The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  “I’m finishing this story on my own, and when it goes to print, there’s going to be one name on it and that’s mine.”

  The phone went silent, and for a fleeting moment, she felt triumph. But then she pictured him scheming on the other end, trying to come up with yet another way to outmaneuver her, and she felt a tremor of fear.

  “There’s a legal component to this too,” he said at length. “You may not have signed a nondisclosure or confidentiality agreement, but removing those DVDs from the building could classify as stealing. The paper could be held liable. However, if you send us all your materials anonymously and we use you as a confidential source, those legal issues would go away.”

  Stunned at his audacity, she said nothing.

  “You have to face it—this is simply too big for you. I can have a Pulitzer Prize winner on the next flight out there. Having J.R. Welch on board will give the magazine unprecedented name recognition. And you would have been the team player that made it all happen. You are a team player, aren’t you, Ms. Odden?”

  “How can you even be saying this? This is my story. I’ve done all the work and taken all the risks. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a spy for ten months just for a damned story?”

  “A story that is the rightful property of Mr. Stavros and The New Constitution . You don’t want to cross Mr. Stavros, do you? If you do, you’ll be lucky to be writing obituaries in the Tuscaloosa Quarterly .”

  “I’ve earned the right to see this thing through to the end.”

  Again, the phone went silent; the line was thick with tension.

  “Okay, I’ll give you one last shot at your fifteen minutes of fame,” Lampert relented. “But I’m getting in touch with Legal. We’ll see what they think about these disks you pilfered. And since you’re getting all self-righteous on me, I’m giving you a new deadline. You have until noon tomorrow to get me your first draft. Otherwise, I send in Mr. Welch.”

  “That’s fine by me—Friday at noon it is,” and she punched off.

  CHAPTER 73

  SOMETHING FLASHED in front of her windshield.

  She slammed on the breaks and screeched to a halt, missing two college kids crossing the pedestrian crosswalk by a fraction of an inch.

  Through the open window, Jennifer heard one of them yell, “What are you doing, lady! Keep your damned eyes on the road!”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

  They scowled at her long and hard before finishing crossing the street. Feeling emboldened, the other three coeds waiting at the crosswalk began to cross the street, keeping a wary eye on her. Jennifer watched them walk past in guilty silence, scolding herself for her lapse of concentration.

  She couldn’t believe she had almost plowed over two innocent people!

  Finally, all the students made it safely across the crosswalk. Expelling a sigh of relief, Jennifer checked to make sure no one else wanted to cross and moved her foot cautiously to the gas pedal.

  There was a blur of movement to her right and suddenly someone was banging on the passenger window. Nearly jumping from her seat, she quickly realized it was Susan Locke.

  What’s she doing here! Shouldn’t she be at school?

  Jennifer hit the button to lower the passenger side window.

  Susan thrust her head in the car. “Please, Jennifer, I have to talk to you!”

  A car horn blared. Jennifer looked in her rear view mirror and saw she was backing up traffic. Looking back at Susan, she pointed to a parking lot a short distance up the road.

  “I’ll meet you over there!”

  Susan gave a nod and darted back to her mountain bike lying on the grass next to the road. Jennifer pulled forward slowly through the crosswalk, drove the fifty yards to the freshly painted blacktop lot, and cut the engine. As she got out of the car, Susan pedaled up on her bike.

  “What’s going on, Susan? Are you okay?”

  The girl jumped off her bike and set it down on the grass. Her voice was desperate. “I was on my way to see you at the office. My father’s gone crazy. I was talking to my mother about my pregnancy before school this morning. He must have overheard us because all of a sudden—”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In my bedroom. He must have been listening outside in the hallway. I was telling my mother that I didn’t want to give my baby away, that I would rather have an abortion. He busted in and started hitting me.”

  “Your father hit you?”

  “Actually, he spanked me. But it was brutal and really hurt. He was so angry. My mother tried to hold him back, but he knocked her down. We screamed for him to stop. But he wouldn’t...he wouldn’t stop!”

  Jennifer reached out and took her in her arms. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t be better expressed with a reassuring hug. But thank God it was just a spanking. At the same time, did she dare tell the girl about her own terrifying experience with Susan’s father at American Patriots ten minutes ago? She decided that this wasn’t the time.

  Within a minute she had calmed Susan down. But now the girl’s voice took on an edge of defiance. “I’ve made up my mind, Jennifer. I’m going to have the abortion. It’s still scheduled for tomorrow morning with Dr. Sivy. I never canceled it.”

  “An abortion? But, Susan, are you sure you—?”

  “It’s the only choice I have that makes sense. I’m not going to give my baby away, and my father won’t allow me to keep it. That leaves me with one option.”

  “But your father will crucify you.”

  “He’s already crucifying me. This way I’m in charge of my own body and peace of mind. I’m almost eighteen, old enough to vote and die for my country. It’s time for me to take responsibility for my own actions. I’ve made my decision.”

  Jennifer’s gaze fell to the ground. What could she possibly say? Though she admired Susan’s tenacity and fortitude in standing up to her father, she felt that, to some extent, she was acting rashly. Was Susan using the abortion to lash back at her father? Jennifer’s mind spun back to the dark period with her own father. It came back to her as a Gothic horror story and she felt all the old, bitter feelings, the sense of desolation, resurfacing.

  Susan gave a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry to involve you in all this. But I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

  “You did the right thing.” They went over the incident and its ramifications some more. At the end, Jennifer asked, “Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, we’re talking about abortion, Susan.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” the girl said firmly. “I have to do this my way.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Well then, you’d better call your mother and tell her you’re all right. Then you and I, we have to put together a plan.”

  CHAPTER 74

  “HOW COULD YOU HAVE LET THIS HAPPEN?” Benjamin Locke bristled, glaring at Marlene “Suie” Tanner and Archibald Roberts. Locke had just finished recounting his run-in with Jennifer Odden in Fileroom E.

  Roberts shot Marlene an accusing look. “She didn’t get the code from me.”

  “Well, she said she was working for you on the project,” Marlene countered, pointing a stubby finger at him.

  “She was, but I never gave her the code.”

  “It must have been Chuck then. It’s his fault.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” Locke stood up and went to the window behind his desk. “I’ve heard enough excuses. We need to rectify this situation pronto, not quibble over whose responsible. Obviously Jennifer Odden, if that is in fact her real name, is working for some political or media group. We must find out who that group is and seize the documents before she makes contact.”

  Marlene and Roberts stood obediently still in front of the desk. Not a sound escaped their lips; not a single muscle twitched. The stumpy executive secretary provided an almost comical contrast to the tall, cadaverously thin director of
communications/PR. Standing side by side, they looked like circus freaks or something out of a house of mirrors.

  “Do we know what she was after?” asked Roberts.

  “Marlene and I went back into the fileroom, but by that time Jennifer was gone,” said Locke. “But she must have cleaned up after I left the first time because the documents I saw next to the copier were all put back.”

  “But who could she be working for?” inquired Roberts.

  “That’s your job to find out, Archie—she worked in your department. It’s probably one of those liberal organizations like People for the American Way. They’re always making mischief. She could even be a journalist, undercover reporter, something like that. In any case, you must get to work on this immediately. This assignment is to receive top priority.”

  “What should I do?” Marlene asked.

  “Go back down to Fileroom E and conduct a more thorough search to find out what she was after. Figure out which files she may have pulled.”

  “I’m still not clear what I’m supposed to do,” Roberts said, timorously.

  Locke took a deep breath to keep from exploding. What are you, a complete imbecile? “I just told you, Archie. I want you to find out who this Jennifer Odden really is and who she’s working for. Benjamin will assist you, but no one else.”

  “Benjamin, sir? You mean your…your son?”

  “He’ll do a bang-up job for you—a bang-up job.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Roberts said, though his expression revealed serious doubt.

  “Then get to it,” Locke commanded, and the two subordinates fumbled towards the door.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing,” he added, as Marlene “Suie” Tanner’s porky hand gripped the doorknob.

  The pair of lackeys turned around in unison and looked at him sheepishly.

  “Make sure to complete your assignments discretely—and to my total satisfaction—or that will be the end of your employment here at American Patriots.”

  CHAPTER 75

  AFTER TOUCHING DOWN at Oakland International Airport, Patton, Sharp, and Taylor walked to the passenger pickup outside the baggage claim, where a midnight blue Dodge Grand Caravan was waiting for them. Standing in front of the van was a crisply dressed man and woman, both in their midthirties. The man extended a stiff hand to Sharp.

  “Special Agent Smith, San Francisco field office. And this is Agent Donatello.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “Schmidt’s still at his apartment. We have a team in position.”

  Sharp smiled harshly. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get the son of a bitch.”

  They climbed in the van and were off, heading north on Hegenberger Road with the windows rolled down. The sky was gray and overcast, the air leaden with moisture. Though they were right on the bay, the air smelled of exhaust, petroleum products, and chlorinated industrial pollutants instead of the sea.

  They went over the plan.

  It was actually more of a standard operating procedure. In the FBI lexicon, it was officially a “raid.” The objective was to take Schmidt by surprise with overwhelming numbers and arrest him without loss of life. It was a technique that usually worked for the heavily scrutinized—and often beleaguered—agency, but not always. And there was the rub: Franz Dieter Schmidt had to be taken alive. Whether he was the shooter, an accessory, or merely a material witness in the case, it was absolutely essential that he be interrogated.

  They struck the Nimitz Freeway, 880, and headed northwest through the urban sprawl. To the west, the mercury-colored water of San Francisco Bay was as smooth as glass beneath the haze. Patton stared out at a steely cargo ship. Across the salty water body was the son he had never seen, a boy who called other people Mommy and Daddy. It made him ache to think about it.

  A few minutes later, they exited the freeway and slogged down Webster Street, past Chinese restaurants and shoddy hotels. Donatello spoke into her crackling Saber hand-held radio, preparing the strike force for their arrival. A light drizzle began to fall. Eventually the van pulled into an underground parking structure and took a space next to a Crown Victoria and three other vans.

  Supervising Agent Morrison J. Shafroth and another senior agent emerged from the Crown Victoria and, after a ten minute briefing and review of building blueprints, the strike force was ready to move. Four plainclothed agents had already infiltrated the building, and the three vans bore another thirty field agents. They were dressed in standard raid gear: navy-blue jackets and caps with FBI printed in bold gold lettering; Kevlar bullet-proof vests; and black belts with magazine pouches and two-way radios. In addition, they were armed to the teeth with standard FBI-issue 9mm Glock 17 pistols and Remington 870 shotguns. As was so often the case, they would have the element of surprise, and the sheer weight of numbers, on their side.

  Patton wondered what advantages Franz Dieter Schmidt would have, if any.

  On radio command, the five vehicles crept out of the parking structure into the drumming rain. The caravan came to a crisp halt a block up the street in front of a drab stucco apartment building. A second command was given and the van doors slid open simultaneously. One by one, bodies spilled out, and within seconds, they had coalesced into a cohesive tactical force, moving stealthily toward the front entrance, like Washington sneaking up on the unsuspecting Hessians at Trenton. The whole affair was handled with quiet competence; no shouting voices, screeching tires, or shrieking sirens like in the movies. Patton, Sharp, and Taylor followed behind Shafroth and the lead element.

  Two minutes later, the raid team had sealed off all the exits and assembled in front of Schmidt’s apartment, 201. Clutching his Glock, Patton felt a ripple of nervous energy. This is it. In a matter of seconds, he would have his man in custody. There was no way Schmidt was going to get away. Not a single escape route remained unless, of course, the fucking asshole could fly.

  Shafroth gave a hand signal and knocked hard on the door.

  “FBI—we have a search warrant—open up!”

  It was merely a formality, for less than three seconds passed before Shafroth commanded two brawny agents forward with a shoulder-rigged battery ram. They bashed through the door, ripping off both chain and lock, and the raid team poured into the room like a pack of ravenous velociraptors.

  “FBI, don’t move!” Patton heard Shafroth shout up ahead, over the thunder of feet.

  “What the hell?” a surprised voice cried out.

  “Put your hands above your head and get down on the floor!”

  Now Patton could see Schmidt standing open-mouthed in the living room next to a threadbare couch. He was unarmed and had no choice but to comply. He dropped to his knees and his hands flew up in surrender as ten Glocks trained on him. The penetration had been swift, the surprise total.

  But there was still a trace of defiance on his face. “What the fuck is going on?”

  Four grim-faced agents knocked Schmidt facedown onto the hard floor and jerked his hands behind his back. A second later, cuffs were slapped on him and he was searched. In a tone of measured government neutrality, Shafroth informed Schmidt that he was being taken into custody in connection with the Kieger assassination and read him his Miranda. Meanwhile, agents began searching the other rooms for evidence.

  Patton took a moment to study Schmidt as he was pulled to his feet. The big German was fit, chiseled, roguishly handsome, and flaxen-haired. Most importantly, at six feet two inches tall, he was definitely the right height to be the killer of the two people at the elevator.

  As Patton examined his face for clues, Sharp circled the prisoner, eyeing him as if he had just captured the great Desert Fox, Erwin Rommel, himself. “Franz Dieter Schmidt,” he declared gloatingly. “It’s time we had a little chat.”

  CHAPTER 76

  THE INTERROGATION was held on the thirteenth floor of the Federal Building at 450 Golden Gate Avenue in San Francisco. Along with Patton, the key players from the arrest were there, jackets off,
shirtsleeves rolled up. Patton sat directly across from Schmidt, eyeing him closely. The guy had been booked, photographed, and fingerprinted without uttering a single word.

  Patton wondered why.

  The recorder on the highly polished conference table was turned on and, for the second time, Shafroth read the subject his Miranda warning. The Bureau was notorious for doing things by the book when it so desired, and from the moment the warrant was obtained from the federal judge to the current interrogation, there hadn’t been a single procedural oversight. When Shafroth finished the Miranda, he asked the suspect if he understood everything said to him.

  “Yes,” Schmidt replied.

  “So you understand you’ve been arrested in connection with the assassination of President-elect Kieger?”

  “Yes, and I am completely innocent. That is why I do not need a lawyer.” His Berlin accent was softened by more than two decades of American living.

  “So you’re waiving your right to have an attorney present during questioning?”

  “That’s right. I also understand that I do not have to answer any questions if I don’t want to. And that whatever statements I make may be used in evidence against me in a court of law.”

  “You seem to know your rights, Franz,” Patton said. Using the first-name was a calculated move, as was the complimentary tone. He hoped both would pay dividends later in the interrogation.

  The team was also allowing Schmidt to smoke, which though unusual, was also part of Patton’s calculated plan to get him to open up and talk. The big German pulled a Camel from the half-empty pack on the table; Shafroth lit it for him with a silver Zippo lighter.

  “I did some time once,” said Schmidt. “You learn a lot about the law inside.”

  “Especially on how to break them,” said Sharp, who wasn’t too keen on the kid-gloves approach that Patton, Taylor, and Shafroth had recommended. His eyes lingered on Schmidt before landing on Special Agent Shafroth. “Let’s get on with this,” he said impatiently.