murders as no witnesses had ever come forward. The killings could not even be mentioned in this case. The young, idealistic prosecutor, despite realizing the system was working as intended, feared he would lose all faith in the law if Quinn got out of this. Now, thankful for this last glimmer of hope offered by Judge Willingham, he spent the next twenty minutes trying to convince him, fighting against a decision about to go the wrong way. In conclusion, he said, “Your Honor, the defendant Mr. Quinn, serving in one of the most important agencies in our government, entrusted with the nation’s most valuable secrets, betrayed his country and all who had placed their confidence in him. It will be a sad commentary on our system, an open invitation to any and all who might be tempted to do us harm, if he is allowed to go unscathed in this matter.”

Following a fifteen minute recess the judge returned to the bench and announced his decision: There would be no trial due to the statute of limitations. Therefore, the documentation he had presented from professionals declaring him competent practically forced Judge Willingham to release him. Austin Quinn was free to leave! Paperwork releasing him from the rehab facility could be handled without his presence. Judge Willingham angrily banged his gavel when the courtroom erupted in groans that clearly indicated dissatisfaction with the decision. There was not likely a soul present who did not remember the case from four years earlier when it all came out. This friend of then President Cross and possible future presidential candidate had all but certainly sold national secrets to foreign agents and ordered a series of killings. Now he would go free.

Austin Quinn had leapt out of his chair with a whoop and thrown his hands into the air! He hugged Frye and followed those in the courtroom out into the hallway of the old courthouse, whose marble floor showed the wear of fifty years of trials. Quinn thanked his lawyer, joined Patrick Biggers, and was headed for an elevator when a beautiful woman, fortyish, veered into his path. His attention was drawn to her striking green eyes as he started to maneuver around her in the crowded hallway and, thinking she looked familiar, looked again.

He froze:
My God! No! No! No!

“Hello, Jag!” Karly said with a wry smile. Except that now she was Patricia Adams.

Four men in suits standing nearby quickly approached, presented FBI identification, separated Quinn and Biggers, and began handcuffing each of them as one of the agents told them they were under arrest on multiple counts of murder.” The president had asked the FBI to find a way to make Quinn’s a
federal
case, as, unlike in most states, there would be no parole. Oscar Frye, the son of a close friend of President Cross, having met with Cross and Warfield, agreed that justice would be best served if he could get Austin Quinn declared competent.

Quinn could only stare at Karly, this
ghost
, in utter disbelief and confusion for a long moment but soon he looked resigned, dropping his chin to his chest in despair. He had listened to his attorney and lost his last and only chance—and traded the relative comfort of his rehab facility for a six-by-eight cell in the federal penitentiary—likely for the rest of his life.

* * *

A month after his arrest, Patrick Biggers’ lawyer went to the United States Attorney prosecuting his case and proffered a deal. Biggers could fill in unanswered questions about Quinn in exchange for leniency. It took weeks but they worked it out.

At Quinn’s trial, Biggers testified under oath that he’d accepted money from Quinn to arrange all of the murders in Atlantic City beginning with Gallardi, the killings in Washington, and the attempts on Warfield’s life. He had also gone to Quinn’s house before Ana Koronis’ trial and bribed Helen Swope to lie. In the end Quinn was spared the death penalty but sentenced to life in a federal maximum security facility, where there would be no parole.

Five months later, Biggers stood before the same federal judge who had sentenced Quinn. The prosecution explained his cooperation in Quinn’s case. He was sentenced to thirty years in a federal penitentiary. Both Quinn and Biggers were sure to receive additional state charges.

* * *

Karly Amarson waited in the hallway outside the courtroom for another spectator to emerge. She’d never formally met Cameron Warfield but had been in the courtroom on the day he testified in Quinn’s and Biggers’ trials. Now she stopped him and introduced herself. He of course knew who she was. “I admire you, Colonel Warfield, for your perseverance. Quinn and Biggers would be free men otherwise. I just want to say ‘thank you.’”

Warfield smiled, and introduced her to Fleming DeGrande and to Ana Koronis, who were standing nearby. The women chit-chatted for a moment while Warfield found Quinn’s attorney Oscar Frye and shook his hand. The two men looked each other in the eye and nodded almost imperceptibly.

* * *

Back in New York, Karly Amarson—Patricia Adams now and forever more—opened her safe, pulled out a worn yellow file folder, thumbed the contents as she absently stared out of the window overlooking the Manhattan skyline, and placed it in the shred file. Karly Amarson was no longer.

Nick Ganaway loves the
likes of thrillers written by of Daniel Silva, John Grisham, Michael Connelly, Ben Macintyre, David Baldacci, Don Winslow, Ken Follett, Vince Flynn, Nelson DeMille and many others, as well as true accounts of military special operations. Nick hopes you enjoy reading To Free A Spy, his first novel, as much as he loved researching and writing it. Nick lives in Dunwoody, GA, and has three loving children and five beautiful grandchildren.

I have long been
an avid reader of thrillers and spent three years studying the art of writing as taught by many accomplished writers and writing experts, researching background for To Free A Spy, and writing, rewriting and changing every word until they refused to be changed any more!

The Tokyo segment was especially interesting to research and write, including direct communication with the very cooperative Radiation Effects Research Foundation in Minami-ku, Hiroshima in Japan. My uninvited exploration of the CIA campus in Langley, VA, was not exactly welcomed with open arms by security officers at the entrance guardpost, who questioned my intentions and my sanity for having ignored the large warning sign and armored vehicle outside the campus entrance and gave me clear orders where to wait for a reception “committee,” who approached our car armed and outfitted in black gear. My wife and I were all but fingerprinted (as she reminded through clenched teeth that “I told you so”) and advised we were forevermore in the CIA database—and not the one for Christmas cards! Nevertheless, followup phone calls were very productive. In stark contrast to Langley (and a little worrisome,) the White House compound in Washington would appear to be as vulnerable as it is visible, separated from the public only by a fence of (apparently) decorative metal pickets, and guardposts at entrance gates. I’m assured however that there are ample but unseen defenses

One can never see all that Washington has to offer and it is always a great experience, but the Alexandria Detention Center, where my characters Ana Koronis and Harvey Joplan are housed for a time, is not likely one frequently visited (voluntarily.) Although the modern mid-rise orange-brick structure could easily be mistaken for just another office building a visit to the campus and inside the reception area reveals its serious personality. Although a county facility, the ADC houses often-high profile federal detainees as they progress through the court system.