Star Chamber Brotherhood (26 page)

The balance of the article described Devane’s personal history, the highlights of his government service, his surviving family, and the government’s latest campaign to confiscate unlicensed firearms from misguided citizens. Harry Kendall’s name and address did not appear anywhere in the article. Werner re-read it from start to finish and breathed a sigh of relief. Though the DSS and local police must have concluded privately that Devane had been murdered, the media blackout made it easy for them to avoid undue urgency in their investigation. Reading between the lines, Werner decided that the article might as well have said that the police were rounding up the usual suspects.

Despite his relief that the government might not yet be hot on the Star Team’s trail, Werner recognized that not only had he and his team committed a grave error, but they would now have to start from scratch in finding a way to complete their mission—if the others would agree to continue, which was far from certain. And until they communicated with him, he could not even be certain that all of them had survived the mission and remained undetected. If even a single team member were captured and forced to confess, capturing the others would be only a matter of time.
 

Werner felt a heavy burden of responsibility for having drawn the other members into such a predicament. He had promised each of them that, when the operation was finished, their work would be over and they would be free. Indeed, he had told Doherty and Alvarez just the night before that he did not intend to recontact them after leaving them a final signal this morning. If he asked more of them now, they might reasonably argue that the operation was complete, albeit a failure. Surely, had he demanded from the start that they keep trying until Rocco was dead, he doubted that any would have signed on.

As for himself, Werner had promised Dave Lewis to kill Rocco, not just to take a pot shot at him. He would find another way to keep his promise even if he had to do it alone. But no sooner did this thought take form in his mind than the telephone rang. He stepped into the living room to pick up the receiver.

It was a cheery, youthful voice and after a moment Werner recognized it as Sam Tucker’s.

“Hi, I’d like to order some bagels and coffee for takeout. Do you have any onion bagels this morning?”

“I’m sorry, but you’ve dialed the wrong number,” Werner replied politely.

“Isn’t this Baumstein’s on Commonwealth?” Tucker persisted.

“No, sorry, they’re 8667. We’re 8367. Dial again,” he suggested, and hung up.

Werner looked at his watch. The wrong-number call meant that Sam wanted to see him at the Museum of Science at noon. It was nearly eight now. He would have four hours to travel from Brookline to Newton and Jamaica Plain to lay down signals for Doherty and Alvarez before meeting Sam at the Museum in Cambridge. He could do it, but there would be little time to spare.

He folded the newspaper carefully and replaced it inside the plastic bag as if it were unread. Then he wrote a note for Linda and went to his room for a jacket.

When he returned, he heard a clatter in the kitchen and found Linda in her flannel dressing gown making coffee.

“I’m making drip this morning. Would you like some?” she asked with her usual cheerfulness.

“Thanks, but I’m afraid I have to run,” he replied, surprised at seeing her up so early.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, sensing his unease.

“No, I’m fine. I just forgot that I’d agreed to have breakfast with an old customer of mine in Newton and I’m running late.”

She gave him an indulgent look, as if she disbelieved his story but was prepared to give him some space.

“Even God needed a day of rest once in a while,” she pointed out. “You’re not a spring chicken anymore, Frank. You really ought to slow down.”

“I will; really, I will,” he replied earnestly. “I’ll be back for lunch and look forward to a long nap. Last night was murder.”

Linda Holt gave him another skeptical look over her eyeglasses and returned to measuring coffee into the filter.

****

The bright morning sky had turned partly cloudy by the time Werner stepped out of the subway train at Elliott Station in Newton, and he felt the chill wind penetrate his thin windbreaker. Though he was confident that he had not been followed, he took his time strolling down Centre Street until he found the lamppost where he left chalk signals for Greg Doherty to call for meetings and message pickups. He scrawled an “S” at navel height, signifying that the results of the operation were inconclusive and that Doherty should stand by for further instructions, then moved around the block to observe the window of Doherty’s bedroom for an emergency contact signal. The signal was a stuffed teddy bear on the windowsill and it was to be used only in an emergency. As Werner turned the corner, he glanced up. The bear was there.

Werner waited until he was back on Centre Street before checking his watch. Then he stopped two blocks further at the coffee shop where he and Doherty had bought coffee a month earlier, when he recruited Doherty for the Star Team. A sense of dread passed over Werner when he recalled Doherty’s past bouts of depression and alcoholism, and considered what the stress of having shot the wrong man might do to him.

He found Doherty sitting at a corner booth in the back of the coffee shop, drinking coffee and crushing a cigarette in an ashtray half-filled with butts. He wondered how long Doherty had been there. The deep lines in his hawk like face and the faraway look in his eyes suggested that the combat veteran had not slept at all.
 

Doherty acknowledged Werner’s arrival with a nod.

A few seconds after he took his seat, the waitress appeared at his elbow to hand him a plastic-laminated menu. She was the pretty redheaded teenager with freckled cheeks who had sold him coffee the last time.

“Some rye toast and black coffee, please,” he instructed her without opening the menu. “How about you, Greg?”

“Nothing, thanks,” he replied.

“More coffee, Sir?” the waitress asked.

Doherty hesitated before answering.
 

“Sure, one more hit, if you don’t mind,” he said, giving the waitress a kind but very tired smile.
 

When she was out of earshot, Doherty spoke in an anxious voice.

“Did you catch the morning paper?”

“I did,” Werner answered. “What happened out there?”

“Everything was cool at first,” Doherty began with a faraway look, as if reliving the events. “The stand-by signal came in loud and clear and then I spotted the red Ford turning into the driveway. Just before it stopped to unload, I got the ready signal, so I took aim. A passenger got out of the back and I had a clear shot at him. I could practically count the stripes on his tie when I pulled the trigger. Only afterward did it click for me that the guy didn’t look much like the photo you gave me. In the photo, the guy was tall and kind of athletic and had a full head of hair. The guy I hit was short and dumpy and bald. That’s when I knew I had really screwed up.”

“If you’ve read this morning’s paper, Greg, then you should also know that the dead man had plenty of blood on his hands,” Werner remarked. “He’s sent thousands to the camps in his time. God only knows what else he’s done. I really don’t think you need to beat yourself up over a guy like that.”

“Maybe not,” Doherty replied, “but the point is, I hit the wrong guy. The real target is still walking.”

“Well, not for long,” Werner answered calmly. “We’ll nail him soon enough.”

“If you do, it’ll be without me, Frank,” Doherty announced. “I’d probably just mess it up again, anyway. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I am just a worthless screw-up. Without the Army or the camps telling me what to do all the time, I’m clueless. Ever since I came back to Boston, I haven’t been good for much of anything. Uncle Ed would be the first to agree: he tells anyone who’ll listen how incompetent I am. Even Moira doesn’t trust me to do the right thing. Sometimes she treats like I’m one of her boys. Frank, since I left the Yukon, you’re the only one who’s truly believed in me. And now I’ve let you down, big-time.”

Doherty picked up his cup but it was empty. He dropped it with a look of frustration and self-reproach.

“Look at me, Greg,” Werner demanded, seizing the hand that had dropped the cup. “Your father has been wrong all along and you know it. You’re a fine man and a fine soldier who’s served his country with honor and paid the price for it. So don’t start listening to your father’s voice now. Are you still going to your AA meetings?”

Doherty nodded. “Went this morning. Good thing I did, or I might not be here to talk to you.”

“Well, keep going—twice a day if you have to—until you get over the hump,” Werner insisted. “And more than that, I think it’s high time you parted ways with that uncle of yours. Didn’t you say your sister Sharon moved down to Georgia with her family? Is she doing okay down there?”

“Yeah, I think so. She’s been wanting me to visit.”

“I suggest you find a way to do it,” Werner advised. “If you like the place, see if you can get a job down there. You can always invite Moira to join you later if it works out. Give it a try. A fresh start would do you a world of good.”

“I’ll think about it,” Doherty responded tentatively. He was spared the obligation of saying more by the waitress’ arrival with coffee and toast. She poured the coffee and retired with a sweet smile for each of the men.

“One other thing,” Doherty continued. “I’ve read about the dead man’s family. I know he did a lot of harm to people, but I still feel bad for his wife and kids. I’d like to make it up to them but I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“You were raised a Catholic?” Werner asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you still believe in God?”

“I guess so. At least most of the time, I do.”

“Well, then, ask Him,” Werner suggested. “All I can say is this: everything you did last night was carried out under the legitimate authority of the Star Committee. You did your duty the best you could in pursuit of proper orders. Your responsibility ends there. The results are the Committee’s responsibility for having ordered the operation and mine for having planned and directed it. So I suggest you pray for the dead man’s soul and his family as you would for any soldier you may have killed in battle. And, if it’s any consolation, that’s a lot more than the Unionists ever did for the likes of us.”
 

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” Doherty replied. “Thanks for being in my corner, Frank. Again, I’m sorry for letting you down.”

“Nonsense, Greg. Shake it off,” Werner urged. “You’ve done your part and it’s over. Now, are there any loose ends I can help you with? Do you need any money to cover your travel?”

“Well, actually, I could use some extra cash for the ticket,” Doherty responded, brightening. “It’s another week till payday.”

Werner reached into his wallet, peeled back five one-hundred dollar bills, and slid them across the counter.

The younger man’s eyes opened wide.

“Really?”

“I mean it,” Werner replied, squeezing Greg Doherty’s hand. “Pack your bags and go. Tonight.”

****

Dark clouds heavily laden with rain scudded across the horizon as Frank Werner exited the Jackson Square station in Jamaica Plain. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker and braced himself against the chilly north wind. It was already half past nine but there were few people on the street on this quiet Sunday morning.

He took off at a leisurely pace down Centre Street, stopping occasionally to look in a display window just to verify that he was not being followed. At Walden Street he turned right and jotted his signal in chalk at waist height on the side of a mailbox. He continued on Walden, turned at the next block and circled back to Centre Street. As he passed Hector Alvarez’s townhouse he gazed up at the second-story fire escape and saw an orange hand towel pinned to the railing. Like Greg Doherty’s teddy bear, the towel was Hector’s signal to call an emergency meeting, something the man had never done before.

Werner found a shabby bodega that was open for business one block to the east on Centre Street and approached the elderly proprietor behind the counter. He laid a five-dollar bill on the counter and asked the man if he could use his phone to make a local call. The old man eyed the money, smiled, and handed Werner a battered telephone attached to a long tangled cord.

“Hello, is this Mr. Ortega?” Werner asked when he heard Hector Alvarez’s voice on the other end.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he continued a moment later. “I must have dialed the wrong number.”

Werner thanked the proprietor, who offered him a choice of candy, soda, or a piece of fruit as he handed back the phone. Werner accepted a banana and peeled it as he headed back toward the subway stop. But rather than enter the T station, he continued on, crossing Columbus Avenue, and located Hector Alvarez’s silver Toyota parked a block further on Ritchie Street. As he approached, the passenger door opened from within and he accepted the offered seat.

They were halfway around the next block before either man spoke. Alvarez seemed as imperturbable as ever.

“You’ve heard the news?” Hector began.

“Yeah, we hit the wrong target,” Werner replied. “How did it happen?”