Star Chamber Brotherhood (21 page)

At that moment he realized that he had not even thought to check whether Dave Lewis’ name had been on the list. He looked over his shoulder at the line of prisoners outside the dispensary and did not see Dave among them. He approached the list and quickly found the sheet that contained the L’s. David Lewis’s name was not on the list. The man who was responsible for his deliverance would still be deep underground in the Mactung mine when Werner’s transport left that afternoon for Ross River. He owed the man his life and all he could offer him in return was a thank-you note and a square of GI chocolate.

Chapter 12

Saturday, May 11, 2029

Boston

A chilly, misty rain enveloped Frank Werner as he left the shelter of South Station and walked toward his destination on South Street in the Leather District. As the commuter rush was already over, the streets were nearly deserted except for a few stragglers, deliverymen, and refugees huddled under doorways and cardboard lean-tos.
 

The day had not started well for Werner. He was already an hour behind schedule, having overslept after a fitful night’s sleep. Carol had likewise tossed and turned most of the night, and awoke in a conspicuously foul mood. At breakfast, they barely spoke to each other. Only as Werner rose to leave for work did Carol ask him to do the grocery shopping later in the day, because she would be out until late afternoon. When Werner demurred on the grounds that he would also be away until six or seven, she iced up completely. Recent experience told him she was unlikely to thaw by the time he returned.

Werner’s own state of mind was not much brighter. For the past several days, he had felt as if he were making no progress at all toward the important goals in his life. Not only was his relationship with Carol deteriorating, but he also fretted that the news about his daughter living in Britain might turn out to be yet another false lead. And most of all, now that he had recruited his team to carry out the Star Committee’s sentence against Fred Rocco, he still lacked a plan for getting close enough to Rocco to pull it off.

The growing demands on his time from his wholesale liquor business and the Somerset Club bar made it increasingly difficult for him to disappear often enough and long enough to carry out his operational work. He needed much more surveillance of Rocco’s daily movements, more background information about him and his close associates, more weapons and supplies, more motivation and training for the other team members. And every aspect of the operation required his direct participation because, without strict compartmentalization to insulate the team members from one another, the loss of one man could jeopardize the entire team.
 

Yet, despite his plea for divine assistance earlier in the week, Werner had developed no flashes of insight into how the team could kill Rocco cleanly and reliably, yet escape without being identified. If there were ever a time when he needed such an insight, it was now. Without it, or without some kind of lucky break, he worried that discouragement and self-doubt might paralyze him before the operation ever got off the ground.
 

Werner turned onto South Street and saw the familiar red-brick and cast-iron buildings built to function as leatherworks in the late nineteenth century. The Leather District had enjoyed a rebirth a century later, when during Boston’s Big Dig a tunnel replaced the elevated highway that separated the neighborhood from Boston’s financial center. But with America’s economic collapse early in the twenty-first century, the street’s genteel, professional offices and trading companies had been replaced by homeless shelters and storefront offices for community organizers.

The building that housed Franz Meier’s catering business had fared better than most, with a relatively secure tenant base for the residential lofts on its upper floors as well as a handful of steady commercial tenants like Meier. The building was also home to New England’s last surviving realist art atelier, a privately owned institution that trained its scruffy students to become professional painters using traditional methods dating back to the Renaissance. Paradoxically, even as the nation’s economy fell to pieces, the archaic atelier somehow prospered.

As Werner entered the building, a trio of students, resembling 1950’s beatniks in skinny black pants, bulky turtleneck sweaters, and long, striped scarves, pushed past him to the stairwell. He watched them bound up the stairs. It heartened Werner to think that, after two decades of economic decline, a school that received no subsidies and offered no accredited degree could still find students willing to pay after-tax dollars for four years of exacting instruction, simply to render a faithful likeness of whatever in nature they desired to draw or paint.

Werner climbed to the second floor and found Meier’s office at the end of the hall. He had visited Meier five or six times over the past year. Each time the office had seemed more crowded with office staff, project managers, cook staff, wait staff, contractors, and suppliers. Today was no different, since it was Saturday, and Meier’s catering organization was gearing up for a busy schedule of lunches, dinners, receptions, and special events.

The reason for today’s visit was to discuss plans for Harry Kendall’s outdoor cocktail reception, now only three weeks away. He found Meier in a crowded conference room, directing a handful of team leaders before their departure for an event. The young subordinates listened attentively to every word from the master caterer, who had a reputation for offering some the best training in the business. All he demanded in return was strict obedience, a passion for excellence, and extraordinary stamina.

Upon taking over the Somerset Club bar, Werner had searched Boston for devotees of excellence among Boston’s devastated food and beverage community. To his dismay, he had found that most of the leading hotels from the pre-Unionist era had closed, or were run by the municipality at a standard for amenities and service barely above rock bottom. The city’s best restaurants had suffered much the same fate, with only a few smaller, family-run restaurants maintaining a quality of food and service comparable to that of twenty years before.

Franz Meier was clearly an exception to the rule. Having studied at a culinary institute in Austria and apprenticed in the kitchens of luxury hotels in Berlin and Paris, he had taken a flyer and accepted a position under a renowned French chef at the newly reopened Four Seasons Hotel in Boston, a joint, public-private venture between the London-based Four Seasons Group and the Boston municipality. When the famous chef quit following government-mandated budget cuts, Meier took over and made the Four Seasons into a culinary and business success, simply by negotiating an agreement with the municipality to waive all purchasing restrictions, and to allow him to buy local ingredients directly from producers on the black market.

The skills and contacts that Meier developed during his two years at the Four Seasons served him well. When his contract expired, he opened a private catering business, taking on only selected clients among Boston’s business and government elite. What most interested Werner about Franz Meier was his character: ambitious, avaricious, amoral, and apolitical, but at the same time dedicated to his culinary art, loyal to subordinates and suppliers who served him well, and relentless in the pursuit of his goals.

Werner waited outside the conference room until Meier had dismissed the group, then he knocked on the glass wall. A scowl remained imprinted on the caterer’s deeply lined face as he turned to see who was waiting for him. Upon seeing Werner, the scowl turned to a warm smile, and Meier bounded out of the room to greet him. Now in his mid-forties, Meier had managed through hyperactivity and discipline to maintain a ballet dancer’s figure on his diminutive five-foot, six-inch frame, despite being surrounded at all hours by mouth-watering food.

Meier took his visitor by the hand and led him back to his business office, waving off inquiries from his staff as they went.

“I’ve come about the Kendall reception on the eleventh,” Werner began, wasting no time. “I’ve spoken to Harry about it and he’s very keen to make the best possible impression. Since you’re the man in charge of the event, I thought I’d check in to see what you had in mind for the wine and spirits.”

“Ah, yes,” Meier replied, stroking the graying stubble on his chin. “I think what we need is something very special at the start. The Kentucky whiskey you presented at the tasting last month was
ausgezeichnet
. For Harry’s guest list it will be perfect. Very macho, yet elegant,” Meier declared, stressing the final syllable of “elegant” as in its German cognate.
 

“And, of course, we will need cognac,” Meier declared. “VS but not XO. And scotch whiskey. Single malts if you can get them, superior blends if not. For the vodka, gin and rum, the usual brands are acceptable.”

“Okay, understood,” Werner acknowledged. “But just a note of caution, Franz. The bourbons I offered at the tasting were pretty rare stuff. Depending on what quality you’re aiming for, it might be difficult to find the quantity you need in time for the event. And I wouldn’t want to break your budget in the attempt.”

“Do not concern yourself with the budget, Frank. The highest quality is essential, particularly for the whiskeys and the cognac,. After the first hour, we can serve the not-so-special bottles. Once they begin drinking, very few will know the difference.”

After reviewing the quantities needed for each species of liquor, Werner asked Meier diplomatically whether all his waiters were likely to know how to serve the spirits properly or whether special training might be required.
 

“You know my situation,” Meier responded with a nonchalant shrug. “I never have enough good waiters. If someone does not grow up around fine food and drink, it is a difficult thing to teach. And for my better customers, those with highly cultivated tastes, highly competent servers are most essential. As for the other customers,” Meier went on, rolling his eyes, “the fat cats and Party members, the younger generation refuses to serve them even for higher wages. Have you seen the artists from the floor above us? They can barely feed themselves, yet they would rather starve than serve the Party
nomenklatura
or these new privatisers like Kendall and men of his sort.”
 

Werner couldn’t help but smile at Meier’s indignation.

“So, my friend, it is my curse to have a good business but not the right people to carry it out,” Meier lamented. “Below the top echelon of those who work extremely hard to become capable chefs or caterers, it seems I must choose from effete snobs or unskilled louts, with nothing in the middle. These artists, for example: they seek work only with people from Old Boston and Old Money, whom they hope perhaps will be art collectors.”

“Then they are doubly wrong,” Werner interjected. “In this country, it’s usually the New Money that collects art; Old Money inherits it.”

“Yes, quite so,” Meier agreed. “I have met many such people who claim to be from Old Money, and must conclude that few of them are what they claim. From my view, it is nearly all New Money in Boston now. And such money tends to change hands very quickly.”

With that, Meier rose from his seat and Werner did the same. He concluded his visit by promising to send a list of bottles for Meier’s approval within a week, and to deliver them to Kendall’s Weston residence on the morning of the reception.

“And one last thing, if you don’t mind,” Werner requested. “Might I take a look at the guest list? It would be a help in matching the assortment to the clientele.”

“One moment; I’ll check the file,” Meier responded without hesitation. He opened a file drawer behind him and pulled out a manila folder. “I cannot give you a copy but you may read it here if you wish.”

Werner accepted the file and ran his eyes down the list of names. Most were unfamiliar to him, but among them he saw the names of state treasurer, state auditor, more than a handful of state senators and representatives, several members of the governor’s staff, the DSS Regional Director, Dan Devane, and the name he had been hoping for: FEMA Regional Director, Fred Rocco.

Werner was electrified. Instantly a plan took shape in his mind to exploit Rocco’s exposure at the outdoor reception. Within seconds its essential elements fell into place. The odds against finding such an opening seemed enormous, yet it had fallen into his lap at the precise moment when he had needed it most.

Werner handed the guest list back to Meier.

“If you don’t mind, Franz, when your team goes out to Kendall’s place to plan the setup, I’d like to join them to look around,” Werner added casually, “Would that be okay?”

“Arrange it with Shane,” Meier consented. “He will run the event. I have no objection, if he agrees to it.”

“Thank you, Franz. It’s always a pleasure. You’ll have my recommendations by next Saturday. I’ll take care of the rest with Shane.”

****

When Werner emerged from the building onto South Street, he felt as if the clouds had lifted, though the day was as overcast as before and the misty rain was now a steady drizzle. For the first time, he could see a clear way forward for the team’s mission.

He looked at his watch: only ten minutes remained before his prearranged meeting with Hank Oshiro at the food court in South Station. Covering the distance with a minute or two to spare, Werner entered the station through the imposing granite façade at the corner of Summer Street and Atlantic Avenue. He ambled along the edge of the Great Room, pausing at the ticket counters long enough to look across the open space toward the food court. The moment he spotted Oshiro carrying a drink and a sandwich to an empty table, he set off to the food court to buy coffee and a doughnut before joining him.