Free Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller by Sam Powers

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