To Free a Spy Read Free

Elm to the White House in an hour except during rush hours. He would just as soon never cross the Potomac River into the city again but curiosity about the meeting with Cross occupied his mind now. Paula Newnan, the president’s personal assistant, had called him the day before to set up the meeting but if she knew what it was about she wouldn’t say. Warfield liked Garrison Cross from the time they first met several years ago at Lone Elm. Cross was just getting his feet wet as Director of Central Intelligence, his only government job before winning the presidency, when he called Warfield and invited himself to spend a few days at Lone Elm for orientation.
    Warfield knew of Cross even before then. He had been a business leader in the news often during a three-year battle to save Berington Pacific, a Fortune 100 company, from bankruptcy and his name had become a household word. The president had grown up on a farm, gone to Yale and then to Harvard Law where he graduated third in his class.
    Warfield cleared security at the White House compound’s Northwest Appointment Gate and inside was escorted to a waiting area where Paula Newnan soon appeared. “Knew you couldn’t wait any longer to see me,” she said. Warfield had learned he could rely on Paula. She’d cut through bureaucratic red tape for him more than once but always gave President Cross the credit. “The boss says I am to always accommodate you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t get the time of day from me, Cameo ,” she said, laughing. Warfield had her birthday in a reminder file and always called her. They had lunch or a beer now and then and she had enough self-confidence to rag him any time she found an opportunity.
    She parked Warfield in a small office in the basement that she said was rarely used.
    Cross walked in a few minutes later carrying a thin leather folder and stuck out his hand. At six-foot-one he was about an inch taller than Warfield and maybe ten pounds heavier. Warfield hadn’t seen him for a few months except on TV. He still had an athletic build, a full head of hair that matched the silver-gray suit he wore and an easy smile.
    “Glad you could come, Cam.” The president’s handshake was rock solid.
    “Mr. President.”
    Cross gestured toward a pair of leather chairs separated by a corner table. An aide brought in coffee and pastries and closed the door when she left.
    Cross said, “You’re looking well, Cam. Fleming DeGrande must be taking good care of you.”
    Even though Cross and Fleming had met on a few occasions, Cross always referred to her by her first and last names.
    “As always. But she’s as busy as I am. We meet up on weekends.”
    “Marryin’ that girl, Cam?”
    “Not sure she’d have me. And how’s the first lady?”
    Cross smiled as he took a croissant off the tray. “I’ll tell her you asked. She’s fine. She never dreamed it would be like this, the public life. Handles it okay I guess, after two years.”
    “And her husband?”
    Cross laughed. “Ah, her husband. That’s another question. I can’t say I was ready either, but I asked for it. Truth is, I like the action. I think my blood pressure optimizes when things are hovering around the edges of chaos. Which brings me to the reason I invited you here, Cam.” Cross paused and locked onto Warfield’s eyes. “There’s a mole. He’s locked up—at least for now. CIA operator named Joplan, Harvey Joplan.
    Warfield nodded, wondering how he fit into this picture.
    “I need you back in, Cam. For awhile.”
    So that was it. It had been a long time since Warfield worked in the field. At Lone Elm, he taught others how to do it—at least the mechanics and theory of it. But the art of intelligence and counterintelligence was something like having a talent for the violin. Either the candidates who come to Lone Elm have something on the ball or they achieve mediocrity.
    Warfield loved action but Lone Elm was his life now. He was responsible to the people who came