Star Chamber Brotherhood (22 page)

Werner took the seat diagonal to Oshiro and spoke in an undertone without looking directly at him. When not speaking, he made a show of dunking his doughnut in his coffee and devouring the soggy mess.

“I’ve got an assignment for you, buddy,” Werner began. “I want you to pay Franz Meier a visit on Monday. Tell him you need to earn some extra money and you’d like to join his crew on weekends. The weekend part is critical.”
 

“Man, you’re killing me,” Oshiro replied with a low moan while looking straight ahead. “The weekends are when I score most of my money, dude.”

“It’s not forever, just for the next month or two. When you get the job, signal for another meeting and I’ll tell you what to do next. It’s important that you start right away, so be sure to accept the first gig he offers you.”

“Got it,” Oshiro acknowledged. “What do I say if he asks how I heard he’s hiring? You know how cagey Franz can be.”

“Tell him you heard one of the art students on South Street talking about it,” Werner suggested. “And be sure to scratch me off your list of references. We want everyone to think that you and I have had a falling out.”

“So that’s what it is, eh? Telling an old friend you don’t want him to come around anymore because you don’t approve of how he makes a living? You’re a hard man, Frank,” Oshiro gibed.

“Someday, when all this blows over, I’ll make it up to you,” Werner replied. “I promise. You have no idea how much I appreciate what you’re doing. Take care, buddy.”

Werner did not wait for an answer. He picked up his coffee and left without noticing the sentimental tears that welled in Hank Oshiro’s bloodshot eyes.

****

From South Station Werner took the Red Line subway train to Cambridge and exited at the Kendall Square/MIT Station. He spotted Sam Tucker’s bulky figure under an olive drab military poncho, and followed him across the street to the MIT Press Building. He waited for Tucker to remove his poncho before trailing him to a secluded aisle in the mathematics section.

Each man pretended to browse among the books while standing with his back to the other.

“How’s the target research coming, partner?” Werner inquired.

“We’re smokin’, absolutely smokin’,” Tucker replied in a low voice. “I’m into his wireless accounts, his bank accounts, his medical records…you name it, I’ve got it.”

“You are indeed a superhero,” Werner congratulated him. “So what sort of info are you picking up about him?”

“Nothing earthshaking quite yet,” Tucker backpedaled. “But we’re off to a good start. It’s just that he keeps good phone security, so I have to read between the lines and piece things together, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay, then, how about his contacts and movements? Let’s start with his family.”

“Well, he’s back with his wife again, that much is clear,” Tucker affirmed. “It looks like she left him for a while, when he was posted to Utah. But now that he’s a player again, all seems to be forgiven. They’re a pretty boring couple, though. She cooks and does the chores and plays bridge. He rarely goes outside, except for work. They have two grown kids, but our man doesn’t ever see them. I think the problem is with him, because Mom talks with them pretty often when Dad is at the office.”

“He must go somewhere else besides work,” Werner insisted. “Doesn’t he have a dog or a hobby or a local pub that gets him out of the house sometimes? Is he a sports fan, maybe?”

Tucker shook his head.

“No dog, no hobby, no pub, no club,” he replied. “But there is one interesting sidelight. Our man sometimes phones the flat of a woman who lives a few blocks away. They don’t say much when they’re on the line. It’s mostly about getting together, usually at her place, never at his. I’m checking her out.”

“Good work,” Werner replied hopefully. “A mistress would be worth her weight in gold. What about doctors? A guy his age must have a few things going kaput by now, wouldn’t you think? Any recurring appointments we can latch onto?”

“He’s in touch with a psychiatrist, but not regularly. Just a call now and then to renew his prescriptions for antidepressants and sleeping pills. He’s mentioned nightmares to the doc, for what it’s worth. And the wife has told her friends that Hubby is hell on wheels when he’s had a sleepless night.”

“So what else does a civil servant like him do with all that free time of his?” Werner pressed. “Television? Videos? Porn? Could he be a drunk, perchance?”

“Doesn’t seem to be much of a drinker,” Tucker responded. “And no signs of porn. One thing he does seem to have a lot of time for, though, is retirement planning. From conversations with his wife, it seems that he wanted badly to leave the government a while back but couldn’t afford to. So now he seems determined to put away enough money to retire when his gig in Boston is up. But I don’t know where the extra cash is coming from, unless it’s from his wife’s side, because I doubt anybody would pay him to sit home on his ass every night. Anyway, I’m checking that one out, too.”

“Have you picked up anything about his FEMA work?” Werner asked. “What do they have him doing over there?”

“Right now,” Tucker replied, “his job seems to revolve around finding housing in Boston for twenty or thirty thousand Unionist refugees from the New England flood zones. It’s being handled through the Boston Housing Authority, which relies on FEMA for a lot of its funding. BHA is filling the gap by evicting elderly Bostonians from their rent-controlled apartments, along with anybody else who can be tossed out on the street without risk of political blowback. Rocco’s job seems to be to goad the BHA into speeding up the evictions and keeping squatters from moving in. But I don’t think I have the full picture yet. When I look at the numbers, there seem to be a lot more housing units being freed up than can be accounted for by the number of refugees. I smell a scam but can’t put a finger on it yet. So I’m…”

“Checking it out,” Werner repeated. “Do you suppose they might intend to privatize some of those apartments and skim off the proceeds under cover of the refugee program?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Tucker agreed.
 

“Great work, stay on it,” Werner concluded. “Particularly the neighbor lady and the psychiatrist. Signal me if you get wind of any sort of meeting or appointment that’s at least twenty-four hours out. And keep after the financial thing, too.”

“Anything else?” Tucker asked.

“That’s not enough?” Werner replied with mock surprise. “Good God, Sam, I get the distinct idea you’re actually enjoying this.”
 

****

It was late afternoon by the time Werner finished his chores at the Somerset Club and was able to join Hector Alvarez in his parked car between Exeter and Dartmouth streets, half a block from Fred Rocco’s apartment building in Back Bay. Alvarez had been conducting intermittent surveillance outside the building since morning, alternating between two cars and changing his hat, coat, and shoes with each change of vehicle. It was tedious work, and highly stressful as well, because it would be a disaster for Rocco to identify Hector as a surveillant or for the police to stop him and ask for identification. Similarly, he had to avoid any confrontation with suspicious neighbors, though he did not care if a few busybodies recorded his license plate numbers, since the plates were untraceable fakes.
 

As soon as Alvarez saw Werner walk past the car, he started his engine. A minute later he pulled out of his parking spot onto Commonwealth and turned right onto Clarendon, where Werner was expecting the pickup.
 

“So, what have you learned?” Werner began as soon as he joined Alvarez.

“Not a damned thing,” Alvarez replied, his face a mask of stress and fatigue. “He went outside once. I followed him to within a block of the brownstone on Beacon street that he visited on Thursday after work. But for some reason he turned back.”

“You’re sure he didn’t go anywhere else?” Werner inquired.

“Possible, but not likely,” Alvarez reported. “I’ve been covering the place pretty well, except when I had to leave the area to change cars. This guy just doesn’t go anywhere. He stops to pick up bread or milk after work sometimes, but there’s no pattern to it. At this rate, it’s going to take months to nail the guy.”

“I’ve been thinking along the same lines, Hector. What we have learned is useful, but it’s not nearly enough.”

“I have followed this man for nearly a week and I still feel I know nothing about him,” Alvarez added with a discouraged expression.

“Okay, then, let’s look at what we think we know from following him around all week,” Werner proposed. “First, I think we’ve learned that it will be tough to hit him at home, because he lives in a secure doorman building with well-protected parking out back. It’ll also be difficult to nail him in his car, because it has reinforced doors and bullet-resistant windows and can probably absorb more firepower than we can muster. Then there’s the FEMA building, which has guards, cameras, metal detectors, x-rays, the works. No good going after him there, either. So, our problem is, without putting in a lot more surveillance time at substantial risk to ourselves, we ‘don’t have any place where we can take our man alone and unprotected and off his guard. And without that, we obviously can’t make our move.”

“So what now, boss?” Alvarez asked in frustration.
 

“Well, we don’t stop the surveillance,” Werner replied cautiously, “because there’s always the possibility of finding the one thing we can set our clock by in his daily routine. But I think we should also start working on a Plan B. And I think I may have one. I’ve picked up some intelligence about a social event about a month from now that Rocco’s likely to attend. He’ll be outdoors and unprotected and we should have an excellent chance at hitting him—and getting away without being detected.”

“I like that,” Alvarez offered. “When do we start?”

“I’m going to meet with each team member this week to put a plan together. Each one of us will have his own preparation and training to do, then we’ll practice the separate parts, and finally we’ll rehearse the entire operation from start to finish. How about if we meet next Saturday to talk about it, Hector? Take the next couple days off; you’ve earned it.”

Alvarez nodded.

“Where do you want me to drop you, boss? Are you going home now or are you still planning to relieve me for a while?”

“It’s too early to go home. I’d just get in my girlfriend’s hair,” Werner replied with a weary smile. “Why don’t you follow Newbury Street to the corner of Fairfield and drop me there. I think I’ll hang around Rocco’s place for an hour or two and see if I come up with any fresh ideas.”

****

For the first time since taking over the bar at the Somerset Club, Frank Werner was not at his duty station during cocktail hour on a Saturday night. Since the entire Club had been reserved for a private reception and dinner, the bar would be closed to the public until the dinner began at eight o’clock. With the reception preceding the dinner being handled by the wait staff, Werner had decided to let them carry on without him. He would open the bar at eight to serve his regular patrons, once the guests filed into the dining room. And that would allow him enough time to go home, change clothes, and try to make peace with Carol.

 
Werner’s walk home from the Coolidge Corner T stop to Harvard Street seemed oddly unfamiliar that night. While usually he’d walk home after midnight on deserted streets, the sidewalks along Beacon Street were buzzing with people looking to be entertained on a Saturday night, but unable to afford more than a cheap meal, a cup of espresso, and a stroll down a crowded boulevard to see and be seen.
 

The milling crowds attracted all manner of street vendors, performance artists, prostitutes, petty thieves, and panhandlers, indeed more than he had seen in Brookline since arriving over a year before. But it disturbed him to see among those who were panhandling not just the usual alcoholics and drug addicts, but many blind or crippled soldiers, orphaned children, elderly pensioners, and entire families of refugees, all desperately seeking a handout from ordinary people carrying a few spare dollars to blow on a Saturday night.
 

In a vacant lot on the same block as Carol’s apartment building, Werner saw another troubling sight. Seemingly overnight, a cluster of tents had been erected not far from the sidewalk. Their occupants warmed themselves around trash fires burning in 55-gallon drums while they followed him with baleful looks as he passed. The sight of cold and miserable men standing around open fires in the darkness brought back disquieting memories of the Yukon that made him shudder involuntarily.

When Werner unbolted the door to Carol’s apartment, it was nearly six o’clock, which meant that he had little more than an hour to clean up, change clothes, check in with Carol, and perhaps take in a light meal before returning to the Club.

Carol was sitting silently on the sofa, without a book or a magazine within reach, and without any music or television or movie playing, Werner sensed at once that the next hour would not be pleasant.

“I’m back, Carol,” he announced. “The bar is closed till eight for a private event, so I decided to come home to freshen up and offer you some company. Have you eaten yet? I could call out for delivery if you want.”

“I’ve already eaten,” she responded dully. “There are some leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry.”