Star Chamber Brotherhood (6 page)

“This offer remains firm for one week.”

Nancy Widmer replaced her cup in its saucer, looked hard at the number and sighed.

“Unfortunately,” Werner continued, “the sort of people who have a taste for fine drinking and the money to pay for it want only the labels that everyone else has heard of. They won’t shell out big money to drink obscure wines in private, regardless of quality or value. On the other hand, they’ll gladly pay top dollar for a label that will impress their friends and clients.”

Werner paused to observe Nancy Widmer’s reaction. Though she was old and widowed and vulnerable in many ways, she was nobody’s fool. She had spent a lifetime buying and selling all sorts of things in all kinds of markets and remained both well informed and well connected. Not for a moment did he sell short her ability to see through his puffery. She might have heard, for example, that the Unionist elite and their New Class enablers, despite their public rhetoric, had recently fueled a renewed boom in fine wines and spirits. What she could not know, since she was not a professional in the field, was that that the supply of famous labels had dwindled to the point where even formerly unfashionable wines and liquors now fetched prices that far exceeded pre-Unionist levels.

Nancy Widmer remained silent. The transaction was not going quite as smoothly as he had anticipated.

“I’m very sorry if the total wasn’t what you expected,” he summed up. “But here’s what I can do for you. I’m willing to take up the price on all the spirits by 10 percent. That will bring the new total north of five thousand New Dollars. Would that be acceptable?”

Nancy Widmer appeared to breathe a sigh of relief as she nodded her assent.

“Yes, I’ll accept that,” she declared, putting on a brave smile—or faking it.

“Very good,” Werner concluded. “Then we have a deal. I’ll bring the money on Saturday.”

“Excellent. Where I come from, that calls for celebration. May I freshen up your cup of tea, Frank?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

But instead of reaching for the teapot, Nancy Widmer rose and opened a cabinet near the stove, and returned with a bottle of Mount Gay Extra Old Rum. She poured an ounce or two in each of their cups and added tea until both were filled.

“I suppose you know this, Frank, you being educated at Exeter and all. But back in colonial days, coastal New England practically ran on rum. A few in the interior made whiskey from their corn and rye, but true New Englanders never considered whiskey fit for human consumption. So let’s celebrate the end of one New England tradition with another…”

She raised her cup and drank deeply. Werner did the same. With their business behind them, Nancy asked Werner to tell her more about his career and what path had led him to Boston. Werner gave her a capsule version of his cover story, starting with his birth in Grosse Pointe, boarding school at Exeter, back to Ohio for college, four years with the U.S. Government in the Middle East, then an MBA, a new job in New York, marriage, children, and a succession of other jobs that eventually brought him to Boston.

“When we moved here from Salt Lake City in ‘16,” he explained, “we didn’t even look at houses in Concord. When the girls started going to Concord Academy, we wished we had. But by then, the economy had crashed and the value of our house had plummeted and we just couldn’t afford to move. Too bad we didn’t, because it seems to me that Concord managed to remain untouched by the crisis longer than many other parts of Boston. Every time I came here in those days, it was a sort of haven for me.”

Nancy poured more rum into his cup as he spoke, then added some to her own.

As he knew she had been an Establishment Liberal and a Unionist throughout the Events, he was careful not to turn the conversation toward politics.

But suddenly, to his surprise, Nancy Widmer leaned across the table and addressed him in a low voice.

“Tell me, Frank, how could it have come to this? With a President-for-Life, no less! How on earth could we have supported these scoundrels without having any idea where they were taking us? And all the while thinking we were doing everything right!”

“Don’t ask me, Nancy,” Werner replied with a bland smile. “I was still in Utah back in 2008 when the problems started. In those days I think I favored secession.”
 

Werner gave a good-natured laugh. Nancy Widmer looked at him oddly, as if she had never heard someone utter such a word out loud.

“I’m not familiar with Utah, Frank, but for us in Concord, the Unionist side was the only conceivable choice at the time. That’s simply how it was. But, honestly, how could we have known? How could any of us have known what kind of people were running the Unionist Party, and what they intended to do when they had power? We thought they were Progressives like us. So we took them at their word. And now they turn out to be bloody Bolsheviks!”
 

Nancy shook her head in disgust, and then took a large sip of her spiked tea. Werner had the distinct impression that she would have drunk her rum neat if it had been later in the day.

“And my husband helped put them in power!” she continued. “Ron and his partners contributed millions over the years to the Unionists. But when they came into power, we lost everything. And I don’t mean just money. When Ron was diagnosed with heart disease, the doctors told him it was treatable. But when the time came to schedule his operation, the Health Service disapproved it. Too old! After a lifetime of paying taxes! But never mind; we thought we’d do it privately. Except that no surgeon would treat him outside the system for fear of losing his license. And by then, no exit visas were being issued for treatment abroad. So when the heart attack finally came, they sedated him to ease his pain, and then more and more sedation, till he died. ‘Terminal sedation’ is what they call it. What I call it is euthanasia. And it’s why I will never ever set foot in a government hospital again.”

Nancy Widmer’s eyes welled with tears but her jaw was firmly set and she sat perfectly erect in her spindly Windsor chair. At that moment Werner sensed in her an inner strength that had been handed down from New England ancestors who had cleared the rocky land, fought the Indians, overturned British rule, and authored the great enduring experiment called America.
 

“Do you have grandchildren, Nancy?” he asked to steer the conversation in a more positive direction.

“Oh, yes,” she responded, recovering quickly. “Both are out of college now and working as teachers till they can find something else. But I was very lucky to have them near me for a few years while they were boarders at the Academy.”

“Really? What years did they graduate?”

“Oh, that would have been six or seven years ago.”

“Then they probably didn’t know our girls,” Werner replied. “Our older one graduated five years ago, and the younger one left a year later, when the state took over.”

“I believe that’s when Monica Cogan was at the Academy. She was in the very last graduating class. Her parents were very dear friends of mine. In fact, Monica came back this year to work there. Of course, it’s not a boarding school any longer. The state has turned it into a completely different sort of place, as you probably know.”

“Would you happen to know how I might get in touch with Monica?” Werner inquired. “I believe our daughter Marie may have known her. Did you say she’s a teacher at the Academy?”

“Well, not a teacher, exactly. More like a trainer or organizer of some kind. I don’t have a number or an address for her just yet. Though I’m sure that if you go to the old admissions office on Main Street, someone can tell you how to find her. But brace yourself. It’s not the old Academy. You’re not going to like it.”

By now, Nancy Widmer had regained her composure and seemed in a hurry to get on with her day. She made a show of finishing her tea and Werner quickly followed suit.

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Nancy,” Werner said, rising from his chair. “If there’s anything else I can do to help…”
 

As if suddenly remembering something very important, she waved distractedly for him to sit.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. It’s Ron’s guns. When they were outlawed, I know for a fact that he didn’t turn them over to the police, so it’s very likely that there’s still a rifle or a shotgun lying around. Do you suppose that any of your clients might be in the market for a fine shotgun or hunting rifle? I’m sure they’ll be of very high quality. Ron bought only the best.”

Werner listened quietly and surmised that the guns were no afterthought. Nancy had been sizing him up to see if she could trust him.

“I’m sorry, Nancy, but illegal weapons are a bit out of my line,” he said with a stern expression. “Bootlegging is enough risk for me. But I understand the situation you’re in and appreciate your need to, well, dispose of these things safely. I believe your husband was wise not to surrender his weapons to the authorities. That’s a very dangerous thing to do.”

“What would you suggest, then?”

“Nancy, strictly as a friend, I would be willing to dispose of them for you, provided that it’s just a rifle or a shotgun or two.”

“Thank you ever so much, Frank. But what if I happen to find more? I remember he brought back a pistol from Vietnam and used to keep it in his study. Could you dispose of that, too, if I come across it?”

Werner laughed.

“Well, I suppose so, if it doesn’t end up being an arsenal. And I have one condition. For your safety and mine, Nancy, and the safety of your family, you must promise me that if anyone asks about your husband’s weapons, all you will recall is that they were stolen years ago from his car while he was on a hunting trip. Can you do that?”

“Certainly,” she answered without hesitation. “I appreciate your concern for us and would never betray your confidence.”

“All right, then. If you find anything, here’s what I’d like you to do. If it’s a long gun, roll it up in an old rug and tie the ends with twine. If it’s a handgun or ammunition, pack it in a cardboard box and pack the box inside a liquor carton. I’ll take a look at them on Saturday.”

“What time do you expect to arrive?”

“Some time before noon,” he replied. “I have another appointment that morning.”

Nancy Widmer smiled as if struck by a humorous thought.

“Funny, it seems as if everything Ron once loved is against the law. Guns, whiskey, cigars, fast cars, making money, and probably half the books in our library. I don’t suppose there’s a black market in banned books, is there?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Werner answered. “Burn them.” And with that he

smiled, wished Nancy goodbye, and let her lead him out to the foyer.

****

Werner turned north and onto Main Street, opposite what had for over 100 years been Concord Academy. As he scanned the campus along Main, the first thing that caught his eye was the vacant lot where two of three dormitories had stood to the west of Aloian Circle. The charred remains suggested that the dormitories had been destroyed by fire.
 

The surviving buildings appeared to have changed very little, except for the unaccustomed sight of some broken windows and plenty of peeling paint. The hedges were untrimmed and the lawn appeared not to have been mowed since the snows melted, with tall unsightly weeds growing everywhere. The wooden sign hanging from a crossbar outside the former admissions office at Aloian House now read “Concord Center for Social Organization, Massachusetts Department of Education.”

Inside the building, the colorful chintz sofas and cozy stuffed chairs had been replaced by folding metal seats, while hardwood floors once covered by oriental rugs were now tiled with vinyl. Where framed photos and prints illustrating the Academy’s history had once covered the walls, cheaply mounted political posters hung in their places. Many of the posters, created in the style that wags had dubbed as Unionist Realism, featured the stylized acorn that had become the motif of the social organization wing of the Unionist Party.

Werner greeted the receptionist, a severe-looking young woman dressed in a black fleece pantsuit that appeared only slightly more presentable than a sweat suit.

The sign above her desk read “Cadres Indoctrination Center.”
 

She examined him closely.

“I wonder if you could help me,” he began, ignoring her dour expression. “I’m looking for an instructor here by the name of Monica Cogan. Could you tell me how I might get in touch with her?”

“She’s probably leading a training session,” the receptionist replied. “A break is coming in ten minutes. Try looking in the commissary.”

“Would the commissary be the same thing as the dining hall?”

“More or less,” she said with a sour expression that said, ‘Watch yourself, old man. This isn’t a private school for rich kids and you’re not in Kansas anymore.’

He crossed the Campus Quad to what had formerly been the Student-Faculty Center, and entered. The dining hall was nearly vacant, with most of the metal and plastic picnic tables stacked along one wall. Fifteen or twenty young men and women, none appearing over thirty, drank coffee and ate cake doughnuts at a bank of four tables closest to the cafeteria line.

Werner bought a cup of coffee and a glazed doughnut and asked the girl at the cash register to point out Monica Cogan. The girl pointed to a tall woman in her early twenties with short blonde hair, who looked like a former athlete gone to seed. Werner took a seat across the picnic bench from her and mentioned that Nancy Widmer had suggested he look her up. He introduced himself as the father of two recent alumnae who had attended CA around the same time as she.