The reason for today's visit was to discuss plans for Harry Kendall's outdoor cocktail reception, now only three weeks away. He found Meier in a crowded conference room, directing a handful of team leaders before their departure for an event. The young subordinates listened attentively to every word from the master caterer, who had a reputation for offering some the best training in the business. All he demanded in return was strict obedience, a passion for excellence, and extraordinary stamina.
Upon taking over the Somerset Club bar, Werner had searched Boston for devotees of excellence among Boston's devastated food and beverage community. To his dismay, he had found that most of the leading hotels from the pre-Unionist era had closed or were run by the municipality at a standard for amenities and service barely above rock bottom. The city's best restaurants had suffered much the same fate, with only a few smaller, family-run restaurants maintaining a quality of food and service comparable to that of twenty years before.
Franz Meier was clearly an exception to the rule. Having studied at a culinary institute in Austria and apprenticed in the kitchens of luxury hotels in Berlin and Paris, he had taken a flyer and accepted a position under a renowned French chef at the newly reopened Four Seasons Hotel in Boston, a joint, public-private venture between the London-based Four Seasons Group and the Boston municipality. When the famous chef quit following government-mandated budget cuts, Meier took over and made the Four Seasons into a culinary and business success by negotiating an agreement with the municipality to waive all purchasing restrictions and to allow him to buy local ingredients directly from producers on the black market.
The skills and contacts that Meier developed during his two years at the Four Seasons served him well when his contract expired. A few weeks later, he opened a private catering business taking on only selected events for members of Boston's business and government elite. What most interested Werner about Franz Meier was his character: ambitious, avaricious, amoral, and apolitical, but at the same time dedicated to his culinary art, loyal to subordinates and suppliers who served him well, and relentless in pursuit of his goals.
Werner waited outside the conference room until Meier had dismissed the group before he knocked on the glass wall. A scowl remained imprinted on the caterer's deeply lined face as he turned to see who was waiting for him. Upon seeing Werner, the scowl turned to a warm smile and Meier bounded out of the room to greet him. Now in his mid-forties, Meier had managed through hyperactivity and discipline to maintain a ballet dancer's figure on his diminutive five-foot, six-inch frame despite being surrounded at all hours by mouth-watering food.
Meier took his visitor by the hand and led him back to his business office, exchanging small talk with Werner and waving off inquiries from his staff as they went.
"I've come about the Kendall reception on the eleventh," Werner began, wasting no time. "I've spoken to Harry about it and he's very keen to make the best possible impression. Since you're the man in charge of the event, I thought I'd check in to see what you had in mind on the wine and spirits side."
"Ah, yes," Meier replied, stroking the graying stubble on his chin. "I think what we need is something very special at the start. The Kentucky whiskey you presented at the tasting last month was ausgezeichnet. For Harry's guest list it will be perfect. Very macho, yet elegant," Meier declared, stressing the final syllable of "elegant" as in its German cognate.
"And, of course, we will need cognac," Meier declared. "VS but not XO. And scotch whiskey. Single malts if you can get them, superior blends if not. For the vodka, gin and rum, the usual brands are acceptable."
"Okay, understood," Werner acknowledged. "But just a note of caution, Franz. The bourbons I offered at the tasting were pretty rare stuff. Depending on what quality you're aiming for, it might be difficult to find as many bottles as you might want by the time of the event. And I wouldn't want to break your budget in the attempt."
"Do not concern yourself with the budget for this event, Frank. In particular for the whiskeys and the cognac, the highest quality is essential. After the first hour, we can serve the not-so-special bottles. Once they begin drinking, very few will know the difference."
After reviewing the quantities needed for each species of liquor, Werner asked Meier diplomatically whether all his waiters were likely to know how to serve the spirits properly or whether special training might be required.
"You know my situation," Meier responded with a nonchalant shrug. "I never have enough good waiters. If someone does not grow up around fine food and drink, it is a difficult thing to teach. And for my better customers, those with highly cultivated tastes, highly competent servers are most essential.
"As for the other customers," Meier went on, rolling his eyes, "the fat cats and Party members, the younger generation refuses to serve them even for higher wages. Have you seen the artists from the floor above us? They can barely feed themselves, yet they would rather starve than serve the Party nomenklatura gf or these new privatisers like Kendall and men of his sort."
"So, my friend, it is my curse to have a good business but not the right people to carry it out," Meier lamented. "Below the top echelon, who work extremely hard to become capable chefs or caterers, it seems I must choose from effete snobs or unskilled louts, with nothing in the middle. These artists, for example: they seek work only with people from Old Boston and Old Money, whom they imagine perhaps to be art collectors."
"Then they are doubly wrong," Werner interjected. "In this country, it's usually the New Money that collects art; Old Money inherits it."
"Yes, quite so," Meier agreed. "I have met many such people who claim to be from Old Money and must conclude that few of them are what they claim. From my view, it is nearly all New Money in Boston now. And such money tends to change hands very quickly."
With that, Meier rose from his seat and Werner did the same. Werner concluded his visit by promising to send a list of bottles for Meier's approval within a week and to deliver them to Kendall's Weston residence on the morning of the reception.
"And one last thing, if you don't mind," Werner requested. "Might I take a look at the guest list? It would be a help in matching the assortment to the clientele."
"One moment; I’ll check the file," Meier responded without hesitation. He opened a file drawer behind him and pulled out a manila folder. "I cannot give you a copy but you may read it here if you wish."
Werner accepted the file and ran his eyes down the list of names. Most were unfamiliar to him, but among them he saw the state treasurer, state auditor, more than a handful of state senators and representatives, several members of the governor's staff, the DSS Regional Director, Dan Devane, and FEMA Regional Director, Fred Rocco.
Upon seeing Rocco's name Werner was electrified. Instantly a plan took shape in his mind to exploit Rocco's exposure at the outdoor reception. Within seconds its essential elements fell into place. The odds against finding such an opening seemed enormous, yet it had fallen into his lap at the precise moment when he had needed it most.
Werner handed the guest list back to Meier.
"If you don't mind, Franz, when your team goes out to Kendall's place to plan the setup, I'd like to join them to look around," Werner added casually, "Would that be okay?"
"Arrange it with Shane," Meier consented. "He will run the event. I have no objection if he agrees to it."
"Thank you, Franz. It's always a pleasure. You'll have my recommendations by next Saturday. I'll take care of the rest with Shane."
****
When Werner emerged from the building onto South Street, he felt as if the clouds had lifted from around his head, though the day was as overcast as before and the misty rain was now a steady drizzle. For the first time, he could see a clear way forward for the team's mission.
He looked at his watch: only ten minutes remained before his prearranged meeting with Hank Oshiro at the food court in South Station. Covering the distance with a minute or two to spare, Werner entered the station throug
h the imposing granite façade at the corner of Summer Street and Atlantic Avenue. He ambled along the edge of the Great Room, pausing at the ticket counters long enough to look across the open space toward the food court. The moment he spotted Oshiro carrying a drink and a sandwich to an empty table, he set off to the food court to buy coffee and a doughnut before joining him.
Werner took the seat diagonal to Oshiro and spoke in an undertone without looking directly at him. When not speaking, he made a show of dunking his doughnut in his coffee and devouring the soggy mess.
"I've got an assignment for you, buddy," Werner began. "I want you to pay Franz Meier a visit on Monday. Tell him you need to earn some extra money and you'd like to join his crew on weekends. The weekend part is critical."
"Man, you're killing me," Oshiro replied with a low moan while looking straight ahead. "The weekends are when I score most of my money, dude."
"It's not forever, just for the next month or two. When you get the job, signal for another meeting and I'll tell you what to do next. It's important that you start right away, so be sure to accept the first gig he offers you."
"Got it," Oshiro acknowledged. "What do I say if he asks how I heard he's hiring? You know how cagey Franz can be."
"Tell him you heard one of the art students on South Street talking about it," Werner suggested. "And be sure to scratch me off your list of references. We want everyone to think that you and I have had a falling out."
"So that's what it is, eh? Telling an old friend you don't want him to come around anymore because you don't approve of how he makes a living? You're a hard man, Frank," Oshiro gibed.
"Someday, when all this blows over, I'll make it up to you," Werner replied. "I promise. You have no idea how much I appreciate what you're doing. Take care, buddy."
Werner did not wait for an answer. He picked up his coffee and left without noticing the sentimental tears that welled in Hank Oshiro's bloodshot eyes.
****
From South Station Werner took the Red Line subway train to Cambridge and exited at the Kendall Square/MIT Station. He spotted Sam Tucker's bulky figure under an olive drab military poncho and followed him across the street to the MIT Press Building. He waited for Tucker to remove his poncho before trailing him to a secluded aisle in the mathematics section.
Each man pretended to browse among the books while standing with his back to the other.
"How's the target research coming, partner?" Werner inquired.
"We're smokin', absolutely smokin'," Tucker replied in a low voice. "I'm into his wireless accounts, his bank accounts, his medical records…you name it, I've got it."
"You are indeed a superhero," Werner congratulated him. "So what sort of info are you picking up about him?"
"Nothing earthshaking quite yet," Tucker backpedaled. "But we're off to a good start. It's just that he keeps good phone security, so I have to read between the lines and piece things together a lot, if you know what I mean."
"Okay, then, how about his contacts and movements? Let's start with his family."
"Well, he's back with his wife again, that much is sure," Tucker affirmed. "It looks like she left him for a while when he was posted to Utah. But now that he's a player again, all seems to be forgiven. They're a pretty boring couple, though. She cooks and does all the chores and plays bridge. He rarely goes outside except for work. They have two grown kids but they don't ever see each other. I think the problem is with Dad because Mom talks with them pretty often when Dad is at the office."
"He must go somewhere besides work," Werner insisted. "Doesn't he have a dog or a hobby or a local pub that gets him out of the house sometimes? Is he a sports fan, maybe?"
Tucker shook his head.
"No dog, no hobby, no pub, no club," he replied. "But there is one interesting sidelight. Our man sometimes phones the flat of a woman who lives a few blocks away. They don't say much when they're on the line. It's mostly about getting together, usually at her place, never at his. I'm checking her out."
"Good work," Werner replied hopefully. "A mistress would be worth her weight in gold. What about doctors? A guy his age must have a few things going kaput by now, wouldn't you think? Any recurring appointments we can latch onto?"
"He's in touch with a psychiatrist, but not regularly. Just a call now and then to renew his prescriptions for antidepressants and sleeping pills. He's mentioned nightmares to the doc, for what it's worth. And the wife has told her friends that Hubby is hell on wheels when he's had a sleepless night."
"So what else does a civil servant like him do with all that free time of his?" Werner pressed. "Television? Videos? Porno? Could he be a drunk, perchance?"
"Doesn't seem to be much of a drinker," Tucker responded. "And no signs of porno. One thing he does seem to have a lot of time for, though, is retirement planning. From conversations with his wife, it seems that he wanted badly to leave the government a while back but couldn't afford to. So now he seems determined to put away enough money to retire when his gig in Boston is over. But I don't know where the extra cash is coming from unless it's from his wife's side, because nobody I know pays to have someone sit home on his ass every night like he does. Anyway, I'm checking that one out, too."
"Have you picked up anything about his FEMA work?" Werner asked. "What do they have him doing over there?"
"Right now," Tucker replied, "his job seems to revolve around finding housing in Boston for about fifteen thousand Unionist refugees from the New England flood zones. It's being handled through the Boston Housing Authority, which relies on FEMA for a lot of its funding. BHA is filling the gap by evicting elderly Bostonians from their rent-controlled apartments along with anybody else who can be tossed onto the street without risk of political blowback. Rocco's job seems to be to goad the BHA into speeding up the evictions and keeping squatters from moving in. But I don't think I have the full picture yet. When I look at the numbers, there seem to be a lot more housing units being freed up than can be accounted for by fifteen thousand refugees. I smell a scam but can't put a finger on it yet. So I'm…"
"Checking it out," Werner repeated. "Do you suppose they might intend to privatize some of those apartments and skim off the proceeds under cover of the refugee program?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," Tucker agreed.
"Great work, stay on it," Werner concluded. "Particularly the neighbor lady and the psychiatrist. Signal me if you get wind of any sort of meeting or appointment that's at least twenty-four hours out. And keep after the financial thing, too."
"Anything else?" Tucker asked.
"That's not enough?" Werner replied with mock surprise. "Good God, Sam, I get the distinct idea you're actually enjoying this."
****
It was late afternoon by the time Werner finished his chores at the Somerset Club and was able to join Hector Alvarez in his parked car between Exeter and Dartmouth streets, half a block from Fred Rocco's apartment building in Back Bay. Alvarez had been conducting intermittent surveillance outside the building since morning, alternating between two cars and changing his hat, coat, and shoes with each change of vehicle. It was tedious work and highly stressful as well because it would be ruinous for Rocco to identify Hector as a surveillant or for the police to stop him and ask for identification. Similarly, he had to avoid any confrontation with suspicious neighbors, though he did not care if a few busybodies recorded his license plate numbers, since the plates were untraceable fakes.
As soon as Alvarez saw Werner walk past the car he started his engine. A minute later he pulled out of his parking spot onto Commonwealth and turned right onto Clarendon, where Werner was expecting the pickup.
"So, what have you learned?" Werner opened.
"Not a damned thing," Alvarez replied, his face a mask of stress and fatigue. "He went outside once. I followed him to within a block of the brownstone on Beacon street that he visited on Thursday after work but for some reason he turned back."
"You're sure he didn't go anywher
e else?" Werner inquired.
"Possible, but not likely," Alvarez reported. "I've been covering the place pretty well except when I had to leave the area to change cars. This guy just doesn't go anywhere. He stops to pick up bread or milk after work sometimes but there's no pattern to it. At this rate it's going to take months to nail the guy."
"I've been thinking along the same lines, Hector. What we have learned is useful, but it's not nearly enough."
"I have followed this man for nearly a week and I still feel I know nothing about him," Alvarez added in discouragement.
"Okay, then, let's look at what we think we know from following him around all week," Werner proposed. "First, I think we've learned that it will be tough to hit him at home because he lives in a secure doorman building with well-protected parking out back. It'll also be difficult to nail him in his car because it has reinforced doors and bullet-resistant windows and can probably absorb more firepower than we've got. Then there's the FEMA building, which has guards, cameras, metal detectors, x-rays, the works. No good going after him there, either. So, our problem is, without putting in a lot more surveillance time, at substantial risk to ourselves, we haven't found any place yet where we can take our man alone and unprotected and off his guard. And without that, we obviously can't make our move."
"So what now, boss?" Alvarez asked in frustration.
"Well, we don't stop the surveillance," Werner replied cautiously, "because there's always the possibility of finding that one thing we can set our clock by in his daily routine. But I think we should also start working on a Plan B. And I think I may have one. I've picked up some intelligence about a social event that Rocco's likely to attend about a month from now. He'll be outdoors and unprotected and we should have an excellent chance at hitting him and getting away without being detected."
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