Star Chamber Brotherhood (17 page)

Werner reached into his pocket to send a short pattern of clicks on the two-way radio to Hector Alvarez, then jotted the time and place and the direction of the car’s movement on a folded sheet of paper tucked inside the rear cover of his paperback. He waited in the coffee shop for a few more minutes to finish his iced tea and read a few more pages of his novel.

He had read barely more than a page when a thought emerged that had lain dormant for several days. All at once he understood that most of the assumptions he had formed the week before about how to execute the team’s mission were turning out to be mistaken. At the core of his operational thinking was his counter-terrorist training while a Career Trainee in the Central Intelligence Agency some thirty years before. His Agency trainers had focused at that time on methods of Arab terrorists from the 1970s, the Red Brigades and Baader-Meinhof Gang during the ‘80s, Russian and Chechen assassins during the ‘90s, and al-Qaeda and other jihadists at the turn of the new millennium.
 

Most of those killers had opted for soft targets, that is, victims who were neither trained, armed, nor security-conscious. Moreover, most of the attackers had enjoyed the advantages of ample lead time, staffing, funding, and logistical support; a choice of weapons, including automatic weapons and explosives; false documents and foreign safe havens; and tolerant, open societies rather than police states within which to stalk their targets and make their escape.

By contrast, the Star Team’s target was a senior State Security officer, who shuttled between secure parking facilities at both home and office, and had never been seen leaving either on foot. Moreover, the Star Team was under a forty-day deadline, had only four members and lacked the time and resources required to map out Rocco’s daily movements in so short a time without risking discovery. Funding and support resources were negligible. Finally, operational security principles dictated that Werner be the sole member aware of the identity of others on the team.
 

So far, the team’s only weapons were a civilian semi-automatic hunting rifle and a war-surplus pistol, along with a few dozen rounds of ammunition. And unlike the terrorists against whom he had been trained, Werner and his team were neither eager to die for their cause, nor so naïve or ideologically rigid as to believe that they would succeed simply because God was on their side or their cause was just or otherwise aligned with the forces of history. What each team member wanted above all was to complete the mission and simply go on with his life.
 

The central challenge, Werner now realized, was that Fred Rocco was not sufficiently vulnerable to the typical terrorist hit-and-run attack. His team needed more time, more surveillance coverage, more firepower, and more mobility. But the longer they watched Rocco, the greater was the risk of discovery. And to seek additional weaponry on the open market also carried unacceptable risks. What they needed was a change of plan. They needed a way to take Fred Rocco down when he was alone and vulnerable, using resources already within their grasp. And they needed it fast.

****

By the time Werner stepped out of the coffee shop onto Purchase Street, most of the big Fords and Nissans assigned to senior federal officials like Rocco had already exited the underground garage. Now a steady stream of electric minicars and aging Government Motors carpool vehicles had begun to follow. Once their bosses were gone, Werner noticed, the building seemed to empty fast. It appeared that post-capitalist office culture still observed the time-honored principle of “face time.”
 

Werner climbed Congress Street to Franklin and headed back toward the Somerset Club through the center of downtown, taking ample time to check his back trail for possible surveillance. Once at the Club, he ate a quick supper in the kitchen with the wait staff, sorted his mail and proceeded to the bar. He had already arranged for one of the waiters to come in early to open the liquor cabinet and set up for the evening. Werner thanked him and took his place behind the counter so that the waiter could eat before guests started arriving in the dining room.

Despite the sense of urgency Werner felt about the Star Team’s mission, or perhaps because of it, Werner felt extraordinarily alive as he took his first drink orders and mixed his first cocktails of the night. His euphoria, he thought, arose not only from being entrusted with a special mission, but also from having suffered uncommon hardship, surviving against impossible odds and rejoining society in the city of his arrest seven years earlier. Now, unbelievably, he found himself living not just adequately, or comfortably, but rather well. Even more than that, it now seemed possible, indeed probable, that his daughter was alive and well in England and he might be in contact with her soon. If this came to pass, Werner believed, his life would be complete.

But why, then, did he wrestle with, even resist his urge to return to Utah? Was he becoming too comfortable in Boston, too set in his ways to leave a place he had never even liked? Was he clinging too tightly, perhaps, to the position he had created for himself at the Somerset Club? Or to his customers or his friends or to Carol? Or was it merely an old man’s fear of change?
 

If Werner had learned nothing else from his years in the camps, it was that life requires change and one must learn to not resist. When the time came for him to leave this life behind, all he could be certain of taking with him were his memories, his lessons and his spirit.
 

****

Less than a half hour after Werner took over the bar, one of the dining room busboys arrived with the message that Jake Hagopian wanted to see him in the second floor office. Werner asked the busboy to summon the waiter who had covered for him earlier in the evening and set off the moment he spotted the waiter cross the lobby toward the bar.
 

When Werner entered the office, Hagopian was rooting distractedly among stacks of paper covering his massive oak desk. He raised his eyes at Werner’s approach and appeared to forget what he had been doing.

“Come on in, Frank,” the older man greeted him. “How’s business tonight?”

“Busy for a Wednesday,” Werner replied as he took a seat opposite Jake’s desk. “It looks like April will be a good month for the bar, Jake. How about the rest of the operation?”

Despite Hagopian’s apparent preoccupation with misplaced documents, he appeared to be in an expansive mood.

“Which operation do you mean?” Hagopian replied. “If you mean building materials, business couldn’t be better. Everybody seems to have renovation plans, the architects are busy, and I’m up to my ears in requests for quotes. But if you mean the restaurant business, I tell you it’s been a headache from Day One. I’m stinking tired of it and I wish I could get out of it once and for all. ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent feast?’ Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that?”

“I think that was King Henry II’s complaint about a troublesome priest named Thomas Becket, Jake. But it’s certainly the kind of line Shakespeare could have written,” Werner replied genially.

“Of course it is, and you know what I’m arriving at. Look here, Frank, I know we talked about this just last week, but I’m serious about wanting you to take over the Club. I’m tired of the headaches and the red ink and I want to take out my money and put it back into building materials where it will do me some good. What do you say we make a deal, eh?”

“I’m truly flattered, Jake, but I told before, I couldn’t buy the Club even if I wanted to or could afford it. It’s not legally possible.”

“Anything is legally possible with the corrupt bastards who run this city,” Hagopian rejoined. “And yes, you can afford it if I say you can. Open your mind, Frank. I think you’ve got some kind of channel vision about this and it’s standing between you and success.

“Look, I’ll sell you the Club on terms. I’ll even accept your note. All I ask is that I don’t have to invest any more than I’ve put into the business already and that over time you’ll start paying me back out of the profits. You have a real knack for the club business, Frank. You’ll be turning a profit from the get-up-and-go.”

Werner chuckled.

“It’s not that I don’t believe in the Club, Jake. I love the place and I’d be proud to own it. But we’ve already gone through this. You know I can’t own anything in Boston that requires legal registration.”

“Okay, so while we work on getting you a residence permit, we keep everything titled in my name except the cash and the trade accounts. How would that work for you?” Hagopian persisted. “We can handle it any way that will make you comfortable. Listen, Frankie, you know I won’t cheat you. So why not?”

“I know you’re trying to help, Jake. You’ve been great to me and I trust you completely. But a residence permit is not like a liquor license or a building permit. You can’t just pay off somebody at City Hall. It requires clearance from the DSS in Washington, and the last thing I want is for the DSS to know I’m here. So, please don’t go and try to fix anything for me without my permission, okay?”

“Oh, I would never go around your back, Frankie,” the owner assured him. “But if you really want something, you just can’t just give it up every time some roadblock gets in your face. So, don’t say no yet. Say you’ll think about it and get back to me.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it and get back to you,” Werner repeated with a gentle laugh.

“How long do you need to think about it?” Hagopian pressed.

Werner gave it a moment’s thought.

“A month,” he replied. “I should know by then.”

“Fair enough, Frankie Boy,” Jake Hagopian answered, rubbing his palms together. “Here’s the deal. In a month, either I’m selling the Club to you, or you’re selling the bar to me so I can sell the Club in one piece to somebody else. Am I fair or foul?”
 

“You’re always fair, Jake,” Werner answered.

“Okay, then, let’s shake it up,” Hagopian declared, holding out his hand to Werner. And with that, the two men closed their deal.

****

When Werner returned to the bar, every stool was taken and customers were lined up three deep at the rail. Steve, the waiter he had left temporarily in charge, appeared overwhelmed by the surge in orders and stepped aside for Werner to respond to the customers who remained unserved.

“You’re going to need more help if this keeps up,” the waiter commented. “I’d be happy to move over to the bar full time if you’d like. The dining room has plenty of guys who need the work and Jake says the move is okay with him if you approve.”

“I may take you up on that, Steve. Let’s see how it goes this weekend, okay?”

The waiter nodded hopefully.

“And by the way, Hank Oshiro’s here,” Steve added, pointing to the far end of the bar. “I haven’t served him yet. I thought you might want to talk to him first.”

Werner’s expression grew hard.

“Can you cover for me again?” he asked Steve, spotting Oshiro deep in conversation with a thirty-something in a banker’s suit and a considerably younger blonde wearing a short black cocktail dress.

“Sure, leave it to me,” the waiter replied.

Werner moved to where Hank Oshiro sat at the end of the bar. He served a half dozen thirsty customers along the way before addressing Oshiro.

“What will you have tonight, Hank?” he asked with an avuncular smile.

“Double bourbon on the rocks,” Oshiro replied. “Give me whatever brand you’re pushing.”

“Oleg tells me you’ve got a new car,” Werner remarked. “Congratulations. Business must be good these days.”

“The car’s not exactly new but they cleaned it up pretty nice for me. And, man, is it fun to drive again! It’s just like the old days—cruisin’ down the highway in my own set of wheels, listening to the old tunes. I feel like a kid again!”

“That’s because you are a kid, Hank.”
 

Werner filled an Old-Fashioned glass with ice cubes and poured in four fingers of house bourbon.

“How did you swing it?” he continued, sharing Oshiro’s enthusiasm. “Since when did they start allowing illegal businesses to take tax write-offs for cars?”

“The times they are a-changin’, Frank. There’s a guy I know who’s really good with electronics. He’s getting components that haven’t been seen on the market in years. I think they smuggle them in from India or someplace. Anyway, he and his partner take old cars whose electronics are totally fried and fix them up with new EMP-hardened electronics packages.
 

“People are going back and restoring cars that were sizzled in the EMP wars and they’re selling them at really affordable prices. Affordable to me, anyway. I hear some people are even picking up hulks from the side of the road and shipping them overseas to get reconditioned or chopped up for parts. And the government has been looking the other way because of the foreign currency from the exports. Tell me, Frank, is this a great country or what?”

“And you’re able to get fuel for it?” Werner replied on a skeptical note. “How were you able to score a ration card?”

“Ration cards? We don’t need no stinkin’ ration cards!” Oshiro glowered, imitating the Mexican bandito in the old Bogart film,
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
. “Actually, Frank, there’s plenty of gas out there if you’re willing to pay a premium for it. And these days I can afford it. Business is booming! Cannabis is b-a-a-a-c-k!”