The Brotherhood of the Rose

by David Morrell

  A supervisor came over. “You guys are supposed to be in your room for rest period.” He followed them into the dormitory.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Chris whispered to Saul when the supervisor wasn’t looking.

  After school, Saul hurried to Chris. “So tell me where.”

  In the school building, Chris told Saul to watch the corridor while he snuck back in the classroom. “She put them in her desk.”

  “But her desk is locked,” Saul said.

  “I know a way to open it.” Chris left Saul in the corridor. He’d seen their teacher go outside, so he guessed it was safe to be in the classroom. He didn’t try to open the desk, but he waited long enough to make it seem he had. Finally he joined Saul in the corridor.

  “Did you get them?” Saul asked anxiously.

  Instead of answering, Chris made Saul follow him down the stairs. With no one around, he quickly reached beneath the front of his pants, pulling the cards out. Earlier he’d retrieved them from the pipe in the dormitory’s basement washroom.

  Saul looked delighted. Then his brow contorted, mystified. “But how’d you get in her desk?”

  “I’ll show you sometime. You got your cards back. I’m the one who found them. Just remember who helped you—that’s all.” Chris started toward the exit.

  Behind him, Saul said, “Thanks.”

  Chris shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Chris turned. Coming toward him, Saul frowned as if trying to decide on something. Pained, he fumbled among his cards and handed Chris one. “Here.”

  “But?”

  “Take it.”

  Chris looked at the card. Babe Ruth. His knees felt weak.

  “Why’d you help me?” Saul asked.

  “Because.” The magic word said everything. He didn’t need to add, “I want to be your friend.”

  Saul glanced self-consciously at the floor. “I guess I could show you a better way to do that kick in swimming class if you want.”

  Heart pounding, Chris nodded. Then it was his turn to frown. He groped in a pocket. “Here.” He handed Saul a candy bar. Baby Ruth.

  Saul’s eyes widened in amazement. “Candy’s not allowed. Where’d you get this?”

  “How’d you bring the cards into school without getting caught?”

  “A secret.”

  “Same with me and the candy bar.” Chris scuffled his feet. “But I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

  They stared at each other and started grinning.

  10

  Chris had a secret all right. Earlier that day, when the governess had taken Chris out of class and marched him to the administration building, he’d been afraid he was going to be punished for something. His legs shaky, he entered an office. At first it looked empty. Then in confusion he noticed a man by a window, peering out. The man was tall and thin. He wore a black suit, and when he turned, Chris blinked in surprise, recognizing the gray face of the man who’d brought him here.

  “Hello, Chris.” The man’s voice was soft. He smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Behind him, Chris heard the door shut as the governess left the office. He tensed, gazing up at the man, who continued to smile.

  “You do remember me, don’t you? Eliot?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Of course you do. I came to find out how you’re getting along.” Eliot approached him. “I know the school must seem strange to you, but you’ll get used to it.” He chuckled. “At least the food must agree with you. You look as if you’ve put on a couple pounds.” Still chuckling, he crouched so Chris didn’t have to strain to look up at him. “I had another reason for coming here.” He peered directly into Chris’s eyes.

  Chris shifted from one leg to the other.

  “I told you I’d come back to see you.” Eliot put his hands on Chris’s shoulders. “I want you to know I keep my promises.” He reached in a pocket. “And I promised to bring you more of these.” He held out two Baby Ruth candy bars.

  Chris’s heart beat fast. By now, he knew how valuable candy was in the school. The only way to get it was by smuggling it in. He studied them eagerly.

  Slowly, formally, Eliot gave them to Chris. “I promise something else. I’ll bring them every time I come to see you. Count on that. I want you to know you’ve got a friend. More than a friend. I’m like your father. Trust me. Depend on me.”

  Chris put one of the bars in his pocket, vaguely sensing a way to use it, uncertain how. He glanced from the other bar toward Eliot, who smiled again. “Oh, by all means, eat it. Enjoy it.” Eliot’s eyes twinkled.

  Tearing off the wrapper, his mouth watering as he bit into the chocolate, Chris suddenly felt hollow. His chest ached. Unable to stop himself, he threw his arms around Eliot, sobbing convulsively.

  11

  Eliot sometimes visited twice in a week. Other times he was gone for half a year. But true to his promise, he always brought Baby Ruth candy bars. Chris learned that no matter how stern the school could be there was one adult whose kindness and interest he could always depend on. Eliot arranged to take Chris from school to see boxing and tennis. They went to Howard Johnson’s for chocolate sundaes. Eliot taught Chris how to play chess. He took Chris to his large home in Falls Church, Virginia, where Chris marveled at the huge chairs and sofas, the enormous dining room, and the spacious bedrooms. Eliot showed him the brilliant roses in the greenhouse. Intrigued by the suburb’s name—Falls Church—Chris smelled the roses, reminded of the fragrance of Easter service, feeling as if the greenhouse indeed were a church.

  As his relationship with Eliot grew, so did his friendship with Saul. The two boys seemed inseparable. Chris shared his Baby Ruths with Saul, and Saul for his part shared his physical skills, teaching Chris the secrets of baseball and football and basketball. But Saul, the natural athlete, had trouble with mathematics and languages, so Chris, the natural scholar, helped Saul to study and pass his exams. They complemented each other. What the one couldn’t do, the other could, together unbeatable. Saul again became the envy of his group. But so did Chris.

  Only one thing was lacking to make it all perfect.

  Eliot’s next visit was the first weekend in July. “Tomorrow’s the Fourth, Chris. Tell you what. Why don’t I take you to the big fireworks show downtown?”

  Chris got excited.

  But Eliot seemed troubled. “I’ve been wondering. Now tell me the truth. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  Chris didn’t know what he meant.

  “These trips we go on.”

  Chris felt afraid. “You’re going to stop them?”

  “No. Good Heavens, they mean too much to me.” Eliot laughed and mussed Chris’s hair. “But I’ve been thinking. I bet it must get boring for you with only a grown-up to talk to. You must get tired of seeing the same old face. What I’ve been wondering—well, would you like to share these trips with someone else? Have you got a friend, a special friend, you’d like to bring along? Someone you’re really close to, who’s almost family? I won’t mind.”

  Chris couldn’t believe his luck—the chance to be with the two most important people in his world at once. He’d always felt bad, not being able to share his fortune with Saul. In turn, he felt so proud of being friends with Saul he wanted Eliot to know him. His eyes beamed, excited. “You bet!”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Eliot grinned.

  “You won’t go away?”

  “I’ll stay right here.”

  Bursting with anticipation, Chris ran from the bench near the armory where they’d been sitting. “Saul! Guess what?” Behind him, he heard Eliot chuckle.

  Thereafter Saul was always included. Chris felt overjoyed at Eliot’s approval of his friend. “You’re right. He’s special, Chris. You made an excellent choice. I’m proud of you.” Eliot brought candy bars for both of them now. He took them for Thanksgiving to his home. He let them go on a plane ride. “Chris, there’s one thing that bothers me. I hope
you’re not jealous when I give Saul candy bars or show him attention. I wouldn’t want you to think I was ignoring you or treating him with more importance than you. You’re like a son to me. I love you. We’ll always be close. If I make Saul feel good, It’s because I want to make you feel good—because he’s your friend, because he’s family.”

  “Gosh, I couldn’t be jealous of Saul.”

  “Then you understand. I knew you would. You trust me.”

  Every Saturday night, in the many years to come, the school showed a different movie, but in one way, they were all the same. Battle Cry, The Sands of Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal Diary, Francis Goes to West Point, Francis in the Navy. “That talking mule sure makes the military seem a lot of fun,” the boys said. The Frogmen, Back to Bataan, Combat Squad, Beachhead, Battle Zone, Battleground, Battle Stations. In ancient history, they learned about Alexander’s conquests and Caesar’s Gallic wars. In American history, they learned about the War for Independence, the War of 1812, the Civil War. In literature classes, they read The Red Badge of Courage, For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Thin Red Line. They didn’t mind the repeated theme, for the books were filled with heroics and action, always exciting. As well, the boys liked rifle practice, tactical maneuvers, precision marching, and the other training they received in the school’s militia. They enjoyed the war games. In class as well as in sports, they were encouraged to compete against the other boys, to see who was smarter, stronger, faster, better. And they couldn’t help noticing the strangers who often appeared silently at the back of the gym or the football field or the classroom, sometimes in uniform, sometimes not. With dark narrowed eyes, the strangers watched, comparing, judging.

  12

  Candy. Because of it, Saul saved Chris’s life in 1959. The boys were fourteen—though they didn’t know, they were about to end one set of adventures and begin another. With money Eliot had given them, they’d gone into business, smuggling candy into school in exchange for kitchen detail and similar nuisance jobs the other boys did for them. On December 10, after lights out, they snuck from the dormitory across the snowy grounds to a secluded section of the high stone wall. Saul stood on Chris’s shoulders and climbed. Chris grabbed his arm, squirming up after him. In starlight, they saw their frosty breath escape from their mouths as they lay on top and studied the dark street below them.

  Seeing no one, they eased over. Dangling, Saul let go first, but Chris suddenly heard him groan and peered down, startled. Saul had landed on his back, sliding in a blur to the street.

  Chris didn’t understand. He quickly jumped to help, bending his knees to absorb the impact, but the moment he landed, he realized something was wrong. Like Saul, his legs shot out from under him. Falling, he cracked his head on the sidewalk and slid out into the street. Dimly he became aware that the snow had melted during the day but now at night had frozen to a slick sheet of ice. Frantic, he failed to stop himself as he continued skidding toward Saul. His boots struck Saul where he lay and knocked him farther into the street.

  The sudden clanging paralyzed him. A streetcar swung around a corner, approaching them, its headlight glaring. Its wheels scraped on the icy tracks. Chris saw the driver shouting behind the windshield, tugging the rope that rang the bell, and yanking a lever. The brakes squealed, but the wheels continued sliding ahead. Chris tried to stand. Dizzy from his injured skull, he lost his balance, falling again. The streetcar’s headlights blinded him.

  Saul dove across him, grabbed his coat, and dragged him toward the curb. The streetcar’s shadow passed with a wind that made Chris shiver. “You damn crazy kids!” the driver shouted from his window. The bell kept clanging as the streetcar rumbled down the street.

  Chris sat on the icy curb, breathing deeply, his head between his knees. Saul checked his skull.

  “Too much blood. We’ve got to get you back to the dorm.”

  Chris almost didn’t manage the return climb over the wall. A supervisor nearly caught them as they crept up a stairwell. In a shadowy washroom, Saul cleaned Chris’s wound as best as he could, and the next day when a teacher asked about the scab on Chris’s head, Chris explained he’d tripped down some stairs. That should have been the end of the matter, except because Saul had saved Chris’s life, their bond was closer. But neither boy anticipated repercussions or realized what else had almost happened to them.

  Ten days later when they next went over the wall, a gang confronted them as they headed toward the stores on the other side of Fairmont Park.

  The biggest kid demanded their money, grabbing at Chris’s pockets.

  Angry, Chris pushed him and never saw the fist that struck his stomach. Through blurry eyes, he saw two other kids grab Saul’s arms from behind. A fourth kid punched Saul’s face. Blood spattered.

  Unable to breathe, Chris tried to help Saul. A fist split his lips. As he fell, a boot cracked his shoulder. Other boots rammed his chest, his side, his back.

  He rolled from their impact, writhing. Muffled punches threw Saul on him.

  Mercifully, the beating stopped. The gang took the money. On bloody snow, Chris peered through a swirl as they ran away. Delirious, he nonetheless felt mystified about…

  He wasn’t sure what—something about…

  He sorted it out only after a police car found them staggering back to school and took them first to the emergency ward at the hospital, then to the infirmary at school.

  The gang had looked more like adults than kids, their hair too short and neat, their boots and jeans and leather jackets strangely new. They’d driven away in an expensive car.

  Why had they been so sure we had money? Chris thought. He remembered the last time he and Saul had gone over the wall—when Saul had pulled him away from the streetcar—and wondered if the gang had been waiting then.

  His thoughts were interrupted. In the infirmary bed, aching, he smiled through swollen lips when he saw Eliot hurry in.

  “I came as soon as I could.” Eliot sounded out of breath, tugging off his black topcoat and homburg hat, snowflakes melting on them. “I wasn’t told till—oh, dear God, your faces!” He glanced appalled from Chris to Saul. “You look like they beat you with clubs. It’s a miracle you weren’t both killed.” He studied them, sickened.

  “They used just their fists,” Saul answered, weak, his face bruised and puffy. “And their boots. They didn’t need clubs.”

  “Your eyes. You’ll have shiners for weeks.” Eliot winced. “You can’t know how sorry I am.” His voice became stern. “In a way, I suppose, you invited it, though. The headmaster told me what he discovered you’d been up to—sneaking from school, buying candy. Is that what you do with the money I give you?”

  Chris felt embarrassed.

  “Never mind. It’s not the time to raise the subject. Right now, you need sympathy—not a lecture. As long as it happened, I hope you gave them some lumps in return.”

  “We never touched them,” Saul murmured.

  Eliot looked surprised. “But I thought the school gave you boxing class. You guys are tough. I’ve seen you on the football field. You mean you didn’t land even one punch?”

  Chris shook his head, stiffening from pain. “They hit me before I knew what was going on. Boxing? I never had a chance to raise a fist. They were all over us.”

  “They moved too quick for me,” Saul added. “Boxing’s a joke. They were better than that. They were—” He struggled for the proper word.

  “Experts?”

  Aching, Saul nodded.

  Eliot studied them and frowned. Lips pursed, he seemed to consider something. “I assume you’ve learned not to sneak out of school anymore.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Even so, you ought to be prepared for an emergency. You should be able to defend yourselves. I certainly don’t like seeing those handsome faces of yours turned into ground beef.” He nodded thoughtfully as if making an important decision.

  Chris wondered what.

  13

  Saul’s fifteenth birthday occurred on January 20, 19
60. On that occasion, Eliot drove up from Washington to take the boys out on the town. They went first to a Horn & Hardart automat for baked beans and coleslaw, then to then to a Cary Grant comedy that made the U.S. military seem like a lot of fun, Operation Petticoat. When Eliot returned them to school, he gave them a set of books filled with stop-action photographs of men in white uniforms throwing or kicking each other. At that time, the only thing Americans knew about martial arts came from stories about Japanese soldiers in World War Two. The boys thought the pictures showed a form of professional wrestling. The next week when Eliot came to see them, they’d had a chance to study the books. He spoke of patriotism and courage and offered them the opportunity to forfeit all high school sports, instead to train privately for three hours a day, seven days a week till their graduation.

  Both boys jumped at the chance. For one thing, it was a wonderful way of escaping the routine at Franklin. For another, more important, they still showed signs of the beating they’d received, and they were determined not to suffer like that again. Neither boy realized how extreme their determination would become.

  The second weekend in February, Eliot took them to meet their instructors. The boys had known for some time that Eliot worked for the government, so they weren’t surprised when he told them that seven years earlier, in 1953, the CIA had recruited Yukio Ishiguro, a former Japanese world judo champion, and Major Soo Koo Lee, a one-time senior karate instructor for the South Korean army. Both Orientals had been brought to the United States to train operatives in what, prior to killer-instinct training, were the finest forms of hand-to-hand combat. The base of operations consisted of a large gym, called a dojo, located on the fifth floor of a warehouse in downtown Philadelphia, about a mile from the orphanage.

  The elevator to the fifth floor looked like a rusty shower stall. It barely accommodated the three passengers and stank of urine and sweat. Graffiti covered the walls. The dojo itself was a large loft with steel girders in the ceiling and rows of harsh floodlights. Most of the floor was covered by green three-inch-thick tatami mats. Beyond them, a border of oak gleamed before mirrors on all the walls.