CHAPTER 9
The others were standing around in the Oval Office chatting with Cross when Warfield arrived at seven-forty-five that morning. Earl Fullwood looked away when he saw Warfield enter, so, as Warfield thought when Paula had called, the meeting was about the Habur border incident. Fullwood no doubt had asked the president for the meeting and it was about Warfield.
The only man in the room whom Warfield didn’t know walked over and introduced himself as Bill Reynolds. “I work for Quinn,” he said.
“Cam Warfield.”
“I’ve wanted to meet you. Guess I never thought it would be in the Oval Office.”
“Good to see you, Bill. Quinn coming?”
Reynolds shook his head. “Out of town.”
President Cross looked at his watch and everyone took the cue. Otto Stern, Fullwood, Bill Reynolds, the president and Warfield seated themselves around Cross’s maple table. Warfield ended up directly across from Fullwood.
Cross kicked it off. “Okay, Earl, let's get it going. What is this national security crisis?”
Fullwood looked straight at Warfield. “Well, Mr. Pres’dent, since the Kunnel is here, I’ll let him tell you. Seems like he’s maintainin’ his good record of interferin’ in the Bureau’s business.”
How in hell did this guy ever become head of the FBI? Warfield thought. His fantasy was to grab Fullwood by his fat neck and choke the bastard until his eyes popped out, but some degree of civility was required in the presence of the president and anyway Fullwood wasn’t worth it. Why waste time and energy with that kind of ignorance and arrogance?
Warfield indicated that he wasn’t going to respond to Fullwood, and President Cross told the FBI chief to move on. Fullwood told his version of the Turkey/Iraq border incident from the day the Bureau first knew of it up to the Habur shooting incident. The Bureau had the Russian under their watch all the way from Russia, through Turkey right to the Iraqi border. Even had a man there at the border gate posing as a Turkish lieutenant. The Bureau was gathering data on the Russian so they could pick him off on his next run, when, according to their intelligence, he would be in possession of the stolen uranium. The John Wayne shootout, as Fullwood called it, rendered that future operation impossible. Fullwood was in full stride. He talked louder and louder, paused for drama and resumed with a quiet, “Thanks to Kunnel Warfield here, the Russian has been alerted.”
“And the consequences are…?” Cross asked.
“He’ll find another way to get that uranium to wherever it’s going in the Middle East! Forget about catchin’ him doin’ it next trip, Mr. Pres’dent. It’s a done deal for their side. It’s over.”
Warfield saw the trap Fullwood had set. Whether or not Fullwood believed the dry run story was not important: His objective was to put Warfield in a scenario that would force Cross to get rid of him. Petrevich, to Fullwood, was incidental by comparison.
Cross said to Fullwood, “Why did you think there would be no transfer on the Russian’s first trip, Earl?”
“Initial intelligence that this would be a dry run came from CIA. And as to Kunnel Warfield’s involvement, my own men dug up that information.”
Dug up was a good way to put it, Warfield thought.
“Tell me about the CIA intelligence,” Cross said.
Fullwood twisted in his chair. “Okay, well I, uh, I don’t have all those details with me at the moment.”
Cross turned to Bill Reynolds, who told the president he’d received late notice to attend this meeting and wasn’t familiar with the details of the case. He’d research it and get back to him.
Cross looked at Warfield. “Okay, Cam. What about Habur gate.”
Warfield took a moment to decide how much to tell. Habur had been no different than the other times he’d taken life and death matters into his own hands. Sometimes you were the hero for it and sometimes the goat. Decisions like this one weren’t often so clear-cut — reliable intelligence that weapons-grade uranium was destined for a region where terrorists were supported by government and revered by zealots; deaf ears at the FBI. But the president had not authorized that specific action and Warfield wondered if he himself could land in court over it if Fullwood and Justice pushed it. That would be disastrous for Cross. So there was but one course for Warfield now. “I’m flattered the director thinks I could set up such an operation.”
“You denyin’ you were behind it?” Fullwood said.
Warfield displayed only mild irritation. “Russians could’ve set it up. How about the CIA? But whoever it was, you said your people were there at Habur that day. I informed Rachel Gilbert it was not going to be a trial run. You could have stopped it but you ignored the information I gave her. You instructed her to have no more communication with me and now you’re trying to dodge the blame.” Then Warfield looked directly into Fullwood’s eyes and dropped a bomb: “Mr. Director, it would be easy to believe you knowingly let the Russian go through with the uranium so you could serve some other agenda of yours.”
Fullwood was speechless for a moment, as his face turned crimson. Finally he said, “Last time I checked the rules, the Bureau was not takin’ orders from retired army kunnels. Who the hell are you Warfield to tell the Federal Bureau of Investigation how to run its affairs? I’ve never seen the likes of your audac’ty. But let me get this straight. You actually disputin’ our initial intelligence from CIA?”
“I am.”
Fullwood pressed. “And if you’re flatly statin’ that the uranium crossed the Iraqi border with the Russian, I suppose you got some evidence to support that.”
Glancing at his watch, Cross brought it to a halt before Warfield could answer.
Warfield was saved. He wasn’t about to reveal his collaboration with Abbas, or any other part of his involvement, but he didn’t want to lie to Cross.
“We’re getting nowhere,” Cross said. “I’ve got a press conference in a few minutes. We’ll meet here again at noon tomorrow for fifteen minutes and get to the bottom of this. I want your sources, Earl. Same for Warfield and CIA. I expect everyone to be prepared. And, Earl, I’m spending more time on your problems than on the rest of the country.”
Fullwood crammed his papers into his attaché case and left without saying anything. Stern and Reynolds, more amiable, followed. Cross cornered Warfield in the hallway. “Listen Cam, we’re in a tough spot here, you and me.”
Warfield nodded.
“I probably don’t want to know the answer to this question,” Cross said, putting his hand on Warfield’s shoulder, “but I have to ask—”
“About the attack at Habur crossing.”
“Exactly.”
Cross had saved him from answering that question in the meeting, but now he wanted to know, and Warfield wouldn’t mislead him. Not that he couldn’t lie. In the dirty business of espionage, lies, deceit and betrayal were the essence of the job. CIA and other intelligence operatives had to guard against letting this professional behavior become their personal baseline and they often failed, but Warfield had kept that part of his life — the set of skills he used to deal with the enemy — in a separate compartment from his personal values and conduct. When he answered the President’s question now, he was factual.
“I authorized it on certain conditions. Those conditions were met. The operation was carried out accordingly. Now you have to tell me if you want to know more.”
Cross understood the protection from knowledge Warfield was offering but said, “I do. Go ahead.”
“I may have gone too far, sir, but to let the Russian cross into Iraq was a risk the United States couldn’t afford, in my judgment. Given the intelligence we had—I had — the operation at the Habur border gate should have been almost routine — and carried out by the FBI.”