Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller (13 page)

A breeze briefly swept across their small backyard, blowing leaves, a hiss and crinkle as they caught the updraft, flew upwards a few feet, then slowly settled down to the brick patio once more. Abbott didn’t mind the late-year weather. After a day of racing between meetings and hearings, it felt refreshing to be out in the damp, cool air. He missed Annalise already.

He flipped to the crossword, folded the paper over and then down the middle, giving him a good working surface. “A cheap wigwam is ominously bound to fail,” he said aloud. “Ten letters.”

He didn’t have a chance to hear the ‘thwip’ sound the bullet made as it cut past the edge of the hedge, before it pierced his neck and eviscerated his basal ganglia, destroying the connecting nerves between his brain and his body, switching off Lord Abbott’s life like a cheap light bulb. He slumped over the table, his head thudding to the surface, lying flat on its right side, his eyes wide open, mouth agape, his gin and tonic still on the table in his right hand, the angostura bitters swirling an angry rust-red in the clear drink, as the pool of blood formed on the table behind his skull.

Dec. 5, 2015, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Jonah Tarrant was present, which was new. Perhaps that explained why everyone was so tense, Walter Lang thought. National Security Council sessions were never exactly lighthearted, with half of the dozen people around the table in business suits and the other in dark-olive military dress; but today seemed dourer than typical. Lang sat to one side, within leaning distance of Fenton-Wright, in case his boss needed his input. Increasingly, that seemed rare.

Any nervousness about Tarrant being in the room certainly wasn’t warranted, either; for all his political calculations, most people seemed to think Fenton-Wright’s confidante was a pretty nice young man. Nevertheless, the conversation had been heating up for several minutes, barbs flying around the long oval table almost as frequently as factoids. That, in and of itself, was nothing new; in his four years of sitting through  NSC meetings, Lang had had his share of pointed debates. But as was often the case, he felt like the politics of the La Pierre and Abbott investigations were outweighing practical considerations.

“It’s out of the question,” David Fenton-Wright said, after the secretary of defense raised the novel concept of ignoring European jurisdictions and sending a team after the shooter. “First, we’d be treading on the toes of important allies, and would be bound to offend. Second, there’s still no indication this requires any kind of ramp up. Our sources in the EU say they’re leaning strongly leaning towards a single shooter in both cases, perhaps with an ecologically based ax to grind.”

The secretary of defense sounded mildly offended. “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, deputy director,” he said. “We’re just exploring all of the options, putting everything out there on the table. You suggested Lord Abbott’s diplomatic co-operation was vital to our interests. I responded in kind, sir.”

“Well, I’m sorry Mr. Secretary,” Fenton-Wright said, “but it’s important that we realize we don’t really have a ticket to this dance. They haven’t set a place for us at the table. And I don’t imagine the current crop of EU parliamentarians is inclined to change that. This is their baby.”

At the head of the table, the President had listened quietly, interjecting only to ask for the odd clarification over the course of the hour. Finally, he raised the point no one else had. “John,” he asked his economic security adviser, “is it possible this is retaliation for Dar Es Salaam?”

Though the President had long known the agency had a mole in the British government, he had been shocked to find out the late spy’s identity, just ten minutes before the meeting started, during a brief meeting with Fenton-Wright and Lang. If Lord Abbott’s true nature as a double agent were discovered during the sniper investigation, the embarrassment and diplomatic damage could be incalculable, he knew. He was also aware that at least half the room was, at Fenton-Wright’s request, still unaware that the late diplomat had been a U.S. agent for decades.

Instead, he was hoping it was somehow about Dar Es Salaam. The Dar Es Salaam operation had seemed like a scene from a SWAT team takedown, a UN task force storming the captured portion of the embassy and triggering the explosion that had killed fourteen people, including three U.S. foreign service staffers. If it was about Dar Es Salaam, he believed, they already had a head start on the investigation and could perhaps wrap things up before any details of Abbott’s duplicity came to light.

John Younger considered the question carefully; more and more often, the president had come to rely on him for information and direction outside of the scope of the economy, and Younger was taking full advantage of it. “It’s possible, sir, but unlikely.”’

“Why?”

Younger had been fully briefed by both the agency and the NSA, where he’d once served. “First, the lead time. We’re talking a year between that incident and the first shooting. Second, there’s the deliberate nature of the targets, politicians from different nations with little, if any, interplay. We’ve managed to put La Pierre and Abbott in the same room together, but only three times in the last five years, all EU social functions.”

The president said nothing. Younger did not need to know about Ahmed Khalidi’s group, and had not been privy to the file. Fenton-Wright and Director Wilkie had convinced him that its existence should be denied until there was enough evidence that the conspirators could not wriggle away.

“It has never been the M.O. of radical Islamists to go after the decision makers, to hit them where they live. It could be a new approach, but on the balance of probabilities, it’s not likely. They sow fear by going after the public; most members of the public dislike their own leaders, so politicians tend to make poor targets. As well, radicals who would gladly claim responsibility in a case like this, for the notoriety alone. But no group has come forward. So this isn’t a broader concern, it’s something specific to the two individuals who were shot. On the whole, I’d have to agree with David; this is out of our hands right now, at least above board.”

The secretary of defense was often the cynic at the table, convinced he had the military strength of the nation at heart while his peers jockeyed for personal political gain. He’d listened to Fenton-Wright discuss the situation for nearly an hour; he‘d never trusted the man. “What about below board?” he said. “I get the sense I should bring it up, in case the agency gets the interesting idea of going ahead with something without first having discussed it with the council.”

Fenton-Wright resisted an urge to snap at the man, although Lang caught the flash of anger. “Perhaps this is a discussion we should have outside of the President’s company,” he said firmly. “There are implications…”

The President waved him off. “Thank you, David, but we’re all big boys here; we all know there are good reasons for some operations to be off the books.”

“Yes sir,” Fenton-Wright replied. “But even if we have the discussion, my advice would be the same. I’m certain there are implications beyond the realm of mere success and failure that are play here, but…”

Mark Fitzpatrick, the National Security Agency representative, had been sitting at the far end of the table in silence throughout, deep in thought. The president looked down the table’s shiny dark surface towards him. “Mark? Does the NSA have anything to add?”

He was a slight man with receding brown hair that curled slightly on top naturally. He took off his glasses with a flourish, which Fitzpatrick had learned at media training could add gravitas in front of a camera. “We’d concur with the deputy director,” he said. “An off-the-books mission here could raise tensions with our European partners…”

“Which is still better than some madman on the loose shooting them,” the President said. He knew what Fenton-Wright was really trying to tell him, which was that Fawkes’ cover had to be maintained, even in death. They needed to be involved, but even at the NSC, there was risk in discussing the spy’s identity.

“Perhaps true,” Fitzpatrick said. “But the inherent risks are considerable, and it will be seen as arrogant if exposed, due to the assumption that our European partners can’t handle it.”

“They’ve had months and gotten nowhere,” the President said. 

“True,” Younger said. “It would have to be someone off the grid, with complete deniability. This is David’s area, really.”

Fenton-Wright almost panicked; he’d expected the NSA to put up some resistance and at the very least try to get involved in some manner. He was accustomed to getting some consensus behind his ideas but not endorsements. Endorsements meant he’d be left with direct responsibilities, political risk.

Still, there was one safe option.

He smiled at the assembled group and leaned forward on the table. “We do have an asset who could handle something like this. He’s smart, a former SEAL and navy investigator, and an expert in covert operations. He can get the quick results we’re hoping for; but he’s been under wraps for a while.”

The defense secretary’s eyes narrowed. “Under wraps?”

“I believe that was your request, Mr. Secretary,” Fenton-Wright said, “something about agency missteps not embarrassing the navy?”

The politician looked puzzled. “You’ve lost me, David.”

“Cast your mind back a few years to Colombia, Mr. Secretary,” Fenton-Wright said. “You recall an extraction that went poorly involving a former SEAL…”

The President interjected, “That was your man Walter, wasn’t it? That was you, right, Walter?”

Fenton-Wright answered for him. “Walter was the agent extracted, yes. The man doing the extracting was there on his own initiative, and he’s been out in the cold ever since. If the NSA has no objection, it might be the right time to give him some hope that he can resurrect his career.”

Fitzpatrick shrugged. “He’s your boy, David. We won’t object to the scope if your guy is going to take any heat – which I assume would be the case.”

“It will be strictly, as you put it Mr. Secretary, ‘below board’.”

The President turned to Younger. “John, what do you think?”

“I think we should be nervous,” he said. “There are working relationships at stake here, and official “unofficial” status isn’t going to help those situations.”

The President considered it. He wondered if Younger’s caution related to his upcoming campaign. “Point taken. But the political blowback would be minimal.”

“Perhaps,” Younger said. “As David indicated, deniability is a key to this working.”

It wasn’t the president’s preferred approach, working off the books. But there was more involved than the Brits knew and reputations were at stake; so, potentially, was the nation’s working relationship with one of its largest trading partners. Fawkes had to be protected.

“Do it,” he said.

Fenton-Wright walked to the planning session with Walter Lang by his side. The deputy director looked annoyed as they strode the hallway to the elevators.

“How did we go from ‘we don’t do black bag jobs’ to ‘under the table’ in all of three minutes?” he complained. “The secretary just threw us under the bus.”

That’s the key issue here
, Lang thought sarcastically,
whether we’re looking good
. “Everyone in that room has a long memory,” he suggested. “However this turns out, the agency’s not going to wear it, unless we do nothing and Fawkes is uncovered.”

“Or unless John Younger gets his way,” the deputy director says. “He’s had it out for us for a while now.”

“He’s probably going to win the nomination, you realize that.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Fenton-Wright. “The President seems genuinely enamored of the guy. But you notice how he never puts his own ass on the line; he just adopts one of the existing positions in the room.”

They were approaching the double elevators that would take them to the ops center. Lang reached into his pocket to check his phone. “Go ahead without me,” he said to his boss. “I just need to make a quick call.”

Lang waited until Fenton-Wright had entered the elevator and the doors had closed. “Hey, Terry? Yeah, it’s Walter. Look, do me a quiet favor, okay? See if you can drum up a list of realistic profiles of guys who could make a six-hundred-yard shot into the wind. Before anyone goes after another political target, let’s see if we can’t narrow our list of potential snipers down some.”

Terry gave him an affirmative. Lang hung up and hit the elevator down button, then waited for the car. The analysts allegedly already had a potential suspect to discuss. He wasn’t sure why, or even if they came up with the name themselves. And if the decision was purely political, it was bound to have lousy consequences.

The planning session had been convened hastily, the deputy director demanding the presence of his three assistant directors, along with several other senior staff. They sat around the map table at Langley against a backdrop of computers and analysts.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Fenton-Wright, “we have our assignment, which is to root out, identify and arrest the sniper who has assassinated a pair of EU politicians. What we need now are suspects. NCS, what have you got?”