Star Chamber Brotherhood (27 page)

“You know the car Rocco always uses? The dark red Galaxy 500?”

“Yes,” Werner answered, unsure of where his partner was leading.

“They come from the GSA motor pool, right? Well, there’s more than one maroon Galaxy, and Devane had one just like Rocco’s. The trouble is, Devane drove up first.”

“Oh, shit,” Werner responded in a low voice. “And the license number?”

Alvarez shook his head.
 

“I had a good position but it was too dark and the car was going too fast to make out the number. When we practiced, it was daylight.”

“I suppose Spotter had the same problem when the car arrived,” Werner speculated. “He probably gave the ready signal without seeing the number. He may have figured you already had a positive I.D. when you gave him the standby signal. I’ll ask Spotter when I see him tonight. Not that it matters at this point.”

“Sorry to break the news, boss, but I don’t think Spotter is going to show up. You know how we planned for an emergency pickup if Spotter needed help? Well, I read his emergency signal a minute or two after he gave the ready signal. So I picked up Shooter and we drove together to the pickup site. That’s when we heard three pistol shots. There wasn’t any time to think about it. I decided to abort and get us out of there. Now, I cannot be sure whether Spotter was killed or captured, but either way, we have a problem.”
 

Werner stiffened as if he had received a body blow. Doherty had not mentioned the aborted pickup or the pistol shots.

“When you heard the shots, what was the first impression that came into your head: killed, captured, or escaped?”

“If you want the plain truth, I knew straight away he was killed. I don’t know how I knew, I just did. I have had the same feeling many times, in Iraq, Afghanistan…even Mexico. I think we have to assume now that Spotter’s body is in enemy hands and any evidence he left behind will be thoroughly checked out. The good news is that he isn’t alive to talk or identify anyone. Which leaves us open to try again.”

Frank Werner’s head reeled from the news. The DSS would investigate everything about Hank Oshiro’s last months on earth: his contacts, his movements, his income, his payments. It would not take them long to link him to Werner and the Somerset Club. And in the wake of last night’s musical fiasco, the Bulldog and his partner would doubtless come across Werner’s amnesty release and discover that he was a former political prisoner. The likelihood that they could link him and Oshiro to Kamas and Rocco seemed remote, but if they did, the result could be fatal. The only positive thought that came to mind was that Oshiro’s drug dealings might mislead the DSS. While focusing on the drug dealer’s criminal record and the money trail leading to his sources and customers, they might lull themselves into believing that Oshiro was merely a petty criminal and, if he had been involved in the shooting at all, would only have been active at its periphery.

“If what you’re saying is that we may have some time before the DSS comes after us, I tend to agree,” Werner affirmed. “The question is, how much time? Assuming, of course, we’re careful and lie low for a while.”

“And what if we choose not to lie low?”
 

Werner gave him a questioning look.

“What if we go ahead and finish the job?” Alvarez challenged.

“Listen, Hector, I’ve already released Shooter and you don’t have to go on, either, if you don’t want to,” Werner replied. “You have a family to look after. As far as I’m concerned, every man did what was asked of him, and we still failed. The plan failed. So it’s on my shoulders to come up with Plan B, not yours.”

“We both accepted the five-pointed star,” Alvarez rejoined. “If there is to be a Plan B, I will join it. Three weeks ago we were not so very far from devising such a plan, I think. Let us resume the surveillance and find a new target site.”

Werner whistled.
 

“Our original plan was to hit our man when he was alone, out of his car, and away from his home and office,” Werner pointed out. “How do we do that now without a rifle and without a shooter?”

Alvarez shrugged.

“By the way, you did dispose of the rifle, right?”

“Cut into small pieces in our machine shop,” Alvarez confirmed.

“Great,” Werner replied. “That leaves us with one Colt Model 1911 autoloader between the two of us.”
 

“One shot at close range is sufficient,” Alvarez persisted.

“Except that our man hardly ever leaves home other than to go to work. Can you think of any place at all where we could hit him and get away clean?”

“Perhaps I can,” Alvarez offered. “You see, I have continued to watch him. On three of the past four Tuesdays, he did not drive directly home from his office. The last time, I was able to follow him to an apartment block not far from his flat in Back Bay and saw his elevator stop at the fourth floor.”

“Do you know who he went to see?”

Alvarez frowned. “Not yet,” he replied. “I suppose it could be a doctor, or possibly a friend or a mistress, or even a Tuesday poker game. Each time, he was inside the building for three to four hours. He left his office at five o’clock and came home between eight and nine.”

“What’s the address?” Werner asked excitedly.

“At Exeter and Beacon. I don’t recall the number, but it’s a six- or seven-storey building on the northwest corner.”

“Outstanding!” Werner replied. “On Tuesday, let’s get together and follow him. Meanwhile, I’ll do some research and see if we can match the building to any of his known contacts. If he goes there again, we’ll nail him.”
 

“Who will do the shooting?” Alvarez asked.

“I don’t care,” Werner answered impatiently. “Shall we flip a coin?”

“Have you ever killed a man at close quarters, Frank?”
 

“No,” Werner replied.

“I have. Let me do it,” Alvarez proposed. “One more kill will not likely change my life, but it might change yours.”

“Are you sure?”
 

“I’m quite certain,” Alvarez answered with finality. “Experience in such things is important. And, if the target resists, I am younger, faster, and stronger than you. I will not fail.”

****

It was five minutes past noon when Werner bought his ticket to the Museum of Science and made his way to the Blue Wing on the main floor. The show had just begun in the Theater of Electricity, and a crowd of fifty or sixty was gathered at the gallery rail. All eyes were on the staff member explaining the two million volt Van de Graaff electrostatic generator, built in the 1930s by Dr. Van de Graaff himself, the largest such generator in the world.

As the generator whirred into action and sent giant blue and white sparks flying from the giant twin domes to a pair of smaller domes mounted on poles, the audience gasped. In the eerie flickering light of the lightning-like sparks, Werner searched the room for Sam Tucker’s outsized figure, and found him standing at the rear of the crowd. Werner stepped up and stood beside him.
 

“I assume you read the morning papers?” Werner asked.

“Yup,” Tucker replied casually. “I’ve been tracking the fallout all morning. The government is following all sorts of clues in all the wrong directions. Whatever happened over there, your choice of a secondary target was inspired.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Werner responded irritably. “But what about our main man? Are you picking up any reaction?”

“None at all. When the operation went down, the DSS blocked access to the grounds and turned everyone away so our man never even got to the party. Since then, he’s received a couple calls from investigators but doesn’t seem to believe that what happened to the other guy has anything at all to do with him.”

“That’s excellent,” Werner replied with enthusiasm. “That means we may be able to launch a Plan B without him being too security-conscious. But to do that, we’re going to need a lot more info on our man’s movements, contacts, and habits. I’ll want to know where he goes, when he goes, and how he gets there. Were you able to find any recurring events in his schedule? Anything like medical treatments, exercise sessions, a weekly card game or maybe a club membership?”

“None of those, but it does look like our man may have scored himself a girlfriend,” Tucker answered with a sly grin. “I’m seeing flowers, phone calls, perfumes, a prescription for E.D. meds, and a couple of parking tickets near her apartment. I’ve placed her address near—”

Suddenly a loud crackling sound from one of the big Tesla coils interrupted Tucker and drew everyone’s attention to a spark that stretched from the coil to a grounded pillar a few meters away. The demonstrator then brought two primary-school children forward and handed each of them a three-foot fluorescent light bulb. At the flip of a switch, the bulbs began to glow.
 

“Fantastic,” Werner continued. “Where is she?”

“At the corner of Exeter and Beacon. Here, I’ll write it down for you,” Tucker volunteered. He pulled out a pocket notebook and held it up to the flickering blue light as he wrote. “I suggest you watch for our man going there on Tuesdays and Sundays, either late afternoon or early evening.”

“Great work, Sam,” Werner said as he tucked the note into his shirt pocket. “Now, keep after him. And be sure to signal me again if you turn up anything new, okay?”

“Will do.”

Werner turned to leave.

“Oh, one more thing,” Tucker answered with a meaningful look. “There’s something else I picked up that I think you’ll want to know.”

“Is it about our man?” Werner asked abruptly.

“Not exactly. Do you have another minute or two?”

“Can it wait?”

“Maybe, but I think you’ll want to hear this,” Tucker suggested. “It’s about your daughter.”

Werner froze.
 

“What is it?” he asked.

“I think I may have found her,” Tucker replied with a cautious smile. “She’s in school in the U.K. I’ve got her address and everything. Would you like to hear more?”

Chapter 16

Tuesday, May 14, 2029
Back Bay, Boston

Weeks had passed since Frank Werner had last bought iced tea at the coffee shop opposite the rear of the FEMA Building and sat by the window looking across Purchase Street at the garage exit. As before, he pretended to read a paperback novel while watching vehicles leave the underground parking garage. Traffic had been light when he arrived at a quarter before five, but picked up steadily as the top of the hour approached.

It was just after five when Werner saw the polished maroon Galaxy 500 sedan leave the garage and turn onto Purchase Street. He was close enough to recognize the GSA license plate number as Rocco’s and reached into his pocket for his two-way radio to send a short pattern of clicks to Hector Alvarez. A moment later Alvarez pulled up outside the coffee shop in a white Nissan pickup and Werner jumped in beside him.

Alvarez took off quickly and caught up with the Ford just before the turn onto Kneeland Street.

“Want to bet where he’s going?” Werner asked to break the nervous silence.

“Sure,” Alvarez replied. “What side of the bet do you want?”

“Ten bucks says he stops at his girlfriend’s place,” Werner replied.

“That’s what I think, too,” Alvarez agreed. “What odds will you give me to take the other side?”

“How about five-to-one? My fifty against your ten.”

“You’re on,” Alvarez answered with a cheerful smile.
 

He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the dashboard.
 

“Take it. This is a bet I am happy to lose.”

“We’ll find out soon enough who’s right,” Werner answered, leaving the money where it lay. “Do you see Rocco’s Ford moving into the right lane to turn onto Charles? If he stays on Beacon at the end of the Commons instead of turning left to go home, it means we’re on.”

“You’re certain that the flat on Beacon belongs to his girlfriend and not his dentist or his psychiatrist?” Alvarez pressed.

“Positive,” Werner insisted. “What’s more, Rocco bought an expensive woman’s watch over the weekend, so my guess is, he’s going in there with a particular thing in mind.”

“Okay, then, let’s switch places,” Alvarez directed, pulling the car to the curb. “You drive.”

As soon as the car stopped, Werner ran around the back of the Nissan to take the driver’s seat while Alvarez climbed into the passenger’s side. The moment the car swung back into traffic, Alvarez reached under the passenger seat for a canvas tote bag. Inside the bag was a Model 1911 Colt pistol, a spare magazine loaded with .45 caliber rounds, a thin nylon windbreaker, a baseball cap, and a pair of unlined, calfskin gloves. He pulled out the pistol, ejected the magazine, inspected it, and reinserted it into the grip.

Werner turned right onto Charles Street and after a block they entered the corridor bisecting Boston Common, where refugees had re-established a tent city on both sides of the road after police had dispersed them the previous autumn. Entire families sat outside their tents and shanties eyeing the passing cars with a mixture of envy and hostility. Werner recalled years ago having looked out from prison transports at passing cars and feeling similar emotions. Seeing the refugees’ misery and humiliation, he felt a twinge of guilt for resisting the Housing Authority’s efforts to make room for them in publicly owned buildings like Carol’s.