Quinn was informal with Cross. “Can we get started, Garrison,” he said, looking at his watch. They were old friends — football teammates at Yale — but Warfield was unimpressed with Quinn’s lack of decorum. Warfield felt that unless you were alone with the president, you addressed him as Mr. President even if he was your own brother. There are invisible lines you don’t cross. And you don’t tell the president when to start a meeting. All in all, nevertheless, Warfield had a favorable opinion of CIA Director Austin Quinn.
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?”