Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller (6 page)

Brennan quickly moved up the shack’s steps and knocked a pattern on the door. “Walter!” he hissed.

In the shack, Lang heard the knock and the sound of a muted voice. He couldn’t tell who it was. “Hello?” he replied. He raised his voice slightly. “Hello?!?” He put his ear to the door and heard “stand back,” so he quickly moved to one side. The door exploded inwards with the force of Brennan’s kick, slamming against the interior wall of the shack.

Lang wasn’t sure what he was seeing was real. He’d hallucinated before, but the images had been surreal and warped. “Joe?” he asked, his voice halting and weak.

“Come on, we’re getting you out of here,” Brennan said. His friend looked haggard, skin and bones. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think so. I’m weak and have dysentery. Need some real food and clean water.”

Brennan moved back to the doorway and looked around. At the mansion, someone had figured out that the generator might be a diversion and had the sense to assign two guards to the roof, to use the spotlights more efficiently. One light was trained on the area around the destroyed generator, while the other was sweeping the yard, ensuring the compound wasn’t under attack. The flames had either been beaten down, watered out or were smoldering, and guards were beginning to re-enter through the main gate.

“We need to go, now,” Brennan said.

Lang looked glassy-eyed and confused. “My assignment… we need to find the forger,” he said, dazed, his eyes dancing around as if he’d lost track of where he was.

Brennan threw an arm over Lang’s shoulder. “Lean on me,” he said. “Watch yourself as we go down the steps.” Brennan had prepared for quick exit; beyond the tree line on their side of the compound, a small path ran down into the neighboring valley, where a de Havilland Beaver float plane was tied up and waiting. “We’ve got to move quickly beyond the tree line, okay? You’re going to have to be able to run on your own.”

“Okay,” Lang said. He didn’t ask what the alternative was; both knew they’d only have minutes before Villanueva’s men caught up to them. The pair staggered down the steps; Lang stumbled and fell, then regained his feet; a moment later they were crawling through the hole in the fence.

They were at the tree line when the spotlight caught up to them, the light blinding for a split second; voices were raised, calling after them, yelling. Brennan pulled the machete from his pack and started to quickly hack a path into the overgrowth. Walter followed closely, squinting to keep view of his friend, bullets zipping through the leaves around them, crisp, green, disintegrating flotsam floating around them, shouts becoming louder, frantic voices in Spanish. At the fence, the guards had discovered the clipped hole and were inspecting it; a trio climbed through the hole to follow immediately.

The machete was taking too long and Brennan gave it up, tossing it aside and pulling his way through the overgrowth. He looked back; Walter was barely keeping up, stumbling just to stay standing. “About two hundred yards,” Brennan said, anticipating the question that Walter was too tired to ask. A few moments later Brennan pushed the foliage aside, revealing a steep hill down to the stream, a hundred and twenty degree drop off. It was checkered with rocks, scrub brush and thorny bushes. Another bullet whizzed by and a leaf by Lang’s head disappeared. “This is going to really suck, so make sure you bundle yourself up in a tight ball…” Brennan said. He took his jacket off and put it over his friend’s shoulders. “Wear this. It might help.”

Lang looked down the hill, to where he could just make out the moon glinting off the plane’s white wings. It looked about a half-mile away. Then he heard the voices, almost on top of them. “We’re out of options, I guess,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Brennan, taking off his pack and discarding it. “After you.”

Lang closed his eyes and dove down the hill. He did as suggested, tucking himself into a ball, but it didn’t help either man avoid the rocks, logs and brush, and they bounced painfully throughout the trip. At the bottom, Lang uncurled himself, feeling every jab and stone, lying on his back to get his wind.

A hand reached down and grabbed his. “We have to keep moving,” Brennan said, hauling Lang to his feet. Above them the guards were trying to clamber slowly down the hill; it was too steep to stay upright and fire accurately at them, but the odd shell whistled in from nearby and thunked into the muddy bank by the stream. The plane was only twenty yards away now, the engine firing, spitting gasoline and spluttering for air, prop beginning to rotate, pistons whining. The pilot, Eddie, was an agency freelancer, a veteran hired hand. He climbed out of the cockpit and stood on the pontoon to hold open the passenger door as they clambered first onto the float and then up and inside.

“Get us out of here, Ed!” Brennan yelled over the prop noise.

Their exit ticket jumped back into the cockpit and into the pilot’s chair. The plane taxied ahead on the water, the grizzled pilot pushing the engine to its limit. Bullets skipped through the water as the guards tried to bring the plane down, and one ricocheted through one side of the hull and out of the other, just as Eddie managed to pull the yolk back fully. The plane shuddered as its pontoons escaped the surface tension of the river in a shower of water; it began to gain altitude, a chorus of tracer bullets accompanying it into the night sky.

WASHINGTON, D.C. June 17, 2014

The senator poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher that sat just ahead of him on the semi-circular chamber table and flicked through the multi-page list of notes and questions again. His square-framed glasses glinted under the room lights. He took another sip of water. Then he played with his pen, tapping it on the long, smooth desk, which was shared by the committee members. Then he cleared his throat, his aged, wrinkled and baggy face betraying no hint of emotional investment,

The committee desk was elevated, seating for a dozen politicians set in front of the back wall of the chamber, a pair of tables ahead of it for witnesses and their legal representatives, each featuring a pair of microphones and a similar pitcher of water. His colleagues waited patiently for the senator to collect his thoughts.

Walter Lang sat alone facing them at the table to the right; the table to the left was empty. The gallery, too. The hearing was official, but the contents were publicly sealed for what the agency cryptically deemed “reasons of national security.” Lang just wanted them to get on with it; the decrepit specimen ahead of him, the senior Republican senator from Alabama, had taken an hour already and had yet to ask a question Walter felt he could answer openly, without compromising someone’s role.

The senator moistened his lips briefly with the tip of his tongue and tapped his pen again. He leaned towards the microphone as if about to say something… then leaned back again and reconsidered the question. Lang watched him with a sense of loathing. Men like the senator were always interfering, always getting in the way of the agency’s ability to protect national interests; and it was always a matter of self-interest, or political expediency. No one on the select committee on foreign intelligence gathering was sitting there because of their constituents’ demands for more agency oversight, of that he was sure.

After a few more moments and some clearing of throats from his colleagues, the senator leaned in to the microphone once more.

“Mr. Lang, I feel we’ve been talking for a while now, with this the third day of this hearing. And yet I have yet to hear, sir, any sense of contrition on your part for your role in this incident, an international embarrassment in which your agency used in excess of …” he checked his notes, “…. one-hundred-and-seventy thousand dollars’ worth of money and equipment paid for by the U.S. taxpayer. Or, for that matter…”

“Senator Morris,” Lang said, interrupting him, “I’ve indicated already that my superiors are best suited to decide the nature of any penalty I may face with respect to internal agency discipline. I’ve acknowledged the incident.”

“Or, for that matter,” the senator continued, as if Lang hadn’t even spoken, “any explanation of how you managed to marshal the resources that went into your extraction in Colombia. According to your version of events, we are expected to believe that a single agent extracted you without a scratch from a compound full of highly-armed drug cartel members, with no outside support, and of his own initiative. And somehow, your expenses in being there in the first place showed up as a line item in your budget, albeit one without any explanation or context. Can you not see, sir, how my colleagues and I might be somewhat skeptical that such a miraculous mission – two men against several dozen armed criminals – could have taken place?”

Lang knew what they wanted: a confession that the mission had been a black op, official but off the books. After twenty years with the agency, the chance of him giving that up was non-existent, particularly to a political blowhard like Morris. But Morris was a Republican and with the President in his second term, there would be a shit storm if the Colombia op was made public, one that might make the Democrats more vulnerable in the next election. An admission that it was official would give the senators grounds to move to open hearings, which was doubtless Morris’ other angle, and provide fodder for months of bad press. Lang didn’t really care about the politics; but in bureaucracy, he knew, you didn’t publicly bite whichever hand was currently feeding you.

A few chairs down, the committee chairman leaned in. “Senator Morris, while I understand your zeal with respect to this line of questioning, Mr. Lang has indicated the same version of events on at least four occasions now. Perhaps we can move on to a line of questions that is more likely to be lucrative.”

Lang saw the intervention through the filter of two cynical decades in the business. The chairman, Addison March, was also Republican and from the south, and even more ambitious than his rapidly aging peer. Doubtless, March had angles to pursue to hold the government to task.

“Hmmph,” the senator from Alabama replied. “The chair may wish to remind Mr. Lang that even though this is a closed session, he is testifying under oath.”

“No,” March said, “no, I don’t think that’s necessary right now, senator. If you’re finished with your questions perhaps we can move…”

“No, I still have several,” the elderly politician said. “Mr. Lang has yet to indicate who this agent was, which agency employed him or how the individual might have been disciplined beyond his initial suspension.”

That
, Walter thought,
is because it’s classified, you vulture
. “As I’ve indicated before, Senator, revealing that information could put other members of the security establishment at risk.”

“And yet you claim the agent is inactive. How can people be at risk if the individual in question is not on active duty?”

“I’m sorry Senator,” Lang said, leaning close to the microphone and not remotely sorry, “but that information is classified for reasons of national security.”

March interjected. “If I might suggest, senator, it seems clear Mr. Lang will not disclose the agent’s identity and I’m sure he feels he has good reason. Perhaps he could share with the committee the identity of the agency responsible for the mission?”

It was a clever, political question, Lang thought. If he claimed it was a classified matter, it would be tantamount to an admission that the operation had been covert. If he said that no agency was responsible, he’d be lying under oath. But he’d been around for far too long to walk into an obvious trap.

“As I indicated to the senator previously, I was not sanctioned in any manner when I attempted to infiltrate the Villanueva Cartel,” he said.

The balding, bony March smiled thinly, his undersized teeth barely showing, the sneer a mixture of contempt for the answer and appreciation for its political correctness. “Yes, I believe you have mentioned that several times. My colleague seems to find it amazing that you got out alive. I, on the other hand, find it somewhat unbelievable that a man of your pedigree in the intelligence community would go out into the field for something as banal as intel on a drug trafficker in the first place, let alone do so without sanction.”

Maybe the fact that March was trying to force the line of questioning away from his doddering associate was a sign that they were running out of inane requests, Lang thought. “If it will make the chairman feel better, I’ll apologize for the fact that he finds drug trafficking banal,” he said.

A murmur went around the committee table, which March ignored. “Perhaps,” the chairman said, “we’ll go back to Senator Morris, then, and see if he has any more questions in his lengthy, lengthy list.” He smiled at Lang again, only this time with his mouth open a little, like an alligator trying to lull a bird into a false sense of security. “I’m sure he does.”

It took another two hours before the senators finally decided they’d had enough for the day and went into recess – although not before ordering Lang back for another session the following week. He left the chambers then closed the double doors behind him, letting out a lungful of stress and leaning against the now-closed entry. In the eighteen months that had passed since his rescue, he’d gained back the weight and been taken off the agency caution list, able technically to be field assigned again. He knew it wouldn’t happen; when you blow a black bag job, you either wind up dead or grounded, tied to a desk as a controller or adviser, or if you were lucky enough, section chief in some backwater town.

But technically, his job was back to its old self.

It was exceedingly rare for David Fenton-Wright to be nervous. His career had been one of caution, pragmatic political association and careful assessment of his exposure to criticism. But the Director of National Intelligence had never summoned Fenton-Wright through his secretary before; it had always been a personal call, convivial and supportive. This time it was different, an appointment set up a week earlier. It felt like a court date.

There was only one approach, of course, which was to hang Joe Brennan out to dry once more. No matter what the director thought from the hearing scuttlebutt, the official version wasn’t going to change.

It was technically true, although a quick look at Brennan’s psych profile in the days leading up to the fateful rescue mission had convinced him that the best way to get the agent to take on the task himself – and the fallout either way – was to tell him he was barred from involvement. Brennan’s profile suggested he’d always stood up to authority, even when it wasn’t the most astute move.

Fenton-Wright wished they were meeting at Langley, where he felt in control. The director, Nicholas Wilkie, spent most of his time on Capitol Hill these days, keeping the president and the National Security Council happy. It was a purely political job, Fenton-Wright felt, a liaison role between Langley and the political talking heads. It wasn’t that he didn’t admire Wilkie, who’d made it to the most important position in the intelligence community despite not having a background in the field. That spoke to his political prowess and his ability to manipulate consensus in his own direction, Fenton-Wright knew, all valuable tools. But Wilkie was aging, becoming less and less involved in the hard decisions, deferring more and more to Fenton-Wright and his opposite number at the NSA, Mark Fitzpatrick.

Wilkie was leaning back in his desk chair when Fenton-Wright knocked. He was in his early seventies and had avoided both agencies’ mandatory retirement ages by presidential veto. But he still had a full head of white hair and a quick mind.

The director had a sheath of printouts in one hand that he was studying, reading glasses halfway. “Ah David! Good to see you. Come in, come in.” He swung out of his office chair and walked over to shake Fenton-Wright’s hand. “I’ve just been reviewing a transcript of Walter Lang’s first-day committee testimony. He did a fine job.”

Fenton-Wright suppressed his urge to scoff. “Well, the jury’s out of course, until we go through the other three days’ of transcripts, but I would tend to agree,” he said instead. “Of course, had he been more careful in Colombia, we wouldn’t have been in this mess to begin with. Now I have a top field agent suspended and Lang on a desk; so we’re effectively down two, with nothing to show from his efforts.” He was careful not to call it an operation; it was going to remain unofficial.

“Now, David, be nice,” Wilkie said. “Walter volunteered to go into a difficult situation. Let’s not be too harsh with him, all right?”

“Of course,” Fenton-Wright said. “Joe Brennan, however, is another matter. He was directly ordered to stay out of this.”

“He got our man back,” Wilkie noted. “He may not be reliable, but he is effective. We have that at least.”

The director had always been an optimist; it was part of his nature, part of the reason he could build bridges between parties, find consensus. Fenton-Wright considered him weak for it but knew eventually he’d get his chance. Wilkie couldn’t hang on forever.

“Yes, well, that doesn’t change the fact that he undermined the authority of everyone in a senior position within the agency,” Fenton-Wright said. “I don’t want him back any time soon.”

“If we let him go…”

“We’ll have an association grievance to deal with; and he’s popular with some. There’s always a chance that cutting him loose could jeopardize the situation’s deniability. But if we just leave him on indefinite leave and he collects his paycheck, there is that much more pressure on him to honor his national security obligation.”

Wilkie thought about it. There were worse fates, he supposed, than being on permanent vacation. And Brennan had a reputation for being honorable. “If we must, it should suffice. What about the other matter I forwarded -- the European file?”

Fenton-Wright nodded as if familiar. In truth, he’d barely glanced at the details. A U.S. agent under deep cover on an ally’s turf codenamed Fawkes had made a rare information drop; it was the first time he’d even been heard from in sixteen years. But despite the agent’s profile and track record, the details seemed out-of-the-blue at best, Wilkie had said, allegations that a respected business group based in France had a hand in an African insurgency a few years earlier. Given Fawkes’ importance long ago, when the Cold War was at its peak, it had to be treated seriously, even if the few who knew of him doubted he was still reliable.

“It’s under review,” he replied tactfully. “Our man is attempting to gain access to more information via those same connections. If there’s any more to it, he’ll attempt to offer himself up as a valuable political commodity, see how the business cabal reacts. His understanding is that it just lost a member.”