The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  Henry’s definitely up to something. He’s never this agreeable. But what could it be?

  Putting aside his suspicions for the moment, Patton proceeded to chronicle the evidence for Sharp, without revealing Jennifer as his source. True, the assembled facts didn’t prove Benjamin Locke was behind the assassination or its subsequent cover-up, but taken together they raised serious questions. Even Sharp admitted as much, which, again, Patton found surprising.

  “I’m with you so far, Special Agent. But there’s still a lot we don’t know. Like where this lady comes from, who trained her, and how Locke got in contact with her.”

  Patton scratched his chin thoughtfully. “As I said before, Gomez has been linked to Euskara in Spain. But I think it’s a front. Jane Doe, or a control agent acting on her behalf, is trying to deflect suspicion from herself to the fictitious Gomez. If I’m right, it’s unlikely Jane Doe was trained by Euskara. In fact, she probably has no ties to the group.”

  “Then who trained her?”

  “There are several possibilities. She could have been recruited by Russian intelligence or another Eastern European intelligence group. They were first to use female assassins on a wide scale. Or it could be one of the big terrorist groups in Western Europe or the Middle East. The Red Army Faction and Action Directe in Germany, the Italian Red Brigade, EXE in Israel, or a similar group. Most female operatives these days come from the former intelligence agencies in Eastern Europe, though. They’ve made career changes and become professional contract killers who sell their services to the highest bidder.”

  Sharp glanced at his watch again, which, again, Patton found vexing. “Jane Doe...the spy who stayed out in the field.”

  “Something like that. These types of groups routinely use women pretending to be pregnant as foils. They also use infants, real or mechanical.”

  “Like Jane Doe.”

  “Exact—” Patton was brought up short by the ringing phone. Sharp reached over and pushed the Speaker button. “Yes, Cynthia.”

  “Agent Nicholson is ready for you now.”

  “Tell him we’ll be right over.”

  Patton gave a start of surprise. “What’s going on, Henry?”

  “We need to have a little talk with the boss,” he said vaguely, rounding his desk.

  They walked across the hall to the office of the special agent in charge, who had returned from his interrupted trek to Nepal late yesterday. Will Nicholson had long been a big supporter of Patton’s, but that didn’t matter now. Something was very wrong and Patton felt a sense of impending doom.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Nicholson said curtly when they walked in, waving them toward the exquisitely crafted mahogany table at which he was seated. With his statuesque frame and falcon’s eyes, the top gun of the Denver field office conveyed a sense of authority, but without the hard edge of many an FBI careerist. He also had the look of an outdoorsman; he had climbed all but six of Colorado’s fifty-two fourteeners. But today, Patton noticed an edginess he had rarely seen before. John Sawyer, the supervisory special agent of the DT desk, was also seated at the table. He looked away when Patton’s eyes met his.

  Once they sat down, Nicholson said bluntly, “Ken, I’m pulling you off the Kieger case.”

  “But why? We’re closing in on Jane Doe.”

  Sharp rolled his eyes, as if listening to the rambling of a small child. “Agent Patton’s latest theory is the killer is a woman posing as Diego Gomez.”

  “I have to take responsibility for this,” Nicholson said. “I’m the one who put you in charge of the case.”

  “Over my objections,” pointed out Sharp.

  “Yes, over your objections, Henry. Duly noted.”

  Patton felt a wave of desperation. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Will. But whatever it is, I can explain.”

  Nicholson held up his hand, indicating that wouldn’t be necessary. “You’ve put my ass and Henry’s in a ringer. An hour ago, we got off the phone with the director, who had just gotten off the phone with Governor Stoddart. It appears that, since you’ve taken over this case, you’ve pissed off a leading religious figure and governor, shown insubordination to your superiors, overstepped your authority by meddling in Colorado Springs police business, and made improper use of Bureau resources.”

  Patton started to protest, but the SAC cut him off. “Now I understand you may have had reasons for some of your actions, but you have still embarrassed the Bureau and that is unacceptable.”

  Patton turned accusingly to Sharp. “Why are you doing this, Henry?”

  “You did it to yourself.”

  Patton looked at John Sawyer, but the supervisor’s eyes were glued to the table. Sorry, Ken, but you’re alone on this one, he seemed to say. There was no option left but to plead with Nicholson. “Come on, Will, you know I wouldn’t have done what I did without good reason. Benjamin Locke’s an integral part of this case and so is Jennifer Odden. That’s why I had her released. She has vital information. And she damn sure doesn’t have anything to do with that rampage at the abortion clinic.”

  “Do you deny having had a romantic relationship with this woman?” Sharp asked accusingly, shifting the onus back onto him.

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Nicholson’s frown deepened. “You violated standard protocols. Without John’s or Henry’s knowledge, you contacted our Springs residency and arranged for this woman to be escorted to Denver, where she’ll be under your personal protection.”

  “I know I didn’t follow procedure, but I needed to ensure her safety. She has information vital to the case. This isn’t the first time a journalist has helped us dig up leads.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten how we operate. We don’t stir up the pot with the locals, especially not governors. We don’t strong-arm the police. And we never—and I mean never—give the bureaucrats in the Hoover Building or Boy Scouts at Justice a reason to put us under a microscope. We’re under enough pressure to solve this case as it is.”

  “By pulling in this journalist girlfriend of yours,” added Sharp, “all you’ve done is provide fodder for the civil libertarians and given the political-correctness police a reason to look over our shoulder.”

  “I haven’t told her anything. She provided me with information, not the other way around.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” Nicholson said. “Whether this Odden woman or Benjamin Locke are involved or not, your conduct has cast embarrassment on the Bureau. You know the rules.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. J. Edgar’s great legacy—don’t embarrass the fucking Bureau.”

  “Get a grip, Special Agent. You are to bring John here up to speed and hand the case over to him. I’m putting you on white collar until I can figure out what to do with you.”

  Patton’s heart sank. That was the ultimate low blow. In the Bureau, white-collar crime was the most tedious, least rewarding work. Convictions didn’t come easy and few agents wanted to touch it. This wasn’t just a demotion—this was fucking banishment!

  “Jesus Christ, Will, why don’t you just fire my ass. At least I’d have a reason to get up in the morning.”

  Sharp looked at Nicholson. “I don’t think this is going to work. He needs time off to get his head straight.”

  Patton felt his blood boiling. “I don’t know how you pulled this off, Henry, but I’m going—”

  Nicholson’s hand crashed onto his desk. “Silence! You’re on a ten-day suspension, effective once you’ve briefed John and gotten him your 302s. You’ve given me no other choice.”

  “You can’t suspend me without bringing formal charges against me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, there will be charges all right,” said Sharp menacingly. “I’ve almost finished the paperwork. It will be sent over to OPR by the end of the day.”

  Though Patton tried hard not to appear flummoxed, his face turned beet red and he was rend
ered speechless. The Office of Professional Responsibility, or OPR, was the branch that investigated allegations of employee misconduct within the FBI. Officially, it fell under the umbrella of the Bureau, but was in fact run by the Justice Department, like a police internal affairs division run out of the district attorney’s office instead of the police department. The OPR investigators were not only painstakingly meticulous, but far from impartial, since the Justice Department and the FBI were often at odds with one another. This did not bode well for Patton.

  “I’m sorry, Ken,” Nicholson said with a note of regret. “But you’re going to have to hand over your creds and sidearm.”

  Patton bit his lip. “This is going to look bad for you both when I’m exonerated,” he said, his mind so filled with bile he didn’t even realize the bridges he was burning.

  “Hand ’em over,” Sharp commanded. “Now!”

  Keeping his eyes locked on Sharp, Patton pulled out his gold shield with the picture ID and then withdrew his clip holster with his Glock. He slammed them down hard on the desk, making a statement of protest.

  “If that’s the way it’s going to be, I’ll start serving that sentence right goddamn now!” he said angrily, and he stormed out the room.

  CHAPTER 118

  JENNIFER LOOKED across the kitchen table at Ken. For the last twenty minutes, he had quietly listened to her account of the rampage at the clinic. She could see the shared pain in his eyes. In his sober reflection, he seemed to be reaching out to her, telling her he understood what she had gone through and that everything would be okay.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s a miracle you survived. I’m sorry Susan didn’t.”

  Her thoughtful expression hardened with resolve. “I want Locke to pay. I know he’s the one behind the attack. We have to nail him, Ken. And I don’t mean just for what happened at the clinic.”

  He looked away uncomfortably and she wondered what she’d said.

  “What is it?”

  When he finally spoke, his voice seemed diminished somehow. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much help to you. They pulled me off the case.”

  Her first reaction was disbelief, followed swiftly by outrage. “But why?”

  “It’s a long fucking story.”

  Tenderly, she touched his face. “I’m sorry.” And then it dawned on her that she might be the reason he was taken off the case. “Did this happen because of me?”

  “Does it matter?” he temporized.

  “To me it does. Did they do this because you bailed me out of jail and put me under your protection?”

  “Partly,” he said, still reluctant to blame her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “After what happened to you today, I could see no point.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “You shouldn’t. Sharp would have just found some other reason.”

  “What’s going to happen to you?”

  “I don’t know. The Office of Professional Responsibility is conducting an investigation. Right now, I’m on a ten-day suspension. When I return, I suppose I’ll be banished to white-collar purgatory for a few months, until I can work my way back to my old desk.”

  Jennifer was wracked with guilt. What could she possibly say or do to make up for all the trouble she’d caused him? If she’d known this would happen, she would have volunteered to be locked up in a cell for a month with nothing but bread and water.

  “The most important thing is that you’re safe.”

  Feeling a surge of affection, she rose from her chair and went to him. He stood up too and they wrapped their arms around each other and kissed. As they held one another close, she felt a delightful feeling inside, a pulse of warmth to take away the edge of sadness.

  He started to say something.

  “Don’t say a word,” she whispered gently in his ear. “Just hold me.”

  CHAPTER 119

  MINUTES LATER, they decided to have a beer and put on some music, to further the healing process and put some distance between themselves and what had happened today. Jennifer went to the stereo cabinet to work on the tunes while Patton pulled a pair of Fat Tires from the fridge.

  She saw right away that his musical taste hadn’t changed: bluegrass still predominated to the exclusion of just about everything else except a little classic rock and blues. She was pleased to see he had a good collection of Dead CDs. She pulled out American Beauty and popped it in the CD player. A nice strumming acoustic intro then Phil was singing the opening line to Box of Rain .

  Patton returned with the beers. Like condemned prisoners sharing a final ironic joke, they clinked bottles and sat down on the blue corduroy couch. He propped his feet up on the antique pine coffee table and loosened his tie. Outside, the autumn wind whistled through the massive oak, pine, and elm trees standing watch like sentinels over Wash Park. A thumbnail moon shone down on the lake, where a hundred honking geese quarreled over which route to take in their annual sojourn south.

  They talked for a while about the old days and ordered Indian take-out from a new joint that had opened up on Alameda. After dinner, Patton turned on the TV to catch the news. A meticulously made-up anchorwoman who looked like a younger, prettier Diane Sawyer was doing her spiel.

  “...woman wanted for questioning by the FBI in connection with the Kieger assassination. She is described as being in her early- to late-thirties, five foot seven to five foot nine in height, with varying hair color. Her identity is unknown at this time, but the FBI have given her the name Jane Doe. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous...”

  As the anchorwoman rambled on, a color image flashed up with a caption that read “Jane Doe.” Patton saw instantly that it was the picture from the city security camera Fial had put together for the new wanted poster.

  “So is this Jane Doe an accomplice?” asked Jennifer, staring at the TV.

  “No, she’s the assassin. There is no John Doe.”

  “You’ve got to be joking? That matronly woman is the killer?”

  “Don’t let her fool you—she’s a goddamned La Femme Nikita with some serious mental hangups.”

  Jennifer turned up the volume with the remote. The shot of Jane Doe dissolved and Henry Sharp appeared on the screen, looking FBI-ish in his perfectly pressed navy-blue suit. A bleached-blonde reporter with puffy, collagen-enhanced lips stood next to him with a microphone.

  Patton recognized the backdrop as the media room on the sixteenth floor of the field office.

  “At this time, we believe Jane Doe may have been an accomplice,” Sharp declared, holding his head in a self-assured, patriarchal tilt.

  “So you have no reason to suspect her as the assassin?” the reporter asked.

  “Not at this time. A woman doesn’t fit the profile we’ve established.”

  Patton was livid. This is bullshit! Sharp’s making a mess of my case!

  “Are you saying the killer couldn’t be a woman?” the reporter asked Sharp.

  “Well, it’s certainly possible,” he allowed. “But we believe our prime suspect, John Doe, has certain paramilitary experience that would be unlikely for a woman to possess. Not impossible, mind you, just unlikely,” he added, with a patronizing smile that made Patton cringe.

  “So both John Doe and Jane Doe are still at large?”

  “For the moment. But we’ll catch them.”

  “What is the FBI’s current take on the Green Freedom Brigade?”

  “The Brigade is our leading suspect group at this time. I am pleased to report that an hour ago, a task force from our San Francisco field office arrested four members of the group outside Truckee, near Lake Tahoe.”

  “So is it known whether Jane Doe or John Doe are members of the Green Freedom Brigade?”

  There is no John Doe, you moron! And the Brigade has nothing to do with the assassination!

  “That has yet to be confirmed. But you can rest assured we are working diligently on the case and hope to
have all the perpetrators in our custody soon. That’s all I have to say at this time.”

  “Thank you, Agent Sharp.” The reporter turned back toward the screen. “Back to you Karen. From the FBI field office in downtown Denver, this has been Mary Elizabeth Schumacher reporting.”

  Enraged, Patton flicked off the TV with the remote. He wanted desperately to break something—anything, it didn’t really matter. “I don’t believe this shit.”

  Jennifer smiled with apparent amusement. “Don’t get mad, Ken, get even. Let’s pool our resources and figure this thing out. Together.”

  “Okay, but we’re going to need java,” he said, looking like a downhill racer at the starting gate. “Gallons of it.”

  CHAPTER 120

  THEY WENT OVER THE CASE frontwards and backwards. They set up shop at the pine kitchen table, with aromatic Seattle’s Best roasted coffee, notepads, and the playful picking of Doc and Merle Watson in the background. By the time they were finished, they had developed a plausible conceptual model of the assassination and its cover-up. But in Patton’s mind unanswered questions still remained.

  It was clear an organized group was behind the assassination. But how many people were in the group, or attached to it? There was Locke, the probable ringleader, and Jane Doe. There was the hacker who had infiltrated Anders Houser’s computer. And there was Houser’s killer. But was the group a large one with grandiose objectives or a small coterie of like-minded men? Did it consist primarily of AMP members, a mix of members and outsiders, or all outsiders except Locke?

  There was also the matter of Jane Doe. Was she really Gomez, or was Patton grasping at straws? If she was the mysterious killer, this meant the world’s best sniper was, in fact, a woman, an embarrassing revelation for the macho international intelligence community. It also meant that Gomez was nothing more than a phantom killer, a ghost of the files. Which, in turn, meant Jane Doe had to be under the protection of someone with powerful intelligence connections. The French intelligence service had the most complete dossier on Gomez. Was there someone high up in that body feeding Interpol and the world’s law enforcement community false information?