Star Chamber Brotherhood (3 page)

“There are more survivors of the camps in Boston than you may realize. A surprising number of them are connected to Kamas. Look at all your friends, acquaintances and casual contacts as potential candidates, and you will find the men you need.”

Werner felt a growing unease in the face of Dave Lewis’ apparent confidence that Werner would ultimately relent.
 

“I’m not a spring chicken anymore, Dave,” Werner cautioned. “I’m pushing sixty, I’m worn out, and I’m tired of the fighting and killing and struggling to survive. Sure, Rocco deserves punishment, but why not leave it to God? It’s been five years since Rocco flattened Kamas.”

Lewis listened attentively, but didn’t say a word.
 

“You many not know this,” Werner went on, “but I have a daughter out there somewhere, and I’m trying to find her. And a fine woman right here in Boston has kindly taken me in and seems rather fond of me. And there are other people in this town who count on me for their livelihood. Somehow I’ve managed to make a life for myself at age fifty-eight in a town I’ve never much liked,” he shrugged, “and here you come along and tell me I’ve got a higher duty to a bunch of guys who are long dead. How am I supposed to convince men with less of a stake in this than I have to risk it all, when I’m not fully on board myself?”

Dave Lewis remained silent, took his hands out of the wide slit pockets in his loden coat, rubbed them together, and blew on them. Then he spoke softly, all the while looking into Frank Werner’s eyes as if searching deeply for clues.

“I’ve come a very long way for this conversation. Believe me, none of us would have placed this burden on your shoulders if there were any other way,” Lewis began. “Frank, it is not flattery when I say that you are an officer and a leader and man strong in both intellect and character. Make no mistake: it is the nature of strong people that they create the options from which others must choose. When you select the members of your team, it will be up to you to find reasons to help each of them to make the right choices. And in doing that, you, too, will come to accept the wisdom of what you’ve done.”

“And maybe I will,” Werner replied. “After what we’ve both been through, I would probably regret it for the rest of my life if I turned you down. But if I agree to put a team together and we succeed in killing Rocco, I will have committed premeditated murder, which is wrong by any moral or spiritual code on this earth. Can you honestly tell me that killing Rocco is worth my taking on that much sin or karma or whatever it is that the angels weigh when we pass over to the other side?”

Dave Lewis smiled.

“I can’t answer that one for you, Frank. But throughout history, when faced with extraordinary evils like tyranny and totalitarianism, God-fearing men have decided soberly to take on that burden. I’ll admit that it can be a slippery slope, but philosophers in every major moral tradition– China, Greece, Rome, you name it–have all made reasoned cases for it.”

Appearing to know exactly what to say to win Werner’s support, Lewis continued.

“Think of Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, or the Taliban. Would God have preferred good men to stand by and let the usurpers take everything? One can’t expect to live in a free country without defending it, and that’s not limited to repelling foreign invaders. In times of tyranny, men who aspire to remain free must join together to bring down the tyrant or live out their lives as slaves. It’s always been that way.”

Werner sighed before lowering his head in submission as if a heavy weight were being placed on his shoulders.

“All right, then. If I do this, how much time do I have?

The visitor shrugged.

“Rocco will be well protected. You should allow enough time to assemble your team and plan the operation.”

“That could take months,” Werner mused.

“Perhaps, but it doesn’t have to. You see, this year will mark five years since the Kamas revolt. The anniversary of its first day is about forty days from now, on May 19. And the revolt lasted for forty days. How about that for a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Werner replied.
 

“Neither do I, to be honest. But, in any event, I’ll be back to see you in forty days. We’ll each have a glass of your excellent bourbon to celebrate your success and remember the men who couldn’t be here to share it. What do you say?

“Forty days? I’ll do my best.”

****

It was past two in the morning when Frank Werner unlocked the front door to the apartment building on Harvard Street in Brookline. Yet, when he passed the building superintendent’s door, he saw a light through the peephole. He had never encountered such a dedicated gatekeeper—or busybody—as this odd and irksome woman who seemed to mind everyone’s business but her own, yet was always willing to lend a hand when needed. He waved as he walked past the peephole toward the staircase.

When he reached the sixth floor at last and entered the apartment, he was surprised to see Carol at her desk writing a letter.

“You certainly are a dedicated correspondent, Carol,” he said as he greeted her. “I hope you’re not complaining to your friends about my hanging out in bars until two in the morning every night.”

Carol Dodge put down her pen and faced Werner with a coy smile.

“I never worry about you becoming a lush, Frank. You’re much too sensible to drink up your profits. And I don’t much worry about your seeing other women, either. To tell the truth, I’ve begun to doubt whether you even notice women anymore. You’ve lived in a man’s world so long that sometimes I wonder if we’ve become invisible to you.”

Werner approached her from behind and planted a tender kiss at the nape of her neck. He had met Carol just over a year ago and had moved in with her not long after. She was still a very attractive woman at the age of forty-eight and Werner had surprised himself on that memorable occasion by mentally undressing her while they spoke about their children, who had attended the same private school before the Events.

Carol had been grocery shopping near her apartment in Brookline and her black jeans and black t-shirt had revealed a trim and graceful figure. Similarly, her shoulder-length black hair, tied into a ponytail with a red ribbon, had given her a distinctly girlish air. If they both had been twenty years younger, Carol Dodge would most definitely have been Werner’s type, or one of them.
 

Before the Events, Carol had been married to Peter Dodge, CEO of the Boston teaching hospital where she was a senior pediatric oncologist. Though she had no children of her own, she was devoted to her stepson, who had once dated Werner’s older daughter. She had lost that son, a newly minted naval officer, in the Manchurian War, and had lost her husband a few months later in the Longwood Riots, during which he had acted heroically to preserve the Longwood hospital district from destruction at the hands of crazed rioters, arsonists, and looters.

“I worried about you, Frank. What happened?”

“The T broke down again. I had to walk.”

Werner released her shoulders and walked across the living room to the windows and looked out toward nearby Beacon Street.

“You know how I hate your being on the streets so late at night,” she complained. “It’s dangerous. Stay at the Club, if you must. But don’t risk your life on the streets. There are people who care about you, Frank! I certainly do!”

“I promise I won’t do it again, Carol. I’d swear on a Bible if I could find one anywhere in this town.”

“I don’t like when you joke that way, Frank. Someone could overhear you.”

“Okay, I’ll try not to,” Werner mocked in a loud voice, looking up at the ceiling as if speaking into a hidden listening device. “But enough about me, Carol. Why on earth are you still up at 2:00 a.m.? Your rounds start at seven, for heaven’s sake.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Squatters got into the building again. They broke into Mrs. Leibowitz’s apartment and tried all the doors on the second and third floors before somebody called in the block watch.”

“How did they manage getting past Harriet? She’s like the dragon outside the castle gate. She would have had the police here in a minute.”
 

“Harriet was out,” Carol answered with anxious eyes. “Mrs. Leibowitz took refuge with a neighbor and they got on the phone till they found someone who would help. Frank, I’m worried. It’s not just the squatters. I received another letter from the Housing Authority today. They want to take measurements in the apartment.”
 

“Okay, I understand why that might spook you, Carol. But we’ve been through this before. You have an ironclad exemption. If you get notice that the BHA wants to move more people in with you, the hospital will fix it, just as they would do for any doctor on staff. It’s a condition of your employment.”

“You keep telling me that, Frank,” Carol objected, “but Harriet makes it her business to be very well informed about goings-on at the Housing Authority, and she says changes are coming. This new FEMA campaign to find housing for the refugees is putting the Housing Authority under enormous pressure. Old exemptions aren’t being renewed and they’re even thinking of allotting fewer square meters per person.”

Werner stepped away from the window to the sideboard where he kept the liquor. He poured a few ounces of dark rum from a decanter into a sherry glass and took a sip.

 
“I wouldn’t take Harriet’s word at face value on this. I seem to recall that she has some relatives among those refugees. But whatever is going on, it can wait till morning. You need some sleep.”

“And you? Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“Yes, in a few minutes. Why?” Werner replied.

“Because it’s Wednesday and you never drink during the week. Is something wrong? You had an odd look when you came in.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just need a few minutes at my desk before I join you. I have an early morning tomorrow, too.”

“All right. But don’t take forever,” she answered with a come-hither smile.
 

Frank Werner turned off the lights in the living room and walked down the hall to the small study where he kept his books and papers. He reached into his desk for a bound notebook and opened it on the desk. The pages were filled with names and addresses, listed alphabetically, along with cryptic notes about each person.

He turned page after page between sips of rum, pausing occasionally to jot a word or a name on an index card. When the card was filled, he crossed out a third of the entries and wrote another list on a new card.

This card he took to the window and studied its contents while finishing the rum. When the glass was empty, he tore the card into small pieces and stuffed them into the glass. Then he turned out the light, brought the glass with him into the bathroom, and closed the door.
 

Chapter 3

Flashback: Friday, March 30, 2029
Brookline, Massachusetts

Frank Werner stood at the bar and, like a stage magician, removed the bottle of vintage California champagne from the ice bucket, dried it with a starched linen napkin and displayed the label to Carol and her guests who were seated on sofas in the center of the living room.
 

“Domain Chandon Brut 2012, the last of the best.”

He uncorked the bottle and poured it into six fluted glasses and handed them to the guests, while Linda’s music system played a song by one of those gravel-throated French singers of the Nineteen-fifties, like Aznavour or Montand. Though Carol denied it, Werner considered it a throwback to Carol’s childhood in French-speaking East Beirut. When he wasn’t around, she even played the occasional ballad by Fairouz.

Carol and her close friend Linda Holt received the first two glasses of champagne, followed by Mary Steen, the wife of Carol’s longtime colleague at the hospital, Paul Steen, and Linda’s escort for the evening, John Worthington, a retired professor.

Linda, a semi-retired anesthesiologist and pain specialist in her early seventies, had been a friend since Carol was a junior resident at Children’s Hospital. Nearly twenty-five years Carol’s senior, Linda seemed to play the role of mother and elder sister to her. After losing her husband to a bicycle accident years before the Events, Linda had continued to practice medicine. Now she maintained a part-time schedule at the Boston Medical Center, while also working several days a week at a hospice in Chestnut Hill, supervising the dispensing of painkillers to the terminally ill. Despite the grim nature of her work, Werner found that Linda could always be relied upon for a warm smile, a kind remark, and a sympathetic ear. She was the most youthful seventy-something he knew.

Werner had met the Steens only twice before, and had only a superficial acquaintance with Professor Worthington after a couple of theater performances the man had attended as Linda’s escort.

The dinner that night was ostensibly to celebrate Carol’s forty-eighth birthday, but it also marked the one-year anniversary of the day when Carol had invited Werner to move in with her. Not long afterward, Werner learned that Linda had wielded an important influence in Carol’s decision. Though this alone would have been sufficient to ensure Werner’s enduring good will, he had also come to know Linda as a thoughtful and cultured person whose judgment and intuition were rarely off the mark.

When at last Professor Worthington received his glass, Werner proposed a toast.