The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  “But I thought you—”

  “Sharp shut it down, all right?”

  “My aren’t we grumpy?”

  “This case is fucking killing me. I don’t know what happened exactly, but somehow Governor Stoddart caught wind that we’re looking into American Patriots and flipped his lid. I told Sharp what you told me, and he told me point blank to back off the AMP angle. He must be getting pressure from the governor’s office and maybe even Washington. I don’t know what’s going on, but for some reason everyone thinks I’ve been overzealous—and they just might be right.”

  Jennifer knew what he really meant: she was the overzealous one and now he was in trouble because of her. But she had established a perfectly viable connection between AMP and both Kieger and Fowler. While it didn’t prove a conspiracy, it did provide a plausible motive for the assassination.

  A waiter in a chambray shirt with a Castle Café logo, blue jeans, and pointy-toed boots swung by the table. They both ordered Coors drafts to drink, and for dinner, Jennifer opted for roast duck enchiladas in a tomatillo-chipotle pepper sauce with black beans and rice, while Patton went for buffalo meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes smothered in brown onion gravy.

  When the waiter moved off, Patton said, “Let’s face it, neither of us has any hard proof that Benjamin Locke or anyone else at AMP has anything to do with the assassination. That’s why my primary focus has to be on tracking down the shooter. That’s what’s going to give me the best chance to solve the case.”

  “Sounds to me like your boss and the governor are trying to pull you off the scent. I think you have to ask yourself if they could be involved.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Damn right I’m serious. I’m a journalist, Ken. These are questions that have to be asked and answered.”

  “Okay then, I don’t see how Sharp could be involved. He’s a twenty-five-year vet, a born and bred G-man. He thinks the law is Super Glue holding the world together. But Governor Stoddart, now there’s a horse of a different color. He’d put his kids up for auction if he thought it would bring him a thousand votes. But in this case he’s probably just worried that I’ll dig up some campaign financing stuff on him. That would explain why he’s on my back.”

  He sighed before continuing.

  “Look, Jenn, I realize AMP practices hardball politics and that many of its members are right-wing Christian windbags, but don’t you think you might be overreaching here? Trying to make them the ones responsible for the assassination and this big conspiracy of yours?”

  The words stung her, but she said nothing.

  “You might be right about some of this,” he went on. “But I question your motive. Is all this because of your father? Is that why you’re trying to bring AMP to its knees, to get back at him?”

  She didn’t answer, but deep down she knew that he was right. What drove her was revenge against her father. She hated him for forcing her down a path that would always gnaw at her soul. As head of the most powerful Christian political organization in the country, Locke was simply the most prominent symbol with which to direct her anger, like Custer to Native Americans or Hitler to Jews. He and his organization were the embodiment of the narrow-minded evil she saw in her own father.

  She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the wood table. “Ken, regardless of my personal feelings, you have to admit I could be onto something big here.”

  “I don’t deny that. But we’re going to need more—a hell of a lot more—if we’re going to be able to prove it.”

  CHAPTER 65

  AFTER DINNER, as they were heading out the door, President-elect Fowler appeared on the television screen at the bar. Several people had gathered around to watch, and Patton and Jennifer joined them. Fowler stood behind a podium, a dozen microphones pointing up at her. Despite her youth, she looked august, presidential. Behind her, slightly to her right, stood the wife of the slain leader, Hana Kieger, bereaved yet stalwart in her knee-length, charcoal-black dress. The president-elect cleared her throat, then, as the air of expectation around the bar thickened, she read from a prepared script.

  “My fellow Americans, as you know last Sunday we lost a great leader and friend. Today the body of President-elect William Ambrose Kieger was laid to rest in his hometown of Santa Barbara. There is nothing we can say or do that will make up for his loss. But we can pay our respects to him—indeed we must pay our respects to him. I ask you now to join me in a moment of silence.”

  The crowd at the bar quieted, heads bowed, as thoughts and prayers went out to Kieger and his family. Patton felt the same curious mixture of despair and anger that had haunted him all week. It defied all logic that a man so full of promise had been gunned down by a lowly assassin.

  After the moment of silence, Fowler’s expression changed and she took on a puissant gleam. “There is a terrorist out there, still at large, who has left behind a trail of blood, murder, and suffering. This man has left behind a widow and fatherless children. He has killed our innocence and despoiled our nation with his hateful act. But this coward shall not remain beyond the reach of the law for long. Nor shall those who supported him, who nurtured him in his cruel enterprise, if such persons exist.”

  Patton gave a sidelong glance at Jennifer. While the other faces around the bar were entranced or expressed shared outrage, she appeared more skeptical.

  She doesn’t believe Fowler. She thinks she could be part of this.

  “In his barbaric act, the assassin makes us all feel guilty, as if we are a party to his conspiracy. Like the devil, he misleads us into thinking that our nation, our state, our laws are ineffectual. He plunges us into a world of emptiness. But in truth, this is a mirage, for in our hearts we know he’s wrong, that in the end, he is bound to fail in his treacherous mission.

  “We will not—indeed we cannot—let such evil make a mockery of our deepest aspirations. We Americans, we who feel the milk of human kindness, will not live in fear. We will find this man and prosecute him to the full extent of the law, and in doing so we will keep the inspiration of William Kieger alive. The assassin has violated the sacred gift of life, and for this, he will be punished. Make no mistake, his judgment day will come—and soon.”

  Fowler paused and stared out from the podium. The camera panned over to Hana Kieger, who looked no less stolid than Jackie Kennedy. This is heady stuff, Patton realized: the wife of a slain president-elect endorsing, by her solemn presence, the woman taking her husband’s place. Around the bar, knowing glances were exchanged as this historic fact was assimilated.

  “The greatest refutation of this evil force is to continue with William Kieger’s legacy. In this respect, the assassin has underestimated us. He has reinforced in our own minds how truly monumental the president-elect’s mission was.

  “Fellow Americans, we cannot let William Kieger’s legacy die. We cannot, in good conscience, allow ourselves to forsake virtue and righteousness at the hands of this assassin, this living icon of failure. No, the dream that the president-elect strove to realize must continue on, in the wells of congress and in the Oval Office. So I am telling you all here and now today that it is my solemn oath to follow through with William Kieger’s vision. A vision of prosperity for all Americans, a vision of tolerance and inclusion, a vision without bitter division and partisanship, a vision of reaching across the aisle and building consensus on every major issue confronting this great nation.”

  There was another pause. Again, Patton noticed Jennifer’s dubious expression. Does she still think it’s all an act?

  “In memory of President-elect Kieger, I will be giving a tribute this Saturday afternoon. With the consent of Hana Kieger, Governor Stoddart, and Mayor Richardson, it will be held at the Civic Center Plaza in Denver, Colorado, where William Kieger lost his life. I do this to pay homage to this great man and his family. But I also do this to protest the assassin, who has stripped us of a great leader. This is our moment. All who admired William Kieger, all who want to show th
e world America’s strength in a time of national crisis, can peacefully demonstrate against the atrocity that took place last Sunday.”

  Now Fowler’s voice turned commanding, a war trumpet of a voice. “In conclusion, my fellow Americans, I have a message for the assassin and his accomplices. We now stand as one against you, undaunted by your threats, more resolved than ever to carry on the historic work that William Ambrose Kieger began. To you I say, WE—SHALL—MARCH—ON!”

  With that, Hana Kieger stepped forward to the podium, head and shoulders held in a dignified, resolute pose. When she reached Fowler, she took the president-elect by the hand and they raised their hands together in triumph. There they stood, the two remarkable women, gazing out at the audience with absolute determination, united as one, for several seconds.

  It was history in the making.

  The on-air audience and the one gathered around Patton and Jennifer at the bar were both cloaked in silence. A stunned, intensely patriotic silence. Then, up on the screen, the media pool gave a light, respectful applause that lasted a full minute. As the sound slowly faded away, President-elect Fowler and Hana Kieger quietly exited the stage, leaving behind an empty lectern smothered in microphones as they entered the sacrosanct realm of America’s history books.

  Patton knew exactly what it all meant: With Hana Kieger’s powerful endorsement, Katherine Fowler—soon to become the first woman president in the nation’s history—had just won a mandate never seen before in the history of the grand republic.

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER 66

  “YOUR CONCERNS ARE UNFOUNDED, GENTLEMEN. Phase Three is proceeding precisely according to plan.”

  Even as the final word left his mouth, Locke could feel the liar’s phlegm seeping into his esophagus. But he had to lie; there was no alternative. Talking on his secure coded phone in his home office, he couldn’t allow the four Coalition Executive Committee members patched in on the conference call to think he’d lost control of Fowler. That would be admitting failure—and the Coalition had little tolerance for failure.

  “We feel it’s a little more complicated than that, Mr. Chairman,” countered Skull Eyes, the former CIA man’s electronically distorted voice carrying the usual threatening undercurrent that sent shivers down Locke’s spine.

  “On the contrary, the situation is well in hand. Our very generous contribution has been wired to the appropriate accounts and, in return, I have secured verbal assurances on the platform and cabinet selections. Nothing’s changed. Fowler’s kinder, gentler image is nothing but an act. She is trying to reassure the American people in a time of crisis and gain some goodwill beyond her base, so she can hit the ground running and have a clear mandate when she takes office.”

  The phone fell silent as the men scrutinized his explanation. “So let me get this straight,” said Colonel Caleb Heston. “This new public image is merely a front? This glorification of Kieger and reaching out to the grieving widow are part of an act?”

  “That’s why the speech in Denver on Saturday is so important. It allows Fowler to come across as a sympathetic mourner and representative of the people in a time of crisis.”

  A.W. Windholz, head of United Broadcasting and the American Right-to-Life Foundation, posed the next question. “Can you tell us what specific commitments you’ve received from the president-elect?”

  Locke knew he had to respond quickly or it would appear as though he was hiding something. “There are several. She plans to slash government spending, reduce taxes, and reemphasize our hegemony and exceptionalism in the world so that we’re no longer playing second fiddle to the Godless Mandarin. She holds zero-tolerance positions on homosexual parent adoption, flag burning, and public financing of the NEA. She backs a constitutional amendment banning abortion and embryonic stem-cell research. She wants to expand religious rights in public schools and plans to roll back restrictive gun laws. Most importantly, she’s committed to appointing federal justices and filling the vice-presidency and her cabinet with party loyalists who share our views. In short, she sees things our way on every major issue, just as she did during the primary.”

  “What about the hiring of Dick Potter as a consultant?” the colonel asked.

  “I don’t approve, but I’m not worried about it.”

  “You’re not concerned that this might undermine the platform?” Windholz pressed him.

  “Not particularly. I may disapprove of Dick Potter’s cavalier morality, but he’s a proven winner.”

  “He’s also a damned liberal,” groused Skull Eyes.

  “A more apt description would be chameleon. His politics change depending on the candidate and the situation.”

  For the first time, Senator Dubois chimed in. The only Committee member whose loyalty Locke didn’t question, he was already aware of the Fowler situation and could be counted on as a critical ally. “Personally, I don’t give a hoot in hell’s hollow if our gal’s brought Dick Potter on as chief advisor,” the senator said, rising subtly to Locke’s defense. “We just gave her twenty million big ones. She knows who brung her to the dance.”

  Locke was relieved to have Dubois in his corner, but he was still worried. He took a moment to methodically wipe his damp brow with his handkerchief. He was not used to being on the wrong side of an interrogation. “Despite Fowler’s public posturing, gentlemen, she’s agreed to the platform. And we still have Frautschi on the inside.”

  “My sources paint a different picture,” Skull Eyes said, his tone filled with cool challenge. “They say you had a heated argument during your conference call late last night.”

  Sweet Jesus, how did he find out? The Service? Frautschi? “It was a small misunderstanding,” Locke said, downplaying the contentious telephone call with Fowler and Frautschi. “I tried to convince the president-elect to commit publically to the platform, but she’s insisting on waiting until after she takes office. As I said, she’s intent on coming across as a moderate and getting her mandate.”

  “Did she seem at all suspicious?” the colonel asked.

  “No, not at all. She doesn’t care how she got her golden opportunity. She’s just anxious to take office and implement the platform.”

  “I doubt our gal knows B from bull’s foot about what’s really going on,” Dubois said, again coming to Locke’s aid in an indirect way.

  “That may be,” Truscott allowed. “But what concerns me is that we may have misjudged her—you in particular, Mr. Chairman.”

  Locke bristled at the accusation. “If you think you can do a better job,” he spat back without circumlocution or apology, “then why don’t you handle it.”

  “Gentlemen, there’s no need to argue,” A.W. Windholz said. “We are all Christians here, with the country’s best interests at heart.”

  Another brief silence, signaling a momentary truce, then Dubois’ logical voice reappeared. “Maybe we need to back off a bit. Our gal’s under tremendous pressure right now. We may be aggravating the situation by placing demands on her at this early stage.”

  “I agree,” Windholz was quick to put in. “There’ll be plenty of time to get her to sing to our tune when she takes office.”

  “By then it might be too late,” warned the colonel. “We all know how short politicians’ memories are once elected. Just look at all the supposed loyalists caving in to public pressure on stem-cell research, gun control, and campaign finance reform.”

  “The contribution has produced the desired result,” Locke said. “We have unlimited access and Fowler has given us the assurances we requested. All she’s doing is getting all her ducks lined up for the day she takes office. By pretending to reach out to the center, she’s maximizing her ability to control both sides of the aisle three months from now. It’s actually a very clever ploy on her part, and one, if you’ll remember, we anticipated.”

  “What we should be trying to do is get someone else we can trust on her transition team,” said Dubois. “Someone besides Frautschi.”

 
“I agree. We should have more than one egg in the basket,” said the colonel.

  Skull Eyes was still skeptical. “Do we know for sure Frautschi’s the one behind this...shift in Fowler’s public image?”

  “I think we have to consider the possibility that his priorities might no longer be the same as ours,” Dubois said. “He wouldn’t be the first chief of staff to have his own agenda.”

  “Maybe we should have a talk with him,” the colonel suggested.

  “I have been talking to him,” Locke said, a touch defensively. “All week long.”

  “Maybe someone else should have a talk with him,” Truscott said icily.

  “Someone else?” Locke asked innocently, though he knew where Skull Eyes was heading.

  “Someone with unusual skill in the art of persuasion—like the Apostle.”

  Locke didn’t like this one bit, nor did he appreciate Truscott questioning his judgment. “There’s no reason to go to that extreme. In fact, I can guarantee I will veto such a measure should you attempt to put it to a floor vote.” He paused to make sure they felt the full weight of his words and to demonstrate his conviction in the matter. “I’m only going to say this one more time: Fowler and Frautschi are on our side. That doesn’t mean they aren’t working their own agendas to some extent to make themselves look good. But the bottom line is they are in our court and completely on board with the program.”

  “So what you’re saying is the situation’s under control,” the colonel said.

  “Yes, gentlemen, the situation is totally under control.”

  CHAPTER 67

  HANGING UP, Locke felt a wave of relief. He had been convincing, and, if nothing else, had managed to buy himself some time. True, the situation with Fowler was a disaster, but perhaps he could turn it around, especially with Dubois’ help. All the same, he still felt deeply uneasy and disappointed. He had devised a bold plan to install the perfect president, but the lead actor of the melodrama was refusing to play the part scripted for her. Rather than the Chosen One, Katherine Fowler was proving to be the reincarnation of the unpredictable, independent-minded William Kieger.